Each sat with their cup of even stronger coffee, though Hoffmann hadn’t known that was possible. And the roll of dry biscuits that was still difficult to chew. At a kitchen table covered with pictures of the living and the dead—Dejan Pejović and Branko Stojanović. Older pictures taken of them in action discreetly from a distance by police officers during various investigations. And day-old pictures of the two of them on their backs with two bullet holes in their heads. Grens didn’t say a word, gave no explanations, no names, didn’t want to interrupt something as important as a first impression—so he sat in silence and drank coffee while he waited for Hoffmann’s reaction.

“You’ll infiltrate for me, Grens, if I infiltrate for you?”

“Exactly.”

“And these two here are my mission?”

“Not them. They don’t have much of a future as you can see. But it’s what they’re a part of. The illegal arms trade. I want to know who killed them and why. Before more people die.”

Piet Hoffmann grabbed a picture taken with a telephoto lens by a hunched-over undercover detective from across Sergels Square. Two men were standing at the bottom of a large staircase near the entrance to the subway, obviously discussing something.

“This is the only picture you have of the two of them together?”

“I think so. At least the only one my colleagues have found so far. Do you recognize them?”

Hoffmann examined the photograph. Used to reading a room under great stress. Now he was in no hurry, and he turned and twisted the slightly grainy image. Until he pointed to the man on the left, the taller of the two who was wearing a black leather jacket and some kind of hat.

“Dejo P. That’s what they called him. His name was Dejan, don’t remember the rest. A dangerous motherfucker. Or more likely, wanted to be. I once saw him walk straight into a fucking drug den with a chain saw in his hand. Seriously. Like in some shitty movie. Not sure what he was after. Respect, maybe. He never got mine.”

Piet Hoffmann’s index finger wandered over the picture of the other man. Wide-shouldered, slightly bent. White T-shirt, gray trousers, and red sneakers. Fat gold chain around his neck, and a newsboy cap pulled low on his forehead.

“Branko. I’m sure of it. Last name starts with an S. And unlike Dejo P, he was dangerous—for real. Branko didn’t need chain saws. You just knew. A guy you’d have a real problem with if you made any trouble.”

“How well do you know them? Knew?”