That image was still so fresh in Hoffmann’s mind—his oldest son’s troubled face—when he finally swallowed the last of his coffee and pushed aside his plate of crispbread crumbs to make room for this morning’s preparations.

On the far left he put the radio jammer, the timer, and his extra phone, the one he would use first. Then a centimeter-wide microphone, which he’d place strategically to capture any voices likely to be speaking another language. Interpreter. That’s what he called it. Because, along with software on his mobile phone, it would translate every word in the room he was going to visit. Next to that he lay his Radom pistol, which he kept in a shoulder holster, and his hunting knife, newly sharpened on both sides, which he kept in the other shoulder holster, and finally a bulletproof vest and the hand grenade that now lacked any plastic arms or legs.

A long line of metallic objects—and he knew exactly how to handle them.

However, his disguise.

As confident as he was about the tools that lay in front of him on the table, he was less sure that the puffy silicone on his cheeks or the mustache of real human hair above his lips would hold up to inspection if they were tested again—this time in the bright light of day.

Chapter 24

Patience had never been Ewert Grens’s strong suit. But on his fourth trip to the coffee machine to take a look at the closed door of Erik Wilson’s office, the homicide unit chief had finally arrived. Grens filled up an extra plastic mug with the same hot black drink and hurried in without knocking.

“Good morning.”

He placed a cup on Wilson’s desk and settled himself on the visitor’s chair.

“Good morning, Ewert. Bit early, isn’t it? Or did you sleep here?”

“Depends on how you look at it.”

“Oh, really?”

“Let’s just say I came and went several times throughout the night.”

“Why?”

“Because there’s been a burglary here.”

“Excuse me?”

“In the station. In the restricted archive in the cellar. And in our department. In fact, right here—in your office.”

“What are you talking about?”

Grens went over to the safe that stood in the corner of his boss’s office. A blob of metal as tall as the detective and just as bulky. And for now, only a couple hundred kilos heavier.

“In there.”

Wilson hadn’t touched his coffee. Now he did, emptied the whole mug. As if doubting he was awake.

“I repeat—what are you talking about, Ewert?”

The door to the corridor was still open a crack, you could tell whenever someone walked by. Grens closed it—made sure it was shut—and returned to the safe.