Bubble: A Thriller

by Anders de la Motte

  They had spent about an hour in a run-down industrial estate, getting changed and sorting out the new van. White overalls and full-face protective masks that he pulled out of the sports bag, along with a couple of large stickers for the van. Two identical backpacks made of rigid plastic, fastened in four different places across the chest, making them look like something from a science fiction movie. One for him and one for Jeff. And everything courtesy of the Fenster’s little emporium.

  The forest track they were now parked in lay almost opposite the road leading to the Fortress. The lamps surrounding the steel gate were just visible a few hundred meters away through the dark forest.

  Everything was ready.

  Time to get moving . . .

  “Okay, let’s get going. Keep your fingers crossed that it’s going to work.”

  Three nods in response, two confident, from Nora and her brother, and one more hesitant from Hasselqvist.

  “And you’ve got everything ready? Name badges in place?”

  More nods.

  “How’s your head, Nora?”

  “Okay, the skin adhesive seems to be working.”

  “Good!”

  HP took a deep breath.

  “Okay, off we go then . . .”

  Hasselqvist seemed to hesitate for a moment, then started the engine and put the van in gear.

  “Shame about Mange,” Nora said once they’d started to move. “He seemed like a good guy.”

  “Yeah,” HP muttered.

  “Are you sure there’s no way he could have got out?” Hasselqvist said.

  “No chance. When everything went up he was still shut in behind us . . .” Nora said.

  HP swallowed to clear the lump in his throat.

  “Besides, we must have called his cell at least twenty times, and he hasn’t answered.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  They turned onto the newly surfaced tarmac road and drove up toward the gate, a massive thing fixed to solid concrete pillars on either side. As if that wasn’t enough, there was a sawtooth metal bar set into the tarmac, stretching right across the roadway. On top of the pillars were double rows of floodlights, and, just below them, aluminum camera boxes. Trying to force the gates with anything less than a tank would be utterly futile.

  There was a large yellow warning sign on the end of the concrete bunker that was evidently the gatehouse. The sign was partially obscured by black plastic, but the wind had shredded it enough for the text to be clearly visible.

  STOP

  High Security Area

  No admittance without permission

  No photography, recording, or surveillance

  without permission

  Hasselqvist stopped the van at the clearly marked line, just a couple of meters from the sawtooth metal bar.

  HP opened the door, jumped out, and went over to the glass hatch in the gatehouse.

  A sour-faced woman in uniform glared at him through what looked like a double layer of bulletproof glass. He carefully adjusted his fake glasses, then gave her his friendliest smile.

  “Yes, how can I help you?”

  Her voice was surprisingly melodic, almost disconcertingly so. Hell, she ought to be on the radio, not sitting out here in the middle of nowhere.

  “Er . . . E-Erik, Erik Andersson . . .” he began.

  Fuck, the smooth radio voice had almost made him forget his assumed name.

  “From Andersson Sanitation,” he added quickly. “Apparently you’ve got trouble with a couple of blocked filters. They said it was urgent . . .”

  “Are they expecting you?”

  “I certainly hope so . . .” He nodded, throwing in what was supposed to look like an innocent smile, and trying not to glance at the camera fixed to the window just to the left of her.

  “One moment.”

  He watched as she turned to her left and began typing on a keyboard.

  “Have you got some ID, Erik?”

  He nodded again, removed his fake ID from its plastic holder on the breast pocket of his overalls, and put it in the metal drawer that slid out below the window.

  The drawer slid back in with a whirr.

  He could hear the faint sound of typing over the speaker.

  He looked back quickly over his shoulder.

  The van looked fine, almost better than he’d expected it to.

  The stickers with the words Andersson Sanitation could have been a bit straighter, but what the hell . . .

  They hadn’t had any time to waste on details, and besides, it was hardly noticeable when the sliding door was open.

  Jeff was visible in the doorway, with Nora just behind him.

  More typing.

  Come on, for fuck’s sake, Rain Man. Show us your magic!

  “Would you mind looking into the camera, Erik?”

  “Of course.”

  He adjusted his glasses and tried to look relaxed. To judge by the reflection in the window, he more or less succeeded . . .

  What if they had one of those face-recognition programs?

  Shit, he hadn’t even thought of that until now!

  Fake glasses might stop you from looking like the guy in the newspapers, but no way would they fool a piece of software . . .

  He glanced over his shoulder again, then looked into the camera. A bead of sweat formed on the back of his neck and trickled down between his shoulder blades. Then another one. And in just a few moments their cousins would begin to appear on his forehead . . .

  The guard reappeared.

  “Right, Erik . . .”

  He smiled again, a nervous, loose-boweled smile. He didn’t need to check his reflection to know that.

  “Here are your cards. The email said five people in total. The lads in Operations will be responsible for letting you in and out, and I don’t want to hear about you blocking any of the doors to keep them open, is that understood?”

  “Absolutely.” He nodded.

  “Good. Okay, carry on down the slope and follow the signs for the Operations Division. You’ll have to turn right, but you’ll see the sign. Don’t forget to hand your cards back when you leave . . .”

  “Okay, thanks!”

  The drawer opened and he pulled out his ID and the five cards marked Visitor before turning and heading back toward the van.

  A loud click startled him, but it was only the sawtooth bar being lowered.

  As he got into the van the gate began to swing open.

  Hasselqvist put the van in gear and they rolled slowly through the gate and down the hill. The road was cut deep into the rock and soon they could no longer see the edge of the forest.

  “Shit, it actually worked . . .” Hasselqvist sounded slightly happier.

  “Yep, Kent, my mate Rain . . . I mean, Rehyman, is a bastard when it comes to security. It only took him ten minutes to spot the weaknesses in their system. Ordinary, unencrypted email between the Fortress and the gatehouse. All Rehyman had to do was find out the addresses, then set up a cloned account that looked like it came from the Fortress . . .”

  “Then, hey, presto, it looked like we were expected, yeah, we got that bit when you told us. But we’re not home and dry yet. The hardest part’s still to come . . .”

  HP opened his mouth to say something cutting but changed his mind at the last moment. He was still holding Mange’s superfluous visitor’s badge in his hand. He stared at it for a few seconds, then slowly slipped it into one of his breast pockets.

  “There’s the sign.”

  Nora pointed to the right.

  “Shit, what a place . . .”

  They reached the end of the cutting and emerged into a large gravel yard. Right in front of them was a two-story building and something that looked like a garage. Behind and above the buildings, the rock face rose up vertically at least thirty meters.

  “There’s only one way out of here . . .” Hasselqvist muttered, glancing in the rearview mirror.

  They parked to the right of the building, next to a loading bay
with the correct sign.

  One of the garage doors on the building opposite was open slightly, and HP thought he could see something that looked like a dark minivan inside. His heart was beating faster and faster.

  Somewhere a dog was barking, and the noise echoed around the little hollow before fading away into the gloom of the summer night.

  Damn it, HP, calm down and stick to the plan . . .

  He took a deep breath and put his hand in his pocket, fingering the handle of the taser.

  “Put your breathing masks around your necks. Everything has to look genuine,” Nora said. “Jeff, are you ready?”

  “Sure, I’m ready,” her brother mumbled.

  “Okay, let’s get going. This time I do the talking . . .”

  She gave HP a quick nod. Then she opened the door.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  “Okay, as you all know, it’s the big day tomorrow. The happy couple seem to have the weather gods on their side, no rain forecast, which means they’ll be sticking to plan A: open carriage instead of the covered coach we recommended. The Palace PR department, however, wants the young couple to be close to the public and not hidden behind glass . . .”

  Runeberg shrugged.

  “On the other hand, they’re going to be spending the rest of their lives behind glass, so I suppose we shouldn’t begrudge them this last taste of freedom . . .”

  He pressed the remote and changed the picture.

  “We’ll be using runners, exactly like we did with the last royal wedding. Six in total, three on each side of the carriage. Two teams, running half the route each.”

  He pointed at the picture showing six bodyguards in suits running on either side of the royal carriage.

  “As you can see, I’m getting more and more handsome as the years go by.”

  He placed the laser pointer at the easily recognizable figure at the front on the right. Quiet laughter filled the room. Runeberg must have been talking on his radio, to judge by his peculiar expression in the picture.

  “We’ll have three vehicles following the second troop of horse guards. Two as backup in case of an evacuation, and the van for the runners, just like last time. Any questions so far?”

  None of the thirty bodyguards in the room said anything.

  “In that case, I’ll hand it over to the head of security at the Palace. I’m sure he has plenty to tell us, and I would advise everyone to listen very carefully.”

  Runeberg gestured toward Tage Sammer, who was sitting a short distance away. Rebecca had noticed him when they entered the hall, but her heart still began to beat faster when he stood up and buttoned his jacket.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  The man on the other side of the little counter leafed through his papers.

  “Replacing filters,” he said into his radio. “Have you heard anything about that, over?”

  The radio crackled.

  “No,” the voice at the other end said.

  “Have you checked the daily log, over?”

  “Yep, there’s nothing here. No alarms in the system either, over.”

  There were a few moments of silence.

  The man shrugged and smiled at Nora.

  “Sorry, but I can’t let you go down without securing authorization from the boss . . .”

  “I understand,” she said. “Obviously, we can turn around and go home, but it sounded urgent when the guy called . . .”

  She pretended to look at her watch.

  “And we’re already late. If the system overheats . . .”

  The man grinned again.

  HP didn’t like him from the moment they stepped inside the little office: very fit, with greasy, back-combed hair, a smarmy smile, prominent cheekbones. A bit too good looking for a place like this . . .

  He took a couple of slow steps forward so he could look at the other side of the little counter.

  Dark blue ribbed sweater, matching trousers covered with pockets, polished black boots. On a table behind him there was a pile of yellow protective helmets, and an assortment of high-visibility jackets were hanging over a rack full of radios. All the things you might expect to find in an Operations Division.

  Yet there was still something not quite right . . .

  The radio crackled again: “Okay, look, I can’t get hold of Jacobsson over the phone. He must be busy with all the other stuff. What we do is—you park them up there for the time being, then head down to the ventilation room and check, over.”

  “Can’t one of us go with you?” Nora said before the man had time to reply. “Then at least we can say we checked the filter on site, to keep the boss off my back. You know how it is . . .” She smiled at him and tilted her head slightly. To judge by the man’s inane grin, the trick seemed to work.

  “Listen, they’re asking if they can send someone along so they can tick some boxes. Maybe that would make sense, over?”

  “Okay, that’s what we’ll do, over.”

  “Over and out!”

  The man put the radio down and winked at Nora.

  “Okay, the two of us can go down . . .”

  “Nice idea, but I’m afraid only Jonas here has full authorization to carry out this sort of inspection . . .” Nora put her hand on Jeff’s arm.

  “I see . . .” The man’s disappointment was obvious, but HP hardly noticed. The nagging feeling that something wasn’t right was getting stronger and stronger.

  Busy with all the other stuff . . .

  “Don’t forget me, if it’s a UV filter, then it’ll take two of us to check it . . .” HP said.

  Nora gave him a quick look, and he held her gaze, nodding almost imperceptibly. She appeared to think for a few seconds.

  “Of course,” she said. “I almost forgot. It takes two to hold the frame.”

  “Surely I could do that . . . ?” the technician protested.

  “I’m sure you could, but if it slips you could lose a couple of fingers. Remember what happened to Kalle?” She turned to the others.

  “You mean Three-Fingered Kalle from ABB . . . ?” Hasselqvist shot back like lightning. “Ouch. And the insurance didn’t cover it either . . .”

  The technician’s smile died instantly.

  “Okay, you can come as well,” he said, pointing at HP. “The rest of you wait here, there’s a coffee machine over there . . .”

  He got up, walked around the counter, and headed over to a heavy metal door set into one wall. He pulled out a pass card that was attached by a coil to his belt, tapped it against a reader, and then held the door open for them.

  “This way, gentlemen . . .”

  A guard with cropped hair and a neat red goatee was sitting in a cubicle between the lift doors. As they approached he gave them a quick look, then went back to staring at the screen in front of him.

  “I’m taking these two visitors down to the ventilator room,” the man said.

  “Sure.” Without looking up from the screen, the guard pressed a button and one of the lift doors opened.

  They stepped inside and the technician repeated the card procedure with another reader, then pressed one of the buttons. The door closed and the lift slowly began to move.

  No one said anything. HP looked around cautiously. There was bound to be a camera hidden behind the mirror in the ceiling, but that wasn’t what interested him most. The control panel showed six floors below the entrance level. The floor they were heading for was minus one, and had a small sign saying Technical Services.

  Beside the button for minus two was a sign saying Control Room. The lower levels had no labels.

  The lift braked so sharply that HP’s stomach lurched. From the corner of his eye he saw Jeff starting to feel inside one of the pockets of his overalls . . .

  “Right then . . .” their guide said.

  “We’re not getting out here,” Jeff said coldly.

  “What?”

  Jeff pulled out the revolver and aimed it at the man’s head. HP recognized the gun straightaway, it was the one he h
ad taken down to the Grand. He’d had a feeling that an aggressive guy like Jeff wouldn’t get rid of a perfectly functional weapon . . .

  “Control room, now,” Jeff ordered.

  The technician didn’t move.

  Oh, for fuck’s sake . . . !

  HP leaned forward and slowly lowered Jeff’s arm. Then he pulled the pass card from the man’s belt and tapped it against the reader. Then he pressed the button for minus two.

  “Just take it easy . . .” He read the name under the photograph on the technician’s pass card.

  “. . . Jochen, and everything will be fine.”

  The man looked like he was about to say something, but at the last moment he seemed to change his mind and buttoned his lips.

  HP glanced at the mirror in the roof of the lift.

  The only question was how long it would take the guard up above to realize that something was wrong.

  But, if his suspicions were correct, then all the guards’ attention was focused elsewhere. He slowly took off the fake glasses and put them in his pocket. The masquerade was over, or very nearly, at least . . .

  The lift stopped at minus two and the doors opened. The large lobby was empty, and through the huge windows around the sides they could make out long, illuminated tunnels containing rows of server units. But it was the windows facing the control room that interested HP most. Something like thirty workstations arranged in what looked like a semicircular amphitheater, with large screens at the front instead of a stage. He could see the backs of at least eight people down there.

  Jeff pushed Jochen the technician ahead of him.

  “Door.”

  This time the man didn’t protest. He tapped his card to the reader beside the heavy steel door, then stepped to one side.

  HP opened the door and gestured to the other two men to step in. His mouth suddenly felt bone-dry.

  “Nobody move,” Jeff roared, holding the revolver in the air.

  Lights, camera, action!

  27

  PRINEVILLE

  “GOOD MORNING, EVERYONE. My name is Colonel André Pellas, and I’m afraid I have some disturbing information to share with you. It would appear that there are advanced plans afoot to disrupt the wedding. We suspect that these individuals are involved in some way.”