The waitress, a thin woman with overmanaged blond hair, slid a plate of fresh bread and cheese in front of him. Sanderson began carving as he sorted through his doubts. Perhaps his colleagues in Stockholm would work things out, make the same connections he had, and issue an alert to the Swiss authorities about a lurking assassin. It was plausible, he supposed, yet Sanderson found himself hoping otherwise. He quickly recognized this for what it was—the self-interest of redemption. Edmund Deadmarsh could be his ticket back in. If Sanderson stopped the assassin single-handed, he would become an instant legend. If he blew it, of course, he’d be facing retirement. But then, that was where he already was.

Sanderson looked at his watch, then pulled out his phone and placed a call.

His ex-wife answered.

“Hello, Ingrid.”

“Arne! Where on earth are you? I just got a message from Paul Sjoberg. He says he needs to get in touch with you about something urgent, but that you haven’t been picking up and aren’t at home.”

“Yes, I’ve been ignoring his calls. And he’s right—I’m out of town. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t talk to him. He’ll only make my job more difficult.”

“Your job? What are you doing?”

“Exactly what you told me to do.”

After a long silence, she said, “Are you having any luck?”

“Surprisingly, yes.”

“I’m not sure I like that answer. Blix told me this man is very dangerous. I think you should get in touch with—”

“Ingrid,” he interrupted, “I need you to do something for me right away. And please do it without questioning my motives. You have to trust me.”

“I always have, Arne. You know that.”

“Good. Do you still have your key to our flat?”

“Yes, I think I might.”

“If not there’s a spare under the pot by the back door—the one with all the dead tulips. I need you to get something from the house and send it to me express overnight.” He told her what he wanted and was met with silence. “Can you do this for me?”

He heard a long intake of breathe, then, “Yes, Arne. I’ll do it.”

*   *   *

Christine was looking at the picture of domesticity. Her colleague from residency, Ulrika Torsten, had just arrived home from work and was reading a story to her thirteen-month-old son. Her husband was making dinner in the kitchen. Unavoidably, she contrasted this to her own circumstances. In order to aid her fugitive husband, she was hiding out with friends after giving them a far-fetched story—lies given and accepted with equal ease.