The man wasn’t moving, he was just standing there waiting by the exit. Staring straight at them. His knees were slightly bent and he had his hands out in front of him, like an American footballer.
HP pulled Nora’s hand, then looked back over his shoulder. Their pursuers were just a few meters behind them.
No chance of turning back, that escape route was completely cut off . . .
Ten meters left to the man, and HP thought he could just make out a hint of a smile. A creepy, snakelike smile that made HP shudder.
But Nora carried on straight ahead without seeming to realize the danger.
The man steeled himself, thrusting his shoulders out . . . At the last moment Nora let go of his hand. Her long legs pumped like pistons on the platform as she built up speed.
Then she jumped . . .
And crashed straight into the man. Their bodies collided with a muffled thud.
He heard Nora yell something, saw her hands rise and fall as she attacked the man as hard as she could, and HP was overwhelmed by an instinctive urge to help her.
Then he realized that she wasn’t shouting at the man.
She was yelling at him.
“Keep going, keep going, keep . . .”
One of the man’s massive hands grabbed Nora by the neck, lifted her from the ground, and cut off her cry. HP looked straight ahead and aimed for the exit. But it was impossible not to look back. Nora was struggling wildly, trying to loosen the man’s grasp around her neck as the big square seemed to be putting all his strength into it.
HP looked forward again to avoid running into the doorpost. When he emerged into the hall he looked back one last time and just managed to see the massive man toss Nora’s limp body aside as if it were a rag doll.
The feeling took him by surprise. It came out of nowhere, and it took him just a fraction of a second to identify it. Hate.
White-hot, burning hate!
His pursuers were still close behind him. HP raced through the main concourse, aiming for the main exit. But just as he was about to swing left through the glass doors leading to Centralplan he caught sight of a police car outside and carried on straight ahead instead. Someone shouted something behind him, but he ignored it.
Shit, obviously he should have run down into the underground network instead of heading straight for the nearest exit like some fucking rat . . .
The south end of the main concourse was rapidly approaching and all the exits were behind him. There was nothing but restaurants at this end, no decent escape route anywhere.
A quick look back.
Two idiots in suits ten meters behind him, then another group led by the square-framed man.
The door to the restaurant was getting closer but he made no effort to slow down.
Instead he stormed past the reception area and carried on toward the back of the room.
A swing door opened to his left and a waiter came out carrying two plates. HP raced past him with the narrowest of margins and shot through the swing door into the kitchen.
Two men in aprons looked up in surprise.
“Exit?” HP yelled.
One of them pointed with a spatula.
“Thanks!” he managed to splutter before rushing on.
There was a serving trolley parked by the wall and he pulled it over behind him to slow his pursuers. But he didn’t waste any time looking at the result. Instead he crashed into the door with full force, hammering the handle down and lurching out into an enclosed yard. In front of him, on the other side of the fence, stood the ten-meter-tall cement pillars supporting the Klarastrand flyover.
Out of reflex he ran to the right, and it took him several seconds to realize that the way out was back to the left.
Fuck!
The men chasing him crashed through the door, but he’d just spotted another way out. The end of the station building was covered in scaffolding, and there was a ladder not far ahead of him. He scampered up it to the first platform like a chimp on acid, and just as the first suit put his hand on the ladder he kicked it away as hard as he could.
The ladder fell to the ground and he heard swearing below him, but didn’t stop to see whether it had landed on anyone. He raced off along the planks until he found some more steps and shot up them to the next level.
The railing of the flyover was clearly visible now.
Up another level, and now he could feel the scaffolding shake as his pursuers ran along the platforms below him.
Another level, and now he was the same height as the railing.
The only problem was that there were two meters of empty air between it and the scaffolding . . .
One last ladder and he was at the top of the scaffolding.
Damn, it was high!
Someone shouted something in English. The platform was shaking badly, and he guessed that everyone chasing him was now scrambling up the scaffolding.
The flyover was about a meter below him, but at least two meters away. Difficult, but not impossible. Well, that was what he hoped, anyway . . .
But of course he did have the backpack on his back now.
It felt heavier than before, but that could well be because he was weaker now.
The scaffolding was shaking more and more.
He kicked the safety rail away, then took a step back and pressed against the wall of the building.
The next moment the first of his pursuers reached his level, and he pushed off as hard as he could, taking a single stride and then leaping out into thin air . . .
♦ ♦ ♦
“Well, good people, that’s the ceremony, over,” Ludvig’s voice said over the radio in her ear. “Another ten minutes for the bride to freshen up, then it’ll be time. We’ll be moving the carriage to the outer courtyard any minute now . . .”
He was standing ten meters away, in a cluster of uniformed colleagues with plenty of gold on their shoulders. She tried to catch his gaze, but without success. Her heart was suddenly pounding in her chest and her mouth felt dry.
A moment later her phone rang.
She pressed the button on the hands-free earpiece.
“Yes,” she said abruptly.
“I just wanted to check how you’re getting on . . .”
“No problems.”
“Good . . .”
“How about you?” she said.
“Fairly well. One slight difficulty, but nothing to worry about . . .”
“What sort of difficulty?” she asked.
But he had already hung up.
♦ ♦ ♦
He scraped over the railing by the smallest of margins and landed on the sidewalk.
The momentum of his landing carried him on into the road, and he only just managed to avoid being hit by a bus that missed him by a matter of centimeters, horn blaring.
He staggered back to the sidewalk and looked at his pursuers on the scaffolding. None of them seemed particularly eager to repeat his jump, and he couldn’t help waving to them. Then he saw the square-framed man step forward.
“You there, don’t fucking move!” the man roared.
HP responded by sticking his middle finger up at him.
“Shoot him!” the man ordered the closest idiot in a suit.
“No way,” the man replied. “He’s unarmed . . .”
“Which side are you on, man? He’s a fucking terrorist, shoot him. That’s an order!”
The suits seemed to flinch.
“You’re not our boss . . .” one of them muttered. “And this is Sweden . . .”
The square-framed man swore loudly, then cast a quick glance at HP, shoved the suits aside, and braced himself against the wall.
Shit! The crazy bastard’s really going to jump . . .
HP spun around, crossed the traffic lane, and began to run.
When he was halfway down the slope he realized that he really should have chosen a different route.
The slope was taking him straight down onto the Söderleden expressway, and to make t
hings just a little bit worse, the traffic was heading toward him.
Cars came racing at him, many of them sounding their horns madly, as he cursed his stupid decision. But it was too late to turn back. Instead he kept as close to the edge of the bridge as he could.
He peered over the railing, down at the swirling water.
There was no way he was going to jump into Strömmen; swimming really wasn’t his strong point and he’d probably end up as a swollen corpse caught in the sluice gates over by the Parliament building. Not to mention the unhappy combination of water and hard drive . . .
Much better to keep running.
He was halfway across the expressway bridge before he dared to look back. The square-framed man was fifteen, twenty meters behind him.
His face was bright red and his short, muscular legs were pumping against the tarmac. But even though he was wearing a suit and loafers, unlike HP, who was far better dressed for running, the man still seemed to be gaining on him.
The backpack, of course.
That was what was slowing him down, and if you threw in the exertions of the past few weeks, then it really wasn’t all that surprising that he didn’t have much strength left in his legs.
Strömsborg was his only hope.
But before he had even got close to the little island he realized it was hopeless. Even if the distance wasn’t that great, the railing of the bridge made it impossible to take a run-up. And there was no way he could let the hard drive get wet.
So he carried on running.
The distance between him and the square-framed man was still shrinking.
The closest island was now Riddarholmen, but to reach it he’d have to cross both traffic lanes, then the railway line, and find a way of getting up a steep rock face. But he didn’t have any other option. He let a couple of more cars go past, then ran straight out into the roadway. A Passat almost clipped him, but at the last moment the driver swerved and swept past him with just half a meter to spare. He swung over the concrete barrier separating the lanes and landed on the southbound side. His lungs were burning in his chest and his throat seemed to have shrunk to the size of a drinking straw.
He carried on running along the road, this time in the same direction as the traffic.
The big brick Palace on Riddarholmen was casting long shadows over the road.
“Now I’ve got you, you bastard!” the square-framed man roared behind him.
♦ ♦ ♦
“Okay, let’s get to work!’
Runeberg’s voice over the radio again, and a few seconds later the newlyweds emerged through the western archway.
They didn’t look quite as pleased to be married as she had expected. More like nervous, in fact. Maybe that wasn’t so strange, given the media frenzy. Live broadcast on television, both in Sweden and a handful of other countries that were fascinated by monarchy.
And now the married couple had to get through a cortege and a drawn-out formal banquet before the day was over. It probably wouldn’t be much of a wedding night . . .
A man in livery held the door of the carriage open and another helped the bride sort out her dress before she sat down.
The bridegroom was waiting outside the carriage and gave Rebecca a quick glance, then smiled at her uncertainly. She gave him a quick nod in response.
♦ ♦ ♦
HP ran into the shadow and carried on a few more meters along the roadway.
The rock face was out of the question as well now, the man was too close and would be on him before he reached it. His heart was pounding as if it would burst, he could taste blood, and the first vomit wasn’t far off.
He stopped abruptly and turned around, bent his knees, and got ready to fight.
The square-framed man slowed down and stopped a couple of meters away, then grinned at HP.
“You think you can take me, boy?!” he shouted.
HP didn’t answer and was just staring at the traffic rushing toward them behind the man’s back.
Cars were streaming past on both sides of them, their drivers frantically sounding their horns, but the man didn’t seem remotely bothered. HP took a couple of cautious steps back, and suddenly the sun shone on his neck, only to vanish again after a couple of more steps.
A big truck was approaching in the distance behind the man.
And suddenly something resembling an idea popped up . . .
“Come on, boy, let’s do this the easy way . . .” the square-framed man yelled over the noise of the traffic.
HP met the man’s gaze, then took a couple of more steps back before stopping and holding up his middle finger.
The man crouched, getting ready to pounce. His lips drew back in a carnivorous leer.
“Any last words?” he growled.
“Yippee ki-yay, motherfucker!” HP yelled.
Then he threw himself down on the roadway and covered his head with his hands.
The truck hit the square-framed man from behind with full force. It looked almost like a movie.
One moment he was there—the next he was gone.
The truck carried on, its brakes shrieking, over the top of HP, and rolled another fifty meters or so before the driver finally managed to stop.
The first thing HP saw when he cautiously raised his head was a single, empty loafer.
32
INSIGNIFICANT BEARER
HE JUMPED DOWN from the roof into the subway station, hanging from one of the sturdy beams and dropping onto the platform. The landing was softer than he expected, and the platform was pretty much deserted.
He could hear sirens up on the Söderleden expressway, several of them, but they were soon drowned out by the sound of the approaching train.
He got on and collapsed in the nearest empty seat. The backpack hit the back of the seat and he fumbled at the catch with shaking fingers for a few seconds before giving up.
The adrenaline kick was massive, his whole body was shaking like mad, and he felt like throwing up. He leaned forward and tried to hold his head as low as possible.
Fucking hell!
He’d never seen anyone die before.
Not like that, anyway.
Actually, maybe he had . . .
Just like with Dag and the balcony railing, he’d planned the whole thing. Finding a patch of light on the bend in the road where a driver would be momentarily blinded as his eyes adjusted to the shadow. Then luring his pursuer into the right spot . . .
But, just like with Dag, he hadn’t had a choice. Back then it had been to save Rebecca, and this time to save himself.
Wrong . . .
To save them both.
Now all he needed to do was send the contents of the hard drive to the papers, and the Game and PayTag would be history. Then he, Becca, Nora, and the others would be free.
Nora . . .
She had sacrificed herself for him, throwing herself at the square-framed man even though she must have realized she didn’t stand a chance. Taking a hit for the team. No one had ever done anything like that for him. When this was all over, he’d find a way to thank her.
If she was still alive, of course . . .
The train thundered into T-Central and he crouched down in his seat instinctively. But just like Gamla Stan, the platform was almost empty.
Ghost town.
Weird . . .
Where the hell was everyone?
♦ ♦ ♦
Slottsbacken was full of people, and there were even more waiting when they swung left, passing below the Palace garden. Video recorders, cameras, hundreds of cell phones.
By the end of the day she would be in thousands of pictures and film clips, whether she liked it or not.
Their speed down the hill had been gentle, but once the whole cortege was on flat ground the riders switched from walking pace to a trot. The horses pulling the carriage followed suit and Rebecca and the five other bodyguards around the carriage broke into a jog to keep up.
She caught sight of the first ma
sk as they crossed Norrbro.
♦ ♦ ♦
HP threw open the door of the Internet café and walked straight up to the counter.
“I need a computer with the best connection you’ve got, for two hours, maybe more . . .” he said to the receptionist, but the guy scarcely looked away from the television screen hanging above the counter.
“Sorry mate, Internet’s down . . .”
“What? What about the mobile network . . . ?”
“Yep.” The receptionist turned toward him. “Broadband, ADSL, the mobile network, tutti. Everything’s been down since sometime last night. They’re saying it’s a programming error somewhere, but I reckon it’s got more to do with the wedding, personally . . .”
“With what?”
“The wedding, mate!” He gestured toward the television, which was showing a picture of a carriage and load of horses. “Big brother doesn’t want any protests, so they’ve shut down the net, just like they did in Egypt, yeah?”
“Right,” HP said distractedly.
Something on the screen had caught his attention. One of the goons in suits around the carriage looked vaguely familiar. The camera zoomed in . . .
HP felt a sudden chill.
“Where are they going?” he snapped, grabbing the man’s washed-out T-shirt.
“Back to the Palace, where else? Take it easy, mate . . .”
“No, you moron, I mean what route? That looks like Kungsträdgården . . . Which way are they going after that?”
“Sergel’s Square, then past here up Sveavägen, then right into . . .”
Kungsgatan!!
Fucking shit!!
♦ ♦ ♦
The second and third masks were in Strömgatan, close to the Opera. Chalk-white Guy Fawkes masks with black goatees and curled mustaches, just like the ones outside the Grand Hotel a few days before.
The white-clad figures behind the masks didn’t move, just stood completely still, which only made things even creepier.
“You’ve seen them, haven’t you, Ludvig?” she said into the microphone on her wrist.
“Yep,” he replied curtly. “Keep your eyes open, good people, here comes Kungsträdgårdsgatan . . .” he went on.
The cortege swung left.
Bubble: A Thriller Page 36