Anders Roslund - Three Seconds

"Before the hostage dies."

Göransson held the phone in his hand.

Dread.

It was there again.

"That was Ewert Grens. The DS who's investigating Västmannagatan 79. And right now he's standing right here."

He pointed at the map, at the thin lines that symbolized something that actually existed. Ewert Grens was actually standing there. It was Ewert Grens who would shortly make a decision based on the doctored information that was accessible in the databases and records, an image that was developed by his own colleagues and that for any police officer would provide powerful grounds to shoot.

Shoot.

"Here… he's standing precisely here, as the assigned gold commander. He's the one who is leading the whole operation, who is responsible for it, who will make the decision on how to resolve it."

Göransson's hand was shaking. He pressed it hard against the paper of the map, but it continued to shake-it didn't normally do that, shake.

"He is fifteen hundred and three meters from the window where

Hoffmann has been sighted regularly, but the snipers, the police marksmen, don't have the right training and equipment. So he's asking for a military marksman. A more powerful weapon, heavier ammunition, someone trained to shoot at extreme distances."

Shoot to kill.

"There's always a solution. Always a reasonable solution if you really want to find it. And clearly it is in all our interests to find it, to help to resolve this." The state secretary's voice was calm, clear.

"It is our responsibility to save the hostages' lives."

Ewert Grens had asked for a suitably trained and equipped marksman.

With the information that was now common knowledge in the prison corridors, Hoffmann would not give up his hostages.

If Grens got his military marksman, he would also use him.

"What are you actually saying?"

Göransson straightened his back. He looked at the slight woman sitting in front of him.

They wouldn't have their finger on the trigger.

It would be the gold commander who ordered the sniper to fire. It would be the marksman who fired.

They wouldn't make the decision.

They were giving others the opportunity to make the decision.

"Bur… Jesus Christ=

Göransson's finger was still on the map when he suddenly pulled the paper toward him and scrunched it into a ball with both hands.

"-what the hell are we doing?"

He got up abruptly, his face stiff and flushed.

"We're making Ewert Grens into a murderer!"

"Calm down, please."

"We're legitimizing murder!"

He threw the ball of paper so that it hit the window and fell with a thud onto the state secretary's desk.

"If we give the gold commander the solution that he's asking for… if he then makes a decision based on the information he has about Hoffmann… Ewert Grens could be forced to order a shot to be fired at a person who has actually never committed a violent crime, but who is believed to be violent, merciless and capable!"

The state secretary leaned forward and picked up the paper ball, held it in her lap, for a long time looked at the face that was about to explode.

"If that is the case, if the gold commander has the military marksman and then later decides to shoot… then it will be to save the hostages' lives."

Her voice was controlled, and was quiet enough to be heard but not loud enough for those listening not to hold their breath.

"Hoffmann is the only one who has killed anyone. And it is only Hoffmann who is threatening to do so again."

The square yard at Aspsås prison was covered in coarse, dry gravel that was dusty, no people, no noise; all the prisoners had been locked in their cells for the past few hours, behind doors that would not be opened until the hostage siege was over. Grens was walking with Edvardson beside him, two members of the national task force in front of him and Hermansson a couple of steps behind. She had been waiting for him just inside the prison gate and had briefly told him about her meeting with the prison doctor who had heard nothing about an epidemic and had never asked for anyone to be isolated in all his time at Aspsås. As they approached the outside door to Block B, Grens stopped and waited for her.

"It's all a goddamn lie, all of it, all this is connected. I want you to carry on, Hermansson, find the prison chief warden and get an answer out of him."

She nodded and turned around and he watched her rather slim back and shoulders through the light cloud of dust. They hadn't spoken much together recently, not at all in the past year-he hadn't really spoken to anyone. Once he had been to the grave he would seek her our again. He who was never going to talk to a policewoman again had learned to appreciate her more and more each year. He was still not sure when she was laughing at him or was annoyed with him, but she was good at her job and intelligent and she looked at him in a way that was at once demanding and uncompromising, in a way that very few dared. He would talk to her again, maybe even ask her to leave the offices with him for a while, ask her for a coffee and a cake in the cafe on Bergsgatan. It felt good to be having these thoughts, to look forward to something, to having a coffee with the daughter they never had.

Ewert Grens opened the door to the solitary confinement unit and the corridor where everything had kicked off a few hours ago. The body that had fallen forward with blood pouring from the head had already been removed-strapped onto a stretcher and taken for an autopsy-and the two prison wardens who had been threatened with a gun and each locked away in a cell were now with a crisis management team in one of the visiting rooms, talking to a prison psychologist and prison chaplain.

His first thought was actually about the banging.

In each cell on the ground floor, the prisoners in solitary confinement were banging on their closed, locked doors. A regular thumping sound that made your heart beat out of rhythm. He knew that that was what they did and had decided to ignore it, but it forced its way into his mind and he was relieved to go up the stairs behind Edvardson and past the armed police on the first landing.

They stopped when they got to the second floor and nodded silently to the eight members of the national task force standing outside the workshop ready for an order to break down the door, throw in a shock grenade and take full control of the situation within ten seconds.

"That's too long."

Ewert Grens was talking quietly and John Edvardson leaned in closer in order to reply in an equally quiet voice.

"Eight seconds. With this team, Ewert, I can get it down to eight seconds."

"It's still too long. Hoffmann, to aim and then move the muzzle from one head to the next and shoot, he doesn't need more than one and a half seconds. And in his frame of mind… I can't risk a dead hostage."

John Edvardson nodded at the ceiling and the dull shuffling of bodies changing position every now and then.

Grens shook his head.

"That's not going to work either. From the door, from the roof, the number of seconds you're talking about… the hostages could die several times over."

The banging, he couldn't stand it much longer, his concentration couldn't stretch to encompass both the madmen downstairs and the madman in there. He was on his way back down the stairs to the thundering noise, but turned when Edvardson put a hand on his shoulder.

"Ewert…"

"Thank you."

They stood in silence, with the waiting police breathing behind their backs. "In that case, Ewert, unless Hoffmann suddenly gives himself up, if and when we deem his threat to be more than just a threat… then there's only one solution. The military marksman. With a weapon that is powerful enough to kill."