Piet Hoffmann left the boiler room’s oily odor for the smell of mold and moisture in a seventy-five-meter long tunnel. He had reopened the hidden space behind the bookshelf and dragged the two bodies inside it—they’d lie there until their stench seeped out like a dead animal stuck in the wall. He’d made his way through the house and down to the basement, worried with every step that the gunshots might have attracted more notice. Halfway into the tunnel, he relaxed somewhat, he was on his way. Out. Away. Toward somebody he thought he’d seen for the last time. Because when Latifi gave him the message that Hamid Cana had left his house with his hawk eyes and his bodyguards, Piet Hoffmann assumed he would never have to think about where that Albanian arms dealer was again. When he came across the decryption key in a watery safe, he was convinced. Their paths would never cross. Then everything changed. Again. The organization’s Swedish branch realized they were at risk and sacrificed their boss to protect themselves. And to ensure that, they renewed and intensified their threats to a hidden family. They now had access to their address and their executioner.

The other end of the secret tunnel, the exit that was his entrance a few hours earlier. He pressed the brick at the bottom left and the built-in door became visible as if out of nowhere. According to the text message he’d just received from Latifi, this house was still empty, the owners still gone. Hoffmann hurried through the basement and up the stairs to the kitchen and hall and the broken window. He checked his watch. He needed to squeeze out every minute, hold on to the seconds as long as he could, so he could locate Cana and determine how their limited time would end.

7:33 PM

(2 hours and 29 minutes remaining)

Latifi could have heard the gunshots. If he had, then he would have been forced to act, regardless of who was shot or why. The murder of Albanian citizens, even if they were in the employ of the mafia, couldn’t be ignored, even by a cop working on the good side. But he didn’t say anything and asked no follow-up questions when Hoffmann climbed into his car, stating that he’d found the information he’d come for. As if they had an unspoken agreement. As long as the Albanian policeman didn’t know, he didn’t have to act.

“And where to now? The airport?”

However, he could see the obvious. Piet Hoffmann was stressed. When he should have been relieved.

“That is if you really are finished now.”

As if the Swedish visitor were hunting for something. Maybe even someone.

“I have one more thing I have to do.”

“Yes?”

“A question I have to ask Cana.”

“I thought you said you had all the information you need?”

“About something else. That’s not in his computer.”

“And it’s about . . . what?”