Klara looks out through the cabin window and thinks of all the times she’s landed here in the rain. For more than three years, whenever she landed at Zaventem, followed all the people dressed in business attire pulling carry-ons up the passenger bridge and into the larger terminal, past juice bars, tax-free and chocolate shops, and then into the arrival hall, she felt like she was going home.

Now as she rises from her seat and follows that stream of people, all she feels is a weight in her chest and a headache coming on. At one of the small Lavazza kiosks she buys a double espresso and burns her mouth as she knocks it back in two gulps. The sleep on the plane didn’t help: on the contrary, she’s not used to sleeping during the day, and her head feels groggy and heavy.

Halfway through the terminal, she takes off her backpack, throws the cardboard cup into the trash and sits down on a bench near one of the gates. She pulls her phone out of her jacket pocket, scrolls down to George Lööw’s name and sits for a long time with her thumb hovering above the phone, struggling with contradictory impulses.

With a sigh, she locks her phone and puts it back in her pocket. It’ll have to wait. Instead, she raises her eyes and looks out over the crowd of stressed travellers. And that’s when she sees him. On the other side of the hall, about fifty metres away, a cap pulled down over his eyes and a jacket draped over his knees, a man is looking in her direction. When she looks at him, he turns his eyes away. Under normal circumstances, she wouldn’t think more about it. But now, after Gabi and Bromma, it makes the hair on the back of her neck stand up. She recognizes him from the plane ride here.

Her legs tremble as she turns around and walks the last stretch through the terminal building into the arrivals hall. She stops at regular intervals to turn back, and every time she does the man with the cap is behind her. Did she really think she’d scared them away at Bromma?

She starts to hurry and when she reaches Arrivals she turns again. There is only one exit. The man in the cap has to come this way.

The sudden flash of energy she felt before, which made her want to confront them, has disappeared completely during the flight.

Now she looks around at the people waiting here for travellers: taxi drivers in ties with handwritten signs. Parents waiting for teenagers, friends and spouses and a Muslim family with balloons and a long banner in Arabic. The stream of people is swift and minutes pass by with no sight of her pursuer.

She feels a blend of relief and disappointment. What was she going to do if he did come out here?