“If he’s released—you know what that means. The papers stolen from your safe, Wilson. You know what’s in them, about Hoffmann, what he used to do for us, for you, and you know what will happen if Zaravic finds out.”

“We can’t just lock up someone who’s not suspected of committing a crime.”

Grens looked at his boss. There was nothing else to say right now. Wilson was technically right—and Grens wasn’t showing all of his cards.

“And Ewert, I understand why this is so important for Piet Hoffmann. But why is it important to you? We both know what Hoffmann is good at and that you’re helping him—so what’s he doing for you that I should know about?”

That was a question the detective superintendent wasn’t ready to answer. Not as long as someone was leaking information from this unit. He stood up to leave, but Wilson stopped him.

“By the way, Ewert, this is yours, right?”

There were two cell phones on Wilson’s desk. One of them was extremely similar to Grens’s own.

“I was looking for you earlier. The explosion, Hoffmann’s house, I wanted to know more and . . . when I called you, a phone started ringing outside in the corridor. Your phone, Ewert. It was on the copier. Guess you must have taken off in a hurry this morning?”

The phone he and his small team had searched for in vain at their meeting on Svea Road.

“On the copier?”

“Yes. Please keep it with you now. This goddamn investigation . . . I want to be able to reach you at any time, Ewert. Put it in your pocket and leave it there.”

Grens thanked him and for once did as he was told, slipped it into his inner pocket, and left the room. On to the coffee machine for two cups, black.

He’d had three days. He didn’t anymore.

Time was running out.

1:29 PM

(8 hours and 33 minutes remaining)

One hundred and four steps. Between the wall at the beginning of the tunnel and the wall at its end. Here, according to the paperwork, another brick would open the door. Now he had to wait. Until Latifi texted that Hawk Eye and his guards had left the house.

2:14 PM

(7 hours and 48 minutes remaining)

Piet Hoffmann couldn’t wait any longer. On the other side of this brick wall there was a phone or a computer or a safe that contained information that would lead him to a distorted voice and the organization that threatened him. He was so close, but time was ticking and Latifi’s signal never seemed to arrive. He had to be sure that the passage worked. So he pressed the brick, which this time sat at the top in the center, and heard that same metallic click as at the other end of the tunnel. A piece of the wall slid up. A door with uneven edges. And he was hit with the smell of oil, the sound of a dripping tap—another boiler room, but in the basement of that white two-story house with a tower.