Ewert Grens handed over a blank, unused key to Piet Hoffmann, who smiled as he tried it. Yep, it worked. He opened the door, slipped the key into the front pocket of his accountant’s shirt, and for the second evening in a row, stepped into an apartment that never seemed to end. He had already placed his bag next to the sofa with the pearl-encrusted decorative pillows, his temporary home, and exchanged his dress shirt for a T-shirt and his dress pants for a pair of jeans, when the phone rang. That phone. Which he’d brought with him, against his usual rules. He let it ring while searching for the apartment’s owner, found him in the kitchen in front of the fridge, an open carton of orange juice in his hands.

“Grens—I want you to listen this time. Form your own impression. Maybe you’ll hear something I don’t.”

Then he pushed the answer button and held the phone in such a way that both of them would be able to hear.

“Yes?”

“I’ve been trying to get ahold of you.”

The distorted voice. Same intonation, rhythm, way of breathing.

“Many times.”

And Hoffmann again forced himself to do what he’d learned to do over his many years as an infiltrator—hold the rage inside, wait, master the violence so you can strike back when it hurts them the most.

“I apologize. But I’ve been in a bad position and judged it better not to answer.”

“And the weapon?”

He’d been whispering so far. Didn’t want to reveal his new voice. But now he wanted to scream.

I know you watched me dig it up, you bastard!

But he swallowed it, because that’s what he had to do.

“I’ve got it in a safe place.”

“Good. Then it’s time.”

Hoffmann looked at Grens, who nodded. He was taking in everything.

“Not quite yet.”

“It’s time when I say it’s time. Because, as you know, I have documents that mean death sentences for everyone you love.”

“I need more time. Three more days.”

“Three days?”

“If you want me to succeed at the mission you’ve given me, I need to prepare. You made me your unwilling accomplice because you think I have the skill set you need. So you should trust that I know what I need, and what I need is three days. If you want this to be as successful as you expect.”

You couldn’t hear where the voice was. Despite the long silence. No cars passed by, no airplanes in the distance or birds chirping, no other voices.

“Three days. Then I release the documents.”

Another silence. Electronic. The voice had hung up.

“You were very calm, Hoffmann. I wasn’t expecting that. Considering what’s at stake.”

“That’s why.”

“And that voice—it’s like talking to a fucking robot.”