•   •   •

Piet Hoffmann had tried to call Andy three times to tell him that everything was fine, the boy was back. No answer. That wasn’t like his most reliable guard. Didn’t he hear the phone—was he on his way anyway? In that case, he’d soon realize that the family he was guarding was actually Hoffmann’s own. It shouldn’t matter that Andy knew. But it felt wrong now, after he chose not to tell him, even lied to him.

His hand, fingers, searching every inch of the brick wall. There wasn’t much wall space left, and he still hadn’t found what he was looking for, and it was at that point that the heat and stink of the boiler room started to penetrate his consciousness.

The brick at the bottom left.

The seam between the bricks was a little rougher there, his fingertip’s journey not as smooth and even.

He pressed the stone, very hard. And the whole wall started to move. From that seam, an awkward door slid up.

Houses built for high-ranking politicians, linked with secret tunnels.

That was what Latifi’s papers had shown. Tunnels created for escape, or unofficial meetings, or maybe it was just the dictatorship’s way of reinforcing the feeling of inaccessibility. A solution reminiscent of the one he’d used in a house that—according to Zofia—no longer existed, brick walls were forgiving because seams were rarely symmetrical and therefore tricked the eye that didn’t know where to look.

He turned on his flashlight and stepped into the tunnel. He pushed the same brick to shut the hidden door behind him. Seventy-five meters, a little hunched over, with everything he needed on his back. Then, according to the drawings, the next brick wall would be waiting for him.

12:52 PM

(9 hours and 10 minutes remaining)

The sun reflected off the waxed floor of the Kronoberg jail as Ewert Grens exited it. Dusko Zaravic was still sitting in the fourth cell on the left, and just as unwilling to talk as the first time—he’d stared at the floor while the detective superintendent questioned him about his role in the Swedish weapons trade, mumbling no comment to all the questions about his relationship to Albania, and told the detective to go to hell when the conversation turned to his three dead colleagues. They were both professionals, and they knew how it worked. Grens needed something concrete that would constitute evidence or suspicion enough to extend the arrest warrant, Zaravic knew the less he talked, the less likely they’d be able to keep him.

Elevator down, a new corridor, elevator up.

Erik Wilson was waiting as promised at his desk, and also as promised, he hadn’t changed his mind.

“I’m not contacting the prosecutor. I’m not negotiating the arrest. I did that last time, Ewert, after your subtle threat, but not again.”

“In that case, the bastard will be released tonight.”

“You got your chance. But you haven’t shown me anything to hold him.”