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“What is it?” I asked.
“Oh, it’s nothing. Merely another migraine.”
“Ah.”
Something to watch out for. Headaches might distract him.
Diesel hailed a taxicab, then helped me load his luggage into the back. When the driver glanced at us in the rearview mirror, his blue eyes met mine. He stared at me for a moment too long, and I stared back without flinching.
Diesel pinched the knees of his trousers and tugged them straight as he sat in the taxi. “Driver, find us the finest nearby café.”
The driver gave the taxi some gas. We accelerated smoothly away from Antwerp Central. Diesel gazed at the city, but I remained tense.
“Where are you from?” the driver asked, and again he glanced at me.
“Ghent,” Diesel said. “I’m here on business.”
“And your friend?”
He said the word like a synonym forprostitute. As if a lady of the night would ever dress so shabbily, or carry luggage for her client.
“I don’t know,” Diesel said, politely. “We have only just met.”
“I’m from America,” I said.
The driver shook his head. “Whatareyou?”
“I’m a mercenary. And I’m here to make sure this man gets to where he needs to go as safely and quickly as possible. Understood?”
The driver gave the taxi more gas. I stared out the windshield until we stopped outside a café. After Diesel paid the driver, we exited the taxi.
I overheard the driver mutter, “Filthy Huns.”
Was he trying to insult me for being half-Chinese, or Diesel for being German? Luckily, Diesel didn’t seem to hear.
“Ardis, was it?” he asked, and I nodded. “I assume you will join me for breakfast?”
“Sure.” I managed a smile.
I followed him into the café. It smelled strongly of coffee and toast inside, and the wood-paneled walls gleamed with newness. We sat by a window and ordered waffles, which were promptly delivered steaming hot, with heaps of whipped cream and syrupy canned strawberries on the side.
“Waffles are essential in Belgium,” Diesel said.
I nodded in reply. I appreciated his friendly chit chat, though this was a mission. I wasn’t here to entertain him.
Diesel shook more sugar over his waffle. “American?”
“Yes.” I stabbed a strawberry with my fork.
“They seem more interested in beer than in inventions.”
“Excuse me?”
“I sold the American rights to my engine to Adolphus Busch, but he has been too busy with his brewery to profit much from them.”
I cocked my head. “Is there more profit in London?”
Diesel held out his hands as if weighing his options. “There is more opportunity there.”
