The nun released Erin with a huffed indignation, leaving Reiner to catch up alone. They passed through an inner portal and entered a much larger courtyard filled with colorful playground equipment. “A school,” Reiner said.
“A prison.” Erin turned into a passage so ancient the outer walls were thicker than Reiner was tall. “A scourge.” She hammered her heels into each stone stair, so that they echoed with her words. “A pestilence. A misery. A torture. A place of hatred and pain and fear.”
“Only for some,” announced a quiet voice at the top of the winding stairwell. “Only for a very few.”
“You felt the exact same way.” Erin would have barreled right through the sister, had she not stepped away.
“Only for a time.”
“For years.” Erin marched into the office occupying the stone-lined corner. “How often were we whipped together?”
“Too often.” The Mother Superior held the door for Reiner and gave the baby a startled glance. “And not often enough.”
“Just exactly the sort of miserable response I would expect from someone who joined the enemy.”
“Sit down, Erin.”
“I will not be here that long.”
“Sit. Please.”
She crouched into the seat, her backside barely scraping the wood’s edge. Her hands formed claws around the carved armrests as she watched the Mother Superior step behind her desk. “I need your help.”
“You are looking well.” The few strands of hair escaping from beneath the nun’s habit were almost transparent, as though the silence had sufficient force to wash away all color, all pretense of freedom. Her voice held the eerie quality of being able to speak without ruffling the stillness. “I have heard you are doing great things.”
“Someone is after my baby,” Erin continued grimly. “I need you to look after her.”
Agnes looked at Reiner for the first time. Her gaze was as excruciating as the rest of this place. “Your husband?”
“My manager.”
“Ah. Of course.” She dismissed him. “You know we do not care for infants.”
“She is a child. You take children. She is merely a bit younger than most.”
“This is not possible.”
Reiner watched with the experience of years. He knew Erin had come expecting these words. And was prepared.
She leaned forward and said in the musical tone that marked Erin at her most dangerous. “It was nice to see how well the cemetery remains tended.”
The Mother Superior’s eyes were gray in the manner of a cloudless sky the hour before dawn, so clear Reiner could look and see nothing but the hated stillness of this place. “The parents still come. Three of their next generation are with us now.”
“How utterly calamitous,” Erin spat back, “that not even they could learn the mistake of their ways.”
Agnes started to reply, then changed her mind. “I will help you,” she decided. “But not for the reasons you think.”
“Of course not.”
“How long do you need us to care for your child?”
“Not long. A week. Perhaps two. Then all this will be settled and behind us.”
Agnes walked around her desk and reached for the child. Reiner’s relief at turning Celeste over must have been evident, for the nun shot him a severe look. Nothing escaped her. Nothing. “How old is she?”
“Sixteen months.”
“Her name?”
“Celeste.”
“She is a beautiful child.”
Erin rose from her chair. “I will pay you, of course.”
“You will do no such thing. When did the child last eat?”
Erin faltered for the first time since entering. She glanced at Reiner, who could only shrug. Agnes observed this as well, and hardened. “Two weeks, Erin. Any longer and I will be forced to ask questions of my own.”
CHAPTER
———
25
JUST BEFORE KIRSTEN’S last visit, the Düsseldorf airport had caught fire and been largely destroyed. She passed through the new soaring steel-and-glass structure with a threatening sense of entering enemy territory.
In her previous existence, Kirsten had made the pilgrimage to Düsseldorf twice each year. The Igedo was the largest fashion event in northern Europe. For five days Düsseldorf’s hotels and restaurants and limo companies and nightclubs and cafés were dominated by the rich and beautiful and impeccably dressed. Cruise boats from as far away as Sicily were moored along the Rhein docks, serving as additional hotels and reception venues. A model with Escada or Ferragamo or Hermès or Jil Sander was queen for a week. The entire city became a runway for the newest and latest. Porsches and Ferraris outnumbered Opels. The moneyed crowd from all over Germany, Scandinavia, Holland, Luxembourg, Belgium, and Eastern Europe came to be part of the spectacle.
She took a taxi to the antiseptic European-style commercial hotel where the London embassy had booked her a room. Once checked in, Kirsten walked the seven blocks to the American Consulate, which through downsizing had relocated from its massive building on the Rhein to a series of rooms above a bank. Kirsten sat in the office of an assistant commercial consul who made no attempt to hide her curiosity. The sealed windows were inch-thick glass embedded in steel frames. A building of dark gray brick rose directly opposite, close enough to touch. The air conditioner’s soft sigh only heightened the claustrophobic closeness. Kirsten waited the woman out, giving nothing in response to her questions.
On the way back to the hotel, she used a pay phone to call the detective. She wanted to meet this man in person. The consulate had obviously alerted him, for he was ready to roll as soon as he heard her name.
Back at the hotel, she called the German lawyer and explained enough to justify the woman shifting her schedule around. As soon as she cut the connection, the front desk rang through to say the detective was downstairs.
In the instant between hanging up and reaching for her purse, the phone rang once more. Kirsten hesitated a long moment, for no one save the consul knew she was here. “Yes?”
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 o
f 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.”
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.
Winner Take All Page 19
