Buzz: A Thriller

by Anders de la Motte

  She didn’t really know. She might just as well find a nice big stone and chuck it through his window. An eye for an eye, so to speak . . . After all, that was the sort of thing he liked . . .

  She had just started looking around for a suitable projectile when suddenly a little dog came sniffing through the snow between the trees. The wind must have been in the wrong direction, because the animal didn’t notice her until it was almost upon her. Then it suddenly lurched backward and started barking madly.

  “Tarzan? Tarzan!” she heard someone shout from the illuminated path some hundred meters away to her right. Then she saw two silhouettes approaching quickly through the trees.

  Shit! She had no inclination to explain what she was doing hiding in the woods to a couple of dog-walkers.

  The figures were approaching fast, two men, she guessed. The larger of them was carrying a flashlight, and a much smaller one was running ahead. She waited for them to reach her while Tarzan went on barking hysterically.

  “Shhhh,” she tried. “Nice doggy, good Tarzan.”

  She took a couple of steps toward the little dog, squatting down in an attempt to calm it down a bit. But the dog just launched itself furiously at her legs and she stood up rapidly.

  Little bastard!

  “There you are, Tarzan . . . !”

  The shorter of the men grabbed the little dog and picked it up, almost like a child. The dog fell silent at once and started to lick the man’s face.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Tarzan’s not used to bumping into anyone when he runs around here in the evening. I’m sorry if he startled you . . .”

  “No problem,” she muttered. “I think he was probably more scared.”

  The other man caught up with them. His flashlight was pointing down at the snow-covered ground. But the light was still strong enough for her to recognize him from the police-station gym. It was Peter Gladh.

  33

  MIRAGE

  “HAVE YOU EVER heard about the PayTag Group?”

  The name sounded vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it.

  “It’s a global consultancy firm that specializes in Internet security, among other things. Somehow Philip managed to negotiate a huge bid for a majority stake in ArgosEye. Philip and the others will all become rich, while the company acquires considerably more muscle, in purely business terms . . .”

  HP leaned back on the sofa. So that’s what Beens’s little performance in the bar had been about? With a global company behind them and millions of fresh dollars in the kitty, they’d be able to expand, develop even better tools. Get even more control . . .

  But apparently Anna hadn’t agreed with the proposal. Just like Monika, she had found herself increasingly disapproving of the direction the company was going in.

  She herself was one of the first IT entrepreneurs, and had literally built her career out of the development of the Internet. And now she was going to help to limit it, muzzling people and hiding uncomfortable truths through the exploitation of the Internet’s own mechanisms.

  Yep, he could understand perfectly why Anna had opposed the deal. And according to Monika she had had one last trump card. Even if the tribal council voted her out, she had evidently come up with a new way to stick a wrench in the works. Screwing up the whole deal right in front of the greedy little bastards’ noses . . .

  “Somehow Philip must have found out about it and confronted her . . .” Monika said as she came back from the kitchen with a fresh pot of tea.

  “I’ve got no idea what happened, all I know is that Anna was scared, utterly damned terrified, if you’ll excuse my language . . .”

  She took a sip of her tea.

  “Was that why she left the country?”

  Monika nodded.

  “Anna called me from London, and just said she was going to be gone a few weeks, without giving me any explanation. But I could tell from the tone of her voice . . . Sometime later she called from Dubai and told me a bit more. Afterward I worked out that was the evening when she . . .”

  Monika fell silent.

  “So that story Philip told everyone, about her year off . . .”

  “Completely made up, just like the whole thing about her death being an accident. The police down there are sure Anna was murdered. They’ve even released an arrest warrant for their main suspect.”

  He wriggled uncomfortably, but she didn’t seem to notice.

  “But Philip was very firm on that point. Nothing was allowed to get out that could jeopardize the deal, not under any circumstances. After what had happened to Anna, I didn’t dare disagree. Anyway, I’m dependent upon his goodwill . . .”

  “In what way?”

  HP leaned forward keenly.

  “I’m Anna’s closest relative, our parents are dead, which means that I inherit her shares in the company.”

  He frowned.

  “How can that be a problem? I mean, you’ll get a lot of money for them once the deal goes through.”

  She snorted.

  “Anna didn’t want to take their money. No matter what happened, she was planning to keep hold of her shares and stop PayTag from swallowing up her life’s work, at least as long as she could . . .”

  Monika got up from the sofa and started to clear their still half-full cups. Then she suddenly stopped and turned to him.

  “Would you have anything against coming out onto the terrace with me? I feel I need a cigarette . . .”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  “But you’re bleeding!” the man holding the dog said.

  Gladh shone the flashlight at her leg. A small red stain was starting to show through her jeans on one of her calves, just above the top of her boot. She lifted her leg, pulled off her glove, and touched it with her finger.

  The man was right.

  “Naughty Tarzan!” the man with the dog said. “I really am very sorry . . .”

  Gladh moved the beam of the flashlight slightly higher.

  When it reached her face she noticed him tense up.

  “My name’s Pierre, and this is Peter,” the man with the dog said. “We live over there.”

  He pointed toward the house behind them.

  “Come back with us and we can patch you up, and obviously we’ll pay for new jeans . . .”

  “There’s really no need—” she began, but the man interrupted her.

  “No, no, I insist. It really is the least we can do, isn’t it, Peter?”

  “Well, if she doesn’t want to . . .” Gladh muttered.

  “Nonsense!” said the man whose name was apparently Pierre. “Come along!”

  He took hold of her arm, not remotely unpleasantly, more like they were old friends, and started to steer her back toward the path. Tarzan protested mildly at her presence, but Pierre hushed him.

  “Naughty Tarzan, you mustn’t growl at our new friend! What did you say your name was?”

  “Rebecca,” she mumbled. “Rebecca Normén.”

  She cast a quick glance over her shoulder at Gladh, but the darkness made it impossible to see the expression on his face.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  She smoked blue Blend cigarettes, menthol, which didn’t really surprise him. He pulled a Marlboro out of the packet he had bought in the kiosk at the subway station, then felt in his pocket for his new disposable lighter. He missed his trusty old Zippo.

  “You said you were dependent on Philip’s goodwill. What do you mean by that?” he said as he lit their cigarettes.

  She took a deep drag before replying.

  “I don’t want any blood money from PayTag, there’s no question of that. It would feel like a betrayal of Anna. But at the same time I don’t want to hold on to the shares, because then I’d end up owning part of the monster my sister wanted to destroy, so I’m in a difficult position.”

  She took a couple of quick, angry drags, then put the cigarette out in an upturned flowerpot on the plastic table beside them.

  “Philip has offered to buy the shares from me
himself, and, even if I realize that just means that he’ll sell them on to PayTag, it seems the least worst option . . .”

  “Hang on, couldn’t you sell the shares to someone else? Someone on the outside?”

  She made a resigned gesture.

  “Like who? The company isn’t listed on the stock market, and I haven’t exactly got a lot of speculators lined up . . . I mean, ArgosEye doesn’t even make a profit . . .”

  HP took a deep drag, then flicked the butt out onto the snow-covered lawn. There was a little shower of sparks followed by a short hiss.

  “I might have a suggestion,” he said with a smile.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  The whole thing was pretty surreal.

  Pierre the dog man pulled her inside his flat, parked her on a sofa, and then quickly brewed up what had to be the most perfect cappuccino she had ever tasted in her life.

  And now she was sitting there with Gladh on the divan opposite, while Pierre poked about for the first-aid kit out in the kitchen. For a few moments they just glared at each other.

  He looked pretty tough, she couldn’t deny that. A square face, dark eyes, and a posture that suggested he was more than capable of looking after himself in a fight. She briefly regretted leaving the extendable baton in her jacket pocket. But surely he wouldn’t have a go at her here, in front of a witness?

  “You know who I am, don’t you?” she began.

  He nodded.

  “Yep, we’ve bumped into each other a few times down in the station gym. But this is all rather—”

  “Unexpected,” she interrupted. “I don’t suppose you thought I’d show up here?”

  “No . . .” he said, giving her a long look.

  “Well, here I am, so now the question is what we do next.”

  He squirmed, and cast a long look toward the kitchen, where it sounded like Pierre was still rummaging about.

  “Well, I’d appreciate it if we could keep this between us . . .”

  He leaned toward her.

  “I don’t want this coming out at work . . .”

  “No, I can quite understand that,” she snarled, and she saw him flinch.

  “Peter, have you seen the box of Band-Aids. I’m sure it was in the bathroom,” Pierre called.

  “No, I haven’t,” Gladh called, without taking his eyes from her. “But I don’t think we need it, Rebecca’s just leaving . . .”

  “No, I’m not,” she hissed.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  The train rattled on through the winter darkness on its way into the city. He had just managed to catch the last train that evening, and apart from the driver and a guy wearing headphones a couple of seats in front of him, the carriages were empty.

  He really could understand why Philip had reacted the way he had. There was some seriously heavy stuff going on, and not only financially.

  The PayTag Group. He was sure he’d heard the name before, and he was trying desperately to remember where. But the more he thought about it, the further he seemed to get from the answer.

  But one thing was clear at least. He was finally starting to understand why Anna Argos had been murdered. Just as he had thought, she was caught up in the Game, but not as a simple little Player. She, and above all her company, played a considerably more significant role than that.

  ArgosEye protected the Game, while at the same time presumably benefiting from its unique services. If the company was bought and gained access to seriously large amounts of money, they would be able to use the Game on a more regular basis, and exploit its full potential. Getting them to dig out secrets, misjudgments, and general screwups that people were desperate to keep hidden.

  Then when the Game had done its thing, the victims could choose—become a client of ArgosEye, and we’ll make sure your secrets are safe. A good old protection racket—Cosa Nostra goes cyberspace, basically. Their business would grow exponentially, and PayTag would be crying tears of joy over their profitable new acquisition.

  An increase in revenue would mean the Game could continue to grow, recruiting more Ants and Players, and thus increasing both its power and its client base. And a growing Game would require more effort to keep itself hidden, which would all be handled by the bigger, stronger ArgosEye, and then everyone was back at Go again.

  The circle was closed, the pieces of the puzzle fell into place, and the chain of logic held.

  But as with all conspiracy theories, you had to ask: Who benefited?

  And in this case the answer was simple:

  Everyone!

  But then Anna Argos decided to be difficult.

  A way to stop them, Monika had said.

  Anna was a competitive person, and she would surely rather have destroyed her life’s work than look on as Philip and the treacherous section heads took it over.

  Maybe she had even tried and failed?

  Was that why she had fled the country?

  But there was far too much at stake for them to just let her get away. As long as Anna was out there somewhere, she would constitute a serious risk.

  And risks had to be eliminated, as far as possible.

  So: enter Vincent the Lady Killer.

  Hell, what a story!

  Only one piece of the puzzle was missing . . .

  Henrik HP Pettersson.

  How did he fit into the picture?

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Her fury was back, all of a sudden. For several weeks she had imagined what MayBey looked like, sitting there in front of his screen. She had almost come to think of him as some sort of monster in a black cape with a deformed face. Instead MayBey was an overtanned gym junkie with a neat little goatee, sitting on a Turkish divan in a room that looked like something out of The Thousand and One Nights . . .

  His pretense of being surprised wasn’t going to work on her . . .

  “You’re a cheeky bastard, Peter! Storing up a load of rubbish that Uncle Sixten and your poor, spurned boss have unloaded onto you. Then you make me your target and spend weeks throwing all sorts of shit at me, just to get a bit of attention for your nasty little gossip site. And now you want us to act like nothing’s happened, so that nothing comes out at work . . . ? Clearly you’re not as brave IRL as you are in front of your keyboard, are you, MayBey?”

  Gladh stared at her hard for several seconds. Then he took a deep breath and opened his mouth.

  At that moment Pierre came back into the room. He waved a little white box with a red cross on it.

  “Here it is. Sorry, Rebecca, my beloved partner must have put it back in the bathroom cupboard instead of in the right place.”

  He sat down on the sofa next to Rebecca and started to take out what he needed with a practiced hand.

  “Sorry, I interrupted. What were you talking about?”

  Gladh leaned forward slowly toward her.

  “Yes, I was just wondering that . . . What the hell are you talking about, Normén?”

  34

  CUT, CLIP, AND REMOVE

  HE HAD A fleeting sense that someone was watching him.

  He looked anxiously around the carriage, but apart from the man with headphones in front of him, the train was empty.

  Nothing to worry about.

  He shut his eyes, took a deep breath through his nose, then let the air out slowly through his mouth. The whirlwind of thoughts in his head was gradually slowing down.

  Anna, Vincent, Philip, Monika, Rilke, and all the others. And, finally, him. What a goddamn story . . .

  The train stopped at AGA, but no passengers appeared to get on.

  His cover had held up to the evening after the funeral, so everything he had found out up to that point had to be true. Then something had happened. Some external event that had changed the game. Stoffe. It couldn’t really be anyone else. Now that he’d had time to calm down a bit, the idea that Rilke had blown his cover, or that he’d slipped up somehow, no longer seemed terribly likely.

  No, Stoffe was the only new factor that had been added to the equ
ation, the only difference from the earlier scenario. With the possible exception of his sister . . . But that thought worried him more than he was prepared to admit.

  “Good evening, Henrik!” a soft voice suddenly said behind his shoulder, and HP froze to ice.

  Philip Argos.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  “Peter, a phantom blogger? You’re joking . . .”

  Pierre burst into chuckling laughter, which under normal circumstances was probably very contagious. But she definitely wasn’t in the mood for laughing. And Gladh didn’t seem as amused as his partner.

  “That’s actually true, at most I can send emails and check the news websites.”

  “But . . .” she said. “Tobbe said that . . .”

  She paused, trying to think of a way in.

  “Okay, I think I’m starting to get it now. So, Tobbe Lundh put you onto me . . . ?”

  He looked at Pierre, who stopped laughing at once.

  “Okay, it’s like this, Normén.” Gladh sighed. “I’ve always kept quiet about my sexuality. The force might have got a lot better officially, but if you’re in the Rapid Response Unit and compete in the TCA, it doesn’t really fit the image if you also happen to be . . .”

  “A poof!” Pierre said, quick as a flash. “Peter and I don’t entirely agree on this, but even if I think he’s wrong, I respect his decision . . .”

  Gladh gave Pierre a grateful look.

  “Up until a couple of months ago everything worked pretty well,” he continued. “A number of other officers must have known, or at least suspected, but no one really seemed bothered.”

  “But then something happened . . . ?” Rebecca was still trying to sort out her thoughts, and added, “Something to do with Tobbe Lundh?”

  Gladh nodded.

  “He bumped into me and Pierre at a private party. His daughter was working as a waitress, and, being a bit of an overprotective dad, he picked her up just before the end . . .”

  “A gay party,” Pierre said. “A perfectly ordinary party, no drag or feather boas, no Eurovision theme, but it was still pretty obvious. You can imagine the rest . . .”