‘So a lot of our lack of trust is a sort of mutual power trip? Each country’s Big Brother stands to gain if we stay scared of each other?’
‘Exactly, brother, you’ve hit the nail on the head!’ Manga hit the wheel with one hand.
HP shrugged. Bloody hell, maybe the Mangster actually had a point?
‘… and the name? I mean, I get the Al-Hassan, seeing as your dad’s name is Hasse, but why Farook?’
‘Well, as I’m sure you know, Magnus means “great”, which doesn’t exactly apply to me …’
HP couldn’t help grinning.
Manga was small and wiry, with thick glasses and his hairline was already halfway to the North Pole. In purely physical terms, he wasn’t what you’d call great.
‘I’ve never really felt much like a Magnus, and Manga sounds so eighties. It just seemed to make sense when I converted. Farook is someone who can tell good and bad apart. Someone who helps others find the right path. Religion helped me to sort out a whole load of stuff, and I hoped I might be able to do the same for other people.’
‘So that’s why you haven’t given up even on such a hopeless case as me? You’re my spiritual guide?’
‘Something like that, brother, something like that,’ Manga smiled, then turned on the car radio.
All readings back to normal, HP thought happily and slumped down slightly in his seat. But he couldn’t help taking the occasional surreptitious glance in the wing-mirror.
Rebecca was sitting outside the door to an anonymous conference room in the parliament building with a cup of coffee from a vending-machine in her hand. It was really far too early for her to be back at work, but she’d insisted and no-one had protested, not even Anderberg. Besides, the personal protection unit was on its knees in advance of the EU Presidency, and every man or woman who was able to work was welcome. All of the reserves had been called up, meaning that they had an extra twenty-five people who had previously served in the unit. But they were still having trouble covering all their duties.
Rebecca’s charge was behind the conference-room door, and, according to the schedule, would be there for at least another two hours. Wikström, with whom she was sharing the assignment, had just headed down to the canteen to have a quick lunch, and in half an hour’s time, when he got back, she would be doing the same.
Scenarios like this were what bodyguard work mainly consisted of. Waiting, more waiting, and then a move to a different location where the waiting would begin again. There was no way to pass the time apart from taking short walks along the corridor or talking to your colleagues. Books and MP3-players, the things other people used to pass the time, were obviously banned in her line of work. Nearly all of it was pure routine mixed with tedium. The difficulty was staying alert and ready for the brief periods that weren’t routine. She had already experienced more than her fair share of those …
She had four years left of her secondment to the Security Police, and she had already seen more action than most bodyguards did in their entire careers.
In spite of this, she still liked the job, the whole deal of being a protector, in charge of a situation. Detailed planning, checking routes and escape plans, thinking through every possible scenario with the others in the unit. If X occurs, I’ll do Y and you do Z.
The set-up was basically the same for each job, regardless of who was being protected. You just added more people and equipment if the threat-level was higher. You also had to plan for basic requirements, meals, toilet breaks, that sort of thing. Timetables and schedules were always changing, and lunch and dinner could suddenly fall by the wayside. Always have a few protein bars with you. She had been grateful for that piece of advice from an older colleague on more than one occasion when her blood-sugar levels had nearly gone through the floor.
Bodyguards were important to democracy, more so in recent years since attacks on politicians had become more common. The subjects she had encountered so far had been pleasant, almost grateful for their protection and had been careful to follow all instructions. But she hadn’t yet had the ‘honour’ of working in the royal protection unit …
His Majesty usually wanted the officers as far away from his royal person as possible. Ideally they should be invisible, or at least out of sight. That business with the explosion in Kungsträdgården seemed to have to changed his tune, though.
That had been completely crazy. At the time, His Royal Highness had been absolutely furious about what had happened, and hadn’t minced his words to his bodyguards. Evidently they hadn’t been close enough to protect him, which coming from him was rather ironic.
But after the first few days of hysteria the media had calmed down The explosion had frightened the horses but no one had been killed, and it had been a while since she last read an article confidently identifying the purpose of the attack.
Because the attack had been aimed at the head of state, the Security Police were in charge of the investigation, but to judge by Vahtola and Runeberg’s comments they didn’t exactly have any red-hot leads. ‘Single perpetrator on a moped, heading towards Birger Jarlsgatan.’ This had been the first description circulated, and she suspected that its single sentence pretty much summed up the findings of the investigation so far.
The door to the conference room opened and Rebecca stood up at once. But it was only one of the assistants coming out to fetch some more bottled water.
She glanced at the time and sat down on her chair to wait a bit longer. It was another three hours before the next shift came on duty.
The cottage wasn’t such a bad idea! It had electricity and running water. And Manga had loaned him a laptop with television reception that could crack all the coded channels. Okay, he’d have to shit in a little outhouse in the corner of the allotment, but that was no biggy. As long as he had HBO he could squeeze one out on a flowerbed if he had to.
He’d been very careful when he came out here. He’d packed just a few things in a rucksack, pillow, sleeping-bag and a little food, as well as the bag of grass he’d bought with the five hundred that Manga guiltily gave him as compensation for his failing hospitality. The miserable witch had looked pleased when HP left, but he didn’t care. Now at least he was his own man.
He had taken the underground to Slussen, then changed to the green line and headed all the way out to Fridhemsplan. Once he got there he pulled an old spy trick, waiting until the doors were about to close, then jumping straight onto a train heading back into the city.
Just to be sure he repeated the stunt at the central station before carrying on to Zinkensdamm where he stole a woman’s ramshackle bicycle and made his way up into Tantolunden.
Finding the right place had been easy, yellow wooden panelling with white windows and two big apple trees in the plot. He hadn’t been out here since he was a teenager and his gang used to hang around the mini-golf course to check out the girls and smoke the menthol cigarettes he’d nicked off his mum. Happy days …
Back then he had mainly thought that allotment cottages were pathetic, but now he was grown up he had to admit that having a miniature house wasn’t such a stupid idea, especially if you needed somewhere to hide away from the rest of the world. If the Game was going to find him here, they’d have to put in a bit of effort; he grinned, taking a deep drag of a fat joint.
Pretty nice living like this, close to nature, birdsong and a solitary lawnmower the only sounds. If he concentrated he could just about hear traffic in the distance, from Hornstull and Ringvägen, but it just seemed to fade into the background somehow.
He lazed about for a while on the rib-backed sofa in what was supposed to be the kitchen, but which, apart from the sofa and table, consisted of one cupboard and a tiny little sink. The sun was shining through the leaded window and he felt far more relaxed here than in Manga’s