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He pressed the red button.
The box clicked, then there was a faint rumble. The lights in the ceiling flickered.
HP held his breath.
♦ ♦ ♦
When she had finished her report she took a stroll around the Crime unit to see if any of her former colleagues was on duty. Seeing as the Personal Protection Unit was only a secondment, she still had her basic post. But the corridor was empty, which wasn’t so surprising seeing as it was almost seven o’clock in the evening. The few poor bastards who weren’t off on holiday would at least have had the sense to finish work on time.
After her interview with Anderberg she had been driven home in a patrol car, so her bicycle was still down in the garage of the police station. The quickest way down was through the lift in the custody section, so she took the stairs down to “the beige kilometre,” as some bright spark had christened the long corridor.
Down there everything was in full swing, as usual on a Friday evening. All the holding cells were already full, and a couple of tired detectives were dashing between the numerous rooms where several patrols were giving their reports. One particularly troublesome drunk, escorted by two sturdy uniformed officers, took up most of the available space in front of the duty officer’s glass cubicle.
Friday nights, all the drinking and fighting, had doubtless been useful experience, but she didn’t exactly miss it . . .
One of the uniformed officers nodded in acknowledgment as she passed and she returned the greeting. On the way out to the lift she could hear his police radio crackle to life:
Control to all units!
Patrol cars to Hamngatan and the NK department store . . .
Nothing happened. Not that he knew exactly what he’d been expecting, but still? Surely there should have been some sort of response? After the dramatic buildup, surely some flashing warning lights or wailing sirens was the least he could expect? People running along the corridor, maybe some angry banging on the door?
But this . . . ? A whole load of nothing.
Disappointed, big-time!!!
He waited another minute or so, then left the room dejectedly and slouched down the stairs. It wasn’t until he crossed the street and made it as far as the trees in the King’s Garden that he slowly began to get it.
“. . . just stopped,” one bloke was saying in surprise to another, pointing up at the building that HP had just come out of.
“Isn’t it usually lit up as well?” he heard a couple of passersby say.
Then he saw people holding up their cells, and soon there was a mass of people taking pictures. So he looked up in the same direction as them to see what had caught their interest, and suddenly his disappointment was blown away and replaced by an entirely new, indescribable feeling that he had never come anywhere close to before.
His heart was doing backward double somersaults inside his chest. His feet almost left the ground and he felt his jeans tighten over his crotch.
This was so totally fucking brilliant! Talk about mission accomplished!
High up above the copper roof, the huge, illuminated NK clock, which had rotated above the city for fifty years almost without interruption, had suddenly stopped.
The hands of the dark clock face were pointing at seven o’clock precisely. And he realized that the Game Master had been right. A new age had just begun!
5
PLAYING THE GAME
SOMETIMES, USUALLY WHEN she was dreaming, she could still see his face in front of her, the way it looked the very last time their eyes met. First the fury, then surprise, and finally the terror in his eyes when he realized what was happening—that he was about to die.
She always relived the moment as a film running in increasingly slow motion. The way he hung there, almost weightless between heaven and earth, between life and death, while his arms moved slowly in circles, flailing, initially to regain his balance, then to grab at salvation. But for a short while physics seemed to have made an exception and allowed him to balance on the edge even though he ought to have fallen already. As if the laws of gravity had left him there long enough for Rebecca to have time to see the terror and accusation in his eyes. She on the floor, just a meter or so from his feet, close enough to be able to reach, to stretch out a hand to rescue him.
Like so many times before the whole sequence of events slowed down until everything was entirely still, almost like someone had pressed a pause button. And for a single intense moment it was actually there, for real, the chance for her to reach out her hand and try to undo what had been done. Save him. If she wanted to.
But even though she tried to convince herself that she loved him, that she regretted it and certainly didn’t wish him any harm, it didn’t help. Because deep down inside her, in a place that reason couldn’t reach, she still wanted—even though more than thirteen years had passed since that night—nothing more than for him to fall. That his face should be smashed beyond recognition, that his arms and legs be broken like matchsticks, and his hands, the soft hands that she had loved and feared more than anything else in the whole world, crushed to bloody fragments against the solid ground far below.
And at the moment when the hatred once again broke free inside her, someone pressed Play and her wishes came true.
Often that was when she woke up, at the moment when he disappeared from sight, and she avoided having to hear the sound of his body hitting the ground five floors below.
But not always.
Not today.
The muffled, soft sound was still echoing in her ears as she gulped down a quick breakfast by the kitchen sink. It was almost drowned out by the sound of traffic as she cycled fast along Rålambsvägen, but was still echoing weakly at the back of her mind as she made the mountain bike jump the curb on Drottningholmsvägen, and still hadn’t vanished completely by the time she pulled up breathless beside the guard’s box by the cellar entrance at Fridhemsplan.
She stopped at the barrier, showed her police badge to the guard inside, who waved her past absentmindedly, evidently more interested in the cell phone he was fiddling with instead of concentrating on his job.
Yet another incompetent idiot, she thought angrily before she rolled down through the tunnel beneath the Kronoberg complex, its cool darkness effectively shutting off the outside world and all of its sounds.
♦ ♦ ♦
“Come on, put a bit of effort in, for God’s sake! This isn’t a housewives’ exercise class!”
Sweat was pouring from the six bodyguards. Five men, one woman. Down on the floor, ten push-ups, quickly up on your feet again, ready, kick, punch, punch. Then down again. Twenty sit-ups and back up into position again. Ten reps in total, then switch with your partner. A firm grip around the waist, kick, punch, punch.
Her sparring partner was strong and his blows almost penetrated the padded shield in Rebecca’s arms.
Bang, bang, bang.
Three more, then change again.
The self-defense instructor was living up to his name today. Peter Pain hadn’t got his nickname simply because he was British.
The first training class for the rookies in the Alpha group. Evidently Vahtola had requested a serious session to challenge the newcomers to her group. Rebecca could see their boss watching them from the glass passageway above the self-defense room.
Approximately forty-five minutes had passed and the tempo had been relentless so far. Even though they were all in good shape, more than one of them was starting to flag now.
“Okay, stop, gather ’round.”
Peter Pain beckoned them all over. There was a collective sigh of relief and Rebecca noticed to her delight that several of her male colleagues had to rest their hands on their knees to catch their breath. She was tired, but not as tired as the biggest of the men.
That’s the advantage of having a bit less muscle, boys; it takes less oxygen to keep it going. She smirked silently before Pain’s new orders interrupted her.
“Restraint and release, groups of three, two holding, one trying to get loose. Questions? Okay, get going, and I want to see some speed! Go, go, go!”
She ended up with two big men who she knew slightly already. Stefan and Dejan, the former a muscle-bound guy about one meter ninety tall, the latter only a bit smaller.
“I’ll start,” Dejan said and gestured to Rebecca to grab him from behind while Stefan took up position to lock Dejan’s arms from the front.
“Ungh . . . !” Dejan twisted loose easily with some sort of advanced martial-arts technique as he let out a loud roar.
“Nice, Savic, but drop the Karate Kid bullshit!” their instructor said from the side of the mat.
Rebecca glanced up at the glass passageway. Vahtola was still watching, and it looked like the head of the unit was focusing particularly on her trio.
“Ungh!!!” Dejan was free again, this time even more easily.
Shit, she’d lost her concentration and Pain wasn’t the sort to let it pass.
“Get a grip, Normén! If you want to belong to the elite you need to step it up!”
The third attempt, and now she knew pretty much how his tactics worked. Dejan took a quick step to the side before twisting free, so what would happen if she kneed him at the back of his knee in the middle of the step?
The answer proved to be that he fell backward into her arms, and that she and Stefan could easily spin him around and lay him out on the mat.
“Good, Normén, that’s how it’s supposed to look!” Pain clapped his hands and Rebecca couldn’t help throwing a smug glance up at the glass passageway. Vahtola’s expression hadn’t changed.
“Let’s switch!” Dejan said tersely. He was red in the face and clearly not happy about being bundled over in front of their new boss.
“I’ll take the back.”
Before Rebecca had time to react, he’d taken up a position behind her and got her in some sort of headlock. Both arms around her neck, his right arm over her throat locked onto the other arm, his left hand clasping the back of her neck.
It felt like she was in a vise.
She quickly tried to get at the arm across her throat, but Wikström, standing in front of her, caught her wrists and held her arms tight. She struggled and jerked, trying to get free, but Dejan evidently wasn’t about to let that happen.
It was payback time, and instead of loosening his grip to give her a chance, he tightened his grasp. Her feet were almost off the ground now.
“Come on, Normén,” he snarled in her ear. “Show us what you can do!”
Rebecca could feel her eyes starting to flutter. His grip was so tight that both her airway and blood supply were being cut off. She tried to get free again, this time more frenetically, but Wikström didn’t appear to have noticed that everything was on the point of spiraling out of control, and was still holding her wrists tight.
Her field of vision was shrinking and she could feel herself on the verge of panic. She was stuck, she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. Immobile and in another person’s power, someone who wished her harm. Exposed. Helpless. And all of a sudden she was no longer in a gym in Kronoberg but in a flat in one of the southern suburbs and the man holding her was no longer a colleague whose pride had been wounded.
“I’m going to kill you, you little bitch,” he snarled in her ear, and she could tell from the tone of voice, the one that terrified her so, that he meant every word. This time she would die for sure!
The panic she usually kept such a firm grip on welled up and filled her head, pumping adrenaline into her fading muscles and taking command of her body. And suddenly she felt a new burst of life.
She let herself fall toward the floor like a sack, and when the grip on her neck relaxed a couple of millimeters she launched up with both feet and thrust backward and upward with such force that they almost toppled over.
Rebecca felt the back of her head hit something hard, felt something break, and when she raised her feet and kicked out in front to strike a different target, the force of the kick altered their center of gravity and they collapsed onto the mat.
For a moment everything went black, then her sight gradually came back.
She was sitting on the floor with her back against the flattened Dejan, with his legs on either side of her. A few meters in front of her Stefan was curled up, clutching his stomach. In a flash she was up on her feet, turning toward Dejan, who was still lying down. His hands were over his face, but to judge by the trickles running between his fingers, that wasn’t enough to stem the flow of blood.
“What the fuck, you crazy or what, Normén?” he squeaked as he stared at her, sounding simultaneously suspicious and accusing.
She didn’t quite know what to say.
“I . . .” she began uncertainly, but Peter Pain interrupted her.
“Damn fine work, Normén, that’s the way to bring them down! Savic, you were asking for that so you’d better take yourself off to the nurse to get yourself patched up. Wikström, do you need to go too?”
Stefan waved his hands dismissively as he got heavily to his feet.
“Just lost my breath, nice hit, Normén.” He nodded toward her.
Rebecca blushed, feeling simultaneously guilty and pleased. Maybe Dejan’s nose was a bit unfortunate, but on the other hand he had been asking for it with his stupid macho posturing.
She’d done her job, managed to get free on her own, and she hadn’t been some helpless victim.
Not like then.
Absolutely not like then!
She was different now, stronger, better, braver. A completely different person.
When she eventually dared to glance up at Vahtola, she saw a faint smile on the other woman’s face.
♦ ♦ ♦
Birkagatan 32, be there at 18:00.
It wasn’t exactly a difficult instruction, but this time he had at least prepared himself better. In spite of the heat he had dug out an old army jacket that someone, he couldn’t remember who, had left in his flat after a party ages ago. The jacket had loads of pockets, which he had stuffed with various useful things, and it had straps on the front that would be perfect for holding the phone.
The clip of number twenty-seven had eventually made him realize where the camera ought to be to get the best pictures. No more rubbish bouncing at waist height like on the train or at NK, from now on nothing but headshots.
The viewers, or fans, as he was calling them more and more often, had been impressed with the NK stunt.
Even if he didn’t know who they were, he felt increasingly sure that they were his kind of people, solid guys who he’d be happy to share a chilled beer with if the opportunity arose.
He’d actually tried to find a way to get into the community. He’d tried to find an entrance portal where you could sign up as a member and then play, watch, and maybe even chat to the fans. Find out a bit more about who they were and why they liked him in particular.
But he’d failed. The search terms he had used didn’t come up with any links that worked, so membership seemed to be by invitation only. Which was a bit of crap, because seeing other players’ clips would have been fucking cool, not to mention the direct contact with the fans, but there wasn’t a lot he could do about it.
The Game was more impartial this way—he reluctantly accepted that.
After his second task he had strolled intentionally slowly along the quayside of Skeppsbron, walking backward at least half the way so he could enjoy his handiwork as long as possible. Once he’d got home to Maria Trappgränd the Game had already put up a professional montage. First, his own shaky footage from the inside interspersed with external shots of the clock. Then a split screen with the countdown in the middle. His hand and the buttons on one side, the rotating clock on the other. Three, two, one, click, and time stopped above the center of Stockholm.
Five hundred lovely points, a personal message of congratulations from the Game Master, and a load of new comments, as well as clamb
ering a few notches up the high-score list.
To say it was cool didn’t even come close! He’d been forced to jerk off not once but twice before he could get to sleep.
Up out of the subway at St. Eriksplan, into Tomtebogatan, and then right at the corner. As he approached the address he could feel his pulse rate go up. He decided to cross over Birkagatan to be able to observe his target in peace and quiet from a doorway almost opposite, and to have a well-deserved cigarette.
There wasn’t anything odd about the address.
A perfectly ordinary residential building built sometime in the early twentieth century or so, at a guess. Four rows of windows, plus the skylights on the roof gave five floors in total. From the look of it, the ground floor seemed to be mostly shops and offices, and presumably the top floor was some sort of luxurious loft apartment.
So what now?
He pulled the phone from the strap on the left shoulder, where, after much deliberation, he had decided to attach it, and swept it across the building, zooming in on the front doorway, then out to give the big picture again. When he was finished he noticed the little red light start to flash.
Behind the telephone box next to the Co-op
was all it said, and HP frowned unhappily as a minute or so later he fished out a plastic bag that had been stuffed behind the gray telecom engineers’ box on the other side of the street.
Had he come all the way out to Birkastan to pick up a lousy package?
What sort of shit assignment was this?
But before he had time to look in the bag the light flashed again and when he had read through the third message of the evening he felt his heart starting to race with excitement.
This was more like it!
He checked that the camera was working, then fastened the phone in its place.
Then he tapped in the door code he had just been given and heard the lock click.
Lights, camera, action! he thought excitedly as he opened the door and slid in.
♦ ♦ ♦
The first target spun around like a flash!
Game: A Thriller Page 5