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I gave them a look that said I wasn't here for their company, and they both turned back to the bar and continued their conversation.As luck would have it I hit pay dirt straight away. I showed the photo to a waitress, a pretty, plump, big breasted, blue eyed and flaxen haired stereotype German madchen. She recognised him as 'Greta's toy boy'. It transpired that Greta was boasting of how she would marry her toy boy, retire to England and never have to turn another trick for the rest of her life–unless she wanted to.I don't think Greta was too popular with my waitress—Ushi—because she voluntarily gave me directions to where Greta lived, about a click from the bar.I banged on the door of Greta's flat, two floors up in a dingy tenement block, tucked away behind Celle railway station. After a minute or two a female voice from inside the flat called out, in German."Who is it?" The police. Open up at once!" I barked, in the most authoritative German I could manage. It did the trick. Working. I was amazed at how many of those there were.And really—what could I say about it anyway? I couldn’t just open a conversation and say, “By the way, now that I’ve told you I love you, who are you?” Occam’s Razor demanded a simple explanation. Most I could think of meant she was on the run from someone who wanted to hurt her—witness protection program, cops, bad domestic situation, mob, you name it. I wasn’t about to blow her cover.Now it was Thursday morning. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do. I was walking downtown toward the office with my computer in a backpack, but I hadn’t determined whether or not to go in. I showered and shaved when I got home, dressed in a gray suit, and then got online at EFC from home to see if anyone was missing me. I didn’t care if I got there on time and wasn’t sure if I was going back at all. Still, here I was walking up Third toward the office. There were a lot of people on the street for eleven in the morning. Experience told me most people in the.
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