and opened the door to the next room. Ralph heard Roland say a few short words. Then he went back to his chair. Behind him came Carlos Fuentes. The Spaniard, the traitor who had previously worked for Hector. Large, bald, unbuttoned white shirt, loose linen trousers, barefoot. He sat down on the sofa opposite Ralph, where Sophie had just been sitting. One arm along the back of the sofa. There was something smug about him, as if he felt this all revolved around him.
“What do you think?” Roland asked.
Carlos shrugged his shoulders.
“Did she come here of her own accord?” Roland pressed.
Carlos Fuentes had lost weight. Not so much from his body as his face. It hung loose, and there were large shadows cast under his eyes.
“I don’t think so,” Carlos replied.
“Why don’t you think so?” Roland asked.
Carlos threw his hands up in exasperation. “She was just a nurse. Hector was in love with her. And she was there at my restaurant in Stockholm when everything kicked off.”
He cleared his throat and went on: “So no, she didn’t come here of her own accord, then.”
“What makes you say that?”
“I’ve never seen Hector in love, except with her. They’re close, he trusted her; he must have sent her, no question.”
“Why?” Roland asked.
“You could see for yourself. Was she threatening? No, she was cautious, quiet….”
“Why?” Roland asked again, calmly.
“Because they want time. She said so straight out.”
“Will they give us anything?”
Carlos had one hand inside his shirt, stroking his chest.
“No,” he said.
“Because?”
“Because I’ve told you time and time again…”
He was uncouth and blunt, the Spaniard.
“That Hector won’t give up?” Roland asked.
Carlos nodded, repeating the words quietly. “That Hector won’t give up.”
“But what if he’s dead? Perhaps Aron’s in charge? Or someone else,” Roland said.
“Does it matter?” Carlos said.
Ralph Hanke didn’t feel like sitting and listening any longer. He stood up and left the sitting room. Roland did the same, neither of them deigning to look at Carlos Fuentes.
Roland stopped on the way out and said, “You’ll be moved now, Carlos. This house is no longer safe. Get ready, you’ll be picked up within ten minutes.”
Their steps faded away toward the hall and front door.
“I don’t like the food anyway,” the Spaniard called.
But as usual, the men weren’t listening to him. The front door closed with a loud slam, then the house fell silent.
If it had been up to Carlos, he would have held the nurse, forced her to say where Hector was, with every available means. Because one thing was certain: if Hector was alive, he would kill Carlos Fuentes the moment he caught a whiff of his scent.
Koen de Graaf took a taxi from the airport to the center of Stockholm, to a multistory parking garage on Regeringsgatan. On the fourth floor was a nondescript silver-gray Mazda.
The key was under the mat in the rear footwell. He got in the driver’s seat and read the message on his phone. Three lines from Roland Gentz:
The shop on Västmannagatan.
Sophie Arlanda.
Ernst.
—
Koen typed Västmannagatan into his phone and the GPS searched for satellites.
He leaned over toward the glove compartment. It contained a white envelope. He opened it and took out a piece of silver foil and a small bag of heroin.
Koen prepared the drug with a practiced hand, heated the foil from beneath with his lighter, and the heroin quickly began to bubble and boil. He breathed in the fumes, held them inside him, releasing nothing but transparent air when he breathed out again.
Something that hadn’t felt good suddenly improved.
He followed the GPS and drove, high on heroin, through Stockholm’s morning traffic. This was what his life was like. Regular jobs for Ralph, and always a precisely measured amount of smack to keep his addiction and emotional life under control. That was good, it meant he did his job
“What do you think?” Roland asked.
Carlos shrugged his shoulders.
“Did she come here of her own accord?” Roland pressed.
Carlos Fuentes had lost weight. Not so much from his body as his face. It hung loose, and there were large shadows cast under his eyes.
“I don’t think so,” Carlos replied.
“Why don’t you think so?” Roland asked.
Carlos threw his hands up in exasperation. “She was just a nurse. Hector was in love with her. And she was there at my restaurant in Stockholm when everything kicked off.”
He cleared his throat and went on: “So no, she didn’t come here of her own accord, then.”
“What makes you say that?”
“I’ve never seen Hector in love, except with her. They’re close, he trusted her; he must have sent her, no question.”
“Why?” Roland asked.
“You could see for yourself. Was she threatening? No, she was cautious, quiet….”
“Why?” Roland asked again, calmly.
“Because they want time. She said so straight out.”
“Will they give us anything?”
Carlos had one hand inside his shirt, stroking his chest.
“No,” he said.
“Because?”
“Because I’ve told you time and time again…”
He was uncouth and blunt, the Spaniard.
“That Hector won’t give up?” Roland asked.
Carlos nodded, repeating the words quietly. “That Hector won’t give up.”
“But what if he’s dead? Perhaps Aron’s in charge? Or someone else,” Roland said.
“Does it matter?” Carlos said.
Ralph Hanke didn’t feel like sitting and listening any longer. He stood up and left the sitting room. Roland did the same, neither of them deigning to look at Carlos Fuentes.
Roland stopped on the way out and said, “You’ll be moved now, Carlos. This house is no longer safe. Get ready, you’ll be picked up within ten minutes.”
Their steps faded away toward the hall and front door.
“I don’t like the food anyway,” the Spaniard called.
But as usual, the men weren’t listening to him. The front door closed with a loud slam, then the house fell silent.
If it had been up to Carlos, he would have held the nurse, forced her to say where Hector was, with every available means. Because one thing was certain: if Hector was alive, he would kill Carlos Fuentes the moment he caught a whiff of his scent.
Koen de Graaf took a taxi from the airport to the center of Stockholm, to a multistory parking garage on Regeringsgatan. On the fourth floor was a nondescript silver-gray Mazda.
The key was under the mat in the rear footwell. He got in the driver’s seat and read the message on his phone. Three lines from Roland Gentz:
The shop on Västmannagatan.
Sophie Arlanda.
Ernst.
—
Koen typed Västmannagatan into his phone and the GPS searched for satellites.
He leaned over toward the glove compartment. It contained a white envelope. He opened it and took out a piece of silver foil and a small bag of heroin.
Koen prepared the drug with a practiced hand, heated the foil from beneath with his lighter, and the heroin quickly began to bubble and boil. He breathed in the fumes, held them inside him, releasing nothing but transparent air when he breathed out again.
Something that hadn’t felt good suddenly improved.
He followed the GPS and drove, high on heroin, through Stockholm’s morning traffic. This was what his life was like. Regular jobs for Ralph, and always a precisely measured amount of smack to keep his addiction and emotional life under control. That was good, it meant he did his job
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