Piet Hoffmann went over to the window and lifted the blinds a little, made one last inspection of the cul-de-sac. First he checked the apartment on the second floor, white curtains and a bulky table lamp sitting between two potted plants on the windowsill. The temporary home of a woman in her forties who needed a level two safe house, who had been given a new social security number, which is the only name he had for her. If he pushed the blinds up just a little more he saw the third-floor apartment with red curtains and exuberant decorative lights. Refuge for a man in his thirties, level three, shot once, and his life threatened by his own brothers. And two doors down—now he pushed the blinds up completely—behind white curtains that were just a little too lacy, an older couple who had been hiding out for the last few months as witnesses in a trial against an incredibly violent gang of loosely associated teenagers. They were all here waiting for new identities and a more permanent housing solution, and he was paid sixteen thousand kronor each every day he offered them his professional protection. Of course experienced security guards, advanced technical equipment, and weapons weren’t cheap, but by choosing to place them together so that just one guard was able to keep watch over them all, and by renting and equipping their homes himself, he’d figured out a very profitable business structure for Hoffmann Security Inc.

“Hello, my darling wife.”

He wasn’t far from home, but as soon as he stepped out of the elevator and headed toward his car, almost without thinking about it, he’d called her.

“Hello, my beloved husband.”

Things were going so well. Maybe better than ever. He didn’t even remember it feeling like this when they were newly in love. Back in Sweden, back to something like the life they’d once had. With one big exception—he no longer lied to Zofia, no longer infiltrated organized crime on behalf of the Swedish police, didn’t risk his life or his family’s every day, every hour for the sake of others. He was even working with his old security firm—but now it was no longer just a facade for his infiltration. Now it was a real company, and he used the skills he’d acquired in his old life to make a good and honest living.

“Zofia?”

“Yes?”

“I’m . . . a little worried.”

“You don’t need to be.”

“I know—but I just can’t stop. It’s gnawing at me. What if she . . .”

“Piet? Listen to me. She. Is. Completely. Healthy.”