Page 23 of The Expat Affair
The alley dumps me onto the busy Hobbemastraat, bustling with the after-dinner crowd. I take a hard left, following the tram tracks along the northern end of the Vondelpark. At the gates, I pause for a swarm of bikers, silently blessing them as they pedal by.
“Are you insane?”
Ingrid once said after I’d told her I took a short-cut through the park on the way home from the bars. “Unless you’re a junkie or a rapist, nothing good happens in the park after dark. Don’t go there. It’s not safe.”
I wonder if she’s still at her parents’ house on the eastern outskirts of the city, where she spent most of the weekend, if it was maybe to get away from me. Ingrid swears she’s not mad, that she doesn’t blame me for bringing in the thief who took her cash, but I’m not convinced she’s telling the truth. Ever since the break-in, things between us have felt off, and I don’t deny feeling a little annoyed she left me there all alone, an easy target at the top of the stairs. Especially now that I found more trackers.
The bikers disappear into the shadows, and I slide my phone from my pocket, pulling up Ingrid’s number.
Stay away from the apartment. I found more trackers in my things.
The text lands as delivered but not read. I watch the screen for a few more seconds, and I’m about to click my phone off when it buzzes with an incoming text.
I’m headed to Café Luxembourg on the Spui, wanna meet up for a drink?
I’m more excited than I should be at Lars’s invitation, mostly because it seems that Ingrid is ignoring me. I don’t blame her, and honestly, I wouldn’t mind some company. Nothing happened between me and Lars that first night we met, not even a kiss on the cheek as I slid off his bike, but he seems nice enough, and his regular check-ins always make me smile. If there’s ever a night that I don’t want to be alone, this is it.
My thumbs tick out a reply. Is it far from the Leidseplein? Because that’s where I am.
Not quite, but I’m close. Only a block or so away.
Actually, prob easier if I come to you. I’m hitting the thumbs-up emoji when the next text lands on my screen. Be there in 5. Don’t talk to anyone wearing a beanie y
I laugh and drop my phone in my pocket, then choose the busiest, most well-lit route to the Leidseplein, trailing a cluster of Portuguese tourists too drunk to notice the random American hanging like a shadow on the edge of their group. I stick close as they cross the bridge and stumble through a covered square, skirting around the pillars and peering into the dark corners, watching for anyone who might be waiting to grab me as I pass by. At the far end, I shoot out of the colonnades and catch my breath under a street light, staring back into the darkness until I know for sure that no one’s coming but more tourists. I’m not being followed.
I cross the street and take it all in. The movie theater looming over a long row of colorful restaurants and bars, the gingerbread facade of the iconic orange theater with its twin spires, the people packing the Leidseplein, the most famous square in all of Amsterdam thanks in large part to the Bulldog, the world-famous coffee shop housed somewhat ironically in a former police station.
This is the part of the city that never sleeps, where the crowds stay thick until deep in the night, people huddling under heaters on terraces and spilling out of the bars and restaurants despite the freezing cold. There’s safety in numbers, I tell myself as I step into the chaos.
My phone buzzes against a hip, and I stop by a tram stand to dig it out. “Hey, Ingrid. Did you see my text?”
“Just now. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, but don’t go home. Not until the police know who the trackers belong to.”
She makes a throaty sound, her voice crackling in the phone speaker. “Good luck with that. Those things are impossible to trace. Where are you? Is that a tram?”
It clangs, sending a gaggle of pedestrians scurrying away from the tracks.
“Yes, I’m on the Leidseplein. It’s a madhouse.”
“Smart thinking. What’s your plan?”
A group of drunk tourists come tumbling out of a bar across the street, and as much as I’d love the warmth of a table inside, my best bet is a conspicuous spot on one of the terraces on the square. I check for trams and bikes and head that way.
“I’m still figuring that out, but I’m not sleeping at home tonight. You probably shouldn’t, either.”
I keep my gaze on the people around me on the terrace, servers with their trays full of drinks and the couple laughing at the next table and the tourists taking photographs on the edge of the square. I watch three Americans with blowouts and stiletto boots do shots at a high-top by the door, thinking they must not have gotten the memo on the weather or on Amsterdam’s cobblestoned streets. Just beyond, a dark man in an army coat looks my way, his eyes hidden under a baseball cap.
A baseball cap. My heart gives a heavy, warning thud.
“Do you want to come here?”
she asks. “My parents have a pullout couch.”
It’s a solid offer, but Ingrid’s parents live all the way in Diemen, a suburb that’s reachable by public transport, but the roads between here and there will be dark and deserted, and now it’s starting to spit snow. The Leidseplein is surrounded by hotels. I just need a few minutes to search for one on my phone.
“Thanks,”
I say, keeping him in my periphery as he chats with someone, a man. They slap hands and clap backs and exchange animated, rapid-fire greetings, and it’s not him. It’s not the man from the tram, not the guy in the beanie paying for his shawarma. I blow out a long, relieved breath. “But I’m just going to find a hotel. The detective promised to call as soon as he knew something. Hopefully, it’s just for one night. We can regroup tomorrow.”
The man in the ball cap takes off up the street, and I watch until he disappears around the corner.
“Are you sure?”
Ingrid says.
“I’m sure. But thank you.”
“Okay, well . . . some of the hostels near there aren’t so awful, and they might let you pay in cash. You’ll probably still have to show an ID, but if you’re lucky there won’t be a paper trail.”
A paper trail. I hadn’t thought of that. I know from my first few nights in this country that hotels ask for a passport, which is sitting in my suitcase under the bed. Maybe they’ll accept my driver’s license, but they’ll probably make a copy and plug the information into a computer somewhere. Let’s just hope it’s an old dusty desktop that’s not hooked up to the internet.
“Seriously, , come here, it’s not a bother. I’ll text you the address.”
I think about the multiple transfers I’d have to make to get to Diemen, or sliding into the back of a cab alone, and I don’t know. It feels wrong somehow. A table further up the terrace erupts with laughter, and I take in the people on the packed terrace, the pedestrians swarming the square, and it’s settled. I’m safer here.
“I’ll send you a pin with my location as soon as I’ve got a place to sleep. Promise. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
At the corner, a man unchains his bike from where it’s leaning against a brick building. No beanie, but he’s alone, and he seems suspiciously sober. He wraps the chain around his handlebars and climbs on, his gaze skimming over mine before he pedals off, but even after he’s gone, I can’t quite relax. I clutch my phone and look around the square, scanning the faces. Five minutes, Lars said. I wish he’d hurry up.
I awaken my phone and Google nearby hostels, even though I’m too old to be sharing a dorm room with a bunch of smelly strangers, way too old to be arguing about who gets the top bunk. Hotels in the city center are expensive, though, and Ingrid is right; the last thing I need is a paper trail.
After a bit of searching, I find a two-star hostel a couple blocks away. The reviews are decent and even better, booking.com says there’s a private room available for less than €100 a night. Maybe for an extra twenty, they’ll believe me when I say I’ve lost my ID.
I look up, and that’s when it happens: I spot a familiar face further down the terrace, sipping a beer. I see his chin nestled in the collar of his coat, the patch of dark hair poking out of a hat. He reaches for his beer, and the sight of him runs through me like a shock of electricity.
It’s beanie man, though the hat-du-jour is a bright red hoodie—not the most subtle choice, though it does blend in with the young crowd on the square. He hasn’t seemed to notice me yet, or more likely, he’s trying very hard to keep up the charade, which makes it easy for me to zoom in on his profile and snap a surreptitious shot. He sips his beer and scrolls on his phone, and I wonder if he’s staring at a flashing blue dot.
Which means . . . shit. Did I miss a tracker? I didn’t bring a bag, and it’s definitely not in my pants or coat. Did he put spyware on my phone? Is there another type of tracker I haven’t spotted yet in my things—something smaller maybe? Less obvious? My entire body itches at the thought, like when reports of bedbugs taking over Paris surfaced three days after I’d just returned from there.
I sit there for a long minute, thinking about what to do. The bars will be open another five, maybe six hours, which gives me time to shake this guy off, but in order to do that, I need to know how he found me.
A big body steps up to my table. Same faded jeans he wore the night we first met, same scuffed boots and beaded chains poking out of a navy sweater, same cheeky grin that drops off his face the moment I lift my face to his.
“Uh-oh,”
Lars says. “What’s wrong?”