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was forgotten. And there were no names. Only an article about a drugged-up junkie who had shot another junkie over dope. Nothing of any interest for anyone. Nothing to make the case stand out.”
    “Apart from the fact that the two junkies were teenage boys,” Harry said. “Nineteen years old. And eighteen.” His voice had changed timbre.
    Hagen shrugged. “Old enough to kill, old enough to die. Next year they would have been called up for military service.”
    “Could you arrange a meeting for me?”
    “Who told you, Harry?”
    Harry rubbed his chin. “Friend in Krimteknisk.”
    Hagen smiled. And this time the smile reached his eyes. “You’re so damned kind, Harry. To my knowledge, you have three friends in the police force. Among them Bjørn Holm in Krimteknisk. And Beate Lønn in Krimteknisk. So which one was it?”
    “Beate. Will you arrange a visit?”
    Hagen sat on the edge of his desk and observed Harry. Looked down at the telephone.
    “On one condition, Harry. You promise to keep miles away from this case. It’s all sunshine and roses between us and Kripos now, and I could do without any more trouble with them.”
    Harry grimaced. He had sunk so low in the chair now he could study his belt buckle. “So you and the Kripos king have become bosom buddies?”
    “Mikael Bellman stopped working for Kripos,” Hagen said. “Hence, sunshine and roses.”
    “Got rid of the psychopath? Happy days …”
    “On the contrary.” Hagen’s laugh was hollow. “Bellman is more present than ever. He’s in this building.”
    “Oh, shit. Here in Crime Squad?”
    “God forbid. He’s been running Orgkrim for more than a year.”
    “You’ve got new wombos, I can hear.”
    “Organized crime. They merged a load of the old sections. Burglary, Trafficking, Narc. It’s all Orgkrim now. More than two hundred employees, biggest unit in the Crime Department.”
    “Mm. More than he had in Kripos.”
    “Yet his salary went down. And you know what that means when people take lower-paid jobs?”
    “They’re after more power,” Harry said.
    “He was the one who got the drug trade under control, Harry. Good undercover work. Arrests and raids. There are fewer gangs and there’s no infighting now. OD figures are, as I said, on the way down.” Hagen now pointed a finger at the ceiling. “And Bellman’s on the way up. The boy’s going places, Harry.”
    “Me, too,” Harry said, rising to his feet. “To Botsen. I’m counting on there being a visitor’s permit in reception by the time I arrive.”
    “If we’ve got a deal?”
    “ ’Course we have,” Harry said, grabbing his ex-boss’s outstretched hand. He pumped it twice and made for the door. Hong Kong had been a good school for lying. He heard Hagen lift the telephone receiver, but as he reached the threshold he turned nonetheless.
    “Who’s the third?”
    “What?” Hagen was looking down at the keypad while tapping with a heavy finger.
    “The third friend I have in the force?”
    Gunnar Hagen put the receiver to his ear, sent Harry a weary look and said with a sigh: “Who do you think?” And: “Hello? Hagen here. I’d like a visitor’s permit … Yes?” Hagen laid a hand over the receiver. “No problem. They’re eating now, but get there around twelve.”
    Harry smiled, mouthed a thank-you and closed the door quietly after him.
    T ORD S CHULTZ STOOD in the booth, buttoning up his trousers and putting on his jacket. They had stopped short of examining orifices. The customs official who had stopped him was waiting outside. Standing there like a professor after an oral dissertation.
    “Thank you for being so cooperative,” she said, indicating the exit.
    Tord guessed they’d had long discussions about whether they would say, “We’re sorry,” whenever a drug-sniffing dog had identified someone, but no dope was found. The individual stopped, delayed, suspected and shamed would undoubtedly consider an apology appropriate. But should you