Wilson pointed to the image of a transformed Hoffmann. And it occurred to Grens that it was working. The disguise. Of course this was just a crappy phone picture on a tiny screen, and meeting someone in real life was much more than just surface appearance, but Wilson, one of the people who knew Hoffmann best, didn’t seem at all suspicious and that felt quite promising.

“That’s what I said the first time I saw him.”

“Who?”

“I can’t tell you. But that’s the man who is going to help me find out who broke the seal on that envelope. And he needs our help to do it. For three days, to be exact. And his new credentials have to be ready by tomorrow morning. And you’ll need to attach a letter of recommendation addressed To Whom It May Concern, stating how reliable and capable Verner Larsson has been during his years as an employee of the City Police, which you will sign.”

“Verner Larsson?”

“As good a name as any.”

“So you want me to . . . Ewert, have you completely lost your mind?”

“Not quite.”

“I would never give a badge to someone who isn’t an officer!”

“Mmm. Such a shame. Because . . . how does that go now? We don’t use criminal infiltrators. And no one has broken into your office and stolen any incriminating documents. And if . . .”

“That’s enough.”

“. . . I’m not talking . . .”

“That’s enough, Ewert.”

Erik Wilson was still sitting at his desk staring at the locked safe when Grens headed back to his own office. As soon as he stepped through his door, he closed it and called the same number he had an hour ago. Mariana Hermansson. Who had now arrived at Regerings Street 79 and yet another stairwell filled with forensic technicians, medical examiners, and a dead man on his back with a bullet hole in his forehead and his temple.

“A copy, Ewert, of the other two. No doubt about it. The same shooter.”

“The victim?”

“The initial observations seem correct. A forty-five-year-old male who, according to the ID in his wallet, is named Ermir Shala. Just a quick search in the police records showed that his appearance and height are a match. Also, identifying marks—tattoo of a sword in a stone on his forearm, a birthmark on his right ear, and a distinct scar from one side of his throat to the other.”

“Good. Then you can leave the crime scene. And take care of your other two assignments.”

“Two? You told me to track down and arrest someone named Dusko Zaravic for some bullshit and hold him for seventy-two hours. That was what you said.”

“That’s what I said. And he should be arrested. Before midnight. And later we’ll have much more to hold him on than just bullshit. But something else has come up that I want . . . well, I want you to take care of it personally.”

“What’s that?”