You all looked so happy together. Family breakfast.

Your boys seem to like yogurt. But they want it in glasses and not in bowls. A double layer of cheese on their bread. They’ve got nice backpacks, too. Especially Rasmus, that red is so easy to spot. You can really see him. You know now that we can expose you. Kill your family.

And we will, if you don’t immediately do what we ask.

Answer when it rings.

Piet Hoffmann ran out to the hall closet where he kept some thin plastic gloves. He pulled on a pair and hurried back to the kitchen table and the phone.

It rang the moment he lifted it up.

“Good morning.”

A voice changer.

“Can you hear me?”

The voice electronic.

“I’d like you to answer me.”

A man’s voice.

“So—one more time. Do you hear . . .”

At least that’s how it sounded.

“. . . me well enough?”

It could be anybody, with any voice.

“I hear you.”

“Good. I’ll keep it short.”

Perfect Swedish.

“We know who you are and what you’ve done. And we know everything—not just what you were locked up for.”

No noticeable accent or particular dialect.

“We also know how resourceful you are.”

And through it all slow, controlled breathing.

“So we want you to start a small war.”

Chapter 13

For as long as he could remember, Piet Hoffmann constructed mental images of whatever reality he found himself in. He kept these images in an internal album that nobody else had access to. Observations about himself in relation to other people. His movements and behaviors in relation to others’ movements and behaviors. A mirror he held up in order to track, plan, be ready. And he had no idea why or how it had begun. It just worked that way for as long as he could remember. It’s who he was, or who he’d been forced to be.

Always, always be one step ahead of anyone else around you, know more than they do, and you’ll know what’s going to happen.

Never, ever let the bastards get you, if you can get them first.

Didn’t matter if he was just a kid on his way to school or a man on his way to a narcotics transaction. If they do this, I’ll do that. If they say this, I say that. It was about knowing which door would open and what he’d find on the other side. A quality that proved very useful after the Swedish police recruited him to infiltrate the mafia. He survived, and he was the best there was at keeping a step ahead, anticipating his opponent’s next move, and making sure his own move was better.

But now.

Now he knew nothing.

He had no mental images.

No mirror to hold up.