“Upscale, off-book, off-the-grid apartments, condos and houses.” He resumed his seat on the bed. Staring at the pictures of his daughter, he continued, “From New York to LA and all viable points in between. ‘Ghost towns’ is what they call them. Places without addresses expressly for people without names, countries or allegiances.”

“Safe houses—”

“Even safe houses have a discernable business architecture,” Bronson said. “I know because I’ve set up safe houses—black sites—for the government. I’m good development cover. But these places, these ‘ghost towns’—they’re different. They’re completely off the grid. No mail. No utility bills. Nothing. You’d have to buy, well, everybody: local politicos, city planners, tax officials, police—everybody! Mr. Snow—even I don’t have that kind of juice.”

“Who’s the running the operation?”

“I don’t exactly know,” he said. “I—I’ve only ever heard stories. In real estate, there’s always some convoluted, switchback deals designed to hide off-shore or silent third-, fourth- or fifth-party finances. Panama wasn’t the only Central or South American country providing safe haven for mountains of tax-free cash, for drug cartels and politicians. Services to facilitate real estate holdings by North Korea in France and Italy or Russian-fronted land deals in the UK. Chinese back-channel acquisitions in New York City, Chicago and LA.” He fell silent for a moment, weighing what he had said and was about to say. “There’s a man named Xiang. Young Australian-Chinese man. Very dangerous. Very—convincing. But there’s power behind him.”

“What power?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “But I know what power—real power—looks like. Feels like. And Xiang’s not it.”

I stood to leave. A lump was forming in my throat. An extension of the Gordian knot in my stomach. “Do you want someone to assure your daughter’s safety?”

“What are you saying?”

“I may know how to keep your daughter safe,” I said.

“Cost is no object—”

“This one’s on the house.”

“Why would you do this?” Bronson said. “It’s rather obvious you don’t like me.”

“The sins of the father should not be visited upon their children,” I said. “I don’t give a shit about you, Vic. Your hockey team sucks, and your adjustable-rate mortgages are stabbing at the heart of the American Dream. But no kid should have to suffer for their parent’s shittiness. I need to hear you give me permission to help your kid.”

“They—might hurt her, kill her, if you do something.”

“And they might kill her if nobody does anything,” I said. “Your choice.”

After a moment, he said, “Yes. Help her. Please.” He cocked his head like a confused beagle. “How—how would you—”