‘Our home is like a bus station,’ Ísafold had said, sighing into her coffee, and Grímur had encouraged her to talk to Björn about it, back when he still felt that Björn was a candidate for some kind of redemption. Ísafold had done just that, and Björn had rewarded her with a beating. Her cries and tears cut him to the bone, and the anger, the barely controllable wave of fury directed at Björn, began to take root in his heart. Grímur had called the police, reporting domestic violence and drug dealing in the building, and that had resulted in Björn’s sentence. That was just one of the times he had tried to save Ísafold, one of many. But more recently Grímur had learned the hard lesson that there was no saving those who didn’t want to be saved.

Grímur waited until he was sitting at the kitchen table at home before opening the package. The phial containing the clear liquid seemed so tiny and harmless, it was hard to believe that this was the key to incapacitating a person. He shook it and held it in the palm of his hand. It would be no problem to hide, up a sleeve or in a pocket, until it was time to spike someone’s drink.

78

Olga had thought through every possible way of telling Omar what the movement’s lawyer had said, and, as so often in the past, she concluded that honesty was the best option.

‘My dear Omar,’ she said gently as he spooned a portion of scrambled egg onto a plate and handed it to her. ‘We need to talk.’

He smiled, and his eyebrows lifted almost to the middle of his forehead.

‘About the chickens?’

She was almost ready to laugh at his innocent expectation, which was in such stark contrast to what they needed to discuss. She thought of the murdered man in Istanbul while he thought of keeping chickens on the balcony. She took the plate and shook her head.

‘It can wait until we’ve eaten,’ she said, switching on the radio. The midday news bulletin was about to begin, and just as the last of the headlines was read out, the toaster popped up and Omar handed her one of the two slices. Ever since he arrived, she had wondered how he could handle the hot slices without burning his fingers, and without being in any apparent hurry. He had told her that he was used to cooking over an open fire, so maybe that was the reason. Perhaps he had burned his fingers so often that they had lost all sensation. She felt a sudden urge to touch his fingers, reached for his hand and drew it to her. She ran her thumb over his fingertips and lifted his hand to her cheek.