Piet Hoffmann didn’t drink hard liquor very often either—wasn’t the type who needed extra courage to meet himself. But right now, at this table, in the home of the detective superintendent—it just tasted good. Hoffmann emptied his glass and waited for Grens to refill it before responding.

“I sold drugs. You know that, Grens. And I did time for it. But drugs are a completely different business—that’s all about mass imports. Weapons on the other hand, you don’t fill up trucks with those. Micro smuggling. Two or three Kalashnikovs or maybe five handguns at a time. No more. That’s how it works. The weapons market in this country isn’t controlled by large arms dealers. Not yet. It’s driven by self-interest. Every criminal organization ensures that they have enough for their own purposes, and then they’re satisfied. They buy abroad and use their own channels to bring that shit in. And they don’t resell, that’s not the point. So, for example, a few years ago when the Råby Soldiers bought up every fucking piece they could get their hands on so that a rival gang couldn’t get any, then things got a bit shaky for a while. But that was the exception, Grens. If a new player, the one threatening me, were to step in with a train car full of very powerful machine guns—well, that would change everything. You’d know it immediately, you’d hear about it in your police station within ten minutes. And if you think you have problems now with gang shootings . . . well, all I can say is good luck.”

“So who’s threatening you? Who wants to corner the Swedish market?”

“Listen, if I knew I wouldn’t be sitting here. I have gone through every single contact I have—and I’ve got quite a few, both inside and outside prison walls. They usually know if anything’s up. But not this. The only thing I can say for sure is that one of your fucking colleagues has switched sides and that’s key.”

Grens picked up the top folder and pointed to a picture of a still living Dejan Pejović.

“And these two? Or rather whomever they worked for? Could they be threatening you? Could they know who you are and what you did?”

“No.”

“And you’re sure about that because . . . ?”

“I’m not sure of anything. But that these two could get some cop to risk everything for them—nah. I don’t believe it.”

“Who else? The Polish mafia you infiltrated on our behalf?”

“Unfortunately they found out who I was. As you may remember. But after that—well, they don’t exist anymore.”

“The Colombian drug cartel you infiltrated on behalf of American DEA?”

“No. They didn’t know anything. Still don’t.”

“The African smugglers you infiltrated on my behalf?”