As the detective superintendent stood with his eyes glued to a live hand grenade, his visitor began to speak. Told him about a warning that was put into his family’s mailbox. About copies of highly classified documents sent to his office. About a cell phone dropped off by courier. About instructions to attack any criminal organization he chose with an unknown weapon. And about the contents of a red backpack, which led to Piet Hoffmann’s new appearance and a safe house for Zofia and his children.

Ewert Grens stared at the grenade, which refused to move. He then went over to his sink, waited for the water to turn ice cold, and then filled up a glass. He drank it all, refilled it, drank it all again.

“In your mailbox? And in Rasmus’s backpack?”

“Yes.”

“Disguised as a toy?”

“Yes.”

“And Rasmus—he played with it?”

“With the first one. He cried, even hit me, when I took it away from him.”

Rage. That was what Grens felt.

The kind that rose from deep inside, which he didn’t feel very often anymore.

“You know I’m fond of your kids. They mean something to me.”

“I know, Grens.”

“So you think you got a sure thing? You come here and tell me about some threats and show me some hand grenade and tell me about Rasmus and Hugo and Luiza being locked in a fucking war-zone apartment? And you think I’ll just come running and help you?”

“I’ve called you many things, Grens. But a sure thing has never been one of them. I’m here because I risked my life for many years for your police force. And now a member of that force thinks my family should die. A dirty cop. Whoever’s threatening me never could have done so without a cop. And I think you probably dislike that as much as I do, Grens. In fact, I think you might just dislike it enough to try to help me. Help us. Infiltrate your own colleagues. Let me be your handler this time.”

Ewert Grens filled up another glass of water. Kept the tap running full blast so it would get even colder, colder than ice.

Hugo. Rasmus. Luiza.

Two little boys and a newborn girl, whom he’d gotten close to after just a short time.

Dared to get close to.

The only children he’d . . . well, he probably had ever spoken to. For real.

“Are you kind of like our grandpa now?”

“No, I’m not your grandfather. Not anybody’s, actually.”

It had happened so fast. Suddenly, the boys were on either side of him, while he made them checkered pancakes, and they’d looked at him with such trust in their eyes.

“Our uncle, then? Are you, Ewert? Like an uncle?”