Buzz: A Thriller
Page 34
“Hold on!”
Dejan crouched down and picked at one of the little card slots just above the USB ports.
A moment later he pulled out a tiny memory card, barely the size of a postage stamp.
Someone had written on the front of it: Ykay A mofos!
♦ ♦ ♦
The lights from the nearest buildings were getting farther and farther away. The car seemed to be floating over the snow-covered ground, just swerving slightly when they hit hidden dips and potholes. For a few seconds it almost felt like being back in the desert. But that was just another of all the weird déjà vu moments his life seemed to have turned into.
When they finally came to a stop they were close to the edge of the forest. He could see small, flickering points of light in there among the trees, and it took him a while to realize what they were.
Cemetery candles.
They’d reached the old pet cemetery.
The men got out of the car, and the open doors let the cold night air in. Obviously he ought to try to escape. Make a mad rush for it, aiming for the streetlights on the far side of the field. But he had no energy left for running. Enough was enough.
“Is this where it ends?” he asked the men, but neither of them said anything. “Surely it wouldn’t hurt to tell me what’s going to happen?”
“I thought you’d already realized,” one of the men said as he unlocked his handcuffs.
HP nodded.
“Yes, but I’d still like to hear you say it.”
The man didn’t answer. Instead he pulled his jacket up and tucked the handcuffs back in position on his belt, next to his pistol.
“You can start walking,” the other man said.
He stood there for a moment, looking at them, but it was impossible to make out their faces in the darkness.
So he started to walk. The candles were flickering from inside the forest, no more than twenty meters or so away.
Even though the city center was just a few kilometers away, it was almost totally silent. Only a distant rumble and the pink sky behind him let on that the city was actually there.
Suddenly he heard a bird cry in the distance. A dry croaking sound that he recognized. He couldn’t help shuddering. Ten meters left to the edge of the forest. The snow crunched softly beneath his feet. He held his arms out from his sides and waited.
Five meters.
His heart was beating so hard he thought he could actually hear it.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One . . .
46
ORLY?
SUDDENLY HE WAS in among the trees.
Surprised, he turned back toward the men. They were leaning against the car and seemed to be having a conversation.
He didn’t get it.
“Keep going!” one of them called when he realized HP had stopped.
He turned around and tried to peer in among the trees. The cemetery candles were casting ghostly flickering shadows between the trunks. Then he heard car doors open and close, then an engine start up.
He took a few stumbling steps into the forest, tripped over a little snow-covered headstone, and fell flat in the snow. He got to his feet and brushed the worst of the snow off his clothes.
The car was already halfway back to Kaknäsvägen.
Were they really just letting him go?
Just like that?
He suddenly felt a sharp pain in one knee, and when he put his hand down to see he found his trouser leg was wet with blood. It was impossible to judge the extent of the injury in the darkness, so he set off toward the candle that was burning brightest.
It wasn’t until he was almost there that he realized there was someone standing by the grave.
“Welcome, Henrik,” the man said. “We’ve been looking for you for a very long time. You’re not an easy man to get hold of . . .”
HP opened his mouth but couldn’t get a word out.
“Can I offer you a cup of coffee?”
The man raised his stick and pointed at the gravestone, which was actually a large, horizontal block of stone. On top of it, next to the large candle, stood a check-patterned flask and two cups. The man passed one of the cups to HP, who took it without speaking. The coffee was strong and scalding hot. They sipped at it in silence.
“So what happens now?” he finally managed to say.
“That’s up to you.”
“H-how?”
“I have a task for you, Henrik,” the man said slowly. “You’ll have plenty of time to complete it, a whole year, to be precise.”
He put his hand inside his coat, and for a moment HP stiffened.
But instead of a gun, the man pulled out an oblong envelope and handed it to HP.
“Interesting place, this,” he said as HP opened the envelope and unfolded a sheet of paper.
“Are you aware of its history, Henrik?”
HP shook his head; he was completely absorbed in reading.
“The cemetery was started sometime in the middle of the nineteenth century by the author August Blanche, when he buried his dog out here. Other Stockholmers dutifully followed his example. Loyalty is a wonderful quality, don’t you think, Henrik?”
“Mmm,” HP replied distantly.
He was halfway through the text, but he had already worked out how it was all going to end.
His brain was spinning at high speed, his heart pounding in his chest. This was incredible! Completely insane!
“So what do you say, Henrik? Are you prepared to accept the task?” The man smiled. “Yes or no?”
HP opened his mouth.
“Yes or no, to what?”
“Rebecca!” The man held out his free hand. “How nice of you to join us!”
Rebecca stepped out of the darkness and walked slowly up to the gravestone.
HP tucked the sheet of paper away at once. What the hell was Becca doing here? Now? Did they know each other?
“Yes or no to what, Henke?” she repeated, stopping beside him.
“Oh, I’ve just asked your brother for his assistance with something. It’s to do with what we discussed before . . .” the man said with a smile.
“About Dad?”
“You could say that. By the way, I really am most grateful for your help in arranging this little meeting. Your colleagues acquitted themselves in an exemplary fashion.”
She nodded curtly.
HP’s brain felt like it was going to explode.
Arranging?
Colleagues?
What in the name of holy hell was going on?
“You’ve arrived at just the right time, Rebecca. Henrik and I have just finished our little chat.”
The man tipped the last of the coffee from the cups, then put them and the flask away in a little camping box he’d kept hidden in the shadows beside the gravestone.
“My car is over there.” He pointed into the darkness with his stick.
“Well, it was nice to meet you both again,” he said, raising his hat in farewell. “Good-bye, my friends!”
“But you’ll stay in touch, Uncle Tage?”
“Don’t worry, Rebecca,” he replied in an almost amused tone of voice. “You’ll be hearing from me again. I promise.”
A few moments later he was swallowed up by the darkness.
♦ ♦ ♦
“Explain!” HP said as they trudged through the snow. “Quick, before I go completely mad!”
She couldn’t help smiling.
“Uncle Tage helped me with something, something important. In return I promised to help him arrange a meeting between the two of you. I’ve been a bit worried about you, so for the past few days a couple of my colleagues have been keeping an eye on you. They were the ones who picked you up at Hötorget. I’ve been keeping in touch with Malmén, the tall one, every now and then. So, didn’t you recognize him?”
“Er, who?”
“Uncle Tage, we went to stay at his summer cottage up in Rättvik when we w
ere little.”
She tucked her hand under his arm.
“The blue clogs with our names on, don’t you remember? You never wanted to take them off . . .”
He just shook his head.
She emerged from the forest and headed over toward her car.
“So, what was it he wanted you to do?” she asked.
“Nothing special,” he said. “Nothing special at all . . .”
47
AFTERMATH
HE HAD ALMOST reached passport control, and had just put his hand into the inside pocket of his coat when the men came up to him.
“Mr. Argos?” the first man said, an officer in full uniform of some sort.
“Who wants to know?”
“My name is Major Erdogan,” the officer replied, without introducing the two men in suits behind him.
“Can I see your passport, please?”
He handed over his passport and the officer inspected it carefully.
“Excellent,” he said, handing the passport to one of the men behind him. “I’m afraid you won’t be granted entry to Turkey, because you are under suspicion of committing a criminal offense in another country. These two gentlemen will make sure you end up on the right flight . . .”
“Nonsense! Turkey has no extradition treaty with Sweden. You have no right to do this!”
The officer smiled and exchanged a glance with the two suited men.
“Who said anything about Sweden?” he went on. “You’re wanted for incitement to murder in the United Arab Emirates. Dubai, to be more precise, and these two gentlemen are here to pick you up.”
The men in suits stepped up to him and the shorter one, an amiable-looking little man with glasses and a mustache, held out his hand.
“My name is Colonel Aziz,” he said in a friendly tone of voice. “And this is my colleague, Sergeant Moussad.”
He pointed his thumb toward the other man, who was thickset and whose coarse, unshaven features were covered by a mass of small scars.
“You’ll have to excuse the sergeant, I’m afraid he doesn’t speak English,” Aziz went on, with a trace of a smile.
“It’s good to meet you at last, Mr. Argos. We’ve waited a long time for the opportunity to talk to you.”
♦ ♦ ♦
“No need to get up,” she said, marching straight into his office.
“Ah, how lovely to see you,” Runeberg muttered, and slowly lowered his feet from the edge of his desk. “So, what are you doing here, Normén? You’re not due back until next week.”
“I just wanted to drop this off.”
She put a small pile of papers in front of him.
“And I’m afraid you’ll also be wanting this once you’ve read through that.”
She dug in her pocket, then slowly handed over her police ID.
“What the hell is this, Normén?”
He sat up straight in his chair.
“You were cleared of all charges. It looks like the whole Darfur incident was a setup, some kind of trap. And your actions probably saved the lives of all involved, but you already know that. So, why do you want . . .”
“Leave of absence?” she interrupted. “Because I need to get away from here for a while.”
“Is this anything to do with . . . you know . . .”
“The website, you mean? Yes and no. It’s mostly just about me.”
She took a deep breath.
“My partner works for an IT security company. They’ve recently been bought up by a larger company that wants to expand its operations. I’m going to help them set up a personal security department. I’ll have a completely free hand, and plenty of resources . . .”
He was silent for a few seconds, then nodded.
“I understand. That sounds like the sort of offer you couldn’t refuse. But you’re putting me in a very difficult position here . . . We’re short of people as it is. The group . . .”
“My suggestion would be to put David Malmén in charge of the group.”
He gave her a long look.
“Something tells me you and Malmén have already discussed this.”
She didn’t reply.
“Okay, Becca, I’m not going to be difficult. But I want you to promise me something . . .”
“What, Ludvig?”
She allowed herself a little smile, which he was quick to return.
“That you’ll take good care of yourself.”
“I promise.” She smiled.
He grabbed a pen, signed the papers, then handed her a copy.
“There, you’re officially on leave of absence for a year. Well, then, I should probably just wish you good luck . . . ?”
“Thanks.”
She took the sheet of paper, folded it up, and put it in her rucksack.
“Just one question,” he called when she was on her way out of the door.
“What’s the name of the company you’re going to be working for?”
“PayTag,” she called back, waving in farewell.
♦ ♦ ♦
“Your telephone, Madame,” the little uniformed man said, handing her the receiver. “I said that you were resting, but the caller insisted that I wake you.”
“It’s okay, Sridhar,” she replied. “I’ve been waiting for this call.”
She took a deep breath, leaned back on the sunbed, and tried to collect her thoughts.
High above her a pair of birds was hovering.
Desert crows, just like in her dream.
“Hello?”
“Good evening, my dear, or is it still afternoon there?”
She raised her hand and squinted against the sun.
“Late afternoon, actually. But you’re not calling to ask what time it is, are you?”
“No, quite right. I have some good news. Very good news . . .”
For a few seconds she found it hard to say anything, her heart was beating so hard against her chest that she imagined she could almost see the fabric of her bikini move.
“Did everything . . . ?” she began.
“Exactly as we had hoped, even if events occasionally took a course we weren’t able to predict. But of course, that’s one of the delights of what we do. You’ll have a full report within the next few days. Until then, allow me to wish you a very happy continuation of your holiday.”
“Okay, thank you . . .”
“No, it’s us who should be thanking you, my dear. Thank you for choosing to do business with us.
“Well, good-bye, and take good care of yourself, Mrs. Argos.”
Turn the page for a teaser of the next thriller in the GAME trilogy,
BUBBLE
Outbox: 1 pending message.
From: goodboy.821@gmail.com
To: magnus.sandstrom@farookalhassan.se
Subject: the Game
Fuck it, Mange, how did things end up like this?
It was all so easy back at the start. So innocent.
A mobile phone someone left behind on the train.
A phone that knew who I was, called me by my name.
Do you want to play a Game, Henrik Pettersson? YES or NO?
· · ·
To start with everything went like clockwork. The tasks they gave me were pretty simple. Nick an umbrella, loosen the wheel nuts on a flash car, stop the clock on top of the NK department store.
The film clips looked good, the fans liked what they saw, and I started climbing the high-score list. Soaking up their praise and approval, aiming for the top, and trying to depose Kent Hasselqvist aka Player number 58 from his throne.
At almost any price . . .
That grass in Birkagatan whose door I spray painted, followed by his face. The attack on the royal procession. The stone I dropped on those police cars from the Traneberg Bridge . . .
I didn’t even blink, Mange, I didn’t hesitate for a single fucking second . . .
I just did all I could to get to the top, to get the audience to love me. To get a bit of recognition.
> · · ·
But then I blew it. I broke rule number one:
Never talk about the Game to anyone.
First they chucked me out, then they gave me a warning. Set fire to my flat and tried to do the same to your computer shop. Not to mention Erman the nut, the hermit who got too involved and was now trying to live a low-tech life out in the sticks.
Didn’t do him much good, did it . . . ?
· · ·
You are always playing the Game, whether you like it or not.
· · ·
So I fought back, big time. Blew their server farm sky-high. Emptied their bank account and took off. Lived the easy life on Asian beaches like everyone dreams of doing, really tried to enjoy my early retirement.
It was kind of okay . . .
You have to be careful about what you wish for . . .
I managed to lie low for fourteen months, until they caught up with me down in Dubai. They framed me for the murder of Anna Argos, and I ended up getting locked up and tortured. But I managed to wriggle out of their trap. And I decided to find out who wanted Anna dead. And me too, for that matter . . .
The answer seemed to lead back to her company, Argoseye.com, and their undeniably shady business practices. Bribed bloggers, thousands of fake Internet identities, all making comments and giving scores that suited the company’s clients. All the different technological tools they used to suppress things and keep them hidden. Making certain things on the net seem invisible.
Like the Game, for instance . . .
But we beat them as well, even if it was at a cost. The trojan you designed that I planted in their computer system did exactly what it was supposed to.
It dragged the trolls out into daylight, and they burst. And shafted Philip Argos, the creepy bastard, and gave the rest of his little gang what they deserved.
Everything would have been fine.
If it hadn’t been for him.
Tage Sammer, or Uncle Tage as Becca calls him.
He claims he’s an old colleague of Dad’s from the military.