Buzz: A Thriller

by Anders de la Motte

  “Shit, I forgot to finish an email I promised to send before twelve!” he groaned, slapping his forehead in true drama school fashion.

  “It’ll only take five minutes, max. You go on ahead and get a table . . .”

  He herded Beens out through the door, watched him long enough to see him get in the lift, then jogged back toward the Laundry.

  A quick glance at the time. Only a minute left before the screen saver automatically locked Beens’s computer. This was going to be damned tight . . .

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  In spite of the rumbling aches in her body she decided to take a walk.

  She looked around carefully as she stepped out into the street, and stopped a couple more times to check.

  But she couldn’t see anyone following her, and after twenty minutes or so out in the cold she went back home.

  On the stairs on the way up to her flat she saw that something was different.

  There was something hanging from her door, and as she got closer she saw what it was. A bouquet of dry, dead roses.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  No one reacted as he carefully slid back into the Laundry. Beens’s screen was just fading as he slipped into the cubicle. He quickly pressed the space bar and the YouTube window reappeared. Five seconds later and the computer would have locked him out.

  He moved the mouse to an icon of two angry, staring, predatory eyes.

  The computer whirred.

  Wake up—time to die!

  A quick double click and suddenly the database was open.

  He felt in one of his jacket pockets and pulled out his new USB memory stick. Ten gigabytes—that ought to be more than enough for Beens’s little extracurricular project. He put the stick next to one of the USB ports, but suddenly hesitated. Was he absolutely certain this was a good idea?

  Maybe not, but he was sure he’d never get another chance like it.

  He really didn’t have any choice at all.

  He pressed the memory stick into the slot and waited a few seconds.

  Once the computer had finished thinking, he opened Explorer, then clicked and dragged the pair of eyes toward the symbol for the external memory.

  No response.

  He tried again. Still nothing.

  Shit!

  He tried a different way, going back to the database and selecting “Export to,” with the external memory as the destination.

  Suddenly there was a warning bleep, and then a dialogue box appeared in the middle of the screen.

  Unauthorized external memory found. Continue?

  He clicked the icon for Yes.

  Nothing happened.

  Shit! He only had a few minutes before Beens the carbonara king would start to get impatient. He tried once more, but got the error message again.

  Evidently there was some sort of program that blocked anyone from saving files to an external memory.

  Balls—he should have guessed!

  Lex Wikileaks, dammit! It was obvious that Philip would have done his homework.

  Okay, time for a different plan, and PDQ!

  He couldn’t copy the database and look through it at home in peace and quiet as he had hoped. He’d just have to check it there and then, really fast!

  So how did it work?

  After a bit of random clicking he brought up a search box and quickly typed in “Game.”

  The database responded instantly, and HP’s pulse shifted up a gear.

  Six hundred and twelve results!

  He checked the first, only to realize that it had nothing to do with what he was looking for. Same thing with the second and third.

  He glanced at the time. He only had another minute, two at the most, before he had to go.

  He tried searching for “game” + “game master.”

  One hundred and nineteen results—much better.

  Just as he was moving the cursor onto the first result he heard the office door open quickly.

  “Hi, Elroy,” he heard someone call out, then some indistinct chatter that he couldn’t make out.

  Shit!

  No matter what the reason for Elroy’s visit down there was, he mustn’t find him at Beens’s computer, that much was freaking obvious.

  But this was his last chance to get a look at the database.

  He cautiously raised his head above the screen and the sight of the back of Elroy’s closely cropped head made him duck down again at once.

  “External memory? No, for God’s sake, see for yourself. That’s against company policy,” he heard one of the Laundry guys say.

  Damn!

  The bastard memory stick must have triggered some sort of alarm. He ought to have realized that a company like ArgosEye would have cast-iron procedures to stop people downloading and taking any information home with them. Suddenly he remembered that one of the many pieces of paper he had signed on his first day at work had dealt with that very issue.

  Christ, how stupid!

  He had something like fifteen or twenty seconds before Elroy blocked him off inside the cubicle and he was toast.

  He yanked out the USB stick and took a last look at the screen.

  What exactly is the Game?

  was the heading of the first search result, and it took every last bit of his self-control not to click on it.

  Fuckingbastardballs!

  The voices were getting closer. With excruciating reluctance he hammered at the Escape key and then quickly pressed Ctrl+Alt+Del. Just as the screen locked he threw himself under the desk.

  He could see movement through the cracks in the cubicle walls.

  Hurry up, hurry up!

  He snaked into the narrow cable run that led between the panels, pressed down against the floor, and pulled the desk chair in behind him. A moment later a pair of well-polished size tens appeared in his field of vision, so close that he thought he could smell the polish.

  There were a few seconds of silence.

  Then he heard Elroy’s voice.

  “I’m in position, but there’s nothing here. Whoever it was, he must have been smart enough to give up—over!”

  “Understood,” Philip’s voice said over the radio. “We need to keep our eyes open. It looks like we’ve got a rat . . .”

  26

  ASHES TO ASHES . . .

  Pillars of Society forum

  Posted: 20 December, 16:56

  By: MayBey

  An eye for an eye—is that really such a bad idea?

  This post has 76 comments

  IT WAS MICKE who emailed the link to the Facebook page. Regina Righteous evidently had her own profile on there. The date of birth, education, and workplace all matched hers, but the rest was a complete fabrication. The two companies listed under “Activities and Interests” turned out to be sites for people wanting affairs, and her status was given as “in an open relationship.” That, and the fact that she had turned him down, presumably explained why his email had been so short and to the point.

  But worst of all was the photograph.

  A picture of her in her running gear, and it took her a matter of moments to work out where and when it had been taken.

  Right outside her door, the evening she had been run down.

  Coincidence?

  Hardly.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  The floral arrangements in the little cemetery were so imposing that they made the urn look tiny. The whole thing resembled a mafia funeral. Loads of people in dark overcoats and raincoats, with black umbrellas swaying above them to fend off the worst of the sleety snow.

  All that was missing were a bunch of feds writing down car license numbers over in the parking lot.

  HP had always hated funerals.

  Well, “always” was pushing it . . .

  He’d actually only been to two. He hardly remembered his dad’s, mainly because he had been seriously stoned. One last farewell fuck you for the old man to take with him on the express train south, that was how he had reasoned.

  He
had vague memories of Wagner on the church organ, and a load of faces that smelled of drink and old-fashioned aftershave, all staring at him. One old man in uniform who must have been one of Dad’s colleagues from the reserve unit had even tried to straighten him out at the reception after the funeral.

  “Your father was a great man, Henrik. A true patriot. You should be proud of him.”

  Yeah, right . . .

  As if draping the coffin with the Swedish flag and singing the national anthem in three-part harmony were suddenly going to get him to see the old bastard in a new light . . .

  Mom’s funeral had been considerably calmer.

  Just him, Becca, Dag, and Aunt Britt.

  Becca and Dag close together, his heavy paw around her shoulders. But his arm wasn’t there to comfort her, any idiot could see that. It looked more like Dag was keeping hold of Becca—hard, almost as if he were afraid she might try to escape if he let go. As if his sister would have dared. The sunglasses she was wearing were almost certainly not there to hide her tears or protect her from the weak spring sunshine.

  That was actually when he made up his mind. The moment the sick fucker had given him one of his usual supercilious grins over his sister’s head, HP had realized what he had to do. Mom had been Becca’s last lifeline, the only thing stopping Dag from taking complete control.

  Apart from him . . .

  “Come on, it’s our turn.”

  Rilke tugged gently at his arm and they went up to Philip and Monika.

  He still hadn’t really worked out what sort of relationship they had, him and Rilke. He had spent the past few nights at hers. Cuddled up on the sofa in front of the television, having breakfast together.

  So were they a couple now?

  The jury was still out on that point. But he was hoping for a yes . . .

  After the incident in the Laundry he had kept a low profile, doing his job impeccably and trying as hard as he could to avoid suspicion. It seemed to have worked.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  “Sorry for your loss,” he muttered to Anna Argos’s sister.

  She kept hold of his hand for a few seconds and gave him a long look.

  “You must be Magnus?”

  “Mmm.” He nodded.

  “Did you know my sister?”

  “No . . . er, I’ve only been with the firm for a month or so,” he mumbled, trying to avoid eye contact. He didn’t usually have any trouble lying, but for some reason it felt as though she could see right through him. He wondered how she’d react if he told her the truth?

  I don’t know if I really knew her, that depends on how you look at it. Your little sister bonked the crap out of me in a hotel suite in Dubai, then just after that I was arrested on suspicion of killing her. So I suppose you could say that we were acquainted . . .

  Monika suddenly let go of his hand, almost as if it were burning her. She gave him an odd look as he hurried off to catch up with Rilke.

  “Magnus.”

  Philip held out his hand.

  “It’s good of you to come, thanks for the beautiful wreath.”

  HP nodded in reply as he tried to rediscover the funeral expression that Monika had almost made him forget.

  “My . . . our pleasure!” he corrected himself, giving Rilke a short sideways glance.

  Philip still hadn’t let go of his hand, and had actually raised the stakes by taking a firm grasp of HP’s elbow.

  “Yes, I’ve noticed that you seem to enjoy each other’s company . . .” He smiled. “Friendship is important, almost as important as loyalty. Wouldn’t you say, Magnus?”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  She didn’t really understand why she’d said yes. Dinner with a stranger? As if she didn’t have enough to think about already. But there was something appealing about John, something that made her forget her troubles, for a short while, at least.

  She should really have called the whole thing off. That would have been the sensible thing to do. But she was tired of being sensible. Tired of always being Regina Righteous . . .

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  “Mange, Mange Sandström? It is you, isn’t it?”

  The tall, suntanned man had appeared out of nowhere while everyone was still mingling about with their first drink.

  The restaurant was close to Strandvägen and, according to Rilke, Philip lived at the top of the same building. He couldn’t work out if it was the slight hint of admiration in her voice when she talked about their boss, or the fact that she had dropped him like a stone to network among Philip’s business contacts that annoyed him most.

  Matters weren’t made any better by the fact that he was forced to stick to orange juice while everyone else was making the most of the free bar . . .

  “Hellooo . . .”

  He shook the man’s hand and tried to look as if he were searching for the right name.

  “Stoffe. Kristoffer Stensson,” the man said helpfully. “You were two years below me at the Royal Institute of Technology, but I think you’d have been in most of the same classes as us . . . ?”

  “That’s right,” HP mumbled. “Stoffe, of course. Good to see you again!”

  So this was the famous Stoffe. The bloke actually looked like a Mini-Me version of the boss. Tailor-made pin-striped suit, impeccable white shirt, his blue tie knotted in a perfectly centered double Windsor. Even his glasses and cropped hair were identical, but Stoffe was at least six feet tall, a whole four inches taller than his idol.

  “I didn’t actually believe Philip when he said Mange Sandström had started working for us. I thought it must be someone else with the same name, but I recognize you now. I mean, don’t get me wrong . . .”

  He held his hands up in front of him.

  “ . . . no disrespect to ArgosEye, but you were a bit of a prodigy at RIT. You must have got loads of interesting offers, so I couldn’t understand why you’d want to start from scratch with us . . . ? I mean, someone like you . . . in the Troll Mine, of all places?”

  Stoffe was looking at HP as if he were expecting a damn good answer. The problem was just that he didn’t have one.

  “Well . . . er,” he began, as he searched his head desperately for a suitable opening. “You see . . .”

  “Have you heard? Hell, this is so mental! In Sweden, of all places . . .”

  Dejan stumbled in from the left holding his iPhone aloft. HP breathed out. Saved by the bell . . .

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “The bomb! The bombs! Don’t tell me you haven’t heard?”

  HP and Stoffe shook their heads in unison.

  “Some crazy fucker blew himself up on Drottninggatan half an hour ago. The media have gone completely mad . . .”

  He held out his phone to show them what he meant.

  NEWSFLASH

  SUICIDE BOMBER

  IN CENTRAL STOCKHOLM

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  She took a long shower. Slowly increased the temperature a little at a time, gradually rotating to spread the delicious feeling of warmth over her whole body. Around and around until her skin was burning and she couldn’t take any more.

  Then she shaved her legs and took the opportunity to trim a couple of other strategic places.

  She dug out her best underwear, pulled on a white blouse and the jeans she kept at the back of the wardrobe because they were a bit too tight for her liking.

  Then she blow-dried her hair, quickly put on her face in front of the hall mirror, then took a step back to inspect the result.

  She hardly recognized herself . . .

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Philip merely had to stand up for the noise in the private dining room to subside at once. There were about a hundred people there if HP had counted right, most of them apparently business acquaintances.

  Neither party in the Argos marriage seemed the type to spend time making real friends.

  Business comes first.

  “As you’ve no doubt already heard, there have been dramatic events in the city
this evening,” Philip began. “It looks as if there are still roadblocks in place, and public transport isn’t running, so getting home might prove difficult. But my good friend Baris here . . .”

  He raised his hand toward the restaurant owner who was standing over by the wall.

  “ . . . has promised to keep the bar open as long as we need it.”

  There was a burst of cheerful chatter, and Philip waited a few moments before going on.

  “But for those of you who work for me, I’d just like to say that I want to see section heads tomorrow morning at ten o’clock. I’m aware that it’s Sunday and that you’ve earned a day off, but unfortunately this evening’s events have rather changed things . . .”

  He raised his glass.

  “Now that that’s out of the way, Monika and I would like to thank you all for coming here this evening to honor our beloved Anna. Anna was, as you all know, a very special person. ArgosEye was her dream, her life’s work, and I’m convinced that she would want nothing more than for us to continue to develop the company in the direction that she had staked out. A toast, to Anna!”

  “To Anna!”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Instead of calling for a taxi she had pulled her jacket on and trudged up to the hot dog kiosk. They stayed open late and gave a discount to police officers and taxi drivers, which meant that one way or the other she was bound to get a lift. But that evening, unusually enough, there was only one taxi parked outside. The driver was actually on his way home, but after a bit of feminine persuasion he agreed to drive her. Fixed price with the meter switched off, the sort of thing that usually made her pull out her police ID.

  He was the one who told her about the bombs. A suicide bomber, albeit something of a failure as such. But still . . .

  In Stockholm, of all places.

  Completely crazy!

  According to the taxi driver, the whole of the city center was pretty much cordoned off, and the subway wasn’t working. The entire city was a blur of flashing blue lights and police, and they had to take a long detour to get to where she was going. Two bombs, and the only fatality so far was the bomber himself, but until further attacks could be ruled out every single police officer would be on duty.