Bubble: A Thriller (16 page)

Once.

Twice.

Splinters and dust flew up from the floor, and an angry ricochet buzzed off somewhere to his right. Then a dry, dull sound of wood breaking, and suddenly the whole worktable
collapsed. A cloud of dust and gunpowder smoke hit him in the face and he took a couple of steps back as he tried to swallow to clear the whistling sound from his ears.

His heart was speeding on adrenaline, his diaphragm pumping his lungs so hard that his ribs creaked.

Damn it to hell . . .

Warily he peered at where the snake had been. The collapsed table was covering most of the floor, but there were signs of blood and sticky black snake entrails among the wreckage. Part of the tail had broken off and lay on its own in the middle of the floor. It was still twitching spasmodically, but the sound was no longer threatening. It sounded more like broken maracas.

YES!

Eat shit and die, snake bastard!!

EAT SHIT AND FUCKING DIE!!!

It looked like he’d scored a direct hit with the revolver, and then the collapsing table had taken care of the rest. But had Sir Hiss managed to bite him?

The next moment the pain broke through the adrenaline rush in his brain and he looked down in horror.

Two tiny red marks were clearly visible on his right sock, right in the hollow between his foot and shinbone.

♦  ♦  ♦

The Cyprus book had been waiting in an anonymous parcel on the doormat when she got home. She had already glanced through it but wasn’t really much the wiser. The arms smuggling story was dealt with summarily, as a minor and regrettable incident in an otherwise successful mission. The details were relatively thin. Just as Uncle Tage had said, it looked like a couple of Swedish officers hadn’t been prepared to sit
by and passively watch while superior forces from one side crushed the surrounded and badly equipped group on the other.

The whole thing looked like an impulsive act rather than a political statement, and in all likelihood the few weapons they tried to smuggle wouldn’t actually have made any difference at all, apart from salving the Swedes’ consciences. But the consequences of the impulsive act had been dramatic. The two officers were both dismissed immediately and were sent home on the first plane while the rest of the battalion was hastily redeployed to southern Cyprus, away from the danger zone. She couldn’t find any information about the names of the officers, but then she hadn’t really expected to.

But she had found out one thing, something rather worrying.

A small photograph of a young officer with a rather hawkish appearance and a jacket decorated with little square badges of honor.
Lieutenant Colonel André Pellas,
according to the caption. But she was certain the picture was of Uncle Tage.

♦  ♦  ♦

He’d never make it to the hospital in time.

Södermalm Hospital wasn’t far away, but the distance wasn’t his biggest problem. He had no phone, no way of sounding the alarm.

The bangs had been loud, but the door to the snake room was thick, and he himself was the closest neighbor . . . it was quite possible that no one had heard him.

All his instincts were screaming at him to go home. Run back to his flat and shut the door behind him. But if he did that, he’d never come out alive again.

He was already feeling seriously unwell, his foot had
started to ache, and he’d found it difficult to make his way out into the living room.

He had to think of something, right away. Even if he staggered out into the stairwell and screamed for help, banging on doors like a maniac, he doubted whether any of his constipated little neighbors would have the nerve to open their doors.

At best they’d call the cops, but by the time the boys in blue finally deigned to appear he’d be having a hot date with Rigor Mortis . . .

And even if, against all expectation, he managed to get to the hospital alive, it was far from certain that they’d have the right serum there. Poisonous Swedish snakes were one thing, but rattlesnake bites probably weren’t the sort of thing that cropped up particularly often in the Stockholm area.

Basically, whatever he did he was fucked.

He could feel himself on the verge of tears.

Fuck, fuck, fuckety fuck!

He had to slow his pulse down—right now his heart was nothing but a pump spreading poison around his body. If he couldn’t find a way to stop panicking, he’d soon be lying like some dribbling vegetable on this shitty floor.

He crouched down, checked over his shoulder to make sure that the door to the snake room was closed, and then took a couple of deep breaths.

His foot was shooting with pain, and the feeling of nausea was getting worse, but at least his heart seemed to be calming down. How much time did he have before he lost consciousness? Five minutes, seven maybe, but hardly much more than that . . .

He raised his head and looked across the dusty floor.

As he’d noticed earlier, the footsteps from the front door led
straight across the floor to the snake room, with pretty much just two exceptions. The toilet and the fridge. If the Carer had snakes on the loose in his workroom, but was still the sort of person who made advanced bombs demanding total concentration, wasn’t it likely that he had some sort of backup?

A few syringes of serum, just in case . . . And where would you keep serum, Einstein?

He got up and swayed for a moment. His right leg was definitely stiffer now. At least the fridge was switched on, he could hear it as he got closer.

It wasn’t until he put his hand on the handle that he noticed the latch and padlock.

Damn it!

He didn’t even try to pull the door open. Instead he staggered back to get the crowbar he had left against the hall wall.

The poison must already be affecting his muscles, because the crowbar felt unexpectedly heavy and he had to make a serious effort to pick it up from the floor.

His right leg was scarcely obeying his orders anymore, and he was finding it difficult to breathe.

He paused for a few seconds, gathering his strength. Then he tried to insert the crowbar between the latch and the fridge door. He failed and almost dropped it. His throat was now starting to feel swollen, his eyelids were burning, and it was getting harder and harder to focus.

One deep, rasping breath.

Then another . . .

This time the crowbar went in, the lock flew off, but the effort still made him lose his balance and collapse on the floor. For a brief moment he contemplated staying there and having a rest—just a little rest.

But then the fridge door slowly swung open and the bright
light from the internal bulb snapped him out of his trance. He struggled to his knees, leaning against the door as he tried to get up.

The fridge was empty.

Almost, anyway. In the middle of the top shelf was a neat container holding five preprepared syringes.

He struggled to his feet, pulled down one of the glass shelves, then another. He reached for the box of syringes, closing his fingers around its cool surface.

Then everything went dark . . .

THE BLACK PLANE
landed two minutes before it was due, but Rebecca was so immersed in her thoughts that she hardly noticed it.

“A Global Express, not bad!”

“W-what?”

“Black’s plane, November Six Bravo.”

Kjellgren pointed at the runway.

“Can fly nonstop from New York to Tokyo. Someone at work said the plane’s his own, not the company’s. A Global Express can carry twenty passengers, but apparently Black prefers to travel alone . . .”

“Mmm,” she murmured, squinting to see better.

Kjellgren carried on about various types of planes, but she was only half listening. It was odd to see a plane that was painted completely black. Most planes were white or gray, so she guessed the color was a statement in itself. The plane turned off onto one of the taxiways and slowly approached its gate.

She opened the car door and got out. For some reason she was feeling slightly nervous.

She liked Black right from the start.

It was impossible not to. Unlike pretty much every other VIP she had worked with, he came straight over to shake her hand and introduce himself—as if that were necessary . . .

He also asked her to outline the security arrangements, and even asked her what
he
could do to make things easier for her and the other bodyguards . . .

She noted that he looked taller in real life than on CNN. Younger too, come to think of it.

Maybe it was because he smiled more than he did on television, flashing his brilliant white teeth in a way that was immediately infectious.

Black couldn’t be much more than forty. He was at least one meter ninety tall, but in spite of his lanky body, his double-breasted suit fit him like a glove. His hair was cut short at the back, but his fringe, tinged with gray, hung down rather disobediently, so he occasionally had to run his fingers through it to push it back into place. For some reason, this repeated gesture gave his eyes more presence and intensity.

For someone who had been flying for ten hours, Black seemed almost indecently smart. Neither his shirt nor his jacket showed the slightest crease, so he must have changed, maybe even had a shower?

According to her colleague’s outline, Black’s private plane wasn’t exactly lacking in comforts. But both Kjellgren and the folder of advance information she had received were wrong on one point. Black hadn’t traveled alone. A thickset man with cropped hair, a bull neck, loafers, and a poorly fitting, flimsy-looking suit had also been on the plane.

For a few moments she thought he was a steward. But then their eyes met and she changed her mind at once. Bullneck was obviously in the same branch as her.

The man stayed in the background, but she could see he was listening intently to their conversation.

Once she had installed Black in the backseat of the car, and double-checked that all the luggage was in place, Bullneck took her discreetly aside.

“Thomas,” he said without further pleasantries, and she wasn’t sure whether it was his first or last name. “Chief Security Officer at PayTag,” he went on. “Pleased to meet you, Rebecca. I’ve heard a lot about you . . .”

She gave a brief nod as they shook hands.

Sadly I can’t say the same,
she thought.

No one’s mentioned you at all.

♦  ♦  ♦

He was running.

As fast as he could, straight ahead toward an exit at the far end of the corridor.

But even though he was trying as hard as he could, even though the office doors on either side of him were rushing past so quickly that he could hardly see them, he didn’t seem to be getting any closer to his goal. He could feel his pursuers gaining on him . . .

The gray linoleum floor beneath his feet was spongy, getting softer with every step he took.

Almost like . . .

Sand.

He carried on running.

Knew they were still after him. Could hear their breathing cut through the desert night.

The snakes came out of nowhere. Leaping up from their lairs with their jaws open and teeth glinting. Dozens of them, maybe even hundreds. He did his best to avoid them, zigzagging over the sand dunes to make himself a more difficult target.

But it was impossible.

He felt teeth bite into his thigh.

Once, twice, three times . . .

More . . .

Then all of a sudden the snakes were gone.

He glanced back quickly over his shoulder and saw them getting closer. Hundreds of men in suits, racing over the sand. The bowler hats on their heads were pulled down low, almost to their eyebrows, but where their noses and mouths should be they had nothing but large green apples.

The men were gaining on him, the sand was flying up around their well-polished shoes. His chest felt like it was about to burst and his legs suddenly felt as heavy as lead, but he forced them to do as he commanded.

Onward!

Upward.

Toward the top.

He could see the drop opening out ahead of him and tried to change direction. But his legs were no longer obeying him. Instead they carried on straight ahead, forcing him closer to the steep edge of something that was no longer a sand dune but the roof of a building.

He could see birds waiting far below. Thousands of black desert ravens with glossy feathers and beaks the shape of scimitars.

Unless his eyes were deceiving him?

Were they actually sharp, oily rocks?

He fell.

Slowly at first.

Then faster and faster.

The ground was getting closer.

He knew it was going to hurt. More than anything he had ever experienced before. And at the precise moment that the pain shot
through his body, making his limbs contract in a violent spasm, he heard their voices.

“Do you want to play a game, Henrik Pettersson?!”

Wanna play a . . .

GAME?

♦  ♦  ♦

The word was still echoing through his head when he woke up.

It took him a few moments to remember where he was, then a few more to remember what had happened. Then came the panic. He opened his eyes and tried to sit up, but his body wouldn’t do as he wanted.

And it was dark.

Pitch black.

Paralyzed, then.

Blind.

Soon to be dead . . .

So this was how it was going to end, on a filthy kitchen floor in an abandoned flat. Tears began to stream from his eyes, and he tried to blink them away as best he could.

But suddenly he noticed a subtle change in the pitch-black darkness. A pale gray streak that got stronger and stronger until he was able to make out certain details. A ceiling, a lamp. Then a window covered by a roller blind, and a crooked pine dresser in one corner. The feeling was gradually returning to his limbs and he suddenly realized he wasn’t lying on a hard kitchen floor. Instead he seemed to be at home, in his own bedroom.