Three Seconds

towards Göransson.
    ‘Are there any other formal links between the police authority and Hoffmann?’
    Göransson 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 Aspsås.’
    The state secretary put the file down to one side, looked at Göransson, 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 Aspsås where the hostages’ lives are in danger … would you make a decision based on the fact that Hoffmann is dangerous, capable?’
    Chief Superintendent Göransson nodded.
    ‘Without a doubt.’
    ‘Would all the police officers who might be assigned as gold commander make the same decision based on that information?’
    ‘Given our information about Hoffmann, no police officer at the scene would question the fact that he is prepared to kill a prison warden.’
    The sun wearied of fighting the light clouds outside the window of the Government Offices and the bright light subsided, making it more comfortable to look round the room.
    ‘So … if the gold commander at Aspsås is convinced that Hoffmann is prepared to kill the hostages … and has to make a decision … what would he do?’
    ‘If the gold commander considers the hostages to be in acute danger, and that Piet Hoffmann will kill them, he would then order the men to storm the premises in order to safeguard the hostages’ lives.’
    Göransson moved closer to the table and the map, and drew his finger over the paper from the rectangle that represented Block B to a rectangle one and a half kilometres away that represented a church.
    ‘But it’s not possible from here.’
    He drew a circle in the air over the building that was marked with a cross and kept his hand there, a slow movement, round and round, a circle that stopped when he did.
    ‘So the gold commander will, if he must, order the national task force marksmen to take out the hostage taker.’
    ‘Take out?’
    ‘Shoot.’
    ‘Shoot?’
    ‘Put out of action.’
    ‘Put out of action?’
    ‘Kill.’

The room with the small wooden altar had already been transformed into the control post. There were drawings of Aspsås prison lying on every surface intended for the priest to prepare his services. Paper cups of vending machine coffee from the local petrol station stood empty or half finished on the floor, the small window that had been opened wide to let in some oxygen to replace that which had long since been breathed out by stressed and raised voices, creaked gently on the breeze. Ewert Grens moved restlessly between Edvardson, Sundkvist and Hermansson, loud but not aggressive or even angry; he had just taken over as gold commander and was resolute and solution-orientated. He would have to make the final decision in a while, it was him, and him alone, who was directly responsible for several people’s lives. He left the room with no air, wandered through the empty churchyard, between the headstones and newly planted flowers and saw in his mind’s eye another cemetery that he had not yet dared to visit, but that he would now, later, when this was all over. He stopped between a grey, rather beautiful headstone and a tree that looked like it might be a maple, lifted the