Bubble: A Thriller (40 page)

They parked to the right of the building, next to a loading bay with the correct sign.

One of the garage doors on the building opposite was open slightly, and HP thought he could see something that looked like a dark minivan inside. His heart was beating faster and faster.

Somewhere a dog was barking, and the noise echoed around the little hollow before fading away into the gloom of the summer night.

Damn it, HP, calm down and stick to the plan . . .

He took a deep breath and put his hand in his pocket, fingering the handle of the taser.

“Put your breathing masks around your necks. Everything has to look genuine,” Nora said. “Jeff, are you ready?”

“Sure, I’m ready,” her brother mumbled.

“Okay, let’s get going. This time I do the talking . . .”

She gave HP a quick nod. Then she opened the door.

♦  ♦  ♦

“Okay, as you all know, it’s the big day tomorrow. The happy couple seem to have the weather gods on their side, no rain forecast, which means they’ll be sticking to plan A: open carriage instead of the covered coach we recommended. The Palace PR department, however, wants the young couple to be close to the public and not hidden behind glass . . .”

Runeberg shrugged.

“On the other hand, they’re going to be spending the rest of their lives behind glass, so I suppose we shouldn’t begrudge them this last taste of freedom . . .”

He pressed the remote and changed the picture.

“We’ll be using runners, exactly like we did with the last royal wedding. Six in total, three on each side of the carriage. Two teams, running half the route each.”

He pointed at the picture showing six bodyguards in suits running on either side of the royal carriage.

“As you can see, I’m getting more and more handsome as the years go by.”

He placed the laser pointer at the easily recognizable figure at the front on the right. Quiet laughter filled the room. Runeberg must have been talking on his radio, to judge by his peculiar expression in the picture.

“We’ll have three vehicles following the second troop of horse guards. Two as backup in case of an evacuation, and the van for the runners, just like last time. Any questions so far?”

None of the thirty bodyguards in the room said anything.

“In that case, I’ll hand it over to the head of security at the Palace. I’m sure he has plenty to tell us, and I would advise everyone to listen very carefully.”

Runeberg gestured toward Tage Sammer, who was sitting a short distance away. Rebecca had noticed him when they entered the hall, but her heart still began to beat faster when he stood up and buttoned his jacket.

♦  ♦  ♦

The man on the other side of the little counter leafed through his papers.

“Replacing filters,” he said into his radio. “Have you heard anything about that, over?”

The radio crackled.

“No,” the voice at the other end said.

“Have you checked the daily log, over?”

“Yep, there’s nothing here. No alarms in the system either, over.”

There were a few moments of silence.

The man shrugged and smiled at Nora.

“Sorry, but I can’t let you go down without securing authorization from the boss . . .”

“I understand,” she said. “Obviously, we can turn around and go home, but it sounded urgent when the guy called . . .”

She pretended to look at her watch.

“And we’re already late. If the system overheats . . .”

The man grinned again.

HP didn’t like him from the moment they stepped inside the little office: very fit, with greasy, back-combed hair, a smarmy smile, prominent cheekbones. A bit too good looking for a place like this . . .

He took a couple of slow steps forward so he could look at the other side of the little counter.

Dark blue ribbed sweater, matching trousers covered with pockets, polished black boots. On a table behind him there was a pile of yellow protective helmets, and an assortment of high-visibility jackets were hanging over a rack full of radios. All the things you might expect to find in an Operations Division.

Yet there was still something not quite right . . .

The radio crackled again: “Okay, look, I can’t get hold of Jacobsson over the phone. He must be busy with all the other stuff. What we do is—you park them up there for the time being, then head down to the ventilation room and check, over.”

“Can’t one of us go with you?” Nora said before the man had time to reply. “Then at least we can say we checked the filter on site, to keep the boss off my back. You know how it is . . .” She smiled at him and tilted her head slightly. To judge by the man’s inane grin, the trick seemed to work.

“Listen, they’re asking if they can send someone along so they can tick some boxes. Maybe that would make sense, over?”

“Okay, that’s what we’ll do, over.”

“Over and out!”

The man put the radio down and winked at Nora.

“Okay, the two of us can go down . . .”

“Nice idea, but I’m afraid only Jonas here has full authorization to carry out this sort of inspection . . .” Nora put her hand on Jeff’s arm.

“I see . . .” The man’s disappointment was obvious, but HP hardly noticed. The nagging feeling that something wasn’t right was getting stronger and stronger.

Busy with all the other stuff . . .

“Don’t forget me, if it’s a UV filter, then it’ll take two of us to check it . . .” HP said.

Nora gave him a quick look, and he held her gaze, nodding almost imperceptibly. She appeared to think for a few seconds.

“Of course,” she said. “I almost forgot. It takes two to hold the frame.”

“Surely I could do that . . . ?” the technician protested.

“I’m sure you could, but if it slips you could lose a couple of fingers. Remember what happened to Kalle?” She turned to the others.

“You mean Three-Fingered Kalle from ABB . . . ?” Hasselqvist shot back like lightning. “Ouch. And the insurance didn’t cover it either . . .”

The technician’s smile died instantly.

“Okay, you can come as well,” he said, pointing at HP. “The rest of you wait here, there’s a coffee machine over there . . .”

He got up, walked around the counter, and headed over to a heavy metal door set into one wall. He pulled out a pass card that was attached by a coil to his belt, tapped it against a reader, and then held the door open for them.

“This way, gentlemen . . .”

A guard with cropped hair and a neat red goatee was sitting in a cubicle between the lift doors. As they approached he gave them a quick look, then went back to staring at the screen in front of him.

“I’m taking these two visitors down to the ventilator room,” the man said.

“Sure.” Without looking up from the screen, the guard pressed a button and one of the lift doors opened.

They stepped inside and the technician repeated the
card procedure with another reader, then pressed one of the buttons. The door closed and the lift slowly began to move.

No one said anything. HP looked around cautiously. There was bound to be a camera hidden behind the mirror in the ceiling, but that wasn’t what interested him most. The control panel showed six floors below the entrance level. The floor they were heading for was minus one, and had a small sign saying
Technical Services
.

Beside the button for minus two was a sign saying
Control Room
. The lower levels had no labels.

The lift braked so sharply that HP’s stomach lurched. From the corner of his eye he saw Jeff starting to feel inside one of the pockets of his overalls . . .

“Right then . . .” their guide said.

“We’re not getting out here,” Jeff said coldly.

“What?”

Jeff pulled out the revolver and aimed it at the man’s head. HP recognized the gun straightaway, it was the one he had taken down to the Grand. He’d had a feeling that an aggressive guy like Jeff wouldn’t get rid of a perfectly functional weapon . . .

“Control room, now,” Jeff ordered.

The technician didn’t move.

Oh, for fuck’s sake . . . !

HP leaned forward and slowly lowered Jeff’s arm. Then he pulled the pass card from the man’s belt and tapped it against the reader. Then he pressed the button for minus two.

“Just take it easy . . .” He read the name under the photograph on the technician’s pass card.

“. . . 
Jochen,
and everything will be fine.”

The man looked like he was about to say something, but at
the last moment he seemed to change his mind and buttoned his lips.

HP glanced at the mirror in the roof of the lift.

The only question was how long it would take the guard up above to realize that something was wrong.

But, if his suspicions were correct, then all the guards’ attention was focused elsewhere. He slowly took off the fake glasses and put them in his pocket. The masquerade was over, or very nearly, at least . . .

The lift stopped at minus two and the doors opened. The large lobby was empty, and through the huge windows around the sides they could make out long, illuminated tunnels containing rows of server units. But it was the windows facing the control room that interested HP most. Something like thirty workstations arranged in what looked like a semicircular amphitheater, with large screens at the front instead of a stage. He could see the backs of at least eight people down there.

Jeff pushed Jochen the technician ahead of him.

“Door.”

This time the man didn’t protest. He tapped his card to the reader beside the heavy steel door, then stepped to one side.

HP opened the door and gestured to the other two men to step in. His mouth suddenly felt bone-dry.

“Nobody move,” Jeff roared, holding the revolver in the air.

Lights, camera, action!

“GOOD MORNING, EVERYONE.
My name is Colonel André Pellas, and I’m afraid I have some disturbing information to share with you. It would appear that there are advanced plans afoot to disrupt the wedding. We suspect that these individuals are involved in some way.”

He nodded to Runeberg, who changed the picture.

A photograph appeared on the projector screen, and she bit her lip unconsciously.

“Henrik Pettersson, alias HP, or number 128. Pettersson is known to the police, not least for a conviction for manslaughter. He is suspected of being behind the attack in Kungsträdgården two years ago, and is, as you may know, wanted in connection with a failed attack at the Grand Hotel one week ago.”

She saw the officers around her nod and did her best to look unconcerned.

“The other person is a more recent acquaintance.”

Runeberg changed the picture again.

“Magnus Sandström, also known in some circles as Fa
rook Al-Hassan. Sandström is probably the brains behind an autonomous group known as the Game. He’s extremely intelligent, very manipulative, and should be regarded as extremely dangerous. We are currently trying very hard to locate these two gentlemen, and we believe that we are closing in on them. So there is a good chance that we will have apprehended them before the wedding tomorrow, but if for some reason we should fail, you will all be issued with their pictures.”

He looked at Runeberg.

“Their pictures are actually in the folders in front of you, along with maps, the official schedule, and various contact numbers, including Colonel Pellas’s cell phone number,” Runeberg said.

“Thank you, Superintendent. Well, allow me to wish you all the very best of luck for tomorrow, and to add that I personally, along with the Marshal of the Realm and His Majesty the King, are extremely grateful for your efforts. Let us hope that we have a calm and peaceful day ahead of us . . .”

♦  ♦  ♦

Eyes like saucers, mouths wide open, pale faces.

Jeff pushed the technician aside and took several firm steps down the narrow staircase leading to the floor of the room. His revolver was still pointing at the ceiling.

“Who’s in charge here?”

“I am.” A thickset man in a short-sleeved white shirt, with a pen case in his top pocket, stood up from his chair.

“Sit down!” Jeff aimed the revolver at the man.

He hesitated for a moment, then obeyed.

Jeff carried on down the steps until he reached the man’s desk. HP followed slowly, looking around the whole time. No cameras in here, just as he had suspected . . .

The unions didn’t like it if you filmed people at their desks . . .

A couple of the operators exchanged glances, then nervous smiles . . .

Jeff had stopped beside the manager’s computer. HP hung back a bit while Jeff slowly pulled at the Velcro to open one of the breast pockets of his overalls.

“Here.”

He pulled out a chunky USB memory stick and put it on the desk next to the man.

“Plug that in, then open the file entitled Bigboy.exe. Then you’ll receive new instructions . . .”

“Okay . . .”

The man in charge put his hand on the USB stick and slowly pulled it toward him. HP glanced quickly over his shoulder. He caught the looks on the other operators’ faces.

Fear?

Maybe, but that wasn’t the dominant feeling. More like . . .

Anticipation . . . !?

The manager leaned over toward the USB ports on the side of one of the screens.

Jeff’s Adam’s apple was performing a vigorous dance. The hand holding the revolver was shaking noticeably.

From the corner of his eye HP noticed Jochen the technician slowly moving closer. The manager turned the stick the right way up and moved it closer to the USB port. As he leaned forward his shirtsleeve rode up, revealing the lower portion of a tattoo. A drop of sweat freed itself from one of the man’s sideburns and slowly trickled down his cheek.

“
Stop!
” HP suddenly said.

The manager jumped and dropped the stick on the desk.

“W-what?” Jeff turned toward him.

“
Don’t
put that stick in! Don’t you get it . . . ?” HP snapped as the man picked up the USB stick from the desk.