CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
One more piece. He needed only one more piece.
So close, and yet so frustratingly far.
Because he knew who owned it, but he didn’t know where the bastard lived.
He sat in a café in Gamla Uppsala, “Old Uppsala” in Sweden, suppressing a jetlagged yawn and sipping his third cup of coffee. In front of him was a laptop with a historical article he was writing on Ancient Greek musical instruments.
Well, pretending to write, because he spent more time looking out the window than he did working on the paper.
For on the other side of the street stood the local post office, and inside that post office was where the post office boxes were.
Otto Sverdrup may have never revealed his home address, or indeed what he looked like or even his approximate age, but he did check his m
