This point had settled in Sanderson’s mind five years ago when he’d met Elin Almgren. In the course of a particularly maddening investigation, Almgren had helped him track down a killer, passing critical information that others in her service might have held as proprietary. Sanderson had since reciprocated, most recently helping Almgren and SÄPO make a solid case against an international money-laundering network. It was the kind of intergovernmental cooperation that was vital to effective law enforcement, yet rarely seen as a result of turf wars. Fortunately, a handful of midlevel people like Sanderson and Almgren knew how to bend the system in favor of results.

He had arranged to meet Almgren for lunch at The Flying Horse Pub, and in keeping with their private tradition, since Sanderson had made the request he was obliged to pick up the bill.

“The Flying Horse Chipotle Burger?” he asked.

“Best burger in town,” she said, adding, “and the most expensive.” She was a decent-looking woman with fair hair, blue eyes, and the prominent worry lines that came from twenty years of surveillance, late meetings, and otherwise keeping crown and country secure.

“If you don’t mind my saying so, Arne, you don’t look well.”

“I’ve been having trouble sleeping.”

“You need more sex.”

Sanderson grinned. This was Almgren’s answer to all things amiss in his life. She’d said it when he and Ingrid were near a split, and again afterward when he’d fallen into a miserable funk. Less credibly, it was also her advice when his arthritic knee acted up. Given that Almgren was a lesbian in a long-term relationship, there was no hint of suggestiveness or hidden meaning. And along these same lines, her recommendation carried the weight of what one might find in the middle of a fortune cookie.

“I’m working on it,” Sanderson said.

“No you’re not. You’re repressed. Always have been.”

The waitress swooped in with two pints of ale. She was a slim, tattooed girl of no more than twenty, and as she walked away Sanderson made a point of leering at her bottom.

“Oh, please,” Almgren said, addressing her beer. “I hear you’ve been taken off these two shootings.”

“That’s right. Sjoberg is convinced I’m going daft.”

“Going? You’ve been that way for years, darling. He’s just now realizing it? My opinion of the man slips another notch.”

Sanderson responded by taking a long pull of his own beer.

“All right, what do you need?” she asked.

“I think this man we’re looking for is Israeli.”

“Israeli? What makes you say that?”

“The victim who ended up in a coma in the hospital—he was conscious when they first brought him to the emergency room. The staff heard him speaking Hebrew.”

“Hebrew? You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

Almgren gave this some thought. “There are Jews in Sweden, Arne.”

He gave her a suffering look.

“Lillehammer?” she said tentatively.