“For many years, I was the Swedish police’s most important tool for taking down organized crime. I exposed criminals who were convinced I was their best friend. My work led to many arrests and aborted robberies. But this, Latifi, is by far the most significant thing I have ever done. Giving this to you. Knowing you’ll make sure these weapons are destroyed. And that no one else will have to die for this bizarre fucking scene we’re standing in the middle of, it will almost give these hellish weeks meaning.”

Latifi was still rocking. But not as visibly.

“And now you expect me to say thank you and let you go?”

“Basically.”

“Even though you killed at least three people? I have colleagues who wouldn’t ask a single question about three lives if they got ten thousand machine guns on their CVs. But I’m not one of them. I see a murderer. No matter the reason.”

“I exchanged their lives for others. It’s you or me and I care more about me than you, so I choose me. Right? And I’d do it again.”

The huge mountain room seemed like its own version of reality.

The sound carried like nowhere else, bounced silently and freely then rapidly ebbed away, the light was intense and intrusive, even the air pressure seemed different. How could that be?

Standing close like they were, shoulder to shoulder and staring into each other’s future, was a very strange feeling.

As if nothing mattered.

“So do what you think you have to do, Latifi.”

As if everything did.

“Arrest me—or let me go.”

Chapter 57

Amelia Schmidt. That’s what stood on the door. A handwritten note taped over a more permanent name—she must be subletting. He knocked on the door, and it reminded him of another knock on another door in another time, strangely muted, strangely hollow. Ewert Grens waited in the sleeping stairwell, knocked again. And again. And again. Until hesitant steps crossed a creaking wood floor and the lock whined as it was turned.

“Superintendent?”

She cracked the door. He glimpsed an eye, half a mouth.

“Yes. It’s me. I saw the light was on.”

“Yes?”

“I came here because I want to talk to you.”

She said nothing, did nothing.

“Did you understand what I said, Amelia?”

“Give me five minutes. I have to get dressed.”

She pulled the door closed again, and Grens was left in a stairwell where every sound echoed: the scrape of a foot became a dull rumble; clearing one’s throat, an angry roar. And when the beep arrived inside his inner pocket, an incoming text message, it sounded like an ominous emergency alarm. Grens took out his phone and opened a text message from Nils Krantz.

MATCH.

POLICE ACADEMY STUDENT.

ACCORDING TO STUDENT REGISTRY

A CADET IN YOUR UNIT.

AMELIA SCHMIDT.