‘A few months ago in Beirut I met a guy who’s a photographer in Syria,’ he begins. ‘But it turned out to be a cover story. In fact, he’s been gathering information about drone attacks that the West are carrying out, and how they’re killing civilians. But he has people after him, and he asked me to get the information out of Lebanon. A Swedish spy threatened me, and today I was shot at when…’

‘Calm down,’ Gabriella says. There’s something new in her voice now, interest rather than suspicion. ‘Don’t give any more details over the phone, ok? But you have a passport and tickets to Europe? And you’re being hunted?’

‘Yes,’ he says.

‘When are you flying out and to where?’

‘Brussels,’ he says. ‘In about a week.’

‘Okay,’ she says. ‘I can be in Brussels on the 24th.’

Gabriella seems to be writing something down at her end. ‘Don’t tell me which date you’re flying,’ she says. ‘Buy a burner phone when you land. Call me, and I’ll tell you where to meet me. Do you understand?’

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I understand.’

Her obvious competence is an immense relief to him. She’s silent for a moment as if thinking. ‘It’s your only chance, the way I see it, if you don’t want to contact the Swedish embassy, and you don’t want to, right? You fly according to plan.’

‘Okay,’ Jacob says. ‘Thank you.’

‘We’ll fix this,’ she says. ‘Just one more thing. Make sure you copy the information and put it in a safe place. Send it by mail or whatever.’

‘That could be… difficult,’ he says.

‘Just figure it out,’ Gabriella says curtly. ‘That information is all you have. Call me when you’re in Europe. I’ll meet you there.’

And then she hangs up. Jacob looks up at Alexa, who’s leaning against the doorframe of her tiny office. She gestures for him to accompany her.

‘Come on,’ she says. ‘I have a slightly unpleasant suggestion.’

*

Over the next few days Alexa takes care of everything. A bed at a hostel, a meal in the youth centre’s dining room three times a day. Even some English books that former guests left behind and a shaky Internet connection that allows him to send half-hearted lies to his colleagues at the embassy about how sick he is, and that he won’t be into the office this coming week.

The days go by, and he only leaves bed to eat. He hears the serious voices of young European volunteers, but doesn’t participate in their conversations. Just eats and goes back to his room, opens up an American thriller and reads until he falls asleep.

How long does he lie there before he starts believing it’s all a dream? Two days? Three? The wound on his back has almost healed now, and the chip almost doesn’t hurt at all.