an alcove, heart hammering, nearly certain that she'd been seen. After a long moment, she peeked back out. Anja was nowhere in sight.
Peyton had a hunch and headed to the Grand Amrath. They'd tailed Anja to the triangular, fortress-like hotel by the river twice. The art dealer had taken coffee in the bar lounge and waited. Once she received a phone call; on the other time, she sat for an hour and went back to her flat in Jordaan.
She scanned the streets before crossing to the building. I'm not the only one keeping an eye on you. Who, then? The dreadlocked busker, playing his saxophone on that street corner? The chic hipster mom, pedaling past with a basket stuffed with groceries? Any of the passers-by in the chilly, not-quite-spring of Amsterdam? Was Carson telling the truth, or did he suspect she'd make a break for it?
She could make a call—ask to use the hotel's phone, place a call to Roi, ask him to extract her from this mess. She could do that.
She crossed the street and stopped in her tracks. A man leaned on the dark wall a few feet from the hotel entrance, incongruously reading a newspaper in the chill air. He wore a newsboy cap and the lower half of his face was obscured by a thick gray scarf. His eyes were fixed on the paper.
Was she being paranoid? She passed him, a prickly feeling stealing over her. Stopping, she glanced and turned to see him hastily snap his head back to the newspaper.
Goosepimples prickled down her back as she entered the hotel. She nodded at the doorman, who asked her something in Dutch.
"English, please?"
"May I help you, madame?"
"I'm here to meet someone in the bar lounge?"
"Certainly." Another attendant hurried over and directed her to a seat along the long bench against the wall, upholstered in plush cranberry velvet and botanical sailcloth. She looked around and spotted a tiny alcove off the dark wood bar; on it, a phone. Her heart leapt and thudded against her chest. She stood and motioned someone over; a waitress approached with a menu.
Peyton's mouth was dry as she motioned to the phone. "May I please use your—"
The words died in her throat. From the corner of her eye she a familiar, newsboy-hatted figure enter the space.
"Madame?" asked the waitress.
"Th-the menu, please?"
She huddled behind the menu, turning the pages halfheartedly. Newsboy took a seat on the farthest edge of the lounge, similarly buried in a menu, but within her line of sight.
Not the only one keeping an eye.
Carson wasn't bluffing. She took a deep, steadying breath and ordered a coffee. Eyes on her, was it? She'd give them something to watch. And if what they saw would drive them to sleep, then so much the better.
The coffee arrived and Peyton took her time savoring it, scanning the lounge for traces of her target—lots of blonde Dutch, but none with the distinct silvery-white coloring that Anja had. The bar inhabitants conversed in low, soothing tones—she caught traces of Dutch, some English, a man on the phone in rapid-fire French, a table of German tourists. Slightly conversant in German herself (and fluent in French and Spanish), she tried to catch the thread of Dutch, to weave it into the comprehension she had of the other languages, and thought she could understand some of it. One word in five—not enough to feel like she was competent, but enough not to feel completely lost.
From time to time her eye fell on the Newsboy, and smirked to herself as he looked bored out of his skull.
Good, she thought, and ordered another coffee.
Three cups later and well into the afternoon, the Newsboy sat, chin in hand, definitely shooting her murderous glances. She stood and saw him perk up—only to fall disappointed as she made her way to the restroom. All that coffee had to go out somewhere.
She took her time relieving herself. The restroom, like the rest of the hotel, was done up in dark, polished wood with art deco touches. She'd scanned it for a window as she entered but was
Peyton had a hunch and headed to the Grand Amrath. They'd tailed Anja to the triangular, fortress-like hotel by the river twice. The art dealer had taken coffee in the bar lounge and waited. Once she received a phone call; on the other time, she sat for an hour and went back to her flat in Jordaan.
She scanned the streets before crossing to the building. I'm not the only one keeping an eye on you. Who, then? The dreadlocked busker, playing his saxophone on that street corner? The chic hipster mom, pedaling past with a basket stuffed with groceries? Any of the passers-by in the chilly, not-quite-spring of Amsterdam? Was Carson telling the truth, or did he suspect she'd make a break for it?
She could make a call—ask to use the hotel's phone, place a call to Roi, ask him to extract her from this mess. She could do that.
She crossed the street and stopped in her tracks. A man leaned on the dark wall a few feet from the hotel entrance, incongruously reading a newspaper in the chill air. He wore a newsboy cap and the lower half of his face was obscured by a thick gray scarf. His eyes were fixed on the paper.
Was she being paranoid? She passed him, a prickly feeling stealing over her. Stopping, she glanced and turned to see him hastily snap his head back to the newspaper.
Goosepimples prickled down her back as she entered the hotel. She nodded at the doorman, who asked her something in Dutch.
"English, please?"
"May I help you, madame?"
"I'm here to meet someone in the bar lounge?"
"Certainly." Another attendant hurried over and directed her to a seat along the long bench against the wall, upholstered in plush cranberry velvet and botanical sailcloth. She looked around and spotted a tiny alcove off the dark wood bar; on it, a phone. Her heart leapt and thudded against her chest. She stood and motioned someone over; a waitress approached with a menu.
Peyton's mouth was dry as she motioned to the phone. "May I please use your—"
The words died in her throat. From the corner of her eye she a familiar, newsboy-hatted figure enter the space.
"Madame?" asked the waitress.
"Th-the menu, please?"
She huddled behind the menu, turning the pages halfheartedly. Newsboy took a seat on the farthest edge of the lounge, similarly buried in a menu, but within her line of sight.
Not the only one keeping an eye.
Carson wasn't bluffing. She took a deep, steadying breath and ordered a coffee. Eyes on her, was it? She'd give them something to watch. And if what they saw would drive them to sleep, then so much the better.
The coffee arrived and Peyton took her time savoring it, scanning the lounge for traces of her target—lots of blonde Dutch, but none with the distinct silvery-white coloring that Anja had. The bar inhabitants conversed in low, soothing tones—she caught traces of Dutch, some English, a man on the phone in rapid-fire French, a table of German tourists. Slightly conversant in German herself (and fluent in French and Spanish), she tried to catch the thread of Dutch, to weave it into the comprehension she had of the other languages, and thought she could understand some of it. One word in five—not enough to feel like she was competent, but enough not to feel completely lost.
From time to time her eye fell on the Newsboy, and smirked to herself as he looked bored out of his skull.
Good, she thought, and ordered another coffee.
Three cups later and well into the afternoon, the Newsboy sat, chin in hand, definitely shooting her murderous glances. She stood and saw him perk up—only to fall disappointed as she made her way to the restroom. All that coffee had to go out somewhere.
She took her time relieving herself. The restroom, like the rest of the hotel, was done up in dark, polished wood with art deco touches. She'd scanned it for a window as she entered but was
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