12
Border Crossing
All that cash and all those supercars and we take a four-change, twelve-hour, cattle-class night train to Germany. At least I had my passport back, necessary for the border crossing. Philippe power-slept in the seat opposite me with military precision. I considered slipping a hand inside his trouser pocket where I knew he had my credit card, but it was hard to tell just how out of it he was, sat bolt upright in his seat, both hands clenched in a fist. I settled for dozing in between changes until we reached our destination.
It was late when we stepped off the train in Berlin. Cold, too, my breath steaming in the air as we emerged from the train station. We didn’t talk. I didn’t even question where the taxi from the station was taking us. I was sleepier than a cat in t
