The man nods hesitantly. ‘You sure?’ he says.

She narrows her eyes at him. ‘Do I look unsure?’

He shakes his head, takes a small radio off his belt. ‘Get them on board,’ he says calmly.

‘What the fuck?’ Jacob screams, trying to tear himself out of her grip. ‘You swore you wouldn’t send us away! That was the only reason—’

Myriam punches him hard in the solar plexus, and he collapses onto his haunches, silenced, still with his hands behind his back. She leans over him.

‘You smuggled terrorist plans,’ she says. ‘Together with your terrorist boyfriend. These are the consequences for that. Why didn’t you listen to me in Beirut if you didn’t want to play this game?’

Jacob lifts his eyes and sees two of Myriam’s men leading Yassim out of a room and further into the hangar. He has handcuffs on and a black hood over his head; it takes two men to support him.

‘Yassim!’ he screams. ‘Yassim!’

From the corner of his eye, he sees a man heading in through the open hangar doors, a small automatic weapon bouncing at his hip. Jacob turns instinctively towards him.

‘We have a problem,’ the man shouts. ‘A big fucking problem.’

In the next second, Jacob can hear sirens blaring somewhere, and they’re getting closer and closer. Suddenly, the hangar is full of blinking blue lights and police officers with weapons drawn and ambulances.

He falls down onto the concrete floor, completely still, completely exhausted.

25 November

Bromma Airport

Klara and Bronzelius are sitting in the car outside the terminal, and she takes out the computer and shows him what’s on it. He turns pale.

‘Can we get an interpreter here now?’ he screams to a uniformed police officer, who immediately runs off.

They finally find a young police officer fluent in Arabic, and he squeezes into the back seat next to Klara. Not exactly an interpreter, but at least someone who can confirm what Klara already knows. The officer’s eyes widen as he takes in what’s in front of him, and he summarizes it quickly for Bronzelius. Translates the information in the documents, the coordinated terrorist attacks on four European cities.

Bronzelius leans back in his seat and stares straight up at the ceiling. ‘Jesus fucking Christ,’ he says. ‘It’s insane.’

‘What should we do?’ Klara says.

Bronzelius turns to her and stares straight into her eyes. ‘I’m gonna have to take care of this gigantic mess.’

Then he gets out his phone, and it seems to take only a couple of minutes before an armada of police vehicles appear around them.

A police officer in civilian clothes opens Klara’s door and tears the computer from her hands. Another police officer tries to force her out of the car.

‘No,’ Bronzelius says. ‘She’s riding with me, and she should in no way be considered a suspect in connection with this.’