"I got a name and set a meet, which is a lot more than I had when I got here, so I'm a happy man."
"And if you hadn't overreacted, we could have played dumb, put Beimler under surveillance, and let him lead us to Richter. But after this stunt, and your performance at the club, everyone in Berlin knows that you're here."
"At least I get results," he says. "And it doesn't take six months undercover to do it."
As glad as Maria is to be ridding herself of McGrave at his hotel, she's still a caring human being, a police officer, and someone who is proud of the city she lives in. She doesn't want to leave him here.
The two-star palace that McGrave has booked for himself on Stuttgarter is alongside greasy kebab places, cheap electronics stores, and strip clubs and has a view of the elevated S-Bahnhof, a metro rail station, where drug dealers and hookers ply their trade in the shadows under the overpass.
"Are you sure you want to stay here?" she asks.
"My travel agent highly recommends it."
"There are other hotels I can recommend in nice neighborhoods."
"I'm fine with this one," he says, and points to a sign on a lamppost. It's the McDonald's logo with an arrow underneath it that points down the street and the words "Kantstrasse at Wilmersdorf." "It's walking distance from all the major attractions."
"Suit yourself," she says. "I'll pick you up in the morning. Oh-nine-hundred hours."
"In the meantime, let's ask Hansel and Gretel back at the station to put together a file with everything you've got on Richter."
"Thanks for the suggestion, McGrave. That never would have occurred to me. Sleep well."
He gets out of the car and trudges into the hotel.
The desk clerk, who looks like he combed his hair with bacon grease, then cleaned his hands with his tie, unlocks the door to McGrave's room and leads him inside.
The small room, only a little larger than the bed, is clean but has an overpowering blue motif. Blue flowered wallpaper. Blue carpet. Blue lampshades. McGrave gestures to the bed. There's a single pillow and a thick comforter, which is folded in half on the bedsheet.
"The room is fine," McGrave says. "But could you please send someone up to make the bed?"
"Make bed. Yes." The clerk speaks in heavily accented German and smiles knowingly. "I find you someone. Good price. Mann oder Frau?"
"No, no, I don't want anybody. The bed isn't done. I want sheets and blankets," McGrave says. The clerk stares at him blankly. So McGrave tries again. "Bedding. Der sheets and der blankets."
"The bed is here." The clerk points at it. "Das Bett."
McGrave gives up and just takes the key. "Thanks, it's swell."
The clerk smiles and leaves. McGrave looks at himself in the mirror, rubs his cheeks, and frowns. It's just occurred to him that he's got no toiletries, no change of clothes, and nothing to eat.
Time to venture out into the wilderness.
####
The market is no larger than a 7-Eleven and has only one cashier, a woman with a permanent frown, bloodshot eyes, and nicotine-stained teeth. McGrave goes up to her with a handbasket full of toiletries, a bottle of Coke, a bag of chips, and some candy bars.
She rings up his items. It's thirteen euros. He holds out a twenty to her, but she makes no move to take it. He jerks his hand towards her again. She nods at a plate on the counter in front of him. McGrave gets the message and places the cash on the plate. She scoops it up and drops some coins in its place.
McGrave pockets the money and stands there, waiting. His purchases are on the counter between them.
She looks at him.
He looks at her.
It's a long moment.
"I'm supposed to bag my own stuff?" he asks. All he gets from her is a stony look. "Okay. Fine."
He reaches for one of the plastic bags stacked nearby. She rings up. 25 euro on the register.
He looks at her.
She looks at him.
He takes another bag as a test.
She rings up another. 25 euro.
"You're charging me for the bags?" Again, she doesn't reply. She just gives him look. "The hell you are."
McGrave puts the bags back, lifts up his shirttails to create a pouch, and sweeps his stuff off the counter into it.
He smiles at her. "Arschloch you very much."
She flips him off.
"Lovely country," he says and walks out.
McGrave is barely out the door when he's jumped by three men, who knock him to the ground, his groceries spilling everywhere. The plastic bottle of Coke rolls down the sidewalk into the street as he struggles, to no avail. They've got him thoroughly pinned.
They quickly and expertly bind McGrave's hands and feet with duct tape, drag him to a panel van, throw him inside, and speed off.
The cashier has seen the attack but doesn't call the police. Instead, she lights a cigarette and imagines, as she often does, what it would be like to sleep with her head on German actor Til Schweiger's perfect ass.
McGrave lies on the floor of the panel van. He is unable to move or speak, so he keeps his eyes and ears open.
There's one guy sitting on either side of him. Both are well muscled. One is a blonde, with a square jaw, blue eyes, and a chemical tan, who probably never misses the opportunity to look at his own reflection. The other guy has a nose that resembles a clump of mashed potatoes, which means he's been in a lot of fights and doesn't know how to protect his face.
McGrave hasn't had a look at the driver yet. But the fact that Pretty Boy and Mashed Nose haven't blindfolded him means they don't care about what he sees.
Which means they aren't worried about him coming after them later.
Which means there might not be a later for him.
It doesn't take long for them to arrive at their destination, maybe fifteen minutes.