Buzz: A Thriller (13 page)

“Oh, I almost forgot. Someone rang a little while ago. She said you were colleagues.”

“Nina Brandt?” Rebecca mumbled as she got the plates out.

“No, that wasn’t it. Hang on, I wrote it down on the pad next to the phone. Karolina, that was the name,” he called from the hall a moment or so later. “Karolina Modin. She said she’d tried your cell, but it was switched off. She wanted to talk to you about something, but she didn’t want to say what. It sounded like it was important . . .”

♦  ♦  ♦

Apart from his hand luggage he only had two things. A plane ticket with no name and a sheet of paper Moussad had given him. LOC—Letter of Cessation. He was evidently supposed to hand it over at passport control at Arlanda. Even if the Game had nothing to do with his little adventure in the desert,
they’d know where he was the moment his ID number was tapped into the police computer system.

It wasn’t too difficult to work out what would happen next . . .

If he was going to stand any chance at all of getting away with it, he had to find a way of getting into the country without being picked up by the Game’s radar.

It was actually much simpler than it sounded.

Forget movie stunts like hiding in the toilet, creeping out through the undercarriage, and scampering off over the runway. All he needed was a passport—a little red booklet with a photograph that looked vaguely like him.

Like the one sticking out of the back pocket of the bloke three rows in front of him . . .

He flew out of his seat a few seconds before the plane stopped at the gate and the pilot switched off the seat-belt sign. He quickly grabbed his bag from the overhead bin and then positioned himself right next to his target, holding his bag at just the right height to conceal what he was doing. Just as he had hoped, the man was fully occupied with his cell phone. Seven hours without social media was a long time for iMorons . . .

A neat shoulder tackle in the middle of a status update, and @arlanda was suddenly @unknownplaceonthefloorbetweentheseats . . .

As soon as the man leaned over to rescue his pride and joy, HP snatched his passport from his back pocket and headed toward the exit as quickly as he could.

A few moments later he was out in the connecting walkway and on his way into the arrivals terminal.

He was now Lars Tommy Gunke from Linköping, according to the passport. He tasted the name a couple of times as he walked quickly toward passport control.

“Lasse—Lasse Gunke here, hi!”

He glanced quickly at one of the clocks on the wall. He had three or four minutes, maybe five. That ought to be enough . . .

Two sturdy police officers in dark uniforms were standing over by the passport control desk. The men looked bored, but a little LOC form and someone without a passport would doubtless save their morning.

HP aimed at the shortest line and tried to look innocent.

Another glance at the time.

Two minutes had already passed and as usual he had chosen the wrong line. The line of people beside him was sailing through, but he wasn’t moving at all.

And now it was too late to switch; he had metal railings on both sides and more passengers lined up behind him.

What the hell was taking so long?

It looked like the old bag at the front of the line was having trouble with her passport. He could see her waving her arms at the woman behind the desk, as if she was trying to explain something.

He took a careful look over his shoulder. Loads of people behind him, but no sign of the real Lasse G. yet.

♦  ♦  ♦

“Hi, Rebecca, sorry I’m a bit late. I’m just going to grab some coffee, do you want a refill?”

“Sure . . .”

Rebecca watched Karolina Modin as she filled the coffee cups over by the till.

Modin was the youngest member of the team at twenty-five, a whole decade younger than Rebecca herself.

Modin’s boyish appearance and short, jagged bangs made her look even younger than she actually was, which definitely wasn’t a good thing when you were trying to justify your position in the force. All too often, seniority still counted for more than ability.

So why had Modin really wanted to see her? She hadn’t wanted to say much on the phone—just that she wanted to meet.

Rebecca really ought to have insisted that they do the whole thing over the phone, but it wasn’t as if she had anything better to do.

Modin returned with their coffee and sat down opposite Rebecca. They each took a sip.

“Well, I was at another internal investigation interview yesterday, and there’s something I wanted to tell you . . .”

Modin was clearly the sort of person who got straight to the point, which Rebecca appreciated. But this didn’t sound good.

“Oh?”

“I’ve done a lot of thinking about what happened down there. In Darfur, I mean. Everything happened so quickly—the whole thing, the evacuation and so on. We hardly had any time to talk . . . And Ludvig split us up as soon as we got home.”

Modin looked anxiously at Rebecca, as though she were expecting some sort of agreement.

“Mmh?”

“Well, I wasn’t sure, to start with . . . I mean, I was concentrating on driving and hardly looked out of the front of the car
at all. Then there was complete chaos when the crowd broke, then the shooting, all the dust and . . . well, all that.”

Modin glanced at her uncertainly again, but Rebecca kept her expression the same.

“Anyway, I’ve had time to think, and looking back now I think I did actually see someone running in front of the car, while you were hanging off the door . . . I’m pretty sure I did.”

Rebecca couldn’t help twitching, and Modin seemed to notice.

“Well, I didn’t see any details, no gun or anything, but for some reason the color yellow is fixed in my mind. Was he wearing something yellow, a top, or a scarf or something else loose?”

“A plastic bag,” Rebecca muttered indistinctly. She cleared her throat and repeated herself, as her heart pounded faster and faster. “The suspect had the gun in a bright-yellow plastic bag that he was holding in his left hand.”

“Hmm . . . it could well have been a bag, and that’s what I told the investigator when he asked. Per Westergren, you’ve probably already spoken to him . . .”

“Yes, we’ve met.” Rebecca nodded, unable to hold back a smile.

Karolina Modin smiled back.

“Right. He asked a lot of questions about you. What you were like as a boss, and so on. I said we hadn’t worked together long, but that you were one of my role models in the bodyguard unit . . . That you’re always one hundred percent professional . . .”

All of a sudden Rebecca had no idea what she was supposed to say.

“Thanks, Karolina . . . I mean . . . I really appreciate . . . well . . . your testimony and everything. I’m sure it’ll mean a lot in the investigation.”

“Yes, that’s exactly what David said too . . . He was the one who suggested I call and ask to be interviewed again.”

“David?”

“Yes, David . . . David Malmén,” Karolina Modin said, and smiled another one of her boyish grins.

♦  ♦  ♦

The other line was still moving smoothly.

He should have been through by now.

On safe ground.

Shit!

Even though he was trying to play it cool, he couldn’t help squirming, and he got the impression that the cops had noticed.

Four minutes had passed and he still hadn’t moved.

The cops had started glowering at him.

For fuck’s sake, just get moving, you old bag!

Another glance over his shoulder—still no Lasse.

Suddenly the cops began to move.

He leafed frenetically through his passport, pretending that its contents were really, really interesting.

The police officers strolled slowly along the line. Five minutes had passed and he thought he could detect some sort of anxiety at the very back of the line.

The cops exchanged a look and one of them said something into the radio microphone attached to his shoulder.

Damndamndamnda
—

“You there!”

One of the cops was pointing at him.

“Erm . . . what, me?”

HP was playing for time.

“Yes, you.”

The cop beckoned him over and HP moved slowly closer to the railing. But the policeman kept on beckoning and after a moment’s hesitation HP ducked under the railing and took several more slow steps in their direction.

What the hell was he going to do?

“Passport, please!”

The cop with most stripes on his shoulder held out his hand.

“Erm . . .” HP glanced toward the exit behind the police officers.

If he really went for it, he might just . . .

“Passport!”

The policeman took the little red booklet that HP was still clutching hard in one hand, and for a moment they stood there like that—almost like a tug-of-war. Then HP let go.

The cops were standing shoulder to shoulder, there was no chance of sneaking between them. The railing was blocking his escape on the right and he probably wouldn’t have time to skirt around to their left. He had to play it cool, wait for the right moment . . .

One of the cops looked through the passport. HP felt a drop of sweat on his forehead, then another. The handle of his bag felt sticky in his hand.

“LOC?” HP was sure this was what the cop holding the passport muttered while the other grinned.

Damn!

His cover was blown, the cops knew who he was!

Was he supposed to just hand over his deportation papers and go along nicely to the police station with them?

Hell, no!

Time to do what he was best at—run for his life!

He took a cautious step to the side, trying to find a gap.

The cops moved and the distance between them grew.

On your marks . . .!

The gap opened up a bit more.

Get set . . .!

The head cop looked up with a frown.

“Don’t you like ice hockey?”

“Wh-what?”

HP stopped, on tiptoe, his eyes still fixed on his escape route.

“LHC—Linköping Hockey Club . . . ?”

The cops grinned and exchanged a look.

“Thomas and I support AIK—we’re playing you in the Globe tonight. Top against bottom, you could say . . .”

“Sure, yeah . . .” HP muttered while his brain made an effort to catch up.

The policeman handed him the passport.

“Welcome home, Linköping, and good luck. You’re going to need it . . .”

“WE HAVE A
problem . . .”

“I see—that doesn’t sound good. How big?”

“We’re not quite sure yet—right now we’re evaluating the situation. But we may need to use your services again . . .”

“That’s okay—I almost expected that. I’ve actually made a number of preparations . . .”

♦  ♦  ♦

She had been dreaming about him again.

The man on the treadmill.

As she climbed the steps out of the subway she tried to remember what the dream had been about, but annoyingly the details seemed just out of reach. The look in his eyes was all she could remember. That penetrating black look that she had met in the mirror, almost making her lose her breath. She had seen it before, plenty of times. But back then it had belonged to a completely different man. A man she had loved—and hated . . .

But Dag was dead now, and she had carried on without him. Started a new, better life with someone who didn’t treat her badly. So why was she doing this? What made a completely
unknown man so interesting that she was dreaming about him?

Without the slightest warning, that feeling washed over her again and she stopped dead in the middle of the pavement. Just like in the car down in Darfur, when they had been rushing through the cloud of sand and away from the threat, the world seemed to slow down. Every detail, every little movement around her suddenly appeared crystal clear, and for just a fraction of a second she imagined she could see something out of the corner of her eye. An indistinct silhouette visible through all the passersby.

But the moment she started to turn her head, the world went back to its normal speed, her line of sight was obscured, and the silhouette was gone.

She waited a few seconds, then slipped between two parked cars and quickly crossed the street. Nothing, not the slightest movement.

There was no one following her.
Anyway, who on earth would be?

She went around the corner and turned in to a little side street, and stopped in front of a doorway.

For a brief second she hesitated, then tapped in the code, and looked over her shoulder just to make sure before going in.

Two floors up she took out her bunch of keys and unlocked the door to the flat.

After someone tried to burn down Henke’s flat the insurance company had not only paid for the hall to be restored, but also a reinforced door, so if your average burglar wanted to break in they’d have their work cut out for them. Which made it all the more annoying that the flat was uninhabited.

Henke’s belongings were still in storage with Shurgurd, so the whole flat, with the exception of the mattress on the floor, was pretty much empty of furniture.

She fetched a glass of water from the kitchen, and had just finished it when there was a knock at the door. Three cautious little knocks.

She didn’t bother looking through the peephole, and just opened the door.

“Please, no talking—can’t we just fuck?” she said to the person outside.

♦  ♦  ♦

He really shouldn’t. There were so many reasons not to that he had already lost count.

But he still felt obliged to.

The toilets looked just the same as they had before he left.

He found the right cubicle, locked the door, and stood on the toilet seat. He looked anxiously around the top of the cubicle, then gently lifted one of the ceiling tiles.

He felt inside the enclosed space, his heart pounding faster and faster. For a few seconds he thought it was gone, that the security staff had found it. Or possibly someone else . . .