The policeman with the black eyes at the barricade takes a step to the side, onto one of the wide sidewalks. He says something into his headset and waves his arm to a car at the back of the queue that’s now formed on Skeppsbron. The black Volvo pulls away from the line of cars and slowly drives up onto the sidewalk, towards the police officer, then stops. One of the tinted windows rolls down halfway and what looks like a driver’s licence is stuck out. Klara can’t see inside the car from this angle, but she can see the police officer return the card and wave the Volvo towards the waiting police.

The car stops behind the newly arrived van and a man in his sixties with messy, grey hair jumps out, dressed in a cardigan, leather jacket and sturdy boots. He goes over to one of the uniformed police officers and grabs him before he can disappear into the building. The two men in white overalls follow him into the foyer.

There’s no doubt who it is.

Anton Bronzelius.

The Säpo officer she and Gabriella have encountered a few times in recent years. Bronzelius, who this summer threatened them when they were planning to reveal that Säpo knew a Russian company was planning to infiltrate European police forces. Säpo even gave the Russians more or less free rein to foment riots in the suburbs of Stockholm.

Klara and Gabriella ignored Bronzelius’s threats and instead went to the media and exposed the entire scandal. Klara was convinced that Bronzelius was bluffing when he said he’d get his revenge.

You don’t want me as an enemy, believe me, he said.

But now it’s obvious Bronzelius has led a SWAT team to arrest Gabriella. Klara’s been naive. Bronzelius meant every word.

7 September–16 October

Beirut

‘You call me when your boyfriend’s back in town,’ Myriam said.

And Yassim was supposed to be back after just a few days. But two weeks go by, and Jacob still hasn’t heard anything from him. Jacob passes his time at the embassy letting his mind wander back and forth between the memory of Yassim’s smooth body and the terrible meeting he had with Myriam Awad.

Her indifferent expression is burned onto his retinas, and his mind is filled with what she told him about Yassim. That he’s a terrorist.

But he knows it can’t be true. She doesn’t know Yassim, she knows nothing at all about who he is, what he is.

Or does she?

It’s as if there are too many variables, too much contradictory information, too many emotions, and it makes it impossible for him to find any calm right now.