The Game Trilogy (75 page)

Fuck!

How poisonous was a rattlesnake, on a scale of one to ten?

Presumably poisonous enough to have had to develop its own audible fucking warning system …

Don’tcomenearmebecauseifyoudoyou’refuckingdeadssss!!!

He needed a weapon of some sort, something to hit it with. But the work-table didn’t have much to offer. Not one of the tools on there was any bigger than his own pathetic little torch. He needed something serious, like a hammer, or the crowbar he’d left next to the front door …

Oh … Fucking great!

But there was a drawer just under the tabletop.

He gently moved one hand towards it, a centimetre at a time. The rattling continued unabated as the snake stared at his filthy sock.

Good snake.

Nice and eeeasy …

His fingers reached the drawer and closed around the handle. The snake still seemed to be concentrating on his foot.

Carefully he pulled the drawer out a few centimetres.

Then a few more …

It took him several seconds before he realized what he was staring at. He’d been hoping for some sort of tool.

But this was better.

MUCH better!

He put his hand inside the drawer, closed his fingers slowly around the handle and felt the mesh pattern against his palm. He had to make a serious effort not to snatch his hand back.

Nice and eeeasy …

The snake was still rattling, but didn’t seem to have made up its mind yet. He glanced at it from the corner of his eye, and saw it move its head a bit closer. His right foot was only fifteen, twenty centimetres away from its mouth. Its tongue was flicking in and out, faster now.

HP twisted his hand carefully and then pulled it back towards him. The rattling was getting louder, and the snake had drawn its head back. Getting ready …

He shifted his weight to his left leg, and turned his body slightly. Five more seconds, just five fucking seconds, that was all he needed …

Suddenly the snake’s head shot forward.

HP yanked his foot back, yanked his hand out of the drawer and squeezed. The bang was so loud it jarred his ears and he shut his eyes instinctively, turned his head away and screamed out loud in terror. But in spite of all that he carried on pulling the trigger of the revolver.

Once.

Twice.

Splinters and dust flew up from the floor, and an angry ricochet buzzed off somewhere to his right. Then a dry, dull sound of wood breaking, and suddenly the whole work-table collapsed. A cloud of dust and gunpowder smoke hit him in the face and he took a couple of steps back as he tried to swallow to clear the whistling sound from his ears.

His heart was speeding on adrenalin, his diaphragm pumping his lungs so hard that his ribs creaked.

Fucking hell …

Warily he peered at where the snake had been. The collapsed table was covering most of the floor, but there were signs of blood and sticky black snake entrails among the wreckage. Part of the tail had broken off and lay on its own in the middle of the floor. It was still twitching
spasmodically, but the sound was no longer threatening. It sounded more like broken maracas.

YES!

Eat shit and die, snake bastard!!

EAT SHIT AND FUCKING DIE!!!

It looked like he’d scored a direct hit with the revolver, and then the collapsing table had taken care of the rest. But had Sir Hiss managed to bite him?

The next moment the pain broke through the adrenalin rush in his brain and he looked down in horror.

Two tiny red marks were clearly visible on his right sock, right in the hollow between his foot and shinbone.

The Cyprus book had been waiting in an anonymous parcel on the doormat when she got home. She had already glanced through it, but wasn’t really much the wiser. The arms smuggling story was dealt with summarily, as a minor and regrettable incident in an otherwise successful mission. The details were relatively thin. Just as Uncle Tage had said, it looked like a couple of Swedish officers hadn’t been prepared to sit by and passively watch while superior forces from one side crushed the surrounded and badly equipped group on the other.

The whole thing looked like an impulsive act rather that a political statement, and in all likelihood the few weapons they tried to smuggle wouldn’t actually have made any difference at all, apart from salving the Swedes’ consciences. But the consequences of the impulsive act had been dramatic. The two officers were both dismissed immediately, and were sent home on the first plane while the rest of the battalion was hastily redeployed to southern Cyprus, away from the danger zone. She couldn’t find any information about the names of the officers, but then she hadn’t really expected to.

But she had found out one thing, something rather worrying.

A small photograph of a young officer with a rather hawkish appearance and a jacket decorated with little square badges of honour.
Lieutenant Colonel André Pellas
, according to the caption. But she was certain the picture was of Uncle Tage.

He’d never make it to hospital in time.

Södermalm Hospital wasn’t far away, but the distance wasn’t his biggest problem. He had no phone, no way of sounding the alarm.

The bangs had been loud, but the door to the snake room was thick, and he himself was the closest neighbour … it was quite possible that no-one had heard him.

All his instincts were screaming at him to go home. Run back to his flat and shut the door behind him. But if he did that, he’d never come out alive again.

He was already feeling seriously unwell, his foot had started to ache and he’d found it difficult to make his way out into the living room.

He had to think of something, right away. Even if he staggered out into the stairwell and screamed for help, banging on doors like a maniac, he doubted whether any of his constipated little neighbours would have the nerve to open their doors.

At best they’d call the cops, but by the time the boys in blue finally deigned to appear he’d be having a hot date with Rigor Mortis …

And even if, against all expectation, he managed to get to the hospital alive, it was far from certain that they’d have the right serum there. Poisonous Swedish snakes were one thing, but rattlesnake bites probably weren’t the sort of thing that cropped up particularly often in the Stockholm area.

Basically, whatever he did he was fucked.

He could feel himself on the verge of tears.

Fuck, fuck, fuckety fuck!

He had to slow his pulse down – right now his heart was nothing but a pump spreading poison round his body. If he couldn’t find a way to stop panicking, he’d soon be lying like some dribbling vegetable on this shitty floor.

He crouched down, checked over his shoulder to make sure that the door to the snake room was closed, and then took a couple of deep breaths.

His foot was shooting with pain, and the feeling of nausea was getting worse, but at least his heart seemed to be calming down. How much time did he have before he lost consciousness? Five minutes, seven maybe, but hardly much more than that …

He raised his head and looked across the dusty floor.

As he’d noticed earlier, the footsteps from the front door led straight across the floor to the snake room, with pretty much just two exceptions. The toilet and the fridge. If the Carer had snakes on the loose in his workroom, but was still the sort of person who made advanced bombs demanding total concentration, wasn’t it likely that he had some sort of contingency plan?

A few syringes of serum, just in case … And where would you keep serum, Einstein?

He got up and swayed for a moment. His right leg was definitely stiffer now. At least the fridge was switched on, he could hear it as he got closer.

It wasn’t until he put his hand on the handle that he noticed the latch and padlock.

Fucking bollocks!

He didn’t even try to pull the door open. Instead he staggered back to get the crowbar he had left against the hall wall.

The poison must already be affecting his muscles, because the crowbar felt unexpectedly heavy and he had to make a serious effort to pick it up from the floor.

His right leg was hardly obeying his orders any more, and he was also finding it difficult to breathe.

He paused for a few seconds, gathering his strength. Then he tried to insert the crowbar between the latch and the fridge door. He failed and almost dropped it. His throat was now starting to feel swollen, his eyelids were burning and it was getting harder and harder to focus.

One deep, rasping breath.

Then another …

This time the crowbar went in, the lock flew off, but the effort still made him lose his balance and collapse on the floor. For a brief moment he contemplated staying there and having a rest – just a little rest.

But then the fridge door slowly swung open and the bright light from the internal lamp snapped him out of his trance. He struggled to his knees, leaning against the door as he tried to get up.

The fridge was empty.

Almost, anyway. In the middle of the top shelf was a neat container holding five pre-prepared syringes.

He struggled to his feet, pulled down one of the glass shelves, then another. He reached for the box of syringes, closing his fingers around its cool surface.

Then everything went dark …

The black plane landed two minutes before it was due, but Rebecca was so immersed in her thoughts that she hardly noticed it.

‘A Global Express, not bad!’

‘W-what?’

‘Black’s plane, November Six Bravo.’

Kjellgren pointed at the runway.

‘Can fly nonstop from New York to Tokyo. Someone at work said the plane’s his own, not the company’s. A Global Express can carry twenty passengers, but apparently Black prefers to travel alone …’

‘Mmm,’ she murmured, squinting to see better.

Kjellgren carried on about various types of plane, but she was only half listening. It was odd to see a plane that was painted completely black. Most planes were white or grey, so she guessed the colour was a statement in itself. The plane turned off onto one of the taxiways and slowly approached its gate.

She opened the car door and got out. For some reason she was feeling slightly nervous.

She liked Black right from the start.

It was impossible not to. Unlike pretty much every other VIP she had worked with, he came straight over to shake her hand and introduce himself – as if that were necessary …

He also asked her to outline the security arrangements, and even asked her what
he
could do to make things easier for her and the other bodyguards …

She noted that he looked taller in real life than on CNN. Younger, too, come to that.

Maybe it was because he smiled more that he did on television, flashing his brilliant white teeth in a way that was immediately infectious.

Black couldn’t be much more than forty. He was at least one metre ninety tall, but in spite of his lanky body his double-breasted suit fitted him like a glove. His hair was cut short at the back, but his fringe, tinged with grey, hung down rather disobediently, so he occasionally had to run his fingers through it to push it back into place. For some reason, this repeated gesture gave his eyes more presence and intensity.

For someone who had been flying for ten hours, Black seemed almost indecently smart. Neither his shirt nor jacket showed the slightest crease, so he must have changed, maybe even had a shower?

According to her colleague’s outline, Black’s private plane wasn’t exactly lacking in comforts. But both Kjellgren and the folder of advance information she had received were wrong on one point. Black hadn’t travelled alone. A thickset man with cropped hair, a bull neck, loafers and a poorly fitting, flimsy-looking suit had also been on the plane.

For a few moments she thought he was a steward. But then their eyes met and she changed her mind at once. Bullneck was obviously in the same branch as her.

The man stayed in the background, but she could see he was listening intently to their conversation.

Once she had installed Black in the back seat of the car,
and double-checked that all the luggage was in place, Bullneck took her discreetly aside.

‘Thomas,’ he said without further pleasantries, and she wasn’t sure if it was his first or last name. ‘Chief Security Officer at PayTag,’ he went on. ‘Pleased to meet you, Rebecca. I’ve heard a lot about you …’

She gave a brief nod as they shook hands.

Sadly I can’t say the same
, she thought.

No-one’s mentioned you at all.

He was running.

As fast as he could, straight ahead towards an exit at the far end of the corridor.

But even though he was trying as hard as he could, even though the office doors on either side of him were rushing past so quickly that he could hardly see them, he didn’t seem to be getting any closer to his goal. He could feel his pursuers gaining on him …

The grey linoleum floor beneath his feet was spongy, getting softer with every step he took.

Almost like …

Sand.

He carried on running.

Knew they were still after him. Could hear their breathing cut through the desert night.

The snakes came out of nowhere. Leaping up from their lairs with their jaws open and teeth glinting. Dozens of them, maybe even hundreds. He did his best to avoid them, zigzagging over the sand dunes to make himself a more difficult target.

But it was impossible.

He felt teeth bite into his thigh.

Once, twice, three times …

More …

Then all of a sudden the snakes were gone.

He glanced back quickly over his shoulder and saw them getting closer. Hundreds of men in suits, racing over the sand. The bowler hats on their heads were pulled down low, almost to their eyebrows, but where their nose and mouth should be they had nothing but a large green apple.

The men were gaining on him, the sand was flying up around their well-polished shoes. His chest felt like it was about to burst and his legs suddenly felt heavy as lead, but he forced them to do as he commanded.

Onward!

Upward.

Towards the top.

He could see the drop opening out ahead of him and tried to change direction. But his legs were no longer obeying him. Instead they carried on straight ahead, forcing him closer to the steep edge of something that was no longer a sand dune but the roof of a building.

He could see birds waiting far below. Thousands of black desert ravens with glossy feathers and beaks the shape of scimitars.

Unless his eyes were deceiving him?

Were they actually sharp, oily rocks?

He fell.

Slowly at first.

Then faster and faster.

The ground was getting closer.

He knew it was going to hurt. More than anything he had ever experienced before. And at the precise moment that the pain shot through his body, making his limbs contract in a violent spasm, he heard their voices.

‘Do you want to play a game, Henrik Pettersson?!’

Wanna play a …

GAME?

The word was still echoing through his head when he woke up.

It took him a few moments to remember where he was, then a few more to remember what had happened. Then came the panic. He opened his eyes and tried to sit up but his body wouldn’t do as he wanted.

And it was dark.

Pitch black.

Paralysed, then.

Blind.

Soon to be dead …

So this was how it was going to end, on a filthy kitchen floor in an abandoned flat. Tears began to stream from his eyes, and he tried to blink them away as best he could.

But suddenly he noticed a subtle change on the pitch black darkness. A pale grey streak that got stronger and stronger until he was able to make out certain details. A ceiling, a lamp. Then a window covered by a roller-blind, and a crooked pine dresser in one corner. The feeling was gradually returning to his limbs and he suddenly realized he wasn’t lying on a hard kitchen floor. Instead he seemed to be at home, in his own bedroom.

Howthefuck …?

He made a fresh attempt to sit up, and this time it went rather better.

Yep, his suspicions were confirmed. He was in his own fucking bed, with something that felt like the mother of all hangovers. His body ached absolutely everywhere, from the tips of his toes to the top of his scalp. His headache was so bad it was throbbing against his eyeballs, almost making him blink in time with it. He could feel the pressure building, so got to his feet and stumbled towards the toilet.

Unfortunately he didn’t quite make it, but at least he
managed to catch most of the vomit in his hands. With a great deal of effort he clambered into the bathtub, turned on the taps and lifted his head towards the wonderful, liberating torrent of water.

He sat in the bath for more than an hour, just letting the water wash over his body. He only moved to throw up a couple more times into the drain in the floor beside the bath, and his skin had started to wrinkle by the time he had come round enough to pull his clothes off and do an inventory of the damage.

His body was shaking like mad, switching between shivering and hot flushes, but at least he was still alive, in spite of everything …

His ankle looked like an American football, and the two small holes made by the snake’s fangs were clearly visible. So why wasn’t he dead?

He found the answer higher up on the side of his thigh.

A couple of bruises the size of large coins, and a few drops of congealed blood. He must have managed to inject himself with the syringes containing the antidote after all. It looked like he’d rammed in all five of them, then crawled back to his own flat. Saving himself at the last fucking second!
Nice work, HP!!

Another attack of the shakes made his teeth chatter, and he turned the temperature dial further to the red. The hot water stung his skin, but he was still finding it hard not to shiver.

He turned off the taps, wrapped himself up in a couple of towels, then staggered stiff-legged out into the hall, almost tripping over the crowbar on the floor. Over by the doormat he could see the torch. So he’d evidently managed to drag everything back with him from the snake flat and not leave any evidence behind.

Job well done!

Then he caught sight of the revolver lying right beside the door.

He picked it up carefully. It felt much heavier than he remembered. The acrid smell of powder was still obvious.

He peered out at the landing through the spyhole, but everything seemed quiet.

And the door to the neighbouring flat was closed as well – good!

Even in his moment of direst need, he had had the sense to shut the bastard snakes in …

So basically he had saved the lives of his stuck-up neighbours.

Housing Association block number 6 would like to inform all residents about the presence of one or more snakes apparently at large on the premises
…

He tried to laugh, but all that came out of his mouth was a sad croak that made his brain slosh against his skull, so he stopped abruptly. Instead he shuffled back into the kitchen and drank four glasses of tepid tap-water.

He left the revolver in the drainer section of the sink.

Black carried on chatting to her almost the whole way into the city. Asking questions about Sweden and Swedish culture, and she found herself telling him about paid parental leave and strange midsummer rituals before they reached the Grand Hotel.

Thomas didn’t say a word. He sat there in the back next to Black, and spent most of the journey fiddling with his Blackberry. But she noticed that he was carefully following all that was going on inside the car.

About a dozen reporters were loitering outside the hotel, and she spotted them from a distance.

‘The press are here,’ she said. ‘We can use the rear entrance if you’d rather avoid them …’

Thomas looked like he was about to say something, but Black got there first.

‘No, no, we’ll take the main entrance. I presume we’re in safe hands, Miss Normén …’

‘Main entrance,’ she said into her wrist microphone, and got a clipped ‘Copy that’ from the car behind.

They stopped at the edge of the pavement and she allowed a few seconds for the two men in the following car to stop and get out before she opened her own door.

There were something like ten, twelve people there. None of them seemed particularly enthusiastic or aggressive. They kept at a respectful distance as they waited.

Mrsic from the other car had already taken up position on the steps. He looked round and then gave her a short nod. She opened Black’s door and the flashes of the cameras started to go off. But there was no great wave of them, just a few dutiful clicks, and she guessed that most of the photographers were there to take pictures of wedding guests rather than her VIP.

She walked in front, with the two men a metre or so behind her.

They could have been inside within ten seconds, but Black caught sight of the television camera.

‘Miss Johansson,’ he said a little too loud, shaking the female reporter’s hand.

‘Of course I’ve got a moment,’ she heard him say. Rebecca regrouped immediately and positioned herself to one side just behind Black. Thomas carried on into the hotel, however, and she watched as Mrsic held the door open for him.

Two people in what looked like white overalls suddenly appeared on the edge of the crowd right next to the side of the building, and she saw them doing something with a bag they had brought with them.
Probably workmen, but for some reason their presence felt slightly unsettling.

She raised the wrist with the microphone to her mouth, ready to speak into it. She vaguely recognized the blonde television reporter as an economics specialist for one of the channels, and the woman must have said something funny because Black laughed out loud. The couple in overalls, a man and a woman in their twenties, were still occupied with their bag. Rebecca turned her head to call Mrsic over to her, but the door was unguarded. He must have gone inside with Thomas and not noticed that they had stopped …

‘Well, Miss Johansson, PayTag exists for one single, very simple reason,’ she heard Black say. ‘We want to make a difference. We want to help our clients here in Sweden and around the world to store sensitive material in a way that is one hundred percent secure. Dealing very firmly with the risks inherent in the management of information. Obviously we ourselves have no interest in our clients’ data …’

The movements of the pair in overalls seemed to be getting jerkier, more agitated. There was still no sign of Mrsic. She pressed the transmit button on her microphone. Her right hand had suddenly started to shake.

‘Kjellgren, two people in white overalls over by the wall, they’re doing something, can you see them?’

‘I see them, on my way!’

From the corner of her eye she saw the car door open. Kjellgren was stepping onto the pavement when the pair in overalls spun round.

Obviously he ought to flee the city.

Get away, a fuck of a long way away, somewhere no bastard would ever find him.