Game: A Thriller

by Anders de la Motte

  She looked at him searchingly for a few seconds. There were a lot of things you could say about Henke, a hell of a lot, actually, but he wasn’t stupid. That was actually the main problem.

  Smart, but lazy. Clever, but indolent. Bright, but lacking ambition.

  She should have known it wouldn’t be that easy to pin him down.

  “Looks like it,” she said shortly. “According to Forensics there was enough dynamex in it to turn Auntie’s cottage into kindling. It was under the sofa, by the way, with a pressure-sensitive detonator, but perhaps you already know that as well?”

  He shook his head as he shoveled in another mouthful. Dynamex, that’s the stuff they used on building sites. Good old dynamite in a modern form.

  The same stuff he’d read about on the Internet, after it went missing from a weapon store out in Fisksätra. The bit about a pressure-sensitive detonator also sounded familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it. Almost like something you’d see at the cinema. Just like everything else that had happened.

  As if his whole life had turned into some sort of weird film.

  “I’ve spoken to Mange,” she said, changing tactic.

  That had more of an effect.

  He stopped chewing and looked at her anxiously.

  “And?”

  “He told me everything,” she said, holding his gaze.

  The shift was immediate, from cocky little brother to frightened little rabbit in the space of a couple of seconds.

  “And he also showed me some nice video clips from a phone you left with him.”

  His face had turned white and his fork fell to his plate with a clatter.

  “Becca, I . . .”

  “Yes?”

  She looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to go on.

  But nothing came.

  Instead he buried his head in his hands and slumped across the table. It actually sounded like he was crying. All of a sudden she didn’t know what to do. She hadn’t actually counted on this particular scenario. She hadn’t seen him cry since . . .

  Well, since that evening when the police showed up. Back then he had shaken her, tried to get her out of her state of shock and talk to him. Tears of frustration then. Anger, impotence maybe, but not fear.

  Not like now. He looked so vulnerable, so small.

  Carefully she put her arms around his shoulders.

  “There, there, Henke, don’t worry,” she said in her gentlest voice, just like she used to when they were kids and he woke up scared from the noise on the other side of the bedroom door.

  “It’s all going to be all right,” she whispered, stroking his hair.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Henke had showered and used her Ladyshave to get rid of the worst of the stubble, and was now wearing some of her gym clothes while his own were soaking in Y3 detergent in the kitchen sink.

  It was surprising what a bit of food, some basic hygiene, and a bit of sympathy could do, she thought as they sat curled up on her sofa. Once her initial anger had faded away, it actually felt nice having him there, hearing his voice, and knowing he was okay.

  He had filled in the gaps in Mange’s story. How he found the phone, the assignments, the mocked-up arrest, and everything that had followed since he was kicked out of this peculiar Game.

  They made slow progress to start with, but as time went on he picked up the pace so much that in the end the words were firing out of his mouth, almost too fast for her to follow them.

  The whole thing sounded pretty odd, which was probably the understatement of the year . . .

  Fake police, madmen in the forest, planes, arson, and bombs—it was all a bit difficult to take in, to put it mildly. Then, on top of all that, a secret gambling setup where people could place bets and order assassinations at the same time.

  When he started rambling about Palme’s murder, 9/11, and the fire in Katarina Church, she had to stop him.

  This was just too much!

  All his usual bullshit stories paled against this one. Could he actually hear how crazy this all sounded? But, on the other hand, she could hardly ignore the tangible evidence proving that at least some of what he was saying had actually happened.

  The phone, the video clips, the fires, and the bomb were clearly all real. She had seen them herself, or evidence of them.

  It was quite obvious that he was in trouble, and it was undeniable that someone was trying to hurt him. But where was the dividing line?

  He sounded like one of the radiation-obsessed crazies who used to phone the police in the middle of the night.

  People who wanted to report that NASA was using television sets to watch the whole world, and that the king was actually a robot working for the CIA.

  The only similarity with all the scrapes Henke had got himself into before was the question of guilt. None of it was his fault, obviously; he was just a victim of unfortunate circumstances. He’d got into a bit of trouble, that’s all. Soon that stone at Lindhagensplan would have thrown itself off the bridge . . .

  “So what are you planning to do next?” She tried to keep her voice neutral.

  He took a deep breath, then sighed.

  “I haven’t got many options left, really. The flat’s going to be ready soon, but fuck knows if I’ve got the balls to live there anymore. The cottage is ruined now, and I can’t stay with Mange. So I was thinking of leaving, ditching all this shit, and moving somewhere else. Somewhere they can’t find me. Thailand maybe, Jesus is already out there, of course, if you remember him?”

  Rebecca nodded but said nothing.

  “I can probably find a way of making some money once I get there, and the flat would raise a bit of money if I sold it.”

  He gave her his little-brother look and tilted his head to one side. She’d long since worked out where this conversation was heading.

  “But I could do with a bit of start-up capital to get me going . . .”

  There we go, she thought.

  That was it, the patented solution to all his problems. This time the mess he’d got himself into looked far worse than usual, but the punch line was the same as ever.

  He needed money, and as usual she was the one who was expected to cough up. Little Henke had got into trouble and some nasty people were trying to get him, so now he needed money so he could run away and hide.

  The worst thing was that no matter how she looked at it, she couldn’t come up with a better solution. Obviously she could suggest that they go to the police together, that he should take responsibility for what he had done and help to put it all right. But she already knew what the answer would be, and even if he took her advice, against all expectation, she doubted if her colleagues would be any help. Sure, they’d be quick to arrest and charge him with Lindhagensplan and Kungsträdgården, so they could say they’d solved that summer’s most talked-about crimes. But any more in-depth investigation into the underlying causes would be put on ice the moment Henke started with his radiation-lunatic stuff. And he’d be blamed for it all—he’d be the lone perpetrator, and even if it wasn’t entirely undeserved, she couldn’t just watch while he was sent to prison again.

  His proposed solution was, under the circumstances, the best one on offer.

  “How much?” she sighed.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Obviously he shouldn’t have told her. Partly because he was breaking that bastard rule again, but that particular reason was fairly easy to rationalize away. In practice he had already been punished for telling her when they torched his flat, and that time he hadn’t actually done it.

  In other words, they owed him one. Quid pro quo, so to speak.

  The more serious reason for staying quiet was that he could hear how crazy it all sounded now that he was telling someone else. The conclusions he had reached out in the cottage, which had seemed so solid when he went through them on his own, now sounded like something out of The X-Files, and when he’d finished talking, his sister wasn’t the only one in the room who wasn’t sure
if he had a full set of tires on the car.

  He should have kept quiet, just talked about the things she already knew and kept the rest to himself.

  The end result was the same, after all.

  He was in trouble, and needed to get away, much further than Tantolunden this time. Disappear off the map, basically, someplace where no one could find him, but where he could still have a decent life.

  But that sort of vanishing act took money, and he didn’t have any. So he was left standing there, cap in hand as usual. His sister would cough up, she always did. They even joked about it sometimes: Cavalry to the rescue!

  But for some reason it didn’t feel quite as easy taking her money this time.

  It wasn’t right, somehow . . .

  But he still did it. Spent the night on her sofa, then went with her to the bank the next day.

  A night’s sleep and bit of decent food had done him good, and he felt much brighter than he had during the previous evening’s tearful outburst.

  It still felt a bit embarrassing, but what the fuck . . .

  Bodyguards must get paid pretty well, if she had that much in her account . . .

  He got twenty-seven thousand in cash, and was left with twenty-three once he’d got a few clothes and a new pay-as-you-go cell in the shops around Hötorget. Then a quick call to Lufthansa.

  “Ein return ticket to Frankfurt for an Andreas Pettersson? Kein problem, mein herr!”

  Seeing as his passport very handily didn’t say which of his first names he used, there wouldn’t be any problem picking the ticket up at Arlanda.

  It was the first time he’d ever had any use for his middle name. Anyone checking the passenger lists wouldn’t find him, at least not straightaway. They’d probably start by looking for single tickets booked in the name he usually used, so Andreas wouldn’t be picked up first time around.

  By then he’d already be in Frankfurt, with a whole load of airlines and destinations to pick from. If he felt like it he could even skip the flight and catch the train to some other airport instead. Cross the border into Holland or Belgium, maybe. The Germans were pretty fucking hot when it came to trains, and cash left no trail.

  “Are you sure you want to exit?”

  “Hell yeah! ”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  He was sitting on the airport bus with his newly purchased cabin luggage by his feet. Apart from the laptop it contained a pair of jeans, some underwear, and toiletries, but that was more or less it. He was traveling light, essentials only; he could pick up the rest when he got there.

  It was a shame about his stuff at home in Maria Trappgränd, but Becca had volunteered as usual. She’d promised to Shurgard it all and sort out an estate agent to unlock the value of the two-room flat. He was going to call her in a month or so to sort out the money.

  Half of the flat was actually hers, but there’d still be plenty of money left over.

  Transferring the cash would be a bit tricky, but there had to be ways around that. An anonymous account with Western Union or something?

  Most of the stuff in the flat was crap, things he’d inherited from Mom and not bothered to get rid of. Apart from the television and computer there was nothing of any value; he’d long since sold anything worth selling.

  They’d got rid of Dad’s stuff just after he died, when they moved into the city.

  The Salvation Army had picked up the lot, every last thing. HP definitely didn’t need any reminders of the old bastard and what he had done.

  Looking in the mirror was more than enough . . .

  No, there was really only one thing in the flat that he was worried about, something he’d rather not have Becca snooping about in. But he didn’t have much choice. Even if she did find the box, she wouldn’t understand, or at least he hoped not.

  She was okay, Becca, as far as sisters go. More than okay, actually . . . Even if she was always getting at him, she stepped up whenever it really mattered.

  Watching his back . . .

  She’d always done that, ever since they were little and he . . . well . . . he loved her for it.

  Obviously that was the case, even if he was reluctant to admit it. Becca was the only family he had, actually the only person who had ever behaved like someone who was family ought to. The only fixed point in his life. In fact, he’d do almost anything for her if she asked . . .

  Damn it, that sounded dumb!

  He’d never dream of saying anything like that to her face. He actually felt a bit embarrassed just thinking stuff like that, but maybe it wasn’t so weird that he was getting a bit soppy now that it was time to leave his homeland for good?

  Sollentuna flew past on the right-hand side and he slouched down in his seat to try to get comfortable. He’d already scanned his fellow passengers a couple of times and none of them looked suspicious. To be on the safe side, he’d pulled his usual 007 stunt when he reached the Central Station, and had waited until the very last minute before racing for the airport bus. No one had followed him, he was sure of that.

  But on the other hand, maybe they didn’t need to shadow him? According to Erman, they were everywhere. Hundreds, maybe thousands of little Ant eyes looking out for him, sweeping their cells over people’s faces until the face-recognition app found a match. And suddenly he was a red dot on a map! Hadn’t the bus driver given him a strange look when he got on? What about little Miss Businesswoman behind him, sitting there fiddling with her BlackBerry? He could feel his pulse rate going up and closed his eyes for a few seconds.

  Just calm down, HP, you’ve been doing this shit for too long! Your brain just sees what it wants to see, so leave off wanting to see this sort of bollocks and get a fucking grip!

  He took a couple of deep breaths and then opened his eyes.

  Everything was fine. There was nothing to worry about. He was on his way to leaving the Game, putting this crap behind him and starting a whole new chapter. Disappearing under the radar and becoming a ghost rider. So why couldn’t he put his mind to rest? Probably because there was something in all the crap that was still sticking out, something he hadn’t fixed.

  Somewhere near Bredden he worked out what it was. A quick call to Becca from his new cell; it was worth the risk. He was going to switch when he got to Thailand anyway. And he had to know, had to be properly sure. That she’d be safe. Out of harm’s way.

  She picked up at once.

  “Rebecca Normén.”

  “It’s me. A quick question.”

  “Okay, but it’ll have to be really quick, I’m at work, things are a bit—”

  “The cell, the one you picked up from Mange. What did you do with it?”

  He held his breath.

  “I booked it into Lost Property, it’ll be there until they can trace the owner.”

  “Great!” he breathed out.

  Everything was fine, time to round it all off. Now he could exit with a clear conscience.

  “I was just worried you might have kept it or something . . .”

  “No, it’s down in the store. Apparently it was reported stolen by some company out in the Western District according to the IMEI number. Some telecom company, I think it was. Anyway, I thought you were on your way out of the country?”

  Instantly he sat up in his seat.

  “I am. You don’t happen to remember what the company was called?”

  “No, not really, something short. I’ve got it written in my pad, but that’s down in my locker . . .”

  He could hear voices in the background.

  “Listen, I’m about to get in the elevator, so we’ll be cut off. I can text you the name in a minute if it’s important?”

  “Sure, no problem; you’ve got my new number now . . .” he muttered as thoughts flew around his head.

  “Well, bye, Becca!”

  “Bye, Henke, look after yourself.”

  The call was cut off abruptly. The dryer up there had time to start a new cycle before his cell bleeped. He didn’t really need to open t
he message to read the address of the company. The crumpled-up note he’d got off Erman the other day was enough.

  Torshamnsgatan 142, Kista. Acme Telecom Services Ltd

  And all of a sudden he was nowhere near as sure that he really wanted to stop.

  16

  WHO IS PLAYING WHO?

  SHE’D REACHED THE third bend when it happened. She was going about a hundred and had just got past the obstacle when the front tire blew and the steering wheel began to shudder madly in her hands.

  Even though she had been expecting it, her pulse was racing as she struggled to regain control of the vehicle. Braking hard, the jolt on the pedal telling her that the antilock brake system was working.

  “Stop the skid, steer into the direction you want to go in, don’t fight it,” the instructor said beside her.

  When the car had stopped at the side of the road she realized she was wet with sweat.

  “Good! No problems at all, Normén!” the instructor summarized.

  She nodded in response and tried to look calm and composed.

  Driving instruction out at Tullinge airfield was obligatory, so she just had to grit her teeth and get through it even if her heart had started doing panic-stricken somersaults in her chest the moment she sat in the driver’s seat.

  The tire blowout at speed was the last task of the day, and she’d be heading home immediately after the debrief. Which suited her fine.

  Kruse was better, considerably better, in fact. It looked like he was going to make a full recovery.

  It was a hell of a relief and made everything a bit easier to cope with, now that she knew who had thrown the stone through the windshield, and possibly even why. But obviously she couldn’t tell anyone that whole story about the Game. Not even Anderberg would manage to stay quiet about something like that, she was sure.

  So she’d just have to deal with her demons the way she always had. With shock therapy.

  What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, and all that macho bullshit . . . If you were terrified, you ought to join the police. If you felt insecure, you should become a bodyguard, and if you had a car crash you just had to jump back in the driving seat as soon as you could. Take the bull by the horns and put your foot hard on the pedal.