Page 64 of The Expat Affair

“I’ll have a water, please. Sparkling.”

Lars orders a beer, and then we’re both quiet as the waiter weaves through the tables toward the glass doors under the awning.

Lars watches him until he’s disappeared inside. “So, what’s the plan?”

I tell him about the hostel I found two blocks away, the sob story I’ve concocted about losing my ID, the trackers I found in my things that make it impossible to go home. “I need to get off the streets, but I can’t go anywhere as long as that asshole is followingme. I’ve got to get rid of him first.”

“Say no more.” He wriggles his cell from an inside pocket of his coat, punches at the screen, then presses the phone to his ear. Iknow when the line connects, because he spouts off a steady stream of Dutch. I have no idea what any of it means, but when he catches my eye, he winks.

“Dank uwel,” he says finally—thank you—then hits End. He tosses the cell to the table.

“What was that about?”

“That was the police. I called to report two men, wearing an orange coat and a red hoodie, pickpocketing women on the Leidseplein. I told them to send someone immediately.”

“You did not.” I lean back in my chair, impressed. It’s what I should have done instead of sitting here panicking. In fact, I kinda wish I’d thought of it.

A grin spreads across Lars’s face. “Give it a minute or two. The cops are always near this square, especially at night.”

The waiter delivers the drinks, a glass of pilsner draft for Lars and a bottle of water along with a tall glass for me, a lemon slice and a single ice cube sitting in a puddle at the bottom. I thank him and dump the water in the glass, then chink it against Lars’s beer.

“Cheers,” I say before taking a sip.

Lars settles into his chair, getting comfortable, stretching hislegs out long. “So are you going to tell me why this guy is following you around town? Because in the absence of any explanations, I’ve come up with a theory or two.”

“Which are?”

“Well, my first thought was that you are a spy, but then I figured you’d have to be a pretty shitty one to let yourself be chased around the streets of Amsterdam by some man who wears a hat for a disguise, and you certainly wouldn’t need my help to get away from him. But then I thought maybe that was the point, that you’re only playing helpless and playing me. You’re not playing me, are you?”

I laugh. “Definitely not. And I’m definitely not a spy. What’s your second theory?”

“That you’re just a normal girl who came to Amsterdam to hang out for a little while and got herself into some trouble. You know, wrong place, wrong time, that sort of thing. It wouldn’t be the first time. My city, it’s kind of known for its shenanigans.”

“That’s pretty on the nose, actually.”

He seems eager to hear more, but I stall by swirling the lemon around my glass. If Lars hasn’t seen the pictures of me floating around the web, I’m not all that eager to point them out. I don’t want to see his face when I tell him about Xander. I don’t want it to change the way he looks at me.

Before I can work up the nerve, Lars nudges me with an elbow, and I follow his gaze to the opposite side of the square.

A police car rolls to a stop by the tram tracks. People are still everywhere, standing in tight circles around street performers, smoking cigarettes while they wait for the tram, and a police car on the Leidseplein is a common sight. Nobody seems to notice, not even when the doors swing open and two uniformed cops step out.

The officers scan the terrace, their gazes traveling over the peoplehuddled under the heaters and at the tables, but it doesn’t take them long. The orange jacket and red hoodie might as well be beacons.

“Here we go,” Lars says as the cops march this way.

I reach for my water and settle in for the show.

Beanie man doesn’t notice them, not until they’re stepping up to his table, and even then, he looks at them as if they’re interrupting, which they are. The girls at the next table suddenly seem a lot less interested in his pickup lines.

I don’t understand what the cops say to him, but I understand their tone, the way the people at neighboring tables look over in alarm. The guy in the orange coat puts up a fuss, refusing their orders to stand up, to follow them away from the terrace and back toward the car. He empties out his pockets and dumps his belongings onto the table, presumably as proof.Look, officers, no pickpockets here.

But the cops either don’t believe him or they don’t care. They haul the two men out of their chairs, one cop latching on to each man’s arm, and escort them away.

“Holy shit,” I say, looking at Lars with a grin. “You did it. It actually worked.”

“They won’t keep them long. Only a few minutes if you’re lucky.”

A few minutes is plenty of time to disappear. I dig a twenty from the back of my phone and wedge it under my water glass, empty now but for the lemon slice and a half-melted ice cube.

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