“What?” HP turned around.
“About what happened out on the E4. The tear gas and all that,” Hasselqvist elaborated.
“Okay, that’s good . . .”
“I mean, it wasn’t really your fault . . . Just wanted you to know.”
“Okay.” HP wasn’t sure what he was expected to say.
“After all, it wasn’t personal, was it?”
“Nah, course not . . .” HP blew a column of smoke toward the greasy extractor fan.
A short silence ensued.
HP was squirming slightly. He had sprayed Hasselqvist full in the face with teargas, kicked him in the balls when he was already on the ground, and, to top it off, threatened to smash the guy’s skull in. But back then he was Player 58, HP’s strongest competition, and someone he suspected of any number of things. Now, in hindsight, things looked very different. If fact he should probably . . . well . . .
“Listen, Kent . . .” he began.
But the ping of the microwave interrupted him.
♦ ♦ ♦
The dialogue box popped up a few seconds after she switched the computer on. At first she thought it was some sort of automated program update and clicked the button in the top right-hand corner to minimize it.
But the window stayed open.
She tried again, but when that didn’t work she tried closing the program entirely.
But the window refused to obey. A two-tone bleep rang out, and then a message appeared:
Farook says: Hi Becca, Mange here. I got your message but can’t call you back. What’s happened?
For a few moments she wasn’t sure what to do. The dialogue box didn’t belong to any of the usual chat programs, she was sure of that, so he must have managed to install the program on her computer remotely. But how had he managed to get hold of her IP address?
A new message appeared:
Farook says: No need to worry, this program is encrypted and our conversation can’t be bugged . . .
Farook says: Tell me, what’s happened to HP?
She moved the cursor and clicked inside the little text box, which was now showing her name.
Becca says: How involved in the Game are you?
It took a minute or so for his reply to appear.
Farook says: Who have you been talking to?
Becca says: An old friend.
Farook says: I thought I was an old friend.
Becca says: So did I, Mange . . . :(
Another pause, slightly shorter:
Farook says: Okay, I deserved that. You’re right, Becca, I haven’t been honest with you, or HP. I was part of the Game long before he got involved. But everything I’ve done has been meant to help him. Help you. You have to believe me!
Farook says: You’ve been talking to Sammer, haven’t you?
Now it was her turn to hesitate. Mange was better informed than she had expected. She was rather taken aback. But, considering what Uncle Tage had said about him . . .
Becca says: That’s right.
Farook says: Okay, now I can understand why you’re worried. He must have told you a whole load of stuff. That I’m one of the people behind the Game, and that HP’s in great danger?
Becca says: Is he?
Farook says: I’m not going to lie to you, Becca. HP’s in trouble. But we can help him, you and me. If we work together.
Becca says: You lied to me before, pretending you didn’t know anything about the Game. Why should I trust you now?
Farook says: Because the alternative is trusting Sammer.
Becca says: And that would be bad because . . . ?
Farook says: Because he isn’t who he says he is, Becca.
Becca says: And you are?
Another pause, two minutes this time.
Farook says: Sorry, got to go, I’ll be in touch again soon. You’ve got to be careful, Becca. Really careful!!
♦ ♦ ♦
They arrived just a couple of minutes apart, which made him suspect that they’d actually come together. That Nora had hung around on the stairs so HP wouldn’t work out that they were an item.
He felt like putting a stop to their little performance and couldn’t help wondering what Jeff would think about his girlfriend kissing him in Medborgarplatsen subway station.
“Okay, now that we’re all here we might as well get going,” Nora said as she hung up her coat. “Let’s sit in the kitchen.”
“What about Mange?” HP muttered.
“He’s not coming, too dangerous,” she said, without meeting his gaze. “But he can still join in . . .”
She pulled a black smartphone from her pocket, fiddled with it for a few seconds, then put it on the windowsill with its screen facing toward them.
“Two more minutes. Can you get the plans out in the meantime, Jeff?”
The mountain of muscle pulled out a bundle of papers from the bicycle bag he had brought in with him and put them on the table. HP couldn’t help seeing the stamp on the front.
Classified information!
“He’s online now,” Hasselqvist said.
Everyone looked at the small screen of the smartphone, where Mange’s face suddenly appeared.
“Okay, I’m here. I can see you all fine, can you hear me okay?” he said, almost in a whisper.
“We can hear you,” Nora said.
“Good! HP, it’s a relief to see you looking a bit better.”
HP didn’t answer, and he was gratified to see that this seemed to unsettle Mange.
“Well then, as we discussed before, the Fortress is our target,” Mange went on after a slight pause.
“A company like PayTag can’t afford to lose the trust of its clients, and even a rumor that they’ve been infiltrated will be enough to pull the ground from beneath them forever.
“What we need to do is introduce the trojan I call Big Boy into their system. It’s designed to both erase and mess up the information on their servers—to cause as much chaos as possible in the shortest possible time, if you follow?”
The three conspirators in the room nodded, but HP didn’t move a muscle.
“It’s impossible to implant Big Boy from the outside,” Mange went on. “Which means that we need a way in. Jeff, you’ve been looking at the various possibilities . . . ?”
Muscles straightened up.
“Yes, Kent and I have been through all the options. Every gate, door, and camera, and we’ve come to the conclusion that the place is extremely well guarded . . .”
No shit, Sherlock. Evidently it took two sharply honed minds to come to that obvious conclusion . . . or else you could just take a look at the plans. The description High security site—application pending in one corner ought to give a bit of a clue. These two morons were the perfect poster boys for a campaign against cousins getting married . . .
“HP, you look like you want to say something?” Mange interrupted.
“No, it’s nothing,” he muttered.
Muscles gave HP an irritated glance before going on.
“We’ve concluded that the only way in is through the underground tunnel. It used to carry the cables linking the base to the artillery installations along the coast, but now they’ve extended it out into the Baltic Sea . . .”
“The Fortress uses the tunnel to bring in cold water . . .” Hasselqvist went on eagerly, digging out some documents from the bottom of the heap.
“Here are the pictures . . .”
All that could be seen were some steep black cliffs and a whole lot of churning seawater.
“The opening is under there, about five meters below the surface. It’s probably covered by a grille, but Jeff can get that open . . .”
“I did my military service as a diver, ordnance clearance,” Muscles said in a self-satisfied tone of voice that lowered HP’s already lousy mood to new depths.
“I can cut through the grille, then we can swim through the tunnel into a small cold-water reservoir here.”
He pointed at the map.
“From there we probably need to climb four or five meters up the side, and then we blow open a door so we can—”
“Hang on a minute!”
He had promised himself that he was going to keep his mouth shut, but it was impossible to hold out any longer.
“I’m mean, I’m sorry to interrupt Batman and Robin here, but underwater welding, diving, a bit of climbing, and then blowing a door open—seriously?”
He leaned back in his chair, folded his arms, and shook his head very pointedly.
“Someone here has been watching far too many of a certain sort of film . . .”
He grinned at Jeff and was rewarded with an angry glare.
“HP . . .” Mange began.
“No, no, hang on. I’d love to hear how Jason Bourne the Ordnance-Clearing Diver here is going to explain how we’re all going to get past those cliffs and then swim how far? Two, two and a half kilometers through that fucking tunnel?”
“Two point three,” Hasselqvist sighed, earning him another glare from Jeff.
“Thanks, Kent. So, two thousand, three hundred meters of underwater swimming, in total darkness, I’m guessing. Apart from Jason here, is there anyone else who’s got so much as an open-water certificate from a diving holiday in Thailand?”
No response.
“No? Thought as much. So, if—against all expectation—we don’t end up as drowned cats inside the tunnel, we round off our little swim with a bit of free climbing followed by blasting open a door?”
He grinned and shook his head.
“You’re all fucking mad, that’s insane . . .”
Jeff opened his mouth as he began to rise from his chair.
But Nora preempted him.
“So what would you do, then, HP? I presume you have a brilliant suggestion . . .”
“Sure, just give me a minute to think. Anything would have to be better than that.”
“Good, well, you carry on thinking, HP. It wouldn’t hurt to have a backup plan. And I have to say I agree with you, at least in part. Underwater swimming doesn’t really make sense. Are we sure the tunnel’s full of water?”
She turned to Jeff.
“Well, er, it’s an underwater tunnel. It says so on the plans . . .”
“Yes, I can see that, but if you look at the elevation here”—she pointed at one side of the plans—“then at least the roof of the tunnel is above water level the whole way. Or am I reading it wrong?”
She glanced at Hasselqvist, who leaned over the plans.
“No, you’re right, Nora. The inflow is below sea level, but at least half the tunnel is above. Which ought to mean that we can swim instead of diving.”
“Inflatable dinghy,” Jeff muttered. “We take an inflatable dinghy with us, dive in through the end of the pipe, then blow it up inside the tunnel. Then we wouldn’t have to swim . . .”
“Good,” Nora said. “That sounds much more manageable. Have you got anything to add, HP?”
HP slowly shook his head.
“Okay, let’s say that, then. We’ll pick you up here the day after tomorrow . . .”
“Okay, okay.”
HP practically had to shove Hasselqvist out of the flat. The other two had already left, a couple of minutes apart. Jeff had hardly said a word after HP complained about his lunatic plan. But it had actually been for everyone’s benefit. Except for him, the gang was made up of cheery little amateurs. If they were going to stand the slightest chance of success, the plan would have to be as simple as possible.
HP couldn’t help admiring Nora, and not only because she’d had the good taste to agree with him. It had only taken her a quick look at the plans to discover something that the other two idiots hadn’t noticed. It was a bit odd that she and Jeff hadn’t discussed the matter before the meeting, but perhaps they hadn’t had time.
The way she’d managed to turn his protests into a task was also damn smart. That way she didn’t trample on Jeff’s toes too much, at least not right now. But things would be very different once she saw the alternative plan that he was already starting to piece together. All it would take was a couple of little excursions and a visit to the Fenster’s basement. He had two days. That ought to be enough.
He locked the door carefully and put the safety chain on.
A sudden noise from inside the flat made him jump. Two little notes, like a text message arriving. He went out into the kitchen. Nora’s smartphone was still sitting on the windowsill. The little icon for a received message was flashing on the screen.
He picked up the phone, holding it in his hand for a few moments while he considered what to do. Nora had obviously forgotten it, which probably meant she’d be back shortly. For some reason the idea appealed to him. But on the other hand there was always the risk that she’d show up with her boyfriend, Jeff. If they really were an item . . .
There was one easy way to find out. He touched the screen with his finger and opened the inbox. The message was short, just four words.
You must be careful!! / A.F.
Okay, that wasn’t exactly what he had been expecting.
No little Where are you? or See you at Medborgarplatsen.
A.F.—who the hell was that? He didn’t know Jeff’s surname, but his first name didn’t fit either of the initials. But maybe they used different names for lovey-dovey stuff . . .
The phone buzzed again and for a brief moment he almost dropped it.
Are you there?
He thought for a few seconds, then pressed the Reply icon. An empty text box opened up. He paused again.
I’m here, he typed, then pressed Send.
The reply came almost immediately.
I’m starting to think one of them is playing a double game . . .
He noticed he was holding his breath and forced himself to put the phone down. This wasn’t good. Why the hell had he replied . . . ? But the message fascinated him.
The sender had to mean their little group, nothing else made sense. So which of them had he meant? Hasselqvist, Mange, or he himself . . . ?
Another message appeared in Nora’s inbox.
Promise me you’ll be careful. There’s a lot riding on all of you, as I’m sure you appreciate!
Shit, what was he supposed to do now? If he didn’t answer, A.F.—whoever that was—would get suspicious.
He hesitated a few more seconds before replying:
I promise!
The answer came by return.
Good!
He breathed out. In the distance he heard the outside door of the building slam. Probably Nora on her way back up. Menu button, Erase Conversation. Perfect!
He’d made it out into the hall when the phone buzzed again. At that moment the doorbell rang.
Best not to look, just open the door and hand the phone over to Nora as if nothing had happened.
Pretend everything’s fine, play it cool.
But, on the other hand, reading the message could hardly hurt . . .
As soon as he saw the text he regretted it.
Good luck, HP!
His heart suddenly began to beat so fast he could feel it against his ribs.
What the fuck . . .
Who are you? he wrote, without thinking.
The doorbell rang again, followed by a careful knock.
“It’s me, open up,” he heard Nora say.
Who are you!!??? he wrote again, pressing so hard that his thumb went white.
But he didn’t get an answer.
21
TIME BUBBLES
“HELLO, REBECCA HERE . . .”
“Good morning, Rebecca, this is Uncle Tage.”
“Oh, hello . . .” She tried to hide her disappointment.
“I was expecting to hear from you yesterday, but you never got in touch. Did everything go as planned at the bank?”
“I daresay you can tell me, Uncle Tage . . .”
There was a short silence on the line.
“I don’t understand, Rebecca . . .” T
he surprise in his voice sounded completely genuine, and suddenly she felt unsure. Anyway, hadn’t he said that they should avoid direct contact? In which case, what was he doing, taking the risk of phoning her?
Unless . . .
“So you haven’t got it, then . . . ? The revolver, I mean?”
“I’m sorry?!” His surprise still seemed quite real.
Damn it to hell!
She took a deep breath before going on.
“I went to the bank yesterday morning, just as we agreed, but someone had got there before me. The box was empty, all that was in it was a glass ball with a bubble inside it . . . I thought it might have been you . . . ?”
Another short silence.
“My dear Rebecca, I think you might be overestimating my powers,” he said in a somber tone of voice. “Besides, I would never do anything of that sort to you.”
She shook her head.
“No, I see that now. Sorry, Uncle Tage.”
“So the gun is missing, and we have no idea who has it . . . ?”
“Yes, but an idea occurred to me just after I left,” she said. “The box could only have been emptied within the past few days. Stigsson’s team was there recently and seized all the recordings from the cameras. Do you think that you might be able to . . . ?”
He seemed to consider this for a moment.
“I’ll see what I can do, Rebecca . . .”
♦ ♦ ♦
His shopping list was almost complete.
Just as he had hoped, the Fenster was still running his little business, and all he had to do was disguise himself as best he could and walk a couple of blocks, and he was back among old friends.
He laid everything out on the floor in front of him.
White overalls—check.
Hard plastic backpacks—check.
Protective masks—check.
Taser—oh yes!!
Sweet!
He ran his fingers over the weapon, which looked like a big remote control with two metal prongs at the end. Pressing the button gently was enough to send a little blue flame dancing between the prongs.
Bzzzt!
Fifty thousand fucking volts, right up the Moomin Valley!
And it fucking hurt, he knew that from experience from the time Philip Argos’s little helpers had fried him. But this time he was the one in charge . . .
Bzzzt! Bzzzt! Bzzzt!
Bubble: A Thriller Page 25
