Fuck!
46 of 78 files checked, no unauthorized objects found, the program informed him.
He looked at the time. More than a minute had passed, only nine left until he had to get out.
Come on, come on, come on . . . Bastard slow library computer!
Scanning . . .
70 of 78 files checked, no unauthorized objects found
He leaned forward over the keyboard, moved the mouse to the Internet icon, and got ready to spring into action. No search engines, oh no, just straight to the right addresses, then erase all bookmarks and cookies from the computer before he logged out. Leaving as few footprints as possible . . .
An unexpected noise over by the door made him start. He raised his head and glanced cautiously over the top of the screen.
A short man in a leather jacket, dark glasses, and a baseball cap pulled down over his forehead had come into the computer room.
The man stopped in the doorway as he gazed slowly around the terminals, and something about the way he looked immediately made all of HP’s alarm bells start to ring like mad.
Shit!
♦ ♦ ♦
She tapped in the number and pressed the green icon.
Connecting . . . the screen declared, but after staring at it for at least thirty seconds she realized that it clearly wasn’t connecting. Annoyed, she clicked to end the call and repeated the procedure. The very latest smartphone and it was hardly capable of making a call . . .
“Police Headquarters, reception,” a voice suddenly said over the phone, without any ringing tone first.
She hesitated for a second or two, then said, “Permit section, please.”
“One moment.”
You have reached the permit section, current waiting time is estimated to be . . . six . . . minutes . . .
She sighed and looked at her watch. For a moment she considered abandoning the call and phoning Runeberg instead to see whether he could get any information about what was happening . . .
Stigsson had forbidden her to contact Henke. Not that that was actually much of a problem. Now that she came to think about it, she had been chasing Henke for weeks now, months, in fact. But even though she knew he was home, he had never opened the door when she visited, or picked up her calls when she phoned.
A couple of dutiful text messages, that was pretty much it, and she was under no illusions that it would be any easier to get hold of him now.
The safe-deposit box had unsettled her.
Evidently Henke had secrets that were so valuable he had felt obliged to hide them away in a high-security vault. Stigsson’s crew had already emptied his flat, and all it would take was for someone going through everything they had confiscated to find a copy of the safe-deposit agreement with the bank, or a letter like the one she had received. A request for a search warrant, then the drill would come out and all Henke’s secrets would be dragged into the open.
Whatever was inside that deposit box, it was hardly likely to make things any better for him.
“Permit section, Persson . . .” The voice made Rebecca start.
“Yes, hello, er, my name is Rebecca Normén . . .” She glanced at the papers in front of her and tried to gather her thoughts.
“I’m phoning about an application for a weapons license for a security company. I was just wondering how far you’d got . . .”
♦ ♦ ♦
Cop!
HP ducked down behind the screen instinctively. The guy reeked of police so badly it almost made his nostrils sting.
He bent down to pull the USB stick from the computer. Like hell was he going to let them have all the info he’d gathered over the past few months. The Security Police were bound to come up with some way of turning it all against him, locking him away on an indeterminate sentence . . .
His fingers closed around the little plastic stick, but at that moment the man in the cap burst out into a long, noisy harangue in a strange language. Another, lighter voice replied almost at once, and when HP carefully peered out he saw the man in the cap leaving the room in the company of a middle-aged woman who had been using a computer a short distance from his.
He waited a few more seconds, then straightened up and breathed out.
False alarm.
God, he was twitchy!
His heart was still pounding in his chest, his hands were trembling, and he had to take several deep breaths to slow his pulse down. High time to ditch the paranoia and get on with business.
The scanning program must have finished by now, and he was eager to see what the media reaction to his arrest had been.
Most of the papers were still running diet tips on their fly sheets, but the online edition of Expressen ought to feature him somewhere.
Last night the Security Police arrested a 32-year-old man on suspicion of planning terrorist attacks.
A source in the Security Police says the arrest has almost certainly prevented acts of terrorism on Swedish soil.
Yep, that was how you sold more papers. The fact that they let him go after a few hours probably wouldn’t be published until next week, by which time no one would care.
The media’s memory has always been short, Henrik. People can only deal with one story at a time . . .
Shit, sometimes he actually missed Philip and the Argos-Eye gang in the Hötorget skyscraper. Even though they had Anna Argos killed and almost managed to pin the murder on him, not to mention everything they did to him once his cover was blown, sometimes he couldn’t help imagining what might have happened if he hadn’t been found out.
Who would he have been by now?
Rilke’s boyfriend?
Philip’s right-hand man?
Or, even better: his successor . . . the Game Master’s faithful partner, maybe even a future Mark Black. None of that sounded bad at all . . .
On the screen in front of him a little green window had appeared. The scan program must have got stuck when he nudged the USB stick. Damn, two more minutes wasted!
Annoyed, he moved the cursor to close the window and restart the scan. But just as the little arrow reached the cross in the top right corner of the window, letters began to appear. One by one, until they formed a sentence that made the hairs on his arms stand on end.
W
a
n
t
t
o
p
l
a
y
a
G
a
m
e
H
e
n
r
i
k
P
e
t
t
e
r
s
s
o
n
?
He threw himself under the desk and yanked the USB stick from the computer. On the way up he hit his head, got caught in the chair, and almost fell flat on the floor. At the last moment he caught hold of the desk, pulled himself to his knees, and tried to turn his head away. Too late. His gaze was drawn inexorably to the screen, like an insect with a death wish drawn to a UV light.
Run! a terrified little voice was screaming in his ear.
Get the fuck out of here, moron!
But his body wouldn’t obey.
Instead he remained on his knees in front of the computer, with his mouth half-open and eyes big as Ping-Pong balls, while his brain absorbed everything that was happening on the screen.
A new window opened and a series of images began to roll over it. Cut-and-paste headlines from various news sites:
The Palace reports a record level of interest from foreign media ahead of the royal wedding . . .
Huge server hall installed in old military base north of Uppsala. Rigorous security . . .
Another serious incident of hacking has been reported, this time by various companies in the defense industry. As on previo
us occasions, the police say that no information appears to have been stolen . . .
The Southern Link Road was closed for the second time in a week because of a computer failure that caused the failure of barriers and ventilation systems . . .
Several leading news websites are once again closing their comment sections . . .
He recognized the lot, he had looked them all up himself, cutting and pasting them onto the USB stick.
They were followed by more cuttings, things he didn’t recognize:
For a third week in a row there have been reports of disruption to computer and mobile networks. The operators affected worst are 3 and Telia, but other networks have also suffered . . .
Three kilos of plutonium from Cold War projects in Sweden were recently handed over to the USA. The foreign minister has given assurances that it “would not be used for military purposes.”
The EU is forcing Sweden to implement the Data Retention Directive!
The headlines vanished and were replaced by a series of short text messages:
Message received 03/04 09:55:
New job, here’s my new number. Call me! /Becca
Message received 12/04 14:55:
Why don’t you ever answer your phone? /Becca
Message received 02/05 16:39:
Tried to visit you again. The TV was on. Why didn’t you open the door? /Becca
Message sent 06/05 22:02:
Hi Mangelito, are you back? /HP
Message received 14/05 21:13:
Where are you, Henke? Are you okay? Please, call me! /Becca
Message sent 15/05 03:11:
Mange, call me need to talk pronto! /HP
Message received 23/05 18:36:
Henke, please get in touch!!! /Becca
Just as he realized he was reading his own text traffic, the messages disappeared from the screen and were replaced by moving images.
A familiar figure snatching an umbrella from a bag.
CUT
A cortege of horses and carriages riding through Stockholm.
CUT
A dark-clad figure on a moped.
CUT
An unmarked police car rolling over in slow motion.
CUT
An isolated cottage in flames.
CUT
Desert ravens circling above sand dunes.
Then, finally:
The silhouette of an elderly man against a snowy forest glade full of flickering lanterns.
The screen suddenly went dark. But still HP couldn’t tear his eyes away. He was still kneeling motionless in front of the computer, holding his breath and waiting. When the message finally appeared he almost pissed himself:
Time to decide, Henrik!
This is your final task.
Do you want to play a Game?
Yes
or
No?
5
GHOSTS FROM THE PAST
OBVIOUSLY SHE OUGHT to try to get hold of him. He was her brother, after all. Tell Stigsson where he could stick his damn rule book . . .
But she’d actually already tried. It felt like she’d been chasing him all spring, calling, texting, even going around to the flat and knocking on the door a few times. He was still there, she was sure of that. The flat had smelled lived-in, not musty the way it had during the months he’d been away.
A couple of times she had seen the flickering light of the television from out in the street, but he still hadn’t opened the door.
And at some point last winter he must have changed the locks, because her spare keys no longer worked. He was angry with her. And she knew why . . .
He didn’t like the fact that she was in touch with Tage Sammer. He knew perfectly well why she liked the old man, and for exactly the same reason Henke was obliged to hate him, without even giving him a chance.
Uncle Tage reminded them both of Dad . . .
But even if Henke was an obstinate fool, she still had to try to help him.
Do her best to save him from himself.
She looked up the number in her contacts, hesitated a couple of seconds, then pressed Call.
It was a stupid idea. But she had no choice . . .
He answered after the first ring:
“Personal protection unit, Runeberg!”
“Hi, Ludvig, it’s Rebecca. Sorry to call so early but I took a chance that you might be at work . . .”
“Normén, hi! Quite right, there’s no time to rest up here at the moment. As you know, we’ve got our hands full. Are you calling to say you’ve changed your mind? Keen to get back to the mother ship?”
Runeberg’s voice sounded the same as usual, which made what she wanted to say somewhat easier.
“Not quite. I’m still thinking about it,” she lied. “I wanted to ask you for a favor, Ludvig . . . It’s a rather sensitive matter.”
“Mmm.”
She thought she could hear his office chair creak as he rearranged his great bulk.
“It’s about my brother . . .”
“Call my cell in ten minutes.” The tone of his voice suddenly sounded very different.
“W-what . . . ?”
But he had already hung up.
♦ ♦ ♦
For the third time in five minutes he nudged the blinds apart and peered down at the dimly lit street. Everything looked okay, but he was still certain he was being watched. One hundred percent utterly and absolutely certain . . .
Every movement, every website he’d visited, all his text messages. They had been watching everything, in spite of all his precautions. They were playing with him, trying to fuck with his head.
And doing a pretty good job of it . . .
He let go of the blinds, walked around the sofa, once, then again. Then he sat down, drumming his fingers on one knee before noticing a fingernail he hadn’t yet managed to ruin completely. The plan, insofar as he actually had one, hadn’t envisaged this scenario.
Not by a long shot!
And he’d been trying to convince himself that they had forgotten about him . . .
Epic fucking fail!
He had to get out of the flat at once, before he started climbing the walls. It was just past seven in the morning, and ordinarily it would be several hours before he tumbled out of bed. But his experience in the library seemed to have opened all the floodgates in his head. His mind was still full of fragmentary images. As if he had dreamed an entire film with a beginning, a middle, and an ending but could now only remember a few scenes. Memento sequences that he couldn’t piece together no matter how hard his aching brain tried.
The overflowing ashtray on the coffee table had just swallowed up his last cigarette, which gave him a legitimate reason to head down to the 7-Eleven at Mariatorget and get a bit of fresh air.
As soon as he opened the front door and stepped out into the street he could feel their eyes on him. He twisted his head around, checking every possible angle, but obviously they were far too professional to give themselves away so easily.
Even though it was still early, there were already four or five people squeezed into the shop. A gym-pumped guy with tattoos who was standing over by one of the shelves gave him a quick glance and HP froze midstride. He was almost certain he’d seen the man before. And his pretense of innocently browsing the pick-and-mix candy convinced him: raspberry gummies didn’t exactly fit into a low-carb, high-fat diet. HP had no choice but to turn on his heel and get out of the store at once. Really he ought to have gone straight back to the flat, but without cigs he was finished.
Instead he carried on down Hornsgatan toward the Slussen junction, trying hard to resist the temptation to drift through the morning traffic just to give his pursuers a challenge. The walk took less than five minutes, but in spite of the fact that it wasn’t even particularly warm, his T-shirt was sticking to his back and he had to sit down on one of the benches outside the subway station to catch his breath.
He was worn out, not only physically, and it wasn’t un
til he was fishing through his pockets for a cigarette that he remembered a lack of cigarettes was the reason for this little outing in the first place. There was a newsstand just inside the doors to the station, and he glanced around a couple of times before getting to his feet and heading in that direction.
A train must have just arrived, because in the middle of the doors he was suddenly confronted with a great tide of people on their way out.
Office workers in suits and ties, early-bird tourists, and perfectly average Swedes on their way to work. He put his chin to his chest and elbowed his way through the crowd, ignoring the disgruntled complaints as he did so.
Out of nowhere he was shoved in the side and almost lost his balance. He looked up angrily, but faces were streaming past on all sides and it was impossible to tell who had pushed him.
Then the rush was suddenly over and he was left standing in the ticket hall. Instead of making his way to the little kiosk, he stood there while his brain tried to find the right synapse. One of the faces that had gone past had seemed familiar as well. The bodybuilder in the 7-Eleven might just have been a phantom, but this was something else. The eyes, forehead, the set of the face, it was all horribly familiar. But there was something that wasn’t right, something missing that was stopping him from putting the pieces together.
It took him another few seconds before his brain finally made the right connection.
The beard!
He took a couple of hesitant steps back toward the doors, then a few more, faster now. He rushed out into the square and even flew up onto one of the benches to get a better view, his head spinning like Linda Blair’s.
“Erman!” he yelled. “Ermaaaaaan!”
But all he could see were people’s backs as they hurried away from him, none of them any more familiar than all the others.
He opened his mouth to shout again, but then he noticed the looks he was getting from people around him. In spite of the bustle of the square, a small crowd of onlookers were gathering around the bench he was standing on, as if they all wanted to see what was happening but didn’t dare get too close.
A couple of teenagers were pointing at him and giggling, a dad was dragging a small child closer, and some German Stieg Larsson tourists already had their cameras out.
He caught sight of his reflection in one of the station’s glass doors. Bright red face, hair all over the place, eyes bulging like Ping-Pong balls. Add a week or so’s stubble and his shabby clothes, and it was hardly surprising that people were staring. He looked totally fucking mad!
Bubble: A Thriller Page 5