It was the perfect location. A cul-de-sac in a southern suburb of Stockholm, lined by sleepy three-story apartment buildings whose tenants had average incomes, average life expectancies, average educations, a good mix of young and old, those born in Sweden and those who arrived later. This afternoon Piet Hoffmann was walking counter-clockwise in a two-hundred-meter radius, which constituted the outer rim of their defenses. He checked the eighteen surveillance cameras along that route, which were placed in stairwells and garages, on lampposts and rooftops—each one activated by motion sensors. He checked the license plate numbers on vehicles he’d never seen before to see if their owners lived in the area or if they had any police records. He compared yesterday’s mental map—which no one else had access to, his memorized map of formal roads and informal escape routes, who was moving where and why—with how things looked today. Nothing seemed suspicious, no warning of any oncoming threat. On his way into the front door of the only high-rise, he stopped by the camera labeled number 14, turning it slightly to the left to bring a dead angle back to life. His base was just an elevator ride up to the eighth floor, a studio apartment with a kitchenette, but it was enough.

“I’m headed out for the day. Everything okay?”

He stood in the tiny hallway, looking at a security officer surrounded by a sea of screens, glancing back and forth from one live stream to another, sometimes rewinding one to make sure nothing was out of the ordinary.

“Everything’s good, boss.”