‘You’re kidding me,’ Klara shouts. She realizes she’s raised her voice so she leans over towards George and whispers instead. ‘That’s fucked up,’ she continues. ‘What in the hell are we mixed up in?’

George shakes his head dejectedly, but can’t hide a small, tired smile at the corner of his mouth. ‘Same shit you always end up in, Klara.’

‘What do you mean?’ she continues. ‘They’re spies? I thought this Karl guy was some sort of Snowden. What does that have to do with Russia? And Syria? And how did Gabi get pulled into this?’

George puts his hand on hers and looks into her eyes. ‘I think the only way to know is if we meet Karl,’ he says. ‘Right?’

Klara drinks the last of her cold coffee. She grimaces and turns to George. ‘He probably won’t come alone,’ she says.

George furrows his brow. ‘What do you mean?’

‘If they’re keeping an eye on me, the risk is large that they’ve got one on him too.’ She falls silent and closes her eyes while massaging her temples. ‘Karl contacted Gabriella, who was probably arrested by Swedish cops. Before that, she was being followed by the Russians, most likely.’

‘Was it the day before yesterday they arrested Gabriella?’ George asks.

Klara nods. ‘Tomorrow they’ll have to charge her if they want to keep her any longer. A court has to decide, and the decision will be public. Then we’ll find out why they’re holding her, if she has a lawyer, and so on.’

‘If it’s not classified,’ George says.

‘We surely have to find out something,’ she says, frustrated.

He turns towards her, waits for a moment before gently putting his hand on hers again. Klara feels calm spreading from his hand into hers. A calm that spreads out over her grandpa’s death, and Gabriella’s imprisonment, over all the grief and weirdness and terror. Cautiously, she squeezes it. It feels so unexpected to have him at her side. She leans her head onto his shoulder and turns her nose to his neck, gently taking in his scent.

‘What the hell should we do then?’ she whispers. ‘What if he’s also being followed? What happens then?’

George gently strokes her hair. ‘We’ll come up with something, Klara,’ he whispers. ‘We always do.’

We, Klara thinks.

What an unbelievably rare thing.

24 November

Brussels

Jacob has been sitting in a McDonald’s all morning. He uses a map app to figure out that he’s on Avenue Anspach and that the dirty, stately building with the big, wide staircases on the other side of the street is the old Stock Exchange. Twenty-one minutes on foot to the meeting place, according to the app.

At three-fifteen he stands up. Crumples his hamburger wrappers and throws them into the trashcan on his way to the door.