Klara exits George’s building and turns right, heading in the opposite direction from the intersection and the bakery, to avoid passing by the man in the old BMW. She sticks close to the grey buildings; this residential street is empty and silent at this time of day – most people are at work.
She hasn’t gone far when she hears a car door open and close behind her. Damn, that was too simple. She’d been convinced George’s plan would prove useless. Just a few more steps to the Avenue Louise, as quickly as possible, then down to Place Stéphanie and the subway.
She throws a glance over her shoulder. The side street where George lives is almost empty, except for a dark-haired woman in jeans. She turns her head to get a better look further up the street.
There he is – the man with the beard. But he doesn’t look at all like before, not nearly so driven and focused. On the contrary, he seems drunk or sick, and he’s leaning against the hood of his car, searching for her while struggling to take out his phone.
George’s pills have had the desired effect after all; the man is too inebriated to follow her. He’s fumbling with his phone now. Is he about to call a colleague? She’d better hurry before they find a replacement.
Then she sees another figure crossing the street, headed for the man. George. She turns around completely. George is there now and grabs the man’s hand, the one holding the phone. The last thing she sees before turning right onto Avenue Louise is George pulling the phone out of his hand, and then shoving him so he’s lying over the hood of the car.
‘Damn it,’ she mutters and starts to jog back down the street, back towards George and whatever bullshit he’s up to.
‘Seriously!’ she cries as she approaches. ‘What are you up to?’
George is just a dozen metres away and he turns to her with astonishment. He raises his arm and makes a shooing movement, while he’s staring down the street. ‘Get out of here,’ he hisses. ‘There could be more of them, for fuck’s sake.’
But Klara doesn’t listen. ‘What the hell, George?’ she says. She’s in front of him now, looking at him with equal parts irritation and frustration. ‘What are you planning to do?’
The man who was following her turns towards her, his face lost and confused. He opens his mouth to say something, but closes it again. George pushes him back into his car, and he falls onto the wheel with his eyes closed.
‘I’m trying to find out who these guys are,’ he says. Triumphantly, he holds up a small, old phone.
‘What are you gonna do with that?’ she says, pulling him by the shoulder, away from the car, back towards his door.
‘I haven’t thought through every detail,’ he says.
‘Quelle surprise.’
They’re at his door now, and Klara enters before George, heading up towards his apartment. ‘Why did you come back?’ he complains. ‘The plan was for you to get away.’
‘That was before you started mugging people,’ she mutters. She turns to him and gives him an annoyed look. ‘And his buddies call him, what do you do then?’
George’s eyes dart back and forth, struck by the holes in his plan. ‘I’ll figure it out,’ he says. ‘Just thought we might be able to use the phone. See who he is. His contacts.’
Klara shakes her head. ‘You asked him for the password too, right?’ she says.
She opens the door to the apartment and enters the living room, sits down on the sofa. ‘Give me that,’ she says.
George throws her the phone and sits in the armchair opposite her.
‘A burner,’ she says.
She presses the home button and a small screen with poor resolution lights up. A PIN code is required to be able to use it. But that’s not primarily what Klara wants to check. The screen displays the current time in digital numbers. Beneath the time stands what Klara assumes must be the day and month. But she can’t read it, because the letters are Cyrillic. The phone is set to what looks like Russian.
She holds it up for George. ‘Something very fucking shady is going on here,’ she says.
George takes the phone from her, looks at it and stiffens. ‘What the hell is this? Russian?’
Klara nods. She feels a chill run down her spine.
‘So that explains the Eastern Europeans that Gabriella wrote about in the letter. They’re Russians?’
‘Seems so,’ she says. ‘I don’t like this, George.’
‘Me neither,’ he says. ‘I think we better leave right now. Before his friends show up.’