“I’ll assume by your silence that you really didn’t know,” Deadmarsh prompted.

“Are you saying this was some kind of attempted assassination?”

“You figure it out. I want to talk about my wife.”

Sanderson half-listened as Deadmarsh made her case, the fugitive stonemason explaining that his wife was only a victim in some ill-defined scheme. The tech gave a wild thumbs-up and wrote another note. We have him locked! Near Frihamnen Ferry Terminal!

Sanderson issued an order he was in no position to give—he made a circular carry-on motion with his free hand to indicate that the duty officer should launch the fleet. The man complied, and within seconds every available unit on the east side of Stockholm was descending on the computed position.

Deadmarsh chose that moment to say, “Sorry, Inspector, but let me call you right back.”

The line went dead.

*   *   *

“You can’t do that!” Janna Magnussen shouted.

Slaton had opened the side window of the Cessna. It was an easy thing to do, a single latch, and had raised the level of wind noise considerably. What had his pilot’s attention, however, was that he was holding the mobile phone outside with one hand as he studied the breaks in the clouds below. When they were over a clear section of the Lilla Värtan Strait, he let fly.

“No! You cannot do that!”

Slaton watched the handset flutter down behind them, but quickly lost sight.

“It is against the law to drop things from an aircraft!” she protested.

Slaton eyed her. The cockpit was loud, but it was a small space, so he was sure Magnussen had heard at least some of his conversation with Inspector Sanderson. Now he’d begun dropping objects on the city below. It was a pivotal moment, and one that Slaton had anticipated, indeed planned. Before calling Sanderson again, there was a need to amend his relationship with his pilot. He pulled the Beretta from his right thigh pocket and pointed it across his body. Magnussen’s scowl shifted, annoyance giving way to concern. But the pilot kept her cool, as pilots were prone to do. She had certainly faced moments of more immediate peril—terrible thunderstorms, ice-covered wings, oncoming aircraft. All the same, Slaton had her undivided attention.

“I need your help,” he said.

“This is how you ask for help?”