I double over with laughter, not caring that I’m making snorting sounds. Stopping an international arms deal? Is this guy for real?
As I wipe tears away from my eyes, Erich asks coolly, “Do you think letting terrorists get a hold of weapons is a laughing matter?”
The expression on his face is so serious that it sends me into another round of uncontrollable laughter. When I finally catch my breath, I ask, “Did my friend Mia set this up? I’ve warned her about her practical jokes.”
Erich frowns. “You can’t tell Mia about this. You can’t tell anyone. This is top secret.”
“Top secret, of course.” I try not to smile as I pretend to be zipping my lips.
“You’re not what I expected,” Erich says after a beat.
“We just met. How could you have expected anything?” Then my eyes widen and I start to edge toward the door. “Hey, wait a minute. You knew what my name was, that I’m a runner, and that I suffer from allergies. Have you been following me?”
Erich holds up his hands. “No, I haven’t been following you. It was in your file.”
I stop in my tracks. “My file? What file?”
Erich looks at me as though I’m stupid. “Your Air Force file.”
“How did you get a hold of my file? You realize it’s a serious crime to hack into a government database.”
“Of course, I didn’t hack into anything.” Erich shrugs. “Not that I couldn’t have if I wanted to. Piece of cake.”
Wow, not only is he an oddball, but he also has a huge ego. This situation is getting stranger by the moment. There’s no way some random German dude could have gotten a hold of my file. To be honest, I don’t know whether to flee or stay and find out how he knows so much personal information about me. And this thing about terrorists? Someone has seen too many spy movies. He probably likes to look at himself in the mirror and say, “Bond, James Bond,” out loud while pretending to fire a gun.
The obvious conclusion is that he’s some sort of stalker. Time to make my exit. I edge toward the door.
Erich lets out an exasperated sigh. “Isabelle, what is wrong with you? Stop playing around. We have serious work to do. The organization is counting on you. I need to begin your briefing.”
The way Erich emphasizes “the organization” and the tone of his voice makes my body tense. And his use of the term “briefing”—I haven’t heard that since I was in the Air Force.
“Wait a minute, is this . . .” My voice trails off as I realize there’s more going on here than I initially thought. This isn’t a practical joke, and this mysterious stranger is no stalker.
Erich grabs my arm and pulls me toward him. Then he whispers in my ear, “Does ‘the third street thugs’ ring a bell?”
The minute Erich utters that code phrase, I know for certain that this is real. When I left the Air Force, my commanding officer told me that if anyone ever approached me saying, “the third street thugs,” it would be a sign that they needed to reactivate me for duty.
My breathing becomes shallow and my pulse races. Feeling faint, I press my hands against Erich’s chest to steady myself. “The initials on your handkerchief—STW,” I say faintly. “It was a signal.”
“That’s right, Isabelle,” he says. “A signal that the organization needs you. You know what STW stands for—save the world—and we need your help to do it.”
“So what you said about stopping an international arms deal is real?”
Erich tips my face up so that I’m staring into his icy-blue eyes. “Yes. I need you. We need you.”
“Why me?” I cringe as I hear my voice squeak.
“Because of your particular talents.”
“Talents? Me?” Could my voice get any squeakier?
Erich lowers his face so that his lips are brushing against my earlobe, sending tingles down my spine. “Well, you were the Youth Scrabble Champion when you were fifteen and you took third place in the National Scrabble Tournament in your freshman year of college. Undaunted, you came back the following year and took the championship,” he says softly.
I can’t help myself. I start laughing again. This time it’s a slightly maniacal laugh. I step backwards and press my hands to my mouth. Taking a few deep breaths, I shake my head. “Scrabble is going to stop an international arms deal? What’s next? Bringing down the Mafia with Candyland?”
A slight smile plays on Erich’s lips. “Ah, Candyland, the kids game. I’ll suggest that to my superiors.”
“And who exactly are your superiors?”
Before Erich can answer, I hear Frau Albrecht’s voice over the loudspeaker. “Isabelle Martinez, report to the dining room. I repeat, Isabelle Martinez, report to the dining room.”
Erich points to the doorway. “You better get going. Frau Albrecht doesn’t seem like a woman you want to keep waiting.”
I wring my hands together. “But Scrabble, an international arms deal . . .”
“I’ll explain over dinner. Meet me at eight in the reception area. I know a place in Mainz that makes great pfälzer saumagen. You’ll love it.” Erich gives me a warning look. “Be on time. I don’t like to be kept waiting either.”
Can you believe it? After Erich dropped that huge bombshell, my stomach grumbles at the sound of pfälzer saumagen. I have no idea what it is, but considering I missed lunch, and breakfast was ages ago, anything sounds good.
“Hungry?” Erich asks.
“Famished.” My phone buzzes. “That’s my mom. I texted her about quitting.”
“Text her back and tell her it was a mistake. We need you in this tour manager role.” He holds up his hand, forestalling my questions. “Like I said, I’ll explain over dinner tonight.”
“Fine,” I mutter as I type a response. When I look back up, Erich has vanished.
Frau Albrecht’s voice booms over the loudspeaker again. “Isabelle Martinez, report to the dining room immediately.”
I slip my shoes back on and grab the binder from the coffee table. I guess there’s no harm in playing along for now. Time to report for duty. But you better believe I’m going to get some answers from Erich before I decide whether to stick with this “Scrabble-playing tour manager save the world from terrorists” gig.
When I reach the entrance to the dining room, I see Frau Albrecht standing in front of the double doors, tapping her foot while she stares pointedly at her watch.
“You’re late,” she barks.
“Sorry. I was . . .” I shift uneasily as I try to figure out what to say.
“You were what?”
Realizing that I can’t exactly explain to her that I’ve spent the past thirty minutes with her VIP guest talking about a top-secret mission, I tap my binder. “I was studying.”
“Good,” she says. “Then you know how long the Rhine River is.”
“Uh, not exactly.”
“It’s 1,230 kilometers long. That’s 765 miles for you Americans. These are the types of facts that you need to have at your fingertips,” she huffs.
I sigh. I’m not sure what’s going to be harder—pulling off the tour manager role or stopping an international arms deal.
“Now, hurry along,” Frau Albrecht says. “Sophia needs to finish your new employee orientation. It’s important that you’re familiar with how the meal procedures work.”
When I walk into the dining room, I spot Sophia putting a chef’s hat on her head.
“How do I look?” she says playfully to a man wearing kitchen whites.
He rubs his bare head, then reaches for his hat. Sophia tries to dart away, but he grabs her by her waist and tickles her. She finally yields and gives his hat back to him.
As he places it back on his head, he says, “You look better without a hat.”
Sophia tucks some stray hair back into her bun and grins at him.
Then he motions at her uniform, adding, “You’d look even better without that on too.”
Okay, I really don’t want to see how far they take this, so I clear my throat.
Sophia frowns when she sees me. “Oh, you’re here.”
I smile and restate the obvious. “Yep, I’m here.”
Extending my hand, I start to introduce myself to Sophia’s companion, but she interrupts. “Isabelle is the girl I was telling you about who spit out your marshmallow.”
The man purses his lips. “You spit out Auguste Renoir’s marshmallow? Auguste Renoir will not forget this.”
“Who’s Auguste Renoir?” I ask.
Sophia strokes the man’s arm. “This is Auguste Renoir. The executive chef aboard the Abenteuer. He’s a genius.”
Since the man talks about himself in the third person, I’d have to say that the jury’s out about whether he’s a genius. Narcissist, sure. But genius? I have my doubts.
Naturally, I don’t say this out loud. Instead, I apologize. “Sorry, I’m allergic to marshmallows.” A slight fib, but the last thing I need is to get on the wrong side of Auguste Renoir. I wouldn’t want him to poison my food.
The chef looks at me with disdain. “Peanut allergies, seafood allergies, now marshmallow allergies. What’s next? Are people going to start claiming they’re allergic to water?” Then he storms into the kitchen, yelling at a sous-chef who didn’t peel the carrots to his master’s liking.
“Well, shall we get started?” Sophia asks. She spends the next hour explaining the menus, the wine selection, seating arrangements, and table settings. When she starts to show me how the salt and pepper shakers are refilled, I stop her.
“Do you mind if we finish this later?” I check the time on my phone and gulp. “I have less than twenty-one hours to memorize everything in this binder.”
“Don’t forget the welcome presentation you have to give tomorrow evening,” Sophia says.
“Welcome presentation?”
“Yes, after dinner, the tour manager gives a two-hour presentation to the passengers. It’s considered one of the highlights of the cruise.” Sophia smiles bitterly. “Or at least it was when Maria had the job.”
I put my head in my hands and groan. “I hate public speaking.”
“Maria loved it.”
“Of course she did,” I say. “It probably helped that she knew what she was talking about. I don’t have a clue.”
Sophia’s expression softens. “Maria and I shared a cabin. I think she may have left her flash drive behind. It might have the presentation she used for the welcome session on it. I’ll check when I get off duty.”
“I’d really appreciate that,” I say.
“No problem.” Sophia walks to the kitchen and pushes on the swinging door with her hip. She motions at my legs. “Better make sure you’re wearing nylons next time Frau Albrecht sees you. I wouldn’t want you to get fired.”
As she walks into the kitchen and calls out for Auguste Renoir, I wonder why Sophia is suddenly being so helpful. One minute she’s angry that I got the tour manager job instead of her. Now she wants to make sure I don’t get fired? Something fishy is going on aboard this boat, and it’s not just the salmon they’re serving for dinner.
As Erich and I walk through the old town of Mainz to the restaurant later that night, he refuses to explain the mission until after we eat.
“You’ll be able to think more clearly on a full stomach,” he says to me. “You know how you get when your blood sugar levels drop.”
I stop in the middle of the picturesque market square and put my hands on my hips. “Exactly how do I get?”
Erich waves a hand in my direction. “Like this. Cranky.”
“I’m not cranky.”
“If you say so.”
I step forward and jab my finger in Erich’s chest. “I do say so. Besides, how would you know anything about my blood sugar levels, anyway?”
“Your file was very extensive.” Erich gives me a sly smile. “Do you want me to tell you what it says about what you talk about in your sleep?”
My jaw drops. “Please tell me you’re kidding.”
“I am. The only person who would know if you talk in your sleep or not is your boyfriend.”
“I don’t have a boyfriend,” I say. “But I suppose you already knew that.”
Instead of responding, Erich grabs my hand and leads me across the square to a pedestrian street lined with rustic half-timbered buildings. “The restaurant is down here.”
I pepper him with more questions about the arms deal, but he limits his responses to historical tidbits about Mainz.
“Did you know that you’re walking through over two thousand years of history? This area dates back to Roman times,” Erich says. “And remember the medieval tower we passed by earlier? It’s called the Eisenturm, or Iron Tower. It used to be a watchtower and gate on the old city walls.”
I’m finding it hard to concentrate on what Erich is saying. And no, it’s not because my blood sugar levels are low. Or because Erich is holding my hand.
No, frankly, it’s because Erich’s history lesson is boring. While my friend, Ginny, would be thrilled to learn that Mainz is where Johannes Gutenberg invented the movable type press, I can’t stop yawning.
But when Erich mentions Mainz is the wine capital of Germany, my ears perk up.
“Wine? Yes, please,” I say.
As Erich ushers me inside the restaurant, he promises to order us a bottle of his favorite riesling.
The minute I walk into the cozy dining room, I feel like I’m transported back in time. Beeswax candles flicker against the plastered walls, pottery is displayed along wood shelves running the length of the room, and the trestle tables and benches look as though they’ve been here since the Middle Ages.
A woman wearing a moss green skirt and bodice paired with a white lace blouse and apron seats us in a booth in a secluded alcove. Before I can stop him, Erich orders pfälzer saumagen for both of us.
“I would have preferred to choose for myself,” I say. “Maybe I would have liked something else.”
“Trust me, you’ll love the pfälzer saumagen.”
I take a sip of the crisp riesling, then say, “Trust is something you’ll have to earn.”
“If we’re going to work together, you’re going to have to trust me.” He takes a sip of wine, then leans back against the booth and stares at me, almost as though he’s daring me to challenge him.
So I do. “You said ‘if’ we work together. That means I can walk away from all this and you.”
He laughs, which annoys me. “You could, but I suggest you wait, try the pfälzer saumagen, and hear what I have to say first.”
I give him my fiercest stare. “Okay, I’m waiting.”
“First, we eat. Then we talk.”
When the waitress brings our entrees, I ask her what pfälzer saumagen is.
“Pfälzer refers to the region and saumagen means ‘sow’s stomach’ in English,” she says. “The stuffing consists of pork, potatoes, onions, and spices.”
“Did she say ‘stomach’?” I ask after the waitress leaves. “I’m pretty sure any file of mine would have pointed out that I don’t eat organ meat.”
“Ronald Reagan sampled saumagen when he visited Germany,” Erich says.
“And that’s supposed to be a selling point?”
Eventually, Erich persuades me to try it, and, between you and me, it is delicious. And the side dishes of mashed potatoes and sauerkraut are so good that I want to lick my plate clean.
When we’re finished, Erich asks if I want some strudel for dessert.
“It’s not made with kidney or liver is it?”
“No, just apples . . . although if you prefer kidneys and liver, I’m sure that could be arranged.”
“Let’s stick with apples.”
When the strudel arrives, Erich is finally ready to tell me about the mission. I don’t know why he had to wait until dessert to spill the beans. Must be some kind of control thing. I’ve met men like him before—emotionally detached, secretive, and always having to be in charge. In fact, I’ve dated a guy like that before. Huge mistake.
“So exactly what kind of mission is this?” I ask in between bites of flaky, buttery pastry and juicy, spiced apples.
“The kind where we save the world,” Erich says.
“That’s a bit overly dramatic, don’t you think?”
“I don’t do drama. I only do truth.”
I roll my eyes. “Slap that slogan on a t-shirt and some coffee mugs, and you’ll make a fortune.”
“I have no interest in making money. I’m interested in—”
“Yeah, yeah. I know. You’re all about saving the world.” I push my empty dessert plate aside. “How about some details about this world-saving mission?”
“We have intelligence that an international arms deal is going to take place in Basel, Switzerland.”
“You do realize that we’re in Mainz, Germany, right? Basel is what, like two hundred miles away?”
Erich smiles. “Someone’s been studying their binder.”
“I wish you hadn’t mentioned the binder,” I say. “I’ve wasted over two hours here with you, hours that I could have used to study.”
“Isabelle, your IQ is off the charts and you have a photographic memory. All you have to do is skim through the binder and you’ll be all set.”
“It’s not quite that simple.” I look longingly at Erich’s unfinished strudel, and he pushes his plate toward me. “Tell me more about the mission. All I know is that the deal takes place in Basel.”
“See, you are a quick study. I said that five seconds ago and you’ve retained that information like that.” Erich snaps his fingers.
I ignore his barb. “But on this cruise, we’re not headed to Basel. We’re headed north to Amsterdam.”
“That’s true.”
“Then why am I involved?”
“Because a jewel thief is going to be one of your passengers.”
I arch an eyebrow. “I thought this was about illegal weapons, not jewelry.”
Erich takes a sip of his espresso, then says, “It’s about both. The jewel thief has a stolen emerald necklace—”
“Obviously it’s stolen,” I point out. “You’re talking about a jewel thief.”
“See, what did I say about you being smart?” Erich represses a smile, then adds, “The jewel thief is going to sell the necklace to a fence in Amsterdam. The fence will then sell the necklace to the head of the Nouveau Rouge Order.”
I gasp. “The Nouveau Rouge Order is involved? But they’re responsible for . . .” I can’t bear to utter out loud the atrocities they’ve committed.
“Now you see why it’s important that this deal is stopped?” Erich fills my wine glass. “Well, the head of the Nouveau Rouge Order is going to, in turn, sell the necklace to a sheikh in exchange for the weapons. That transaction will take place in Basel.”
“But no one knows what the head of the Nouveau Rouge Order looks like,” I say. “We don’t even know if it’s a man or a woman. At least that’s what they report in the press. Maybe the organization knows more?”
“Well, fortunately, that’s not something you have to worry about. You only need to help us with the operation in Amsterdam.”
I take a sip of wine and consider what Erich has told me. This riesling really is good. After another sip, I ask, “Why doesn’t the jewel thief take a plane to Amsterdam? It seems odd to vacation with a stolen necklace.”
“Possibly because security checks aren’t as stringent on a riverboat. Or maybe he’s afraid of flying,” Erich suggests.
“I can relate to the fear of flying.” I rub my temples. “I’m starting to get a headache. Do you have any painkillers?”
“You should be careful who you accept pills from,” Erich says.
“Why? Because they could be poisoned?”
“It’s been known to happen.”
“I really hope you’re not serious.”
Erich reaches across the table and takes my hand in his. “I won’t let anything happen to you. That’s why I’m on this cruise, to watch out for you.”
“So if you’re on the cruise, why don’t you do all this super secret spy stuff? Not that you’ve told me what I need to do yet.”
“I don’t have the necessary skill-set. But you do. Don’t worry, what you have to do is simple.” Erich squeezes my hand, then releases it. “Just get close to the jewel thief. Make him trust you, gain his confidence, and then . . . well, I’ll fill you in on the rest of the details later.”
I shake my head. “Later? You can’t be serious.”
“It’s for your own protection,” Erich says. “The less you know right now, the better.”
“Fine,” I say through clenched teeth. “But you can at least tell me why you picked me for this.”
“Three reasons. First, your background as an intelligence analyst in the Air Force means you have all the necessary clearances. Second, you already were working on the riverboat the jewel thief will be on. It was a simple matter of pulling strings to get you promoted to a job where you’ll have close contact with the jewel thief.”
“You might want to explain that to Sophia,” I mutter.
Erich taps his finger on the table. “And third, and perhaps most important, you play Scrabble at a championship level.”
As if all that wasn’t enough to digest, Erich then presents me with a jewelry box. Yeah, cause that’s what you do when you’re enlisting someone to help save the world—you give them jewelry.