The Game Trilogy

by Anders de la Motte

  The movements of the pair in overalls seemed to be getting jerkier, more agitated. There was still no sign of Mrsic. She pressed the transmit button on her microphone. Her right hand had suddenly started to shake.

  ‘Kjellgren, two people in white overalls over by the wall, they’re doing something, can you see them?’

  ‘I see them, on my way!’

  From the corner of her eye she saw the car door open. Kjellgren was stepping onto the pavement when the pair in overalls spun round.

  Obviously he ought to flee the city.

  Get away, a fuck of a long way away, somewhere no bastard would ever find him.

  Any time now the Carer or whatever his name was would get back from his break and discover that someone had made snake stew out of one of his little darlings, nicked his revolver and used up all the serum in the fridge.

  He hoped he hadn’t left any fingerprints, and with a bit of luck the blood hadn’t soaked through his sock, so the cops wouldn’t have anything on him. Not that it mattered, seeing as he already knew the Carer would never involve the cops. No, he’d track down the closest suspect, with the emphasis on closest … and the ensuing little visit wouldn’t involve asking to borrow a cup of sugar.

  But there were two reasons why he couldn’t just leave. To begin with, the cops had seized his passport and told him not to go anywhere. Which wasn’t that much of a problem, he could always move freely among the Schengen countries. And it was always possible to conjure up a fake passport if you had the money. But the thought of ending up as an international fugitive wasn’t exactly appealing …

  Reason number two was considerably more serious. He was basically in too bad a state to travel. The snake poison combined with the serum cocktail he had injected himself with seemed to have aged him about sixty years, and even the short walk from the bed to the sofa left him utterly exhausted.

  So he had no choice but to carry on hiding in his flat like some freaky Anne Frank.

  A sudden rattle from the door made him start. A metallic scraping sound, as if someone was trying to open the letterbox.

  He struggled up from the sofa and stumbled out into the hall.

  There was no immediate danger. He’d fixed the letterbox just after the cops had smashed the door in.

  He’d screwed it down so it couldn’t be opened more than a couple of millimetres.

  Too little for anyone to be able to push anything flammable through. That was the idea, anyway.

  And it was also snakeproof.

  Well, he thought it probably was.

  All he could see was the corner of a letter, and after hesitating a few seconds he carefully pulled at it. A window envelope with some sort of official logo.

  He opened it with one finger as he laboriously returned to the sofa.

  Interview Summons

  Henrik Pettersson is summoned to an interview in the matter of case number K-345456-12 …

  He screwed the letter up and sent it flying at the wall. If the cops wanted to talk to him, they’d have to come and get him.

  He slumped deeper into the sofa, found the remote and zapped slowly through the channels until he found a news bulletin.

  ‘Erik af Cederskjöld, former head of communications strategy for the Moderate Party and newly appointed press spokesman for the Palace: what’s your view on the record low popularity ratings of the royal family? Don’t they cast a rather negative light over preparations for the wedding …?

  He changed channel before the slimy wanker on screen had time to answer.

  A washing detergent advert …

  Trust Vanish …

  ZAPP

  Emmerdale.

  ZAPP

  Another channel, another interview with another dull bastard, and he zapped again. But just before the picture changed he managed to read the caption.

  He practically flew up from the sofa. He hammered on the remote, making the plastic creak. Mark Black, Managing Director, PayTag Group.

  He raised the volume until the red gauge on the screen was at maximum. But he still had trouble hearing what was being said. It felt like his ears were blocked and all he could hear was a vague mumble of unfamiliar voices. Fragments of sentences that didn’t seem to fit together.

  PayTag’s only aim is to help …

  Merely providing what the market wants …

  A more secure world …

  Preventing terrorism …

  Don’t understand the criticism …

  High time that Sweden got modern legislation properly adapted to reality …

  He crept closer to the television, close enough to touch the screen. He stared at it with the same horrified fascination as he had studied the snake’s consumption of the rat. And suddenly he realized that the snake and Black were actually the same sort of creature.

  Monsters with ice-cold, unmoving eyes, in the process of gulping down an unsuspecting prey.

  He stared at Black, at the perfect suit, neatly ironed shirt and the unpleasantly reassuring reptilian smile on the man’s lips. But most of all he was staring at the woman holding onto his arm.

  PayTag kills internet freedom, it said on the banner that the couple in overalls unfurled between them. Neither of them said anything, they just stood there in complete silence behind the creepy white Guy Fawkes masks they had pulled on. Kjellgren had almost reached them, but she could see him hesitating. Neither of the demonstrators made any attempt to move.

  Black half turned towards her and gave her a look that immediately made her drop the hold she had just taken of his upper arm.

  ‘Perhaps it’s time to go in now?’ she murmured, but he ignored her.

  ‘Sorry, Miss Johansson.’ He turned back towards the television reporter. ‘Would you mind repeating that last question?’

  ‘Never do that again, Miss Normén,’ he said calmly as they were walking into the hotel lobby a few minutes later.

  Four paracetamols.

  Three glasses of water.

  Two cigarettes.

  One revolver.

  He was ready. This task would be his last, he already knew that. But he had no choice.

  Black was a poisonous snake, a monster created by the Game Master. Sent out to consume the whole world.

  And he was going to start with Becca …

  The scene was so familiar. Her hand on his upper arm, her steady gaze.

  Becca and Dad.

  Becca and Dag.

  Becca and Black.

  Obviously the Game Master was behind the whole thing. He had made sure Black got his claws into Becca. And, just as with that wife-beating bastard Dag, there was only one way to save her. The difference was that this time he had a proper weapon and didn’t have to rely on a sabotaged balcony railing.

  He pulled his jacket on, the same old army surplus coat he had used for his second task. That felt like a hundred years ago.

  As for himself, he felt more than a hundred years old. More suited to a nursing home than a man on a mission.

  The revolver fitted snugly into one of the deep side pockets.

  He tried drawing it a few times in front of the mirror. But he couldn’t quite conjure up the whole Taxi Driver vibe.

  Maybe that wasn’t so strange. He didn’t really have the energy. And as for the way he looked …! His beard was sticking in different directions, his eyes were sunken and his cheeks looked like two deep pits. And his lower teeth were weirdly visible, as if his bottom lip had lost its grip of his gums.

  He pulled his cap down over his forehead and covered the rest of his face with a pair of outsized mirror sunglasses. No-one would recognize him, not even Becca. He almost didn’t recognize himself …

  The revolver felt heavy, difficult to hold straight. He tested the hammer, and had to hold it tight to move it. All it would take now was a bit of pressure, a gentle squeeze of the trigger. And it would all be over …

  Both for Black and for him.

  There was no way the Game Master would let him live after
something like this.

  But he had no choice.

  He had to decapitate the snake.

  12

  Deathmatch

  The knock woke her up and it took her a few moments to realize where she was.

  In a hotel room in the Grand, four doors away from Black’s suite. She sat up and looked at the time on the clock-radio: 02.12.

  Her head felt sluggish, as if it were full of some sort of goo, and she rubbed the palms of her hands over her eyes in an effort to get her brain into gear.

  The knock was repeated. She got out of bed and quickly pulled on her trousers and blouse before opening the door slightly.

  It was Thomas.

  ‘Sorry for waking you, Rebecca,’ he muttered, taking a step forward so that she had no choice but to let him in.

  He waved the Blackberry he was holding in one hand.

  ‘We’ve received a threat against Mr Black, a particularly credible one …’

  ‘Oh …?’

  She wasn’t really sure what she was expected to say.

  ‘An old friend in the Secret Service just called. They’ve had information suggesting that a terrorist organization is planning an attack against us during our visit to Stockholm.’

  ‘Okay …’ She fiddled with the bottom buttons of her blouse while she tried to get her still groggy thoughts in order.

  ‘What organization?’

  ‘They don’t actually have a name, which probably sounds a bit odd. Terrorists usually like boasting, after all. But we’ve been keeping an eye on them for long enough to realize that they shouldn’t be underestimated, in spite of their low profile.’

  ‘So what’s the reason for their interest?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘Terrorists don’t always need a reason, Miss Normén. Fanatics have their own logic, but it’s probably something to do with the recent protests. That banner yesterday evening …’

  She nodded and turned away to open her trousers and tuck in the bottom of her blouse. At the same time she took the chance to sweep the pots of pills off the bedside table and into her trouser pocket.

  She turned back and gave Thomas an apologetic smile. But the look on his face didn’t let on if he had seen the pills.

  ‘Okay, so what do we know, exactly?’ she went on.

  ‘Not much, but my friend was concerned enough to call me in the middle of the night. He couldn’t say much, which probably means the information comes from a confidential source.’

  ‘Someone on the inside?’

  He nodded, as his free hand fiddled with the rather too long sleeve of his jacket.

  ‘But in spite of that, you don’t actually know what the organization is called?’

  ‘They have slightly different names depending on who you ask. The Circus, the Event, the Performance …’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Never heard of them …’

  ‘No, I didn’t think you would have. They’re pretty anonymous. Using a lot of different names is a good way to stay under the radar. But we know from past experience that they’re capable of almost anything …’ He was still tugging his sleeve, as if he were trying to make it even longer.

  ‘Okay, well, I’ll put a twenty-four-hour guard on Mr Black’s door to start with …’

  She thought for a few moments.

  ‘And I suggest that we take a helicopter tomorrow instead of driving up by car.’

  ‘Excellent, but can you arrange that at such short notice?’

  She nodded.

  ‘No problem.’

  She grabbed her holster from the bedside table, fixed it to her belt and pulled her jacket on.

  ‘Is there anything else I need to know, Mr Thomas?’

  ‘Not right now. I’ve been promised more information early tomorrow morning, so we can go through what we know then.’

  ‘Okay.’

  She followed him out into the corridor and stopped outside Mr Black’s door.

  ‘Is he …?’

  ‘He’s okay, I spoke to him a little while ago.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Well, goodnight, then, Rebecca. You’ll email me as soon as you’ve arranged transport …?’

  ‘Of course.’

  She hesitated for a moment. The thought had come out of nowhere, but she felt she had to say it, to get it out of the way.

  ‘Just one last question. This organization …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I don’t suppose it’s even been known as …’

  The Game!

  It was all he could think about.

  In spite of the paracetamols, his head was throbbing so much he thought his eyes would pop out.

  ‘You’re not looking too hot, mate …’ the taxi driver said.

  No shit, Sherlock …

  ‘Flu,’ he said abruptly, chewing on his unlit cigarette. ‘A right bastard, in the middle of the summer and everything …’

  The taxi driver grinned.

  ‘I bet! I get vaccinated in the autumn each year. You know, with all the people you meet in this line of work, bugs and viruses and shit floating around inside the car …’

  He stopped the car, looked round, then did a sharp u-turn across the solid line down the middle of the road.

  ‘Mind you, after swine flu and everyone getting sick from the vaccine, it does make you think …’

  ‘Hmm,’ HP agreed. The driver reminded him of someone, but he couldn’t put his finger on who.

  ‘Sometimes you can’t help wondering if there ever was any swine flu, or if it was just a way of flogging a load of untested vaccine …’ the driver went on.

  If only you knew, mate!

  Under any other circumstances he’d have thrown himself into the discussion, but he now hardly dared open his mouth in case he threw up a fountain of vomit.

  They had reached Skeppsbron. Only another three or four minutes, with nothing to do but stick it out.

  He pressed the button to open the window and get a bit of early morning air.

  ‘… loads of other shit the authorities dump on us. Like this business of them keeping records of all internet and mobile traffic, have you heard about that one? Like the Post Office opening all our letters and parcels before delivering them. Another crazy EU idea that the general population only swallow because we’re too busy gawping at all the inbred royals turning up here … It’s just like East Germany, if you ask me …’

  HP nodded distractedly.

  Suddenly he realized who the taxi driver reminded him of.

  Manga …

  Fuck, he missed Manga. Not a squeak since last winter. He didn’t answer his phone, neither his mobile nor his landline. Almost as if he was keeping out of the way on purpose …

  ‘Well, here we are, Kungsträdgården. Card or cash?’

  HP mumbled something inaudible and pulled a crumpled 100-kronor note from his trouser pocket.

  ‘What time is it, anyway?’

  ‘Quarter to six in the morning, mate, a hell of a time to be up and about …’

  HP opened the car door and stepped out onto the pavement, trying to get his lighter to work.

  His hands were shaking so much that he almost burned the end of his nose before he got the fag lit.

  The morning chill made him shiver and he took a few deep drags to warm himself up a bit. The illuminated façade of the Grand was a hundred metres in front of him. He thrust his hand into his pocket and closed his fingers around the handle of the revolver.

  Almost there.

  Almost home …

  She stood up and stretched, then went for a short walk along the corridor. Almost four hours on that chair had made her limbs go stiff.

  She stifled a brief yawn and looked at the time. It would be time to set off in a few minutes.

  Room service had arrived half an hour ago, meaning that Black was now rested, showered and fed.

  Unlike her …

  She stifled another yawn and held her right hand up in front of her. Only
a faint, almost imperceptible tremble.

  The effects of the sleeping pill hadn’t had time to wear off properly yet. The pills didn’t really seem to help her insomnia, and even if the doctor had told her to increase the dose, she usually just ended up in a drowsy doze rather than the deep sleep she needed. The little pots were straining the fabric of her trousers.

  One sort of pill to get through the night, another to get through the day …

  Her thoughts were still churning. The safe deposit box, the passports, the revolver, Tage Sammer – unless his name was really André Pellas, and Henke, of course.

  She had called him four times during the night, and sent him a text. A flagrant breach of Stigsson’s orders. But as usual she had only ended up with the automated voicemail service.

  Obviously it could all have been coincidence, that was probably the most likely explanation. A loosely configured terrorist group occasionally known as the Game didn’t necessarily have to have anything to do with the game Henke had got caught up in.

  She was used to indistinct threats, that was pretty much part of the daily diet at the Security Police. But she couldn’t be certain, not until she’d spoken to Henke, heard his voice, checked he was okay. And that nothing of what was going on around PayTag had anything to do with him.

  Her earpiece crackled into life.

  ‘We’re in position outside the main entrance, boss,’ Kjellgren said. ‘There’s about a dozen people out here, reporters and a few early birds on the lookout for royalty and celebrities. No sign of any demonstrators, over.’

  ‘Good, I want two men out on the pavement. We’ll probably be on our way in a few minutes, over.’

  ‘Copy that!’

  A door further along the corridor opened and Thomas came out.

  He was wearing the same suit, and the same loafers, but the shirt was new. Just like the last one, its collar was waging an uneven battle against Thomas’s thick neck, and the knot of his tie was already noticeably loose.

  ‘Good morning, Rebecca. Are we ready?’

  ‘All ready, we’ll be heading back to Bromma Airport and flying up. The helicopter can carry four passengers, so there’ll be plenty of room.’

  ‘And everything’s prepared up there?’

  ‘Two cars will be waiting for us, I sent them up right after our conversation last night.’