Mehmet Badem’s address was in Prenzlauer Berg, an area I knew all too well from my student days. Drugs and fetish clubs existed in every Berlin neighborhood, but if you wanted something dangerous, you were sure to find it there. Badem’s address was east of Mauerpark—a reminder of where part of the Berlin Wall once stood—and the charming boutiques and cafés of the Schönhauser Allee.

His building looked industrial, with four boxy floors and an African restaurant on the main level. There were two dozen apartment buzzers, and I pressed them until someone answered. “Anlieferung,” I said, hoping that was the right word for delivery—my German had always been lacking—and I was buzzed in.

Badem lived on the third floor, and he answered when I knocked. I had immediately recognized his photograph, but if I’d encountered him on the street, I wouldn’t have realized it was the same man. He’d been a solid muscular type at one time, but he had morphed into a skeletal wreck. His skin was sallow and sagging, and his eyes were sunken. His dark hair was streaked with gray and slicked back.

It was like looking in a dark mirror. If I’d continued to use all the drugs I’d once been on, I had no reason to believe I’d look any better.

“Mehmet Badem? Entschuldige.” I wanted to apologize for showing up at his door unannounced, but I could only get as far as saying excuse me in German. “Ich bin . . .”

“I know you,” he answered in English. He stared at me intently, barely blinking.

“My name is Theo,” I said. “You used to work for my family at the Thraxton Hotel.”

Badem’s eyes widened, and his mouth made a squishy gurgle. “Oh, shit,” he murmured.

“I heard you had an accident at the hotel a few years ago . . .”

He stepped back, as if I’d pushed him. I used the opportunity to step inside, quickly shutting the door behind me.

“That’s right.” Badem took another step back.

“What happened?” I asked him.

“You’re a Thraxton. You know what happened,” he said, never taking his eyes off mine.

“All I know is that there was an accident five years ago. What kind of work did you do?”

“Security,” he said warily.

Of course it was security.

“Cigarette?” he asked me.

“No, thanks.”

He retreated further, picking up a pack from the sofa and lighting a cigarette. He may have looked like a wreck, but his apartment was relatively tidy. I took in the big-screen television, video-game console, and new laptop; he wasn’t well, but his pension seemed to be supporting him. An annoyed yip came from one of the cushions. A mutt with mottled black-and-white fur sat up and started barking at me.

“Shhh, Snoopy,” he chided.