He pulled out a little bottle of pills and shook it between his thumb and forefinger. Then he put it in her pocket.
“Time to say good-bye, I’m afraid . . .”
He raised the weapon and performed the bolt action.
Then he put the gun to her temple and fired.
34
THE RED KING
THE GUN CLICKED.
He pulled it back, performed the bolt action again, and fired once more.
Another click.
Sammer stared at the pistol, unable to understand what was happening.
Rebecca raised her head and met his gaze. Then she put her hand over the barrel, stood up, and twisted the gun from his grasp.
He took a stumbling step backward, then another. For the first time since she met him, his carefully controlled persona seemed to waver and for a moment he almost looked scared. It passed in a matter of seconds, then he collected himself.
She held the gun in both hands, performed the bolt action once, then a second time.
Two little green blank cartridges flew out, bouncing off the grilled floor and finding their way through the gaps to the roof twenty meters below.
She lowered the gun to waist height but kept it pointed at him.
“Live . . .” she said bluntly, waving the gun. “In case you were wondering. By the way, I’ve given up the pills, and instant coffee . . .” she added. “Someone told me they weren’t good for me . . .”
His mouth narrowed. “I see . . .”
He looked at her for a few moments.
“What was it that . . . ?”
“Oh, a tiny detail. Something so insignificant that it took me several days to put my finger on it . . .”
He didn’t respond, just went on studying her.
“The safe-deposit box, your story, the passports, everything fit together perfectly. Every piece of the puzzle fell perfectly into place, and what Thore Sjögren told me in the Royal Library tied the last loose ends together beautifully. Like I said, it was all perfect . . .”
“But?”
“Perfect, if it hadn’t been for the name . . .”
“I’m not sure I quite understand . . . ?” He tilted his head.
“Thore was busy with a little digression and happened to call me by the wrong name, then very quickly and politely corrected himself. A silly little mistake, that’s all. There was just one problem . . . I never told Thore what my name was, so he must have known already. He must have known what I looked like, that I was going to show up at the library and was interested in the nuclear weapons program. The only person who knew that was you.”
“And that was enough to make you suspicious . . . ?”
“That, and the fact that I was becoming more and more convinced that someone was tracking my phone. Keeping an eye on where I was and who I contacted. In the end I got some help from an old friend . . .”
“Oh . . .”
He stood there in silence for several seconds and seemed to be thinking.
“Sandström?”
“His name is Al-Hassan these days.”
“Of course . . .”
“Aren’t you going to ask if he’s alive, Uncle Tage? No, of course not, the explosion in the barn was part of your plan, after all. A way of removing him from the break-in at the Fortress. Mange switched the hard drive for the bomb, exactly as planned, but to be on the safe side he made sure that the charge in the backpack could never be detonated.”
She glanced up at the NK clock.
“Three minutes ago he sent all the information on the hard drive to all the news media . . .”
Sammer nodded slowly.
“In my position you must always be prepared to be betrayed. There’s always someone younger, someone hungrier waiting for their chance. Up to now I have successfully managed to survive coups of that sort. But Sandström wasn’t on my list. He struck me as being rather too timid for that sort of power politics. Too soft . . .”
She shrugged. “Fear can be a powerful motivator . . .”
“Naturally, but a plan like that requires someone considerably stronger, someone who has what Sandström lacks . . .”
He gave her a long look.
“Evidently he found that person. You knew what was going on, Rebecca, yet you still played along. You let me pull the strings to get you back into the bodyguard unit. And put yourself at the front of the cortege so that . . .”
He shook his head.
“You shot your own brother in order to get at me . . .” His tone was almost admiring. “I clearly underestimated how determined you are, Rebecca. Your father would have—”
“Don’t talk about my father!” she snapped, raising the pistol toward his face. “You manipulated me, using my memories of Dad to make me trust you. Like you, even . . .”
She squeezed the trigger gently.
“But there is no Uncle Tage, no André Pellas, no John Earnest or secret missions for the military . . .” Her pulse was pounding against her temples. “No conspiracy, no Olof Palme Weapon, no fake passports in a forgotten safe-deposit box. All there is, is you. An old man and a mass of lies. Uncle Tage . . . Even your name is a joke, almost as if you were laughing at me. Tage Sammer—Game Master.”
She spat out the last two words.
“Everything that happened was part of your plan. Henke, me, everyone else—we were just pawns. At least two different taskmasters in desperate need of help. Black with the Data Retention Directive, the Palace with the popularity of the royal family. Who knows, maybe there were even more behind them, people wanting tougher legislation, more resources, more opportunities for surveillance . . .”
She slowly lowered the gun. Suddenly the sound of sirens could be heard in the distance.
“The Grand Hotel was merely a demonstration, a sales pitch, to show what you could do, how much power you had. You let Henke steal that information from the Fortress so that you could seize it yourself. Then you’d have a serious stranglehold over PayTag, Black, and their secret owners, not to mention every single MP . . . ‘Information is the new currency.’ ”
She took a deep breath before she went on.
“But to soften the blow you did actually deliver what was at the top of everyone’s wish list, something that would make them forgive your little transgression. A homegrown wanted terrorist prepared to launch an attack on the very symbol of Swedishness, and who, appropriately enough, gets shot and killed by his own sister before he can tell his own incredible story. After something like that, everyone will flock to the royal family, and parliament will rush through pretty much any legislation. No one will protest, and no one will ever doubt your power. The perfect game . . .”
She paused for breath again.
“Tell me—am I wrong?”
He stood still for a few seconds, then shrugged.
“My dear Rebecca, you disappoint me. You might very well think that, I couldn’t possibly comment.”
He let out an exaggerated sigh.
“The crook is supposed to confess at the end so that the audience can have all the answers. So that the film ends happily and everyone can go home happy and satisfied. I daresay you’re even wearing something so banal as a hidden tape recorder?”
He shook his head.
“My only response is that you and everyone else are free to believe whatever you choose to . . . Obviously, I couldn’t possibly comment . . .”
The sirens were getting closer, at least four or five vehicles, possibly more.
“So what are you going to do now, Rebecca? Take me back to the station in handcuffs? Show the world how clever you’ve been?”
“Well, I’ve certainly got enough on the tape to arrest you for attempted murder.”
She patted her inside pocket.
“Your position at the Palace, your close collaboration with Eskil Stigsson and af Cederskjöld the spin doctor, all of that will be examined in minute detail. By the end of the week at the very latest all the air will have gone out of your
good friend Black and his company. I daresay the same will apply to the Data Retention Directive, if it even lasts that long . . .”
“I see . . .” His voice was dry, but the note of bitterness was still obvious.
“And if that isn’t enough, there are all the witnesses. Mange, me, the three who were up at the Fortress.”
She paused for a moment.
“And then of course there’s the most compelling testimony of all, from a person who can explain the details of all the tasks you gave him . . .”
It took him a moment to understand what she meant. Then he slowly shook his head.
“Your brother—of course, how could I have imagined any-thing else.” He smiled. “I presume you had Runeberg’s help arranging that charade in Kungsgatan? The esteemed superintendent would do almost anything you ask, wouldn’t he?”
He took a deep breath, then held out his hands.
“Congratulations, Rebecca, well played. I admit defeat . . .”
He turned and leaned heavily against the railing.
For a few seconds he stood quite still, then he turned to her and looked up at the rotating sign above them.
“I’m proud of my work, Rebecca. I’ve achieved things that other people can only dream of . . .”
The red clock turned into a sign again, casting a green light over his face.
“But I never broke the rules of the Game. Are you aware of them?”
She shook her head.
There were sirens everywhere now, echoing between the buildings and rooftops around them. Blue lights were reflecting off the windows of the buildings.
“First and foremost: never discuss the Game with anyone. The second is that the Game Master is in control, he decides how and when the Game ends. That’s really all you need to remember . . .”
He took a final look at the rotating sign, then placed one foot on a cross brace and climbed up onto the railing.
She made no attempt to stop him.
For a moment he stood on top of the railing, balancing there with his arms outstretched.
As the clock completed its circuit and turned the light from green to red, he fell slowly forward into the darkness.
Seconds later his body crashed through the glass roof, then carried on through the atrium of the department store before landing with a thud on the marble floor some fifty meters below her.
35
JUST ONE MORE THING . . .
REBECCA SLOWLY HOLSTERED her pistol, then picked up the flask and mugs before heading off down the spiral staircase.
When she reached the roof at the foot of the mast she took out her phone. A shiny, silvery thing with a glass touch screen.
He answered on the first ring.
“Is it over?”
“Yes . . .”
“And?”
“Much as we thought.”
“Are you okay, Becca? I mean, considering . . . ?”
“I’m okay, Mange. Surprisingly okay, actually . . . better than I have been for ages.”
“Good to hear it.”
“How is he?”
“Mad as hell, and badly bruised across the chest, but he’ll survive. People like HP always survive. He’s with Nora. I still don’t understand how you dared to shoot. I mean, the buckle and the Kevlar casing were no bigger than the palm of your hand . . .”
A short distance away she could hear voices, radios crackling, keys jangling. She jumped nimbly onto the next roof, opened a small door, and disappeared into a dark stairwell.
“So what do we do now?”
“You can do what you like, Becca. Go back to your old life, meet someone new, have kids, and live to be a hundred . . .”
A moment later he added:
“Unless you’d rather do something else entirely . . . something that would really make a difference. You decide . . . red or black?”
“Nothing’s ever going to be the same, is it?” she said.
“Is that really so wrong, Becca?”
“Maybe not . . .”
She took a deep breath.
“Look, Mange . . . I should probably call you Farook . . . What is your name these days?”
She could hear him laughing, far away.
“What do you think of . . . Game Master?”
Photo by Jorgen Ringstrand
ANDERS DE LA MOTTE is a former police officer and was until recently director of security at one of the world’s largest IT companies. He now works as an international security consultant in addition to being Sweden’s most exciting and innovative new thriller writer.
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2012 by Anders de la Motte
English language translation copyright © 2014 by Neil Smith
Originally published in 2012 in Sweden by Alfabeta Bokförlag AB. Published by agreement with Salomonsson Agency.
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Atria Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.
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Designed by Dana Sloan
Cover design and art by Patrick Kang
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.
ISBN 978-1-4767-1294-9
ISBN 978-1-4767-1296-3 (ebook)
CONTENTS
Acknowledgments
Quotes
Epigraph
Definition
Email
Preface
Chapter 1: A Whole New Game?
Chapter 2: Opening
Chapter 3: Timeout
Chapter 4: Knowledge is Power
Chapter 5: Ghosts from the Past
Chapter 6: Head Games
Chapter 7: Just Because You’re Paranoid . . .
Chapter 8: . . . It Doesn’t Mean they Aren’t After You
Chapter 9: Guns, Guards, and Gates . . .
Chapter 10: Snake Eyes
Chapter 11: Electric Sheep
Chapter 12: Deathmatch
Chapter 13: Team Fortress
Chapter 14: Abandonware
Chapter 15: Double Play
Chapter 16: Quit While You’re Ahead
Chapter 17: Game Change
Chapter 18: Impossible Things Before Breakfast
Chapter 19: Being Earnest
Chapter 20: A Friend
Chapter 21: Time Bubbles
Chapter 22: And Those We’ve Left Behind
Chapter 23: Spheres of Reality
Chapter 24: Corporate Inva
sion of Private Memory
Chapter 25: Quests
Chapter 26: Game Change
Chapter 27: Prineville
Chapter 28: Ninjas
Chapter 29: Information is Power
Chapter 30: Underneath the Spreading Chestnut Tree . . .
Chapter 31: Point of No Return
Chapter 32: Insignificant Bearer
Chapter 33: Mastermind
Chapter 34: The Red King
Chapter 35: Just One More Thing . . .
About Anders De La Motte
Bubble: A Thriller Page 38
