One is called ‘Pictures’. The other is called ‘20120714’. Just like the password. He clicks the latter without hesitation.

The folder contains dozens of videos and PDFs. He clicks on the first, which is a scanned article from Beirut’s English-language newspaper, The Daily Star. The headline reads: Sunni Mediator Killed in Bombing.

He skims the article, dated 15 July 2012. It’s about a Sheikh Yussuf, described as a possible unifying force for the Syrian rebels. According to the article, he and many of his family members died in a gas explosion at a wedding the day before.

He clicks one of the video files. He recognizes the setting from somewhere, but can’t quite place where he’s seen it before. It’s an inner courtyard, decorated for a wedding. People in fancy clothes are greeting an older man, a sort of patriarch. Sheikh Yussuf himself? Jacob freezes the video and leans forward. Next to Yussuf stands a person that Jacob recognizes.

Yassim.

He’s younger, of course. He has longer hair, traditional clothes. But that’s Yassim, no doubt about it. And he doesn’t seem to be there as a photographer. He looks like he’s part of the celebration. Part of the wedding party.

Part of the family.

Then Jacob hears a voice in the room behind him, and it’s as if the whole world stops.

‘You won’t find what you’re looking for on that computer.’

Jacob raises his eyes.

Yassim is standing in the corridor that leads to the bedroom. Behind him is the big photograph leaning against the wall, and Jacob remembers where he saw that inner courtyard. It’s the same place. The video from before the explosion. The photo from afterwards. Yassim didn’t photograph the party; he was one of the guests.

Yassim has lied to him, he isn’t who he claims to be at all and Jacob doesn’t know how it happens but suddenly he’s pushing his hand up under the table, grabbing onto the black gun and pulling it free. The tape comes loose, and he almost falls backwards under the table, but regains his balance.

Yassim is coming towards him. His eyes are black now. Completely black, only anger and destruction inside. Everything he keeps hidden.

‘Who are you?’ Jacob hisses, scrambling backwards over the concrete floor.

Without even knowing how, he suddenly raises the gun with both hands; his finger is on the trigger, his fear is almost blinding.

Yassim stops in the middle of the floor, holds up his hands.

‘Who are you?!’ Jacob screams as loudly as he can. ‘Who the fuck are you?’

22 November

Stockholm

Klara takes an even bigger gulp of wine and lifts the envelope.

‘What is this?’ she asks. ‘Why do you have an envelope that’s addressed to me?’