Hoffmann flipped through a well-used atlas that Latifi had probably had since his first day on the job. His personal guide through Albanian crime. Each page contained little arrows in different colors pointing to streets and buildings and a lot of scribbled notes that were impossible to read.

The circled property on page seven sat by itself at the end of a road that led straight up into the mountains, and its nearest neighbor seemed to sit two kilometers earlier.

And that was where he had to make his way—alone.

Hoffmann glanced at the Albanian policeman. Renegotiating so that he could drive the last bit by himself was pointless. Latifi had made up his mind—if there was going to be a confrontation it was best if the authorities were there to act as an airbag. But overpowering him in the car, or trying to anyway, and then continuing on by himself, did not feel good—this was a decent man, and besides, even if he succeeded it would cost Piet time he didn’t have.

“Can you stop over there?”

With the map on his knee, he suddenly had a better option. He knew where they were heading.

“At the gas station.”

“Now?”

“I need the bathroom.”

Latifi glanced at him without slowing down, a look that was used to searching for alternative agendas, and it wasn’t entirely convinced.

“You seemed to be in such a hurry.”

“I didn’t really have time to take a piss in either of the houses I broke into. I was busy.”

As they passed by the gas station, Latifi was still glancing at his passenger. A couple of hundred meters later, he slowed down, made a U-turn, and drove back. He parked wedged in between two other cars, windshield facing one of the big windows.

“I’ll grab a coffee while I wait. You want one too, Larsson?”

On either side of the gas station there sat a half-full cafeteria and a small packed arcade. A place to meet in what was otherwise deserted terrain, maybe the only place in this area where you could go for company on a weekday evening.

A lot of people and lots of cars—it was perfect.

“Would love a coffee. Thank you.”

Hoffmann smiled at Latifi. That always made it easier to hide uneasiness at one’s own lies.

“And when I get back from the john I’ll finally be ready to drink one again.”

Because he wouldn’t be. Coming back.

He followed the robust metal signs that led the way to the public toilets on the back of the building, opened the door to the men’s room, and was met by the stench of urine. On the right, a urinal that hadn’t been scrubbed in a while, on the left, three stalls with shitty toilets. He checked to make sure he was alone, and acted quickly.