Welcome to Berlin, Tom thought. He'd been told it was anarchy. Michael wasn't kidding.

Someone had managed to slam the bar door shut and was drawing metal bolts the thickness of a troll's arm across. Noting that the door was lined with metal on the inside, Tom guessed that they must be used to raids here. Unfortunately, there was a distinct lack of communication among the beseiged, because while the elf was busy bolting the door, a hefty ork with an SMG had just smashed a window and was pouring machine-gun fire into the street outside.

Managing to get onto all fours, Tom looked up again, breathing heavily. He found the female ork watching him. That she was a Cat shaman was immediately obvious. Tom had no need to do any assensing. Her black eyes widened as she looked at him, and then she started to shout. He could barely hear her, still mostly deafened, but what difference did it make? She was probably speaking German, so he wouldn't have understood a word of it anyway.

Grabbing him by the braid, she yanked him upright. She started to shout to him, but when he mumbled, "Sorry, don't understand," and looked at her helplessly, she simply pointed to the back of the room. Two orks had already opened a trap door in the floor, and most of the bar's clientele was pouring through it and down the stairs. Tom got up and followed them.

Michael sat quietly in the Tarantel, sipping his Gewurtztraminer, looking around for a plausible candidate to approach. This unassuming little bar was rumored to be the principal hangout for arms dealers from all over

Europe. Among those present, the Brits and Arabs would be the major players, here to make deals in the millions. The South Americans looked like their probable customers. Wearing suits as classy as his, they were hardly what he was looking for. He had deliberately dressed to look like one of the big boys, thinking it would permit him to make the approach rather than having to field a lot of queries. But that wasn't the way it worked out.

"Is it possible I might be able to interest you in something?" a lazy voice came from behind him. The voice might have been taken for German by some, but Michael guessed the man was more likely an Austrian. Maybe Czech. Whatever. All that mattered was what he had for sale.

"Possibly. I am not interested in items on such a scale as you might imagine," he said coolly.

The man sat down next to him at the nondescript bar. The plain wooden tables and chairs revealed nothing particularly unusual about the place, but the six troll security guards inside and outside the door gave a better indication of the Tarantel's selectivity.

"Well, perhaps that is to the good. I prefer not to deal with suppliers of bulk commodities," the man smiled. His beard hid most of his face, and his eyes were invisible behind shades that Michael judged a little too ostentatious even for this group. His paunch said that he shouldn't wear trousers quite so close-fitting, but the silk shirt was understated and his tie a plain dark blue under the well-cut blazer.

"I'm interested in obtaining basic supplies for a number of people," Michael said, sipping again. "And one or two less basic items."

"Sounds as if I might be able to help you," the man said. "You can call me Walter."

"And you can call me James," Michael replied. "I would like to deal with the unusual items first, unless you'd prefer otherwise. I'm not exactly sure how many of the basics I shall need, but I could firm up any arrangement a little later this evening. Do you have the basics really available?"

"Mr. James," the man replied, "I have an excellent

range of off-the-rack basic items suitable for most occasions."

Michael grinned and began to contemplate his shopping list. He didn't see the red-haired elf in the shadows, and wouldn't have known who he was if he had. He'd never seen Magellan before.

The elf sat very quietly, stunned by the unbelievable good luck of it. His eyes never left the Englishman's back.

Tom did not, by and large, enjoy sewers. He'd investigated a few of Seattle's at closer proximity than he'd cared for and they weren't to his liking. Those in Berlin weren't much different.

The Cat shaman had stayed fairly close by, keeping an eye on him. Various clumps of people had disappeared in various directions, and Tom noticed that the groups were divided, for the most part, by race. So much for improving relations and integration, he thought glumly. That put him in the middle of a group of a dozen or so orks. The Cat shaman turned to the ork who'd enjoyed himself machine-gunning the street.

"Gunther, we have a visitor, if you hadn't noticed," the shaman said in delicately accented English. The ork looked Tom over with some dislike.

"Rather dangerous using that thing," she said, pointing to Tom's pistol. "You could have killed some of us."

"You'd all been blown away from the door," Tom replied. "It wasn't that dangerous. What, you wanted me to stop and take a body count first?"

She looked at him warily. He guessed she'd already assensed him, but couldn't guess what her reaction might have been. Cat shamans weren't predictable that way.

"What were you doing at Meld In?" she asked. "You seemed to be looking the place over. Why?"

"That's a long story," he said carefully. "Who were the people who attacked you?"

"Kreutzritters. How you say, religious fanatics. Disposing of heretics," she sneered. "They usually prey on people like you, though. They haven't dared strike at us

before. They're going to pay for it, and sooner than they think.

"But, tell me, who are you and why were you in the bar?"

Tom told her his name and wondered how to begin the tale. "Look, this is tough. I came to see if I could buy heat for something very, very important. The money's no problem."

From the sneer on her face, Tom realized that his appearance wasn't that of someone who had a few hundred grand to spend.

"I have friends. I came alone to see what I could see. If I saw good things, we'd all come back and do some talking. Believe me, we've got the money," he said.

"Who you after?"

"A racist. A madman. He's got to be stopped," Tom said rather lamely.

She looked dismissive. "Berlin's full of them. You just met one bunch. What's so special about yours?"

"What's special is that he doesn't come armed with guns and grenades. He's cooked up a virus. A plague. A plague that leaves his race alive and destroys the rest."

"We hear stories like that all the time," the ork shaman said. "Another bunch of bulldrek. Why listen to this one?"

"Because my friends have a six-figure offer that says you ought to consider the job."

Gunther gave Tom a long, hard look. Tom guessed that they wanted to believe him. Who wouldn't?

"All I ask is that you meet my friends. We can talk," Tom pleaded. "The money comes up front too."

"We can talk," the shaman said slowly. "Head down Grenzstrasse to the end. Gunther will be there. The polizei will be gone if we wait a while. Say, in an hour and a half?"

"Should be fine," Tom agreed. "Now, how do I get out of here?"

When he got off the plane in Munich, Niall bought a large-scale map of Bavaria, hired a car, then began trying to navigate city traffic. The latter was an experience he

wasn't enjoying at all. It had been a long time since he'd done any driving outside of rural Tir na n6g, and the sheer number of autos and trucks all around him made him sweat. He kept to twenty miles an hour while looking desperately around for signs telling him how to get to the autobahn for Regensburg. Then, poring over the map at a conveniently red traffic light, he realized there wasn't one.

I should have flown to Nuremburg, he thought miserably. Now it looks like I head for Ingolstadt, and take the road from there. That looks the fastest route.