Previously at 24 College Avenue: Nicollette Mayle, competing on the European track circuit, has been offered dual citizenship by the Prince of Mubai to run on his Olympic team. She takes a bicycle tour of Berlin to clear her hear and sees someone quite unexpectedly outside the Hotel Brandenburg. Meanwhile, her fellow housemates are also busy. Jill Thomas is in Berlin as well with the Ljubljana Amazons basketball team, Steve Harrison is interning in Germany with Stars and Stripes and Katie Maynard is going through boot camp after finishing up with ROTC at State College . . .

“Ahmed! Is that you?’’

Nicollette’s old housemate was standing at the back of a mob of people pressing themselves against the security officers lined in front of the Hotel Brandenburg’s side entrance. Ahmed was straining to see over the people. He turned toward Nicollette and gave her a smile.

“My friend! My heart takes flight at your sight! How has the track season gone?’’

“Oh, I’m doing all right,’’ Nicollette said, giving Ahmed a quick hug. “But what brings you here?’’

“The greatest sporting event in all the world, my friend -- the World Cup! It is my reward to myself for graduating with honors. Sadly, my Tunisia team did not reach the knockout round due to the poor officiating – may the curs die in the desert and their bones bleach in the sun! -- but I still have tickets to the final. The French team is staying here at the Hotel Brandenburg. I am waiting for them to return from practice so that I may see the great Zinedine Zidane and extend him my wishes for the final! They are due to arrive any moment.’’

He turned back to the crowd and stood on his tiptoes, peering over for any sign of the team. Seeing nothing, he returned to Nicollette.

“But have you seen our housemate, Jill? I see that her team, The Ljubljana Amazons, is in town for a game this weekend.’’

“Oh, my God! I completely forgot! She emailed that they’re playing a game against the Crenshaw Road Warriorz and that Dwayne is playing for the Warriorz. I don’t know how that happened but we have to go to the game. I wonder where they’re staying?’’

Before Ahmed could answer, a great roar rose from the crowd, indicating that the French team had arrived. Ahmed shoved his way between a fat man in a Tintin t-shirt and a broad-shouldered man in a Man U. jersey. Through a line of heavily armed security guards, he could see the French players get off their bus and briskly walk toward the hotel entrance. Zidane, the last player to get off the bus, waved to the fans on his way to the entrance and paused to sign an autograph for a young boy in a wheelchair.

“Zidane!’’

Ahmed’s voice was so loud and purposeful that it carried above the rest of the crowd. Nicollette was stunned. She had never heard him shout before. Or speak so passionately. The words were pouring from his mouth like water from a faucet. He was speaking French so Nicollette couldn’t understand the words but she gathered the meaning from Zidane’s reaction. The player looked up from signing an autograph and glared hard at Ahmed, saying something angrily back at him. Ahmed shouted something else in French and Zidane turned so red with anger that he looked like Chief Wahoo. Swearing in several languages, the player began fighting his way through the crowd, determined to get his hands on Ahmed. Three security guards barred his path while three others pushed their way toward Ahmed, knocking down fans in their way.

“Come, my friend!’’ Ahmed said, grabbing Nicollette and pushing her toward the street. “We must run!’’

Nicollette obeyed, breaking into a sprint that put her several steps ahead of Ahmed. She slowed enough for him to catch up as they turned a corner and slipped into a crowd. They dashed into a posh chocolate shop and hid behind a giant chocolate sculpture of the World Cup trophy as guards hurried past.

“What the hell did you say to him?’’ Nicollette demanded.

“I called him the son of a whore and that his sister has carnal knowledge with donkeys. American donkeys. I hate the French team. They are so sensitive.’’

# # #

Camilia Brabrickavich raised her mug of Berliner beer. “To women!’’ she shouted and tossed back the beer, swallowing it down in a single gulp.

“To women!’’ Jill and Chardonnay echoed.

Even though she was now playing professionally, Jill had thought she never would again play in a game that meant as much as those with State College in the NCAA tournament. But she was wrong about that. Tonight’s game meant as much as reaching the Final Four. Her Ljubljana Amazons had played the Crenshaw Road Warriorz – and beaten them. The game was supposed to be an exhibition against the legendary traveling team, added to the schedule hastily when the World Cup organizers offered each owner a very large paycheck to provide a diversion from the city’s possible shortage of beer. But it quickly became more than that when the women refused to go along with the Warriorz’ routine gags. By the time the men realized they were in a real game, the Amazons held an 18-point lead at halftime.

The Road Warriorz, bigger, faster and stronger than their opponents, roared back but could not quite put the game away thanks to the fundamentals of the women’s team and Jill’s precise outside shooting. She sank trey after trey to keep the game close, and the more points she scored, the more frustrated grew her ex-boyfriend, Dwayne. He even deliberately hacked Jill after a shot with 30 seconds to go. That earned a two-shot technical and by the time the Road Warriors had the ball back their lead had been cut to two.

Still, Dwayne had the ball, a clear lane to the bucket and the chance to ice the game with eight seconds left. As he left the floor for a thundering slam, he was thinking how he and Jill would celebrate their first real game against each other – though knowing Jill, he would probably have to apologize profusely for the foul before they got down to business. And that’s when Camilia’s arm reached up from seeming nowhere, swatting the ball out of Dwayne’s hands. Chardonnay rebounded the ball and tossed it ahead to Jill on the fast break. She sank a 35-footer as the buzzer sounded to give the Amazons a 91-90 victory.

“Your boyfriend,’’ Camilia said to Jill in the beer hall. “He is good but he lack discipline. He come into my house, I block his #&%$!’’

“Where is Dwayne anyway?’’ Chardonnay asked. “I thought you two were supposed to celebrate your first game tonight.’’

“Yeah, he said he would take me to this off-limits cabaret show beneath the Hotel Brandenburg. But that’s when he assumed they would win. He’s pouting in his room because we beat them. And that I scored more points than him. And that you blocked his shot. What a baby. God, I can’t believe I wasted my time with him.’’

“Screw him,’’ Chardonnay said. “So what are we going to do to celebrate tonight?’’

“Ja, what we do?’’ Camilia said. “They out of beer here.’’

Jill pulled some euros from her purse and signaled a waiter. “I bet they’ve got plenty of beer at that cabaret. And from what I hear, some wild stuff goes on.’’

“Sure, but how do we get into the Hotel Brandenburg? They practically kicked us out of the lobby just for trying to check into the hotel the other day.’’

“No problem,’’ Jill said with a wink. “I just show the guards the key Dwayne left me.’’

# # #

Steve Harrison bent his back and shifted his weight but it was no use. He couldn’t get comfortable. Which was no surprise, given that he was sitting on the unpadded floor and leaning against the cold, bare metal of a C-5 Cargo plane while it roller-coastered its way through heavy turbulence. Worse, he felt like he was getting air-sick and it definitely would not be cool to throw up in front of the troops.

But at least he was finally on his way to cover a big assignment. When Steve took the internship for Stars and Stripes in Germany, he had been promised a chance to shoot many European sporting events, including a couple World Cup matches and the Tour de France. Instead he had spent most of the summer taking nothing but mug shots of visiting colonels and other dignitaries on base tours. He would still be doing that had the staff photographers not been on assignment elsewhere when orders came for a sudden callup of special forces to provide extra security in Berlin. His editor, a lieutenant every bit as cynical as a career-long Fleet Street reporter, didn’t like sending a civilian intern but he doubted anything would happen and there could be some nice images of soldiers protecting the fans. Plus, Steve had impressed him with some poignant shots of wounded soldiers passionately following the World Cup while passing time at the rehab hospital.

Steve looked at the soldiers on the plane with him, shaking his head at the sight. While Steve felt sick to his stomach, they showed no sign of the plane’s turbulence, simply joking and laughing as if they were on a ride at Cedar Point. Steve swallowed, hoping to ease his stomach. To no avail. The plane took a sudden lurch and his breakfast erupted from his gut. It splattered onto the floor and flowed slowly toward the rear of the plane. Soldiers cursed and laughed as they stepped out of the way.

“Hey, man. First time in a cargo plane is a real bitch, isn’t it?’’

Steve smiled weakly and felt his dinner from the previous night rising. He bent his head between his knees and tried thinking of f-stops.

“Are you all right Steve?’’

He looked up and saw someone kneeling over him. He was about to be sick again when he recognized the soldier. It was his housemate, Katie Maynard, the ROTC cadet who had left for basic training the day after commencement.

“Katie? I’d be happier to see you but right now I think I’m going to die.’’

“It’s nothing I ain’t used to. Remember, I lived through all your hangovers at the house for two years.’’

In spite of himself, Steve laughed. And oddly, he felt better. It was good to see an old friend, even though he and Katie had never been that close. She had been too busy with ROTC and he had been too busy at the school paper.

“Your summer been any more eventful than mine?’’

“I would think so. I went through accelerated basic – I knew all those mornings running with Nicollette would pay off eventually – and they shipped me right over here. I was supposed to spend a couple weeks gaining more training at the base but instead they put me on this plane first thing. I’ve still got jet lag.’’

“Geez, they must be desperate. Errr, I mean, you know what I mean. It must be some sort of emergency for them to rush you out here like that. What’s this mission all about?’’

“You know I can’t tell you that.’’

Steve nodded; he knew the protocol. His stomach felt queasy again. “I understand, Katie. But can you tell me one thing? Should I be worried?’’

Katie studied Steve’s eyes and saw a small but growing fear. Or was it just air-sickness? She looked around quickly to see if anyone was listening.

“I don’t know,’’ she said. “They’ve been getting all sort of chatter about a possible terrorist attack at the World Cup, but nothing definite. Then this morning there was an incident with the French team outside the team hotel. An Arab man attacked their best player, some guy named Zinedin or Zinemon or Cinnamon or something -- but escaped before they could catch him. Our intelligence says that it could be the prelude to a terrorist attack.’’

“Sounds bad.’’

“It’s worse. Surveillance cameras got a good shot of the guy who made the attack. And I think it’s Ahmed.’’

“C’mon, Katie. Ahmed wouldn’t be involved in anything like that. How can you be sure it’s him? Those surveillance camera photos can be very grainy. I’m sure there are thousands of guys in Europe who look a little like Ahmed.’’

“Yeah? Maybe. But how many of them do you think were standing next to Nicollette?’’

Next: “Oktoberfest’’