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?”

“I can’t tell you. It’s between me and him.”

Latifi hesitated, looked at Hoffmann, judging him.

“So what you’re saying is that you don’t want to go to the airport?”

“What I’m saying is that I need you to give me the address of the house where he’s staying.”

Latifi stretched his big body, unconsciously running his hand over his square face. He seemed to weigh what he knew against what he suspected.

“I can’t give you the address.”

“Latifi, goddamn.”

“But I can drive you there.”

Hoffmann nodded. Thankful. And, of course, realized this clever police officer’s motive—by following along, being on-site, he hoped to prevent or at least mitigate the consequences of any possible confrontation.

Latifi started the car, and they rolled out of the neighborhood.

“Hamid Cana is one of the criminals I keep track of. Because I think it’s my job. Even though I, as you already know, can’t arrest him. Or, I can always arrest him but I’ve learned it’s pointless, he’s released before I even finish the paperwork.”