The Game Trilogy

by Anders de la Motte

If he was going to stand any chance at all he had to find a way of getting into the country without being picked up by the Game’s radar.

  It was actually much simpler than it sounded.

  Forget movie stunts like hiding in the toilet, creeping out through the undercarriage and scampering off over the runway. All he needed was a passport – a little red booklet with a photograph that looked vaguely like him.

  Like the one sticking out of the back pocket of the bloke three rows in front of him …

  He flew out of his seat a few seconds before the plane stopped at the gate and the pilot switched off the seatbelt sign. He quickly grabbed his bag from the overhead locker and then positioned himself right next to his target, holding his bag at just the right height to conceal what he was doing. Just as he had hoped, the man was fully occupied with his mobile phone. Seven hours without social media was a long time for iMorons …

  A neat shoulder-tackle in the middle of a status update, and suddenly @arlanda was suddenly @unknownplaceonthefloorbetweentheseats …

  As soon as the man leaned over to rescue his pride and joy, HP snatched his passport from his back pocket and headed towards the exit as quickly as he could.

  A few moments later he was out in the connecting walkway and on his way into the arrivals terminal.

  He was now Lars Tommy Gunke from Linköping, according to the passport. He tasted the name a couple of times as he walked quickly towards passport control.

  ‘Lasse – Lasse Gunke here, hi!’

  He glanced quickly at one of the clocks on the wall. He had three or four minutes, maybe five. That ought to be enough …

  Two sturdy police officers in dark uniforms were standing over by the passport control desk. The men looked bored, but a little LOC form and someone without a passport would doubtless save their morning.

  HP aimed at the shortest queue and tried to look innocent.

  Another glance at the time.

  Two minutes had already passed and as usual he had chosen the wrong queue. The line of people beside him was sailing through, but he wasn’t moving at all.

  And now it was too late to switch, he had metal railings on both sides and more passengers lined up behind him.

  What the hell was taking so long?

  It looked like the old bag at the front of the queue was having trouble with her passport, he could see her waving her arms at the woman behind the desk, as if she was trying to explain something.

  He took a careful look over his shoulder. Loads of people behind him, but no sign of the real Lasse G. Yet.

  ‘Hi Rebecca, sorry I’m a bit late. I’m just going to grab some coffee, do you want a refill?’

  ‘Sure …’

  Rebecca watched Karolina Modin as she filled the coffee cups over by the till.

  Modin was the youngest member of the team at twenty-five, a whole decade younger than Rebecca herself.

  Modin’s boyish appearance and short, jagged fringe made her look even younger than she actually was, which definitely wasn’t a good thing when you were trying to justify your position in the force. All too often, seniority still counted for more than ability.

  So why had Modin really wanted to see her? She hadn’t wanted to say much on the phone – just that she wanted to meet.

  Rebecca really ought to have insisted that they do the whole thing over the phone, but it wasn’t as if she had anything better to do.

  Modin returned with their coffee and sat down opposite Rebecca. They each took a sip.

  ‘Well, I was at another internal investigation interview yesterday, and there’s something I wanted to tell you …’

  Modin was clearly the sort of person who got straight to the point, which Rebecca appreciated. But this didn’t sound good.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I’ve done a lot of thinking about what happened down there. In Darfur, I mean. Everything happened so quickly – the whole thing, the evacuation and so on. We hardly had any time to talk … And Ludvig split us up as soon as we got home.’

  Modin looked anxiously at Rebecca, as though she were expecting some sort of agreement.

  ‘Mmh?’

  ‘Well, I wasn’t sure to start with … I mean, I was concentrating on driving and hardly looked out of the front of the car at all. Then there was complete chaos when the crowd broke, then the shooting, all the dust and … well, all that.’

  Modin glanced at her uncertainly again, but Rebecca kept her expression the same.

  ‘Anyway, I’ve had time to think, and looking back now I think I did actually see someone running in front of the car, while you were hanging off the door … I’m pretty sure I did.’

  Rebecca couldn’t help twitching, and Modin seemed to notice.

  ‘Well, I didn’t see any details, no gun or anything, but for some reason the colour yellow is fixed in my mind. Was he wearing something yellow, a top, or a scarf or something else loose?’

  ‘A plastic bag,’ Rebecca muttered indistinctly. She cleared her throat and repeated herself, as her heart pounded faster and faster. ‘The suspect had the gun in a bright yellow plastic bag that he was holding in his left hand.’

  ‘Hmm … it could well have been a bag, and that’s what I told the investigator when he asked. Per Westergren, you’ve probably already spoken to him …’

  ‘Yes, we’ve met,’ Rebecca nodded, unable to hold back a smile.

  Karolina Modin smiled back.

  ‘Right. He asked a lot of questions about you. What you were like as a boss, and so on. I said we hadn’t worked together long, but that you were one of my role-models in the bodyguard unit … That you’re always one hundred per cent professional …’

  All of a sudden Rebecca had no idea what she was supposed to say.

  ‘Thanks, Karolina. I mean … I really appreciate … well … your testimony and everything. I’m sure it’ll mean a lot in the investigation.’

  ‘Yes, that’s exactly what David said too … He was the one who suggested I call and ask to be interviewed again.’

  ‘David?’

  ‘Yes, David … David Malmén,’ Karolina Modin said, and smiled another one of her boyish grins.

  The other queue was still moving smoothly.

  He should have been through by now.

  On safe ground.

  Shit!

  Even though he was trying to play it cool, he couldn’t help squirming, and he got the impression that the cops had noticed.

  Four minutes had passed and he still hadn’t moved.

  The cops had started glowering at him

  For fuck’s sake, just get moving, you old bag!

  Another glance over his shoulder – still no Lasse.

  Suddenly the cops began to move.

  He leafed frenetically through his passport, pretending that its contents were really, really interesting.

  The police officers strolled slowly along the queue. Five minutes had passed and he thought he could detect some sort of anxiety at the very back of the queue.

  The cops exchanged a look and one of them said something into the radio microphone attached to his shoulder.

  Fuckfuckfuckfuckfu …

  ‘You there!’

  One of the cops was pointing at him.

  ‘Erm … what, me?’

  HP was playing for time.

  ‘Yes, you.’

  The cop beckoned him over and HP moved slowly closer to the railing. But the policeman kept on beckoning and after a moment’s hesitation HP ducked under the railing and took several more slow steps in their direction.

  What the hell was he going to do?

  ‘Passport, please!’

  The cop with most stripes on his shoulder held out his hand.

  ‘Erm …’ HP glanced towards the exit behind the police officers.

  If he really went for it, he might just …

  ‘Passport!’

  The policeman took the little red booklet that HP was still clutching hard in one hand, and for a moment they stood the
re like that – almost in a tug of war. Then HP let go.

  The cops were standing shoulder to shoulder, there was no chance of sneaking between them. The railing was blocking his escape on the right and he probably wouldn’t have time to skirt round to their left. He had to play it cool, wait for the right moment …

  One of the cops looked through the passport. HP felt a drop of sweat on his forehead, then another. The handle of his bag felt sticky in his hand.

  ‘LOC?’

  HP was sure this was what the cop holding the passport muttered while the other grinned.

  Fuck!

  His cover was blown, the cops knew who he was!

  Was he supposed to just hand over his deportation papers and go along nicely to the police station with them?

  Hell, no!

  Time to do what he was best at, run for his life!

  He took a cautious step to the side, trying to find a gap.

  The cops moved and the distance between them grew.

  On your marks …!

  The gap opened up a bit more.

  Get set …!

  The head cop looked up with a frown.

  ‘Don’t you like ice-hockey?’

  ‘W-what?’

  HP stopped, on tiptoe, his eyes still fixed on his escape route.

  ‘LHC – Linköping Hockey Club …?’

  The cops grinned and exchanged a look.

  ‘Thomas and I support AIK – we’re playing you in the Globe tonight. Top against bottom, you could say …’

  ‘Sure, yeah …’ HP muttered while his brain made an effort to catch up.

  The policeman handed him the passport.

  ‘Welcome home, Linköping, and good luck. You’re going to need it …’

  11

  Homecoming

  ‘We have a problem …’

  ‘I see – that doesn’t sound good. How big?’

  ‘We’re not quite sure yet – right now we’re evaluating the situation. But we may need to use your services again …’

  ‘That’s okay – I almost expected that. I’ve actually made a number of preparations …’

  She had been dreaming about him again.

  The man on the running machine.

  As she climbed the steps out of the underground she tried to remember what the dream had been about, but annoyingly the details were just out of reach. The look in his eyes was all she could remember. That penetrating black look that she had met in the mirror, almost making her lose her breath. She had seen it before, plenty of times. But back then it had belonged to a completely different man. A man she had loved – and hated …

  But Dag was dead and gone, and she had carried on without him. Started a new, better life with someone who didn’t treat her badly. So why was she doing this? What made a completely unknown man so interesting that she was dreaming about him?

  Without the slightest warning, that feeling washed over her again and she stopped dead in the middle of the pavement. Just like in the car down in Darfur, when they had been rushing through the cloud of sand and away from the threat, the world seemed to slow down. Every detail, every little movement around her suddenly appeared crystal clear, and for just a fraction of a second she imagined she could see something out of the corner of her eye. An indistinct silhouette visible through all the passersby.

  But the moment she started to turn her head, the world went back to its normal speed, her line of sight was obscured and the silhouette was gone.

  She waited a few seconds, then slipped between two parked cars and quickly crossed the street. Nothing, not the slightest movement.

  There was no-one following her. Anyway, who on earth would be?

  She went round the corner and turned into a little side street, and stopped in front of a doorway.

  For a brief second she hesitated, then tapped in the code, and looked over her shoulder just to make sure before going in.

  Two floors up she took out her bunch of keys and unlocked the door to the flat.

  After someone tried to burn down Henke’s flat the insurance company had not only paid for the hall to be restored, but also a reinforced door, so if your average burglar wanted to break in they’d have their work cut out for them. Which made it all the more annoying that the flat was uninhabited.

  Henke’s belongings were still in storage with Shureguard, so the whole flat, with the exception of the mattress on the floor, was pretty much empty of furniture.

  She fetched a glass of water from the kitchen, and had just finished it when there was a knock at the door. Three cautious little knocks.

  She didn’t bother looking through the peep-hole, and just opened the door.

  ‘Please, no talking – can’t we just fuck?’ she said to the person outside.

  He really shouldn’t. There were so many reasons not to that he had already lost count.

  But he still felt obliged to.

  The toilets looked just the same as they had before he left.

  He found the right cubicle, locked the door and stood on the toilet seat. He looked anxiously around the top of the cubicle, then gently lifted one of the ceiling tiles.

  He felt inside the enclosed space, his heart pounding faster and faster. For a few seconds he thought it was gone, that the security staff had found it. Or possibly someone else …

  Someone coughed a couple of cubicles away from him, and the sudden noise made him start.

  He looked around in panic, then caught sight of an electronic gadget in the ceiling and thought for a few moments that he’d been caught. That they were already on their way …

  But then his fingertips touched something hard, and he breathed out.

  How fucking paranoid could you get?

  In purely logical terms, the toilets in the departure hall were the perfect hiding place. Basically impossible to monitor. But logic was nowhere near enough to explain why he had decided to pick up the silvery little phone.

  It took him almost five days to pull himself together. He stayed shut in his room, sleeping like a corpse and only getting up to go to the toilet or let room service in – which, at this elegant establishment meant paying the shagged-out-looking bloke in reception to close his hatch and go across the street to McDonald’s.

  But as the days drifted past even the receptionist began to give him funny looks through the crack in the door, and eventually HP realized he was going to have to get his shit together.

  So at least now he had more or less cleaned himself up.

  The washed-out dressing gown he had pulled on after his much-needed shower lay in a heap on the stained carpet. He had only had it on for a few seconds when the feeling and smell of wet towelling made him pull it off in panic.

  The television was showing pretty much the same shit as ever.

  Channel five proudly presents: semi-famous people allowing themselves to be humiliated in new ways.

  Zap.

  American sitcom on six – season ten, episode sixty-eight …

  Zap.

  Advert for Dressman.

  Zap.

  Award-winning Iranian women’s drama – on the national broadcaster, SVT, where else …?

  Double zap!

  A crime series, featuring some sort of serial killer. Big surprise …

  Zap again.

  Big Brother, version 4.5.

  Zap.

  Ice hockey …

  Zap.

  Sitcom …

  Zap.

  A repeat of Swedish Idol.

  Zap.

  Advert for Dress …

  Zap.

  Zap.

  ZAP!!

  He was back home and nothing had changed except for him.

  He thought about pressing the PayTV button and ordering a ridiculously overpriced porn film, but for some reason he wasn’t in the mood.

  He was acting like he was still in exile because he was, even in Stockholm.

  Anger roused him. He had a sister here, but if the Game was after him he couldn’t r
isk seeing Rebecca.

  He got out of bed and dug out a notepad and pen from the battered little desk.

  He opened the window the five centimetres permitted by the safety catch, clambered up onto the windowsill and lit a cigarette. There may have been no-smoking stickers here and there, but to judge by the smell and the nicotine-stained embossed wallpaper, he was hardly the first person to break that particular rule.

  All his credit cards had been taken from him in Dubai – they told him they were fake, which in a way was true.

  Fortunately they had missed the backup card he had had the foresight to stick between the layers of rubber on one of his flip-flops.

  Twenty thousand in the account – enough to be able to book in anonymously here at the Hotel California, and buy the essentials. As soon he could get back online it would be simple enough to top up his account.

  Laptop, he scrawled on the pad, then, after a brief hesitation:

  Mobile.

  He cast a long glance at the little wardrobe.

  He’d taped the phone to the back of one of the drawers, and for a moment he was seized by an almost irresistible urge to get it out and look at it.

  Just for a few minutes …

  You have to put a stop to this, Normén!

  It was way past one o’clock at night, but as usual she was wide awake. She glanced at the sleeping form beside her on the mattress, trying to identify what she felt for it, but didn’t really succeed.

  Sex – that was all this was about, at least for her. An undemanding fuck – enough to fend off the angst for a few hours.

  She wasn’t entirely sure if it was the purely technical aspects that made the sex good, or if it was because what they were doing was forbidden.

  Probably a mixture of the two.

  Either way, she couldn’t carry on like this. She was starting to get paranoid, imagining that people were staring at her when she was on her way to another of their sordid little meetings. She had to put a stop to this, once and for all. Preferably today, or at the very latest by the end of the week, she thought, letting her hand slide over the pale back beside her. The touch made the back’s owner turn towards her and pull her closer. A hand roamed over her breast, then warm breath on her skin.

  By Friday at the latest, she thought.

  The list – he had to focus on the list and get his shit together.