So she turns on her phone. Just a quick peek to make sure nothing new has happened. But as soon as the phone finds a network, it vibrates in her hand. A text from a Swedish number she doesn’t recognize. Just two short sentences:

‘Secret email. Check it.’

24 November

Duisburg

Klara is sitting in the passenger seat, drumming her fingers restlessly on her phone, while George calmly steers his car out onto the autobahn again.

She glances over at him. How is he so calm? They’ve been on the run for several hours now, driven out of Belgium, are now making their way north through Germany. But how long will it last? They shot a gun in central Brussels at the very moment that terrorists from the Paris attack are being hunted down in Belgium. Of course somebody noticed. Is it just pure luck that they made it this far?

Her head starts to spin. Maybe they should have switched cars? Or just stopped somewhere and given Jacob’s fucking memory card to the police? But would that even help? Somebody arrested Gabi, and they have to find out why and what’s on that card before making any big decisions. Plus Gabi has now made contact.

‘Gabi sent an email to my secret account,’ Klara says. ‘But I’m paranoid and don’t dare log in on one of our phones.’

‘What do you mean a secret email?’ George asks.

‘We opened an anonymous account a few years ago,’ she says. ‘The first time we landed in a situation like this. So we would have a channel to communicate that wouldn’t necessarily be intercepted. We haven’t used those accounts for a very long time. I hope I remember the password.’

George nods. His face looks almost terrifying in the cold light of the road and the dashboard.

Staring out the passenger-side window, Klara thinks she hears a helicopter. It could be a coincidence, could be anything, but it’s clear that George hears it, too. A sign indicating an exit in two kilometres for a rest stop appears.

‘We have to get another car,’ she says. The rest stop looks like all other rest stops they passed by in the past few hours. A gas station and auto shop, a crummy restaurant, semis and continuous rain.

‘Try to park somewhere so the car won’t be immediately visible,’ Klara says.

They drive a few turns until George points to a garage.

‘There,’ he says. ‘It’s a self-service carwash. We’ll rent it for an hour while we figure out what the hell we should do.’

‘We have to get out of here,’ Klara mutters. ‘That’s what the hell we should do.’