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 couldnt 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 colleagues outline, Blacks private plane wasnt exactly lacking in comforts. But both Kjellgren and the folder of advance information she had received were wrong on one point. Black hadnt 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 wasnt sure if it was his first or last name. Chief Security Officer at PayTag, he went on. Pleased to meet you, Rebecca. Ive heard a lot about you …
She gave a brief nod as they shook hands.
Sadly I cant say the same, she thought.
No-ones 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 didnt 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 wouldnt 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 wasnt 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 didnt 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 snakes fangs were clearly visible. So why wasnt 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 hed 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 hed 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 didnt 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 youd rather avoid them …
Thomas looked like he was about to say something, but Black got there first.
No, no, well take the main entrance. I presume were 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.