Three Seconds

wasn’t cold any more. The floor that smelt of diesel was just as hard and just as cold, but he didn’t feel the cold, nor the pain in his knees, he didn’t even think about the fact that he was naked and bound, and would shortly get another kick in the side from someone who intermittently whispered that he was going to die. Martin Jacobson didn’t have the strength to speak, to think – he lay down and didn’t move. He wasn’t even sure if he was seeing the things he saw now, if Hoffmann really did walk over to the largest workbench and pull a plastic pocket from the waist of his trouser that had some kind of fluid in it; if he then cut it into twenty-four equally sized pieces and with a roll of tape from the shelf, attach them to the nameless prisoner’s head, arms, back, stomach, chest, thighs, lower legs and feet; and if he took from the same place something that looked like a thin piece of pentyl fuse that was several metres long and wrapped it round and round the prisoner’s body. If that was the case, if what he saw was what was really happening, he couldn’t face any more. He turned his eyes slowly the other way so he didn’t need to see – there was no room left for things he didn’t understand.
     
    __________
    One of the three chairs that had been pulled out from the conference table was empty, and the person whose office it was, a state secretary from the Ministry of Justice, ran her hand back and forth over a crumpled map as if subconsciously trying to smooth out the bumps that shouldn’t be there.
     
    ‘Can we do this?’
    The man opposite her, a national police commissioner, heard her question but knew that it didn’t mean just that she was asking if they were capable of something, no one would contend that, it wasn’t Göransson alone who was going to solve this, the possibility didn’t vanish along with him. What she was really asking was
do we trust each
other
, or perhaps
do we trust each other enough to first solve this and then to stick to what we’ve decided, especially the consequences?
    He nodded.
    ‘Yes, we can do this.’
    The state secretary had moved over to the bookshelf behind the desk and taken a pile of black spines from a file. She leafed through them and found the statute she was looking for: SFS 2002:375.
    Then she turned on her computer and logged on, opened the complete version and printed out two copies.
    ‘Here. Take one.’
    SFS 2002:375.
    Ordinance on support for civil activities by the Swedish Armed Forces
.
    She pointed at the seventh paragraph.
    ‘This is what it’s about. This is what we have to find our way round.
When support is given pursuant to this Ordinance, members of the Armed Forces cannot be used in situations where there is a risk that they may be required to use force or violence against a private individual.
    They both knew exactly what that meant. It would not be possible to use the armed forces for police activities. For nearly eighty years, this country of theirs had sought not to resolve problems by allowing the military to shoot at civilians.
    But that was precisely what they had to do.
    ‘Are you of the same opinion? Do you agree with the DS who is in situ? That the only way to resolve this, for a shot to be fired from here that will reach … here, to this building … is to use a military marksman?’
    The state secretary had smoothed out the map enough for it to be possible to follow her finger.
    ‘Yes. I’m of the same opinion. More powerful guns, heavier ammunition, better training. I’ve been asking for that for several years now.’
    She smiled wearily, got up and walked slowly round the room.
    ‘So, the police are not allowed to use the snipers who are employed by the armed forces.’
    She stopped.
    ‘The police can, however, use the marksmen who are employed by the police. Is that not the case?’
    She looked at him and he gave a hesitant nod and threw his hands up in the air – she was aiming at something, but he had no idea what.She went over to the computer again, looked at the screen for a while, then printed out another document in duplicate.
    ‘SFS 1999:740.’
    She waited until he had found the right page.
    ‘Ordinance on police training. Paragraph nine.’
    ‘What about it?’
    ‘We’ll start there and work our way forwards.’
    She read out loud:
The National Police Board can, under special circumstances, grant exemptions from the training set out in this Ordinance.
    The national police commissioner