Jacob sits up, careful not to wake Yassim. He pulls on a pair of underwear and tiptoes barefoot over the cool concrete floor into the living room, where he’s dazzled by the morning light falling through the huge windows.

He fills the moka pot with coffee from a jar in the cabinet and turns on the gas stove. While waiting for the coffee to brew, he sits down at the table in front of the computer. He bends forward hesitantly. With trembling hands he pushes the screen up and is met by the blurry photo overlaid by a dialogue box asking for a password.

He sighs, closes the computer again and pulls his phone out of his pocket to check his messages and the news, but it gets stuck and drops onto the floor. He throws a foot out reflexively to soften the fall, and somehow manages to kick it under the table.

He swears silently and crawls under the table. He hits his head against something cold and angular, and stifles a moan of pain as he turns his head.

It takes him a moment to understand what he’s looking at. Duct-taped to the underside of the table, there is a large, black gun. He gapes at it and runs his fingers along the barrel.

He can hear Yassim moving around. He turns around, grabs hold of the phone and backs out from under the table. When Yassim comes out of the bedroom, he’s back on the chair again.

‘Did you sleep well?’ Yassim says, going over to the stove. ‘Ah, you already put on the coffee!’

There’s a gun under the table; it’s the only thing Jacob can think of. He knows it’s not unusual for people to be armed here; it’s not like Sweden. But still, how could there be a gun under the table?

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I slept great.’

Yassim pours coffee into two small cups and puts one on the table next to Jacob, before bending down and kissing him on the cheek. ‘What is it, my darling?’ he says. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

Jacob clears his throat, tries to collect himself, takes a small sip of the strong, black coffee. What do you say when you’ve just discovered a gun under the table of someone who you’re inexorably drawn to, but who you suspect might be a terrorist?

‘Didn’t I?’ Jacob says. ‘You’re my ghost.’

He takes Yassim’s hand and kisses it with Myriam’s message ringing in his ears: ‘Don’t forget – he’s not who he says he is.’