Stealing a car in Albania took him back many years. Down here it was still common to drive those old Mercedes models that were once his favorite. Dusty, often with more than two hundred thousand kilometers on them, and no modern technology that got in a car thief’s way. He looked around, made sure no one was watching, and lay down on his back on uneven gravel, sliding in under one of the four possible cars. He cut the cable that connected to the horn, crawled out, and pushed a screwdriver into the tank lid lock, twisted until the air pressure dropped and all the doors were unlocked. He sat down in the driver’s seat and warmed the thin piece of metal with the lighter until it was hot enough to insert into the ignition. He turned and rooted around with it, pulled it out again, warmed it, turned again, warmed, turned. Melting the pins on the inside of the lock a little more each time. He then chose one of the keys from his own keychain: now that there were no pins inside the ignition, just about any of his keys would work.

Piet Hoffmann switched on the headlights, so as not to attract attention, and just as he turned out onto the highway, he caught a glimpse of Latifi, still sitting in the car with an extra cup of coffee that was getting cold.

8:36 PM

(1 hour and 26 minutes remaining)

The last persistent rays of sun seeped out where the mountains touched the sky. Soon the landscape would be as black as it was deserted. Piet Hoffmann drove the stolen Mercedes as fast as he dared; his map was only in his mind, and he didn’t want to risk missing a crossing and losing more time by having to double back. Seventh exit on the right. Then the third exit on the left, still paved. Then the last five kilometers on winding gravel roads and an even denser darkness.

And just as he passed the last neighboring house and turned off his headlights, his phone started ringing. Latifi. Hoffmann didn’t answer.

It rang again, he let it.

Then an angry text.

Where the hell are you?

He stopped and turned off the engine with just a few hundred meters left. A slow walk along the fence of the property, and he was sure there was no external security. In the city the two houses he broke into had been protected by straggling rolls of barbed wire, here the visitor was met by an elegant iron gate framed by white pillars and green plants. He climbed up and jumped over.

The ground was dry, and with no flashlight his steps landed in cracked soil occasionally, a couple of times he stumbled over low, sunburnt bushes. If he turned, he could make out a few lights scattered in the valley, large farms with beautiful groves of grapes and olives.

He checked his watch.

Just an hour. Until death.