Game: A Thriller (19 page)

He shook his head unhappily.

“Fear is a strong instrument of power, brother, extremely strong, in fact. If you pluck the right strings, people stay docile, concentrate on idiotic rubbish, and don’t complain about the things that are really important, like freedom of expression and thought and other fundamental human rights. It works both ways.”

“So a lot of our lack of trust is a sort of mutual power trip? Each country’s Big Brother stands to gain if we stay scared of each other?”

“Exactly, brother, you’ve hit the nail on the head!” Mange hit the wheel with one hand.

HP shrugged. Hell, maybe the Mangster actually had a point?

“. . . And the name? I mean, I get the Al-Hassan, seeing as your dad’s name’s Hasse, but why Farook?”

“Well, as I’m sure you know, Magnus means ‘great,’ which doesn’t exactly apply to me . . .”

HP couldn’t help grinning.

Mange was small and wiry, with thick glasses, and his hairline was already halfway to the North Pole. In purely physical terms, he wasn’t what you’d call great.

“I’ve never really felt much like a Magnus, and Mange sounds so eighties. It just seemed to make sense when I converted. Farook is someone who can tell good and bad apart. Someone who helps others find the right path. Religion helped me to sort out a whole load of stuff, and I hope I might be able to do the same for other people.”

“So that’s why you haven’t given up even on such a hopeless case as me? You’re my spiritual guide?”

“Something like that, brother, something like that.” Mange smiled, then turned on the car radio.

All readings back to normal, HP thought happily and slumped down slightly in his seat. But he couldn’t help taking the occasional surreptitious glance in the side mirror.

♦  ♦  ♦

Rebecca was sitting outside the door to an anonymous conference room in the Parliament building with a cup of coffee from a vending machine in her hand. It was really far too early for her to be back at work, but she’d insisted and no one had protested, not even Anderberg. Besides, the Personal Protection Unit was on its knees in advance of the EU presidency,
and every man or woman who was able to work was welcome. All of the reserves had been called up, meaning that they had an extra twenty-five people who had previously served in the unit. But they were still having trouble covering all their duties.

Rebecca’s charge was behind the conference-room door, and, according to the schedule, would be there for at least another two hours. Wikström, with whom she was sharing the assignment, had just headed down to the canteen to have a quick lunch, and in half an hour’s time, when he got back, she would be doing the same.

Scenarios like this were what bodyguard work mainly consisted of. Waiting, more waiting, and then a move to a different location where the waiting would begin again. There was no way to pass the time apart from taking short walks along the corridor or talking to your colleagues. Books and MP3 players, the things other people used to pass the time, were obviously banned in her line of work. Ninety-five percent of the time was pure routine mixed with tedium. The difficulty was staying alert and ready for the remaining five percent that weren’t routine and that she had already experienced more than her fair share of . . .

She had four years left of her secondment to the Security Police, and she had already seen more action than most bodyguards did in their entire careers.

In spite of what had happened, she still liked the job, the whole deal of being a protector, in charge of a situation. Detailed planning, checking routes, and escape plans, thinking through every possible scenario with the others in the unit.
If X occurs, I’ll do Y and you do Z.

The setup was basically the same for each job, regardless
of who they were protecting. You just added more people and equipment if the threat level was higher. You also had to plan for basic requirements such as toilet breaks, coffee, and meals. The subjects’ timetables and schedules were always changing, and lunch and dinner could suddenly fall by the wayside. One older colleague had taught her always to have a few protein bars with her, and she had been grateful for that advice on more than one occasion when her blood-sugar levels had gone through the floor.

Bodyguards were important to democracy, more so in recent years since attacks on politicians had become more common. The subjects she had encountered so far had been pleasant, almost grateful for their service, and had been careful to follow all instructions. But on the other hand, she hadn’t yet had the “honor” of working in the royal protection unit . . .

That business in Kungsträdgården had been completely crazy . . .

After the first few days of hysteria the media had calmed down, and it had been a while since she last read an article confidently identifying the purpose of the attack.

Seeing as the attack had been aimed at the head of state, the Security Police were in charge of the investigation, but to judge by Vahtola’s and Runeberg’s comments they didn’t exactly have any red-hot leads. “Single perpetrator on a moped, heading toward Birger Jarlsgatan,” had been the first description that had been circulated, and she suspected that that single sentence pretty much summed up the extent of the investigation so far.

His Royal Highness had apparently been absolutely furious about what had happened, and hadn’t exactly minced his words to his bodyguards. Evidently they hadn’t been close
enough to protect him, which was actually rather ironic, seeing as His Majesty usually wanted the officers as far away from his royal personage as possible. Ideally they should be invisible, or at least out of sight, but he seemed to have to changed his tune now . . .

The door to the conference room opened and Rebecca stood up at once. But it was only one of the assistants coming out to fetch some more bottled water.

She glanced at the time and sat down on her chair to wait a bit longer. It was another three hours before the next shift came on duty.

♦  ♦  ♦

The cottage wasn’t such a bad idea! It had electricity and running water. And Mange had loaned him a laptop with television reception that could crack all the coded channels. Okay, he’d have to shit in a little outhouse in the corner of the allotment, but that was no biggie. As long as he had HBO he could squeeze one out on a flower bed if he had to.

He’d been damn careful when he came out here, packing just a few things in a rucksack. A pillow, sleeping bag, and a bit of food, as well as the bag of grass he’d bought with the five hundred that Mange guiltily gave him as compensation for his failing hospitality. The miserable witch had looked pleased when HP left, but he didn’t care. Now at least he was his own man.

He had taken the subway to Slussen, then changed to the green line and headed all the way out to Fridhemsplan. Once he got there he pulled an old spy trick, waiting until the doors were about to close, then jumping straight onto a train heading back into the city.

Just to be sure he repeated the stunt at the Central Station before carrying on to Zinkensdamm, where he stole a ramshackle woman’s bicycle and made his way up into Tantolunden.

Finding the right place had been easy, yellow wooden paneling with white windows and two big apple trees in the plot. He hadn’t been out here since he was a teenager and his gang used to hang around the mini-golf course to check out the girls and smoke the menthol cigarettes he’d nicked off his mom. Happy days . . .

Back then he had mainly thought that allotment cottages were pathetic, but now he was grown up he had to admit that having a miniature house wasn’t such a stupid idea, especially if you needed somewhere to hide away from the rest of the world. If the Game was going to find him here, they’d have to put in a bit of effort. He grinned, taking a deep drag of a fat joint.

Pretty nice living like this, close to nature. A bit of birdsong and a solitary lawn mower were the only sounds. If he concentrated he could just make out the sound of traffic in the distance from Hornstull and Ringvägen, but otherwise it just seemed to fade into the background somehow.

He lazed about for a while on the rib-backed sofa in what was supposed to be the kitchen, but which, apart from the sofa and table, consisted of one cupboard and a tiny little sink. The sun was shining in through the leaded window and he actually felt far more relaxed here than in Mange’s flat out in the suburbs.

Sweet!

A ping from the laptop woke him from his lethargy. Seeing as he’d left the cell in the shop and hadn’t had time to get
a new one, right now Messenger was his only contact with the outside world, and the only person who had his address was the Mangster, a.k.a. Farook.

Farook says:
Salaam alaikum, brother HP!

Badboy.128 says:
Hi Mange.

Farook says:
How are things out in the model village?

Badboy.128 says:
Pretty good, actually, say thanks to your aunt!

Farook says:
will do!

Farook says:
Have talked to some mates and one of them knows a guy who might be able to help us.

Badboy.128 says:
Sweet, should I call?

Farook says:
No, you can’t get hold of him, only way is to meet him. Supposed to be a bit odd. Clever as fuck but a bit odd, yeah?

Badboy.128 says:
Computer nerd?

Farook says:
Yes and no, a real wiz a couple of years ago, I’ve actually heard of him, but these days he lives somewhere in the back of beyond off the grid, supposed to be allergic to electricity, that’s why no one can call him.

Badboy.128 says:
Doesn’t sound too damn promising . . .

Farook says:
My mate says this guy was involved in that server I found in the cell, that he configured it and organized the whole setup.

Badboy.128 says:
Okay, I’m in!

Badboy.128 says:
So what do we do?

Farook says:
My mate’s going to contact the guy and sort something out, he’s a bit of a recluse as well but my man thinks it’ll work. I’ll MSN you instructions when it’s sorted.

Badboy.128 says:
ok fine.

Farook says:
one more thing . . .

Badboy.128 says:
Shoot, mr. Pathfinder!

Farook says:
please please don’t send me that file with the bouncing smileys, I have to reboot the machine just to get rid of them!!!!

Badboy.128 says:
you mean these?