Three miles east of police headquarters at Kungsholmsgatan 43, a white mobile phone traveling at its terminal velocity struck the pavement of a nearly empty municipal parking lot near the Vasa Museum. The handset exploded into shards of plastic and circuitry, and scattered across the tarmac, no piece larger than a one-kronor coin surviving. Ten minutes later and eight miles west, after another brief conversation, the third phone fared marginally better. It bounced off the vaulted roof of the rectory at Brännkyrka Church, streaked past a priceless stained-glass window, and finally came to rest under eighteen inches of well-consecrated earth in the adjacent cemetery.

*   *   *

By the time Deadmarsh’s third call ended, cars in blue and yellow Battenburg markings were racing a patternless weave across greater Stockholm. Sanderson was immediately summoned to Sjoberg’s office, and found the new investigator-in-charge already there.

“Why did he call you of all people?” Anna Forsten asked before he’d even crossed the threshold.

“I’d given him my number. I’m probably the only policeman in Sweden he knows.”

Sjoberg said, “SÄPO is going to be all over this. Can it be true? The former director of Mossad is sitting in a coma at Saint Göran?”

“It sounds incredible,” Sanderson said, “but I expect it’s true.”

Forsten flicked a well-manicured finger through a printed transcript of the calls Sanderson had just taken. “What does this mean—‘Come in quietly, kidon.’ What the devil is a kidon?”

“A kidon is a Mossad assassin.”

Sjoberg stared incredulously. “And where did this revelation come from?”

“That’s what I was trying to tell you when you—” Sanderson hesitated. He looked at each of them in turn. “Am I to understand that I’m back on this investigation?”

An agitated Sjoberg said, “No, Arne, you most certainly are not. I just need to know how—”

“Then figure it out for yourselves!” Sanderson turned on a heel and started for the door.

“Wait! I want your phone.”

Sanderson stopped.

Forsten said, “We’ll give it back once we’ve routed your number through the operations center switchboard.”

“Brilliant. And when he calls again expecting to speak to me, how will you answer?”

“He doesn’t give a damn about you. This man is obviously trying to throw us off. I wouldn’t be surprised if this whole Mossad angle is no more than misdirection.”

“I agree,” Sjoberg said. “All he’s done is prove what we already suspected—that he’s right here in Stockholm.”

“Is he?” Sanderson countered.

“Arne,” Sjoberg said, “let’s not make this more difficult than it has to be. Give me the phone.”

Sanderson pulled out his mobile and dropped it on Sjoberg’s desk. “Do what you like. But I’ll tell you this. If you … if you…” Sanderson stood still, trying to remember what he was about to say. He felt suddenly dizzy.

And then everything went blank.

Chapter 24

TWENTY-FOUR