Three Seconds

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 out 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 metres 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 metres. That’s what our men are trained for. And the distance from here is far greater, Ewert.’
    Ewert Grens had got 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 metres. A Canadian marksman.’
    ‘So?’
    ‘So what?’
    ‘So it’s not impossible.’
    ‘Impossible. For us.’
    ‘But it’s nearly nine hundred metres less! So what’s the bloody problem?’
    ‘The problem is that we have no officers who can shoot at that distance.
We
don’t have the training.
We
don’t have the equipment.’
    Grens turned towards 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.
Now
.’
    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.
Ordinance on support for civil activities by the Swedish Armed Forces
. I can read it for you, if you like. Paragraph seven.’
    ‘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.
    ‘The army. They train our marksmen. They have the training. And they have the equipment.’
    Piet Hoffmann smiled.
    ‘Then get one of them here.
Now
.’
    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
military
sniper.
    __________
    The map of Aspsås 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.’
    Göransson 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