But to fight them both from the very beginning. The combination could lead only to a violent death.

A new glass of ice-cold water. For a moment the stabbing inside him almost ceased.

That goddamned fucking phone—he didn’t want anything to do with it, and yet he had to carry it with him constantly—it had even rang when he got home with the boys from school. He picked it up, held it in front of him, and didn’t answer. It rang later in the evening. Zofia had looked at him, annoyed by the endless ringing, but she didn’t ask questions she knew she wouldn’t get answers to.

At half past one, at almost the same moment the church bells struck, when he still hoped he might get some sleep, the first text message had arrived. He’d turned the phone on silent when he went to bed, expecting them to make contact and not wanting to wake Zofia, but the vibration on his bedside table was enough.

We are watching you. We know where to find you. We know where your children sleep. But you have no fucking clue where we are. Answer when we call.

Just before half past two, the next message had arrived.

Trouble sleeping? Tomorrow will be easier. Then you’ll know where to pick up the weapon, and when to use it. Then you’ll feel calm again. And while you’re on your little mission, we’ll make sure your family is having a good time. Make sure nothing happens to them. Until you’ve done what you’re supposed to do and things go back to normal. Don’t you agree that blackbirds have the most beautiful song?

He sat down at the kitchen table, took out the phone, and read through the only text messages it had ever received—maybe he’d see something new this time, figure out something he’d missed a few hours ago? No. It meant what it meant. We see you. We are with you all the time. This wasn’t about using any of his skills as an infiltrator, yet. It wasn’t about blowing up his family, yet—they knew as well as he did that grenades came with three fail-safes and each required a great deal of strength. The ring clip had to be pulled out, the fuse bar pressed down, and the grip fuse folded forward. And the probability that Rasmus, if he’d discovered it in the backpack’s side pocket, would accidentally have set it off was quite small. What this was about was pushing him toward a willingness to do whatever they asked, no matter the consequences.

They were doing what he would have done.

And they were threatening him with the old records his handler Erik Wilson filed after their meetings, which were always kept locked away in the police station.

Erik?

Piet Hoffmann hadn’t even wanted to consider the possibility before.