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countered. “What’s the perp going to use it for? Maybe we should start over from that angle instead. He can’t very well be thinking of making it into a trophy and hanging it up over the fireplace like a moose head. Someone who doesn’t have a thing to do with the Larsson family might have reason to be afraid.”
    “The whole thing is starting to sound like
The Godfather
,” said Jacobsson. “Don’t you remember the man who woke up to find the horse’s head in his bed?”
    Everyone around the table grimaced.
    “Maybe a Gotland Mafia has secretly taken root down there in the south of the island,” snickered Norrby. “Just like in Sicily.”
    “Oh, sure, there are lots of similarities between Gotland and Sicily,” added Knutas with a wry smile. “We have plenty of sheep. And sheep heads.”

FRIDAY, JULY 2
    THE PROP PLANE landed at the Bromma domestic airport outside Stockholm just after 3:00 P.M. The man with the dark blue sports bag stood up the minute the plane stopped moving. He wore tinted glasses and a cap pulled down over his forehead. He’d been lucky enough to have two seats to himself, so there was no risk that someone might try to converse with him. The flight attendant must have sensed his antipathy because she came by only once to make him a discreet offer of coffee; after that she left him in peace. As his cab headed toward Stockholm, he let out a quiet sigh of anticipation. He was looking forward to the meeting.
    He asked the driver to stop several blocks from his destination. There could be nothing that would trace him to the address. It was the height of the summer, and Stockholm was trembling with heat. Outdoor cafés filled the sidewalks, where customers were enjoying a caffe latte or a glass of wine. The water glittered down by Strandvägen. At the wharf old sailboats were moored side by side with luxury yachts and passenger ferries, which during the peak hours would transport Stockholmers and tourists out to the archipelago.
    He had never felt comfortable in the capital, but on a day like today, even he could almost understand why some people loved Stockholm. Everybody in the part of the city where he now found himself was well dressed, and almost everyone he saw was wearing sunglasses. He smiled in amusement—how typical for city dwellers. As if the slightest encounter with nature made them want to protect or equip themselves in some way.
    In the city he was a stranger, an outsider. It was hard to comprehend that these well-dressed people who walked with such purpose along the street all around him were actually his fellow countrymen. Here everyone knew where they were going.
    The quick pace made him nervous. Everything had to move so fast, so very fast. When he stopped to buy a can of snuff at the Pressbyrån kiosk and searched for change, he could feel the impatience of the clerk behind the cash register as the line behind him grew longer.
    The building was one of the city’s most exclusive addresses, and the trees that lined the street lent it an imposing frame. He had memorized the code, and the massive oak door slid open with an ease that surprised him. The stairwell inside was empty and silent. A crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, and on the floor lay a thick red carpet that continued up the entire staircase. The ceiling height was impressive. The austere grandeur and permeating silence made him uncertain. He stood there for a moment, staring at the names on the elegant sign on the wall: von Rosen, Gyllenstierna, Bauerbusch.
    Suddenly he felt like a timid little boy. He had the same sense of submissiveness and lack of self-esteem that he’d had when he was growing up. He didn’t belong here; he was a house cat among ermines; he wasn’t good enough or distinguished enough to be in this luxurious marble foyer among the refined people who lived behind these dark-varnished doors. For a moment he stood there, struggling with himself. He couldn’t just turn around and leave, not after he’d come so far. He had to pull himself together, muster his courage. He’d done that before. He sat down on the bottom step, put his head in his hands, and shut his eyes tight. He needed to concentrate, although at the same time he was worried that someone might come in the front door. Finally he felt able to stand up.
    He chose to walk up the four flights of stairs, even though there was an elevator. He’d never been able to tolerate elevators. Outside the apartment door he