25. Venlo
I COULDN’T STOP staring out of the window as we drove in a cab through the streets of Amsterdam, heading for the train station. Red-brick buildings towered over a network of canals and waterways filled with boats and other floating vehicles I couldn’t give a name to. Sunlight glinted off the dark water in a shimmering gold light that gave the city a magical touch. But the Dutch’s favourite transport was definitely the bicycle. Bicycles were everywhere, riding next to the road or sneaking through the narrow alleyways of the city and even up steep stairs. And so many flowers. There were tulips and lilies nodding their crowns to the breeze from pots in the streets or on windowsills. It was a mix of colours and vitality that made me forget the awful landing at Schiphol Airport. All bumps and jolts, rocked around by gusts of wind. I’d thought I was either going to die on that seat or cast up my accounts, or both.
“Do you like Amsterdam?” Roy asked, smiling next to me.
“It’s like nothing I’ve seen before. A city with canals. I’ve seen pictures of Venice, but seeing the canals is different.”
“After this is over, we can spend a couple of days visiting the city if you like.” He took my hand, but there was a silent tension in the gesture. He was nervous, and I couldn’t blame him.
But how could I refuse his proposal when my heart leapt with happiness? “I’d love that.”
He nodded. “Agreed then. We’ll take a tour on a boat and visit the entire city.”
On impulse, I shifted on the seat and hugged him. A low chuckle rumbled in his chest as he held me back.
“You always surprise me,” I said in the crook of his neck.
“Anything to see you smile like that again,” he whispered, caressing my hair.
With warmth spreading in my chest, I smiled all the way to the station.
On the train to Venlo, we didn’t have the chance to talk. Too many people crammed the compartment—some with their bicycle propped against the wall—and Roy was engrossed by his book,The Mystery of Tunnel 51, a spy story. How original.
I enjoyed the view of the neatly trimmed Dutch flower fields. It was like watching the paintings of one of those impressionist artists where the colours exploded from the canvas and dragged the viewer into a world of sensations. There was emerald, pink, crimson, and bright yellow, all mingled into a giant painting. England’s countryside, with its green pastures and the occasional poppy field, was boring by comparison. In the distance, the windmills rose from a sea of green grass and yellow daffodils.
We changed trains in the small city of Arnhem, then again in Nijmegen, the process far smoother than I’d thought. We barely had the time to step onto a platform before the train arrived. I tried to catch snippets of conversations among the passengers. Dutch was the missing link between English and German, as many words reminded me of either of those two with a lovely musical lilt. As the sun set over the flat but colourful Dutch land, I closed my eyes and rested my head on the window.
When I woke up, I was leaning against Roy’s shoulder. His arm was draped around my waist as he held me protectively close.
I blinked and rubbed my face. “I was more tired than I thought.” Shamelessly, I snuggled closer to his heat.
“We’re almost there,” he said, brushing a lock of my hair from my cheek.
“Blimey. Did I sleep for long?”
“I finished my novel.”
“Was it gripping?”
“Yes, and quite realistic too. I guess you’ll see for yourself after this mission.” Bitterness slipped into his words. I guessed he still wasn’t happy about having me here.
I didn’t move away from him, and he didn’t ask me to. So, we stayed like that, impossibly close and hugging each other, even if it would be considered improper. Perhaps it was the worry and anxiety of the upcoming mission, the fear that something could go wrong, but I didn’t want this moment to end, so I savoured it fully.
A battering rain was pelting the city of Venlo when we climbed out of the train. It seemed that the rain had washed out all the colours of the beautiful landscape because grey and black dominated, dulling the painting. By the time we arrived at the modest hotel tucked in a corner of a side street, I was drenched and exhausted. So exhausted that when Roy introduced us to the clerk at the reception desk as Mr and Mrs Turner, I didn’t even smile. The hotel was a townhouse, squeezed between two other red-brick buildings with the always present flowers. Spruce floorboards were gleaming with beeswax, and the hostess wore the traditional wooden clogs that sounded silent on the floor.
After I washed and changed into a dry dress while Roy was downstairs, busy with paperwork, I went to the dining room. Connor sat at a cosy round table in the opposite corner of the room, worry lines creasing his brow. Murphy wasn’t in this hotel, and Roy sat in front of me, too lost in thoughts to chat.
Connor and Roy must have created their own system of silent communication because there were fleeting glances and quick nods exchanged between them before Connor slid out of the room and Roy rose from the table.
“Stay here,” he said. “I need a word with Connor.”
No joking. I lowered my bowl of potato soup and sour cream that was warming me up after the cold rain. “Shouldn’t I be informed of what you two have to say as well?”
“I don’t want to attract attention.” He leaned over and kissed me. It was a quick, ‘married couple’ kiss, but it stunned me into silence. Likely, that was the reason why he’d kissed me. To shut me up.
Before I could blink, he was hurrying towards the French window that opened to the back garden. A gust of cold air swept the room when he opened it and stepped into the pelting rain.
Well, I’d had enough of secrets, so I folded the napkin on the table and stood up. Smiling at another couple of customers, I crossed the room and peeked out of the window. Connor and Roy were under the shelter of a gazebo, partially hidden by the sheets of rain. I inched the window open and unleashed my beast only a little, enough to sharpen my hearing.