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 whether 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, good night, 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 ever 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 around, 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 whom.
“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 swallows 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 whom the taxi driver reminded him of.
Mange . . .
Fuck, he missed Mange. Not a squeak since last winter. He didn’t answer his phone, neither his cell nor his landline. Almost as if he was keeping out of the way on purpose . . .
“Well, here we are at Kungsträdgården. Card or cash?”
HP mumbled something inaudible and pulled a crumpled hundred-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 sidewalk, 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 cigarette 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 lay a hundred meters 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’d just end up in a drowsy doze rather than the deep sleep she needed. The little pills 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 ended up with only the automated voice mail 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, and made sure he was okay. And that nothing of what was going on around PayTag had anything to do with him.
Her earpiece crackled to 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 sidewalk. 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?”
“We’ll have two cars waiting for us, I sent them up right after our conversation last night.”
“Excellent, Rebecca, impressively efficient, I must say.”
She nodded and looked away.
“I’ve just had a message from Mr. Black,” Thomas went on. “He’ll be ready in five minutes.”
“Thanks, I’ll alert the others.”
Just as she pressed the transmit button she caught sight of
the slight, scarcely perceptible bulge in Thomas’s jacket on his right hip. It could have been his BlackBerry, as most Americans seemed to be unusually keen to keep them in holsters on their belts.
Agent 007, licensed to email
. . .
But she felt suddenly convinced that this bulge was something else.
Something considerably more dangerous . . .
She opened her mouth to say something, but Kjellgren’s voice in her earpiece stopped her.
“Boss, I think we’ve got a slight problem . . .”
♦ ♦ ♦
He was keeping his distance, watching the crowd behind the red velvet rope. To start with everything had been calm. A cluster of old ladies, a couple of tired-looking photographers.
Two black cars were parked right outside the main entrance, with two men in suits stationed on the sidewalk next to them. They reeked of cop even from a distance, which was why he was holding back. But a few minutes ago things started to get crazy. A number of minibuses had pulled up further along the quayside and a whole crowd of people had tumbled out of them. Twenty or thirty, maybe more, all dressed in pale overalls and white plastic masks that made them look pretty much identical. In just a few short seconds they had taken over the sidewalk, and as he slowly got closer, they started to unfurl banners.
PAYTAG = STASI
STOP THE DATA RETENTION DIRECTIVE!!!
BEWARE THE CORPORATE INVASION
OF PRIVATE MEMORY!
2006/24 = 1984
The cops in suits were clearly twitchy, and he could see one of them talking into a wrist microphone.
He sped up to get closer but was forced to slow down almost at once. What if Black regrouped and took another exit at the last minute? There was a way out on the other side of the building, wasn’t there?
He’d never get there in time . . .
Shit!
He loitered by the edge of the quay as he kept a close watch on what was happening on the other side of the street. A television crew had turned up, which seemed to wake up the other photographers and set them jostling against one another. The commotion was getting more and more noticeable, and he could see several curious onlookers heading over to watch.
A white van with tinted windows suddenly rolled up, blocking his view for a few seconds before stopping a short distance away.
The demonstrators appeared to have taken up positions next to the rope. They looked pretty creepy in their white overalls and masks. None of them said a word, the only noise was coming from the photographers and television crew, who now seemed to be fighting for space.
One of the suits was still talking into his wrist microphone. He didn’t look very happy with the situation.
Suddenly a solitary police car came driving up from Skeppsholmen, and the other suit stepped into the street and waved it down.
HP crept in between the parked minibuses. The short walk from Kungsträdgården had left him utterly exhausted, and he had to lean against one of the buses to catch his breath.
The white van was just a few meters away, its engine running. He was hit by a stale smell of warm tarmac and diesel
fumes but was too tired to care. Several more spectators had arrived, and now fifty to sixty people were gathered in front of the entrance to the hotel.