The Game Trilogy (95 page)

He peered over the railing, down at the swirling water.

There was no way he was going to jump into the Strömmen, swimming really wasn’t his strong point and he’d probably end up as a swollen corpse caught in the sluice gates over by the Parliament building. Not to mention the unhappy combination of water and hard-drive …

Much better to keep running.

He was halfway across the motorway bridge before he dared to look back. The square-framed man was fifteen, twenty metres behind him.

His face was bright red and his short, muscular legs were pumping against the tarmac. But even though he was wearing a suit and loafers, unlike HP, who was far better dressed for running, the man still seemed to be gaining on him.

The rucksack, of course.

That was what was slowing him down, and if you threw in the exertions of the past few weeks, then it really wasn’t all that surprising that he didn’t have much strength left in his legs.

Strömsborg was his only hope.

But before he had even got close to the little island he realized it was hopeless. Even if the distance wasn’t that great, the railing of the bridge made it impossible to take a run-up. And there was no way he could let the hard-drive get wet.

So he carried on running.

The square-framed man was still shrinking the distance between them.

The closest island was now Riddarholmen, but to reach it he’d have to cross both carriageways, then the railway line, and find a way of getting up a steep rock face. But he didn’t have any other option. He let a couple more cars go past, then ran straight out into the roadway. A Passat almost clipped him, but at the last moment the driver swerved and swept past him with just half a metre to spare. He swung over the concrete barrier separating the carriageways and landed on the southbound side. His lungs were burning in his chest and his throat seemed to have shrunk to the size of a drinking-straw.

He carried on running along the road, this time in the same direction as the traffic.

The big brick palace on Riddarholmen was casting long shadows over the road.

‘Now I’ve got you, you bastard!’ the square-framed man roared behind him.

‘Okay, let’s get to work!’

Runeberg’s voice over the radio again, and a few seconds later the newlyweds emerged through the western archway.

They didn’t look quite as pleased to be married as she had expected. More like nervous, in fact. Maybe that wasn’t so strange, given the media frenzy. Live broadcast on television, both in Sweden and a handful of other countries that were fascinated by monarchy.

And now the married couple had to get through the journey in a cortege and a drawn-out formal banquet before the day was over. It probably wouldn’t be much of a wedding night …

A man in livery held the door of the carriage open and another helped the bride sort out her dress before she sat down.

The bridegroom was waiting outside the carriage, and gave Rebecca a quick glance, then smiled at her uncertainly. She gave him a quick nod in response.

HP ran into the shadow, and carried on a few more metres along the roadway.

The rock face was out of the question as well now, the man was too close and would be on him before he reached it. His heart was pounding fit to burst, he could taste blood, and the first vomit wasn’t far off.

He stopped abruptly and turned round, bent his knees and got ready to fight.

The man slowed down and stopped a couple of metres away, then grinned at HP.

‘You think you can take me, boy?!’ he shouted.

HP didn’t answer, and was just staring at the traffic rushing towards them behind the man’s back.

Cars were streaming past on both sides of them, their drivers frantically sounding their horns, but the man didn’t seem remotely bothered. HP took a couple of cautious steps back, and suddenly the sun shone on his neck, only to vanish again after a couple more steps.

A big lorry was approaching in the distance behind the man.

And suddenly something resembling an idea popped up …

‘Come on, boy, let’s do this the easy way …’ the man yelled over the noise of the horns and the traffic.

HP met the man’s gaze, then took a couple more steps back before stopping and holding up his middle finger.

The man crouched, getting ready to pounce. His lips drew back in a carnivorous leer.

‘Any last words?’ he growled.

‘Yippikayee, mothafucker!’ HP yelled.

Then he threw himself down on the roadway and covered his head with his hands.

The lorry hit the square-framed man from behind with full force. It looked almost like a film.

One moment he was there – the next he was gone.

The lorry carried on, its brakes shrieking, over the top of HP, and rolled another fifty metres or so before the driver finally managed to stop.

The first thing HP saw when he cautiously raised his head was a single, empty loafer.

He jumped down from the roof into the underground station, hanging from one of the sturdy beams and dropping onto the platform. The landing was softer than he expected, and the platform was pretty much deserted.

He could hear sirens up on the Söderleden motorway, several of them, but they were soon drowned out by the sound of the approaching train.

He got on and collapsed into the nearest empty seat. The rucksack hit the back of the seat and he fumbled at the catch with shaking fingers for a few seconds before giving up.

The adrenalin kick was massive, his whole body was shaking like mad, and he felt like throwing up. He leaned forward and tried to hold his head as low as possible.

Fucking hell!

He’d never seen anyone die before.

Not like that, anyway.

Actually, maybe he had …

Just like with Dag and the balcony railing, he’d planned the whole thing. Finding a patch of light on the bend in the road where a driver would be momentarily blinded as his
eyes adjusted to the shadow. Then luring his pursuer into the right spot …

But, just like with Dag, he’d felt he hadn’t had a choice. Back then it had been to save Rebecca, and this time to save himself.

Wrong …

To save them both.

Now all he needed to do was send the contents of the hard-drive to the papers, and the Game and PayTag would be history. Then he, Becca, Nora and the others would be free.

Nora …

She had sacrificed herself for him, throwing herself at the square-framed man even though she must have realized she didn’t stand a chance. Taking a hit for the team. No-one had ever done anything like that for him. When this was all over, he’d find a way to thank her.

If she was still alive, of course …

The train thundered into T-Central and he crouched down in his seat instinctively. But just like Gamla Stan, the platform was almost empty.

Ghost town.

Weird …

Where the hell was everyone?

Slottsbacken was full of people, and there were even more waiting when they swung left, passing below the Palace garden. Video recorders, cameras, hundreds of phones.

By the end of the day she would be on thousands of pictures and film clips, whether she liked it or not.

Their speed down the hill had been gentle, but once the whole cortege was on flat ground the riders switched from walking pace to a trot. The horses pulling the carriage
followed suit and Rebecca and the five other bodyguards around the carriage broke into a jog to keep up.

She caught sight of the first mask as they crossed Norrbro.

HP threw open the door of the internet café and walked straight up to the counter.

‘I need a computer with the best connection you’ve got, for two hours, maybe more …’ he said to the receptionist, but the bloke scarcely looked away from the television screen hanging above the counter.

‘Sorry mate, internet’s down …’

‘What?’

‘Yep.’ The receptionist turned towards him. ‘Broadband, ADSL, the mobile network,
tutti.
Everything’s been down since sometime last night. They’re saying it’s a programming error somewhere, but I reckon it’s got more to do with the wedding, personally …’

‘With what?’

‘The wedding, mate!’ He gestured towards the television, which was showing a picture of a carriage and load of horses. ‘Big brother doesn’t want any protests, so they’ve shut down the net, just like they did in Egypt, yeah?’

‘Right,’ HP said distractedly.

Something on the screen had caught his attention. One of the goons in suits around the carriage looked vaguely familiar. The camera zoomed in …

HP felt a sudden chill.

‘Where are they going?’ he snapped, grabbing the man’s washed-out t-shirt.

‘Back to the Palace, where else? Take it easy, mate …’

‘No, you moron, I mean what route? That looks like Kungsträdgården … Which way are they going after that?’

‘Sergels torg, then past here up Sveavägen, then right into …’

Kungsgatan!!

Fucking shit!!!

The second and third masks were in Strömgatan, close to the Opera. Chalk white Guy Fawkes masks with black goatees and curled moustaches, just like the ones outside the Grand Hotel a few days before.

The white-clad figures wearing the masks didn’t move, just stood completely still, which only made things even creepier.

‘You’ve seen them, haven’t you, Ludvig?’ she said into the microphone on her wrist.

‘Yep,’ he replied curtly. ‘Keep your eyes open, good people, here comes Kungsträdgårdsgatan …’ he went on.

The cortege swung left.

HP dashed out of the café, raced round the corner and tore off towards Hötorget. In the distance he thought he could hear people cheering.

Four more masks at various points along Kungsträdgårdsgatan, five along Hamngatan, but no sign of any trouble.

Maybe that wasn’t so strange. As well as all the various soldiers and volunteers lining the route, she had seen at least twenty uniformed officers, and more in plain clothes. But the masks were growing in number.

One more for each street they passed. That couldn’t be coincidence. Something was clearly going on.

They turned right at Sergels torg, skirting round the glass obelisk, and the cheers were so loud she could hardly hear her radio when it crackled into life.

Hötorget was full of people, and he had to elbow his way through. The closer he got to Sveavägen, the thicker the
crowd got, and he realized he needed an alternative plan. The underground, of course!

He turned round and ran back down Sergelgatan, then veered between two of the skyscrapers, trying not to look up.

He leaped over the barriers, took the steps in three strides and raced along the platform to the northern end of the station. As he ran he pulled his mobile from his jacket pocket.

‘All bodyguards. A person matching the description of one of the suspects has just been seen at Hötorget.’

The voice on the radio was Stigsson’s, she was almost certain of that.

Her mouth felt bone dry and she swallowed several times in an attempt to moisten it. To no avail.

‘Is everything okay, Normén, over?’

‘Fine, Ludvig …’

‘Good, everyone, stay alert. These masks are worrying me …’

Sveavägen now, seven masks.

One more than Sergels torg. The front part of the cortege began to swing down into Kungsgatan.

Her mobile started to ring, but she ignored it.

No answer, fuck!

He emerged from the north exit of the station, pushing his way out through the crowd onto the pavement.

The street was lined with people in uniform, but they seemed largely there for decoration.

The Malmskillnad Bridge was just fifty metres away to the right.

He pulled his hood up over his head, got his sunglasses
out of his pocket and put them on. Then he started to force his way through towards the bridge.

In the distance he could hear the sound of horses’ hooves.

She saw the biggest group of masks just as the carriage started to turn. They were standing in a row this time. She could see eight of them, then even more.

A lot more …

‘I don’t like this …’ Runeberg muttered on the radio.

Her phone was still ringing in her right ear.

He was fifteen metres away when he saw the pattern under the arch of the bridge. Three-dimensional orange-pink geometric shapes edged with blue curled upwards in a hypnotically regular pattern. Just like on the plan, the pattern looked like a labyrinth.

The Luttern labyrinth!

He’d found it!

The sound of hooves was getting louder, echoing off the buildings and merging with the cheering of the crowds.

A moment later he caught sight of the large, black air-vents at either end of the arch. Five metres above the pavement, at a perfect angle to the roadway.

Two circular grilles, exactly matching the description on the Carer’s plan, approximately one metre in diameter. Or 1016.1 millimetres, to be precise …

FUCKING BOLLOCKS!!!

The first horses in the escort had almost reached the bridge. He put his mobile away and pushed the people in front of him out of his path, elbowing his way out into the road, and then started running towards the cortege.
His rucksack was still bouncing up and down on his back. It felt heavier than ever …

She saw him from a distance.

Dark clothing, scruffy beard, sunglasses and a hood pulled over his head. The light grey straps of a rucksack were clearly visible across his chest. He was running straight towards the carriage, towards her.

Waving his arms and shouting something.

Her hands went straight to her belt. Grabbed the handle of her pistol. Draw – take aim …

‘BOMB!’ he yelled. ‘THERE’S A BOMB OVER THERE!’

But she didn’t seem to hear him. Instead he saw her and the other bodyguards aim their guns at him. As if he were the real threat.

A moment later he saw the masks. All around them, lining the street, a hundred, more. All still. As if they were waiting for something. And suddenly he realized …

The world went into slow motion as the pieces of the puzzle in his head flew into the air, breaking up the image he had so carefully put together, and forming a new one in its place.

One that was far more horrifying.

The tunnel, the bomb, the explosion in the barn. Strong arms dragging him out of the snake flat, injecting him with serum. Someone standing outside the door of the flat out by the Woodland Cemetery and sending text messages. Warning him about a traitor.

The explosion, Rehyman, running away.

Nora, fastening his rucksack so carefully. Giving him the location, the last piece of the puzzle. The fatal kiss …

He stopped abruptly and raised his hands. Voices were
echoing back and forth inside his head, drowning each other out. Some of them clear, some of them muffled.

This is your last task, Henrik!

Red or black?

You are to carry out a deadly attack against the royal wedding …

Wanna play a game, Henrik Pettersson?

Luttern, not Gluten.

The Carer, I don’t know him …

Are you absolutely sure?

Not the Carer …

He backed away slowly, pulling at the straps to get the rucksack off. But the lock wouldn’t budge.

‘GET BACK!’ he yelled as loudly as he could.

People come to the Luttern labyrinth to die!
the voice in his head whispered.

Not.

Carer.

But …?

Bearer!

‘THERE’S A BOMB IN THIS RUCKSACK!’ he yelled.

She took aim at the centre of the death zone, right where the straps of the rucksack crossed his heart.

‘BOMB!’ someone yelled over the radio, and for a moment she thought it was Tage Sammer’s voice she’d heard. But the warning was completely superfluous.

She squeezed the trigger.

Breathed in …

Like a punch in the chest
–
that was pretty much what it felt like. In a weird way the blow seemed to slow everything down even more. All of a sudden he could appreciate the tiniest details around him. The gun aimed at his chest,
the drawn out, panic-stricken screams from the surrounding crowd. All around him, bodies crushed together in slow motion. Trying to get as far away from him as possible.

But in spite of the evidence, in spite of the gunpowder stinging his nostrils and the shot still reverberating on his eardrums, his brain refused to accept what was happening. As if it were fending off the impossible, the unthinkable, the incomprehensible …

This simply couldn’t be happening.

Not now!

She had shot him …

SHE

HAD

SHOT

HIM!!!

The pistol was still pointing straight at his chest. The look on her face behind the barrel was ice-cold, completely emotionless. As if it belonged to someone else. A stranger.

He tried to raise his hand towards her, opened his mouth to say something. But the only sound that passed his lips was a sort of whimper. Suddenly and without any warning time speeded up and returned to normal. The pain spread like a wave from his ribcage, out through his body, making the tarmac beneath him lurch. His knees gave way and he took a couple of stumbling steps backwards in an attempt to keep his balance.

His heel hit the edge of the kerb.

A second of weightlessness as he fought the law of gravity.

Then a dreamlike sensation of falling freely.

And with that his part in the Game was over.