George throws her the phone and sits in the armchair opposite her.

‘A burner,’ she says.

She presses the home button and a small screen with poor resolution lights up. A PIN code is required to be able to use it. But that’s not primarily what Klara wants to check. The screen displays the current time in digital numbers. Beneath the time stands what Klara assumes must be the day and month. But she can’t read it, because the letters are Cyrillic. The phone is set to what looks like Russian.

She holds it up for George. ‘Something very fucking shady is going on here,’ she says.

George takes the phone from her, looks at it and stiffens. ‘What the hell is this? Russian?’

Klara nods. She feels a chill run down her spine.

‘So that explains the Eastern Europeans that Gabriella wrote about in the letter. They’re Russians?’

‘Seems so,’ she says. ‘I don’t like this, George.’

‘Me neither,’ he says. ‘I think we better leave right now. Before his friends show up.’

23 November

Brussels

The room is dark and dank; just a single strip of grey light penetrates a sloppily painted black window near the ceiling. The smell of mould and rancid cooking oil radiates from the walls, filling the musty room.

Jacob’s temples are pounding, his head aches, and as he opens his eyes, he’s so cold his teeth are chattering. The wound on his back burns.

Is he in a basement? On a floor? He can feel a thin mattress beneath him, hardly more than a rug. Apparently he’s lying on his side. He should sit up, but when he tries to he can’t make his hands move. He tries to send signals to them, but it’s as if they’re stuck. His wrists sting, and he turns his head and looks down. There they are, tied up with white plastic ties.

The memory comes back in flashes and fragments. Flying out of Beirut, the man waiting for him with a name on a sign, the gun in his belt. The footsteps. The pain of what seemed like a needle. The legs that wouldn’t hold him. The darkness.

He’s flown from Beirut under a false name. Using a fake passport. And now he’s been shackled in a cold basement.

Only Yassim knew which flight he’d take and under which name.

Despair washes over him. There are only two options. Either Yassim has lost control of what’s happening. Or Jacob has been completely duped.

Then comes the terror. He screams. No words, just a bottomless, empty roar that feels like it might never end.