Bubble: A Thriller (43 page)

“Do we actually
know
that?” Hasselqvist was sounding very agitated now. “Okay, so Nora saw the barn explode. But what if Mange managed to get out . . . ?”

“Hmm. I’m inclined to agree with HP on that,” Nora said. “No one could have survived that, I promise you!”

A short silence followed as Hasselqvist reflected on this.

“Okay, how about this: the helicopter was there to give Mange a chance to escape. Create a diversion so that we’d all leave without him. But they hadn’t counted on the explosives going up, because they were supposed to be in the van. Don’t you remember how Mange protested when Jeff said we had to move everything into the Polo?”

Hasselqvist was sounding more and more heated.

“That must have been it. The helicopter would have given him a chance to get out, leaving the rest of us to head off to the tunnel on our own. And that fits with the GPS transmitter I found in the back of the van. They needed a way to keep track of us once we were on our own, without Mange . . .”

Nora looked like she wanted to say something, but Hasselqvist carried on.

“Then, when we switched vans, they lost us. So they were left staring at the tunnel while we snuck in through the main entrance. It all fits . . .”

HP didn’t respond, just stood up and marched straight out into the forest.

“Where are you going?” Nora called after him.

“Need a piss,” he muttered, mostly to himself.

He had no desire at all to continue this discussion. Mange was dead, Sammer was the Game Master. If Mange
had
somehow been involved, the short-sighted little snake had in all likelihood been shafted as well, just like he and the two idiots by the van had been.

He stopped, whipped out his joystick, and took aim at an anthill. Someone had betrayed them, that much was crystal clear. But if it wasn’t Mange, then who was it . . . ?

Another question he had no answer to . . .

“So what do we do now?” Nora said when he returned to the van with a fresh cig in the corner of his mouth.

“We head back to civilization, find a computer with a decent Internet connection, and send the contents of that hard drive to every newsroom we can think of. And to the email address of every MP, of course.”

He took a deep drag.

“That ought to give them something to think about before the vote on the EU directive. It’s a pretty shocking experience,” he went on, “getting all of your electronic footprints thrown back in your face like that. And the papers will have a field day. Just think off all the goodies hidden away on that hard drive.”

He nodded toward his backpack.

“Affairs, tax fraud, all sorts of unsuitable connections. You name it!”

He grinned and shook his head.

“It might even lead to a new election . . . in which case . . .”

“. . . PayTag, Black, and the Game are fucked!” Nora concluded.

Her voice sounded a bit brighter.

“There’s no way they could recover from something like this. Not just because the most-wanted man in Sweden managed to fool them and get in and out of their ultrasecure underground bunker . . .”

HP muttered something, finished his cigarette, and ground the butt into the dirt.

“. . . but because the hard drive proves that they really did have the tools to steal their customers’ information. Picking
out anything of interest, then refining it into a saleable asset. Just as we suspected the whole fucking time!! There’s no way anyone would want to work with them after this . . .”

“So it’s all over . . .” Hasselqvist sighed.

“We won, they lost. Game over!”

HP was about to say something but stopped and held up his hand. Far in the distance there was the sound of sirens.

Then they suddenly fell silent.

“Into the van, quick!” he hissed.

♦  ♦  ♦

Clear blue sky, hardly a cloud in sight. The kitchen window was open, letting in a breeze of summer air. Perfect wedding weather; the happy couple deserved congratulations for that.

She had woken up long before the alarm clock went off, and a song by Kent seemed to have got stuck in her head during the night. Even though her mind had plenty of other tracks to choose from, the lines continued to replay in her ears. Over and over again . . .

You know nothing about me.

I know nothing about you.

She inserted a pouch of coffee into the Nespresso machine, then waited patiently as the golden brown rat’s tail trickled into her cup before she picked it up.

The coffee went down easily enough, which was more than could be said for the sandwich. Her nerves had already shrunk her stomach to half its normal size, and there wasn’t a lot of room left.

She shut her eyes and took a couple of deep breaths, put the coffee cup down, then held her hands out in front of her. The song was still going around in her head.

You know nothing about me.

I know nothing about you
. . .

Only a few hours left, and she still hadn’t made her mind up.

Unless she had, a long time ago . . .

Jocke Berg was still singing inside her head:

How do you feel now?

Do you feel anything?

Good question!

A damn good question, actually.

Surprisingly, she felt strangely calm for the first time in ages.

She went through the timetable in her head, trying to picture the route before her. Every turn, every new street. Trying to imagine the sounds, smells, impressions. The bulletproof vest against her body, the earpiece of the radio in her ear—the gun at her hip.

It helped briefly, but the song was back a minute or so later.

I know nothing about you . . .

She opened one of the kitchen cupboards and took out a small bottle of pills without even thinking. She weighed it in her hand, listening to the little tablets rattling around inside.

Time to decide. What was it to be?

Red or black?

She pulled the lid off.

You know nothing about me . . .

♦  ♦  ♦

“How the hell did they find us so quickly?”

“Don’t know,” HP growled as he tried to cling to the seat.

The heavy police van was lurching over the gravel track.

“Maybe the van can be traced, but I didn’t think the cops were that advanced . . .”

They flew over a bump and for a fraction of a second the van left the ground. As it landed HP hit his head on the side window.

“Fuck!”

He tried to look through the little window of the holding cell at the back of the van, but all he could see was dust flying up behind them.

“How many?” he yelled at Hasselqvist.

“Two, at least. Must be more on the way!”

“Hang on, shit, we should have done this earlier . . .” Nora undid her seat belt and clambered into the passenger seat. She fiddled with the police radio and excited voices suddenly began to pour from the speakers.

9150, they’re heading straight for you, over.

Copy that!

Hasselqvist slammed on the brakes, spun the wheel, and slid the van into a side track. Say what you like, but the guy could drive . . .

Control, 9127, they turned left, now heading north . . .

Copy that, 9127, all cars from Control, now heading north, toward Nybygget
 . . . The radio operator in the Regional Communication Center sounded considerably less excited than the officers taking part in the chase.

The van’s engine was roaring and the track in front of them narrowed to a thin line. But Hasselqvist didn’t seem particularly concerned.

“In two hundred meters I’ll be turning a sharp left, so hold on . . .” he yelled.

“How the fuck do you know where . . . ?” HP managed to splutter as he clung on as best he could.

“I did some rally driving up here a few years ago . . .” Hasselqvist replied.

He slammed the brakes on and did a controlled hand-brake turn.

Control, 9127, they’ve just turned off, we’ve lost . . . Hang on.

HP held his breath.

No, we’ve got contact again, now heading west.

Copy that, 9127, the helicopter’s on its way.

“If the helicopter picks us up we’re finished,” Hasselqvist snarled through his teeth.

He spun the van into another side track.

“There’s only one option,” he said over his shoulder. “You’ll have to jump out.”

“What?!”

“
You’ll have to jump out!
” Hasselqvist shouted, without taking his eyes off the track. “I’ll stop and let you out, then I’ll carry on. There’s half a tank left, and I can keep going for at least another half hour, forty minutes. If they don’t figure out where you jumped, they’ll never find you . . .”

“B-but, we’re in the middle of the forest . . .” Nora began.

“The railway line’s over there.”

Hasselqvist gestured toward the window beside her.

“Find it, then head south. It’s a couple of hours’ walk to the nearest station. Then you can just catch the train back into the city.”

“But we can’t just leave you—”

“Kent’s right. We don’t have a choice,” HP interrupted. “If we get caught, the hard drive will be in the Game Master’s hands in less than an hour, and then everything, all this, will have been in vain . . .”

Nora bit her lip.

“Okay,” she conceded. “Just tell us what you want us to do, Kent.”

“We need a bit of breathing space, some sort of diversion so I can stop for a moment . . .”

Control to all cars, the helicopter will be with you in approximately five minutes.

They’re currently heading west. It looks like they’re listening in, so we’ll switch to the backup frequency. Backup frequency from now on, over and out!

The radio bleeped and suddenly went silent.

“The fire extinguisher . . .” Nora turned to HP and nodded at the floor.

It took him a moment to catch on.

He loosened his belt, braced himself against the seat, and leaned over. There was a fire extinguisher on the floor by the side of the van. He quickly untied the rubber straps and pulled it loose.

At the same time Nora scrambled back over her seat.

“Open the door!” she yelled, and he did as she said.

The heavy sliding door slipped from his grasp and flew open.

He stared through the opening at the trees flying past just a meter or so away.

“Don’t worry!” she yelled. “I’ll keep hold of you!”

But he hesitated.

“The helicopter’s almost here,” Hasselqvist shouted from the front of the van.

HP closed his eyes.

Now or never.

He loosened the nozzle of the extinguisher and pulled out the safety catch.

Then he stood up.

Nora grabbed hold of his belt.

“Hold on, I’ll slow down and let them get closer . . .”

Hasselqvist took his foot off the gas and suddenly they could hear the sirens of the cars behind them.

“Now!” Hasselqvist shouted.

HP put one foot on the step, then leaned the top half of his body out the van.

His belt cut into his left kidney and he felt Nora’s grip tighten against his hip.

The first police car was only ten meters away.

He raised the nozzle of the extinguisher, took aim . . .

Suddenly the wheels on one side of the van hit a pothole, the van lurched, and his head slammed against the roof. He lost his balance and for a couple of weightless seconds was floating free.

Then Nora grabbed his arm and dragged him into the van.

Fuck, that was close!!

“Now, now,
now!!
” Hasselqvist screamed from the driver’s seat.

HP stood up again, leaned his torso out through the door, and braced himself against the step.

He raised the nozzle and slammed the lever down.

A shower of powder flew out of the hose, got caught in the van’s slipstream, and landed in the middle of the police car’s windshield like a big white blanket.

The driver put his foot on the brake but HP carried on spraying powder until the police car vanished in a cloud of smoke behind them.

Then he threw the extinguisher out and let Nora drag him back inside the van.

Hasselqvist put his foot down.

“There’s another side track in a hundred meters,” he yelled. “Jump out when I slow down to turn. Then just lie low until they’ve gone past . . .”

“Copy that!” HP moved closer to the door again.

“Good luck, Kent. You’re hot shit when it comes to driving!” he yelled at Hasselqvist, and got a quick wave in response.

“Don’t forget the backpack,” Nora said close to his ear.

Of course . . . Shit!

If he’d jumped without the hard drive . . . Epic fail!

He snatched the backpack from the floor and pulled it onto his back.

“Straps!” Nora said, pointing at his chest.

He muttered something to himself but did as she said, fastening the clumsy metal catch between the two straps.

The van slowed down, then turned sharply to the right.

“
Nooow!
” Hasselqvist yelled.

SHE CYCLED SLOWLY
along Rålambsvägen, then turned off into the park, following the path across the grass.

Seagulls and crows were squabbling as usual over the previous night’s garbage and leftover food, but a team of cleaners from the council had already arrived to clean up.

The city had to put its best face on now that at least part of the world would be watching it.

Apart from them, the only people in sight were a couple of dog walkers and an early-bird jogger.

She downshifted to get up the steep slope leading to the bridge over Norr Mälarstrand. An empty bus with blue and yellow flags on its roof passed below her.

She carried on up to Fridhemsplan, wove her way through the red lights, and stopped next to the gatehouse. The feeling of pulling her police ID from her pocket was unexpectedly comforting.