During his years on the run, Erik Wilson, Hoffmann’s handler in the Swedish police, paid the rent on this empty apartment every month. Piet Hoffmann hadn’t even been sure why he felt it was so important to keep. Using his hidden money to keep the house in Enskede, the heart of his family’s life, was an obvious choice—but this expensive office space in the center of the city, whose only function had been to infiltrate the Polish mafia? He understood it later, after they returned to Sweden and after he got out of prison. Through all those years, this had become one of the places where he felt safe—though everything about its history should have meant the opposite, insecurity. But it was a reference point in the chaos. A place to begin finding his way home.

He walked through the rooms—high ceilings, white walls. Windows overlooking Norra Bantorget and Kungs Bridge. An open fireplace like the one Zofia had wanted at home, and which they’d finally recently built. His personal office was next to the kitchen, and a heavy antique desk stood in its middle, two weapons cases along the wall, identical to the one he had at home. This was where he ran the other leg of his business from, his legal business, a man who never imagined he could live a life outside the criminal world. The safe houses took up half of the time—and selling and mounting security cameras, installing alarms and bulletproof windows and doors the other half. And now and then, if Zofia approved, he’d do some extra time as a bodyguard, which paid well.

“I’m thirsty.”

Rasmus shouted from the conference room.

“Dad! Thirsty.”

“Do you see the mini-fridge in the corner?”

“Yeah?”

“Look inside and you’ll find something to your liking on the top shelf. It’s orange. Starts with an F and ends with A. You can have one each.”

When they came inside he’d stepped over a pile of mail on the floor of the hallway, but with his boys settled in now and busy with other things, he returned to the front door and picked it up. He sorted out all the catalogs and the trade magazines for the Security branch, tucked the seven remaining letters under his arm, and carried them to his desk.

“I can’t find it.”

Rasmus again.

Desperation in his voice.

“Dad? They’re not here!”

“I’m coming, Rasmus.”