You step out of the cab and look around, confused. The driver insisted that this was the right place, but your German is admittedly rusty. There must have been some sort of mistake. At the House of Hassan in Cairo, you were told that the Diver's Club in Berlin was a center of Storm Knight activity. Not the safest place, mind you, but you could definitely make a few contacts there. Hassan even gave you the address, on a black business card printed in fuscia.

Not a good part of town to be visiting late at night. Fortunately, it's 10 o'clock in the morning, but here on the edge of New Alexandria, the Nile zone, hanging around can be hazardous to your health. Behind you is the deserted Europa Center and Casino; and to your right is the Dealer's Den -- "den" being the operative word: a den of iniquity if there ever was one. The only thing you see at 18 Hardenberg Strasse is the remains of a subway terminal, fenced off with razor wire. As you approach, something catches your eye: a sign, six inches by six inches, fuscia on black. In runny spraypaint you can make out the word "DIVE." You step closer, and something clanks beneath your feet. It's a manhole cover, and on it are the words "Down here, stupid." With great trepidation, you open the manhole and swing your legs over the edge, cursing the dubious sense of humor possessed by Hassan Hassan of Cairo. You realize suddenly that there is no ladder, but by that time you're plummeting into the Stygian bowels of underground Berlin. You seem to fall forever through the darkness, though it can't even be five minutes, when, with a startling crack, motion sensors in the walls trigger the klieg lights at the bottom. The floor, you notice, is alarmingly red and slick, and is proceeding toward you at an even more alarming rate. Before you hit, one thought runs through your mind: dying in a Tharkoldu death trap just about perfectly sums up this week. But instead of the hideous squelch of your body splattering across concrete, you are greeted by the hideous squelch of something semi-liquid being forcibly displaced by your (still-intact) corporeal form. You flounder to the surface, gasping, and realize that you are in an Olympic-sized swimming pool full of strawberry Jell-o. Someone down here has a NASTY sense of humor. The klieg lights illuminate a pair of beaten-bronze doors, inset with a computer pad. As you watch, the doors swing open majestically -- you reach frantically for your 9-mm, knowing all the while that it's a useless gesture, considering the negative effect of Jell-o on firearms -- to reveal .... A human. 4'8", max. With mousy brown hair and a wicked grin. She lights up an enormous Stogie and offers you a hand out of the pool. "Heya, kid. I'm Diesel. Welcome to the Diver's Club."

The Diver's Club. Where you can get info, assistance, leads, and a darn good Bloody Mary. Just don't tick off the bouncer: Tharkoldu have a notoriously poor sense of humor.