“Ermir Shala, I’ve never had much to do with. But Dusko Zaravic. He and I, well . . . you’ll see that he’s only done time once in Sweden. Plenty of interrogations and arrests and prosecutions, but no other convictions.”

“I interrogated both of them seventeen years ago. Just like I interrogated the two who are dead. All four were at the periphery of a large investigation, an entire family was executed—but I never managed to figure out how the family was connected to a bunch of Balkan gangsters. One of the few times I let a murderer get away.”

“Then you know, Grens—the sort that always wriggle away. The only time one of them was locked up—Dusko Zaravic for assault, kidnapping, and a whole bunch of drugs, he got nine years and served six and a half. Because I put him there. One of my jobs as an infiltrator. I succeeded where your police force never could, Grens. He spent the first few years in the Bunker with full restrictions. No leave, no visits. Then his son got sick. Leukemia, I think. And Zaravic couldn’t be with his little boy, while he was sick and dying. I have my own boys now, so I get it. And I’m quite grateful he doesn’t know about me. Grateful that Wilson, as he always did, made sure to keep my contribution out of it.”

Grens rose and they stood shoulder to shoulder.

Two people who didn’t trust anyone, but who would have to trust each other.

“It’s like this, Detective. Either Zaravic and Shala are the perps who shot their peers because someone who wants to take over the weapons market gave them enough money to do it. Or they’ll be the next ones with two holes in their heads. Either way—I need them far away from me to be able to infiltrate. With Shala and Zaravic out there, I can’t move as freely as I need to, can’t do what you want me to do. So I suggest you arrest them.”

“Arrest them?”

“Seventy-two hours. Three days. As long as you can keep a person locked up without an arrest warrant.”

“Arrest them for what?”

“Doesn’t make a damn bit of difference. Make something up. It wouldn’t be the first time—would it, Grens? When you call and tell me you’ve got the cell doors locked, well, right then the clock starts to tick. For my infiltration work and yours. Simultaneously.”

Piet Hoffmann breathed in the mild air, watching the beautiful colors of the sun rise in the sky.

“Three days, Grens. When the time comes. That’s how long we’ll have.”

Chapter 22