Manuel shook his head, not sure if Slobodan would buy the lie. He did not know what had appeared in the papers or what Slobodan knew about where the drugs had gone.

"But it will cost you," he went on.

"I have never received anything for free in my entire life," Slobodan said, and smiled.

He appeared unaffected. The hangover he most likely had felt as he woke up appeared to be gone.

"But I don't buy something that already belongs to me," he added.

"Well, then," Manuel said. "There are other buyers."

"Did you try with Armas first?"

"I don't know who that is," Manuel said and Slobodan stared at him for a long time before he spoke.

"How is Patricio? Is he well?"

"I am going to visit him tomorrow."

Manuel did not like the situation. There was a veiled threat behind Slobodan's questions, the same tactic that Armas had used to try and shake him up.

"How long have you been in Sweden?"

"Not long."

"I can reimburse you for your costs."

"Fifty thousand dollars," Manuel said and tried to keep his voice level.

Slobodan chuckled. Manuel watched him without moving a muscle, hoping the fat one would not realize how nervous he was. He had been taking a chance when he threw out that figure, but now he saw in Slobodan's reaction that fifty thousand dollars was in the ballpark.

The thought of offering Slobodan the chance to buy back his own stash of drugs had come as an inspiration, and now seemed like sheer genius. He imagined the possibilities; now his brother could get a more comfortable life in prison.

Slobodan stared thoughtfully at Manuel for a few seconds before he stood up and left the room. Manuel heard the sound of liquid pouring into the toilet bowl and how the fat one splashed water, snorted, and talked loudly to himself. Finally there was some rinsing and a short laugh.

When the restaurant owner returned he looked decidedly more alert. The thin hair had been water combed back over his head and several drops of water glittered on his cheek.

He glanced quickly at the double bed, the sheets lay wrinkled and bunched up at its foot, so he shook his head and sat down in the other armchair.

"So, let's do business," he said and smiled broadly.

Manuel longed for his tent by the river. He was tired and stiff and feared what was to come. Did he have enough power to stand up to Slobodan Andersson?

"Fifty thousand," he said and knew in the moment what he should do. Patricio would get money and Slobodan would be punished without Manuel having to exert any extra effort.

"Why should I trust you?"

"You trusted my brothers."

"How much do you have?"

Manuel measured with his hands.

"Two kilos, maybe more, I don't know."

"If it is Angel's package it is around two kilos," Slobodan said. "And you are charging fifty thousand dollars? Do you understand what that means?"

Manuel shook his head.

"It is worth perhaps a million Swedish kronor. I can make five hundred kronor per gram. So far I have paid out one hundred thousand dollars and with your fifty thousand that comes to more than one million kronor. I get the money back and that is good, but I deserve a small profit," he went on in a conciliatory tone, "I could perhaps sc.r.a.pe together twenty-five thousand. That is a fortune to you."

Manuel calculated feverishly in his mind but there were too many numbers.

"My family has suffered a great deal," he said.

They negotiated a little longer and finally agreed that Manuel would get forty thousand. Manuel was sweating, while Slobodan appeared to be enjoying himself. He got to his feet with some effort, walked over to Manuel, and stretched out his hands as a sign that they were in agreement. Manuel hesitated for a second before shaking the hand of the man of the mountain.

Have I sold my soul now, he asked himself.

As Manuel stepped out onto the street below Slobodan Andersson's apartment, he stumbled momentarily as if he had been struck, steadied himself by pressing his back up against the wall and brought his hands over his face. A woman who was walking by stared at his with undisguised curiosity and distaste. the street below Slobodan Andersson's apartment, he stumbled momentarily as if he had been struck, steadied himself by pressing his back up against the wall and brought his hands over his face. A woman who was walking by stared at his with undisguised curiosity and distaste.

"Filthy sc.u.m!" she hissed.

It was a little after nine o'clock. Manuel walked in the direction of Dakar where his car was parked, completely wrung out and empty inside.

Forty-Five.

Detective Inspector Erik Schonell was deathly tired of American action films. Luckily, he only needed to watch a few seconds of the start of each film, fast-forwarding to check out a couple scenes further on, before he could eject the videotape from the player. The problem was that there were one hundred and twenty-two movies in Armas's video library. deathly tired of American action films. Luckily, he only needed to watch a few seconds of the start of each film, fast-forwarding to check out a couple scenes further on, before he could eject the videotape from the player. The problem was that there were one hundred and twenty-two movies in Armas's video library.

Now he was done and he had found nothing notable in the collection. There was definitely no Mexican connection, if you didn't count the murder of a Mexican family that occurred in one of the films.

The p.o.r.n flick that had been found on the top of Armas's television was the only jarring element. Schonell had earlier watched several minutes of it and thought it was most likely shot somewhere in the Mediterranean region, perhaps Spain. The plot was very simple: a party of four golf players with athletic builds suddenly realized they were gay and devoted several days to traditional swinging and putting, with intermittent bouts of intense copulation in the sand traps and on the fairways. The dialogue was thin and scanty. The s.e.x scenes were mechanical and without finesse. It was, in other words, a traditional p.o.r.n flick.

"A hole by any other word," Schonell, who was an avid golfer himself, muttered, and inserted the tape into the player.

He leaned back in his chair but then stood up and closed the door, adjusted the volume and sat back down again. On his initial viewing he had seen something that in a vague way awakened his interest. There was something in the film that nagged at him but he was unable to put his finger on it. Given that Lindell believed the videotapes could have an implication for the investigation-she had not elaborated on her interest in the Mexico angle-Schonell was determined to do a thorough job. No one would be able to claim that he had been sloppy. Most of all he did not want this Lindell at violent crimes to be able to find fault with him.

The movie went on. Schonell checked the time and wished he had gotten himself a cup of coffee and a sweet. When one of the golf players inserted a club handle into the backside of his opponent, Schonell sighed heavily.

The camera focused on the penetrated man. Sweat ran down his face and several fine pieces of gravel had stuck to his forehead. He rolled his eyes and pretended to be enjoying himself, though surely no one found pleasure in a five iron back there, Schonell thought. Then Schonell stiffened, fumbled for the remote control, played back the same scene and paused the picture at the moment when the man in the bunker turned his upper body and looked back at his partner.

Schonell reached for the phone and dialed Lindell's number. She promised to come by at once. Erik Schonell whistled smugly. I should have asked her to bring me a cup of coffee, he thought, and studied the picture on the screen.

There was a knock on the door several minutes later. Schonell opened and pointed at the television without a word. The satisfaction in seeing Lindell's chin fall, and her hand rise up at the frozen image was worth all the time spent watching bad movies with Bruce Willis and Sandra Bullock.

"Holy s.h.i.t!" Lindell exclaimed.

"Isn't it great?" Schonell said.

"Good work."

This was exactly what Schonell wanted to hear.

"It took awhile," he said, "but I had the feeling there was something here."

Then he discarded his indifferent att.i.tude and eagerly explained how many hours he had spent watching the videos, and how something about the p.o.r.n film had nagged at him, and how he had watched it over and over again until he finally spotted the likeness.

Lindell laughed and added a comment about his doggedness to her earlier praise.

"Let's call Otto. Do you have any coffee in here?"

"I'll get it," Schonell said and rushed out into the corridor.

Schonell's office quickly became crowded. Whether it was the promise of seeing something awesome or Lindell's enthusiasm that had lured their colleagues was of no importance to Schonell, who basked in the glory. People came and went and the speculation went into overdrive. Whether it was the promise of seeing something awesome or Lindell's enthusiasm that had lured their colleagues was of no importance to Schonell, who basked in the glory. People came and went and the speculation went into overdrive.

"I bet it's a case of blackmail," Fredriksson said, and that appeared to be the theory that found the most support.

Lindell did not say much, but studied the image with extreme care, seeing in the man's eyes a desire to please but also the opposite, a kind of defiance. She estimated his age at between twenty and twenty-five. He had brown eyes and a wide forehead. But what clinched it was the small mouth and the cruel angle of the thin lips.

The man could have been Armas's twin. Lindell was willing to bet good money on his being the son of the murdered man. The question of which direction this find was going to take the investigation was already being discussed, even though his ident.i.ty had not been confirmed.

"This video may have nothing at all to do with the case," Sammy Nilsson threw out.

Ottosson shook his head.

"It has a connection to Armas, and therefore to the case," he said. "It has some sort of bearing on the crime. Well done, Schonell!" he added, cast a final glance on the television screen, and left the room.

Before Lindell returned to her office, she delegated the tasks that the new find presented. She asked Schonell to arrange for copies of a number of pictures of the actor. Beatrice Andersson, who had been looking at the image with distaste for a few seconds, only to turn away, received the task of identifying the company that had produced the video and determine if they were in any way cooperative.

Bea took a look at the cover and read the information in fine print.

"It was produced in California. I'm more than happy to go there," she said.

Ann Lindell was too restless to return to what she had been doing earlier in the day, and ended up standing in front of the window trying to put together a picture of what had happened. If the man in the video really was Armas's son, then that presented a complication. But it could also further the investigation. Was this blackmail? Had someone discovered that Armas's son was a p.o.r.n actor and tried to use this to press him for money? What did Slobodan know? He had claimed that Armas had no relatives. Was this a lie or did he simply not know about Armas's son? to return to what she had been doing earlier in the day, and ended up standing in front of the window trying to put together a picture of what had happened. If the man in the video really was Armas's son, then that presented a complication. But it could also further the investigation. Was this blackmail? Had someone discovered that Armas's son was a p.o.r.n actor and tried to use this to press him for money? What did Slobodan know? He had claimed that Armas had no relatives. Was this a lie or did he simply not know about Armas's son?

Slow down, she thought, he hasn't been identified yet. But that was an objection with little practical value. She had made up her mind: this was Armas's son. The prints that they had secured on the videotape belonged to the blackmailer, she also decided.

She walked over to the phone, located Slobodan Andersson's number, and called him up. For the first time the restaurant owner sounded relaxed, even suggesting that he could stop by the police station if that was more convenient for Lindell.

"What is this about?"

"I have some thoughts that I wanted to test out on you," Lindell said, trying to reciprocate his friendliness, even if she sensed an element of calculation in his unusually mild tone.

They agreed that Slobodan would report to the police station reception area in one hour. During that time Lindell planned to read a report on Quetzalcoatl that Fryklund, a new recruit, had a.s.sembled.

It turned out that the report plunged her into a description of Indian mythology that she had trouble following. There were too many unp.r.o.nounceable names and, in addition, the information was periodically squeezed out by her memory of the frozen image on the television screen. But she managed to pick up enough to understand that Quetzalcoatl was a powerful G.o.d in Aztec culture. The recruit had also included half a dozen different ill.u.s.trations that all depicted a figure with a frightening face and feathers. Some depicted a dancing figure.

Attached was also a list of tattoo artists who had identified this G.o.d as one of their more popular designs. The first name on the list was a Sammy Ramirez from Guadalajara, Mexico, complete with address and telephone number, who used the exact design that Armas had had tattooed onto his arm.

Lindell reached for the phone in order to dial the number, when it occurred to her that there must be a significant time difference between Mexico and Sweden. What time could it be in Guadalajara? She did not know and decided to take a chance.

"Sammy," a man answered in a groggy voice, followed by something in Spanish that Lindell did not understand.

Lindell introduced herself and apologized for the fact that she was probably calling at an inappropriate hour. Sammy groaned but did not hang up, something that encouraged Lindell to continue in her labored English.

The tattoo artist listened attentively to her story, that she was calling in regards to a serious crime and that they were looking for a white man who may have once have been Sammy's client. She described Armas as best she could. While Lindell was zealously talking it struck her that this was like looking for a needle in a haystack, and she concluded her monologue with this metaphor.

"And I am the needle," Sammy Ramirez said, and Lindell heard a low, delighted chuckle. Sammy then told her that he could very well recall the tall man from Sweden. They had come into contact about two or three years ago. Armas had come to his studio and leafed through the folders with the different designs until he fell for the Quetzalcoatl. Why it had been this design Sammy could not remember, perhaps because he himself was drawn to mythological symbols and had spoken very warmly in favor of the Aztec G.o.d.

"Did he say anything about why he was in Mexico?"

"Not as far as I can remember. One reason I remember him so well is that he did not say very much."

"Was anyone with him?"

"Yes, a fat man who stank of sweat. He came several times and watched but mostly seemed irritated."

"Where is Guadalajara?"

"Western Mexico. About the same longitude as Mexico City but more west, toward the Pacific Ocean."

"What do people do there?"

Sammy Ramirez laughed.

"What do you do in Sweden?"

"What I mean is, why was he there?"

"I think he was traveling through, came from the north, perhaps from the States, on his way south. I don't know. As I said, he did not say very much."

"Was he sensitive to the pain? I imagine it must hurt."

"No, it does not hurt very much, and from what I can remember he did not complain."

"Did he say that he was Swedish?"

"I a.s.sume so, you are calling from Sweden."

"Do you have a fax machine? Could you look at a picture and tell me if it is the same man."

Ramirez gave her a fax number and they ended the call.