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  Fear came with the darkness. He hated the nights. The distance between his own room and the safety of his parents’ bedroom seemed immense. Many times he had chosen to hide under the covers rather than venture out onto the dark landing outside his door.

  He could see that his mother was worried about his night terrors. He would scream out loud when he had bad dreams, and she always came running. Stroked his forehead and whispered that everything was all right. Switched on the bedside lamp and opened the blind.

  “There’s nothing here, David. Nothing that could hurt you. Come and have a look and you’ll see that there’s nothing to worry about.”

  Like all parents, she wanted him to look for himself, see that there were no dangers lurking outside.

  But David wasn’t afraid of something you could see with the naked eye. He was afraid of something you weren’t aware of until it was too late. Of dangers that moved with the darkness as their protector and silence as their companion. David was afraid of the danger against which there was no defense.

  It was Avital who had told him the story. Told him about the boy who hated children and who waited for them in the barren landscape around the village where they lived. The Paper Boy.

  “He sleeps during the day and wakes up when the sun goes down,” Avital said one day when they were hiding in his tree house so that David wouldn’t have to go home. “He picks out the child he wants, then he takes them.”

  David felt his stomach turn over.

  “How does he choose?” he whispered.

  “No one knows. The only thing we know is that no one is safe.”

  David tried to swallow his fear.

  “You’re making it up.”

  The floor of the tree house was hard, and the wind was so cold. He was wearing only shorts and a short-sleeved top, and he was starting to shiver.

  “I am not!”

  Avital had always been more daring. He was never scared, and he was always ready to fight for what he thought or what he wanted. But he was also a true friend. David’s father had said more than once that Avital would be a good man and a good soldier when he grew up, the kind of man who always did the right thing, who stood up for his friends and his people. He never said what he thought about David, but David assumed he had a very different opinion of his own son.

  “He comes at night, when we’re asleep. He waits outside the window, and when we least expect it, he comes in and grabs us. So don’t sleep with the window open,” Avital said.

  Those words penetrated David’s brain like nails and were impossible to remove. From then on his window had to remain closed.

  But when summer came and the dry heat rolled in across the country, his mother had had enough.

  “Being too hot can make you ill, David. You have to let in the cool night air.”

  He allowed her to open the window, then waited until she had gone to bed. When the house was silent, he tiptoed over and closed it. Only then could he get to sleep.

  Although you could never be completely sure.

  Avital explained this to him a little while later.

  “When he gets angry, he becomes very strong, and then there are no doors, no walls, no windows that can keep him out. The only thing you can do is hope.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Hope he chooses someone else.”

  That did it. From then on, David’s fear of sleeping alone was greater than his fear of making his way across the landing. Every night he crept into his parents’ room; they sent him away only if his little sister had gotten there first.

  “In you come, sweetheart,” his mother would whisper as he slipped under the covers.

  But he slept for no more than an hour or so as dawn was breaking, and that created more problems. He had just started school and was nodding off during lessons. The teachers were worried; they called his parents, who took him to the doctor.

  “The boy is exhausted,” the doctor said. “A few days’ rest and he’ll be as good as new.”

  David was allowed to stay at home, and Avital came around after school with his books to tell him what they had been doing. David wished the teacher would send someone else. He had been trying to avoid Avital so that he wouldn’t have to listen to any more of his terrifying stories, but it was as if he weren’t meant to escape. As Avital zipped up his backpack and got ready to go home, he said:

  “Have you seen him yet? At night?”

  David shook his head.

  “I think he’ll come soon,” Avital said.

  • • •

  It would be a while before his prophecy was fulfilled.

  Many years passed. David and Avital left the village where they had grown up and by chance ended up on the same kibbutz.

  And then he came. The Paper Boy. A child went missing from the kibbutz. For ten days and ten nights they searched for him—adults, police officers, soldiers. Eventually they found his body, so badly mutilated that they didn’t want to tell the other children what had happened to him.

  But they knew anyway.

  David and Avital, grown men by this time, looked at one another in silent understanding. They knew what had happened to the boy.

  The Paper Boy had taken him.

  And it was only a matter of time before he returned.

  CONCLUSION

  FRAGMENT I

  The woman who still does not know that hell is waiting around the corner is walking briskly along the pavement. Snow is falling from the dark sky, settling like the frozen tears of angels on her head and shoulders. She is carrying a violin case. It has been a long day, and she wants to get home.

  Home to her family.

  To her sleeping children and to her husband, who is waiting with wine and pizza.

  Perhaps she even feels a sense of peace, because a drama that has been going on for a long time seems to have reached its conclusion. Only now is she aware of how much it has been weighing her down. Being able to put it behind her will change so much.

  She strides out, speeding up as she gets closer to home. It is time to allow herself to rest. To recover. Gather her strength.

  She can’t wait, and starts to walk even faster.

  And then she hears it. The sound that slices through the winter silence and hits her like a hammer blow.

  Screaming sirens, blue lights. The engines roar as they catch up with her and race past.

  And suddenly she knows where they are going.

  To her home.

  She runs faster than she has ever done before. She runs for her life as she moves toward death. Her footsteps are silent in the snow; her breath is like thick smoke. She rounds the last corner and sees the blue lights pulsating against the neighboring buildings. There are people everywhere. Men and women in uniform, on the pavement and on the road. Loud voices, agitated expressions. Someone is openly weeping, and someone else yells at a driver, telling him to fucking park somewhere else.

  Then they catch sight of her.

  She is a freight train hurtling down a straight track; no one can stop her. Someone makes a futile attempt but misses her by a millimeter. She hurls herself through the open door of the building and races up the stairs.

  And that is where she stops.

  She slams into another body and she falls down. She tries to get up but is pinned down by arms that think they are stronger than a mother under threat.

  “You can’t
go in there right now. You just need to wait a little—”

  But she will not wait. She doesn’t even understand how it happens, but she takes him down with a single blow to the crotch, gets to her feet, and continues to run. She hears his voice echoing through the stairwell:

  “She got away! Stop her!”

  Soon she has reached the top of the stairs. Soon she is standing outside her own door. Soon she will find out what has happened.

  That her husband and her children are dead.

  That there is no one left.

  She will stand in silence on the threshold of the room where they are lying, observe the frantic activity going on around them in an attempt to save whatever can be saved, in spite of the fact that it is too late. That is how all those present will remember the scene.

  They will remember her standing in silence in the doorway, with snow on her coat and a violin case in her hand.

  EARLIER

  The First Day

  Wednesday, January 25, 2012

  Efraim Kiel had arrived with two tasks to accomplish. The first was to identify and recruit a new head of security for one of the Jewish associations in Stockholm, the Solomon Community. The second task he preferred not to think about too much. Once both had been fulfilled, he would return home to Israel. Or move on elsewhere. He rarely knew how long his journeys would take.

  It shouldn’t have been so difficult. It wasn’t usually all that difficult. How many times had he been sent off on a similar mission? Countless times. And how often had he come up against problems like this? Not once.

  The Solomon Community in Stockholm had made the decision to approach contacts in Jerusalem. A series of worrying incidents had occurred over the past year; the community had been the target of a sabotage campaign. In several cases this had involved direct attacks, and the community’s school had also been targeted. No one knew why the situation had changed in Stockholm in particular, and that was largely irrelevant. The important thing was to assess their current position and to see how security could be improved.

  It had been decided that one part of the solution was to employ a head of security who was better qualified, and Efraim’s task was to find such a person.

  He knew what he wanted.

  A good leader.

  In order for a team to work well, it was essential to have a clear, energetic leader, someone with integrity and the ability to prioritize, to make strategic decisions. But above all they must have someone who would command respect. No qualities in the world could compensate for character traits that evoked contempt in those he or she was supposed to guide and coordinate.

  So far they had found it hard to track down a person who possessed the necessary skills and attributes. There was always something missing, usually integrity and sufficient operational experience. One applicant after another was discounted, and now time was running out for Efraim Kiel.

  “But we’ve got the perfect candidate—why can’t we employ him?” The query came from the general secretary of the Solomon Community, who was sitting opposite Efraim.

  “Because he can’t take up the post until summer, which is too late. You can’t be without a head of security for six months. That’s out of the question.”

  Efraim looked over at the window and saw the snow falling from the dark clouds, covering the ground with white powder. Stockholm in January was very different from Tel Aviv, where he had been sitting outside drinking wine just a few days ago. The Swedes had their own customs and rituals, of course. Efraim had realized that they sometimes sat outdoors in the snow, grilling sausages and sipping hot chocolate. Even allowing for the fact that he didn’t eat pork, and that it would never have occurred to him to mix milk and meat, he still thought it was a bizarre tradition.

  “We need to find someone else,” he said, making an effort to maintain a diplomatic tone of voice. “Someone with a broad range of experience who can start right away.”

  The general secretary shuffled through the pile of applications on the desk in front of him. There weren’t very many, but from a purely numerical point of view there should have been enough to find someone. Efraim knew that the general secretary had had a lot to deal with over the past few months. Both the Solomon Community and the school had moved to new premises in buildings directly opposite one another on Nybrogatan. They hadn’t moved far from their previous home on Artillerigatan, but it had still taken time and energy. Everyone needed a period of peace and quiet.

  If only their preferred candidate could take up the post earlier.

  Efraim was open to a solution that involved a temporary appointment to fill the gap until the summer, but they still needed a solid incumbent. A community without a head of security was naked and vulnerable.

  He couldn’t explain why, but Efraim had the distinct feeling that this particular community wouldn’t be able to put up with the situation for very long. He reached for the pile of applications in spite of the fact that he knew them all by heart by now.

  “Actually, we had another application today,” the general secretary said hesitantly. “Several, in fact. From a consultancy firm that specializes in strategic security work.”

  Efraim raised his eyebrows.

  “And?”

  “I’d say that only one of the candidates is worth looking at, but then again the application arrived too late, and I’m not really sure if the person in question is suitable for the post.”

  Efraim didn’t care whether the application was late or not, but the issue of suitability was more interesting.

  “Why is he unsuitable? Or she?”

  “He. And he’s not one of us.”

  “You mean he’s a gentile?”

  “Yes.”

  A non-Jewish candidate for the post of head of security within a Jewish community.

  “Why are you mentioning his application if you think he’s no good?”

  The general secretary didn’t answer; instead he got up and left the room. He returned with a sheaf of papers in his hand.

  “Because he has certain qualities and a level of experience that made me curious, especially in view of the fact that we may need to make a temporary appointment. I checked out his background and found several important elements.”

  He passed the documents to Efraim, and reeled off a brief summary.

  “An ex-cop, almost forty years old. Wife and two young kids. Lives in Spånga; they moved out of the city when he lost his job. Did his military service with the Marine Commandos and seems to have flirted with the idea of becoming an officer, as he stayed on for a while. Got into the Police Training Academy and made rapid progress in the police service. Promoted to the rank of detective inspector at a very young age, and spent only a few years in the sticks before he was handpicked to join a special investigation unit in Stockholm. Led by a DCI by the name of Alex Recht.”

  Efraim looked up.

  “Alex Recht. Why do I recognize that name?”

  “Because he was in the papers back in the autumn when that plane was hijacked. His son was the copilot.”

  “That’s it.”

  Efraim nodded to himself. The hijacking had also featured in the Israeli press. He focused on the documents in his hand once more. The information the general secretary had just given matched what the man himself had said in his application. However, there was one piece of information missing.

  “You said he lost his job.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re still considering taking him on? Don’t you realize how much you have to fuck things up to lose your badge in a country like Sweden?”

  Yes, the general secretary did realize.

  “However, I would say there are definitely extenuating circumstances in this case.”

  “Go on.”

  The general secretary paused for effect.

  “They kicked him out after he shot the man who murdered his brother. And it happened in the line of duty.”

  Efraim stared at the man opposite for a long time,
then looked down at the application once more.

  Peder Rydh. Could he be the person they needed?

  The meeting was interrupted by the general secretary’s personal assistant, who knocked on the door and walked straight in.

  “You have to come,” she said. “Something terrible has happened. I’ve just had a call from the Solomon school to say that one of the preschool teachers has been shot.”

  The call from the Solomon school in Östermalm didn’t make any sense at first. A preschool teacher had been shot. In front of children and parents. Probably by a sniper who must have been on a roof on the other side of the road.

  Incomprehensible.

  As far as DCI Alex Recht was concerned, the Solomon Community was a closed book. He knew it was one of Stockholm’s Jewish communities, but that was all. He couldn’t understand why the case had landed on his desk. If the motive was anti-Semitism, then it should be investigated by the National Crime Unit’s specialist team who dealt with hate crimes. Maybe the security service, Säpo, should be involved. But why Alex’s team, which had only just been formed and wasn’t yet ready for a major challenge? And, even more importantly, who the hell would have a reason to shoot a preschool teacher in broad daylight in front of a group of adults and kids?

  “Her new partner,” Alex’s boss said, tossing a computer printout onto his desk. “This is no hate crime, although that’s how the Internet editions of the papers are reporting it. This is linked to serious organized crime, and if you look under a few stones I’m sure you’ll discover that the poor little schoolteacher who got shot in the back isn’t quite as pure as the snow she’s lying on.”

  Alex picked up the printout, which was an extract from the serious crimes database.

  “This is her partner?”

  “Yep.”

  The words in front of him were all too familiar. Drug-related offenses. Unlawful threats. Assaulting a police officer. Resisting arrest. Aggravated theft. Armed robbery. Procurement.

  “Anything on the teacher herself?”