“If you spend twenty years in the underbelly of Stockholm, you meet just about everybody. We didn’t know each other, Grens—we knew of each other. Saw each other around the pubs. Bought and sold a bit. Made sure others could buy and sell. We were all the type that wasn’t supposed to be seen. And it wasn’t like Dejo P or Branko or I was very interesting—the interesting ones were those we were being paid to protect.”

Ewert Grens lifted two of the documents and placed them on the table, propping them against the wall. Pictures from two crime scenes and two dead men.

“You got the first names right, Hoffmann. Meet former Mr. Dejan Pejović and former Mr. Branko Stojanović. Murdered this morning. And as you can see—both have double bullet holes in their heads.”

Hoffmann leaned closer to the pictures, studied them, and after a moment he pointed to the two destroyed heads.

“Ulcinj.”

“Excuse me?”

“A city in eastern Montenegro. A few miles from the Albanian border. Not far from either Podgorica or Tirana.”

“And?”

“It’s an Ulcinj execution. That’s what they call it, Grens. Two shots to the head—on the right of the forehead and below the left temple.”

They drank strong coffee and shared the last of the biscuits, three each. The detective gathered the pictures and placed the four plastic folders in front of his guest, patted them.

“Your task in our little infiltration exchange: who killed them and why? This is all the information we were able to gather today. Read it. Memorize it. Because I can’t make any copies—and I’ll need to take them back to the police station later this morning.”

Piet Hoffmann patted the stack of documents in the same way the detective had. Illustratively. Before making a similar point by patting his new puffy cheeks and crooked nose.

“And your part, Grens? What are you gonna do for me?”

Ewert Grens opened a cabinet beneath the sink. When he closed it again, he was holding a bottle of whiskey in his hand. Single malt. Light and not at all smoky.

“As you know Hoffmann, I very rarely drink. But not even I can take another cup of coffee tonight. A glass?”

Grens filled two small drinking glasses. They looked at each other, swallowed, felt that warmth spread through their chests. It was rather nice even if it did share space with so much anxiety. Maybe for that reason.

“Okay—I ask you to find out who murdered two hit men with links to Europe’s mafia-run weapons trade. You ask me to infiltrate my own workplace because an organization is threatening you and your family and trying to take over the illegal arms trade. Let’s start there, Hoffmann. I think we’re sitting across from each other because this is connected. Connected by the Swedish arms trade.”