Rasmus’s backpack.

He should call Juan and Nic who were already in the area.

But this was a hand grenade, and he wanted to disarm it himself to avoid any chance of an accident.

A quick U-turn in front of a taxi as the driver slammed on the brakes, then he sped down Vasa Street, up onto the Central Bridge, and headed south, all the while forcing his thoughts away from his anguish, away from images he couldn’t bear, while trying his best to focus on the second part of their conversation. Had he heard correctly? Understood right? Did the distorted voice really mention that weapon? Of course he’d heard the rumors. Heard that despite the official version of events, it had gone into production. That there was a buyer who ordered ten thousand, but then backed out. The rumors had circulated down many paths. But in every version there was a buyer who didn’t follow through, and ten thousand guns that disappeared. Now and then, you’d hear that one popped up in various battles during the Yugoslav wars. Other gossip placed them in South America in the hands of drug lords or in Afghanistan with the Taliban. He’d always dismissed it as just talk. But what if they really did exist? Even the much simpler Ksp 58 machine gun that the Swedish military used went for around five thousand euros the last time he checked. And on the black market it would be even more expensive, probably at least seventy-five hundred—and more advanced models probably as much as a cool ten thousand. He didn’t need a calculator to figure out the rest. Ten thousand machine guns with a price of ten thousand euros—one hundred million euros.

At Gullmarsplan, the traffic got heavier, almost slowed to a stop. An accident. Lanes closed. His car was wedged in bumper to bumper with no chance of escape.

He considered getting out of the car and making a run for it. There were only a few kilometers left—it wouldn’t take him long. But he had to calm down. Calm down. Someone wanted him to do something. If they hurt his sons now, they wouldn’t get a goddamn thing out of him. That’s just how the game is played. Push your victim but don’t remove their motivation, push them until they’re bent over and ready to get fucked.

“Hello, this is Rasmus’s father—I’m sorry to bother you in the middle of class time but . . . is he with you?”

Rasmus’s teacher’s name was Marie, and she reminded him a little of Zofia. Same age, same determination, both soft and demanding. She didn’t like it when parents called during class time. This was her and the children’s workplace. She didn’t say it with words exactly as she handed over the phone to his son, but he heard it in there anyway.

“Dad!”