It reminded her of aftershave.
He had asked them to drop him off by a Seven-Eleven some way from the hotel, claiming he had to get some shopping. Elroy the gorilla was in the driver’s seat, with his twin sister beside him. HP and Philip Argos were sitting next to each other on the capacious back seat.
‘Thirty thousand terabytes, do you know how much that is? Of course you know, Farook, how stupid of me. I almost forgot who I’m talking to!’ Philip chuckled. ‘Thirty million, billion bytes, that’s how much information flows through the internet every hour, at least according to some sources. Thirty million, billion letters, numbers and other signifiers, carrying all manner of information. Three thousand hours of new film clips on YouTube, over five thousand new blog-posts or tweets. Two hundred thousand new user profiles on all sorts of social forums. All in just one measly little hour. It’s a dizzying thought, isn’t it?’
HP nodded. Dizzying was one word for it …
He was feeling giddy, almost a bit high.
‘Most people, including politicians and leaders, have no idea about how astonishingly comprehensive the torrent of information out there actually is,’ Philip went on. ‘But if anyone dares even breathe the word surveillance there are instant, massive protests. Of course people always think of the National Defence Radio Centre, the National Security Agency and other state organizations …’
He shook his head.
‘But of course that’s actually completely wrong, in democratic countries, at least. The state is usually only bothered about what a tiny little group have to say on a certain, extremely narrow subject area. But big business, on the other hand …’
He waved his hand towards the world outside the car.
‘… is interested in what almost everyone has to say, especially if it’s got anything to do with patterns of consumption or perception of their cherished trademarks. That type of information is everywhere out there, the whole net is basically overflowing with it, and why? Because most people hand out that sort of information entirely voluntarily by clicking a little box at the bottom of a page, or, even better, by taking the initiative and posting their opinions and preferences on one of the plethora of forums available to them. In other words, modern, freedom-loving, integrity-cherishing human beings map out themselves down to the most private little detail. Not even George Orwell could have predicted a scenario like this …’
A short bleep from Philip’s belt-holster signalled that he’d got a message, but he had warmed to his theme so much that he didn’t even seem to notice.
‘The internet is positively groaning with information that people are forcing on each other. Favourite television programmes, films and books, religious and political opinions, the kids’ Christmas presents or what they made for dinner. And why? Well, all because the vast majority of us are longing for just one thing.’
‘Affirmation,’ HP muttered.
‘Exactly! We’re getting more and more dependent on having other people tell us how smart or attractive or clever we are. What a wonderful life we’ve built up, with our lovely partners and wonderful children, and how happy our lives are in comparison to other people’s. People who have the wrong sense of humour, eat the wrong food, wear the wrong clothes, live in the wrong sort of house, raise their children wrong or simply have the wrong opinions in general …’
He leaned over to HP’s side of the seat.
‘Basically anything that’s worth knowing is already out there, and all you need is a way of filtering the torrent for the type of information that could be of use to potential clients.’
HP was nodding with more and more interest.
‘The advantage that the authorities and those in power have had for almost four hundred years when it comes to information has been demolished. Information no longer flows from the top down, but in every other direction as well.
‘Thousands upon thousands of people can communicate directly with each other within a matter of seconds, without having to ask anyone for permission. None of the old truths apply any more, everything can be questioned, changed or rejected. The rules of the game have changed forever, and anyone who doesn’t realize this is doomed to fall. Just look at north Africa.’
Philip paused briefly and glanced out of the window before going on.
‘What we offer our clients is a way of handling and preventing crises by constantly monitoring everything that is said about them, and by whom. Giving them a way to stop any snowball before it turns into an avalanche, if you see what I mean?’
He gestured towards the snow outside, which seemed to be falling harder now.
Oh yes, HP understood all right, but Philip’s pause was so brief that he didn’t have time to say anything. Instead he went on listening with growing fascination.
‘But,’ Philip went on, ‘once our clients have got detailed information about the mechanisms at work on the net, the daily mechanisms that have a direct effect on the bottom line of their accounts, it doesn’t usually take long before they ask for the next step …’
‘Control,’ HP suggested.
‘Exactly, my friend!’ Philip Argos grinned another of his reptilian smiles. ‘And that’s where our unique services come into the picture. Because when you strip away all the fine words, the policy documents and elegant phrases, that’s exactly what it all comes down to in the end …’
Control!
That was what she was lacking. Lacking – and longing for!
She had let the situation control her instead of the other way round. Clearly she should have behaved differently at her interview, that much was almost painfully obvious now … She hadn’t done anything wrong, and had actually probably saved a whole lot of people’s lives.
And how had the world thanked her?
By suspending her and accusing her of various offences – colleagues looking askance at her, and, last but by no means least, a boss who hadn’t exactly put much effort into supporting her. On the contrary, he had actually contributed to making her position even worse. It was high time to take matters into her own hands, and try to work out how all the pieces fitted into the puzzle.
She had put off doing so for too long.
She thought of Henke suddenly. Should she start with Henke if she was going to get a grip on her present difficulty? But she hadn’t heard from him in over a year. Not since he sent her that package. Six bolts. Six rusty bolts that turned her whole life upside down. And set her free. She had thought she killed Dag, but those bolts meant she hadn’t after all.
She thought of Henke a lot.
None of the phone numbers he used to have seemed to work anymore.
The same thing applied to his email and messenger …
She stamped the snow from her boots and closed the door of the flat behind her. Right now Micke was the only good thing in her life, and seeing as Henke wasn’t around she would have to start there if she was going to stand any chance of getting back on her feet. Even if she hadn’t exactly been treating him well, he had at least always been there for her.
Maybe he would understand, she certainly hoped so. Either way, she owed him the truth. The whole truth, not just the crumbs she had been feeding him so far.
But the flat was empty and silent. No shoes and no jacket in the hall telling her that he was home.
On the kitchen table she found a note.
Think we need a break.
Call me when you’re ready.
Im
She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry …
Her mobile suddenly bleeped and she almost ran back into the hall to get it from her jacket pocket.
But the text wasn’t from Micke.
Just got home?
She began to type a snotty reply but stopped herself. Without turning on the lights in the living room, she crept over to the window, pressed close to the curtain, then peered down at the narrow street. Parked cars lined up, just like every other evening. A thin layer of snow on their bonnets let on that they had been
there for a while.
A tiny point of light among the shadows in the park on the other side of the street brought her up short.
The glow from a cigarette.
There was someone standing there.
Someone who was watching her flat.
19
Buzzy bees
Pillars of Society forum
Posted: 6 December, 08:48
By: MayBey
I’ve heard a rumour that everyone’s favourite bodyguard, Regina Righteous, is at her most accomplished between the sheets. Apparently there’s a little shag-pad on Söder.
Anyone know anything about that?
This post has 23 comments
‘There, Mr Sandström, I think we’re done.’
The little man with the tape-measure still had a couple of pins in the corner of his mouth, but this evidently didn’t stop him from sounding just the right sort of servile for HP.
Mr Sandström – very nice!
He had just been measured for a suit, as well as a number of matching shirts. This wasn’t the first time he’d done this, but this tailor spoke the rather posh, nasal Östermalm dialect of Swedish, not Thai English. Of course the bills wouldn’t look very similar either, but money was actually the least of his problems right now.
He had transferred more than enough funds from the Cayman Islands, and his first wages were on their way as well.
‘Ready in a week,’ the man concluded, handing him a receipt. ‘Mr Argos’s acquaintances take priority,’ he added when he saw the look of surprise on HP’s face.
‘But I’m afraid we can’t do any better than a week.’
HP left the little shop and waved down a taxi.
He leaned back in the seat and took a deep breath. He could definitely get used to this life.
She was woken by the doorbell.
Long, persistent rings, and it took her a while to pull on her jogging trousers and a top.
A delivery of some sort, she thought as she opened the door after checking the peephole.
‘Hi, are you Rebecca Normén?’
‘Yes, what’s this about?’
‘Delivery from Interflora.’
The man handed her what looked like a well-wrapped bouquet of flowers. She took it and nudged the paper aside to get at the card.
Red roses, at least a dozen, if not more.
She read the card. Then she handed the bouquet back.
‘You can take them away again,’ she said.
‘W-what?’
‘The flowers, I don’t want them, so you can take them back.’
‘B-but, er …’
The man seemed confused.
‘They’ve been paid for and everything, I don’t know how …’
‘Not my problem,’ she said. ‘You’re welcome to return them to the sender. Then he might finally get the message …’
‘Nice of Frank to loan out his big star for a couple of days. You’re supposed to be Philip’s new golden boy.’
Rilke winked at him and HP found himself blushing against his wishes.
God, he was still such a fucking approval junkie! Even though he was a superhero it was enough to get the slightest little pat on the shoulder from someone he respected or had the hots for, and there he was, wagging his tail like a fucking cocker spaniel …
‘S-so, what exactly do you do over in your corner?’ he muttered, turning his face away.
‘Ah, so Frank hasn’t said anything. You guys down in the mine keep yourselves to yourselves!’
She gave him another teasing smile and HP could feel himself grinning like an idiot in response.
‘The girls and I look after the blogs. Well, I say girls even though we do actually have one bloke in the team – apart from you now, I mean.’
She smiled again but this time he managed to keep up his poker-face.
‘It works pretty much the same way as the trolls, but every handler has a slightly smaller stable. We each look after four to seven different blog personalities. Music, film, technology, fashion, books, food, and politics of course. We cover the whole lot, basically. Some of us work on long-term projects, planting ideas, while others do more short-term work, pushing specific opinions or products. You’ll be sitting with Halil here, she’s my number two.’
Rilke stopped at a desk where a young woman in a tight black outfit and beige headscarf was busy typing in a text.
‘There, all done!’ she said, spinning her chair to face HP and Rilke and holding out her hand.
‘Halil’s the name – blogging’s my game …’
‘Manga,’ HP mumbled.
‘Good to meet you!’
Rilke pulled over a chair for him, then left them to it.
‘Okay,’ Halil began. ‘Hang onto your hat, Manga, because we don’t hang around here.’
She snapped her fingers.
‘I handle mostly fashion and music. Sandy over there looks after the technological blogs. Anders and Rilke deal with politics and the other three pretty much look after the rest. The design and technology team sitting over there make sure that all the sites work and that everything looks kosher. I’ve got seven bloggers in my stable – six girls and one bloke. Half of them have got fronts, the other three are anonymous, a bit like your trolls … Musiklover, Blingdarling, well, you get it …’
Yeah, he got it, even if not quite …
‘Fronts? I mean … what?’
‘Real people fronting the blogs.’
It took him a couple of seconds to catch on.
‘What, so you look after the blog for someone else? Like a sort of ghost-writer?’
‘Bingo! Basically I take care of all the serious writing. The fronts are usually busy talking crap about each other or discussing their shopping habits, which is fine. Their computers and smartphones have an app that links through to me, so I always have the last word before anything gets posted. Most of the time I let them get on with it, but if it’s something important I take over.’
She opened a mini-fridge standing on the corner of her desk, took out a couple of cans of Coke and offered one to HP, who shook his head.
Halil opened her can and took a couple of deep gulps.
‘But … I mean …’ HP said after a few seconds of confused thought. ‘… what do they get out of it, the fronts?’
‘More like what don’t they get out of it! Apart from a monthly salary from us: attention, free samples, previews, VIP events, you name it … A few of them are now so well known that they get to appear on television and go to gala premieres.’
‘What, like her … what’s her name?… the one who keeps arguing with that other one …?’
HP searched his memory for her name but failed to find it.
Halil drew a tick in the air – and then another one.
‘Yes to her, and to her opponent as well! They’re both ours, and the squabbling only gets them even more readers. Over a million hits per week per blog, and neither of the girls has any idea that they actually work for the same company …
‘You’ve got to admit, that’s pretty damn good!’
Forty-five minutes of interval training on the cross trainer and the sweat was running down her back. She could almost taste the lactic acid on her tongue, but she had no intention of stopping until she’d done an hour. She knew that if she was going to get any sleep at all that night, the only thing that really worked was getting completely exhausted.
It was only since Darfur that MayBey had started mentioning her. And now she was suddenly the number one topic of conversation.
There had been twenty-three comments the last time she checked. Twenty-three ‘colleagues’ all declaring themselves to know with either total or reasonable certainty that she had slept her way through the force. That she was in the habit of jumping into bed with anyone as long as it benefited her career. No doubt considerably more people who had read it mistook it for the truth – with a grin at home in front of their computers.
How could people, presuma
bly thinking and perfectly logical individuals, take the time to slander and write shit about her and her personal life?
Were they driven by hate, jealousy, envy or bitterness? That would at least have a hint of logic to it. But she suspected that the truth was actually much worse than that.
That what was driving most of the haters out there wasn’t any sort of grand, strong feeling, but just mundane, low-level stuff.
Something they did just because they could. As a way of passing the time.
So why was MayBey suddenly interested in her?
The people he or she heckled usually only popped up once or twice, mostly as passing incidental characters to make a good story even better. MayBey was the storyteller, and although readers were allowed to comment, they were never asked to contribute any information. But it was different with Regina Righteous.
MayBey had first brought up the whole issue of her suspension, then asked others to add what they knew. And now this post, constructed in the same way. The more she thought about it, the more convinced she was that MayBey knew that she was reading every single word that was being written. And that it was precisely this that had made him or her change behaviour and get more personal. Something else that was deeply bloody unsettling was the talk of a ‘shag-pad’ on Södermalm. Of course MayBey could have just been making it all up and happened to get it right. But if that wasn’t the case, that meant that someone had been talking. And if that was right, then there was only one candidate. Unless someone had been following her, of course …
A bleep from the cross trainer interrupted her thoughts. The interval session was over and she had a couple of minutes to wind down.
She lowered her chin to her chest, took a few deep breaths, and so didn’t notice when the man came into the room.
‘Listen, Manga, it’s all about setting trends! There are thousands of bloggers out there, and most of them spend the whole time sneaking anxious glances at each other, especially the big names. I usually think of the internet as a huge school playground. Almost everyone wants to hang out with the cool kids, be seen in the right company. So we don’t need to control all of them, just a suitable number of the hip ones with enough cred to be able to steer the buzz in a direction that suits our clients.’
The Game Trilogy Page 46