Bubble: A Thriller (48 page)

Sammer nodded slowly.

“I didn’t really expect any other answer, Rebecca . . .”

He bent down and picked up a check-patterned thermos from beside the railing.

“Let me at least offer you a cup of coffee before we part.”

“Thanks . . .”

He conjured up two cups and filled them.

“Have I told you why I’m so fond of this spot?”

She shook her head and blew gently on the hot coffee.

“My father worked for ASEA. He helped construct the
clock in 1939. But back then it was mounted on the telephone company tower in Brunkebergstorg.”

He pointed across the rooftops.

“My father used to take me to look at it. Telling me how they got it up there. The tower was forty-five meters high, you see, a dizzy height in those days . . .”

She nodded and slowly raised the cup to her lips.

“I was very proud of my father, I even used to boast to friends about how he had constructed the clock all on his own . . .” he chuckled.

“Then, in 1953, the tower caught fire, and the clock was taken down and placed in storage. My father died a couple of years later . . .”

She studied his face in profile, the eaglelike hook of the nose. The taut skin over his cheeks, the dark eyes that reminded her so strongly of her father’s.

“Fortunately, with the help of a few contacts, I eventually managed to get this mast constructed. And in that way my father’s clock could be restored to its rightful place . . .”

Sammer turned and smiled at her.

He was still holding the cup in his hand but didn’t seem to have touched his coffee.

“Thanks for telling me the story, Uncle Tage, but I’d rather you—”

“Talked about
your
father, yes, of course I can understand that. That’s why you’re here. You’re worried about what Erland might have done with that revolver. What the consequences of it might have been. So worried that you can’t sleep at night, is that right?”

She nodded heavily, moving her head up and down as if it didn’t really want to obey her.

“Poor Rebecca.” He smiled. “The past few years can’t have
been easy for you. Everything that’s happened: the crash at Lindhagensplan, the attack against the American secretary of state. By the way, the police van containing the bomb
was
being driven by Henrik, but you’d probably already guessed that . . .”

She opened her mouth and tried to say something.

“Shh, don’t worry.” He put a gloved finger to his lips. “That can stay between us. And it was Henrik who threw the percussion grenade at the royal cortege in Kungsträdgården, but I’m sure you knew that already, not least once you had seen the footage in Police Headquarters.” He smiled, then pulled a slight grimace. “Henrik has been involved in a number of things. I’m actually going to miss him,” he chuckled. “In fact I daresay we all will . . . But my dear Rebecca, are you all right . . . ?”

The plastic cup had fallen from her hand and hit the mesh floor with a clatter.

“Perhaps you should sit down . . .”

He gestured to the steps.

She followed his advice, sank down on the top step, and leaned her head against the railing. The metal felt cool and soothing against her temple.

“Poor Rebecca,” he said, walking slowly over to her. “Suspected of misuse of office in Darfur, fired from your job, and then your boyfriend left you. And today you were forced to shoot your own brother. So terribly tragic . . .”

He gently stroked her forehead.

The green letters on the sign above their heads turned into a clock, casting a red glow over his face. He leaned over and began to unbutton her jacket.

“Such a shame that it has to end this way, my dear, but in my branch I’m afraid one can’t afford to leave any loose ends. In fact I’m almost rather surprised that your colleagues let you keep your gun, in light of what’s happened.”

He felt around her belt, then pulled her service pistol from its holster.

She made no attempt to stop him.

“There’s no knowing what you might do, my dear Rebecca.”

He turned the gun over, inspecting it for a few seconds.

A tear seeped out of one of her eyes, then another.

“Perhaps it would actually be a relief not to have to worry about it all anymore? The poor police officer, under such stress, shooting her own brother. The media won’t show any mercy. When you look at it like that, you might even say that I’m doing you a favor.”

She looked at him, tried to open her mouth.

“The . . . the coffee,” she finally said.

“Oh, don’t worry. It’s the same substance you’re already taking. Just a little stronger. Look, it even says your name on the label . . .”

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.

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 . . .”