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snout into the groin of the pilot in front of them, and passed on. The pilot turned around with a raised eyebrow and a crooked smile, as if to suggest a boyish, cheeky expression. But Tord was unable to continue that line of thought. He was unable to continue any line of thought except his own.
    The dog was wearing a yellow vest. The same type of vest the woman with the drop earrings was wearing. On which was written CUSTOMS .
    It came closer, and was only fifteen feet from them now.
    It shouldn’t be a problem. Couldn’t be a problem. The drugs were packed in condoms with a double layer of freezer bags on the outside. Not so much as a molecule of odor could escape. So just smile. Relax and smile. Not too much, not too little. Tord turned to the chattering voice beside him, as though the words that were issuing forth demanded deep concentration.
    “Excuse me.”
    They had passed the dog, and Tord kept walking.
    “Excuse me!” The voice was sharper.
    Tord looked ahead. The door to the flight crew center was less than thirty feet away. Safety. Ten paces. Home and dry.
    “Excuse me, sir!”
    Seven paces.
    “I think she means you, Tord.”
    “What?” Tord stopped. Had to stop. Looked back with what he hoped did not appear to be feigned surprise. The woman in the yellow vest was coming toward them.
    “The dog picked you out.”
    “Did it?” Tord looked down at the dog. How? he was thinking.
    The dog looked back, wagging its tail wildly, as though Tord were its new playmate.
    How? Double layer of freezer bags and condoms. How?
    “That means we have to check you. Could you come with us, please.”
    The gentleness was still there in her brown eyes, but there was no question mark behind her words. And at that moment he realized how. He almost fingered the ID card on his chest.
    The cocaine.
    He had forgotten to wipe down the card after chopping up the last line. That had to be it.
    But it was only a few grains, which he could easily explain away by saying he had lent his ID card to someone at a party. That wasn’t his biggest problem now. The bag. It would be searched. As a pilot he had trained in and practiced emergency procedures so often it was almost automatic. That was the intention, of course; even when panic seized you this was what your brain would do. How many times had he visualized this situation: the customs officials asking him to go with them? Thinking what he would do? Practicing it in his mind? He turned to the flight attendant with a resigned smile, caught sight of her name tag. “I’ve been picked out, it seems, Kristin. Could you take my bag?”
    “The bag comes with us,” the official said.
    Tord Schultz turned back. “I thought you said the dog picked
me
out, not the bag.”
    “That’s true, but—”
    “There are flight documents inside that the crew needs to check. Unless you want to take responsibility for delaying a full Airbus 340 to Bangkok.” He noticed that he—quite literally—had puffed himself up, filled his lungs and expanded his chest muscles in his captain’s jacket. “If we miss our slot that could mean a delay of several hours and a loss of hundreds of thousands of kroner for the airline.”
    “I’m afraid rules—”
    “Three hundred and forty-two passengers,” Schultz interrupted. “Many of them children.” He hoped she heard a captain’s grave concern, not the incipient panic of a dope smuggler.
    The official patted the dog on the head and looked at him.
    She looks like a housewife, he thought. A woman with children and responsibility. A woman who should understand his predicament.
    “The bag comes with us,” she said.
    Another official appeared in the background. Stood there, legs apart, arms crossed.
    “Let’s get this over with,” Tord said, sighing.
    T HE HEAD OF Oslo’s Crime Squad, Gunnar Hagen, leaned back in his swivel chair and studied the man in the linen suit. It had been three years since the sewn-up gash in his face had been bloodred and he had