The Game Trilogy (42 page)

‘So they paid the drivers to go home to Yemen … and maybe drop off Vin— I mean Hamel at the airport on the way back?’

‘Something like that,’ Moussad nodded. ‘A name matching one of Hamel’s aliases was used to leave the country shortly afterwards. We’re not entirely sure it was him, the camera footage from the airport isn’t good enough for a hundred percent identification, but it seems likely.’

Moussad accompanied him on board, even helping him to stash his luggage in the overhead locker before holding out his hand in farewell.

‘Well, goodbye, Mr Pettersson.’

HP hesitated for a couple of seconds, then shook the man’s hand. Strangely enough, the gesture seemed to make the police officer more relaxed.

‘If you hear anything about Mrs Argos back home in Sweden, anything you think might be of use to the investigation, I’d appreciate it if you got in touch … Someone hired Hamel to murder Mrs Argos, and we’re very keen to get hold of whoever that was.’

He pulled out a little white business card from the pocket of his neatly pressed shirt.

HP nodded mutely, and tucked the card away without bothering to look at it.

The police officer had got as far as the door before HP’s addled brain finally caught up.

‘Moussad …?’

The man turned round.

‘What makes you think I might hear anything about Anna Argos back home?’

‘So you didn’t know?’ Moussad smiled.

‘What?’

‘That Anna Argos was Swedish?’

Now, in hindsight, she seemed to recall having seen the man the first time she came to the gym. Just as they were about to leave Nina had bumped into one of the owners, someone she’d obviously dated for a while. It was while they were kissing each other on the cheek and exchanging small-talk – a discussion that had ended with Rebecca being given a month’s free membership – that she thought she had seen him, on one of the running machines.

A man with cropped hair, not much taller than her. Fit, in the sinewy way she preferred over the gym-pumped
version. But it wasn’t primarily the man’s appearance that made her notice him. It was the way he was running. Determined, focused, as if he were pushing for a place in the Olympics.

And now here he was again – on the same running machine over in one corner, running in exactly the same way.

His tempo was ridiculously high. The man’s arms were pumping at his sides like muscular pistons, and his eyes were locked on his own reflection in the mirror. His suntanned body was pouring with sweat; his thin vest was already soaked. His feet were pounding on the machine. Bang-bang-bang-bang.

There was something about the whole scenario that drew your attention, and she realized that she had almost stopped concentrating on her own weight training.

Then – just for a second – Rebecca met the man’s gaze in the mirror and found herself shuddering.

Obviously, it
could
all be an unfortunate coincidence.

That Hamel just happened to pick him as the scapegoat, so that he himself could vanish without trace. Just as Moussad had pointed out, he was pretty much typecast for the role of fall-guy.

Even if it obviously seemed way too much of a long shot, the theory couldn’t be discounted altogether.

But whoever was behind all this hadn’t bumped off Anna Argos just to get at him, he was sure of that. Game or no Game, she was the JFK character, whereas he had merely been given the role of Lee Harvey Oswald. A useless, no-good patsy.

Just like him, Anna had been on the run, and had tried to put half the planet between herself and those trying to find her.

In those first paranoid moments in the hotel lounge he had picked up Game vibes. And actually thought she was another Player who’d been sent out to track him down.

What if he’d been right, or at least half right?

That she really was a Player, but had chosen to get out, just like him?

In which case it was pretty fucking stupid of her not to dump her phone.

Maybe she thought it was enough just to change the SIM-card?

BIG mistake!

He pinched the bridge of his nose in an attempt to stop his imagination running away.

But instead a new image popped into his head. Of those desert ravens circling slowly above … Anna’s lifeless body, closer and closer until the bravest of them dared to land beside her on the sand. A couple of ungainly steps, and then …

He took a deep breath, then gestured to an air-stewardess to have his drink topped up.

Anna may have been a fully fledged massive bitch, but no-one deserved that sort of end. Whoever had employed Hamel to get rid of Anna must have really hated her.

But Hamel and his employer had made a mistake.

They had left him down there with the Dubai cops in the belief that he was finished. Letting other people finish the job when they should have sent Jack Ruby.

Instead of a gunshot to the back of the head or lifetime in the Bangkok Hilton, he was sitting here – on a plane back home to Sweden. He had crawled through a world full of shit and come out on the other side, alive if not exactly clean.

‘So, how did you get on at the gym?’

‘Fine.’

‘Are you hungry?’

She nodded and gave Micke a dutiful peck on the cheek. Really she would have preferred to be left alone, making the most of her physical exhaustion from the gym to get a decent night of dream-free sleep. But she had already lied her way to one free evening this week.

Besides, he’d made dinner.

‘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 mobile, 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 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 seatbelt sign. He quickly grabbed his bag from the overhead locker 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 mobile phone. Seven hours without social media was a long time for iMorons …

A neat shoulder-tackle in the middle of a status update, and suddenly @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 towards 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 towards 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 queue and tried to look innocent.

Another glance at the time.

Two minutes had already passed and as usual he had chosen the wrong queue. 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 queue 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 fringe 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 colour 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 per cent 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 queue 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 queue. Five minutes had passed and he thought he could detect some sort of anxiety at the very back of the queue.

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

Fuckfuckfuckfuckfu …

‘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 towards 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 in 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 round 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.

Fuck!

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 …!