The Game Trilogy (86 page)

Another pause, slightly shorter:

Now it was her turn to hesitate. Manga was better informed than she had expected. She was rather taken aback. But, considering what Uncle Tage had said about him …

Another pause, two minutes this time.

They arrived just a couple of minutes apart, which made him suspect that they’d actually come together. That Nora had hung about out on the stairs so HP wouldn’t work out that they were an item.

He felt like putting a stop to their little performance, and couldn’t help wondering what Jeff would think about his girlfriend snogging him in Medborgarplatsen underground station.

‘Okay, now we’re all here we might as well get going,’ Nora said as she hung up her coat. ‘Let’s sit in the kitchen.’

‘What about Manga?’ HP muttered.

‘He’s not coming, too dangerous,’ she said, without meeting his gaze. ‘But he can still join in …’

She pulled a black smartphone from her pocket, fiddled with it for a few seconds, then put it on the windowsill with its screen facing towards them.

‘Two more minutes. Can you get the plans out in the meantime, Jeff?’

The mountain of muscle pulled out a bundle of papers from the bicycle bag he had brought in with him, and put them on the table. HP couldn’t help seeing the stamp on the front.

Classified information!

‘He’s online now,’ Hasselqvist said.

Everyone looked at the small screen of the smartphone, where Manga’s face suddenly appeared.

‘Okay, I’m here. I can see you all fine, can you hear me okay?’ he said, almost in a whisper.

‘We can hear you,’ Nora said.

‘Good! HP, it’s a relief to see you looking a bit better.’

HP didn’t answer, and he was gratified to see that this seemed to unsettle Manga.

‘Well then, as we discussed before, the Fortress is our target,’ Manga went on after a slight pause.

‘A company like PayTag can’t afford to lose the trust of its clients, and even a rumour that they’ve been infiltrated will be enough to pull the ground from beneath them forever.

‘What we need to do is introduce the trojan I call Big Boy into their system. It’s designed both to erase and mess up the information on their servers – to cause as much chaos as possible in the shortest possible time, if you follow?’

The three conspirators in the room nodded, but HP didn’t move a muscle.

‘It’s impossible to implant Big Boy from the outside,’ Manga went on. ‘Which means that we need a way in. Jeff, you’ve been looking at the various possibilities …?’

Muscles straightened up.

‘Yes, Kent and I have been through all the options. Every gate, door and camera, and we’ve come to the conclusion that the place is extremely well-guarded….’

No shit, Sherlock.
Evidently it took two sharply honed minds to come to that obvious conclusion … Or else you could just take a look at the plans. The description
High security site
–
application pending
in one corner ought to give a bit of a clue. These two morons were the perfect poster boys for a campaign against cousins getting married …

‘HP, you look like you want to say something?’ Manga interrupted.

‘No, it’s nothing,’ he muttered.

Muscles gave HP an irritated glance before going on.

‘We’ve concluded that the only way in is through the underground tunnel. It used to carry the cables linking the base to the artillery installations along the coast, but now they’ve extended it out into the Baltic Sea …’

‘The Fortress uses the tunnel to bring in cold water …’ Hasselqvist went on eagerly, digging out some documents from the bottom of the heap.

‘Here are the pictures …’

All that could be seen were some steep black cliffs and a whole lot of churning seawater.

‘The opening is under there, about five metres below the surface. It’s probably covered by a grille, but Jeff can get that open …’

‘I did my military service as a diver, ordnance clearance,’ Muscles said in a self-satisfied tone of voice that lowered HP’s already lousy mood to new depths.

‘I can cut through the grille, then we can swim through the tunnel into a small cold-water reservoir here.’

He pointed at the map.

‘From there we probably need to climb four or five metres up the side, and then we blow open a door so we can …’

‘Hang on a minute …!’

He had promised himself that he was going to keep his mouth shut, but it was impossible to hold out any longer.

‘I’m mean, I’m sorry to interrupt Batman and Robin here, but underwater welding, diving, a bit of climbing and then blowing a door open – seriously?’

He leaned back in his chair, folded his arms and shook his head very pointedly.

‘Someone here has been watching far too many of a certain sort of film …’

He grinned at Jeff, and was rewarded with an angry glare.

‘HP …’ Manga began.

‘No, no, hang on. I’d love to hear how Jason Bourne the Ordnance-Clearing Diver here is going to explain how we’re all going to get past those cliffs and then swim how far? Two, two and a half kilometres through that fucking tunnel?’

‘Two point three,’ Hasselqvist sighed, earning him another glare from Jeff.

‘Thanks, Kent. So, two thousand, three hundred metres of underwater swimming, in total darkness, I’m guessing.
Apart from Jason here, is there anyone else who’s got so much as a Open Water certificate from a diving holiday in Thailand?

No response.

‘No? Thought as much. So, if – against all expectation – we don’t end up as drowned cats inside the tunnel, we round off our little swim with a bit of free-climbing followed by blasting open a door?’

He grinned and shook his head.

‘You’re all fucking mad, that’s insane …’

Jeff opened his mouth as he began to rise from his chair.

But Nora pre-empted him.

‘So what would you do, then, HP? I presume you have a brilliant suggestion …’

‘Sure, just give me a minute to think. Anything would have to be better than that.’

‘Good, well you carry on thinking, HP. It wouldn’t hurt to have a backup plan. And I have to say I agree with you, at least in part. Underwater swimming doesn’t really make sense. Are we sure the tunnel’s full of water?’

She turned to Jeff.

‘Well, er, it’s an underwater tunnel. It says so on the plans …’

‘Yes, I can see that, but if you look at the elevation here …’ she pointed at one side of the plans, ‘… then at least the roof of the tunnel is above water level the whole way. Or am I reading it wrong?’

She glanced at Hasselqvist, who leaned over the plans.

‘No, you’re right, Nora. The inflow is below sea level, but at least half the tunnel is above. Which ought to mean that we can swim instead of diving.’

‘Inflatable dinghy,’ Jeff muttered. ‘We take an inflatable dinghy with us, dive in through the end of the pipe, then
blow it up inside the tunnel. Then we wouldn’t have to swim …’

‘Good,’ Nora said. ‘That sounds much more manageable. Have you got anything to add, HP?’

HP slowly shook his head.

‘Okay, let’s say that, then. We’ll pick you up here the day after tomorrow …’

‘Okay, okay.’

HP practically had to shove Hasselqvist out of the flat. The other two had already left, a couple of minutes apart. Jeff had hardly said a word after HP complained about his lunatic plan. But it had actually been for everyone’s benefit. Him excepted, the gang was made up of cheery little amateurs. If they were going to stand the slightest chance of success, the plan would have to be as simple as possible.

HP couldn’t help admiring Nora, and not only because she’d had the good taste to agree with him. It had only taken her a quick look at the plans to discover something that the other two idiots hadn’t noticed. It was a bit odd that she and Jeff hadn’t discussed the matter before the meeting, but perhaps they hadn’t had time.

The way she’d managed to turn his protests into a task was also bloody smart. That way she didn’t trample on Jeff’s toes too much, at least not right now. But things would be very different once she saw the alternative plan that he was already starting to piece together. All it would take was a couple of little excursions and a visit to the Fenster’s basement. He had two days. That ought to be enough.

He locked the door carefully and put the safety chain on.

A sudden noise from inside the flat made him jump. Two little notes, like a text message arriving. He went out into the kitchen. Nora’s smartphone was still sitting on
the windowsill. The little icon for a received message was flashing on the screen.

He picked up the phone, holding it in his hand for a few moments while he considered what to do. Nora had obviously forgotten it, which probably meant she’d be back shortly. For some reason the idea appealed to him. But on the other hand there was always the risk that she’d show up with her
boyfriend
, Jeff. If they really were an item …

There was one easy way to find out. He touched the screen with his finger and opened the inbox. The message was short, just four words.

Okay, that wasn’t exactly what he had been expecting.

No little
where are you?
or
see you at Medborgarplatsen.

A.F.– who the hell was that? He didn’t know Jeff’s surname, but his first name didn’t fit either of the initials. But maybe they used different names for lovey-dovey stuff …

The phone buzzed again and for a brief moment he almost dropped it.

He thought for a few seconds, then pressed the
reply
icon. An empty text box opened up. He paused again.

I’m here, he typed, then pressed
send.

The reply came almost immediately.

He noticed he was holding his breath and forced himself to put the phone down. This wasn’t good. Why
the hell had he replied …? But the message fascinated him.

The sender had to mean their little group, nothing else made sense. So which of them had he meant? Hasselqvist, Manga, or himself …?

Another message appeared in Nora’s inbox.

Shit, what was he supposed to do now? If he didn’t answer, A.F. – whoever that was – would get suspicious.

He hesitated a few more seconds before replying:

The answer came by return.

He breathed out. In the distance he heard the outside door of the building slam. Probably Nora on her way back up. Menu button,
erase conversation.
Perfect!

He’d made it out into the hall when the phone buzzed again. At that moment the doorbell rang.

Best not to look, just open the door and hand the phone over to Nora as if nothing had happened.

Pretend everything’s fine, play it cool.

But, on the other hand, reading the message could hardly hurt …

As soon as he saw the text he regretted it.

His heart suddenly began to beat so fast he could feel it against his ribs.

Whatthefuck …

Who are you? he wrote, without thinking.

The doorbell rang again, followed by a careful knock.

‘It’s me, open up,’ he heard Nora say.

Who are you!!??? he wrote again, pressing so hard that his thumb went white.

But he didn’t get an answer.

‘Hello, Rebecca here …’

‘Good morning, Rebecca, this is Uncle Tage.’

‘Oh, hello …’ She tried to hide her disappointment.

‘I was expecting to hear from you yesterday, but you never got in touch. Did everything go as planned at the bank?’

‘I daresay you can tell me, Uncle Tage …’

There was a short silence on the line.

‘I don’t understand, Rebecca …’ The surprise in his voice sounded completely genuine, and suddenly she felt unsure. Anyway, hadn’t he said that they should avoid direct contact? In which case, what was he doing, taking the risk of phoning her?

Unless …

‘So you haven’t got it, then …? The revolver, I mean?’

‘I’m sorry?!’ His surprise still seemed quite real.

Bloody hell!

She took a deep breath before going on.

‘I went to the bank yesterday morning, just as we agreed, but someone had got there before me. The box was empty, all that was in it was a glass ball with a bubble inside it … I thought it might have been you …?’

Another short silence.

‘My dear Rebecca, I think you might be overestimating my powers,’ he said in a sombre tone of voice. ‘Besides, I would never do anything of that sort to you.’

She shook her head.

‘No, I see that now. Sorry, Uncle Tage.’

‘So the gun is missing, and we have no idea who has it …?’

‘Yes, but an idea occurred to me just after I left,’ she said. ‘The box could only have been emptied within the past few days. Stigsson’s team were there recently and seized all the recordings from the cameras. Do you think that you might be able to …?’

He seemed to consider this for a moment.

‘I’ll see what I can do, Rebecca …’

His shopping list was almost complete.

Just as he had hoped, the Fenster was still running his little business, and all he’d had to do was disguise himself as best he could and walk a couple of blocks, and he was back among old friends.

He laid everything out on the floor in front of him.

White overalls – check.

Hard plastic rucksacks – check.

Protective masks – check.

Taser – oh yes!!

Sweet!

He ran his fingers over the weapon, which looked like a big remote control with two metal prongs at the end. Pressing the button gently was enough to send a little blue arc dancing between the prongs.

BZZZZT!

Fifty thousand fucking volts, right up the Moomin Valley!

And it fucking hurt, he knew that from experience from
the time Philip Argos’s little helpers had fried him. But this time he was the one in charge …

BZZZT! BZZZT! BZZZT!

He couldn’t help trying it out over and over again.

The smell of electricity spread through the flat.

Best plug it in to recharge …

He pulled out a large sports bag and carefully began to pack all his equipment away inside it.

There was only one thing missing, albeit a very important one. After that, his backup plan would be complete. All he could do was hope that the Fenster’s suppliers would come up with the goods.

The security check surprised her.

No handbags or briefcases, and all your other belongings packed into a transparent plastic bag before you were let in.

As she waited in the queue she took the opportunity to look for cameras. She managed to locate three of them before it was her turn. Dark little spheres up in the ceiling or stuck to the thick stone walls. Exactly the same sort as the ones she had seen in Police Headquarters and down in the bank vault.

‘ID,’ the woman on the door said.

‘What?’

‘I need to scan your ID,’ the woman said. ‘It’s the Royal Library’s new security policy. You probably heard about the thefts …’

Rebecca muttered something and fished out her driving licence. The woman placed it on a flat glass screen set into the counter. There was a flash of light, then a bleep.

‘There you go!’

Rebecca put the licence away.

‘By the way,’ she said as the woman was about to
turn to the next visitor, ‘what do you do with the information?’

‘Sorry?’

‘The data, the information from my driving licence. What happens to it?’

‘You’ll find a copy of our data policy over there.’

The woman pointed to a notice board and turned away.

She couldn’t help glancing up at one of the little round cameras in the ceiling. For a moment she thought she could see movement behind the dark glass. She shivered.

Pull yourself together, Normén!

She shook off the sense of unease and carried on into the reading room.

It took her about ten minutes to find the books she wanted. A couple of dry as dust official parliamentary reports, and a thick history book. On her way back to her desk she stopped at the coffee machine.

‘The nuclear weapons programme, there’s a lot of people interested in that right now! Probably because of that business with the plutonium …’

The voice made her jump.

An elderly man in a white shirt, tie, and knitted tanktop was standing behind her. Evidently he had been looking at the books under her arm.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you …’

‘Don’t worry,’ she mumbled as she got herself a cup.

‘Thore Sjögren,’ the man said. ‘But I’ll refrain from shaking hands.’ He held up his hands, both of them clad in white cotton gloves.

‘It looks like you’ve already found what you were looking for, but just say if you need any help.’

The man seemed rather too old to work there, but maybe he was a regular. A lonely old bloke keen for a bit of social contact. Well, she didn’t have time for that sort of distraction.

‘Of course, thanks very much, Thore.’ She allowed herself a polite smile, then set off towards her desk.

‘It was an exciting time,’ he said as he put a coin in the machine. ‘Until we got shut down, I mean …’

She put her cup of coffee down and turned round. He took his time at the machine, tentatively adjusting his cup in an attempt to keep his white gloves clean.

‘Did you work on the nuclear weapons programme?’

He nodded, then blew gently on his coffee.

‘Would you mind telling me about it?’

‘Of course not.’ He looked round. ‘I even have a few photographs, if you’re interested.’

He held up his passcard to a reader, then held the door open for her. So he did work there after all.

‘We want that lift over there.’

He used his passcard in the lift and pressed one of the buttons.

‘We’re heading for minus three,’ he said. ‘There are five floors in total. Five library buildings stacked on top of each other, plus the one above ground. Everything printed in Sweden since 1661 is kept here. As soon as anything comes off the printing press – newspapers, journals, books, even audiobooks these days – a copy must be sent here, according to law. It’s fantastic, don’t you think? Millions
of little time bubbles, all with their own stories from the past. But of course Swedes love their time bubbles, have you ever thought about that? In the midst of all this change, all this modern technology that we’re so keen to adopt, we still want certain things to remain the way they have always been.’

Rebecca shook her head. The word
bubble
had caught her attention, but she realized that Thore Sjögren’s bubbles were quite different to the ones Uncle Tage often mentioned.

‘Donald Duck on Christmas Eve, national heats for the Eurovision Song Contest, communal singing at Skansen. Not to mention the royal family. Just look at the fuss everyone is making about the princess’s wedding … Of course it all requires a huge amount of storage space, the fifth floor is all of forty metres down into the bedrock …’ Thore Sjögren went on.

Rebecca was only half listening. All this was doubtless very interesting, but right now she had other things on her mind. Why couldn’t he just get to the point?

The little man didn’t seem to have noticed her lack of interest, and carried on about how much shelf space there was, how many pages. Without even pausing long enough to drink his coffee.

Finally the lift stopped and they emerged into a long, well lit corridor. The dark globe of the camera in the ceiling was unmissable …

‘My little cubbyhole is at the far end,’ Thore said, gesturing with his free hand towards the other end of the corridor.

He set off, and she followed a metre or so behind him.

A strange little character, slightly shorter than her. Thin grey hair arranged in a neat side parting. Reading glasses on a cord round his neck. Tank-top, white shirt and tie,
even though it must be thirty degrees outside, and then those white cotton gloves.

His clothes accentuated the impression that he was a cosy little old uncle. But it only took her a few seconds to notice that his neatly ironed shirt collar was worn and frayed, and that his well polished shoes could have done with new heels a while back. The sense of creeping but inevitable decay suddenly made her feel rather depressed. She’d seen this before, at close quarters.

Dad. Everything seemed to begin and end with Dad.

Thore Sjögren pointed to a double door just ahead of them on the right.

‘And in there is the apartment …’ he whispered.

‘What?’

He stopped and turned round.

‘The apartment. Nelly Sachs’s apartment, exactly as it was when she died. Down to the very last detail. The ultimate time capsule or bubble. Fascinating, don’t you think?’

He pointed towards the double doors again.

‘Just the way it was when she died.’

Rebecca nodded, not entirely sure what she should say. But this time he seemed to pick up on her cool response.

For a moment it looked almost as if the little man was blushing.

‘But the story of Nelly Sachs actually has some connection to the subject that interests you.’

He stopped at a small door, pulled out a key and unlocked it.

‘Please, do go in, Nelly … No, no, of course I mean Rebecca …’ he quickly corrected himself.

She stepped inside. The room was little more than ten square metres in size, and the slightly claustrophobic atmosphere made her think almost immediately of the
interview rooms in Police Headquarters. Most of the space was taken up by a desk covered with papers, some bulging bookshelves along one side, and two office chairs.

The little man closed the door behind her. The thick concrete walls seemed to absorb the sound, making it sound muffled.

‘Well, as I was saying,’ Thore went on. ‘Nelly Sachs became a Swedish citizen in 1952, the same year that we started to build the first nuclear reactor in the bedrock below the Royal Institute of Technology. Please, sit down …’

He gestured to one of the chairs.

‘In 1966, the year she got the Nobel Prize, Sweden signed the non-proliferation treaty where we promised to stop work on developing an atomic bomb of our own, and by the time she died in 1970, the shut down was well underway. Two years later almost everything had been dismantled and closed down …’

‘But not quite everything …’ Rebecca added quickly.

He gave her a long look, and took a first sip of his coffee.

‘No, you’re right. Part of the project continued. It was called defence research …’

‘But it was actually something completely different?’ she said.

He shook his head slowly.

‘You shouldn’t believe everything you read on the internet, my dear …’

He patted the lid of a folded laptop, a fairly old model, that was sitting in the middle of the desk.

‘Their activities were severely restricted, and limited to defence research.’

‘I see. So what was your role, Thore?’

‘I was a research assistant in what was known as the
L-Project, trying to produce plutonium – without much success.’

She glanced at her watch.

He suddenly stood up.

‘But forgive me, my dear, can I offer you something else? A little mineral water, perhaps?’

He leaned down and opened a small cupboard in one of the bookcases, from which he conjured up a bottle of Ramlösa and a glass.

She opened the bottle with the opener he gave her, poured a glass and drank it in silence. The bubbles stung her tongue and she was starting to get a very strong feeling that she was wasting valuable time.

‘Now, let’s see, photographs … most of my papers are here. Maj-Britt didn’t want them at home. I was thinking of writing a book …’

He shuffled the piles of paper on his desk, evidently looking for something. High time to get to the point, before he started up again:

‘Thore, did you ever work with anyone called Erland Pettersson?’

No reaction, he didn’t even look up, which actually felt like something of a relief. But at the same time it didn’t.

‘Or Tage Sammer?’

Still no response.

‘No, I’m afraid neither of those names sounds familiar …’ he muttered as he stood up and went over to the files in the bookcase at the other end of the room.

She was close to swearing out loud with relief and disappointment. Then another name occurred to her.

‘What about André Pellas?’

He stopped.

‘You know him, don’t you?’ She could hear how eager she sounded.

‘Well, I didn’t know him, I was aware of him … Lieutenant Colonel Pellas was a section head in the programme …’

‘Which one, which section?’ She was fighting a spontaneous urge to leap up from her chair.

‘They were called the I-Group. I think that meant
Information and Intelligence
, but I’m afraid my memory isn’t quite what it used to be …’ He shook his head.

‘And what was their role in the programme?’

‘I don’t really know. But there was a monthly report, where we would register problems that had arisen. Instances where we had ground to a halt entirely used to be marked with a large ‘I’. A week or so would pass, and then we would be given a detailed description of what to do in order to solve the problem. The report would be in Swedish, but every now and then you could tell that it had been translated from English. It was mostly just a feeling, certain words and expressions … of some sort. We would get advice from the I-Group on various problems we had with the project, and it was clear the reports were written in collaboration with non-Swedish experts.’