Game: A Thriller (10 page)

Ever since that first evening, they had met in his flat, which suited her fine. She liked him, absolutely, but it didn’t feel right to let him inside her flat. It would be sending out the wrong signals, giving him false hope. Much easier to meet like this, get it over and done with, then go home. Blame having to get up early, the way she always did.

He was actually a decent guy. A bit scruffy maybe, his flat could do with freshening up, and it wouldn’t hurt him to get his hair cut more often.

But fundamentally a good man, considerably better than she deserved.

She just shouldn’t have fallen asleep.

She really shouldn’t have fallen asleep.

He moved in his sleep and for a few panic-stricken moments she thought he was going to wake up. What would she say if he did? How could she explain that she was about to sneak out like a thief in the night, without even saying good-bye? Or, even worse, what would happen if he tried to pull her back into bed for a morning cuddle? Snuggle up together and exchange secrets?

She felt her pulse racing.

Calm down now, for God’s sake, Normén!

Then he settled down and she could tell from his breathing that he was sleeping soundly.

Thanks goodness!

Time to go. Had she got everything?

She did a quick check of her jeans pockets.

Keys—yep, police badge—yep, cell phone—missing . . .

She looked quickly around the dimly lit bedroom, eager to get going. There it was, on the middle of the desk. Relieved, she picked it up and saw that his cell was sitting next to it. A
smart design, all thin and brushed steel, no bigger than the palm of her hand, with nothing but a touch screen. A little flashing red light was the only indication that it was switched on. She couldn’t remember ever seeing one of that model before, or this one in particular, come to that. He must have only just got it. Probably cost a fortune, she thought as she carefully closed the front door behind her.

♦  ♦  ♦

When HP opened the baggage locker at the Central Station, at first he didn’t realize what he was staring at. The green, cylindrical object reminded him most of an aerosol can and for a moment he almost felt disappointed. Was there another rat who needed a reminder of rule number one? He’d been expecting something better.

He stuffed the object into the bag he’d brought with him, and because the subway was full of people he wasn’t able to take a closer look at it until he’d shut the door of his flat behind him. He felt like he’d been taken for a ride; the assignment had started so promisingly with the key to the locker taped under a table in a branch of Wayne’s Coffee on the steep part of Goth Street. It was classic spy-film stuff, sitting there among all the unsuspecting latte slurpers, the anxiety of feeling under the table, and the excitement when his fingers touched something hard.

He already had an idea of what the key was for before the cell told him where to find the lock it fitted.

So why all this James Bond cloak-and-dagger shit, just for a can of spray paint?

But now that he’d had the chance to inspect his find, everything suddenly got more exciting. He guessed almost at once
that it wasn’t an aerosol. It was actually a bit ridiculous that he’d ever been thinking along those lines. You only had to see the handle halfway along one side and the pin at the top to realize that this was far more dangerous than a can of paint. And instantly his pulse started to race with anticipation.

“M84 Stun Grenade,” it said in military lettering, and a quick check on Wikipedia was enough to confirm what something like that was used for. The grenade, which was also called Flash and Bang, was a so-called non-lethal weapon. For anyone who didn’t understand faggy military-speak or play Counter-Strike, it was a weapon whose primary use wasn’t killing people.

Unlike ordinary hand grenades, the M84 didn’t fire out shrapnel that mutilated and killed those around it, but instead caused a hell of a big bang as well as a flash of light that made the sun look like a 15-watt lightbulb. The point of the grenade was to knock out your enemy by making him blind and deaf and making him crap himself long enough for you to pick him up alive. Most antiterrorism and police forces in the civilized world seemed to have M84s in their arsenal, and the descriptions of the grenade’s effectiveness were overwhelming: “very powerful,” “extremely useful,” or “highly efficient” were just a few of the positive reports that various users had given the M84, and now HP suddenly had one of his own.

A real one!

The only question was: What did the Game Master want him to do with it?

From:
Game Control

To:
Game Master

Subject:
Extracts from police report 0201-K246459-10 (candidate 128, assignment 1006-09)

On the above date, patrol car 1054 with Police Inspector Janson and Police Constable Modéer was ordered to the junction of Kungsträdgårdsgatan and Arsenalsgatan as a result of an as yet unclassified incident involving the Horse Guards. A number of patrols and ambulances were despatched simultaneously to the same location and Police Inspector Janson was appointed as acting head of the police operation.

At the location the patrol met Lieutenant Arne Wolff from the Svea Life Guards’ dragoon battalion, who told them the following:

Together with twelve fellow officers and a total of forty conscripts, Wolff was ordered to form a mounted escort for a cortège from the Royal Stables to the Royal Palace, on the occasion of the state visit from Greece.

The cortège contained the president of Greece and his wife, as well as Their Majesties the king and queen.

Wolff reports that they left the Royal Stables in the following formation:

First went two mounted police officers who were primarily responsible for dealing with any traffic issues. Then came the head of the escort and his adjutant and the color guard (2 + 4 men), then the first troop of the escort (2 + 20 men), of which Wolff was acting commander from a position at their rear.

Behind Lieutenant Wolff followed the first carriage of the cortège, containing the president and His Majesty the king, then the second carriage with the president’s wife and Her Majesty the queen. Behind the royal carriages came two further mounted police officers and then the second escort troop, this too consisting of two officers and twenty soldiers.

Usually the route would follow New Bridge Square, Hamngatan, Regeringsgatan, reaching North Bridge via Gustav Adolf Square, then Skeppsbron to the Palace. But because the bridge is closed for repairs an alternative route was chosen, via Kungsträdgårdsgatan and crossing the water by Strömbron instead.

When HP had finally received his instructions, he understood at once that this assignment was considerably more difficult than any he had carried out before. There was actually a risk of him getting caught, and if he did he would have considerably more trouble with the judicial system than for switching off a clock, spray-painting a door, or removing a few wheel nuts. This here was some serious shit, and he didn’t exactly have an unblemished criminal record to fall back on. He’d end up behind bars for this if anything went wrong . . .

Really, he should have turned it down, but he could already feel his excitement bubbling inside him. This would provide damned good pictures. World-class stuff, maybe clip-of-the-week material! He’d never heard of anyone doing anything like it, so he’d be the first. And he couldn’t just back out of a challenge like that.

An offer you can’t refuse . . .

It would be important to plan the operation carefully. Complete the assignment, get good pictures, and find some way of getting away without anyone working out who he was. He thought he had a pretty good idea of how it could work, he just needed to get a few things together.

When the first escort troop was level with Wahrendorff Street, Wolff noted from his position in the procession that
an object was rolled out toward them from somewhere in the crowd of onlookers along the left-hand pavement. The object in question appeared to be some sort of metal cylinder, somewhat reminiscent of a can of spray paint, and it stopped in the middle of the front part of the troop, whereupon a number of horses jerked and caused some anxiety in the ranks.

The Goat’s moped was a stroke of genius. HP had borrowed it before and his amiable neighbor and court supplier had never been interested in what he wanted it for.

“Just take it, no problem, here’s the key,” was as usual the response he got, and half an hour later he nicked a decent black helmet with a dark visor from a motorbike parked in the square down at Medborgarplatsen.

He’d checked the route of the cortège on the net, then he went down to do a recce and came to the conclusion that the end of Wahrendorff Street was the best place to carry out the assignment.

The whole cortège would have made it into Kungsträdgårdsgatan by then, and with a bit of luck both the king and Her Mayonnaise the queen would get to enjoy a proper funfair ride when his new M84 friend went off. Then he could head back up Wahrendorff, be at New Bridge Square before you knew it, then up Birger Jarlsgatan and hard left into the Klara Tunnel, and from there he’d have plenty of options.

He’d be back on safe territory on Södermalm before the suspect’s details had even got out, and by then he’d have ditched the black helmet in the water, and would have taken off his jacket and just be wearing a white T-shirt and the Goat’s basic red moped helmet.

No chance of anyone connecting him to the description of the suspect, and even if they did, so what?

How much evidence would they have?

Suddenly there was a powerful explosion and a flash of blinding light that together caused total chaos in the cortège. Most of the horses in the first troop, including Wolff’s, bolted at once, either along Kungsträdgårdsgatan or directly into Kungsträdgården itself.

Wolff describes himself as a very capable rider, but the flash of light and explosion left him so stunned that he, along with the majority of the dragoons, was thrown off his horse at once and left lying on the pavement by Kungsträdgården.

When he came to his senses a few moments later he observed that the horses pulling the carriage of His Majesty the king had reared up and were about to bolt. Instinctively he grabbed hold of the snaffle of one of the horses to help the driver calm them. This however did not succeed at first, and the carriage raced some twenty meters down Kungsträdgårdsgatan with Wolff hanging from the harness.

Jesus what a fucking massive great explosion! Even though he’d thrown loads of flashbangs in Counter-Strike and read about the effects on the net and even seen YouTube clips of the M84 in action, none of that came close to doing the little fucker full justice.

Up with the switch, out with the pin, and then just roll it in among the horses. Okay, a bit harder IRL than online, but not that bad. Even though he had earplugs, sunglasses, and
the visor pulled down, the blast and the flash of light still took his breath away. It was a bit like pressing pause on television, and the image freezes while the program and the sound roll on behind it.

He had to blink hard several times to shake the effect from his retinas and get his eyes back to real time. And what he saw exceeded all his expectations! The street was a fucking war zone! Beaten-up riders everywhere, horses bolting, rearing up, and generally going crazy. One horse went through the glass of one of the outdoor cafés, a couple of others mowed down one of the newly planted trees in the avenue in Kungsträdgården and carried on blindly into the park through a cluster of parked bicycles. People taking a Saturday stroll through the park had to leap out of the way of the panicked creatures to avoid getting run down or having their heads kicked in. People screaming, horses whinnying, kids crying, and in the middle of all that one of the royal carriages came racing down the street with some guy hanging off the side of one of the horses. It was like a Hollywood film, only better.

Much, much better!

HP couldn’t stop staring at the destruction, and it must have taken a good thirty seconds before he remembered that he had caused it and that it was probably high time he left.

After several minutes of chaos among wounded dragoons, horses, and onlookers, it was ascertained that the royal and presidential couples were all uninjured, albeit shaken, and that there didn’t appear to have been any attack aimed at them specifically.

See separate witness statement from Wolff for further details.

When patrol 1054 arrived on the scene a dozen horses were still running loose in the area. At least fifteen members of the escorting troop and another seven onlookers were deemed by the paramedics to have injuries requiring immediate medical treatment, so Kungsträdgårdsgatan was blocked off in both directions and an evacuation operation with extra resources was put into action.

Superintendent Nilsson assumed the role of head of the police operation at 12:04. On the advice of the Security Police, vehicles were called from the Royal Stables and these, under escort from patrol cars 1920 and 1917, as well as members of the Personal Protection Unit, took care of the onward transport of the royal party to Stockholm Palace.

The pictures were brilliant! As well as his own, which were now almost razor sharp and hardly moved at all, thanks largely to the new strap he had fashioned from an old rucksack, the Game Master had placed no fewer than two other cameramen in Kungsträdgården.

How the hell they knew exactly where HP was going to strike he had no idea, but by this point he had ceased to be surprised at the reach of the Game. Maybe someone had followed him when he did his recce, or perhaps the cell had a built-in GPS tracker? Whatever, the results exceeded all expectations and just a few hours later he was Mr. Clip of the Week, Mr. A Number One, and the Ayatollah of Fuck ’n’ Rolla.

Television and the papers would be busy for at least a week and he laughed himself almost harelipped at all the so-called experts who pontificated about the perpetrator and
the motives behind what had quickly become known as “the Kungsträdgården incident.”