She turns on the phone and looks up Säpo’s number. It barely rings before an operator answers. ‘Security Service.’

Klara clears her throat. ‘I’m looking for Anton Bronzelius,’ she says. ‘Can you connect me?’

‘I’m sorry,’ the operator says. ‘I can’t connect you with anyone. What’s this concerning?’

Klara closes her eyes and leans back on the bench. ‘My name is Klara Walldéen. I’m wanted all over this country, my picture is on the front of every newspaper. Now, can you please connect me to Bronzelius?’

‘One moment,’ says the operator, and Klara hears classical music.

It takes no more than a couple of seconds to be connected. ‘Hello, Klara,’ says Bronzelius’s familiar voice. ‘I thought you might call.’

25 November

Malmö

They’re out on a bigger street now, the inner city to their left, a park to their right, a casino, an intersection. They’re driving at a normal speed, and Jacob was looking up, but now he pushes his head back against the seat again.

How is it possible? he wants to scream.

George, who is lying on top of him in the back seat, moves and sits up.

‘Who the hell are you?’ he screams in English to the driver.

Jacob also sits up and meets Yassim’s eyes in the rear-view mirror. His face is as pale as a sheet, heavy bags beneath his eyes.

But it’s him. It’s Yassim.

‘How…’ Jacob begins. ‘How… could you be here?’

‘The phone,’ he says. ‘Why do you think I gave it to you? So I could find you, of course.’ Yassim presses out a smile and turns to the left, back towards the city again.

‘I thought you were dead,’ Jacob says. ‘When I left you I thought…’

‘I couldn’t very well leave you yet,’ Yassim says. He gives him an exhausted and stoic look. ‘We just met.’

They’re back in the city centre again, between shops and department stores and parked cars. Yassim drives with what seems like practised calm through the streets. Jacob can see that he’s following a route on the car’s GPS. He’s planned this.

Suddenly he stops and turns up towards a parking garage. He takes a ticket and a garage door opens to let them in. They drive in a spiral up and up until he turns off the ramp onto the third floor. It’s so quiet in here, so unbelievably quiet.

‘Come on,’ Yassim says.

He parks near an exit to an enclosed pedestrian bridge, which leads into a department store called Hansacompagniet. Yassim goes first; he makes his way bent and jerkily, his left hand inside his black bomber jacket.