fingerprints were enough."
"Who?"
"We called him Carsten. One of my best infiltrators."
"Not the damn code name."
"You know how it works, as his handler, I can't-"
"I'm leading a murder investigation. I'm not interested in your hush-hush secrecy. I want a name, a personal identity number, an address."
"You won't get it."
"Civil status. Shoe size. Sexual orientation. Underpants size. I want to know what he was doing at the murder scene. Who he was working for. Everything."
"You won't get it. He was one of several infiltrators involved in this operation. So you can't get any information whatsoever."
Ewert Grens slammed the receiver down on the desk before shouting into it: "So… let's see… first of all, the Danish police are operating on Swedish territory without informing the Swedish police! And when the shit hits the fan and the operation ends in a murder, the Danish police still don't give the Swedish police any information, even though they are trying to solve the murder. Andersen, how does that sound?"
The telephone receiver slammed down onto the desk again, harder this time. He wasn't shouting anymore, it was more like a hiss.
"I know that you've got a job to do, Andersen, and that's why you're behaving the way you are. But I have too. And if I haven't solved this in… say twenty-four hours, then we're going to have a meeting, no matter what you think, and you and I are going to exchange information until there is nothing left to tell."
Piet Hoffmann felt lighter.
He had answered the deputy CEO's questions about the incident at Västmannagatan correctly and so avoided a trip to the edge of town and two bullets in the head. And he had just answered Erik's questions correctly, the only person who could confirm his true mission and who was now working to avert a trial and sentence.
The meeting with the Roof in Warsaw, their financial guarantee for the work involved in taking over the closed market in Sweden, this was what they had been waiting for.
"Four thousand captive, big-time consumers. Prices three times higher than outside the walls. Eight, maybe nine million kronor per day. If everyone pays, that is."
Hoffmann pulled a piece of plastic off the kitchen table.
"But that's not the plan."
Erik Wilson listened and leaned back. This moment made it all worth it.
Three hellish years constructing a person and role that was dangerous enough to penetrate an organization that they otherwise couldn't get near. Paula's information was worth the work of forty detectives-he knew more about this mob than the Swedish police.
"The plan is to control the outside as well."
This moment was what motivated him to put up with the exposure, the constant threat.
"There are people who can pay for their drugs from their cell, who have plenty of money."
The moment when an organization was about to expand, take power, become something else.
"And there are others who can't pay, but we keep selling to them and they keep consuming and when they've served their sentence, they're released with a couple of T-shirts, three hundred kronor and a ticket home. Wojtek's boys. That's how we'll recruit new criminals on the outside. When they've done their time they'll be given the choice between working to pay off their debt or two bullets."
The moment when the Swedish police could make their move, squash the criminal expansion, the moment that would never come again.
"Do you understand, Erik? This country has fifty-six prisons. And more are being built. Wojtek will control every single one. But also an army of indebted serious criminals on the outside."
The Eastern European mafia's three areas of operation.
Arms. Prostitution. Drugs.
Wilson sat at what would soon once more be a
"Who?"
"We called him Carsten. One of my best infiltrators."
"Not the damn code name."
"You know how it works, as his handler, I can't-"
"I'm leading a murder investigation. I'm not interested in your hush-hush secrecy. I want a name, a personal identity number, an address."
"You won't get it."
"Civil status. Shoe size. Sexual orientation. Underpants size. I want to know what he was doing at the murder scene. Who he was working for. Everything."
"You won't get it. He was one of several infiltrators involved in this operation. So you can't get any information whatsoever."
Ewert Grens slammed the receiver down on the desk before shouting into it: "So… let's see… first of all, the Danish police are operating on Swedish territory without informing the Swedish police! And when the shit hits the fan and the operation ends in a murder, the Danish police still don't give the Swedish police any information, even though they are trying to solve the murder. Andersen, how does that sound?"
The telephone receiver slammed down onto the desk again, harder this time. He wasn't shouting anymore, it was more like a hiss.
"I know that you've got a job to do, Andersen, and that's why you're behaving the way you are. But I have too. And if I haven't solved this in… say twenty-four hours, then we're going to have a meeting, no matter what you think, and you and I are going to exchange information until there is nothing left to tell."
Piet Hoffmann felt lighter.
He had answered the deputy CEO's questions about the incident at Västmannagatan correctly and so avoided a trip to the edge of town and two bullets in the head. And he had just answered Erik's questions correctly, the only person who could confirm his true mission and who was now working to avert a trial and sentence.
The meeting with the Roof in Warsaw, their financial guarantee for the work involved in taking over the closed market in Sweden, this was what they had been waiting for.
"Four thousand captive, big-time consumers. Prices three times higher than outside the walls. Eight, maybe nine million kronor per day. If everyone pays, that is."
Hoffmann pulled a piece of plastic off the kitchen table.
"But that's not the plan."
Erik Wilson listened and leaned back. This moment made it all worth it.
Three hellish years constructing a person and role that was dangerous enough to penetrate an organization that they otherwise couldn't get near. Paula's information was worth the work of forty detectives-he knew more about this mob than the Swedish police.
"The plan is to control the outside as well."
This moment was what motivated him to put up with the exposure, the constant threat.
"There are people who can pay for their drugs from their cell, who have plenty of money."
The moment when an organization was about to expand, take power, become something else.
"And there are others who can't pay, but we keep selling to them and they keep consuming and when they've served their sentence, they're released with a couple of T-shirts, three hundred kronor and a ticket home. Wojtek's boys. That's how we'll recruit new criminals on the outside. When they've done their time they'll be given the choice between working to pay off their debt or two bullets."
The moment when the Swedish police could make their move, squash the criminal expansion, the moment that would never come again.
"Do you understand, Erik? This country has fifty-six prisons. And more are being built. Wojtek will control every single one. But also an army of indebted serious criminals on the outside."
The Eastern European mafia's three areas of operation.
Arms. Prostitution. Drugs.
Wilson sat at what would soon once more be a
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