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something that might be worth the infinite price we are willing to pay? That I, when I caught the scent, froze like a rabbit in headlights and lost everything?
    Should I talk about that? What I can’t even acknowledge to myself? If I start to talk about it, I would never stop. If I start thinking, I’m dead.
    So all I do is smile and look at the clock. When the obligatory hour is over, I stand up, put on my anonymous dark blue jacket, and get on the highway, return here, back to this anonymous box that is anything but a home. And I bide my time and hope my quarantine will finally come to an end. That a folder with a different identity, airline tickets, and an account number will drop onto my desk so that I’ll be able to continue, to start over. The only thing I live for is the next move, the next round.

6
December 18, 2013
    Brussels, Belgium
    The train station under the Zaventem airport seemed like it was perpetually under construction. Everything was a jumble of orange cones, barrier tape, and scaffolding.
    Mahmoud did his best to squeeze through the static crowd so he could catch the next train to Brussels. There were lobbyists and other foot soldiers in the cause of European integration with copies of that morning’s recently leafed through Financial Times protruding from their streamlined Samsonite luggage, their cell phones glued to their ears; Orthodox Jews, dressed in black, waiting for the train to Antwerp; families dressed for their vacations, dragging oversize suitcases to a charter flight to Phuket. The conductor whistled, and Mahmoud pushed forward to catch his train. At that moment he felt the backpack he had slung over one shoulder slip off and down onto the concrete floor of the platform. He stopped but couldn’t see it. Annoyed, he bent down to get a closer look. The crowd pushed him sideways toward the train. Someone tapped him on the shoulder.
    ‘Is this yours?’ A blond girl around his own age with a ponytail, loose-fitting clothes, and cool, green eyes held his backpack up to him.
    ‘Yes, it is. Thanks a lot!’ Mahmoud answered.
    He grabbed his bag and managed not only to squeeze himself onto the train, but also to find an empty window seat. He sank down onto the cracked vinyl of the orange seat with a sigh.
    As the rusty old train, protesting loudly, pulled away from the airport, Mahmoud took out the program for the next day. The roster was impressive. Members of the European Parliament, NATO officers, an ambassador, reporters from major international newspapers. All of a sudden, he felt intensely nervous. Why hadn’t he started preparing earlier? He closed his eyes in order to concentrate. Within thirty seconds, the previous day’s late night took its toll, and he fell into the deep, immediate sleep that only traveling evokes.
    ‘So it’s not even a five-minute walk, Mr Shammosh,’ the dapper porter at Hotel Bristol told him in a slightly stilted voice that sounded much older than his smooth, twenty-something face looked.
    ‘Perfect,’ Mahmoud said. He folded the map and slipped it into his backpack, which was worn and camouflage-colored. It looked like its life had started in the army; the picture of a small parachute was sewn onto the flap.
    Like its porter, the lobby of the Hotel Bristol seemed to lay claim to a history it didn’t actually possess. With its red carpets, mahogany and leather, and English gentility, it made a halfhearted attempt to mask being part of an international hotel chain.
    ‘By the way, Mr Shammosh, someone left a message for you,’ the porter said and slid a thick, carefully sealed envelope across the counter.
    Mahmoud’s room was predictably small and sandy-colored. The décor was flat, like in a soap opera. There were no halfhearted attempts at English eccentricity here. Only hotel chain monotony and familiarity. Mahmoud opened the curtains as far as he could. The window overlooked a small, dirty atrium. A few snowflakes swirled alone out there. They