Winner Take All (26 page)

A woman demanded, “You are Kirsten Stansted?”

“Who is this?”

“You have friends in high places.” The American voice sounded grated through wire mesh. “There’s a service tonight at the International Church of Düsseldorf.” She spelled out the address.

“Why don’t you just come here?”

“Because you’re being followed. Obviously somebody else thinks you’re important.”

“Did Senator Jacobs’ office tell you I was coming?”

“Seven o’clock, Ms. Stansted. Be on time.”

Downstairs, the detective proved to be extremely German but otherwise cut from the same mold as his British counterpart—former cop, prematurely gray, overdosed eyes, stone voice. An utter professional. He heard her out with scarcely a blink, then only said, “I will require four additional staff. And a retainer, since you are not local.”

“I’ll call as soon as America wakes up to confirm, but for the moment go ahead.”

As he rose to leave, she added, “I’ve just heard I’m being followed.”

“We can check on this also. Do you wish for a bodyguard?”

“Only if it’s for real. What should I do in the meantime?”

“Wherever you go, before anything else,” he instantly replied, “find the rear exit.”

It was a lovely cool day, so Kirsten decided to walk to the restaurant where she had agreed to meet the German lawyer. She took Graf Adolf Strasse to Berliner Allee, passing high-rise thrones for the mighty
German alliance. She turned right onto Schadowstrasse, and passed an invisible barrier. Suddenly all the signs were in Japanese, the majority of faces stylishly alien. People greeted one another with oriental bows and voices that sang amid the thundering din of a workaday world.

She entered the restaurant through a series of three doors—sliding glass, then reed, then a portal framed with hand-carved beams. Beyond that opened a world of soft colors and honeyed wood and sparkling fountains and glowing lanterns and bowing ladies in silk robes. Kirsten crossed a tiny stone bridge and entered a tatami-square chamber with sliding shoji screens.

A blond heavyset woman demanded, “Ms. Stansted? I’m Maggie Heller.”

“Nice to meet you.” Kirsten lowered herself onto a cushion. “You’re American?”

“German to the core. But I did my doctorate at NYU, then clerked there for a year. Loved the place too much to stay any longer. It was either get out or change allegiances.” She waited while the waitress made a ballet of slipping out of her wooden clogs, kneeling by the table, and offering them hot towels and tea. “I’ve ordered for us. Hope that’s okay. I’m due back at court in thirty-five minutes.”

“It’s fine.”

Another waitress arrived bearing two lacquered lunch trays of sushi, miso soup, ginger chicken, and rice. Heller’s opening was casually brutal. “Your client stands very little chance of recovering his child. Shall I tell you why?”

“All right.”

“There are several main problems. The first is that German family court does not have the right to enforce its own judgments. Unlike America, our legal system is not set up to be coercive. We can’t send in the federal marshals like you can. But that’s just the start. Our federal government doesn’t have the right to act as
amicus curiae
. Do you know what that means?”

“A friend of the court.”

“Right. In America, if the government feels a lower court has issued a flawed ruling, it can enter suit in federal court, seeking a new judgment. But over here, the Nazis used the courts as a tool to persecute and destroy. So now civil liberties are tightly protected. Not only that, but many small-town judges are convinced from the outset these half-German children will grow up better in Germany.”

“You’ve handled a lot of these cases.”

“Too many, and the numbers are steadily mounting. I tell the left-behind parent the same thing every time. The German court system is rigged against you. There is a standing rule in our family court system. If the child has been relocated for more than six months, it is too damaging to force another move.”

“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.”