Matt Archer: Bloodlines (Matt Archer #4) (22 page)

I’d been through the Frankfurt airport a few times. Like
last time, I found it modern and crowded with duty-free shops and harried
passengers. Sort of like Dulles, or JFK.

Some things were always the same, no matter where you
travelled.

We made our way to the rental car place, where Dad proceed
to converse with the attendant in perfect German. He turned on the charm and
the young woman smiled and blushed throughout the entire exchange. If I hadn’t
seen him stare at his compass for a good twenty minutes on the flight, before
sighing and shoving it back in his pocket, I would’ve been pissed on Mom’s
behalf.

Now, I figured it was just an act. One of the many faces of
Officer Erik Archer, super spy.

“What did you talk her into?” I asked him as we walked the
row of cars, looking for our rental. “I mean, that’s what I guessed you were
doing, right?”

“I was talking her into this,” Dad said, pointing.

My jaw dropped. “That’s our car?”

“Uh huh. Sweet, right?”

Under the fluorescent parking garage lights, the black
Mercedes M350 gleamed. “Oh, Autobahn, here we come.”

He laughed and tossed me the keys. “It’s never too early to
learn to drive in a foreign country.” When I opened my mouth to protest, he
said, “And driving a Humvee across the Outback doesn’t count.”

Soon we were speeding down the A3. The Mercedes drove like a
dream—better even that Will’s Beemer, and I’d be sure to tell him that once I
was stateside again. It was so great to be driving through Europe in early fall
that I forgot about being jetlagged. Dad didn’t seem tired, either, but I
didn’t think he knew how to be anything but awake and alert except when he was
hurt.

We stopped for gas once and grabbed the most amazing brats
with pretzel bread for lunch. I could get used to German “fast food.” Then it
was back on the road, and Dad took the wheel.

“How far are we going?” I asked.

“Another few hours. Rotterdam’s close to the southwestern
coast of The Netherlands,” he said, checking the mirror to change lanes. “Big
shipping town. It’s on a delta for the Rhine, and container ships dock there.
If we have time, I’ll take you out to the docks to see the big cranes moving
containers on and off freighters to make it look like we’re real tourists. Now,
if this really was a vacation, we’d go up to Amsterdam. It’s beautiful and one
of the funkiest cities you’ll ever visit.”

It sounded fun. I stole a glance at my father. He hadn’t
shaved for a few days, and his beard was as dark as mine. I was slowly getting
used to the resemblance, and found I didn’t mind so much. Whatever happened out
here, I hoped that someday we could actually take a trip together, just for
fun.

We pulled into downtown and went to a modern-looking hotel
called the Van der Valk Hotel Rotterdam-Blijdorp.

“I don’t have a prayer of pronouncing that right,” I
whispered to Dad as the bellman loaded our bags onto a cart.

Dad smirked, then turned and asked the bellman a few
questions.

In Dutch.

I kind of hated him right then.

We went up to our room and I waved in disappointment at the
standard set up with two full-sized beds. “What, no suite?”

“What do you think this is?” Dad asked, chuckling. “A James
Bond movie?”

“No, but the Mercedes spoiled me,” I said and sat down on my
bed. It was comfy enough. Of course, tired as I was, the floor would be comfy,
too. “So, now what?”

“Now we sleep.”

“Music to my ears, but after that?”

Dad slipped back into cold spy mode. “Then we try to find
Carrie.”

* * *

The next morning, after a big breakfast and enough coffee to
wake the dead, Dad and I joined a group taking a tour of the city.

“I thought this was business, not fun?” I asked.

“We won’t be staying with them,” he said. “This is just our
way out without being noticed.”

We boarded a little tram, and the tour guide begin talking
about the city, alternating between Dutch and English. We made several stops
throughout the morning, including at the shopping center, which made a group of
French ladies very happy. One held up a pair of blood-red high heels, nodded at
me, and said in accented English, “Look good, no?”

I shrugged. None of the women I hung with would be caught
dead in a pair of shoes like that and I kind of preferred it that way. Ella was
sexier in a pair of ski boots to me.

The lady laughed at my reaction and gave me a little swat on
the shoulder as she headed back to the tram. Her two friends chuckled behind
their hands, whispering in French. Probably saying something about the “stupid
American boy with zero fashion sense.”

As the tour continued, Dad pretended to be interested in all
the sights…but I didn’t have to pretend. The Rotterdam City Hall was like
something out of a movie with its sprawling wings and gabled roof. There were
old churches and very modern skyscrapers…a mix of the Old World and the New,
all right in one spot. I decided I liked Europe and made a vow to bring Ella
back with me someday.

The tour went to the Erasmus Bridge after a lunch stop at a
little café. Having eaten two helpings of something called
vlaai
—which
was basically a thin fruit pie—I was glad to have a chance to get out and walk
off my meal.

“Wow,” I said, when we exited the tram. The bridge was
huge—maybe ten football fields across— with cables that stretched upward to
attach to a large white pylon hundreds of feet above our heads. “It looks like
a harp.”

“Exactly,” Dad said. “One of the more famous suspension bridges
in the world.” He glanced at our straggling tour mates. “And where we’re
getting off.”

We picked up the pace, walking toward the center of the
bridge as fast as we could without looking suspicious. The French shoe-lady
called out something as we strode away and her friends laughed, but Dad plowed
on without reaction. Soon we were lost in a crowd of other pedestrians, far
ahead of our group. Only then did Dad slow down and pull out a pair of
binoculars to take a long look around.

“They won’t come this far. They’re just stopping to take
pictures.” He handed me his phone. “We should do the same thing, make it look
good.”

I snapped some shots of the river and boats moving through,
wondering what we were looking for. Before long, our tour group went back to the
tram. They waited a while and Dad checked on them until they finally left us
behind.

“Let’s go.” Dad started walking to the far end of the
bridge, into South Rotterdam. There we caught a cab. He told the driver, “Café
de Zwann.”

The driver’s eyebrow’s went up and he asked—in English—“Are
you certain? That is…not the best part of town.”

Dad handed him some cash. “We’re sure.”

Shaking his head, the driver pulled away from the bridge.
“To the Swan we go.”

A few minutes later, we stopped at the mouth of a narrow
alley between two old buildings. Dad got out and motioned me to follow. Once
the driver pulled away, we went down the alley to a grimy door with a swan
etched into the wood. The air smelled like stale beer and really greasy food.
And piss, but I kind of expected that for some reason.

“Is this one of those ‘underbelly of humanity’ places you
kept talking about?” I asked him.

“Just let me do the talking, okay?” He pushed the door open
and a cloud of smoke poured out.

“Great,” I muttered, but I followed him inside.

The room was so narrow, there was barely room to walk
between the old, dark wood bar and the tiny tables crammed against the opposite
wall. The bartender eyed us warily, holding a half-full beer stein.

Dad nodded and greeted him in Dutch, and that seem to relax
him some. After a short conversation, the bartender nodded and pointed at a
table in the back corner of the room. The other patrons, after the first look,
had gone back to their drinks and smokes, and we became wallpaper, fading into
the half-gloom.

Dad ordered two beers, but didn’t take a single sip when
they arrived. Curious, I tried mine. It was dark and really malty. I kind of
liked it, but I was on a job, and I didn’t think my old man would appreciate me
drinking a beer for a half-dozen reasons.

A few minutes later, a drunk girl stumbled out of the
restroom, laughing. She crashed into our table, sending my stein flying and
dousing me in beer. I jumped to my feet to avoid getting completely soaked, while
she giggled and patted Dad on the chest. He’d caught her somehow and she’d
ended up in his lap. He gave her a lazy grin while she groped his biceps,
whispering to him in Dutch.

Finally, he got her back on her feet and sent her on her
way. She bumped into a few more tables before breezing out the door, singing at
the top of her lungs.

After a few chuckles, the other people seemed to forget all
about it, but I sure couldn’t. I smelled like I’d been flattened by a Guinness
truck. “Can we get out of here?”

Dad drained his beer—what was left of it after the table
crash—in two long swallows. “Yes.”

He left money on the table and we strolled out of the joint
like we’d only come in for a drink. I didn’t get it…what had this stop even
accomplished, other than a beer-soaked shirt that left me shivering in the
early autumn air?

“What was that all about?” I asked as Dad tried to flag down
a taxi.

“Not here,” he said, barely moving his lips. “Keep cool
until we’re clear.”

Clear? Clear of what? Beer-flinging girls who liked to feel
up a muscular guy’s arms?

By the time we got back to the hotel, I was stewing and
reeked to the rafters. Dad didn’t say a word as we crossed the lobby, even when
everyone stared at my wet shirt. If this was what spy missions were like, I
decided to cross that job possibility off the list.

I burst into our room first and went straight to the shower.
I didn’t care how many questions I had; rinsing the beer off my body was
priority. When I came out, wearing a towel and wondering where my next meal was
coming from, I was surprised to find everything packed up except a change of
clothes for me.

“Okay, tell me what’s going on,” I said. “Are we seriously
leaving?”

“The sooner, the better.” Dad prowled around the room,
looking under the alarm clock, taking the pillow cases off the pillows and
opening every drawer. Despite our packed bags, the room looked like it had been
hit by a rock star throwing a tantrum.

I crossed my arms over my still-damp chest. “What. The.
Hell.”

“Get dressed.” He pushed past me to dig around in the
closet. He came out with my beer soaked shirt, turned it inside out and cursed.
“Hurry. We don’t have much time.”

A trickle of unease chilled my bones. Maybe Dad was being a
tool, but he obviously had a reason. Without asking any other stupid questions,
I pulled on clean jeans, a long-sleeved T and a fresh sweatshirt.

As soon as I had my shoes laced up, Dad tossed me my
backpack, grabbed his bag and my duffel and hustled to the door. I raced to
catch up as he took a detour down a hall that didn’t lead to the elevator.
Instead, we ended up in a service area, waiting for housekeeping’s lift to take
us down.

“Where’s the Mercedes?” I asked.

“Safe,” was the only answer. We climbed into the lift and
descended into a sub-basement. Weaving through laundry equipment, old luggage
carts and stacks of fresh linens, we came to a door that let out onto the
loading dock at the back of the hotel.

“This way.” Dad jogged toward a small Volvo, not unlike Aunt
Julie’s car. He felt under the hood for a moment, then pulled a magnetic key
holder free. I stood there, jaw slack, as he unlocked the getaway car.

“Did this really happen?” I slid into the passenger seat.
“We totally just did a spy sneak out of a hotel and ended up with a different
car that someone left here for us.”

He drove down the alley to the main street, looked both
ways, and took off. “Yes, it really happened. We’ve been marked, so we’re
leaving.”

“I have about a thousand questions, like where you found
this car, but I’ll stick to one. What do you mean, ‘marked?’”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he took a winding
route through the city until we were on a highway, heading north to Amsterdam.
“Remember those French women on the tour this morning?”

“The ones who couldn’t stop talking about the shoes at that
one shop in City Centre?”

“They were Nocturna Maura.”

“Huh?” The looked so…so…benign. Annoying, but harmless. “How
do you know?”

“Because our contact at the Swan told me so.”

Our contact at the Swan? “Wait, that drunk chick was the
person you were meeting?”

“She’s Interpol, believe it or not. They’re tracking
Nocturna Maura, too, and she’d been in contact with Carrie. She slipped me a
note when she tripped over the table.”

Which meant she soaked me in beer on purpose. Nice “What did
the note say?”

“‘Imagine a dragon on a western train. Your time has come.’”

Could this woman be any more cryptic? “And you know what
that meant?”

“Carrie likes riddles. She told me she’d never send me a
straight-up message, in case they were intercepted, and that I needed to know
her favorite band is Imagine Dragons.” He glanced in the rearview mirror for
the fortieth time. “So I memorized the lyrics to all their songs.”

“You memorized all of Imagine Dragons’ songs?” I let out a
half-laugh. “Just in case, or something?”

“Because it seemed important, and I was right. The note she
left us references a song called
Amsterdam
. It mentions a western train,
which points to a meeting place we set up on the western side of town,” he
said. “The part about ‘your time has come’ was to let me know her cover was
blown and she needs to be extracted. They’re on to her and we have to pull her
out before the Nocturna people catch her.” His hands tightened on the steering
wheel and the passing streetlights made weird bands of shadow across his face.
“Our cover was blown, too. The witches found us, despite how careful we were,
and marked us.”