When the lights were turned off on the bottom floor of his home, the living room, the hall, and finally the kitchen, he grabbed a bag out of the back seat and took out two finger prostheses. Once they went up, it usually took a half hour until Zofia had the kids in bed and the lights in the upstairs’ bathroom and in the boys’ bedrooms went dark like the night.

He didn’t like using these. They felt clumsy and awkward, because he’d learned to live with just three fingers on his left hand. But he had to hide the most noticeable characteristic he had. His final transformation. He greased the stumps of his fingers with gel until the thin sleeve of the prostheses slid on easily.

And suddenly Piet Hoffmann was there again. In a hotel in central Germany some years ago.

He’d infiltrated the Polish mafia from behind the walls of a Swedish maximum-security prison. Been unmasked, sentenced to death, forced to flee. He’d hidden in a ventilation shaft, and when it was time to go, he left two of his fingertips behind on a metal edge. His bones had been visible. It was in a hotel room in Frankfurt where they’d agreed to meet that Zofia peeled back the skin and flesh, wrapped his fingers in sterilized compresses, gave him a high dose of antibiotics, and waited until she was sure the infection was gone. Then she’d used a regular pair of pruning shears to clip the bone off a bit further in, folded the excess skin over it, and glued it all together.

Medical silicone. That’s what the finger prostheses were made of. At the moment he was covered from head to toe in materials he’d only ever used to caulk joints. He waved the prostheses, and they stayed firmly attached to the stumps, then wiggled his healthy fingers without bumping into the shells—his ability to move was intact.

A half hour later and night had rocked the whole neighborhood to sleep. He climbed out of his car. Started walking. Strolling. That’s what it should look like—a man out for a nighttime stroll, maybe on his way home, maybe just trying to get a good night’s sleep.

According to Juan and Nic, the first vehicle that didn’t seem to belong in the area was parked just twenty meters from the Hoffmann’s mailbox. It had a clear view of the front of the house. A Toyota, not brand new, mid-price range. Exactly the sort of thing he would have chosen to not attract attention. He memorized the license plate number and walked on.

There was a man sitting in the driver’s seat.

Piet Hoffmann knocked on the side window and waited for the window to roll down.

“Got a light?”