Yassim pushes him gently out the door, laughs and shakes his head. ‘Jacob, you really have to go now,’ he says. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll call you in the middle of the week when I’m back. It may be hard for you to understand, but I actually want to see you, too.’

When he says that, it’s as if something sticks in Jacob’s chest, a little nub of hope, a tiny shard of reciprocity. ‘Yes, it is hard to understand,’ he whispers.

Yassim leans forward and kisses him on his lips, pushes him into the hallway. ‘But so it is,’ he says. ‘Perhaps unfortunately. But so it is.’

22 November

Stockholm

They roll over the bridge into Stockholm just before eleven. Below them, the city sparkles in the autumn morning sun.

Klara is in the passenger seat, and Gabriella has just finished a phone call with her boss, Göran Wiman, who asked her to go by the office on Skeppsbron. Immediately.

Gabriella puts up a good show during the call, says things like ‘of course’ and ‘no problem’, maintaining an attitude that Klara recognizes quite well from her own past life as an ambitious political adviser in the European Parliament. It’s not a life that she misses.

‘Back to the salt mines?’ she says now, looking at Gabriella, who smiles tiredly without taking her eyes off the road.

‘What the hell choice do I have?’ she mutters.

‘I thought you’d have it easier now that you made partner?’ Klara continues.

Gabriella sighs again. ‘I’m the most junior partner,’ she says. ‘Apparently there’s a fucking hierarchy among us as well. You can’t win at this game.’

‘Doesn’t it help that you’re famous now?’ Klara says. ‘After last summer, I mean?’

‘Fame,’ Gabriella mutters. ‘Seems to create more problems than it solves.’

‘Why?’

But she doesn’t answer, just keeps driving in silence.

*

‘One strange thing…’ Klara begins when she finally tires of the silence in the car.

‘Yes?’

‘You promise not to give me shit now?’ she says. ‘And please remember, I buried my grandfather yesterday, so I’m obviously a basket case.’

‘Now I’m curious,’ Gabriella says, glancing at her. ‘Tell me.’

‘You know George Lööw?’ As soon as she says his name her face gets warm. Why is she even bringing this up?

‘George from Brussels, the PR guy?’ Gabriella says. ‘Who somehow managed to first represent a client that was a front for the CIA and then another that was a front for the Kremlin?’

‘Forget it,’ Klara says. ‘It’s nothing.’ She leans back in her seat.

‘Not a chance!’ Gabriella says, glancing over again. ‘What about George?’

‘I know he’s a douche bag; you don’t have to tell me that, okay?’ Klara takes a deep breath. ‘But…’