Anders Roslund - Three Seconds

That time he had not been successful in defending his case. He would not do it again.

Nils Krantz leaned nearer the computer screen as he pointed to the image of small red peaks that all pointed upward over different numbers.

"The top row, if you look here, is from Copenhagen police. The DNA profile of a Danish citizen called Jens Christian Toft. The man who was killed in Västmannagatan 79. The bottom row is from the National Laboratory of Forensic Science, an analyzis of all the blood stains on the shirt over there that we found in the trash at Västmannagatan 73 that are at least two by two millimeters. You see, identical rows. Every single STR marker-that's the red peaks-is exactly the same length."

Ewert Grens listened to him, but still only saw a very uniform pattern. "I'm not interested in him, Nils. But I am interested in the murderer." Krantz considered a sarcastic retort or irritated comment. But he did neither, chose to ignore Grens instead, as it often felt better.

"But I also asked them specifically to give the same priority to analyzing even smaller spots of blood. Too small to stand up as evidence in court. But big enough to establish any marked difference."

He showed the next image.

A similar pattern, red peaks, but with larger distances and different numbers.

"These are from another person."

"Who?"

"I don't know."

"You've got the profile."

"But no hits."

"Don't be so damn difficult, Nils."

"I've matched and compared them with everything I've got access to. I'm certain it's the murderer's blood. But I'm equally certain that this DNA won't be found in any Swedish database."

He looked at the detective superintendent.

"Ewert, the murderer is probably not Swedish. The course of action, the Radom gun, no DNA matches. You'll have to start looking farther afield, in other places."

It looked like it would be a lovely evening. The sun was already dipping like a ripe orange at the point where the sky melted into Riddarfiarden, the only thing you could see from the large window of the state secretary's office. Piet Hoffmann looked into the light that made the sad, expensive birch meeting table look even sadder. He longed to be out of here, for Zofia's soft body, for Hugo's laugh, Rasmus's eyes when he said Daddy.

"Before we continue the meeting-"

He wasn't there. He was as far away from it all as he could be in a room that contained power and the people who could decide whether he should be put even farther away.

Erik Wilson, the defense lawyer in this trial, cleared his throat.

"Before we continue the meeting, I want a guarantee that Paula will not be charged for anything that might have happened in Västmannagatan 79."

The state secretary had one of those faces that showed no emotion. "I understood that that was what you wanted."

"You've dealt with similar cases before."

"But if I am to grant criminal immunity, I also have to understand why." The microphone was still in place, halfway down his thigh.

But it was about to slip again, he could feel the tape was gradually becoming unstuck. The next time he got up, he was sure that it would not stay where it was.

"I'd be more than happy to explain why."

Wilson gripped the report firmly in one hand.

"We could have smashed the Mexican mafia in an expansion phase nine months ago. We could have eliminated the Egyptian mafia in an expansion phase five months ago. If we'd had the mandate for our infiltrators to respond in full. But it didn't happen. We stood by and watched as two more players happily helped themselves. Now we have another opportunity. This time, with the Poles."

Piet Hoffmann tried to sit still and with one hand under the table attempted to untangle the lead and the pieces of tape that had started to stick together.

Small movements with searching fingers.

"Paula will continue to infiltrate. He will be in the right place at the point when Wojtek takes over all drug dealing in Swedish prisons. He is the one who will supply Warsaw with reports about deliveries and sales and at the same time supply us with information about how and when to launch an attack and smash them."

He'd got it. A microphone the size of a pinhead under the material of his trousers. He fixed it again, trying to pull it up, back toward his groin, as it sat better there and it was easier to point in the direction of whoever was talking.

He stopped abruptly.

Göransson, who was sitting directly opposite him, suddenly started to stare, his gaze unflinching.

"High security Swedish prisons. And Wojtek are going to concentrate on two categories of prisoner. First of all, the millionaires, the ones who have earned their money through organized crime and are inside for a long time, and who will transfer their ill-gotten gains gram by gram, day by day, to a property on ul. Ludwika Idzikowskiego. And then the lackeys, the ones who have no money and who leave prison with substantial debts and in order to survive, pay off these debts by selling large quantities of drugs or committing violent crimes, debts that Wojtek can link to a dangerous criminal network."

He let go of the microphone and placed both his hands on the table, where they were visible.

Göransson was still looking directly at him and it was as hard to breathe as it was to swallow, each second an hour, until he looked away.

"I can't say it anymore clearly than that. It's you who decides. Let Paula continue or stand by and watch once again."

The state secretary looked at each of them, and then out of the window at the sun, which was so beautiful. Maybe she also longed to be out.

"Could I ask you to leave the room?"

Piet Hoffmann shrugged and started to walk toward the door, but stopped suddenly. The microphone. It had come unstuck and slithered down between his right leg and the material of his trousers.

"It will only take a couple of minutes. Then you can come back in."

He said nothing. But he held up his middle finger as he left the room. He heard a tired sigh behind him. They had observed it, were irritated, kept their eyes averted. That was what he had intended, he wanted to avoid any questions about what was being dragged behind his foot as he shut the door.

The state secretary's face still gave nothing away.

"You mentioned nine months. Five months. The Mexican and Egyptian mafia. I said no because the criminals you use as infiltrators can only be deemed to be high risk."

"Paula is not a high-risk source. He is Wojtek's ticket to expansion. The whole operation is built around him."

"I will never give criminal immunity to someone who neither you nor I trust."

"I do trust him,"

"Then perhaps you can explain to me why Chief Superintendent Göransson body-searched him out there not long ago."

Erik Wilson looked at his boss and then at the woman with the blank face.

" I am Paula's handler, I am the one who works with him every day. I trust him and Wojtek is already here! We’ve never managed to position an infiltrator so centrally in an expanding organization before. With Paula, we can cut them down with one fell swoop. If he's given immunity with regard to Västmannagatan. If he is allowed to operate fully from the inside."

The state secretary went over to the window and the golden sun, and a view of the capital that was going about its afternoon business without any idea of the decisions that governed it. Then she turned and looked at the fourth participant in the meeting who had not yet said anything.

"What do you think?"

She had opened her door for Detective Superintendent Wilson and Chief Superintendent Göransson. But it was in decisions like this that she turned to the top man in the police authority and asked him to sit down at the table with her and listen.