But “Protect, help, see that justice is done” was only one aspect of what attracted her to working in the police. Another important aspect was the feeling of being chosen. Someone who had been handpicked more than once in the course of her career, who had passed countless tests and exams and had shown that she was made of the right stuff.
As a woman within the force it wasn’t enough to pass the entrance exam. You also had to prove that you weren’t a UW—a uniformed witness who was no use at all when things kicked off. You had to prove you could deal with critical situations on your own.
That was why the business with the security guard at Rosenbad still annoyed her. Without the car she had been stuck, felt almost paralyzed, and if their attackers had chosen to carry on they would have been in a tricky situation. She couldn’t quite shake the insidious thought that it was the guard on the door who had saved the day rather than her. That she didn’t really deserve her place in the Alpha group.
Maybe it sounded like something from the Stone Age, but the police force was to a great extent still run according to male rules. Regardless of anything that equal-rights legislation might have to say about the percentage of women in the force, ninety-five percent of all criminals were men. And if a woman wanted to join in properly and not tuck herself away on some cozy office chair the moment the opportunity arose, you had to show that you had what it took. That you weren’t bothered about getting filthy and beaten up. She had no problem whatsoever with that, though it had been hard learning to take control of the situation and hit back. But a number of years on patrol had certainly helped.
She had read somewhere that the body replaces practically all of its cells over a seven-year period. Even if that sounded made up, the thought appealed to her, that she was literally a new person after everything that happened. That she was a different, much better person than she had been then.
The identity she had assumed with the job played a large part in that change.
She was proud of her job, and the rectangular police badge that she took everywhere with her, no matter where she was. Its metal shape had even left an impression on the outside of the pocket of her jeans, just like the little tubs of chewing tobacco did with ice-hockey boys. She couldn’t really explain the feeling she got when she held it out and introduced herself as “Normén, Police.” She couldn’t imagine life without it. So why didn’t she feel completely happy?
♦ ♦ ♦
Are you really sure you want to Play, HP?
Hell yeah, he was sure. Absolutely certain! The entire thing was a complete no-brainer. Getting paid for running around the city and mucking about—who the fuck wouldn’t want to be part of something like that?
And then there was the whole thing about being filmed.
He couldn’t really explain why, but seeing himself on film like that was . . . exciting, in the absence of a better word. Not exciting in a sex way, no, this was a completely different feeling. Or was it?
But it wasn’t really the thing about watching himself do cool stuff from loads of different angles that appealed most. Even if he still liked the idea, the initial intensity of the buzz he got when he relived the theft had had time to fade a bit now. Sure, he wasn’t about to deny that it still made his pulse go up when he watched it over again, but it was no longer top of the list.
No, what appealed to him even more was the discovery that there were other people out there who could see what he was doing, watching his clips, and even rating his performance.
He hadn’t really figured out what was going on the first time he was on the site, but after a couple of days messing about and checking out the various functions he had a better grasp of what it was all about.
To start with, the Game wasn’t live in the way he had thought at first; it was more like an alternative reality game. A sort of mixture of computer game and reality where the two worlds merged together, according to the definition on Wikipedia, and so far that description seemed to fit pretty well.
But apart from the participants there were a load of other people watching. An audience who, if he understood correctly, even paid to be allowed to watch!
It was pretty logical, really, because why else would you set up something so advanced if you weren’t going to make some money from it? Where else would they get all the dollars that were paid out in prize money and paid for at least 128 pretty advanced cell phones with built-in webcams?
Whatever, these viewers could watch, rate, and comment on what the participants were doing. He’d already got a couple of comments himself: “Cool man!,” “Like the shouting!,” and “Nice start, adding you to my favorites” had all been added to the little comment section attached to each player’s high-score ranking. His viewers had given him an average of three stars out of five. Total strangers who had clicked on him, watched, and liked what they saw. Giving him cred for what he’d done. It was just so fucking cool!
The comments he had got were gnat’s piss compared to what people had written about number fifty-eight, who was still at the top of the list. “58 For The Win!,” “You rule,” and “58 rocks!!!,” as well as a shitload of smileys and other stuff that meant that Fifty-Eight’s comments section was actually several pages long. Five stars out of five, top marks, in other words. Cred and love from an entire cyberworld, what a fucking kick that must be!
But HP didn’t actually know what Mr. Five-Eight had done to deserve all the praise. As a player he could only see his own clips. A shame, but maybe there would be a way around that later on . . . There was one exception, though. At the top of the page, just above the leaderboard, was a link to what was called “Mission of the Week,” where they evidently posted a successful task for everyone to see.
This week the clip was of Player Twenty-Seven, who was currently in fourth place. HP had watched it at least twenty times by now. The clip showed a bloke in a balaclava smashing the windshield of what looked like an American police car, then emptying a foam fire extinguisher into the vehicle. The whole thing was filmed on the cell fixed to the guy’s chest, but also by another cameraman standing farther away. What made the mission extra cool was it took place in broad daylight, in the middle of an unidentified big city with a load of stuffy pedestrians around the car. The clip had also been professionally edited and had its own sound track, Public Enemy’s “Fight the Power.”
Got to give us what we want
Gotta give us what we need . . .
We got to fight the powers that be!
The icing on the cake was when the cops got back from the doughnut shop or wherever they’d been and discovered their ride had been wrecked. All of it carefully documented by the cameraman, who even managed to catch some of the swearing before he had to break off and run for his life.
Praise was raining down on Twenty-Seven’s comments section and HP could only agree with it. It was totally fucking cool, and pretty damn ballsy too! Maybe a bit too adventurous for him, but what the hell? On the other hand, it had to be less risky to fuck with the cops in Sweden than in the States. Over there you could easily get your head blown off if you were unlucky, and that sort of thing didn’t happen much here at home, at least not very often.
“Do you feel lucky, punk? Well, do you?” Bang, bang!
He finished his Dirty Harry imitation in front of the steamed-up bathroom mirror, holstered his finger, then dutifully ran a comb a couple of times through his long hair and inspected the results with satisfaction as he blinked at his reflection.
“Looking good, Louis!
“Feeling good, Billy Ray!”
A quick check of his pockets. Cash—check, cigs—check, keys—check. He picked up the cell on his way out. It was time to play. Game on!
♦ ♦ ♦
She had grabbed a coffee in the Sture Gallery, then cruised quickly past all the twenty-year-olds with Daddy’s credit card crowding around the boutiques along Library Street, then turned to head along Hamngatan toward the main subway station at T-Central. Even though it w
as the height of the holiday season, the Friday rush-hour traffic was almost at a standstill and the exhaust fumes were mixing with the summer smells of tarmac, cigarette smoke, and food.
It was almost evening but she still had a couple of hours of her shift left. She had been planning to go to the gym, but she didn’t really feel like it now. Even if the incident on the quayside was more than twenty-four hours ago her body still felt sluggish. Almost as if the adrenaline rush had left her with a hangover. But if these were the aftereffects that Anderberg had warned her about, she could certainly put up with them.
She decided to head off toward the block housing Police Headquarters anyway. Her occupational injury form would be waiting in her pigeonhole and it made sense to get that out of the way before she started with the Alpha group. So, the blue subway line to the courthouse.
She headed diagonally across Sergels Square toward the entrance to the subway station.
In spite of all manner of schemes from the police and social services, she noted that the dealers were still standing dutifully around their marketplace by the doors. Not even the latest renovation had scared them away and these days their presence didn’t seem to surprise anyone, not even the tourists.
It was as if the poor bastards had become a fixed element of the urban scene. Whatever, it was nice to get into the cool of the station concourse.
She showed her police badge at the turnstile and took the escalator down toward the blue line.
♦ ♦ ♦
The escalator up toward T-Central. He latched onto a mother with young children and snuck through the open gate for strollers, just as he had done on his way in. Then quickly across the station concourse and out through the doors to Sergel’s Square.
Even though it was evening the heat hit him like a wall. A couple of junkies were slumped drowsily under the shelter of the roof; it looked like they’d had thin pickings that day. Presumably the dealers went on holiday as well? HP thought he recognized one of them and nodded curtly as he went past, but the look in the man’s eyes was so glassy that he probably couldn’t see farther than the end of his nose. Smack was a load of fucking shit, no doubt about that. He was more than happy with Miss Mary Jane. It was an absolute joke that the law made no distinction. No one had ever overdosed on dope as far as he was aware.
He walked across the uncovered part of the square, then went down the slope to the subway shopping level, and a few minutes later he was standing in front of the doors with the golden handles.
A quick check of his watch; 18:43. He was two minutes early.
He wasn’t used to wearing a watch.
When he’d received his instructions and realized that he’d need a watch, he’d spent at least half an hour hunting through his boxes. Eventually he had managed to dig out a shabby old Casio that had to be at least ten years old, but somehow it was still working. He had called the speaking clock and to his surprise the number still worked: “At the third stroke it will be eighteen forty-five precisely . . .”
The flashing LED light on the cell interrupted his thoughts. He opened the new message expectantly.
Welcome to your second assignment, HP!
Today’s mission, if you choose to accept it, is worth 400 points.
Do you want to continue?
He clicked Yes at once.
Four hundred points, almost three thousand kronor, and a serious jump from the swamp at the bottom of the list of hundred-pointers.
Excellent!
Take the lift up to the bookshop. Don’t forget to carry the phone with the camera facing out. Press the button below when you’re in position.
An icon marked Ready appeared at the bottom of the screen.
HP realized that the palms of his hands were already clammy with excitement. This was seriously fucking cool!
He was a secret agent, a man on a mission. Pettersson, Henrik Pettersson.
He opened the doors, went down the escalator, cruised through the mere mortals looking at espresso machines and ridiculously overpriced chocolate, turned the corner to the lobby, where the lifts were, and pressed the Up button. A couple of minutes later he got out on floor 3, turning his face away from the security camera out of habit and gliding in among the bookcases.
He clicked on Ready.
The reply came at once.
Follow the White Rabbit!
At first he just stared uncomprehendingly at the screen, then after a couple of seconds he understood.
Of course! A bit cheesy, maybe, but still pretty cool! Whoever it was who designed the assignments, at least they seemed to have a sense of humor . . .
Grinning, he started searching the bookcases, running his fingers along the books until he found the one he was looking for. Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, the reference bible for all film buffs. He pulled out the book and leafed through the pages, and when he made his discovery he noticed to his surprise that he was so excited that he almost dropped the white plastic card on the floor. “Floor 5, 18:55” was written on it in ink, but otherwise the card was blank.
HP frowned. He knew the department store inside out; it was unbeatable for distracted tourists, or if you just wanted to kill a couple of hours people-watching. He was one hundred percent sure there were only four floors. A quick glance at the Casio told him he had three minutes to solve the mystery.
The staircase was opposite the lifts, and once again he kept clear of the eye in the sky, just in case. Marble and brass, smart as anything. Trip trap, trip trap. “Clever billy goat Gruff, trip-trapping over the troll’s bridge . . .” He giggled.
Yes, he was right. The fourth floor was the top one, at least for mere mortals.
The sign made that very clear. But behind a locked door the stairs carried on at least one more floor up.
He fumbled with the plastic card, pressed it against the card reader beside the door, and heard a bleep. But the door remained locked. Then he saw the little sticker.
“Card plus code,” it said, and his mood fell like a stone.
What fucking code?
After a couple of moments’ thought he tried tapping “1855” into the keypad, but it protested instantly with an angry double bleep. He glanced anxiously around but everything was okay. The floor seemed completely deserted.
So what now?
He released the cell from his belt, but the screen was blank. No help from the phone, then.
Unless . . . It had to be worth a try.
He pressed the card to the reader once more and tapped in the number 128, then added a zero after a moment’s hesitation.
A simple single bleep, then the lock clicked.
With his heart pounding he opened the door and carried on up to the fifth floor.
A metal door and another card reader confronted him there.
A quick glance over his shoulder, a bleep from the reader, and then he was in. His senses were on high alert; he could taste the adrenaline in his mouth. All that was missing were some dramatic strings, otherwise it was perfect!
Up here there was a narrow corridor with a sloping ceiling, flickering lights, and a series of more metal doors along one side. Much less stylish than on the floors below. So what happened now?
Just as he finished the thought the cell started flashing again—almost as if it were reading his mind. Kind of spooky!
He pulled the cell free from his belt and was about to read the message when a voice made him jump and he dropped the phone on the concrete floor.
Ladies and gentlemen, the shop will be closing in five minutes. Thank you for your custom. We are open again at ten o’clock tomorrow morning. The food hall will remain open until eight o’clock.
Christ, it startled him! He must have been standing right under one of the loudspeakers. Almost time to change his underwear.
Muttering, he picked up the cell and checked the message.
Third door on the left.
The white rabbit worked for the third time and suddenly he was standing in a bare concrete ro
om full of humming boxes, cable runs, and other equipment. There was a smell of electricity and warm metal.
Far wall, black box, press Ready when you’re in position.
There were loads of boxes, but as luck would have it there was only one black one. An old thing made of Bakelite that stuck out badly among all the other anonymous gray metal boxes. Two plastic-covered buttons on the front, one blue, one red.
He pressed Ready.
Well done, HP!
For tonight’s assignment you get to choose between the buttons. When the countdown reaches zero I want you to press one of them.
If you choose the blue, everything will carry on as usual, you will get your money and further tasks of the more basic sort. A steady, secure income, spiced with just enough excitement. But if you choose the red button the clock will stop on your old life and you will enter an entirely new experience, the like of which you have never even dared to dream of. The risks are greater here, but so too are the rewards, of course. Only a very small number of people are qualified for this level. The question is: Have you got what it takes?
The choice is yours, neither of the options is wrong, and regardless of which choice you make, you will have passed this evening’s assignment.
Do you understand?
He clicked Yes.
Excellent, HP!
Think carefully and then make your decision. You have twenty-five seconds as of now.
Good luck!
The Game Master
The message vanished and was replaced by a countdown.
24
23
22
This was utterly fucking supercool! Talk about his cup of tea! So which should he choose, the blue pill or the red one?
Evidently they were both right, but it looked like only one of them would have any sort of real effect?
12
11
10
He could feel his heartbeat in his temples.
Play it safe or go all in?
6
5
Obviously there was only one answer.
Adventure without risk was fucking Disneyland! Time to find out exactly how deep this rabbit hole really goes!
Game: A Thriller Page 4