Game: A Thriller (2 page)

So, Einstein—not really much wiser!

His head was throbbing from the unexpected exertion, and his mouth was still bone-dry. Strangely enough, though, he did feel slightly more alert.

So what happened now?

How was he going to get his own back?

He decided to go along with the prank for a while, so first he pressed the No icon, then, when the question was repeated, the icon for Yes.

Oh yes, he’d play along with it for a while and pretend to be taken in, and the more he thought about it, the more he realized that this was actually pretty cool. A good way of passing time on a boring train journey.

“Fucking Mange.” He grinned, before a new message appeared on the screen.

Welcome to the Game, HP!

Thanks! he thought, leaning back.

This was actually going to be interesting.

♦  ♦  ♦

Even before the wheels of the heavy vehicle had stopped, Rebecca Normén was out on the pavement. The heat that hit her was so intense that she wanted to get back into the cool of the car at once.

Three weeks of high summer in Sweden had made the streets so hot that the tarmac had started to stick to your
shoes, and the bulletproof vest she was wearing under her shirt and jacket was hardly making things any better.

After quickly surveying the scene and deciding there was no danger, she opened the door and let out her charge, who had been waiting obediently in the backseat.

The guard on the door of the main government offices at Rosenbad was for once awake enough to open the door immediately, and a few moments later Sweden’s minister for integration was safely inside the thick walls of the government building.

Rebecca had time for a quick coffee in the canteen and then a trip to the toilet before returning to her driver to check they were ready for the next move.

She looked at the time. Fourteen more minutes to wait, then a short walk along the quayside to the foreign ministry for a meeting with the minister, who, unlike her own charge, had a full team of bodyguards. At least two, usually more. A whole team, the way it should be.

“Personal protection coordinator” was her job title, presumably because “one-man bodyguard unit” didn’t sound particularly reassuring. The minister for integration was deemed a suitably demanding job for someone with less than a year’s experience as a bodyguard, at least in the opinion of her boss. Medium-to-low threat level, according to the latest analysis. Besides—and this may have been more significant—none of her older colleagues wanted the job of personal protection coordinator . . .

As she emerged from the main entrance she caught her driver quickly tossing his cigarette in the gutter next to the car.

Unprofessional, she thought with irritation, but what else did she expect?

Unlike her, he wasn’t a proper bodyguard but a less skilled version intended to save the state money. A chauffeur with a bit of extra training and a badly fitting bulletproof vest, employed by the transport unit of the Cabinet Office rather than the Security Police. Twenty years older than her and with obvious problems taking orders from someone younger, let alone a woman.

“Ten minutes,” she said curtly. “Stay here with the car until we get there.”

“Wouldn’t it be better if I drove to the foreign ministry now? It’s usually a hell of job finding anywhere to park there.”

His objection was predictable. The driver, Bengt, his name was, had decided on principle to have some sort of opinion about everything she said. There was a hint of “Listen, young lady . . .” in every sentence he uttered.

As if age and gender automatically made him an expert at protecting people.

Clearly his one week of training hadn’t taught him that backward was safe, but that forward was unknown territory and therefore higher risk. Idiot!

“You’ll wait here until I tell you to drive over!” she snapped, without bothering to explain her decision. “Any questions?”

“No, boss,” he replied, without making much effort to hide his irritation.

Why on earth was it so hard to get certain types of men to accept a woman as their boss?

Either they tried to get the better of you and take control, like Bengt here, or worse, made insinuations and comments about your sex life, or lack of one.

Offering you their services, whether or not they happened to be married . . . And if you were stupid enough to complain
to your own boss you were soon out in the cold. She’d seen plenty of examples of that.

She never dated colleagues out of principle. Mixing your work and private life soon got way too complicated. Put simply: don’t shit on your own doorstep.

The fact was that she never actually dated anyone. Maybe dating itself was too complicated?

She shrugged to shake off the unwelcome thought. Right now her job was her priority.

Everything else could wait.

♦  ♦  ♦

No sooner had they gone ’round the corner of the government offices than she realized something was wrong. A minute ago, when she had checked out their route in advance, there had been three people leaning over the railing by the waters of Norrström. Two of them holding fishing rods, and the third dressed in fishing gear too, even if she couldn’t see a fishing rod. None of them had seemed to pose any great threat.

But when Rebecca and her charge, along with the minister’s constantly chattering assistant, approached the place where the three men were standing, she noticed a change in their body language. She automatically slid her right hand inside her jacket, putting her thumb on the barrel of her pistol, and her fingers on the telescopic baton and police radio attached to her belt. She just had time to put a warning hand on her charge’s right shoulder when it happened.

Two of the men spun around and took a couple of quick steps toward them. One of them unfolded some sort of poster that he held in front of him, while the second raised his hand to throw something.

“Sweden protects killers! Sweden protects killers!” the men screamed as they rushed toward the minister.

Rebecca reacted instantly. She pressed the alarm button on her radio and in one sweeping gesture she pulled the baton out of her belt, extended it to its full length, and brought it down through the middle of the intrusive poster. She felt the baton hit something hard and saw the attackers take a step back, momentarily off balance.

“Back to the car,” she shouted at the minister for integration, as she pulled the woman behind her back. With the baton raised over her shoulder she backed away quickly toward the car, her hand still gripping the minister’s upper arm.

“Victor five, we’re under attack, repeat, we’re under attack, get the car ready!” she yelled into the little microphone in her collar: it had started transmitting automatically when she pressed the alarm.

It would be at least three minutes until reinforcements arrived, probably nearer to five, she calculated rapidly. She could only hope that Bengt hadn’t dozed off behind the wheel so they could make a quick getaway.

Just as they got back to the corner of the building their attackers made a new attempt to reach Rebecca and her charge. Something came flying through the air and she hit out at it automatically with her baton.

Rock, bottle, hand grenade?
she managed to think before tepid liquid rained down on her face and upper body.
Dear God, please don’t let it be gasoline!

Finally, they were around the corner again and she looked quickly behind her for Bengt, hoping that he remembered enough of his minimal training to have opened the car doors for them.

But the turning circle where the car had been parked was empty.

“Fuck!” she hissed but was drowned out by the assistant’s screams.

“Blood!” he cried, almost in falsetto. “Christ, I’m bleeding!”

Rebecca twisted her head again and suddenly realized she was having trouble seeing. A red fog was descending over her eyes and she rubbed the hand holding the baton across her nose.

No car, no Bengt, and their attackers right behind them. What to do?

Make a decision, Normén, make a decision now!
her brain shrieked at her.

Backward known and secure, forward unknown and dangerous. But what to do if your escape route had suddenly been cut off? They didn’t teach you that on the bodyguard course. Improvisation had never exactly been her strong point. She was close to panic.

“Over here!” she heard a voice shout.

The guard had opened the door wide and had taken up a position halfway between it and her. He’d drawn his baton and was staring at the corner where their attackers ought to have appeared by now.

With a couple of quick strides Rebecca half-pulled and half-shoved the minister for integration through the door that they had left just a few minutes before. She could still hear the assistant’s hysterical sobbing behind her but paid him no attention, concentrating on getting her charge to safety.

It wasn’t until several minutes later, after reinforcements had arrived and the situation had calmed down, that she realized that the whole of her upper body was covered in blood.

Dear HP

This is a trial game worth 100 points. Try it out, and if you like the experience, decide if you want to continue playing. This is your task: At the next station a man in a light coat will get on the train. The man will be carrying a red umbrella. For 100 points, you must take the umbrella before the train reaches Stockholm Central. If you succeed I will unlock the phone and it will be yours to use as long as you participate in the Game.

Do you understand?

Yes

No

This was actually fucking cool. HP grinned to himself as he clicked on Yes. Real
Mission: Impossible
stuff—all that was missing was the dry voice and the telephone going up in smoke.

“This message will self-destruct in ten seconds . . .”

He still hadn’t managed to work out which one of the other passengers was working for Mange, but it didn’t really matter. He thought he had a pretty good idea of what it was all
about now. Either he was expected to chicken out and would have to put up with weeks of crap about what a coward he was, or else—and this was more likely, now he came to think about it—there’d be some trick with the umbrella. It would be glued down, or would spray water, or give him an electric shock when he tried to grab it, and one or other of the passengers would film it so he could enjoy his humiliation on YouTube for months to come. It really was a beautiful setup, and now it was too late to back out.

Excellent!

When you get the signal to start playing, fix the phone to your clothes with the camera facing out, so we can see how you get on with your task.

Do you understand?

Yep, he understood. Fix the phone to his front, camera outward.

YouTube, here I come!

HP grinned again. God, Mange was an ingenious bastard. This set a whole new standard. As he clicked on Yes once more, he realized to his surprise that his hangover was almost gone.

Good, HP!

You can start your task.

Good luck!

The screen went dark.

Okay, better follow the rules for a bit longer, he thought, and attached the phone to his belt, with the camera facing out, as per the instructions.

As the train pulled slowly into Sollentuna Station he could feel his heart start to beat faster.

The man with the light coat got on at the far end of the carriage and it took a few moments before HP saw him. An ordinary-looking Swede, about forty, one meter eighty or so, same as him. Dark-framed glasses, hair combed back, a summer suit and coat, he noted as the train set off from the platform. That had to be hot?

The man’s lower half was hidden, so HP couldn’t see if he really was carrying an umbrella. There was only one way to find out.

He stood up and started moving slowly through the carriage toward the man. For some reason he had started to sweat, his T-shirt was sticking to his chest, and his palms itched, but this time it was more than just the hangover.

As he passed the teenage girls one of them suddenly burst out laughing and the sound made him jump.
Pull yourself together, this is only a game, an elaborate prank, nothing to get excited about.
Stealing a crummy umbrella was hardly that much of a challenge for him. He’d nicked considerably better things than that.

Now he could see that the man was carrying a black-and-white paper bag, one of those designer ones with a rope handle and a big logo to show the world that he could afford to shop in the smartest shops. A cylindrical object stuck up from one side of the bag. The umbrella!

HP felt his pulse start to race. He had to admit that this was actually pretty exciting. Stealing something while the whole thing was being filmed . . .

Okay, so the man in the coat was in on the whole thing, but even so. There was something appealing about the whole
situation that he couldn’t quite explain. But he really didn’t want to make a fool of himself.

“Next stop Karlberg. Karlberg, next stop,” the speaker in the roof announced, and he felt the train start to slow down. He took a few more cautious steps toward the man, who hadn’t so much as glanced up at him.

Then the train jolted several times and stopped at the platform. The doors opened, letting in a smell of warm tarmac and hot brakes. HP took another step forward.
Here we go!

♦  ♦  ♦

“Pigs’ blood,” Superintendent Runeberg said from behind his desk, leaning back in his chair.

Although several hours had passed since the events outside Rosenbad, and even though the office was air-conditioned, Rebecca was still sweating. Her hair was wet from the shower, and in the absence of anything better she had put on her gym kit, the only clean clothes she had in her locker.

“They threw pigs’ blood at you and Lessmark,” her boss went on. He was a thickset man in his midforties, with a steely gaze, spiky blond hair, and a suntan that went all the way up to his scalp.

A perfect example of a bodyguard. Good-looking too, if you like the overpumped type, she thought.