LITMIR.BIZ

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is just a preliminary report. A lot of test results are still missing, and—’

      ‘Holes that were left on purpose,’ Joona interrupts.

      ‘I don’t know anything about that,’ the Prime Minister says, slipping his phone back in the inside pocket of his jacket.

      ‘Have there been any other victims?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Is there anything to suggest that more attacks are planned?’

      ‘I don’t think so.’

      ‘Why the Foreign Minister?’ Joona asks.

      ‘He was pushing for coordinated European action against terrorism.’

      ‘What do they achieve by killing him?’

      ‘This is a clear attack against the very heart of democracy,’ the Prime Minister goes on. ‘And I want the heads of these terrorists on a fucking plate, if you’ll pardon the expression. This is about justice, about putting our foot down. They cannot and will not frighten us. That’s why I’m here, to ask if you’re prepared to infiltrate Salim Ratjen’s organisation from inside prison.’

      ‘I assumed that. I appreciate your faith in me, but you have to understand that I’ve built up a life in here. It wasn’t easy, because people are aware of my background, but over time they’ve learned that they can trust me.’

      ‘We’re talking about national security here.’

      ‘I’m no longer a police officer.’

      ‘The Security Police will have your conviction quashed and you’ll get conditional parole if you do this.’

      ‘I’m not interested.’

      ‘That’s how she said you’d react,’ the Prime Minister says.

      ‘Saga Bauer?’

      ‘She said you wouldn’t listen to any offer from the Security Police … That’s why I decided to come in person.’

      ‘I’d be more inclined to consider the job if I didn’t think you were withholding vital information from me.’

      ‘What is there to conceal? The Security Police think you can help them identify Salim Ratjen’s contact on the outside.’

      ‘I’m sorry you wasted your time,’ Joona says, then gets to his feet and starts walking towards the door.

      ‘I can get you pardoned,’ the Prime Minister says to his back.

      ‘That would require government approval,’ Joona says, turning around.

      ‘I’m the Prime Minister.’

      ‘As long as I feel I’m not being given all available information, I’m going to have to say no,’ Joona repeats.

      ‘How can you claim to be unaware of what you don’t know?’ the Prime Minister asks, obviously irritated.

      ‘I know you’re sitting here even though you should be in Brussels for a meeting of the European Council,’ Joona says. ‘I know that you gave up smoking eight years ago, but now you’ve suffered a relapse, judging by the smell on your clothes and the mud on your shoes.’

      ‘Mud on my shoes?’

      ‘You’re a considerate man, and because your driver doesn’t smoke you got out of the car to have a cigarette.’

      ‘But …’

      ‘I’ve noticed you checked your phone eleven times, but you haven’t answered any messages, so I know there’s something missing, because there was nothing in that report I read that indicates there’s any real urgency.’

      For the first time, the Prime Minister looks lost for words. He rubs his chin and seems to be thinking hard.

      ‘We believe we’re dealing with a number of planned murders,’ he says eventually.

      ‘A number?’ Joona repeats.

      ‘The Security Police removed that from the report, but there seem to be three murders planned, at least to start, and the next one is believed to be planned for Wednesday. That’s why it’s urgent.’

      ‘Who are the likely targets for these attacks?’

      ‘We don’t know for sure, but the information we do have suggests precise and well-planned executions.’

      ‘Politicians?’

      ‘Probably.’

      ‘And you think one of them might be you?’ Joona asks.

      ‘It could be anyone,’ the Prime Minister replies quickly. ‘But I’ve been led to believe that you’re our best option, and I’m hoping you’ll accept the job. And if you do actually manage to discover information that helps stop these terrorists, I’ll see to it that you get your old life back.’

      ‘You can’t do that,’ Joona replies.

      ‘Listen, you have to do this,’ the Prime Minister says. Joona can tell that he’s really scared.

      ‘If you can get the Security Police to cooperate fully with me, then I promise to identify the people responsible.’

      ‘And you understand that it has to happen before Wednesday …? That’s when they kill their next target,’ the Prime Minister says.

       17

      The Rabbit Hunter is walking restlessly around the large shipping container in the crooked glare of the fluorescent ceiling light.

      He stops in front of a few open crates and a large petrol can. He presses his fingers to his left temple and tries to calm his breathing.

      He looks at his phone.

      No messages.

      As he walks back to his equipment he steps on a laminated map of Djursholm lying on the floor.

      He’s put his pistols, knives and rifles in a pile on a battered desk. Some of the weapons are dirty and worn, while others are still in their original packaging.

      There’s a pile of rusty tools and old mason jars full of springs and firing pins, extra cartridges, rolls of black bin bags, duct-tape, bags of zip ties, axes and a broad-bladed Emerson knife, its tip honed as sharp as an arrowhead.

      He’s stacked boxes containing different types of ammunition against the wall. On top of three of them are photographs of three people.

      A lot of the boxes are still closed, but the lid has been torn off one box of 5.56x45mm ammunition, and there are bloody fingerprints on another.

      The Rabbit Hunter puts a box of 9mm pistol bullets in a crumpled plastic bag. He examines a short-handled axe and adds it to the bag, then drops the whole thing on the floor with a loud clang.

      He reaches out his hand and picks up one of the small photographs. He moves it to the edge of one of the container’s metal ribs, but it falls off.

      He puts it back carefully and looks at the face with a smile: the cheery set of the mouth, the unruly hair. He leans forward and looks into the man’s eyes, and decides that he’s going to cut his legs off and watch him crawl like a snail through his own blood.

      And he’ll watch the man’s son’s desperate attempts to tie tourniquets around his father’s legs in an effort to save his life, and maybe he’ll let him stem the flow of blood before going over and slicing his stomach open.

      The photograph falls again and sails down amongst the weapons.

      He lets out a roar and overturns the entire desk, sending pistols, knives and ammunition clattering across the floor.

      The

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