The man’s question is completely neutral, an offer he makes fifty times a day. But there’s something in his eyes, something hidden, a secret.

Jacob clears his throat. ‘Did you receive any new deliveries?’

The man studies him calmly. ‘You’re the Swede,’ he says. ‘We have a common friend.’

Jacob nods, then raises his gaze slightly, looks through the display window above the man’s shoulder, out towards the big, empty, dark space outside. But the square isn’t empty any more. A grey van with tinted windows has pulled onto the middle of it. Four men jump out in short jackets and bulky khaki trousers or jeans. Earpieces in their ears. He tries to swallow, but his mouth is very dry. He thought he’d escaped.

The men don’t even look at each other, just move quietly in formation towards the entrance of the bookstore, as if following some perfectly obvious and straightforward choreography.

Jacob freezes. The wound on his back aches, he feels pressure in his chest.

Is this as far as he goes?

23 November

Brussels

They walk in silence past the bars and small Pakistani grocery stores that are open late, up towards the wide Avenue de la Toison d’Or, which leads to the luxury stores near Place Louise. The drizzle is constant but barely noticeable.

‘Should we grab a taxi? I live just behind Place Stéphanie,’ George says, stopping outside the cinema at Toison d’Or.

Klara looks around. Her head has cleared a bit. George was right, of course – she didn’t need another drink.

‘Let’s walk,’ she says and starts down the street again.

Even though it’s not much past eight-thirty, the sidewalks are almost empty. Monday and the weather has kept the flâneurs at home.

‘How long have you been feeling like this?’ George asks quietly outside the entrance to Marks & Spencer. The English department store wasn’t here when Klara left Brussels, and she lets her eyes sweep across the display window.

‘I don’t feel any particular way,’ she says quietly. ‘Is it really so strange to end up a little shaky after your friend is rounded up in an anti-terrorism operation, and you realize you’re being followed by the Russian mob or whoever the hell they are?’

George grabs hold of her elbow gently, and she pulls it away, but regrets it immediately. It would have been so nice to be held by him.

‘I don’t mean that,’ he says. ‘It was like this in the summer too, right?’

Klara glances at him and starts walking again. ‘I feel better now,’ she says.

‘You know what I mean.’ His voice is louder now, and carries a touch of annoyance, and he’s grabbed her elbow again, turning her towards him. ‘You had a panic attack at Ralph’s, Klara. You’ve been drinking like a fucking sponge. You think you can fool me?’