‘Frequently,’ George replied. ‘But they can’t do anything. They tell us that worldwide aluminium production is in balance, and that there’s more than enough produced. But they say they can’t interfere with who buys it.’

‘And who is buying all the registered aluminium?’

‘That’s what we don’t know. There’s a complete wall of silence around the whole thing,’ he said. ‘That’s where you come in.’

Agla lifted a questioning eyebrow and waited for him to continue.

‘We’re co-operating with several other major aluminium consumers and we want to offer you – what should we call it? – a consulting role. We’d like you to check things out for us and pull a few strings. Find out who is buying all the LME-registered production. You have links with a gentleman who has brokered deals for those purchasing this massively expensive, unregistered aluminium that we have also had to buy. He organises direct sales from aluminium producers in Iceland, Norway and Russia. So he ought to know what’s happening to all the LME-registered production from the same smelters.’

‘Ah.’

Agla knew instantly who he was referring to. There was only one man who could fit such a description. Ingimar.

14

‘Politicians, the media and police forces across Europe have closed their eyes to the fact that radical Muslim groups have been able to establish themselves here, and it’s a question of when and not if they take action,’ the voice on the radio said. ‘And what are we going to do about this? Are we just going to sit and wait until it’s too late?’ the voice demanded.

A meaningful look passed between Anton and Gunnar.

‘This guy’s a high-school teacher,’ Gunnar said.

‘And there was some lawyer on there yesterday being interviewed and saying the same thing,’ Anton replied. ‘He said that people need to wake up and do something.’ He could feel the return of the disquiet, the feeling that had plagued him ever since he had promised Júlía’s father that he would take care of her. ‘Shit,’ he said. ‘Someone’s got to take a stand against these bastards.’

‘Yep,’ Gunnar agreed, switching off the radio. ‘But how are we going to do it?’

Anton looked at the stack of dynamite they had placed in a black sack on the floor of the basement room his parents referred to as the boiler room. It had once housed a cylinder that had been part of some ancient heating system, but now it was just a storage space.

Gunnar was impatient. He didn’t want to spend time listening to Radio Edda or talking things over. He was desperate to try setting off some explosions. Anton was starting to doubt that he was part of this because of deeply held convictions, instead suspecting that for Gunnar it was more about the excitement.

‘We need to see what we can use as detonators,’ Anton said.

‘How about a little petrol bomb in the middle that sets the dynamite off?’