She continued to look at them as she walked toward the door. 'I'll be back in fifteen minutes.'
Each step had been painful, and when Ewert Grens spied the aluminum ladder that led up to a hatch in the church tower, his stiff leg protested with a series of small sharp twinges that obliterated any other thoughts. He said nothing when he slipped on the first rung, nor when his chest seemed to push up into his throat a few rungs up. His forehead shone with sweat and his arms were numb when he hauled himself through the wooden hatch and banged his head on the edge of the heavy cast iron bell, cutting himself. He lay down and managed to creep the final stretch to the door that led our onto the balcony and the cooling breeze.
They now had forty-six police officers positioned outside the prison, inside the prison, outside the church, and two up here, in the church tower-marksmen who were keeping an eye through binoculars on a window on the second floor of Block B.
'There are two possibilities. The railway bridge over there is probably a couple of hundred meters closer, but the angle is harder and the target area is too small. Whereas from here the target area is perfect. We have full view of him. But we have a problem. Our marksmen use a gun which is called a PSG 90 and is designed for firing distances of around six hundred meters. That's what our men are trained for. And the distance from here is far greater, Ewert.'
Ewert Grens had gotten up and was now standing at the far end of the narrow balcony, gripping the railing with his hands. He saw the shadow again, Hoffmann's shadow.
'And what does that mean?'
'The distance is impossible. For us.'
'Impossible?'
'The greatest known distance that a sniper has covered successfully is two thousand, one hundred and seventy-five meters. A Canadian marksman.),
'So?'
'So what?'
'So it's not impossible.'
'Impossible. For us.'
'But it's nearly nine hundred meters less! So what's the bloody problem?' 'The problem is that we have no officers who can shoot at that distance.
Grens turned toward Edvardson and the balcony shook-he was heavy and he had pulled hard at the railing.
'Who?'
'Who what?'
'Who does? Have the training? The equipment?'
'The army. They train our marksmen. They have the training. And they have the equipment.'
'Then get one of them here.
The balcony shook again. Ewert Grens was agitated and his ponderous body swayed as he tossed his head and stamped his foot. John Edvardson waited until he was done; he normally didn't care that much when the detective superintendent tried to look menacing.
'It doesn't work quite like that. The armed forces can't be used for police matters.
'We're talking about someone's life!'
'Statute SFS 2002:375.
'I don't give a damn about that.'
'It's Swedish law, Ewert.'
He had listened to them moving around on the roof, small movements, they were there the whole time, they were ready and waiting.
Then there was a crackling in his earpiece.
Pier Hoffmann smiled.
He smiled again, but only inside. He was careful to stand in profile, his shoulder at a right angle to the window.
The equipment, the training, the know-how.
A sniper. A
The map of Aspsas district was still lying on the conference table when the state secretary returned to the room and made a point of closing the door behind her.
'So, let's continue.'
She had been tense and flushed when she left the room fifteen minutes ago, and whatever it was she had done, whoever it was she had spoken to, had done the trick-she looked calmer, and she was resolute and concentrated as she drank the rest of her coffee.
'The log book?'
She nodded at one of the files that had been moved from the table. 'Yes?'
'Give it to me.'
Goransson handed her the thick black file and she noticed as she leafed through that the pages were handwritten alternately in black and blue ballpoint pen.
Are all the meetings between your handler and this Hoffmann recorded here?'
“Yes.”
'And this is the only copy?'
'It's the copy that I keep as CHIS controller. The only one.'
'Destroy it.'
She put the file down on the table and pushed it over toward Goransson. 'Are there any other formal links between the police authority and Hoffmann?'
Goransson shook his head.
'No. Not for him. Not for any other informant. That's not how we work.' He seemed to relax a bit.
'Hoffmann has been paid by us for nine years. But only from the account that we call reward money. An account that can't be linked to personal data and therefore doesn't need to be reported to the tax authorities. He's not on any payrolls. Formally, he doesn't exist for us.'
The file with the Prison and Probation Service documents was still lying on one of the chairs.
'And that one? Is that his?'
'That's only about him.'
She opened it, looked through the printouts and reports about his mental health.
'And this is all?'
'That is our picture of him.'
'Our picture?'
'The image we've created.'
'And the overall image… if I can put it like this… does it give a sufficient basis for the gold commander to make a clear decision about Hoffmann… well, the consequences of the hostage taking?'
The room brightened as the sun flooded in and the white sheets of paper intensified and reflected the light.
'It was a sufficiently strong image for him to be accepted by the mafia branch that he penetrated. We've since developed it to make him totally credible in relation to the work inside Aspsas.'
The state secretary put the file down to one side, looked at Goransson, who as commanding officer could easily have been in charge of the hostage-taking operation.
'Would you… with this information and in the current situation at
Aspsas where the hostages' lives are in danger… would you make a decision based on the fact that Hoffmann is dangerous, capable?' Chief Superintendent Goransson nodded.
'Without a doubt.'
