They must have cut him open when he was drugged. Like he was just a package they could treat however they want, and throw it aside when its function was over.

Was Myriam right the whole time?

Alexa was definitely right. If he hadn’t done as she said, he’d be dead now.

It is impossible to understand. That’s all he was for Yassim. A tool. A package.

He won some time by lying about leaving the chip in Beirut. But sooner or later his lie will be discovered. Sooner or later, the chip will come out. His backup plan goes no further than that.

He slowly rolls onto his back. What he has underneath him lies in a rolled-up plastic bag, narrow and about ten centimetres long.

He grabs onto it and manages to find the opening of the bag. Spinning the plastic until he can stick his hand into it.

Something cold and smooth meets his fingers and he runs them along the bag’s contents.

A knife.

Eagerly, he rummages it out of the bag and feels it glide out of his hands and onto the mattress. With his heart pounding, he runs his hands over the dirty fabric until he grabs hold of it again. Fumbling carefully, he tries to keep the sharp edge away from his body and hands. Tries to poke it between his wrists and the taut zip ties.

It’s easier than he expected. As soon as he finds the right place, the plastic falls off.

He can hardly believe it. Dares not believe it, so he lies there with his hands still behind his back. Lies there until he’s finally brave enough to pull them in front of him, turning and twisting them in the darkness. Slowly he turns onto his stomach again, amazed at how easy it is when he is no longer bound.

He holds the knife in front of him, it’s just a small kitchen knife with a red shaft, the kind you use to cut vegetables. In the context of his dirty prison, its ordinariness feels foreign.

Yassim gave him the opportunity to free his hands. But why?

So he lifts the plastic bag and beneath it he finds a single, folded piece of paper. It’s too dark to read the pencilled lines on it, so he stands up and walks to the window whose grey light is getting weaker every minute.

Just two lines, written in a hurry:

The window is open.

Be quick.