The van is getting closer, just twenty metres from them now. Every fibre of Jacob’s being is urging him to jump off the motorcycle and run away as fast as he can. But even if he gathered the strength to act, he’s not sure his legs would carry him. The van is just ten metres behind them, and it slows and stops just outside the entrance to the departure hall. Jacob watches as the back door glides up.

‘Drive!’ he screams. ‘Please drive!’

He doesn’t get further before Bashir elbows him in the solar plexus, and he doubles over against Bashir’s back, gasping for air. ‘Shut up,’ he hisses.

Jacob turns his head back despite the pain in his stomach. The door is completely open now and a middle-aged man in a suit steps out. Then a grey-haired man and a woman in a beige suit. The driver jumps out and starts unloading suitcases. The passengers grab them one by one and head en masse towards the departure hall.

‘It’s a hotel shuttle,’ Bashir says, folding up his visor. ‘You need to stop this. You need to take a deep breath, do you understand?’

Jacob nods cautiously.

‘If I’d driven off in a panic, we would have attracted attention,’ Bashir says. He gestures towards the parking checkpoints and police and soldiers. ‘A motorcycle acting suspiciously is dangerous around here, you understand?’

Jacob nods again.

‘I don’t know what kind of shit you’re involved in,’ he continues. ‘And I don’t wanna know either. I’m just the guy driving the motorcycle. But I’ve lived here long enough to know you can’t panic. Remember that. Ice in that gut.’ He knocks his fist against Jacob’s helmet.

‘Thank you,’ Jacob says, unbuckling the helmet’s straps. He feels stupid, like some excitable novice. At the same time, Bashir is right: He doesn’t have a clue about what Jacob is up to. ‘I’ll think about it,’ he says, leaving the helmet behind.

Bashir and his motorcycle disappear. Jacob throws his backpack on his shoulder and heads towards the departure hall. His fake passport is burning a hole in his pocket. Stress is crackling beneath his skin. The wound between his shoulder blades aches.

There’s no point in waiting: it won’t get any easier, so he goes straight to passport control. He’s flying from Beirut to Brussels using a fake passport, with tickets issued in someone else’s name. What happens if it doesn’t work, if he’s discovered? He sees Myriam’s indifferent eyes in front of him, the men in the bookstore – Guantanamo. But he has no other option now, he’s made his choice.

With trembling fingers he pushes his passport over the counter to a tired man. Should he make eye contact? Or turn his eyes away? What are you supposed to do when you have something to hide?