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road. A loud but brief rumble under the tires tells him he has just driven over a cattle grid before the tires resume spraying gravel at the verges.
    Mjønes knows that the others have already arrived. It has been a while since they last worked together, but he knew they would be just as ready for action as he was. Flurim Ahmetaj is there because he knows everything about computers and surveillance equipment and has easy access to it. Durim Redzepi because nobody is better at getting in and out of someone’s home than he is. And Jeton Pocoli because he is a master at following people. In addition, he has bedroom eyes and a bad-boy image, which makes it easy for him to chat up Norwegian women. The reports he has supplied so far suggest that these skills in particular will prove useful.
    As far as these men are concerned, it has always been a matter of showing up to a table already set, to a plan already laid, and they do what they are told to and paid for. This has never motivated Mjønes. He lives for the craftsmanship. The preliminary work, gathering pieces of information, fitting them into a bigger picture, planning for the unexpected. It is during this phase that he feels alive. And when everything works according to plan, his plan, it makes him delirious with happiness.His favorite pastime is reading about himself in the newspaper afterward and being absolutely certain that the police will never be able to catch him.
    Mjønes slows down, turns into a narrow track, and a red-painted cabin appears a couple of hundred meters farther down the road. He pulls up next to two motorbikes and a dark blue BMW Estate. Mjønes smiles and shakes his head, takes a long look at the desirable car before he steps out onto the makeshift car park. He glances at the cabin where the light is still on and the murmur of conversation fills the night.
    Mjønes takes out the cage and the backpack from the boot of his car. He walks over to the cabin, doesn’t bother to knock, but firmly pushes down the door handle and enters. The arm of a short, thin man on the sofa reaches swiftly for a pistol lying on the table in front of him. He cocks the weapon and points it at Mjønes.
    Twice in one week, he thinks. It’s becoming a habit.
    “Relax, Durim, it’s only me.”
    Durim Redzepi looks at Mjønes for a few seconds before he lowers the pistol. Mjønes smiles and takes a few steps inside. Playing cards and chips are spread across the oval table. The smoke from countless cigarettes hangs like a blue cobweb across the room.
    “Who is winning?” he asks and sets down a cage where a cat with rust-colored fur is dozing on its stomach. He also removes his backpack.
    “Flurim has the most chips,” Redzepi says in broken Swedish. A man with a mohican turns to Mjønes. His broad smile reveals a pointed silver stud in his tongue. The men’s attention reverts to their game.
    “Hurry up, it’s your turn,” Ahmetaj says with the same East European Swedish accent, addressing a compact man in gray tracksuit bottoms who is leaning on the table while he contemplates his next move. A hairy stomach is visible under his whiteT-shirt. Jeton Pocoli taps his nose with his index finger before he puts down two cards and pushes all his chips to the center of the table.
    “I’m all in.”
    The men around the table stare at him in disbelief.
    “You’re bluffing.”
    Pocoli shakes his head.
    “Screw you.”
    Redzepi runs his hand over his stubble-haired head, throws his cards on the table, picks up a can of beer from the floor and lifts it to his lips. Ahmetaj looks at Pocoli, searching for signs of bluffing. He scrutinizes him for a long time before he heaves a sigh, looks at the chips in front of him, grabs a large chunk of his own pile, and shoves them into the pot.
    The last card is played. Ahmetaj’s hopeful look dissolves instantly.
    “For fuck’s sake!” he groans and tosses aside his cards. “Just my rotten luck.”
    “Luck, or the lack of it, has