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 Blacks 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 reporters hand.
Of course Ive 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, theyre 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.
Any time now the Carer or whatever his name was would get back from his break and discover that someone had made snake stew out of one of his little darlings, nicked his revolver and used up all the serum in the fridge.
He hoped he hadnt left any fingerprints, and with a bit of luck the blood hadnt soaked through his sock, so the cops wouldnt have anything on him. Not that it mattered, seeing as he already knew the Carer would never involve the cops. No, hed track down the closest suspect, with the emphasis on closest … and the ensuing little visit wouldnt involve asking to borrow a cup of sugar.
But there were two reasons why he couldnt just leave. To begin with, the cops had seized his passport and told him not to go anywhere. Which wasnt that much of a problem, he could always move freely among the Schengen countries. And it was always possible to conjure up a fake passport if you had the money. But the thought of ending up as an international fugitive wasnt exactly appealing …
Reason number two was considerably more serious. He was basically in too bad a state to travel. The snake poison combined with the serum cocktail he had injected himself with seemed to have aged him about sixty years, and even the short walk from the bed to the sofa left him utterly exhausted.
So he had no choice but to carry on hiding in his flat like some freaky Anne Frank.
A sudden rattle from the door made him start. A metallic scraping sound, as if someone was trying to open the letterbox.
He struggled up from the sofa and stumbled out into the hall.
There was no immediate danger. Hed fixed the letterbox just after the cops had smashed the door in.
Hed screwed it down so it couldnt be opened more than a couple of millimetres.
Too little for anyone to be able to push anything flammable through. That was the idea, anyway.
And it was also snakeproof.
Well, he thought it probably was.
All he could see was the corner of a letter, and after hesitating a few seconds he carefully pulled at it. A window envelope with some sort of official logo.
He opened it with one finger as he laboriously returned to the sofa.
Interview Summons
Henrik Pettersson is summoned to an interview in the matter of case number K-345456-12 …
He screwed the letter up and sent it flying at the wall. If the cops wanted to talk to him, theyd have to come and get him.
He slumped deeper into the sofa, found the remote and zapped slowly through the channels until he found a news bulletin.
Erik af Cederskjöld, former head of communications strategy for the Moderate Party and newly appointed press spokesman for the Palace: whats your view on the record low popularity ratings of the royal family? Dont they cast a rather negative light over preparations for the wedding … ?
He changed channel before the slimy wanker on screen had time to answer.
A washing detergent advert …
Trust Vanish …
ZAPP
Emmerdale.
ZAPP
Another channel, another interview with another dull bastard, and he zapped again. But just before the picture changed he managed to read the caption.
He practically flew up from the sofa. He hammered on the remote, making the plastic creak. Mark Black, Managing Director, PayTag Group.
He raised the volume until the red gauge on the screen was at maximum. But he still had trouble hearing what was being said. It felt like his ears were blocked and all he could hear was a vague mumble of unfamiliar voices. Fragments of sentences that didnt seem to fit together.
PayTags only aim is to help …
Merely providing what the market wants …
A more secure world …
Preventing terrorism …
Dont understand the criticism …
High time that Sweden got modern legislation properly adapted to reality …
He crept closer to the television, close enough to touch the screen. He stared at it with the same horrified fascination as he had studied the snakes consumption of the rat. And suddenly he realized that the snake and Black were actually the same sort of creature.
Monsters with ice-cold, unmoving eyes, in the process of gulping down an unsuspecting prey.
He stared at Black, at the perfect suit, neatly ironed shirt and the unpleasantly reassuring reptilian smile on the mans lips. But most of all he was staring at the woman holding onto his arm.
PayTag kills internet freedom, it said on the banner that the couple in overalls unfurled between them. Neither of them said anything, they just stood there in complete silence behind the creepy white Guy Fawkes masks they had pulled on. Kjellgren had almost reached them, but she could see him hesitating. Neither of the demonstrators made any attempt to move.
Black half turned towards her and gave her a look that immediately made her drop the hold she had just taken of his upper arm.
Perhaps its time to go in now? she murmured, but he ignored her.
Sorry, Miss Johansson. He turned back towards the television reporter. Would you mind repeating that last question?
Never do that again, Miss Normén, he said calmly as they were walking into the hotel lobby a few minutes later.
Four paracetamols.
Three glasses of water.
Two cigarettes.
One revolver.
He was ready. This task would be his last, he already knew that. But he had no choice.
Black was a poisonous snake, a monster created by the Game Master. Sent out to consume the whole world.
And he was going to start with Becca …
The scene was so familiar. Her hand on his upper arm, her steady gaze.
Becca and Dad.
Becca and Dag.
Becca and Black.
Obviously the Game Master was behind the whole thing. He had made sure Black got his claws into Becca. And, just as with that wife-beating bastard Dag, there was only one way to save her. The difference was that this time he had a proper weapon and didnt have to rely on a sabotaged balcony railing.
He pulled his jacket on, the same old army surplus coat he had used for his second task. That felt like a hundred years ago.
As for himself, he felt more than a hundred years old. More suited to a nursing home than a man on a mission.
The revolver fitted snugly into one of the deep side pockets.
He tried drawing it a few times in front of the mirror. But he couldnt quite conjure up the whole Taxi Driver vibe.
Maybe that wasnt so strange. He didnt really have the energy. And as for the way he looked … ! His beard was sticking in different directions, his eyes were sunken and his cheeks looked like two deep pits. And his lower teeth were weirdly visible, as if his bottom lip had lost its grip of his gums.
He pulled his cap down over his forehead and covered the rest of his face with a pair of outsized mirror sunglasses. No-one would recognize him, not even Becca. He almost didnt recognize himself …
The revolver felt heavy, difficult to hold straight. He tested the hammer, and had to hold it tight to move it. All it would take now was a bit of pressure, a gentle squeeze of the trigger. And it would all be over …