‘We probably haven’t got far left …’ She put the tub back in her pocket.
‘Where to? The station at Slussen, or what?’
He stretched his stiff limbs and tried to sit in the same position as her.
‘I thought that to start with, but the tunnel’s curving in the wrong direction. We’re heading south. I think we must be getting close to Medborgarplatsen …’
‘Okay … And when we get there, where do we go after that? Where’s this flat Manga mentioned?’
‘You’ll see …’
He tried to look hard at her, but the mobile was facing towards him and her face was in shadow. She was actually pretty cool. Clearly the smart one of the group.
Kent Hasselqvist was a pathetic little approval-junkie, and Muscleman Jeff lived up to all his prejudices about tattooed gym-freaks with cropped hair. But Nora was different.
‘So, what was your role in the Game?’ he said in a tone of voice that was supposed to sound relaxed and not uncomfortably interested.
‘I mean, were you a Player or an Ant?’ he added rather less confidently when she didn’t answer. ‘Or some sort of Functionary like Mangelito?’
Still no answer.
‘Okay, Greta Garbo. Sorry I asked …’ he muttered and resumed the crawling position.
‘Shall we?’ He nodded at the tunnel ahead of them.
She sat still for a moment longer.
Then she shifted round and switched off her mobile.
‘A Player, just like you,’ she said, and began to crawl away.
Rebecca carried on scrolling down the page. Most of the information seemed to come from the Royal Library, so a visit there felt like a natural next step.
In 1968, four years after her dad was fired from the military and, according to Sammer / Pellas, started work as a consultant, Sweden signed the non-proliferation treaty and gradually began to dismantle its nuclear weapons programme, which officially ended in 1972. But the following section on Wikipedia appeared to contradict that:
However, activities related to nuclear weapons continued at the National Defence Research Establishment even after the dismantling work had been concluded in 1972, albeit on a considerably smaller scale. (Resources in 1972 were approximately one third of the 1964-65 level.) Research into ways of protecting against the effects of nuclear weapons, unconnected of any research into active construction or an independent capability, continued.
All of this fitted perfectly with what Uncle Tage had said. A large, top-secret research project requiring clandestine contact with other countries. A project which was later closed down but continued on a smaller scale, even more secretly than before. Rumbling on below the surface with the tacit approval of those in power.
In 1985, however, a newspaper article attracted a lot of attention and the Palme government suddenly got cold feet. An official investigation was set up, and took two years to conclude that there were no conclusions to conclude seeing as all research into nuclear weapons really had stopped in 1972, just as the government had been claiming all along.
Two years allowed plenty of time to shut things down, cut off all contacts and erase all traces for good. A solution that suited all parties. Or at least almost all …
If she was right, if the L-programme and its even more secret successor had been Sammer’s and, by extension, her dad’s project, then this would mean that they were both conclusively removed from it in 1985 or 86.
The safe deposit box contract had been signed in 1986, and that was also the period when Dad began to change. He became bitter, angry – and considerably more violent. Was that when he got hold of the revolver, or had he had it much longer, possibly from Uncle Tage as a form of security?
The nuclear weapons programme was originally under the auspices of the air force, and, in contrast with the army, their personnel were issued with this sort of revolver, .38 calibre.
That would explain why Uncle Tage was so keen to get hold of the gun, apart from wanting to keep it away from Henke.
He wanted to get shot of the revolver for good.
Before it could be traced back to events in the past …
Now what had he meant by that?
Then there were his cryptic words towards the end of the conversation that she hadn’t really taken in before she was out of the car. Something about not letting history repeat itself.
She closed her eyes, rested her head in her hands and massaged her temples.
God, what a story!
‘Did you get far up the rankings?’ he gasped towards her legs. ‘I was first runner up, Player number 128. I was actually in the lead for a while, but I suppose you know all that …’
No answer.
She really was playing hard to get …
Without any warning Nora suddenly stopped and he almost hit his head on her backside. Not that that would have been a wholly unpleasant experience.
He was about to open his mouth to say something clever when she cut him off.
‘Shhhh!’
Now he suddenly noticed the faint light ahead of them.
It was coming through the roof of the tunnel, through some sort of grille or something. There was a vague sound of voices in the distance.
‘What time is it?’ he hissed.
‘Half past five.’
For a moment he thought she meant in the evening. That they had spent a whole day crawling through the darkness. But that obviously wasn’t the case. They’d picked him up from Långholmen in the middle of the night, then they’d walked through the tunnel just in time to see the last trains rumble home before the system shut down.
Add a few hours for talking and crawling, and it would soon be time for breakfast.
Nora carried on moving forward carefully, stopping just below the grating. She got up into a crouch and carefully stretched out, reaching towards the light. Her head disappeared from view and for a moment, even though he could see the rest of her body, he felt strangely abandoned.
Then she was back.
‘Come on!’
She waved him forward.
‘Quick!’ she added when he failed to move fast enough.
He crept forward and got up beside her, so close he could feel her breath on his cheek.
‘Medborgarplatsen underground station.’ She pointed upwards. ‘The platform’s empty, but the station must be opening any time now because I can hear voices. We have to get up before they let in the morning rush …
‘Otherwise it would look a bit odd, wouldn’t it?’ she added, when he didn’t seem to get what she meant. ‘Two shabby-looking people crawling out of a hole in the ground …?’
‘Sure, of course,’ he mumbled.
God, he was being slow!
She stood up, flicked some sort of catch, and then raised the grating.
She did a little jump and climbed out.
‘Here!’
She reached one hand down towards him.
For a moment he considered ignoring it, because obviously he could get himself out of a fucking hole without any help. But his body was completely knackered and he had no desire to get stuck halfway up, like some geek doing circuit training. So he took her hand, pushed off from the floor and jumped towards the hole. She pretty much pulled him out onto the platform.
‘Come on, they’ve started letting people in, I heard someone rattling keys …’
She hadn’t let go of his hand, and pulled him up on his feet, then dragged him after her towards the middle of the platform.
From the staircase leading down from the entrance at the far end they could hear a metallic sound that seemed to be getting closer. But there was still no sign of any early morning passengers.
Two pairs of legs in blue trousers appeared in their field of vision.
Then weapons belts with jangling handcuffs, followed by blue uniform jackets and two capped heads.
Cops – one male, one female.
Heading straight for them!
Shit!
&nbs
p; For a moment he was seized by an instinct to run. But Nora was still holding his hand, forcing him to calm down.
‘Pull your hood up,’ she whispered, then slowly began to slip towards the nearest flight of steps up from the platform. There seemed to be voices coming from up there.
He did as she said and slowly pulled his hood over his head.
‘We’ll already be late, get a move on!’ someone above them growled.
Presumably the station staff, about to open up.
HP glanced cautiously over his shoulder. The cops were getting closer, gaining on them with every step.
They seemed to be aiming straight for them.
Suddenly he realized how filthy his hooded top was. Dirty stains all over it and brown scorch marks along one sleeve. Nora was in a similar state. It was hardly surprising that the cops seemed interested, they looked like a couple of down-and-outs.
Nora squeezed his hand and he found himself squeezing back. The stairs were still ten metres away, and the cops were much closer than that.
They weren’t going to make it. Unless they ran for it …
He tensed his body, tried to free his hand and get ready to sprint.
But she wouldn’t let go.
Just as the cops caught up with them she pulled him to her, pressed her lips to his and started kissing him hard.
The kiss took him completely by surprise, but after a couple of seconds he got used to the idea and started kissing her back. Her lips and tongue were just as soft as he had imagined, even if the faint but not unpleasant taste of tobacco surprised him.
He put one arm round her lower back and pulled her towards him.
A gust of wind from the tunnel caught her hair, and it tickled him on the cheek.
But he hardly noticed.
‘Get a room …’ the female cop smirked as they walked past.
A few seconds later a train thundered into the station.
People came running down the stairs, forcing their way past them even though the carriage doors hadn’t opened yet.
Nora pulled back and let go of his neck and hand.
‘Here,’ she said, fishing a crumpled envelope out of her trouser pocket.
‘Take the train out to the Woodland Cemetery, Kent’s sorted out a flat there. The key and address are in the envelope. We’ll be in touch in a couple of days.’
‘Er, okay,’ he mumbled, not sure what he was expected to say, or do, for that matter.
‘This is your train,’ she said with a smile, pointing towards the carriage a metre or so away.
‘Er, okay.’
Same words again. He really did have the gift of the gab today. A real ladies’ man.
The Woodland Cemetery, of all places. Almost back on home territory. The little basement where the Fenster ran his stolen goods racket, where HP had financed pretty much the whole of his adult life.
He stepped into the carriage and turned round.
For a few moments they stood there looking at each other.
‘Fires,’ she said just as the doors began to bleep.
‘What?’
‘You asked what I did for the Game.’
‘Right …’
The doors slowly started to close.
‘I started fires …’
20
A Friend
A scarf round her head, big black sunglasses, gloves, and a blue raincoat. Like something out of a fifties magazine, and definitely not her. But, on the other hand, that was the whole point of this little masquerade.
She said hello to the guard in reception and held out her passcard. It was a different man to last time, or at least she thought it was.
‘You can go through,’ he said once he’d drawn her card through the reader.
‘Thanks.’
She carried on to the airlock. The large beach-bag she was carrying over her shoulder was chafing slightly, but she gritted her teeth. She used her card again and tried to stop herself from glancing up at the little round camera in the ceiling.
The plan was simple: open the new locker, put the green metal box in the bag and disappear out of the door, never to return.
There was no time to lose. Sooner or later Stigsson and his henchmen would get hold of the passcard register and join the dots. She couldn’t let them find the revolver, because they’d link it to events at the Grand and use it as incontrovertible evidence that Henke really had meant to kill Black. The simplest solution would be to hand the gun over to Uncle Tage, just as she had more or less promised. But right now that thought didn’t feel quite so appealing as it had during their conversation in the car. Oh well, she could decide later, once she’d managed to get the revolver out of the bank.
The door at the other end of the airlock opened and she stepped inside the vault.
It looked exactly the same as last time, but just to be sure she stood still beside the door, listening for any sound of other visitors.
Everything was silent, and after a few seconds she headed off down the central passageway.
She walked slowly at first, then speeded up, as if she was afraid she wasn’t going to make it in time. The sound of her heels bounced off the walls and created odd echoes in the rooms off to each side of the main path.
As she passed the gate leading to the room containing the old box she couldn’t help looking over at it. The hole in the brass door where the lock had once been was clearly visible.
She fought a sudden urge to stop and take a closer look. Instead she carried on, past two more gates until she reached the one with its green lamp illuminated. Her heart started to beat faster and she paused for a couple of seconds to look round. One of the dark, spherical cameras was almost immediately above her head, and she had to make a real effort not to look up.
As soon as she got inside the little room and found the door to her own safe deposit box, she felt much calmer. Everything was okay, the lock was intact and there was no sign that anyone had tried to force it open.
She put the key in the lock, then looked over her shoulder one last time just to be sure. Then she turned the key.
It took several seconds for her to register what she found.
The tin box was gone, and the locker was all but empty. Empty except for the little round object in the middle of it. A small glass sphere, maybe five centimetres in diameter.
She carefully took it out, holding it between her thumb and forefinger. Her right hand suddenly began to shake and for a moment she was worried she was going to drop it.
She quickly switched hands, then held the sphere up to the light and examined it carefully as she tried to get her head round the situation. Everything suddenly felt very unreal, almost dreamlike. She could see right through the sphere as she carefully rolled it between her thumb and forefinger.
At its centre floated a small bubble.
The flat couldn’t have been more than twenty-five square metres in size.
A tiny kitchen that reeked of frying, and another room with a spongy cork-matting floor, fitted out with a folding bed from Ikea and a roll of wank paper. Not exactly the Hilton. And it was also hot as hell.
The morning sun was blazing down on the windows, and the roll-blinds seemed to be absorbing the heat rather than deflecting it.
He held up the transparent little pill bottle in front of him and shook it. Five big pills bounced around inside. For what must be the tenth time in the past five minutes, he popped the lid open and pulled one of them out.
Obviously he really ought to clamber out of bed, pour himself a glass of lukewarm water from the wonky tap in the kitchen, and swallow the bastard.
Long overdue too, for that matter, seeing as he’d spent almost twenty-four hours asleep in there, so he was behind on his medication. His head was aching in a rather disturbing way, and in spite of the heat he had found himself shivering a few times.
Yet still he hesitated.
She must have put the bottle of pills in his pocket while they were kissing. That was the only realis
tic explanation he could think of.
He put the pill back in the bottle, fished out the box of Marlboros he had picked up on the way from the station, and lit one.
I started fires …
Nice girl …
Really nice …
There were a number of fires to choose from. Erman’s cottage. Manga’s shop. Not to mention his own flat … Take your pick, basically …
The first time he took one of those horse pills he got ill. He’d had food-poisoning before, but this had felt different, he realized now in hindsight. And his involuntary stomach pump out in the water of Pålsundet had made him feel better almost immediately, which definitely wasn’t what usually happened after an overdose of kebabylococcus.
If he hadn’t suddenly fallen ill, he’d be a long way away by now. He’d have taken off to the countryside and hidden himself away in a hole deep enough to make Saddam Hussein jealous. But instead he had ended up wandering round Långholmen, feeling like shit until he came up with the bright idea of having a nap on a boat.
And then all they had to do was reel him in, basically.
And now he was here in their flat. Exactly where they wanted him.
And all thanks to Manga.
Fucking bloody Manga, who had obviously shafted him royally. No, imperially! But now he was expected to just forget everything that had happened, and swallow the story that he had been doing the Game’s bidding the whole time.
FUCK!!
He threw the bottle of pills at the ceiling, where it made a dent in one of the plasterboard tiles before bouncing over towards the front door.
If only he had a computer, he could do a bit of googling and check out some of the details of the shit soup Manga was trying to feed him.
But no, here he was with no broadband, telephone or even a sodding television.
Like a suburban variation of Erman the Hermit.
Ah yes, Erman …
The Game Master’s little buddy, who was clearly one of the people who used that underground office when he needed to. An outcast who had come in from the cold, and had managed to carve out a place for himself right next to the stove.
The Game Trilogy Page 88