‘You know I’m not a vegetarian, right?’ she says, looking at him with amusement.

‘Really? Could have sworn you were?’ He holds out his arms. ‘You’ve got that kind of aura, you know.’

*

She wants to take a shower but she can’t let go of what happened, so she settles down on the sofa again. What the hell is this? Did she really just have sex with George?

She stands up and walks over to the door of the balcony. Carefully draws the curtain and looks down onto the street.

He just left to get food, but she already feels a little empty and lonely and warm and raw. She misses him. It’s crazy. George Lööw? The original Brussels playboy? She must be even more fucked up than she knew.

She glances down at the street bathed in a hazy, yellow light. She’ll just stand here and wait for him to come back.

The street is empty now, and she looks up towards the intersection where the restaurant is located.

And there, leaning against one of the leafless trees, a man stands in slacks and a dark, shiny puffy jacket. With her heart pounding, she draws the curtains again.

Somebody is still watching her.

15 November

Beirut

Jacob sees the men through the window. One of them has stopped halfway to the bookstore; the other three move towards the door with their hands at their waistbands, which are partially covered by their short jackets. Who are they? Americans? Does it matter?

They’re here for him. They’ll find the chip beneath his skin. And then?

All he can imagine is orange overalls and small cells. That was what awaited Chelsea Manning after she gave information to WikiLeaks. At that very moment, the bookstore owner touches his elbow and startles him. He turns, and the small man is stretching out his hand, taking him by the elbow again, this time more brusquely. A cigar smoulders under his moustache, his eyes narrow, and he nods towards the depths of the store.

‘Come,’ he says in English. ‘You don’t have much time.’

He pulls Jacob between the tables and the shelves that sag under the weight of books, and further through a jingling curtain of glass beads, into a small room with drawers stacked up to the ceiling, a vacuum cleaner in the corner.

‘Wait,’ he says, placing the cigar on a plate on the floor. Then he bends down and starts to fiddle through one of the stacks. ‘Help me,’ he says roughly. ‘We have to move this.’ He has grabbed one of the boxes at the bottom and draws it outwards, bringing the whole stack along.

Jacob sees a doorframe behind it. He squats down next to the bookstore owner to help him pull.

Behind them, the door chime rings in the store. He can hear several people rushing inside. Hear them making their way through the aisles towards the small room.