He wept quietly when he glimpsed the roof, the garden, Rasmus and Hugo’s bicycles and soccer goals, that small hole in the hedge still there, which they used to crawl through in order to save a few seconds on their way to the neighbors.
The detective stopped in front of a simple gate, standing ajar, as it was now, it was clear how much it had rusted over the last few years. Hoffmann climbed out, walked around the car, and stretched his hand through the window.
“Thank you. For everything.”
“Take care of the people waiting for you in there. Do nothing from now on to expose them, or you, to danger. Every day, Hoffmann. Stay on the right side of the law. We’ll never meet again. Right?”
The rough hand let go and pointed to the trunk.
“Your suitcase. It’s in the back. It’s been sitting in my office, between my corduroy couch and my uniform closet. And I haven’t peeked inside once.”
Ewert Grens exchanged a smile with Piet Hoffmann.
“That wouldn’t have mattered, detective. The contents are of no value.”
He stood at the rusty gate while the civil police vehicle disappeared, then searched through the windows, maybe caught a glimpse of someone in the kitchen. Or maybe it was just the shadow of the apple tree playing against the glass.
With suitcase in hand, he walked slowly toward the simple front door, which bore a plaque engraved on the day they moved in—HOFFMANN. He lifted his bag a few times up and down in the air, guessed it weighed no more than seven, maybe eight kilograms—knew that the far more valuable material that the bag itself was constructed from weighed exactly three kilos.
Their fresh start. In a couple days, after the kids headed to school with backpacks and expectant steps, after Zofia headed out to her school to work as a substitute Spanish teacher, he’d carry the empty bag down into the basement and work on that dreary, brown leather, which Carlos in Cali had made odorless. Using ether, permanganate, sulfuric acid, and a few other chemicals in plastic barrels, he’d bring the dead back to life, conjure a thick paste from leather and heat it to thirty-seven degrees, put it on a tray, let it dry.
The purest cocaine the world had ever seen. Three kilos would then be diluted to nine kilos—that was the quality of the powder he’d previously sold in Stockholm, and it had done very well. Nine kilos at seventy-five euros per gram. More than six million kronor.
Piet Hoffmann opened the front door, heard their voices.
He was home.
Heartfelt thanks from the authors
TO
S for letting us be part of your unique world for so long and with such trust—a reality few outsiders are allowed into.
AND TO
Lasse Zernell, editor-in-chief of Allt om Vetenskap (Everything About Science) magazine, for sharing his knowledge of satellites and other technologies that an infiltrator might need in a jungle. Christer Lingström, double Michelin-starred, for his guidance on wine vintages and peaches for the otherwise Spartan diet of a detective superintendent. Anders for his extreme expertise on submarines and aircraft carriers and how we might fool both. Lasse Lagergren for his knowledge on how to tattoo a corpse and other odd medical questions. And Kerstin Skarp, deputy attorney general, for her legal expertise regarding how a fictional murderer on the loose might end up with a short prison sentence.
Three Minutes Page 44
