Twenty-Two.

For the first time since his months in Malmo as a sixteen-year-old under the thumb of the "German swine," Slobodan experienced great anxiety. his months in Malmo as a sixteen-year-old under the thumb of the "German swine," Slobodan experienced great anxiety.

The physical sensation itself was unpleasant, it radiated out from a point level with his navel. He was even more disturbed when he discovered what the discomfort actually consisted of: pure and unadulterated terror.

This was a feeling that, ever since he had tamed the Malmo restauranteur, he reserved for others. That was the time he had discovered the power of terror. The freshly sharpened fillet knife stuck into the man's abdomen, only two or three centimeters deep but enough for the blood to start trickling down onto the tile floor and bring fear to the German's eyes.

The knowledge that he was on his own from now on drove him beside himself. There was only one Armas, who was now lying naked in a refrigerated storage facility. And Slobodan was powerless. When he realized that the police were searching Armas's apartment he immediately started thinking of a counterstrike, but to his surprise he could not think of one. He was in the hands of the police.

He was not particularly concerned that the police was going to find any evidence of their activities in the apartment. Armas was smarter than that. But despite his well-developed concern for security and care, there was a risk. A telephone number hastily scribbled down on a newspaper, a name in an address book, or something else that could point the police in a certain direction.

Slobodan thought intensely about whether he had any incriminating material in his own apartment or at the restaurants, but could not think of anything. He realized that the police were not going to overlook any areas in their search for Armas's killer. Even he himself would be examined. He had gathered as much from the female police officer's questions.

He immediately started to work his way through his phone book, flipping through the notes he had made, searched all his desk drawers. Then he stood there for a long time, sweating and staring into s.p.a.ce, scouring his mind for anything that could threaten his freedom.

At Dakar or Alhambra there was less of a danger, for there Armas had been in charge. Slobodan knew no one who was as careful as Armas. Now he had fallen victim to someone. To seize him was an almost inhuman a.s.signment, but someone had outsmarted him.

He thought about the last thing they had done together, updating the computer. Had Armas sensed that something was afoot? Did he feel threatened? Hadn't he said something about "gaps" that needed to be filled? Had he meant Rosenberg? Armas had long been irritated over Rosenberg's indulgent lifestyle. Admittedly he had improved since Armas had worked him over, but Slobodan knew that if he could choose they would cut out Rosenberg.

"His kind only understand one language," Armas had said.

Insecurity came creeping. Perhaps Armas had concealed something from him? Slobodan rejected the idea. Armas had been his friend, his only friend. They were incapable of betraying each other.

What was it Lorenzo had said of Armas? "Multifaceted." They knew each other from their youth. "Youth," what kind of nonsense was that? It was a foreign word when it came to Armas. He had never talked about his youth or childhood. Slobodan's impression was that Armas had never been young. And was this Lorenzo likely to know things about Armas that he himself didn't know? Multifaceted? What the h.e.l.l did that mean?

Slobodan paced around the apartment. Circles of sweat appeared under his arms. The pain in his chest, that had come and gone over the past year, grew into a pressure that made him draw deeply for a breath.

Suddenly the phone rang. It is Armas, he thought for a second. Not many people called Slobodan at home: Armas, Oskar Hammer, occasionally Donald at Dakar, and then a couple of others.

He let it ring. Against his will he had a grappa. He forced himself to down the stinging liquid in an attempt to regain his focus.

"This is not fair," he muttered, and it was not Armas's fate that he was thinking of, but the failed delivery in San Sebastian. It was lost, he realized, there was no plan B. And it would be completely insane to think of an alternative at this point.

He turned on the laptop, eyed the e-mails that remained, and decided to erase all of them. A great deal of information would be lost-he did not know how he would be able to save the innocuous files-but his anxiety about what might be concealed in the inner regions of the computer made it into a threat.

After finishing his grappa he called a cab and left the apartment with his computer bag.

Once he was out in the fresh air he felt better. The knot in his stomach died away and he watched with satisfaction as a taxi pulled up, almost somewhat astonished that everything worked as before.

He ordered the driver to take him to the dump in Libro. He had been out there with Armas before and thrown away old papers and garbage from the restaurants. He asked the taxi to wait, made sure no one was watching, banged the laptop into the side of the container a few times before he wedged it in between an old filing cabinet and a mess of metal sc.r.a.ps.

He exhaled and stood stock still. Out of the corner of his eye he saw an attendant approaching. If you complain about something I'll kill you, he thought, but the man only looked indifferently at him with weary eyes.

Slobodan returned to the cab with the empty computer bag and asked to be dropped off at Alhambra. While he sank back into the seat, exhausted, he wondered if he should call Rosenberg but decided to hold off. That's what Armas would have done, he thought, and realized suddenly with great sadness how much he was going to miss him.

Twenty-Three.

Eva and Patrik were waiting in the reception area at the police station. Patrik sat down while Eva looked around. On the wall opposite the reception desk there was a piece of art that depicted a man's gigantic head. Eva thought it was grotesque and she wondered what they had been thinking when they hung such a frightening piece to welcome their visitors. in the reception area at the police station. Patrik sat down while Eva looked around. On the wall opposite the reception desk there was a piece of art that depicted a man's gigantic head. Eva thought it was grotesque and she wondered what they had been thinking when they hung such a frightening piece to welcome their visitors.

She looked at her watch. Barbro Liljendahl had said eleven and it was now ten past. She walked over to Patrik who had slouched on the chair.

"I bet she'll be coming out soon," Eva said.

Patrik did not look at her and didn't say anything. He stared dully straight ahead. How can one be so calm? she wondered.

Barbro Liljendahl turned up at a quarter past eleven. She excused herself, but Eva was struck by the suspicion that she had deliberately let them wait.

She had always disliked women police officers. Women and uniforms did not go together. She had recently seen a report on TV about American soldiers in Iraq and there had been two women in the group. One of them was called Stacey. She spoke with utter confidence about their "mission" to clean up a little village outside Tikrit. She described the a.s.signment as if it were like killing mice or other vermin, as if they were dispatched by a pest-control company. Her self-a.s.sured face glowed under the disproportionally large helmet. She chewed gum and in her eyes there was no doubt, only a discomfiting degree of certainty.

Eva and Patrik were led into a narrow room. Liljendahl took her place behind the desk, which was bare except for a folder and five paper clips laid out in a straight line, and asked them to sit down across from her. Eva considered remaining on her feet but saw the childishness of such a reaction.

Barbro Liljendahl opened the folder, but changed her mind and quickly shut it again, looking at Patrik for a moment before turning to Eva.

"Thank you for coming in," she said and Eva gave her an almost imperceptible nod.

"This is an unfortunate situation," she continued. "I hope for your forbearance with any difficulties this may cause."

Eva thought of the patrol car outside the building and all the kids who had gathered around.

"As you know, we have a report of an a.s.sault from the night before last. Three witnesses claim to have seen a man a.s.saulted by a group of young people, they are not sure of the exact number. There may have been three, perhaps four. The accounts diverge at this point. This a.s.sault was never reported; the victim was able to leave the scene on his own and when we arrived everything was calm."

She leaned forward and directed her attention at Patrik.

"Have you heard about this incident?"

Patrik shook his head.

"There must have been talk in the neighborhood. No one you knew was involved?"

"No," Patrik managed to get out.

His voice was hoa.r.s.e and he shot Eva a quick look before staring down at the floor again.

"And then last night. Then it was more serious. A man, but we no longer believe the victim was the same man as the night before, was stabbed with what we believe was a knife. He was cut in the stomach and also sustained injuries to his neck and right arm. He lost a lot of blood."

The silence in the room grew thick for a few seconds before the policewoman continued.

"He will survive, but we regard this as an attempted murder."

Patrik lifted his head and looked at Barbro Liljendahl.

"And what does this have to do with me?"

The policewoman inadvertently sighed and Eva felt a sting of guilt.

"We're not saying that you were involved, but you may know something that is of interest."

Patrik shook his head.

"It does not have to come out that the information came from you."

In your dreams, Eva thought. Patrik did not say anything.

"Where did you receive those injuries to your face?"

The swollen lip had more or less receded and the cut on his forehead was difficult to spot under his bangs.

"I fell," Patrik said. "Skateboarding."

Eva knew he was lying but could not bring herself to say anything. You b.i.t.c.h, she thought, what do you know about us?

"How long ago was that?"

"A couple of days ago."

Liljendahl nodded.

"Your brother," she said after a moment's silence. "Do you think-?"

"What does he have to do with this?"

Eva stared at the five paper clips in order not to throw herself over the policewoman in an attack of uncontrolled rage.

"Why do you have to get Hugo involved in this," she got out.

"I thought he may also have some information, something he may have seen or heard."

She is threatening me, the d.a.m.n sow, Eva thought. She wants to rip my family apart. Eva suddenly thought of Jorgen and that made her even angrier. That idiot should be here right now, taking responsibility. But it wouldn't make any difference anyway. He would just want to be accommodating and talk too much.

"Why didn't you ask him to come in as well, then?" Eva asked and saw the discomfort in the woman's face.

"There is no reason to get upset," she said.

"There isn't? But why-" Eva said. The uncomfortable feeling of hiding behind a lie caught up with her fury and silenced her abruptly. She blushed and stared down into her lap.

Barbro Liljendahl opened the folder with a sigh. Eva observed her while she eyed through the uppermost page of a bunch of papers. Different-colored paper clips were attached to some of the pages. Eva feared the folder for what it might contain. It was as if it held all that could determine her, Patrik, and Hugo's fate.

This is my day off, she thought suddenly and her anger flared up again.

"You know someone by the name of Zero, don't you?"

Patrik nodded.

"We have had our eye on him for a while. As you know he is a bit... restless."

"We played soccer together," Patrik volunteered. "Before. He was ..."

"Yes, what?"

"Nothing."

Barbro Liljendahl gazed at him for a while before she went on.

"We think he is involved in drugs. Do you know anything about that?

"Cocaine and Ecstasy," she added after a long period of ominous silence.

Eva turned and glared at her son.

"Did you know about this?" she asked sharply.

Patrik shook his head.

"You're lying!" Eva screamed.

Patrik looked up. His expression betrayed fear and astonishment. Eva rarely raised her voice.

"I don't know anything," he said quietly. But Eva could see by his face that he would soon begin to talk.

"Perhaps you should leave us for a while," Barbro Liljendahl said, and at first Eva thought the policewoman meant Patrik, then she realized this was directed at her.

She looked at Patrik, who nodded faintly. Eva stood up, full of contradictory feelings, and left the room without a word.

Twenty-Four.

On another floor of the station, the brain squad, as Ottosson called the unit, was a.s.sembled. The group consisted of Ann Lindell, almost forty years old, who after a series of publicized cases was perhaps the most well known among the police officers in the room; Ola Haver, same age, a doubter, sometimes happily married to Rebecka, at other times paralyzed by indecision as to how best to organize his life; station, the brain squad, as Ottosson called the unit, was a.s.sembled. The group consisted of Ann Lindell, almost forty years old, who after a series of publicized cases was perhaps the most well known among the police officers in the room; Ola Haver, same age, a doubter, sometimes happily married to Rebecka, at other times paralyzed by indecision as to how best to organize his life; Berglund, whose first name had been forgotten long ago, the veteran whom everyone privately admired for his wisdom; Allan Fredriksson, the gambler and birdwatcher, a skilled investigator who remained somewhat too disorganized to be truly top-notch; Beatrice Andersson, perhaps the most eminent psychologist among them, hard as flint, according to the male chauvinists in the building; and then Ottosson, the boss, who was referred to as "Liljeholmen"-as in the candle manufacturer-by someone on the drug squad because he liked to make things cozy by lighting candles.

Ottosson poured the coffee and Beatrice heaped mazarin mazarin cakes on a plate. Lindell chuckled. cakes on a plate. Lindell chuckled.

"You are too much, Otto," she said.

Ottosson patted his stomach.