Desmond changed tacks. He focused on the security guard and spoke rapidly. “You know this is going in my online review.”

The guard’s eyes grew wide.

“Yeah, it is,” Desmond pressed on. “I think an apt title would be: Stay here for Gestapo-style police interrogation and crappy WiFi.”

The guard looked at the officer. “Are you finished?”

Desmond heard the bathroom door creak open. A second later the lights flipped on. The police officer looked back at his partner and the security guard. Standing his ground, his hand still on his sidearm, he shook his head quickly.

“Yes. We are done here,” the other officer said. “Very sorry to have disturbed you, Mr. Hughes. Please enjoy your stay in Berlin.”

The three men gathered at the door. The security guard had just gripped the handle when a sound erupted in the room: skin sliding across glass. The squealing noise ceased, and all three men paused, then turned back to face Desmond. Behind him, gravity had taken over, pulling Gunter Thorne’s dead body down toward the floor. Desmond had propped the dead man against the window in the corner and covered him with the drapes—but he was free now. His face rubbed across the glass a second more before his body hit the heating unit and tumbled to the floor with a thud.

Desmond didn’t hesitate. He lunged forward, covering the distance to the three men in less than a second. He swung his right hand with all the force he could muster. It collided with the rightmost police officer’s face, on the cheekbone below his left eye. The man’s head flew back and hit the metal door casing. He was knocked out instantly.

Desmond rolled and pressed his body into the security guard, who was standing between the two officers, keeping the man from extending his arms. The remaining police officer drew his gun and was raising it, but Desmond quickly completed a 180-degree spin and rammed his elbow into the officer’s forehead. The man slammed back against the wooden door, then tumbled forward, unconscious, his gun flying. Desmond leapt to it, picked it up, and pointed it at the security guard.

“Hands where I can see them. Step away from the door.”

The guard’s hands trembled as he raised them.

“I don’t want to hurt you, but if you yell out, I will. Do you understand?”

The man nodded.

“Why were they here?”

“It is as they said—a call.”

“Who called them?”

He shook his head. “I do not know—”

“Who?”

“They said it was an anonymous tip.”

“Are there more downstairs?”

“I don’t—”

“Don’t lie to me!” Desmond said, raising the weapon.

The man closed his eyes. “Two cars arrived. I don’t know if they stayed or not.”

“Turn around.”

The man didn’t move.

“Do it.”

Slowly, the security guard turned, his hands shaking violently now. Desmond drew the butt of the gun back and clocked the man on the head, sending him to the floor.

He dragged the guard’s body back from the door, then ejected the gun’s magazine and verified that there was no bullet in the chamber and the safety was on. He pulled his shirttail out and tucked the gun into his waistband, then collected the spare magazines from both police officers. He took the younger officer’s police ID and the radio from the security guard. He tucked the clear earpiece in and listened to the chatter for a moment. It was sparse and in German, but he understood it for the most part.