The paper's management, after serious pressure from the police, had decided not to publish the details. But Andersson had written a sloppy article about the murders around Europe. It contained a large number of loaded words like terrible and unpleasant and massacre but not many facts.

Dessie lowered the paper.

I've been chasing these bastards for six months. No one knows more about them than I do.

Why hadn't she heard from Jacob Kanon today? He had been so keen to talk yesterday evening.

She stretched her back and looked out across the newsroom.

Presumably his not getting in touch again had something to do with her behavior – the fact that she was always so brusque and never let anyone get close to her.

She shook off her feelings as ridiculous, then leafed through the printouts again.

She ran her fingers over the pictures of the victims.

The victims in Rome.

This was her, this was what she looked like before she was murdered.

Smiling, shy, fair curly hair.

Kimberly Kanon.

Jacob Kanon's daughter.

She had her father's bright blue eyes, didn't she?

Chapter 15

The wind had dropped by the time they stepped into the bright sunshine outside the house the Germans had rented in the archipelago. Yachts 23 with slack, chalk white sails glided slowly past in the sound below as Sylvia waved to an older man piloting a large yacht.

Mac fil ed his lungs with air and stretched his arms out toward the islands, trees, water, and glittering sunlight.

"This is wonderful," he exclaimed. "I love Sweden! This could be my favorite country so far."

Sylvia smiled and threw him the car keys.

"Can you find the way back out of here?"

Mac laughed loudly. He shoved the backpack onto the backseat of the rental car, pul ed on a new pair of latex gloves, got in behind the wheel, and put the car in gear.