The Complete Game Trilogy: Game, Buzz, Bubble

Try it out, and if you like the experience,

decide if you want to continue playing.

This is your task: At the next station a man in a light coat will get on the train.

The man will be carrying a red umbrella.

For 100 points, you must take the umbrella

before the train reaches Stockholm Central.

If you succeed I will unlock the phone and it will be yours to use as long as you participate in the Game. Do you understand?

Yes

No

This was actually fucking cool, HP grinned to himself as he clicked on Yes. Real Mission Impossible stuff – all that was missing was the dry voice and the telephone going up in smoke.

This message will self-destruct in ten seconds …

He still hadn’t managed to work out which one of the other passengers was working for Manga, but it didn’t really matter. He thought he had a pretty good idea of what it was all about now. Either he was expected to chicken out and would have to put up with weeks of crap about what a coward he was, or else – and this was more likely, now he came to think about it – there’d be some trick with the umbrella. It would be glued down, or would spray water, or give him an electric shock when he tried to grab it, and one or other of the passengers would film it so he could enjoy his humiliation on YouTube for months to come. It really was a beautiful set up, and now it was too late to back out.

Excellent!

When you get the signal to start playing, fix the phone to your clothes with the camera facing out, so we can see how you get on with your task.

Do you understand?

Yep, he understood. Fix the phone to his front, camera outwards.

YouTube, here I come!

HP grinned again. God, Manga was an ingenious bastard. This set a whole new standard. As he clicked on Yes once more, he realized to his surprise that his hangover was almost gone.

Good, HP!

You can start your task.

Good luck!

The screen went dark.

Okay, better follow the rules for a bit longer, he thought, and attached the phone to his belt, with the camera facing out, as per the instructions.

As the train pulled slowly into Sollentuna station he could feel his heart start to beat faster.

The man with the light coat got on at the far end of the carriage and it took a few moments before HP saw him. An ordinary-looking Swede, about forty, one metre eighty or so, same as him. Dark-framed glasses, hair combed back, a summer suit and coat, he noted as the train set off from the platform. That had to be hot.

The man’s lower half was hidden, so HP couldn’t see if he really was carrying an umbrella. There was only one way to find out.

He stood up and started moving slowly through the carriage towards the man. For some reason he was sweating, his t-shirt was sticking to his chest and his palms itched, but this time it was more than just the hangover.

As he passed the teenage girls one of them suddenly burst out laughing and the sound made him jump. Pull yourself together, this is only a game, an elaborate prank, nothing to get excited about. Stealing a crummy umbrella was hardly that much of a challenge for him. He’d nicked considerably better things than that.

Now he could see that the man was carrying a black and white paper bag, one of those designer ones with a rope handle and a big logo to show the world that he could afford to shop in the smartest shops. A cylindrical object stuck up from one side of the bag. The umbrella!

HP felt his pulse start to race. He had to admit that this was all pretty exciting. Stealing something while the whole thing was being filmed …

Okay, so the man in the coat was in on the whole thing, but even so. There was something appealing about the unfolding situation that he couldn’t quite explain. But he really didn’t want to make a fool of himself.

‘Next stop Karlberg. Karlberg, next stop,’ the speaker in the roof announced, and he felt the train start to slow down. He took a few more cautious steps towards the man, who hadn’t so much as glanced up at him.

Then the train jolted several times and stopped at the platform. The doors opened, letting in a smell of warm tarmac and hot brakes. HP took another step forward. Here we go!

‘Pigs’ blood,’ Superintendent Runeberg said from behind his desk, leaning back in his chair.

Although several hours had passed since the events outside Rosenbad, and even though the office was air-conditioned, Rebecca was still sweating. Her hair was wet from the shower, and in the absence of anything better she had put on her gym kit, the only clean clothes she had in her locker.

‘They threw pigs’ blood at you and Lessmark,’ her boss went on. He was a thickset man in his mid-forties, with a steely gaze, spiky blond hair and a suntan that went all the way down to his scalp.

A perfect example of a bodyguard. Good-looking too, if you like the over-pumped type, she thought.

But those days were far behind her now.

Strangely, considering what had happened, she felt pretty good, with the possible exception of a bit of adrenalin-fuelled trembling that she was doing her best to hide. She had done her job and her charge was okay, that was the main thing. She could think through the details later.

‘According to Forensics, one of the men threw a balloon filled with pigs’ blood at the Minister for Integration, but you burst it with your baton and most of the contents ended up on you. The minister escaped with a few drops on her jacket and a serious bruise on her arm from where you were holding her.’

He paused, but before she could work out if she was expected to say something he went on:

‘One of the evening papers seems to have pictures already, which would explain why the third man wasn’t involved in the actual attack. Presumably he was busy taking pictures. The free market and the free press in beautiful harmony. The Minister sends her thanks and best wishes, by the way. I doubt the same could be said of the perpetrators,’ Runeberg said.

Rebecca gave a short nod in response.

‘According to eye-witnesses, the men escaped on foot, running across Gustav Adolfs torg and in through the back entrance to the Gallery shopping mall. Our uniformed colleagues in the regular force stopped the underground, but before they managed to get hold of someone in charge and the order was actually given, at least four different underground trains left Stockholm Central, and one from Kungsträdgården nearby, so if they were stupid enough not to just melt into the crowds around Sergels torg there were plenty of opportunities for them to get away on the tube.’

Runeberg shrugged in resignation.

‘One advantage of doing this sort of thing in broad daylight in the middle of the city is that it’s a lot easier than most people think to get away,’ he concluded.

‘While you were cleaning yourself up I had a quick chat with your driver, Mr Göransson. He claims that you told him to go ahead of you to the Foreign Ministry and wait there, which was why you had no escape route,’ Runeberg went on in a businesslike voice. Rebecca jerked in her chair.

Not only had Bengt disobeyed her orders and put her and her charge in danger, now the fat little bastard was lying to save his own skin. Trying to blame her for everything, what a fucking nerve! If he’d done his job and the car had been where it should have been, she would have been fine, she could have managed perfectly well without backup.

She opened her mouth to protest but her boss raised a hand to stop her.

‘Take it easy, Normén. You don’t have to say anything, I know the bastard’s lying. In the ten months that you’ve been with us, no-one’s been more by-the-book than you. You don’t do anything without considering it from every angle, and your colleagues have nothing but praise for your efforts. The other day one of them said you were one hundred and ten per cent professional, and I wouldn’t disagree with that assessment. You’re a pretty good bodyguard, Normén. For a rookie, anyway …’ he grinned. ‘Besides, Göransson is a hopeless liar. He was sweating like a pig and was almost in tears at the end of our little talk. So, since approximately an hour ago, his services have been at the disposal of the job market. I don’t give a shit what the union says. I threw him out of the back door myself,’ Runeberg concluded with a smile, nodding happily at Rebecca to confirm that he had done precisely what he said.

‘Little boys,’ she sighed inwardly before realizing that he had actually praised her work, so she opted to lower her eyes respectfully to underline her status as grateful subordinate. As usual in this sort of system, you had to make the best of things and not make a fuss.

The fact that the guard on the door had had to help still annoyed her, but Runeberg had just called her a good bodyguard, which wasn’t bad for a rookie with less than a year’s experience.

Not bad at all!

HP counted to ten in his head and glanced at the platform one last time before stepping up to the man in the coat. The man looked up at him in surprise from the newspaper he had just pulled out of his pocket.

‘Tell Manga he’s still a carpet-licking bastard!’ HP shouted into the man’s ear, as he snatched the umbrella from the paper bag and, just as the doors were beginning to close, he leapt out onto the platform. He landed so hard that he almost lost his balance and had to take a couple of lurching steps to stop himself falling flat on his face.

Fuck me! he thought as he sprinted towards the steps at the far end of the platform. It wasn’t quite the stylish exit he had planned, but what the hell. He had the umbrella, the task was accomplished and none of the nightmare scenarios he’d been imagining had come true. The umbrella had been no problem, no explosions, no cascade of water, and no grinning TV presenters telling him he’d just been caught on You’ve Been Framed, Candid Camera or some similarly classy programme.

Apart from the stumble as he left the train, everything had gone according to plan and he could relax and enjoy the adrenalin coursing through his body and driving out the last remnants of his hangover.

Not bad at all! And the bloke didn’t half look surprised when he’d told him to say hello to Manga.

Panting hard, he took the flight of steps in five long strides, and his momentum carried him through the station and out onto Rörstrandsgatan, and by the time he had jogged to St Eriksplan he was soaked in sweat, even if he wasn’t particularly out of breath.

He’d always been good at running, ever since school. He wasn’t much good at most other things, but he had a decent turn of speed.

The barriers at the underground station were unmanned, so he hopped over the turnstile to get in. He didn’t give it a second thought. He’d never paid for commuter trains or the underground, not even when he could afford to. It was a matter of principle. Power to the people!

It wasn’t until he was sitting down in the carriage that he realized he still had the phone attached to his belt. He pulled it off and looked at the screen.

Congratulations, HP!

You have successfully completed your trial task and your game account has been credited with 100 points.

The telephone is now unlocked and under the Game icon you will find more information about how to continue playing.

We recommend that you read the section

concerning the Rules of the Game, and think carefully about whether you want to continue playing.

If you would prefer not to, our paths will go separate ways and we ask you to leave the phone in the letterbox at Bellmansgatan 7.

Best wishes,

The Game Master

‘I was thinking about moving you up,’ Runeberg said.

‘Alpha needs new recruits before Sweden takes over the EU Presidency. You haven’t really been in the job long enough, but after today’s events Vahtola and I agree that you’re ready. You start on Monday, assuming that Dr Anderberg has no objections on mental health grounds. Any questions?’

She simply shook her head.

‘Well done, Normén, if you carry on like this you’ll do well here,’ he concluded, pushing his chair back from the desk.

‘Your debriefing with Anderberg is in ten minutes. Once that’s out of the way you can finish for the week. That’s all. Right, I’m off to the gym.’

He stood up to indicate that the conversation was over, and Rebecca followed suit. Her head was spinning and she couldn’t help letting slip an unprofessional smile.

The Alpha group, the reinforcement team, the elite of the personal protection squad. From Monday she would be one of them. No more beginners’ jobs, just serious, qualified bodyguards’ work.

Well done, Normén – clever girl!

When she knocked on the psychologist’s door nine minutes and fifty seconds later, she was still trying to suppress the annoying impulse to smile.

3

Are you really sure you want to enter?

When the bell on the door of the stuffy little shop started playing the opening notes of the theme to Star Wars, Magnus Sandström – or Farook Al-Hassan as he now called himself – gave no indication of having heard it. He just carried on reading the crumpled copy of Metro spread out on the counter in front of him, scarcely bothering to glance up at the visitor.

‘Salaam-Aleikum, brother HP,’ he muttered from the corner of his mouth.

‘Hi, Manga,’ HP grinned as he sauntered towards the counter. ‘Anything interesting in the paper today? Let me guess: the recession’s getting worse, Hammarby lost again, and some nutters blew something up somewhere, probably in Baghdad, Bombay, or maybe Timbuktu?’

‘Portugal,’ Manga sighed, looking up reluctantly.

‘Huh?’

‘The nutters blew something up in Lisbon – an empty luxury yacht, to be precise. No-one knows why. But you got two out of three. Hammarby are bloody useless these days.’

He folded the paper and straightened up with a sullen look on his face.

‘And you know perfectly well that I want to be called Farook now,’ he added flatly.

‘Of course I know, Mangay-boy! If you insist on turning yourself into a second-class carpet-seller, that’s your decision.’

He nodded demonstratively at Farook’s middle-eastern trousers, silk waistcoat and long shirt.

‘Just don’t expect me to buy into that bullshit. You were Manga when we started school, when we used to smoke your mum’s fags behind the Co-op, and when you lost your virginity to that fat Finnish girl in a tent at Hultsfred. So that’s who you are to me, regardless of whatever you, your wife or your latest god think, okay?’

Manga/Farook sighed again. There was no point arguing with HP when he was in this mood, he knew that from experience. Better to change the subject completely, that usually worked. HP was usually fairly easily distracted.

‘And to what does my humble little shop owe the honour of this visit, young Padwan?’ he said instead, holding out his hands to indicate the cramped space.

The shop consisted of some thirty square metres of worn cork-matting, plus a couple more hidden behind a shabby bead-curtain behind the counter. Practically every available surface, as well as several that weren’t, from floor to ceiling, was packed full of things, mainly computers and electronic components and accessories. Cases, hard-drives, cables, print cartridges and various USB gadgets jostled with printed signs for various games and all sorts of discontinued products. A worn-out air-conditioning unit above the door was fighting a noisy losing battle against both the summer heat outside and the warmth generated by the countless machines within the shop.

At the back of the shop two computers were whirring, ostensibly for demonstration purposes, but in practice this area was used as an internet café, as indicated by the neat lettering of the printed sign hanging askew above the grimy coffee-machine. The machine bore another sign offering free coffee to paying customers, but there was at present a distinct absence of these.

As usual, the lighting was subdued, mostly provided by the various screens spread around the shop. Together with the feeble fluorescent strip-light above the counter, these made up the only opposition to the sheets of paper taped across the barred window that effectively blocked out all sunlight.

HP pulled the mobile phone out of his inside pocket. With a triumphant gesture he slapped it on the counter in front of Manga.

Game over, mothafucker!

But instead of giving up and admitting everything, Manga merely adjusted his dark-framed glasses and leaned forward with interest.

‘A new mobile … pretty cool design. Haven’t seen one like that before. Found or bought?’ he summarized as he looked up again.

‘You tell me, Manga,’ HP grinned, but without quite achieving the degree of triumph he was hoping for in either the comment or the smile.

The confidence he had felt when he slapped the phone on the counter had vanished. This wasn’t turning out the way he’d expected. Manga had never been able to keep a straight face, even when it didn’t really matter. When they were younger, Manga had let HP and the others down more than once, and he had been expecting him either to confess at once, or to make a pathetic and embarrassing attempt at denial. But neither had happened, and his hastily improvised Plan B, which involved staring angrily at Mangalito, met with the same meagre response.

Not a hint, not a blink or a twitch of the eye – none of the things that usually happened to a little geek when he was out of his depth. And his voice passed the test too …

‘Huh … what you talking about, brother?’

HP tilted his head and made a last, half-hearted attempt.

‘So you’re telling me you don’t know anything about the little practical joke someone played on me on the train from Märsta half an hour or so ago?’

‘Nope, not a clue, scouts’ honour,’ Manga said, raising two fingers to where his hairline had once been.

‘Do you feel like initiating me into the mysteries of the Märsta train over a cup of Java?’ he asked, taking another look at the mobile, evidently keen to get to know it better.

‘Sure,’ HP muttered.

So what the fuck was really going on?

‘Well, if you don’t have any questions, we’re done here.’

Rebecca shook her head and was out of the sofa before the psychologist had time to stand up. She knew that debriefing was important and that it was just standard procedure after an incident like the one she had been involved in earlier, but that didn’t mean she had to like it.

She didn’t like talking in confidence to strangers, she’d had more than enough of that growing up. Even though she couldn’t have been more than six or seven years old when it started, it hadn’t taken her long to work out the ‘right’ answers. Wide-open eyes, a childlike smile, just enough confidentiality for the lies to sound sincere. It had worked well then, and it was surprisingly easy to use the same technique, with only modest adjustments, in the adult world.

‘Thanks, Dr Anderberg, I’m a bit shaken, but basically I’m fine,’ and a few more similar standard-issue clichés. The same wonky smile and shy eye contact, that usually worked. But today it felt unusually difficult. Her words rang slightly false, and the performance wasn’t as convincing as usual. She was having trouble keeping track of her thoughts and concentrating.

The composed feeling she had had in Runeberg’s office had suddenly vanished without a trace.

Her thoughts kept racing away and she was having trouble keeping her focus. The sounds were still echoing in her head. As soon as she let them loose her pulse started to race and she saw it happen all over again. The shouts from the men attacking them, the alarm, the blood-filled balloon bursting. Then Lessmark’s scream … In retrospect, the panic-stricken falsetto had become distorted in her head. Younger, more shrill. Like something she’d heard before. Her mouth felt tight and she swallowed drily a couple of times in an effort to lubricate it. Concentrate, Normén!

She had glanced furtively at Anderberg a few times, trying to sneak a look at his notes, but if the psychologist had noticed anything he’d concealed it well. He’d stuck to the standard questions, running through the usual script and making a couple of dutiful attempts to probe a bit deeper, but mercifully quickly he gave up his attempts at incisive analysis and accepted the concise answers she gave him. Her performance seemed to hold in spite of its shortcomings; it was good enough, once again. And the conversation was over at last.

They shook hands, and it wasn’t until she was halfway across the courtyard of Police Headquarters, heading towards the garage, that she realized that her t-shirt was soaked with sweat.

Anderberg stood at his window and watched her go. He took a deep breath, held it for a few seconds, then let out a deep sigh.

‘Police Inspector Rebecca Normén, thirty-four, thirteen years’ service,’ he said quietly to himself. Her career path had been fairly conventional. A few years in patrol cars after graduation from Police Academy, picking up drunks and shoplifters, breaking up fights. Then a stint in Crime via the custody-section duty desk. Then the usual – watching, investigating and pulling in wife-beaters, burglars and muggers, until she had enough experience for the Security Police and the bodyguard unit. Good references, but not exceptional. None of the over-effusive statements that were fairly common in the service when you wanted to get shot of a difficult colleague.

She could probably have applied to the personal protection unit a couple of years earlier. After the Foreign Minister was murdered the group had been expanded considerably, and female applicants had been particularly hard to find – and were therefore particularly welcome.

But Rebecca Normén had taken her time. It looked like she had wanted to put in the years and gain experience in the regular force before leaving reality behind for the secret world of the Security Police. He himself had given her a ‘highly suitable’, the second highest of the four grades used in recruitment.

‘Focused and ambitious, possibly slightly reserved,’ was how he had summarized her in his notes on that occasion, and nothing he had seen in today’s conversation had given him any real reason to change that judgement.

‘And she could also be considered fairly attractive,’ he added slightly guiltily to himself, well aware of how unprofessional the comment was. As if to make up for this slip, he qualified the thought by adding ‘if you like the tall, sporty type’, which he didn’t.

Rebecca Normén had dark eyes, defined cheekbones, and a slightly too pointed nose which, in his opinion, made her face more interesting than conventionally beautiful. Her sharp features were emphasized by the fact that she always pulled her hair back in a tight little ponytail down her neck.

But Inspector Normén wasn’t the type to draw attention to her appearance. Little or no make-up, nails cut short, and strictly practical clothing – with the possible exception of today, although he guessed this was because of the incident a few hours earlier.

Even though she had made obvious efforts to be obliging, her manner was reserved, almost defensive, offering no opening for confidential conversation. To judge from her personnel file, Rebecca kept a low profile in her unit, did her job and studiously avoided the swamp of workplace romance that was otherwise so common in the force. More than half of her male colleagues probably thought she was lesbian, and the ones who knew better had the sense not to cross the line between private life and work that Normén obviously guarded so zealously.

He doubted whether any other officer had ever got particularly close to her. A smart move if you wanted to get on in the force, and Rebecca Normén was definitely both smart and ambitious. The fact that she didn’t want to share her personal thoughts and secrets with a psychologist hardly made her unique in the force, rather the opposite.