T. Bunn - Winner Take All

“So all they need to do is create delays.”

“Exactly. Plus there is a clause in the Hague Convention, section thirteen it’s called, with a loophole big enough to drive a thousand children through. It says the whole agreement can be tossed out if the court finds what it considers to be ‘exceptional circumstances.’ In these local judges’ eyes, choosing between raising a child in Germany versus America is all the exception they need.”

“None of this changes why I needed to meet you today.” Swiftly Kirsten outlined what she was after.

When she was finished, Heller demanded, “Did you come up with this yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Are you a lawyer?”

“I did a year at Georgetown law, then quit.”

“This has the makings of a very good brief. Excellent, in fact.” She made a process of detaching herself from the table and cushion. “It is very un-German to bring the press in like this.”

“Is that a problem?”

“For some of my colleagues, perhaps. But I personally like the idea of trying some American tactics.” Heller stood upon stubby legs, a tough little woman who relished the prospect of coming battle. “I currently represent thirty left-behind parents. It is one thing to talk about isolating myself from the trauma, and another thing entirely to succeed. Do you know where the courthouse is?”

“I’ll find it.”

“Four-thirty. Family court is on the third floor.” She seemed reluctant to release Kirsten’s hand. “You’re still young. I would urge you to reconsider your professional direction.”

The meeting with the PR agent was even briefer. The young man was tight and thin and struggling desperately with poor English. “All this can I do. Is no problem.”

Kirsten could not tell whether it was bravado or German professionalism. “You’re sure?”

“You want to make conflict with Erin Brandt, yes? You have a story. You need me to make public. All is most good.”

“You don’t seem surprised.”

“Erin Brandt, she is diva. But she is also, how you say, hochgefährlich . Dangerous. Yes. And with enemies. You know her manager, Herr Klatz?”

“A fat little man with strange glasses.”

“Is so.” He reached for his phone. “This will be good action. I will enjoy.”

Kirsten found it good to walk and pretend to forward motion under her own steam. All around her the city bloomed in cool profusion. Tree-lined parks adorned many crossroads, with canals and lakes breaking the monotony of overprecise roads. Only the meandering Rhein defied the German’s desire to straighten every curve and carve every angle with brutal accuracy.

The detective met her in the plaza fronting the Carsch-Haus, at the Altstadt’s border. They sat on the stone bank which curved around a central bandstand of slate and bronze. Gas street lamps stood in the old Baroque fashion, their wrought-iron limbs sprouting leaves of crystal plate.

The detective greeted her with “I can confirm that you are being followed.”

“Now?”

“Try to look without looking.” He opened a file in his lap and pointed to Erin’s publicity photo. “A man in a gray leather jacket, standing by the escalator leading to the subway. A lady with a peacock’s shawl by the far right shop window, the one with the mirror in the background.”

“I see them.”

“Steinhauser is the group. Germany’s largest detective agency. Very reputable.”

“This is reassuring?”

“Steinhauser is not the sort of group who will attack you. It also means whoever is behind this is extremely well financed, and taking you very seriously.”

She caught the tone. “You don’t think Erin Brandt is paying them?”

“Steinhauser specializes in corporate espionage, kidnap ransoms, high-profile personal security, international crime rings. Several governments subcontract their services.” He stabbed the picture as though he wished to hammer the woman herself. “Someone living in this area who seeks to have you followed would go to a local specialist.”

“Can you find out who is paying them?”

“Impossible.” Definite in the German manner. “If we had weeks, perhaps. But days? No chance.”

“What else do you have?”

“Erin Brandt has made a vocation of hiding her past. She was born in Cologne. Her mother is German, her father from Brussels. She was educated privately, probably outside the country, as there is no record of her schooling. She began her voice studies in Zurich when she was seventeen. I have summarized her career since then.”

Kirsten made a pretense of studying the sheet. “Are they watching us?”

“The woman only. The man has probably gone to call in.”

Kirsten folded the page and stowed it in her purse. “Where is she now?”

“Ms. Brandt apparently left her house before we stationed our men. We have checked the airports, and there is no record of her flying out. Her manager and his car are also gone. Which suggests they have traveled somewhere locally. As soon as she returns, we will know.” He shut the file. “There is still the matter of our retainer.”

“I have another meeting now. When that’s over I’ll make the call.” Kirsten rose to her feet. “Make sure Erin is aware you are staking her out.”

“Your instructions were perfectly clear, Ms. Stansted. Rattle her cage, is that not what you Americans say?” He eyed the female watcher. “We will do so. With pleasure.”

The Düsseldorf state courthouse was a Weimar manor occupying an entire city block on the Rheingasse, a thoroughfare rimming the city’s western border. The ground floor was built of granite blocks a meter square. Higher floors were ringed by pillared balconies and overtall French doors. The courthouse struck a highly dignified pose, dwarfing any fleeting human ambition or desire to thwart the proper course of German law.

The PR agent proved as good as his fractured word. Four journalists and two photographers watched her entry with skeptical gazes. The agent introduced them by the papers they represented, “ Rheinlander Presse, Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung, Süddeutsche Zeitung . Is good for three hours, yes?”

“It’s excellent.” She addressed the gathering. “Do any of you speak English?” When most responded with reluctant nods, she said, “I am very grateful for your coming on such short notice.”

The sole woman demanded, “You have something new on Erin Brandt?”

Kirsten pointed to where the attorney descended the central staircase. “I’ll let her answer that.”

The palace’s marble-tiled foyer had been desecrated by the insertion of a sentry station and a bulletproof glass wall. Maggie Heller spoke at length to the guard, who permitted them entry with evident reluctance.

Maggie Heller, on the other hand, was struggling with an overload of suppressed excitement. Her black legal robes fell to her ankles and added an august dignity to her stodgy frame. “An excellent turnout, Ms. Stansted.”

Kirsten pointed to the hovering press agent. “It was all his doing.”

The lawyer led them back to where the staircase wound its way around an antique brass-caged elevator. The mosaic tiled walls were adorned with generations of stern-faced portraits. “This should make for a decent backdrop.”

Kirsten tried to hang back and have the photographers focus on the berobed woman. But Heller would have none of it. The best Kirsten could do was to position herself two steps lower. The journalists gathered at the base of the stairway. Other attorneys and clients began clustering beyond them. Heller said, “I will speak to them in German, to ensure accuracy, yes?”

“Fire away.”

Kirsten assumed she knew what was being said because they had discussed it over lunch. What she had not anticipated was the fire Heller brought to the occasion. Her passion echoed through the high-ceilinged chamber, galvanizing even this cynical little group. The journalists drew out pads and pens and scribbled away, while the photographers bounced around, searching for the best angle. To heighten the drama, Heller drew a sheaf of papers from an inside pocket, unfolded them so that the official seal at the bottom right corner was visible, and held them up between herself and Kirsten.