The arrivals hall is full of people waiting for family and friends. He stops and scans the motley crowd, turning his head towards the taxi drivers and their handwritten signs. He thinks he’s mistaken at first, but one of them is holding up a name that makes him jump.

Patrik Andersson.

The driver in a leather jacket sees him at the same time – he must have been briefed on his appearance – and starts to approach. ‘Mr Andersson,’ he says in accented English. ‘Come with me, please.’

Jacob looks around and hesitates for a moment. He has to trust this will work out, that Yassim will make it work out. He follows the driver out of the building. They pass by taxis and cross the street into the darkness outside, towards the parking garage.

‘My car is over here,’ the driver says, without turning.

Jacob follows him towards the dull yellow lights of the garage. They don’t take the elevator, just stay on the street level, heading deeper and deeper into the building, towards one of the most remote corners.

‘It’s just over here, not far,’ the driver says.

Jacob thinks he hears a car door opening and closing again and footsteps echoing.

‘There,’ says the driver, pointing to an old black Citroen.

The footsteps are approaching from behind. Something’s not right. There is no taxi; it looks like a private car. And why is it parked out here, so far away, despite the fact that there are so many parking spots close to the terminal?

‘Wait,’ he says, stopping. ‘Who sent you to pick me up?’

The man turns to him with his hand in his pocket. He’s holding a gun, it’s obvious, far too obvious.

‘Your friend sent me,’ he says. ‘Yassim.’

Just as he says it, Jacob hears footsteps right behind him. He doesn’t have time to turn, just feels his jacket being lifted above his waist, feels a cold breeze on his bare skin.

A needle is stuck into his side. The garage spins around, his legs buckling beneath him, and everything goes black.

24 November

Brussels

Klara exits George’s building and turns right, heading in the opposite direction from the intersection and the bakery, to avoid passing by the man in the old BMW. She sticks close to the grey buildings; this residential street is empty and silent at this time of day – most people are at work.

She hasn’t gone far when she hears a car door open and close behind her. Damn, that was too simple. She’d been convinced George’s plan would prove useless. Just a few more steps to the Avenue Louise, as quickly as possible, then down to Place Stéphanie and the subway.

She throws a glance over her shoulder. The side street where George lives is almost empty, except for a dark-haired woman in jeans. She turns her head to get a better look further up the street.