The Complete Game Trilogy: Game, Buzz, Bubble - Литагент HarperCollins USD

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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

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