Before Lindhagensplan—The Sequel there was another clip that was just a day or so old. He opened it. Fifty-Eight was standing in a shop, a garage or car rental company from the look of it. The camera must been at chest height to judge from the angle. The guy went through the door, turned left, and went over to a counter marked “workshop.”
“Hello, Stigsson, Western District!” Hasselqvist with a q and a v said to the well-fit bitch behind the counter, flashing a little black folder in her direction.
“I’m here to pick up 1710, I was told it’s ready?” Fifty-Eight said without the slightest hesitation in his voice, and was rewarded with a smile.
Shortly afterward he was given a car key and he was on his way out to the secure compound, still with the camera rolling.
Number 1710 turned out to be a police van, one of those VW things the cops seemed to like driving about in. Fifty-Eight jumped in and started it up, and the clip ended a few seconds after he’d rolled out through the gates.
So Hasselqvist had nicked a police van! Fifty-Eight must have been given loads of inside information. All he had to do was show up at a garage, play at being a cop for a couple of minutes, then drive off.
A trained monkey could have done that . . .
But once again he had to tip his cap at the Game. Evidently they had Ants inside the cops, just as Erman had said.
And now they had at least one police vehicle . . .
“Ahem . . . !”
HP jerked when Rehyman cleared his throat somewhere behind his back.
“What?” he snarled over his shoulder.
“The guard’s started his next round; according to his last circuits we’ve got four minutes before he gets here.”
“Okay, okay,” HP muttered, scrolling quickly through the rest of the clips.
He knew more or less all he needed to know about Fifty-Eight. He had enough to tip off the media if he chose to take that path, which was looking more and more logical.
He could certainly let them have a stolen police van and a prime suspect, and seeing as it was the height of summer the evening tabloids would be delighted with anything that could help stop them putting some new diet on the front page. If he could just find out the number of the bank account he’d have achieved his goal. And the Game could fuck right off!
He discovered a tab marked Transactions and moved the cursor toward it.
But just as he was about to lift his finger and click, from the corner of his eye he saw a thumbnail with another familiar image—and for a second or two it was like he’d turned to ice.
You must have seen wrong, a soothing voice whispered inside his head. Click and get in the money, baby! Thailand here we come!
His index finger was still hovering over the mouse button. A quick click and he could be halfway to Arlanda. There must be some sort of night flight, it didn’t matter where to.
Hasta la vista, baby!
But he knew the voice was lying to him. He hadn’t seen wrong.
And even though part of him was protesting wildly, he moved the cursor and opened the clip.
“Hi, Micke!” his sister said before something covered the lens and everything went black.
♦ ♦ ♦
Shit, shit, shit, was the only coherent thought his head could come up with. But after a few seconds he was able to reboot his system and regain control.
How in the name of holy fuck could Fifty-Eight have recorded his sister?
When had he filmed it?
More important—why?
The clip gave no decent answers. It was just a few seconds long, and had no information about date and time. It probably wasn’t even a proper assignment, because if it was it would be considerably longer and contain more information.
So what was it, then?
Had he just left his cell running, or hit the button by mistake and happened to film someone he didn’t even know?
Unlikely!
What were the odds on Fifty-Eight of all the people in the entire city just happening to bump into his sister, the very same person who just a few weeks before had been involuntarily caught up in the Game? Besides, from the tone of her voice they already knew each other. “Hi, Micke,” she had said.
Was Hasselqvist’s first name really Micke?
Just as he was scrolling back up the screen to double-check, Rehyman put his hand on his shoulder.
“The guard’s on his way up the stairs,” he said, and his neutral tone of voice was actually trembling a bit.
“Fuuuck!” HP snarled through his teeth.
What was he going to do now?
After thinking for a few seconds, he realized he’d have to prioritize his mission.
He could talk to his sister tomorrow, but the bank account was only available now. He’d only have one chance at the jackpot.
Reluctantly he abandoned his scrolling and clicked on Transactions.
“We’ve got to go now!” Rehyman said, just as the information began rolling across the screen.
Information was cascading over him, and HP scanned it as quickly as he could. In-payments, recipients’ accounts, dates, amounts—but where the hell was the sender’s account?
“We’ve got to go NOW!” Rehyman nagged, tugging at HP’s shoulder.
He shook the hand off.
“A couple more seconds.”
There it was!
Right at the bottom of the page, in its own little box. The numbered account from which all the cash was filtered out into the Game.
The pot of gold.
The mother lode!
Twelve numbers, all that was needed to start withdrawing money.
HP had double-checked online. There really were accounts where you just needed the number, just like Erman had said. No ID, no secret passwords, just a simple fucking account number.
And here it was!
He needed something to write with, fast as fuck.
Rehyman was still leaning over his shoulder, and to judge from the look on the guy’s face it was getting seriously urgent. HP patted his clothes with his hands.
Shit!
“A pen!” he almost shouted at Rehyman, who had started tugging his shoulder again.
“Never mind that, we have to leave!”
“I need a pen, for fuck’s sake, have you got a pen?!”
Rehyman just shook his head.
“Can you write numbers down on your laptop?”
No answer.
Fuck! He was so close, and it was all coming apart because he didn’t have a bastard pen!
If you split them into four groups of three figures, it was almost like a little rhyme. He tried humming them to himself. 397 461 212 035 397 461 212 035. This could actually work!
All of a sudden he felt someone lifting him out of the chair and it took a few seconds before he realized that it wasn’t the guard but Rehyman, carrying him toward the door to the server room.
“We . . . have . . . to . . . leave . . . now!” his partner in crime groaned before dropping HP at the door.
“What the hell are you doing!” HP shouted, but Rehyman had turned his back on him and was fiddling with the reader.
Suddenly HP heard the lock on the outer door start to whirr. The guard was on his way in! He glanced quickly around the room and saw at once what was wrong.
In two quick strides he was over at the computer, and pressed the little half-moon at the top right corner of the keyboard. He turned on his heel and ran headfirst through the open server-room door. Just as the mechanical lock on the outer door finished whirring, he pulled it shut behind him.
For a short while they lay on the floor without making a sound.
Their silence was actually unnecessary, seeing as the whole room was filled with a thick carpet of sound, whirring fans and grinding hard disks, which made it impossible to hear anything but very loud noises.
After waiting a couple of seconds Rehyman carefully crawled around the corner of the first row of servers, and HP followed him.
As soon as they were away from the window they sat up and leaned back against separate server cabinets. Now they just had to wait and hope that the guard wasn’t going to take a stroll through the racks, because if he did . . .
HP’s heart was pounding in his chest. What would happen if the Game found them here? Two housebreakers in a dark, soundproof office? For a moment he couldn’t help thinking of Erman.
“In cyberspace no one can hear you squeal . . .”
A metallic click broke through the carpet of noise. The guard had opened the door. HP held his breath.
More whirring.
He peered at the corner around which the guard might appear at any moment, and coiled up unconsciously, ready for fight or flight.
Then another click from the door, followed by a dull thud.
HP sat paralyzed. But Rehyman started moving at once.
“Come on,” he said in HP’s ear. “The guard’s moved on and we need to follow him. We have to be out before he gets back behind his screen, otherwise he’ll realize something’s wrong.”
Rehyman peered carefully through the window in the door, and a couple of seconds later they were back in the control room. Both computer screens were dark, just as they had been when they first entered the room.
“Smart!” Rehyman nodded. “The guard would have realized something was wrong if the screens had been lit up.”
HP really wanted to have another go at the keyboard, but there was no time.
Now they just had to get out. Besides, he thought he could still remember the rhyme.
How did it go? 397 461, then . . . 212?
“Come on, let’s go!”
Rehyman had his laptop out and evidently knew where the guard was looking as he dared to open the door to the corridor. Quickly and silently down the stairs.
Another check on the laptop, then another advance through the corridor on the ground floor. A minute or so later they were back out on the street.
A thin, gentle rain had started to fall.
Mission completed! HP thought with relief, turning his face up to the sky. God, it was nice to be out in the cool!
It wasn’t until they’d started the car and begun to drive away that he knew he could no longer remember the number of the account.
20
PAYBACK
FIRST TEN SECONDS of prolonged ringing, rrrrrrrriiiiiiiiiiinnnnnnnnggggggg!
Then a ten-second pause.
Then once more, rrrrrrrriiiiiiiiiiinnnnnnnnggggggg!
It was driving her mad.
In the end she had no option but to get up and open the door, even though her head was still sluggish and foggy.
Even if the peephole was empty, she had a good idea of who it was even before she opened the door. As per usual, she left the security chain on. So his attempt to yank the door open like she had done with his came to nothing.
“Hi, Henke!” she muttered through the crack. “Shouldn’t you be in Thailand by now?”
“Later, let me in; we have to talk!” he said in a single breath, and reluctantly she did as he asked.
“Do you know someone called Micke? Is he your boyfriend, or what?” he practically shouted as soon as he was in the hall.
“What . . . well . . . erm . . . why?”
Her head felt full of overcooked porridge.
“Fair hair, little beard, flat somewhere near Hornstull?”
“Mmh . . .” she confirmed sleepily as she tried to jump-start her brain.
Henke looked completely crazy—bloodshot eyes, hair all over the place, and a mad look in his eyes. What the hell was he playing at? Wasn’t he supposed to have left the country for good?
“Fucking bloody bastard shit!!” he snarled through his teeth.
“Erm . . . shall we go and sit down?” she managed to say.
“Haven’t got time, got to go!” he interrupted. “Just listen very fucking carefully!”
He grabbed her by the arms.
“Stay away from that fucker Micke, yeah?”
He was staring into her eyes. She was still having trouble focusing. Those pills were disconcertingly effective, and four had been at least two too many.
“Micke’s involved in the Game; it’s all about him. He’s ‘Fifty-Eight,’ the leader, the top guy, and whatever it is he’s involved in, you don’t want to get caught up in it, all right?”
She shook her head slowly.
What the hell was he going on about?
She was having trouble getting the words he was firing out to stick in her head, but the look of him was enough to tell her that something was wrong. It was like he was having a bad trip or something. Anyway, why wasn’t he in Thailand?
Henke had carried on talking and gradually some of what he was saying started to penetrate the padding in her head.
“. . . it’s all a Game, yeah? Micke’s only with you because that’s his assignment. You’re his mission, a means to an end, fuck knows what. They’re planning something big, some sort of End Game, that’s all I know. He’s nicked a police van and they must be planning to use it for something. But I’m going to stop them! They’ve crossed the damn line this time! They’ve been using us like pawns, the bastards. Now it’s payback time, sis, now it’s fucking payback time!”
He concluded his outburst by shaking her by the shoulders, which made her head nod back and forth. But the fog up there was refusing to let go.
“Look, this all sounds—”
“Crazy, I know!” he cut her off. “It’s totally fucking crazy! But little brother’s on the case, no need to worry. I’m going to sort this out, and that bastard Micke’s going to pay! No one fucks with my sister! Look what happened to the last one; it was worth ten months inside!”
Suddenly she was wide awake.
“What the hell are you going on about, Henke?”
She pushed his hands away and took a step back.
HP bit his tongue. Shit, why couldn’t he ever keep his mouth shut! Sometimes he could swear he had Tourette’s . . .
“Nothing,” he muttered quickly. “Forget that last bit.”
“Look!” she said, and he could see he’d made her seriously angry. “I know perfectly damn well what you did for me back then. Taking the blame for it all so I could get off.”
Her voice was furious and ice-cold at the same time.
“And I was stupid enough to let you do it—let my little brother throw his whole life away like that. And it still torments me in ways you can’t even begin to imagine. I will never forgive myself for letting you down! Never, got that?” she screamed.
She took a couple of deep breaths and slowly regained control of herself. He was standing absolutely still, not saying a word.
Then she smiled that smile and it was like something broke inside him.
“The key to the storeroom,” he said. “I need to get at my stuff. That’s all.”
She opened a little cupboard on the wall behind him and handed a key over without a word.
“Thanks,” he said abruptly and turned to go.
“Listen, Henke . . .” she said.
He turned around in the doorway, and they looked at each other for a few moments.
Then he smiled sadly and reached out to stroke her cheek.
“Don’t worry, sis, I’m going to sort everything. You don’t have to worry. I’m gonna clean them all up!”
Then he spun around and started to jog down the stairs.
“By the way!” he called back up to her, now in his usual, confident tone of voice. “Keep an eye out for a cop van, number 1710; that’s the one that’s been nicked!”
Then he was gone.
♦ ♦ ♦
He pushed up the door of the little storage area and tried to get his bearings among his possessions. Considering that this was his whole life, it wasn’t much to boast about. Ten boxes and garbage bags, and a bit of old furniture that his sister had obviously thought too good to ditch.
He found the first object almost at once,
a little spray can he had been given by a friend and which he had hidden among his socks.
“T-Spray,” it said, and the rest of the writing was in German.
The second item took longer, and for a few panic-stricken moments he thought she might have found what he was looking for and thrown it away.
But then he found the wooden box among a load of paperbacks and stuffed it in his pocket in relief.
All good to go!
He had a couple more things to do, then he’d be ready for a meeting with Micke Hasselqvist, a.k.a. number fifty-fucking-eight.
That business with the numbered account still sucked, big-time . . . How the hell could he have managed not to take a fucking pen with him?
He’d ranted and raved in the car almost the whole way back to Skärholmen, where he dropped Rehyman off.
The guy hadn’t said a word. He just sat there with his fucking bag on his lap. Hugging it like it was a little baby.
What a fucking player!
The man had installed the whole damn thing, and presumably got paid shitloads for that, then he helped HP, a complete stranger, to break into the place!
Talk about whacko!
He hadn’t even had the sense to want paying for his services, even though HP, with a pang of guilty conscience, had offered him some money before they parted. He’d just muttered something about doing a brother a favor, and didn’t even say good-bye as he disappeared into the pouring rain.
After a couple of meters it was almost like he’d never been there.
Mange sure knew how to pick ’em . . .
♦ ♦ ♦
It was almost afternoon before she woke up. A quick breakfast and shower to clear the last of the fog from her head. Her shift started at seven o’clock, and that evening they’d be on high alert.
She had only a hazy memory of Henke’s visit. A load of incoherent nonsense about Micke and that Game that he still didn’t seem to have let go.
It really ought to worry her, but what did Micke and Henke actually have in common apart from similar phones? After that meeting in Sturekatten she had done a couple of discreet database searches. Micke appeared to be spotless; everything he had said seemed to be true, and she felt reassured by that.
Then suddenly there Henke was in her hall, babbling a load of nonsense. The weirdest thing, and the most worrying, was that he did seem to know a fair bit about Micke. Had he been following her, playing at being her secret guardian?
Game: A Thriller Page 28