Free Into a Raging Blaze by Andreas Norman, Ian Giles Page B

this man called?”
    “Jean.”
    “Jean?”
    “That’s what he called himself.”
    They read together in silence. Jamal examined a few pages a little longer, then scrolled to the end. “Typical Brussels prose,” he noted. “Why did he give this to you?”
    “Because I’m Swedish, I think.”
    Presumably Jean had given her the proposal because he thought that Sweden should get in on it early and exert an influence. He was probably just a normal civil servant at the Commission who wanted Swedish points of view on a coming proposal. He had expressed himself rather dramatically, but that was probably what he had meant. Sweden was notoriously bad at entering EU processes early. The Swedish foreign policy machine rarely managed to find things out in time to contribute with ideas and form legislative work in the EU before all the texts were locked and ready. The EU’s back-door diplomacy was entirely dominated by Britain, Spain, France, and Italy. They reigned in the corridors of Brussels. The man probably wanted to give Sweden the chance to react, pull the emergency brake before this new security cooperation was fact.
    But he had also given the report to her , personally. He had talked about conscience, whatever he meant by that. In hindsight, it all seemed a bit daft.
    “I sent the report to Justice, L3. This is their headache.”
    They refilled their wine glasses and went out on to the balcony to smoke. Carina only smoked occasionally, preferably with Jamal. She inhaled deeply and a cold gust made her shudder. He was standing close to her, with his arm around her waist and looking out into the darkness. They said nothing. It was a beautiful silence, an affinity. She could talk with Jamal like she could with no one else, but the last few times they had also been silent together. It felt good, to be silent with someone. It had been years since she’d been able to do that without feeling lonely.
    “Where should we go on vacation then?” she said lightly.
    “I don’t know,” he said in the same tone, playfully. “Any suggestions?”
    “Somewhere warm, I think. Maybe Egypt?”
    She glanced at him. She paused. Perhaps she was going too quickly. She should be more careful, but she couldn’t help herself. The silence surrounding his Egyptian background was like an annoying scab that she couldn’t help but pick. “I mean, especially now,” she added quickly. “It would be interesting—after the Arab Spring.”
    Jamal snorted. “Arab Spring.”
    She paused.
    “Nothing has happened!” he burst out in the same loud voice. “People thought they would get freedom but it’s just the same shit as before. Same damn military hanging on to power, like the fucking parasites they are.” He angrily blew cigarette smoke into the darkness. “Mubarak’s old friends. Same gang. You have to burn them off, like leeches. It’s the only way.”
    She remained silent.
    “And the EU, with its promises of support. Where is that support? They don’t want to provide support; they just want to buyup all of Egypt. They don’t care. They don’t give a damn about the Egyptians.”
    “But surely the EU is supporting development . . .” she began, carefully.
    He looked hard at her. She had been going to say something about Egypt, its colonial history that certainly cast a shadow over relations in the Mediterranean, but that there was also an honest will to ensure Egypt became democratic, but she said nothing. This wasn’t just about international policy for Jamal. Her bird’s-eye perspective was too distant from the events. She was looking at it like an analyst, but for him it was his other home country at stake. She had never before seen him so upset. Maybe he knew people who had taken part in the demonstrations—friends and family who had been badly treated.
    “I don’t trust them one bit,” he said angrily. “The EU doesn’t want democracy. The EU wants stable, calm regional neighbors. They don’t care about people,