The Game Trilogy (35 page)

The Landcruiser behind them reversed a few metres, and without taking her eyes off the crowd she banged on the roof of the car to signal to Modin to follow suit.

Slowly their car began rolling backwards over the uneven road surface.

The passenger door was still wide-open, waiting for her to jump in.

At the same moment as the cortege began its retreat the noise of the crowd rose to a furious roar and the feeble cordon holding it back gave way.

The soldier closest to them didn’t even have time to raise his gun before he was swallowed up by the mob.

In just a couple of seconds their car was surrounded. Hands banging on the bonnet and windscreen – tugging at her clothes, trying to pull her away from the open door.

She stumbled and for one panic-stricken moment thought she was about to fall.

Her pulse was racing as she struggled to pull herself free, but she was being attacked from all sides.

Hands were roaming over her belt, towards the pistol in her firmly clenched right hand. She smashed her left hand into someone’s face, kneed another man in the crotch and rammed her head back towards a voice that was yelling in her ear, but her attackers were too numerous and she was likely to fall at any moment, and then everything would be over.

Suddenly the car jolted and the heavy door swung back, clearing enough of her attackers out of the way for Rebecca to be able to pull her right arm free and draw her pistol.

Barrel in the air, squeeze the trigger!

The weapon jerked in her hand – once, then several more times, and suddenly the roar switched from fury to fear and panic. And suddenly she was free. The people closest to her tried to flee and collided with others who were still pushing forward. Screams blended into the sound of bodies thudding together. She heard shots from directly in front of her. Short salvoes of automatic rifle fire, probably aimed directly into the crowd. A bullet buzzed past her head like an angry bee, but she hardly noticed it. Modin revved the engine and the spinning wheels threw up clouds of dust that quickly filled the whole of her field of vision with red fog.

The car began to pick up speed. She stumbled but eventually managed to grab hold of the swinging door. Her fingers were still clutching her trigger, the barrel pointing up at the sky.

The man came straight out of the cloud of dust. Right in front of the bonnet, maybe six, eight metres away. He leaped nimbly over the prostrate bodies and zigzagged through the fleeing crowd, heading straight for the car. He had one hand halfway out of the plastic bag. The object was clearly visible now.

Rebecca lowered the arm holding her pistol, trying to aim at his legs, but it was impossible to hold the gun steady. The car was speeding up, throwing up yet more red dust, then hit the front of the vehicle reversing behind them. The sudden stop sent the car door swinging back to hit Rebecca on the chin, and once again she almost fell. For a few seconds all she could see were stars and red fog.

When her vision cleared the revolver was pointing straight at her.

She was riding him like a bucking bronco.

Her perfect silicon breasts were bouncing in sync as she ground her hairless crotch against his pelvic bone. She had one hand on the frame of the bed and the other wound in a tight grip of his long hair, so hard that he could hear the roots groan as she pulled him to her. The heels of her shoes were digging painful grooves in the outside of his thighs.

But he really didn’t give a shit, because the businesswoman was giving him the ride of his life.

He certainly wasn’t an inexperienced pilot in the bedroom – quite the contrary! In fact he had always regarded himself as something of a Top Gun in that area.

But by God, could she fuck!

This year’s Gonzo at the Adult Awards, with a double nomination for
Female Performer of the Year.
The experience was so intense that he had to keep reminding himself to breathe.

His groin began to twitch – the tension transmitted itself to the rest of his body as he tried in vain to think about something that would put him off. But it was impossible.

‘I’m coming,’ he gurgled in warning, but she made no attempt to get off. Instead she let go of the headboard, moved her hand down her back towards his groin, and, just as he started to come, she dug her nails into his scrotum. He thought he was dying! His orgasm was so intense that he arched his back as far as it would go, and, to judge by her screams, she was using his movements to her own advantage.

It took him several minutes to come to his senses again,
during which time she had rolled off him and lit a cigarette.

‘Isn’t this a non-smoking room?’ was the first thing he managed to say when he regained the power of speech.

‘Who are you – the smoking police?’ she grinned, blowing a long plume of smoke towards the ceiling.

Quite. Who the fuck cared? What a total dweeb he could be sometimes!

‘What … what’s your name?’ he stammered, in the absence of anything better to say.

‘Anna – Anna Argos.’

She put the cigarette out in one of the glasses on the bedside table, then slid down the bed.

‘Erm … nice to meet you, Anna.’

But she didn’t answer. Her mouth was already fully occupied trying to wake the dead.

The gun was pointing straight at her, but Rebecca still couldn’t move.

Her arms were hanging over the car door while her feet dragged on the ground rushing past below her. She was still clutching the pistol in her right hand, but because the whole of her bodyweight was resting on her lower arms, she couldn’t move it more than a centimetre or so. She tried to get a foothold, so she could redistribute her weight and free up her pistol-arm.

But the running man had already raised his own gun and she realized she didn’t have time. The dust was flying up from the car wheels, swirling round her and narrowing her field of vision to a red tunnel, until all she could see was the barrel of the shiny revolver at the far end. She waited for the shot.

But it didn’t come.

The car suddenly lurched hard to the right, and the
force of the swerve was so great that it threw her halfway inside the vehicle. She got a grip on the seat, managed to brace one leg against the door pillar, and pulled herself in. The car continued to spin, the door slammed shut behind her and suddenly they had performed a 180-degree turn and were heading forward again, back down the road they had arrived on.

The dust from the Landcruiser’s wheels billowed around them and Modin had to switch on the windscreen-wipers to see anything.

Rebecca spun round to try to get a glimpse of the man with the revolver through the rear window. She rested her arm on the back of the seat, ready to fire. Her eye was glued to the view along the barrel of the gun, her finger on the trigger …

But all she could see behind them was a swirling cloud of red dust that seemed to cover the whole world.

The refugee camp, the mob, the man with the revolver – everything just vanished. After only a couple of seconds it was as if they had never existed at all …

Modin was shouting something, and far away she heard the radio crackle, but her pulse was pounding so hard against her eardrums that she couldn’t make out any of the words.

Everything around her seemed to be happening in slow motion. She could make out the tiniest details: the smell of the leather seats, the figures huddled on the back seat, Modin’s jerky movements as she fought to keep the car on the road.

Her hands were clutching the pistol so tightly that her fingers were beginning to cramp.

The dust was still being whirled up by the airflow behind the car, forming long, hypnotic spirals that captured her attention and made it impossible to look away.

Then Modin must have hit a pothole, because for a few moments it felt as if they were flying, floating free, almost like in a dream.

A couple of milliseconds of weightlessness – then the car hit the ground again. Rebecca’s back crashed down against one of the seats, the dreamlike sensation vanished and she was knocked back into reality again.

‘Answer the radio!’ Modin was shouting, and at the same moment Rebecca realized that her earpiece had fallen out and was dangling on her right shoulder. She quickly poked it back into her ear, lowered her gun and sank back onto the passenger seat.

‘Is everyone okay, Normén, over?’

Malmén’s voice sounded worried.

She twisted round to glance at her fellow passengers.

The minister and Gladh were huddled on either side of the back seat.

‘Are you okay back there?’

No answer, but two chalk-white faces peered slowly up at her.

‘Are you okay, Ann-Christin?’

Rebecca leaned back at an angle and prodded one of the minister’s knees, which was at least enough to prompt a glassy nod in response.

‘The minister’s okay, we’re returning to the villa,’ she said as calmly as she could into the microphone, but the radio somehow seemed to reinforce the tremble in her voice.

‘Understood,’ Malmén replied curtly.

Rebecca suddenly realized she was still clutching her pistol with her right hand.

She loosened her grip, put the gun back in its holster, then slowly pulled the seatbelt on.

Her pulse had begun to slow down, the adrenalin kick
faded away and she could feel a vague sense of nausea rising in its place.

‘That was fucking close …’

Without taking her eyes from the road Modin nodded in response.

‘I thought I’d had it for a moment there, I don’t know why he didn’t shoot?’

Modin gave her quick sideways glance.

‘He probably didn’t have time to get his rifle out before they were on top of him.’

It took a couple of seconds before Rebecca understood.

‘No, no, not the soldier – I mean the man with the revolver.’

‘Who?’ Modin said, shooting her a questioning look.

Before she had time to answer, Gladh leaned forward and spoke into her left ear.

‘What the hell do you think you’re playing at, Normén?’ he hissed.

‘Hello?’

‘Good evening, my friend. It is already evening with you, isn’t it …? Is this a bad time to call?’

‘No, no, not at all, I’ve been waiting for you to get in touch. I’m in position – is everything … ready?’

‘Everything’s ready.’

‘What about…?’

‘Like I said – everything’s ready. The only question is: are you? The task is risky, so I can understand that you might be feeling doubtful … But the fact is that we can’t do this without your help.’

‘I’m ready – no problem!’

‘Excellent!’

‘So when do we get going?’

‘Soon, my friend – very soon …’

‘Darfur?’

‘Hmm …’

‘How long?’

‘About a week for recon, four days with the minister, then a couple of days to finish off. Two weeks in total, I’d
guess, depending a bit on whether I come home in the government plane or have to take a regular flight.’

He nodded, then looked down at the morning paper open in front of him.

‘It’s my job, Micke. You know that.’

‘I know,’ he muttered without looking up. ‘But that doesn’t mean I have to cheer every time you head off for some new dangerous location, especially when there are other options. So what’s it going to be next time, Baghdad?’

More like Kabul
, she almost said, but stopped herself before the words formed. She was planning to hold back that particular little surprise until she was sure it was her team that would be going.

‘Look,’ she said, then waited until he looked up. ‘I am actually capable of taking care of myself, and besides, I like my job. We’ve already been through this whole idea of me doing something else, like working for your lot, so you know how I feel. How about showing a bit of support instead of this grouchy routine every morning?’

She held his gaze for a couple of seconds until, as usual, he backed down.

‘Sure, sorry, I didn’t mean to sound like an old woman …’

He folded the newspaper and put his hand over hers.

‘Sorry, Becca, of course you need to go. Okay? The last thing you need is problems at home before a trip like this. I’ve just been having trouble sleeping, lots to do at work, you know …’

He looked at her with his puppy-dog eyes and she smiled back dutifully.

‘Sure,’ she muttered. ‘No problem.’

His abrupt change of attitude ought to have cheered her up, but instead she mostly just felt disappointed.

Micke was a wonderful guy who never caused any
trouble, and who always backed down if they had different opinions. Good job, good general knowledge, sense of humour, all that … The dream prince, really, especially in comparison with her previous attachments.

But still she found herself regretting not throwing the Afghanistan trip in his face while she had the chance. Pouring a bit of petrol on the flames just to see what would happen. But good girls didn’t do that sort of thing …

Besides, there wouldn’t have been any point.

He might have sulked for another minute or so, but the end result would have been the same.

Big, sad, puppy-dog eyes and ‘Sorry, Becca’.

For some reason that whole routine was starting to make her skin crawl and the idea of working for the same company as him held no appeal at all, even if the salary they were offering was almost
double
what she was getting now.

Sometimes she longed for the days when they only used to meet up for a bit of undemanding sex. He’d been more fun back then, more exciting somehow …

She grabbed part of the paper and started to leaf through it without much interest. He did the same for a few moments and she was left in peace with her thoughts.

She had everything she could wish for – and she still wasn’t happy.

What was wrong with her?

There had been two million dollars, give or take a bit of loose change, in the Game’s account when he cleared it out.

Admittedly, slightly less than he had expected at the start, but still more than enough to be able to live a comfortable life.

A fair bit of money had gone to certain people at the
banks that had helped him wipe away any trail, and some more had gone to the solicitor who had sorted things out for him back home. Paying off the mortgage on his flat, setting up one trust fund to take care of ongoing costs, and another to give the poor cop he almost managed to kill at Lindhagensplan a bit of money to compensate for his aches and pains. The newly established Special Police Foundation had awarded Inspector Hans Kruse a tax-free grant of a million kronor for bravery in the course of duty, and, for the same reason, his colleague Rebecca Normén had received an amount which almost exactly matched the amount owing on her mortgage with Handelsbanken.

Thanks to the solicitor all the documentation was 100% kosher, so neither of the recipients had thought to question their award. He also knew that his old friends Gustav ‘the Goat’ Boch and Farook ‘Manga’ Al-Hassan had each received a bulging envelope through their letterboxes, the contents of which more than made up for the cost of two wrecked mopeds and a fire-damaged shop.

After all his settlements and allowing for living expenses, about half of his haul remained.

A cool million dollars, stashed fucking well out of sight somewhere only he could find it. Not bad …

Four people in her team – three men and one woman.

There really ought to be more, but at the present time the supply of bodyguards was nowhere near enough to meet demand.

But anyway …

Four well-trained, experienced bodyguards who had worked together for a long time and who knew exactly how things were done. Even so, a new boss almost always introduced a note of uncertainty, all the more complicated because they had known each other for a while. No matter
what anyone might say when asked, most people aren’t especially fond of change. The problem with her group was that they had been without a boss for several months and that the group’s deputy, David Malmén, had been expected to be appointed as the new boss.

The other three listened to him, and would have trouble accepting anyone else in command if he didn’t. Groups with unofficial leaders never worked in the long run. She had seen that at first hand when she was training, as well as later in her career.

It would take both sensitivity and a firm hand if she was going to succeed. The margin for error was practically non-existent.

The flight had been wearing, three changes before they finally reached Khartoum.

A few nights in a hotel and a load of meetings to sort out the formalities.

The Sudanese authorities wanted to inspect everything – their weapons, communications equipment and bulletproof vests. And all their papers had to be checked, stamped, double-checked and stamped again before they could pick up their vehicles and finally get going.

The further south they got, the more barren the landscape became. Dry red earth spread out around them, swirling up under their vehicles and finding its way into every gap, so that all their clothing and equipment ended up covered in a fine, crisp, pink skin.

Even though it was winter the heat was unbearable at times. Karolina Modin took care of the driving while she sat beside her in the boss’s seat.

Bengt Esbjörnsson was driving the big vehicle that followed them, with their interpreter as a passenger.

Malmén and Göransson were going to be arriving in a couple of days with the minister in the government plane.
In the meantime she and the other two were supposed to check out the places they were due to visit.

She had put a fair amount of thought into the planning. She and Peter Göransson had trained together, and had worked together before, so she was fairly comfortable with him.

Malmén and Esbjörnsson got on well, so by splitting them up and hopefully getting a bit of time to talk to Modin as well, she would get the chance to refine the new hierarchy within the group. But she had to admit that her plan hadn’t worked brilliantly so far …

Her decision to keep Malmén as her deputy hadn’t been met with the acclaim she had expected. But perhaps that wasn’t so strange. She hadn’t really had much choice.

And the journey down hadn’t exactly gone smoothly.

Esbjörnsson was a taciturn man from the far north of Sweden who didn’t say more than he had to, and Karolina Modin kept to herself without being either unpleasant or particularly unfriendly.

Really the group should have had time to work together at home before being sent out into a live situation like this one, but her boss hadn’t been willing to hear anything of that sort.

Superintendent Runeberg had interrupted her with a look that made her feel like a whining schoolkid. ‘You wanted to be put in charge, Normén, so you’re just going to have to grit your teeth and get on with it,’ he’d told her.

They had picked up embassy counsellor Gladh in Khartoum, along with his assistant and their interpreter. It had only taken her a matter of seconds to read this particularly arrogant man, and unfortunately her fears had been proved right more or less immediately. The old duffer must have started work at the Foreign Ministry
before she was born. She had never seen him dressed in anything but a pin-striped suit, tie and with a handkerchief tucked into his top pocket. The outfit only made him look even taller and skinnier, almost a caricature of himself, and on the few occasions that he deigned to talk to them his reverberant aristocratic southern-Swedish accent made it hard not to laugh.

Gladh had spent most of the return journey on the phone making complaints to his colleagues in the Foreign Ministry about how his staff could have made all the security arrangements with the Sudanese government instead of them bothering to fly in inexperienced Swedish police officers with no knowledge of the country or the culture. It also turned out that Gladh had a nephew in the police, and he declared that he ‘knew a few things about the force’, which, to judge from his tone of voice and the look on his face, clearly wasn’t meant to be taken as anything positive.

The only good thing about the journey was that Karolina Modin seemed to share Rebecca’s opinion of the embassy counsellor, and as the drive went on they exchanged ironic glances at some of the things he came out with.

Unfortunately Gladh wasn’t stupid enough not to notice the looks on their faces, and the atmosphere inside the car had practically reached freezing-point by the time they arrived.

In marked contrast, Gladh’s assistant, Håkan Berglund, was a pleasant man of about the same age as her, who made a few attempts to smooth over some of the worst of his boss’s behaviour.

‘Sixten is a bit old-school,’ he said apologetically during their first after-work drink together. ‘He’s actually not a bad person, and I’ve learned a fair bit from working with him.’

Rebecca shrugged.

‘He can behave however he likes, as long as you make it clear to him that I’m the one who decides where the minister goes and where she doesn’t go, not Foreign Ministry protocol, okay?’

Berglund saluted her with his glass.

‘Understood, Inspector. By the way, have I mentioned that I’m moving back to Stockholm in a couple of weeks …?’ He gave her a warm smile, and it was more or less as she realized how much she liked his smile that she remembered that she’d forgotten to call home.

His life as a fugitive had started off pretty damn well.

First stop: his old friend Jesus’s holiday flats in Thailand where he lazed about under the palm trees. Reliving happy memories of how he’d beaten the Game and made off with all their money.

But after a month or so he’d started to feel restless.

Hanging out in a hammock listening to the waves breaking sounded pretty fucking sweet when you talked about it – but for the rest of his life?

No fucking way!

Just like Caine the
Kung Fu
movie legend, he wasn’t the type to settle down.

So he rented some wheels and spent a couple of weeks easy-riding before he got tired of the smell of exhaust fumes, a chafed arse and insects between his teeth.

Then he worked his way through the Philippines, Singapore and Bali before making his way Down Under.

He filled his days with tourist adventures – crocodile safaris, bungee jumps from bridges, swimming with sharks.

But
purchased experiences didn’t count
– especially not after everything he had been through, so he tired of
pre-packaged adventures and started to feel restless again, and decided to move on.

He had wondered about carrying on eastward, maybe all the way to the States, but he wasn’t confident his fake identity would stand up at Immigration.

The passport was one thing, but fingerprints were harder to falsify and the Game Master was bound to have had him wiped off every database imaginable.

The thought of doing a stretch as a prison bitch in Alabama State was terrifying enough to make him park the dream of the US of A in the long-stay carpark.

Besides, all the constant drifting about was starting to get on his nerves.

The restlessness inside him seemed to grow exponentially, along with his insomnia.

More or less consciously, he slowly began to make his way north. He stopped off in India, spending several weeks doped up on the beach in Goa before he finally ended up here – in fucking Neverland.

Dubai is very cool, you will lurve it, my friend
– mais bien sûr!

Note to self – never take travel advice from French queers with black AmEx cards, no matter how much Mary Jane they offer …

He’d already had more than his fill after OD’ing on the combined tourist attractions of the eastern hemisphere, and the whole of this make-believe country was pretty much as genuine as the name in his latest passport.

A façade, a soulless fucking surface without the faintest hint of any connection to its history – or reality either, come to that …

His new playmate Vincent had promised to meet up with him, but so far he hadn’t heard a peep from him. At a guess the Frenchman and his posse were still lost in a
cloud of smoke on the beach in Goa while he himself was languishing on this artificial island like some sort of luxury castaway. All he needed was a make-believe friend and he’d be home and dry.