Previously at 24 College Avenue: In his first trip as tour guide for the “Europe in a Backpack’’ travel company, the grossly unqualified Josh Williams has his tour bus stolen by his customers in Prague. He’s also convinced that they are actually terrorists. A beautiful Czech guide, Magdalena, helps by introducing Josh to her friend, Marcus, a smuggler. She also makes him temporarily forget his crush on his old housemate, Nicollette Mayle, the gorgeous sprinter who posed for Maxim magazine and is also in Europe for the summer competing in meets. Marcus learns the bus has been taken to Berlin for the World Cup final and he offers to take Josh and Magdalena there . . .

"You don’t understand,’’ Josh said to the German across the table. “Baseball is way better than soccer. It’s the best sport there is. It’s @#$*ing beautiful. It’s the ultimate blend of the team and individual. You know what I’m saying? The team and the individual. It’s team but it’s also individual. It’s like America itself. It’s beautiful, just beautiful. Get it?’’

The German looked at him, confused. “No. Explain again please. Slowly.’’

“OK, it’s like this. It’s a team sport and it’s . . . ”

Suddenly, Josh lost his train of thought. What was he going to say? It was something good, he knew, something profound. But the more he tried to think of it, the more elusive it was. He felt like a dog chasing its tail. What the hell was he going to say? For that matter, where the hell was he? And why was the room spinning?

Josh suddenly felt very ill.

Fortunately, the German was experienced in the ways of a beer garden and he recognized the warning signs before Josh splattered the table with vomit. The fan sitting to his left, however, was not so lucky. “Scheisse!’’ he cursed, shoving Josh roughly on the shoulder.

Josh slid off his seat and tumbled to the floor like a house of cards. His face landed against the sawdust floor. He threw up again, then curled into the fetal position.

“Dear God,’’ Magdalena said as she left a couple Italian fans and rushed to his side. “Josh, are you all right?’’ She knelt beside him and helped him to a sitting position. His head rolled back onto her shoulder and spit dripped onto her “Prague is For Lovers’’ t-shirt. He looked up at her through half-shut eyes.

“I love you, Magdalena. You know that?’’

“Shhssshh, that is only the beer talking,’’ she said, rocking him gently. “You must not drink so much. Especially not German beer. It goes right to your head, no?’’

Josh could hardly keep his eyes open. “No, it’s not the beer. I love you. I’ve loved you since the morning we met.’’

“Two days ago? How can fall in love in two days?’’

“I don’t know, but you did. I was lost and you found me. I needed help and you were there. And you’re so beautiful, with such great breasts. Marry me, Magdalena. Marry me, please.’’

“Sober up, Josh. Please. We must find your bus, remember?’’

His bus? What was she talking about? Oh, wait. Yes. His bus. His tour bus. His group had stolen it from him in Prague and left Josh on the street drunk. He had gone to the tourist information center for help. That’s where he met the beautiful blond and blue-eyed Magdalena and he told her how he suspected the men who stole it were terrorists. She took pity on him and offered to help. She introduced him to Marcus, who had been a smuggler in the days of the Cold War. Alex asked around and learned that the tour group was headed to Berlin with the bus. Josh, Magdalena and Marcus had driven through the night to Berlin.

Berlin was virtually under siege because of the World Cup and Marcus had dropped Josh and Magdalena off at one of the city’s many beer gardens while he went to meet a source with more information. That’s where Josh had fallen into conversation with the German soccer fan. Perhaps it was a mistake to try to match the German beer for beer, but it was a matter of national honor. Then again, patriotism was one thing, alcohol poisoning was another.

And now, 10 beers later (or maybe it was 12), Josh was sitting on the floor in the arms of his new-found love. Well, at least there was one bright spot to the grim situation.

“Hello, hello. What have we here? Had a few beers, have you? While I’m busy finding your bloody bus, you’re drinking Germany dry? That’s gratitude.’’

It was Marcus. Despite his drunken state, Josh sat up quickly. “You found my bus?’’

“Was there ever a doubt, my brother? Marcus Graham always comes through for his friends.’’

Josh tried to stand up so he could hug Marcus but he nearly fell over doing so. He slumped back against the floor.

“You are amazing, Marcus,’’ Magdalena said, standing up to kiss him on the cheek. “Is wonderful news.’’

“Not so terribly wonderful, I’m afraid, my dear.’’

“Why?’’ Josh asked. “Is the bus OK?’’

“Oh, the bus is fine, my brother. That’s not the problem. The problem is your tour group.’’

“They won’t give it up?’’

“No, they already gave it up. You can go get it anytime. But you know that wild story you had about them being terrorists because of their suspicious behavior? Well, brother, turns out you just might be right.’’

Josh was right? He couldn’t believe it. He didn’t want to believe it. He was about to say something when he once again lost his line of thought. He simply looked at Marcus for a couple anxious seconds and then passed out.

“Americans,’’ Marcus said, picking Josh up and slinging him over his shoulders in a fireman’s carry. “They never can hold their beer.’’

#          #          #

Josh opened his eyes to the sound of a subway train roaring between his ears. He was used to raging hangovers, but this was ridiculous.

Then he looked around and saw that he was in fact, sitting in a subway station. Only with its institutional green walls, it looked like something out of the 1950s. Where the hell was he?

“Unter den Linden . . . ” he said, reading the station stop on the wall across the track.

“Welcome back, my brother. You look like you could use a beer.’’

Josh looked at the subway bench next to his. Marcus was sitting there with a huge grin, his right arm casually around Magdalena’s shoulders.

“Where are we?’’

“As you read, the Unter den Linden S-bahn stop. It’s one of Berlin’s ghost stations.’’

“Ghost stations?’’ Magdalena asked.

“It was one thing to divide the city into East and West Berlin by building a wall above ground, but what about the subway below ground? It would have been hell to build new tracks. So they agreed to let a few of the West Berlin lines pass through East Berlin as long as they never stopped at the stations on the east side before quickly returning on the same track to the west. To make sure they didn’t, armed guards were posted at each station. So trains would go through the stations but they would never stop. They called them ghost stations. And as you can see by the green paint, they preserved them just as they were.’’

“Cool.’’

“Yeah, my brother. Cool. Of course, a clever smuggler was able to make use of these stations for his regular drops. I did a lot of business in the rear tunnels here back in the day. It was very convenient to the Hotel Brandenburg. Wasn’t such a nice hotel in those days, but very handy for making contacts in my business. And other, more pleasurable contacts, if you know what I mean, brother.’’

He winked. Josh could only imagine what all Marcus did in the old days.

“But what about my bus. You said you found it.’’

“It’s right here at a parking ramp near Zoo station,’’ Marcus said, circling a spot on a Berlin map. “Stall W65. And here’s the key. All you have to do is go pick it up.’’

“But what about my tour group? Just before I passed out, you said something about them really being terrorists?’’

“Maybe,’’ Marcus said. “While I tracking down your bus, I learned that it’s all around that Interpol and NATO are convinced religious fundamentalists are ready to pull off a major attack during the World Cup final.’’

Magdalena appeared dubious.

“But that’s what the government always say to keep people afraid. They do it to stay in power.’’

“True, my dear. But in this case, the authorities aren’t saying a word. Publicly, they’re saying everything is under control, that we should all drink and enjoy the footie. Privately, they’re scared shitless. Trust me, my contacts are never wrong and they say something serious is going down this weekend.’’

“Then we have to tell the police.’’

“Not so fast, my brother. First of all, we don’t know your people are the terrorists. You just THINK they might be. Secondly, the authorities and I are not on the best speaking terms. We go waltzing into a station with your wild story and they’re bound to start asking some questions.’’

“So?’’

“So? So, my brother, I’ve got $100K in smuggled goods on me.’’

Josh drew back, startled. He knew Marcus had been a smuggler but he assumed that was all in the past.

“You mean you smuggled something into Germany?’’

“Not me, my friend. We. I slipped it all into your backpack before we crossed the border.’’

Josh’s stomach began doing somersaults again. “What? Why the hell did you do that? Do you realize what could have happened to me? I could go to jail.’’

“Oh, I doubt that, my brother. I have an arrangement with the customs agents. I grease their palms and they leave me alone. But every once in awhile someone from headquarters drops in and makes things awkward. But with the World Cup going on, they’re too busy to go snooping for innocent looking Americans like you.’’

“Maybe not, but you should have told me.’’

 "Would you have done it if I had told you?’’

 “No. Absolutely not.’’

Marcus shrugged. “Which is exactly why I didn’t tell you. But look at it this way, my brother. I got my stuff into the country and you’re getting your bus back. Everyone’s happy. Plus, you got to spend quality time with Magdalena. Though you probably would have been wiser to lay off the beer and stay conscious to take in her full beauty.’’

Josh wanted to argue but he couldn’t find a hole in the logic.

“Still, we have to do something, Marcus,’’ he said. “If we have information they need about terrorists, we’re obligated to tell someone.’’

“Who are you, the director of the CIA? Besides, what would you tell them? That you they should be on the look out for some middle eastern-looking guys? I think they already know that.’’

“Yeah, but . . . ”

Marcus jabbed his finger into Josh’s chest. “But nothing, my brother. I know these people. You go in there with your story and they’ll lock you away for transporting those characters all over Europe. Trust me, my brother. There are still members of the Stasi in the Berlin police department and they love a chance to use their old techniques of persuasion. You do not want to spend your summer in an interrogation cell. Take it from someone who’s been there.’’

“But maybe we could got to the U.S. embassy . . . ”

“Be reasonable, my brother. Why stick your neck out for a bunch of people you don’t even know? If I were you, I’d take these keys, take Magdalena back to the bus and get the hell out of Germany as fast as you can.’’

Josh looked to Magdalena for help but she just shook her head.

“I sorry, Josh, but Alex is right. You grow up in eastern bloc, you do not go to the police so quickly. We should leave.’’

 Josh didn’t like it but he reluctantly acknowledged that his new friends might be right. He didn’t know his tour group was really a terrorist cell. He certainly didn’t know where they were or what they might have planned. And he didn’t want to wind up in jail.

“Well, OK. I’m not sure about this but I don’t see any other way of handling it.’’

“That’s using the brain, brother,’’ Marcus said. “Besides, nothing will happen probably. Nothing usually does.’’

“I thought your contacts said something definitely was going down and that your contacts are never wrong.’’

Marcus shrugged again. “Hey, I exaggerate. What, you’re going to trust a smuggler?’’

Josh and Magdalena started walking slowly toward the subway exit but Marcus sat back down on the subway bench.

“Aren’t you coming with us?’’ Josh asked.

“No, I’m waiting here for my contact. I’m making the transaction here.’’

“Just what the hell is it you’re smuggling anyway?’’ Josh asked. “I mean, I smuggled it in, so I have a right to know, don’t I?’’

“Absolutely, my brother. And just in case you’re wondering whether you smuggled any drugs or WMD into the country, rest your mind. What I have is far more precious.’’

“Well? What is it?’’

He opened his pack and pulled out a couple jump drives. “Bootleg masters of U2. Pirated downloads of Windows XP and ‘Pirates of the Caribbean.’ And the secret formula of Coke. All on these jump drives.’’

Marcus tied the bag shut. He kissed Magdalena on the lips. “Magdalena – always a delight. How about we just skip the wedding and go right to the honeymoon?’’

“I am not marrying you, Marcus. How many times must I say no?’’

“No problem, dear. We just get a divorced the next day and we’re both free as birds again. It’s been my experience that a marriage always goes downhill after the honeymoon anyway.’’ He turned and offered his hand to Josh. “And it’s been a pleasure meeting you, my brother. If you ever lose your bus again, you know who to call.’’

“Thanks,’’ Josh said. “Really. I don’t know what I would have done without you.’’

Josh and Magdalena left Marcus sitting on the bench as they began up the stairway to street level. Josh glanced at the subway posters as they walked up. These included the standard subway advertisements for sex services, ticket scalpers and concerts. But one poster caught his eye.

It was an advertisement for a big European track meet for the weekend and it showed a woman sprinter bent over in the starting blocks. The poster didn’t look entirely official and the sprinter wasn’t identified but Josh recognized her in a flash. The sprinter was wearing nothing but black, lacy underwear. It was a poor reproduction but it was the photo of Nicollette that ran in Maxim.

Nicollette is in town, Josh realized. Nicollette will be at the meet. What if the terrorists plan to strike there?

“C’mon,’’ he said, grabbing Magdalena by the hand.

“What are you doing?’’

“We’re going to stop those terrorists.’’

Next: Life is a Cabaret, Old Chum

“At least we’re staying in a real hotel this time,’’ Chardonnay said, staring around the gilded lobby. “Look at this place.’’

It was true. The Amazons normally stayed in two-star hotels without air-conditioning or elevators. The Hotel Brandenburg, however, was one of the most expensive and storied hotels in the world. Prior to WWII, it was the place to be seen, its address on Unter den Linden a block from Brandenburg Gate was the most famous in Berlin. Lindbergh, Chaplin, Garbo, the Duke and Duchess of Windsor – they all stayed here. And many more guests, provided, of course, they had both the money and the proper contacts. The Brandenburg was known as a hotel so reserved that Pope Pius XII complained about the lack of excitement when he stayed there. Others knew better. Anything and everything could be had in the Brandenburg’s back rooms and secret cellar. Its wicked underground cabaret show was said to provide the inspiration for the musical of the same name. The hotel fell on hard times after the war, though. First, the allies shelled it. Then the Soviets took it over for use as their administrative base. And when the Berlin Wall went up barely one hundred yards from its front door, the hotel was instantly cut off from the well-heeled capitalists required for its survival. By the late seventies, the building was a hotel in name only.

And then the Berlin Wall fell and the Brandenburg rose again. The wall was still being torn apart when the Prince of Mubai purchased the hotel and restored it to former glory. Once again, the rich and famous paraded daily through its lobby (in one infamous incident, a rock star dangled his set of triplets from a balcony for his adoring fans to see) and once again, the Brandenburg was Berlin’s No. 1 address.

“Wilkommen, Fraulein,’’ the precise clerk said coldly as Jill and the rest of her sweatsuit-clothed teammates approached the front desk. “Hast du reservations?’’

The question sounded so much like an accusation, Jill suspected the clerk had been an interrogator for the Stasi, the East German secret police, before the German reunification.

“Yes, we have reservations. For the Ljubljana Amazon basketball team. We’ll be staying four nights.’’

The clerk touched a couple keys and glanced at his monitor. “Nein, we haff nothing under that name. A confirmation number, bitte?’’

“Yes, I have it right here,’’ Jill said, bending down to reach into her bag. She found the paper and stood up. When she did, she was stunned by the person standing next to her.

“Dwayne! What the hell are you doing here? And how come you didn’t get drafted?’’

“Yeah, great seeing you again, too, girl.’’

Jill immediately felt bad. The draft must be a terribly painful subject for Dwayne.

“I’m sorry, Dwayne,’’ Jill said. “I didn’t mean to bring up the draft but what the hell – last time we talked, you wouldn’t even give me a ride to the airport. And you said you wouldn’t miss me because you were going to be getting NBA honeys soon.’’

“Yeah, what happened to that?’’ Chardonnay added. “Don’t see any NBA honeys in this lobby.’’

For once, Dwayne looked humble. “I can thank your housemate Danny for that.’’

“Danny Edmonds?’’ Jill asked. “What could he do to hurt your draft status? Break your ankle in a game of one-on-one?’’

“I wish it was something like that. Nah. He’s got to go and #$@& up my reputation.’’

Jill gave Dwayne a quizzical look, still puzzled.

“It’s like this,’’ Dwayne said. “He was so deep into those Russian mafia guys with his gambling that the @#&$ told them he knew someone on the Red Devils who would shave points for them. Me. No, don’t give me that look -- you know I would never shave points.’’

Jill knew this was true. Dwayne was too competitive to ever give less than his best. It was annoying at times – he wouldn’t let up the slightest bit when they played against each other in the driveway.

“I didn’t have nothing to do with it but Danny convinced the Russians he could get me to do it anyway, just to get them off his back for another week. He said I would make sure State didn’t cover the spread.’’

“And they believed him?’’

“Probably not but what did they have to lose by giving him another week? Maybe Danny comes up with the money by then. Or maybe he doesn’t and they break his kneecaps. Or maybe he’s not bull----ing them and he does know someone who will shave points and it would be like having a free ATM card for their gambling operation.’’

“But I still don’t get it. Didn’t they figure out immediately you wouldn’t shave points?’’

“That’s the problem. Danny told them this before that game at the Great Klondike Shootout.’’

Dwayne paused to let this dawn on her. When it didn’t seem to register, he continued. “The game where I missed a dunk in the final seconds? The one that kept us from covering the spread?’’

Jill shook her head in disgust. “Yes, I remember,’’ she said icily. “How could I forget that game? Some slut sitting near the hoop flashed her breasts when you drove to the hoop.’’ Dwayne being Dwayne, he got distracted enough to miss the dunk. He thought it was a funny story but she hadn’t spoken to him for two days afterward.

“So anyway,’’ Dwayne went on, “the Russian guys were convinced I was shaving points.’’

“Oh, no.’’

“Yeah. They gave Danny another line of credit and he put it all on the Devils to beat Tech in the Aluminum Bowl. And when State lost, Danny took off, leaving some mighty pissed off Russians.’’

Jill nodded, remembering it all, how Danny had hidden in Jimmy City for months before the Russians finally found him just before the national tournament. The whole affair came to a head in the lair of Blood and Muscle.

“Ahem.’’

It was the front desk clerk loudly clearing his throat. “Bitte. Has Fraulein found her confirmation?’’

Jill handed him the paper. “It’s right here.’’ He took it from her as if it was contagious. Jill turned back to Dwayne.

“But how did this affect your draft status?’’ she asked.

“After the Russians finally got arrested, they tried to plea bargain by offering up a point-shaving plot. The police didn’t believe it but they launched an investigation anyway. Pretty soon word leaked out that I might be linked to a point-shaving scandal and once it did, no team wanted me.’’

“So what’s going to happen now?’’

“My agent swears it will be straightened out in a couple months but that’s too late for this season. I can probably sign a 15-day offer sheet come winter and hook on that way, but I’m screwed until then.’’

Chardonnay glanced at Dwayne’s suitcase, which looked a little too stylish for a basketball player without either a pro contract or a college degree. “That still doesn’t explain why you’re here in Berlin,’’ she said.

“I ran up a lot of debt buying @#$%, counting on my draft money. Never should have bought that new stretch Escalade but it came with its own hot tub.’’  Dwayne looked at Jill and shrugged his shoulders semi-apologetically. He remembered how much she hated SUVs. “Anyway, I needed money until my agent gets this whole thing cool.’’

“And so?’’ Jill asked.

“So I signed a two-month contract with the Crenshaw Road Warriors.’’

The Crenshaw Road Warriors? Jill couldn’t believe it. The Road Warriors had once been the world’s most popular team, performing all around the globe. Their world famous routine – high-flying dunks, dazzling dribbling, ball-spinning trick plays and 3,000-game winning streak against their personal patsy packed arenas worldwide. As gravity-defying slams became common-place in the NBA, however, the Road Warriors routine had grown stale however and the team lost popularity.

“Crenshaw Road Warriors,’’ Camilia said, very impressed. “Saw play in Krakow when little girl.’’ She whistled the team’s famous theme song, “Round Ball, Round World’’ and mimicked spinning a ball on her finger.

“I didn’t even know they still existed,’’ Chardonnay said.

Dwayne nodded. “They shut down for a couple months but then a new investor bought them and reorganized them last year. They’re back to they roots now but with a hip-hop edge. They still do some of the stunts and stuff but they also play real games against real teams. And they spell Warriors with Z. I guess I should say we spell it with Z. I’m filling in for Fat Boy Jonez while he takes his family on vacation to DisneyWorld. I play my first game this week in Berlin.’’

Jill smiled at Chardonnay, who grinned back and laughed. Dwayne assumed he would be a lottery pick and instead he had a temp job with a team of basketball clowns. “And just who are you playing?’’ she asked.

“You mean they didn’t tell you?’’

“No.’’

“The Ljubljana Amazons,’’ Dwayne said. “Your owner and our owner just added it to the schedule.  How about that, girl? We’re finally gonna play each other for real. Just don’t bring your weak @#&$ anywhere near me or I will make you pay.’’

“Pay?’’ Chardonnay snickered. “How you gonna make her pay? By tossing an ol’ bucket of confetti on her?’’

“I told you, they don’t do that @#&$ no more,’’ Dwayne said, genuinely offended. “You should see who we got on our team. Some big-time college players.’’

Chardonnay shook her head and laughed some more while Jill just stared at Dwayne. While she was trying to decide whether to feel anger over how he had treated her, sadness about what had happened to him or joy they were in the same city, to her annoyance Camilia asked Dwayne for an autograph.

“Camilia, let’s get checked in,’’ Jill snapped. She turned to the front desk clerk, who was smiling with satisfaction.

“I am so sorry, Fraulein,’’ the clerk said with deep pleasure. “As it happens, your reservation is at the Brandenburg Hotel. This is the Hotel Brandenburg. Very similar names, very different properties. I believe you’ll find your hotel near Zoo Station. Very near Zoo Station. You may want to buy ear plugs.’’ He waved them away dismissively. “And if you could be so kind to leave by our side entrance? Guten Tag.’’

“I knew it was too good to be true,’’ Chardonnay said, picking up her suitcase.

Dwayne grabbed Jill’s bag, his hand touching hers. “Hey, no reason for you to go. You can stay with me. I got a whole suite. With a huge bed.’’

“No, that’s OK, Dwayne,’’ Jill said, instantly regretting her words. “I’ll stay with my teammates.’’

“No problem,’’ Dwayne said, then gestured as if using the phone. “Give me a call when you get checked in. We’ll have dinner.’’

“Whatever,’’ Jill said.

She shouldered her bag and headed toward the exit, trying to ignore Camilia whistling “Round Ball, Round World.’’ She glared at Chardonnay. “They have traveling secretaries to handle these things in the NBA, you know.’’

Next: Checkpoint Charlie