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nothing to do with it,” Pocoli gloats as he scoops up the chips with a broad grin. Mjønes laughs and goes over to the kitchen in the corner. He looks at the messy row of empty beer cans and takes out a plastic carrier bag from one of the drawers. One by one the cans disappear into the bag.
    “Okay,” he says when he has made the place look reasonably tidy. “Have you done everything I told you?”
    “Do you have the money?”
    Ahmetaj doesn’t look at him, but interlocks his fingers at the top of his mohican. It shines even in the modest lighting of the room. Mjønes opens his backpack, takes out a wad of banknotes, and runs his finger quickly over them. Fifty notes. He takes out another five wads and throws two to each man.
    “If we pull it off, you’ll get the same again,” Mjønes says while the trio around the table counts their money. Ahmetaj nods happily.
    “The equipment is over there,” he says, pointing to a black bag.
    “What about his email? His mobile? His bank accounts?”
    “Already taken care of.”
    Mjønes nods and looks at Pocoli.
    “Anything specific I need to know?”
    “I’ll brief you later.”
    “Okay.”
    Mjønes’s eyes shift to Redzepi.
    “I’m ready when you are.”
    Mjønes nods again. Everything is as it should be. He sees no point in explaining the plan to them in detail even though he is itching to do so. They are supplying a service. End of story. And yet he can’t resist giving them a preview.
    “Why did you bring the cat?” Pocoli asks him.
    Mjønes smiles.
    “To check that I didn’t buy a pig in a poke.”
    Mjønes laughs at his own joke, but the card players stare blankly at him.
    “Right, I realize you don’t speak Norwegian. But I promise you, you’ve never seen anything like it. It’s quite—”
    A contented smile plays at the corners of his mouth. He puts his hand inside the backpack and produces two identical boxes the size of a matchbox, which he puts down on the table.
    “What are they?” Redzepi asks.
    Mjønes touches the first box with his index finger.
    “Piercing needles,” he says.
    “And the other?”
    Mjønes smiles and opens the second box.
    “You really don’t want to know.”
    With reverential movements he takes out an ampoule sealed with a small plastic cap. He unscrews the top, takes out a piercing needle and dips it in the clear liquid with the utmostcare. He holds the needle with the tip pointing upward. The needle gleams.
    “Who wants to do the honors?” he asks and looks at them before he nods in the direction of the cat. The eyes around the table light up immediately. He assesses them in turn.
    “Durim,” he decides. Redzepi smiles and gets up. Mjønes hands him the needle.
    “Watch yourself.”
    Redzepi takes a step backward and is extra careful to avoid the point of the needle.
    “No screwups this time.”
    Mjønes looks at him long and hard. Beads of sweat force their way out of the pores of Redzepi’s forehead. He pinches the needle so hard that his knuckles go white.
    Calmly, he approaches the cat in the cage. Behind him the others get up and move closer. Redzepi’s look is one of deep concentration.
    He opens the cage and looks at the sleepy animal that barely raises its eyelids to look back at him.
    “Meow,” Redzepi says, softly.
    Then he aims the needle at the cat’s neck.
    And pricks it.

10
    Henning wakes up early Sunday morning after a dreamless sleep. He goes to the kitchen to make some coffee. While he showers he turns over in his mind the information he found on Tore Pulli the previous night.
    Pulli’s parents died in a car crash a few days after his eleventh birthday, and it was left to his grandparents, Margit Marie and Sverre Lorents, to try to turn young Tore Jørn into a good citizen. The boy’s life had, however, already taken a wrong turn. As the youngest member of a tagging gang, he constantly had to prove his place. In his early teens he was involved in a series of minor burglaries, he started