Three Seconds (45 page)

    Only the one sentence.

    He had repeated the same thing in answer to every question.
He shot him, through the eye.

    The young warden was suffering from acute shock-he had seen a man die and had had a gun pressed to his eye, the circle on the soft skin still obvious. He had then sat and waited, locked inside a solitary confinement cell with death. There wouldn't be anymore words, not for a while. The principal officer instructed the guards who were nearest to look after him, and went on to the other colleague, the one who had been in Cell 6 and who was pale and sweaty, the one who whispered, but was perfectly audible.

    "Where's Jacobson?"

    The principal officer put a hand on his shoulder, which was thin and trembling.

    "What do you mean?"

    "There were three of us. Jacobson, he was here too."

    The conversation had ended some time ago.

    When the words dried up, he was irritated and hoped for more, something mitigating, calming, a continuation that assured him everything was fine now. But there wasn't anymore to say. The principal officer from B2 had explained all there was to explain.

    Two guards locked in. A dead prisoner.

    And an assumed hostage-taking.

    The chief warden hit the receiver against the desk and a vase of yellow tulips fell to the floor. A third warden, Martin Jacobson, had been taken by an armed prisoner serving a long sentence who had been in solitary confinement, a certain 0913 Hoffmann.

    He sat down on the floor, his fingers distracted by the yellow petals that floated in the spilled water.

    Of course he had put up a protest. Just as Martin had later put up a protest.

I lied outright to a detective superintendent. I lied because you ordered me to. But this, I won't do this.

    He tore the yellow petals to shreds, one at a time, small, porous strips that he dropped onto the wet floor. Then he reached over for the telephone receiver that was still hanging from the wire, dialed a number and didn't stop talking until he was absolutely certain that the general director had understood every word, every insinuation.

    "I want an explanation."

    A cough. That was all.

    "Pål, an explanation!"

    Another cough. And nothing more.

    "You call me at home late at night and order me to move a prisoner back to the unit where he was threatened, and no questions. You tell me that it has to happen by this morning at the latest. Right now, Pål, that prisoner has a loaded gun aimed at one of my employees. Explain the connection between your order and the hostage-taking. Or I'll be forced to ask someone else the same questions."

     It was warm in the security office that was part of the entrance to Aspsås prison and was called central security, just as it is in every prison in Sweden. The warden in a creased blue uniform, who was called Bergh, was sweating despite the fan on the table right behind him that made any loose paper and his thin fringe flutter. So he turned around and looked for the towel that hung in the space between the red and green buttons on the control panel and the sixteen TV monitors.

    Naked bodies.

    The resolution of the black-and-white image wasn't great, and it flickered a bit, but he was sure.

    The picture on the screen closest to the towel showed two naked bodies on a floor and a man wearing prison-issue clothes holding something to their heads.

    He looked up at the beautiful blue sky. A few wispy clouds, a pleasant sun and a warm breeze. It was a lovely summer day. Apart from the sound of the sirens from the first police car, two uniformed officers in front, both from Aspsås police district.

    "Oscarsson…?"

    The governor of Aspsås prison was standing by the main gate in the asphalt garage, the concrete wall like an unpainted gray set behind him. "What the hell-"

    "He's already shot someone."

    "Oscarsson?"

    "And threatened to do it again."

    They were in the front with the windows rolled down: a young policewoman whom Lennart Oscarsson had never seen before sitting beside a sergeant of about his own age, Rydén-they didn't know each other, but knew of each other, one of the few policemen who had served in Aspsås for as long as Oscarsson had worked at the prison.

    They turned off the blue light and got out.

    "Who?"

I've just come from the hospital unit. You can't see him.

    "Piet Hoffmann. Thirty-six years old. Ten years for drugs offenses.

    According to our records, extremely dangerous, classified psychopath, violent." A sergeant from the Aspsås district who had been to the large prison enough times to know his way round.

    "I don't understand. Block B. Solitary confinement. And armed?"
He's going back. To G2. By tomorrow morning at the latest.

    "We don't understand it either."

    "But the gun? For Christ's sake, Oscarsson… how? Where from-?" "I don't know. I don't
know."

    Rydén looked at the concrete wall, over it and at what he knew was the second floor and roof of Block B.

    "I need to know more. What kind of gun?"

    Lennart Oscarsson sighed.

    "According to the warden who was threatened-he was confused, in shock, but he described some kind of… miniature pistol."

    "Pistol? Or revolver?"

    "What's the difference?"

    "With a magazine? Or a rotating cylinder?"

    "I don't know."

    Rydén's gaze lingered on the roof of Block B.

    "A hostage taking. A violent, dangerous convict."

    He shook his head.

    "We need a completely different kind of weapon. Different knowledge. We need policemen who are specially trained for this."

    He went over to the car, a hand in through the open window. He could just reach the radio microphone.

    "I'll contact the inspector on duty at the CCC. I'll ask them to send the national task force."

    The dirty floor was hard and cold against his bare lower leg.

    Martin Jacobson moved carefully, tried to rock his body back, pain pressing on his joints. Crumpled, bent forward, hands behind their backs, they had been kneeling beside each other since they came into the main workshop. He shot a look at the prisoner who was so close he could feel his breath. He couldn't remember his name, it was seldom that those who were locked up in solitary confinement became individuals. Central European, he was sure of that, big, and his hate was tangible, there was bad blood between them, something old-when their eyes locked, he spat, sneered, and Hoffmann had gotten tired of him screaming in a language that Jacobson didn't understand, had kicked him in the cheek and wound the sharp plastic tape around his legs as well.

    Martin Jacobson had gradually started to feel what he hadn't had the energy to feel when everything was chaos and he had to concentrate on trying to get the hostage taker to communicate.

    A creeping, terrible, engulfing fear.

    This was serious. Hoffmann was under pressure and resolute and another person who would never think, talk, or laugh again was already lying on another floor.

    Jacobson rocked gently again, took a deep breath-it was more than fear, perhaps. He had never felt like this before, absolute terror.

    "Keep still."

    Piet Hoffmann kicked him in the shoulders, not hard but enough for his bare skin to shine red. He then started to walk through the workshop, along the rectangular workbenches, and reached up and turned the first camera to the wall, and then the second and the third, but he held the fourth in both hands for a while, his face right up to the lens, he stared into it, moved even closer until his face filled the entire screen, then he screamed; he screamed and then turned that one to the wall as well.

    Bergh was still sweating. But he wasn't aware of it. He had moved the chair in the glass box that was central security and was now leaning forward in front of the monitors, four of them with pictures from the Block B workshop. A couple of minutes ago, someone had joined him. The chief warden was standing right behind him and they were watching the same black-and-white sequences with shared concentration, almost silence. Suddenly something changed. One of the monitors that was connected to the camera nearest the window went black. But not an electronic black, it was still working-it was more like it was obstructed by something or someone. Then the next one. The cameras had been turned quickly, maybe to the wall-the darkness could be a film of gray concrete only centimeters away. The third one, they were prepared. They spotted the hand just before it was turned, a person who forced the camera around on its fixture.

    One left. They stared at the monitor, waiting, then both jumped. A face.

    Close up, as close as you could get, a nose and a mouth, that was all. A mouth that screamed something before it disappeared.

    Hoffmann.

    He had said something.

     He was cold.

    It wasn't a chill from the cold floor, it came from fear, from losing the will to fight thoughts of his own death.

    The prisoner beside him had made a threat again-more hate, more scorn-until Hoffmann got a rag from one of the workbenches and stuffed it in his mouth and his words were swallowed.

    They both lay still, even when he left them every now and then, purposeful steps over to the far glass wall, a window into the office. When he turned his head, Martin Jacobson could see him go into the small room, bend down over the desk and lift something that from a distance looked like a telephone receiver.

    The mouth moved slowly. Narrow, tight lips that looked chapped, almost split.

He is.

    They looked at each other, nodded.

    They had both recognized the movements of the mouth that formed the words.

    "Next."

    Oscarsson was sitting beside Bergh in the cramped security office and eager fingers pressed the play button, one frame at a time. The mouth filled the whole screen, the next word, the lips wide and stretched.

    "Did you see?"

    "Yes."

    "One more time."

    It was so clear.

    The words, the message from the lips, said with such aggression that they were an attack.

He is a dead man.

     His hand was shaking-it happened so suddenly he had been forced to let go of the telephone receiver.

    What if he got an answer?

    What if he didn't get an answer?

    A quick look out through the internal window into the workshop and the naked men; they were still lying there, without moving. A porcelain cup in the middle of the desk, half full of day-old coffee, which he downed, cold and bitter but the caffeine would stay in his body for a while.

    He dialed the number again. The first ring, the second, he waited. Was she still there, did she still have the same number, he didn't know, he hoped, maybe she-

    Her voice.

    "You?"

    It had been so long.

    "I want you to do exactly what we agreed."

    "Piet, I-"

"Exactly
what we agreed.
Now."

    He hung up. He missed her. He missed her so much.

    And now he wondered if she was still there, for him.

     The blue, flashing light got stronger, clearer, and would soon push its way through the woods that separated the country road from the drive up to Aspsås prison. Lennart Oscarsson was standing next to Sergeant Rydén in the parking place by the main gate when two heavy, square, black cars approached. The national task force duty troops had left their headquarters at Sorentorp and Solna twenty-four minutes earlier and dropped off-while the heavy vehicles were still moving-nine identically clad men in black boots, navy blue overalls, balaclavas, protective visors, helmets, fireproof gloves, and flak jackets. Rydén rushed forward and greeted the tall thin man who got out of the passenger seat of the first car. Head of the task force, John Edvardson.

    "There. The black roof. Top floor."

    Four windows in the building nearest the outer wall. Edvardson nodded, he was already heading over there and Oscarsson and Rydén had almost to run to keep up. They looked around and saw the eight others following, submachine guns in hand, two of them with long-distance sniper guns.