He removed his stomach. He waved two fingers on his right hand until the vacuum released and the prostheses slid off.

He poked away the hanging eyelids, the crooked nose, the enlarged nose wings, and the large silicone piece that constituted his fluffy cheeks and chin.

He tore off the mustache, ruffled his well-combed hair, unbuttoned the shirt, and used the knife to cut the pants above the knee.

Then he threw everything except the prostheses into the trash.

The man who walked out of that toilet in shorts and a T-shirt a few minutes later was much younger, much more fit than the man who walked in. Though maybe not as well dressed. And he walked in the opposite direction, toward the back door of the cafeteria, and settled down on a vacant chair while looking for Latifi. There. On the other side of the window. The Albanian policeman was already in the car with a plastic cup of coffee, waiting for his Swedish colleague. Piet Hoffmann put a hand over the cigarette lighter that lay on the table, grabbed it as he rose to his feet, and used the cafeteria’s back door again. Now he headed along the back of the building toward a small auto repair shop and car wash, which only had room for one car at a time. He slipped inside and over to a long workbench, looking at the tools that were hanging in perfect order on hooks on the wall. He grabbed a screwdriver, a wrench, and a thin sheet of metal that resembled a blade gauge. And then he walked in a wide circle around the gas station area before using the cover of a small grove of trees to enter the parking lot for guests who were planning to stay longer than just a trip to the toilet.