by Kent C. Gilmore
2004

Prologue

             The flight from Dubai to DeGaulle International was mercifully short for one of its regular passengers. The cultural differences between the Middle East and Western civilization were and always would be worlds apart for Jean-Paul Plutard. He had been on the road for weeks and eagerly awaited  returning to his native land where he could  finally shake the sand out of his socks one last time.  As an experienced business traveler, he steadfastly refused to fly from one hellhole to another; a layover in Paris, which he considered the capital of the world, was not just another rest stop, it was an absolute necessity.
"Bonjour, Monsieur Plutard," the doorman of the Hotel Littre said as Jean-Paul heaved himself clumsily from the taxi.  He gave the doorman a nod, expecting to be recognized. He always stayed at the four-star Littre when in Paris--particularly when he was on an expense account.  He paused a moment under the porte cochere as the bellman unloaded his luggage.  The bags were of calfskin, and easily scratched.  But the bellman knew his job, as did the doorman—more, he thought, than could be said for those savage ragheads he left behind in the desert. 
A shameless pretender to an imaginary throne that existed solely in his own imagination, Jean-Paul waddled into the hotel lobby with a feigned air of nobility usually reserved for the ruling classes, unaware that his every movement was being carefully monitored from across the street.

           "What a pig," said one of the men sitting in an unmarked van parked conspicuously close to the hotel entrance.  "He's even fatter than he looks in his pictures."
"Yes, we should charge by the pound for this job."  His partner tossed a cigarette butt out the window where it joined the half-dozen preceding it.  The two men had been waiting over an hour for this moment; now they must wait just a little longer.  They knew exactly what the fat man would do next.  It was all spelled out in the dossier accompanying their generous commission.  Plutard's photos, his travel itinerary, a list of all the places he frequented, and the little excursions he was known to take when he came to Paris.  And some list it was, too.  Jean-Paul was quite a ladies man as well as a predictable creature of habit.  He was accustomed to indulging certain...appetites.
 
 
 "L'Auberge," Jean-Paul snapped as he and the bellman entered the suite that Swiss Bancorp & Indemnity had rented for him.
"Pardon, Monsieur?"
"L'Auberge," Jean-Paul repeated impatiently.  "The restaurant?  Please arrange a table for one at eight o'clock this evening. Comprend?" 
"I will take care of it immediately, Monsieur."  The bellman gratefully accepted his handsome tip and backed out of the room obsequiously.
Jean-Paul slid the window curtains open, letting in a shower of light that reflected on a large envelope laying on the antique Louis XIV writing desk.  The logo next to the return address was all too familiar.  Scowling but curious, he picked it up.  It was not the first time his company had been thoughtful enough to send a set of working papers ahead for him to study before the next assignment.  How very like them.  "Homework," he muttered cynically.  "What am I, a schoolboy?"
How laughable, thought Jean-Paul, who had worked as a claims adjuster for over twenty years.  One of his specialties was equine mortality, and in this capacity he had saved his company millions of dollars.  When he had finished investigating a claim, the policyholder rarely recovered full payment.  His modus operandi was simple:  manipulate the facts, introduce technicalities, confuse the clients.  More often then not, it worked, and worked so well that clients almost never questioned the result.
He hesitated a moment, then tore open the envelope and scanned a summary of information about the latest dead horse, Geronimo.  He raised his eyebrows.  Surprised, he actually recognized the name--this was a valuable animal by any standard, even by the stratospheric valuations found at the highest level of international equestrian competition. The animal had been found dead two days ago in his stall at the world-famous Dreieichenhof training facility in central Germany.  Included in the envelope were a map of the area and a list of the people expected to attend tomorrow's meeting near Frankfurt—a sort of postmortem committee of inquiry.  He scanned it carefully.  Hubertus Falckenstein he knew; everyone in the equine community was familiar with the great trainer Falckenstein, if only by reputation.  He also recognized the name of Dr. Siebert , the official veterinarian for  the German National Team.  The other names were not familiar. 
He would have to ponder  Falckenstein’s involvement, though.  This was not a man who was easily intimidated, least of all by someone else's knowledge of horses and riders. 
But for the moment Jean-Paul tossed everything back on the desk and  dressed for dinner. After all, how could a man like him, a man of refinement and exquisite taste, concentrate on business when his stomach was growling?
By ten p.m. Jean-Paul had finished his meal at L'Auberge:  consuming seven courses, washed down by two bottles of Lafitte Rothschild Cabernet.  When he rose to leave, he had to steady himself on the table for a moment before heading for the front door.
Outside, he climbed into a taxi and instructed the driver , "Le Palais du Noir."  Then he sat back to digest his meal, partially closed his weary eyes, while anticipating an evening at one of Paris' most famous brothels.  He believed the trick to living a happy and fulfilling life on the road was to appreciate all the perks.
Suddenly, there was a flurry of activity outside the window.  The taxi screeched to a halt,  slamming Jean-Paul headfirst into the safety divider.  He toppled back, grunting and stunned, vaguely aware that a dented van was half-blocking the right-of-way.  Then the door beside him flew open and hands reached in.  Two hands, then four.  Powerful hands, grabbing him, hauling him out of the cab and hurling him into the back of the obstructive vehicle.
Although stunned, he was well aware of abruptly backing up and then rudely lurching forward as they sped away down the dark, twisting back streets of the city. He felt a sharp knee pressed cruelly into his neck, driving his face into the seat cushion, all but paralyzing his limbs.  Still, enough sensation remained to feel his wrists being lashed together behind him as the buttons on his shirt started popping off.  A moment later he heard a distinctive ripping  sound. A strip of duct tape had been torn from its roll and slapped over his mouth.  Now he could breathe only through his nose, and that wasn't enough.  The whistling of his own breath filled him with horror.  He panicked. His feet flailed violently  as he struggled to free himself. The man sitting on his back barked out an order to his accomplice in a Slavic-sounding tongue, more like a curse. If only he could understand what they were saying. Then he felt his wallet being pulled from his jacket, and some other object, hard and cold, pushed into its place.  Mon dieu, he thought. What was that?  A bomb?  God knew there were plenty of people who wanted him dead, but would someone really try to kill him?
Or perhaps this was a kidnapping.  Alive, he would be worth a lot more money to his employer.  Yes.... Yes, that must be it.  If only he could speak, ask.  But he could barely even breathe.  And the knee now dug into his neck so savagely he felt as if his spine would break.  He fought the sudden urge to throw up.  How terrible it would be to suffocate on his own vomit, to die in such an undignified manner--especially if he was only being kidnapped.  Panic gave way to relative calm as he pondered his predicament. He forced himself to breathe more slowly.  To stop struggling.
But he could not stop thinking.
Where were they taking him...?
     The van coasted to a stop by a row of thick bushes just outside two imposing cast-iron gates.  The driver switched off the lights but not the engine.  After a few minutes another van of the same make, model and color approached. It came to a stop and a man in uniform climbed out, placed a large key into the lock, and pushed the gates open. He then climbed back into the passenger side as it pulled away, presumably headed to one of the local patisseries.  According to the surveillance documents, the guards always took their break on time.  And they always stayed out for one half-hour.  And most importantly, they always left the gates open behind them.
As soon as the coast was clear, the van containing Jean-Paul crept forward, silently. The windows were fogging up so the driver rolled one down to let in some fresh air. What was that stench?, thought Jean-Paul. He was a gourmet as well as a gourmand. He could not only taste and describe the differences between vintage wines, but also detect a woman's perfume from half a block away.  Now, as the van drove closer to its destination, his nostrils flared wide. Chanel it wasn’t!
            The green belt surrounding the Parc Zoologique de Paris was a favorite walking tour forParisians at all hours of the day and night.  The regulars had grown accustomed to hearing strange and sometimes frightening sounds emanating from inside the walled compound. Extraordinary noises made ordinary by familiarity. 
But tonight there was a new addition to this cacophonous symphony, a sound that stopped even the most preoccupied walkers dead in their tracks.  Entwined within the occasional elephant trumpeting, monkeys squealing, exotic birds calling, and the thunderous roaring of lions, there arose a distinctly different sound.
A piercing scream. A shrill note repeated over and over and over again. Not an animal’s.
But human. One of Jean-Paul’s questions had been answered. He was at the Zoo.

Chapter One
Zurich, Switzerland

Henri Madrid stepped inside the back seat of his sleek personal limousine shortly after dawn.  Twenty minutes later it was approaching the towering headquarters building of Swiss Bancorp & Indemnity. As CEO he never grew tired of looking at its distinctive silhouette, having supervised the architectural design personally—a lean and crystalline skyscraper, it had become a symbol of postmodern revitalization in the historic city of Zurich
Thanks to Madrid’s leadership, Swiss Bancorp had grown to become one of the largest financial conglomerates in the world, and more importantly, one of the most prestigious institutions in Switzerland.  After climbing the ladder to the top, Madrid had managed to transform a medium-sized regional banking concern into a far-flung international financial powerhouse by combining banking, insurance and consulting services into a single conglomerate.  He had also gained a reputation amongst his peers and clients as a man of integrity,  vision, uncanny instincts--and most of all, unshakable confidence.  
Now, having accomplished most of the lofty goals he had set for himself as a younger man, he was looking forward to an orderly retirement.  He felt confident that the business would be left in good hands--hands attached to brains that he had personally selected and mentored.
The limo stopped just outside a private side entrance to the building.  Madrid reached for the handle; he was not the sort of man to wait for someone to open doors for him.  But before he could reach it, the privacy screen separating him from the driver slid down.  Surprised, Madrid looked up.
The driver was just lowering the handset of the car phone from his ear.  "Excuse me, sir, but your secretary just called.  She wants you to know that all your senior vice-presidents are waiting for you in the reception area."
Madrid's eyebrows rose.  He had scheduled no meetings with his top staff today.  "All of them, you say?"
"Evidently they'll explain everything when you get there.  Frau Hilfenberg wanted to call so you didn't walk into a surprise."
He hesitated a moment, frowning pensively, then nodded and slipped out of the car.
 Henri Madrid had risen to his current position of influence and power by being willing to take risks, calculated risks...every one of them had been anticipated and prepared for in meticulous detail. 
Madrid was also not given to flights of emotional fancy.  Still, as he stepped into the executive elevator and pushed the button for the 30th floor, he had the strange feeling he might be about to put his retirement on hold.  He had handpicked each of his executives, and knew them as well as he knew his own family.  They were strong managers as individuals, and even stronger as a team. 
            When the elevator doors slid open, he stepped into the elegant anteroom of the executive suite and was greeted by three of his top managers:  Rolf Ullenberg, Ernst Farner and Sabrina Petrova.  Their salutations seemed sincere enough, but he detected an anxious undercurrent and noticed that the head of the claims department was missing.
"Where is Croucher?" he asked, immediately detecting his absence.
"Already in the conference room," said Sabrina Petrova.
 As the Vice-President of Human Resources, she was the only woman to have successfully reached the top executive ranks at Bancorp. Standing six feet tall in heels, she cut a striking figure, with her straight black hair reflecting the overhead lights in a halo-like ring atop her head.  "You know how he is."
Madrid nodded.  "Let's all join him, then, shall we?"
As they moved toward the conference room, Madrid gave his secretary the customary hand signal for holding his telephone calls.
The clear light of an Alpine morning poured into the conference room through floor-to-ceiling windows.  Madrid took his seat at the head of a long mahogany conference table.  Ullenberg, Farner and Sabrina distributed themselves evenly around it.  David Croucher was already seated at the far end, tapping the end of a pen on the polished tabletop. 
Croucher was known to have  ice water running in his veins.  Trained as an actuary and accustomed to being chained to his desk, he viewed the bank and his job as his whole life.  As far as he was concerned, small talk and superfluous formalities were a waste of his time and everyone else's.
This morning he was noticeably disheveled:  hair uncombed, business suit rumpled, tie askew, face pale and clearly in need of a shave.  Of course, it wasn't unusual for Croucher to spend the night sleeping in his office in order to get his work done, and it looked as if he had done exactly that last night.  Madrid didn't mind; he liked having such dedicated men working for him.  But this morning he noticed that Croucher seemed to have actually aged since he had seen him last, only a few days ago.
When everyone had settled, Madrid pushed the intercom button.  "Frau Hilfenberg, please have Danny bring in some coffee.  I have the feeling we will be awhile."  Then he looked at the faces of those seated around the table.  "Clearly something important has happened.  And judging by your faces, the news is not good.  David, you in particular look like you're going to jump out of your skin; why don't you tell me what's going on?"
With a slight pause, Croucher set his pen down, punctuating the tenseness in the room with one last decisive click.  “Yes, sir," he said in a rattled, hesitant voice. “Sir, there has been a tragic accident, I’m afraid. Yesterday morning I got a call out of the blue from an Inspector Berçut of the Paris Prefecture of Police.  He informed me that one of our claims adjusters, Jean-Paul Plutard--a twenty-five-year man with the company--was murdered early Friday night."
"That is indeed tragic. And what were the circumstances?" said Madrid.
"Well, that's the thing.  They were highly... shall I say unusual.  You can see that for yourself.”
“See it? How so?” said Madrid. 
“Believe it or not, the whole thing was videotaped, apparently for our viewing pleasure.”
“Or more accurately, our displeasure," snapped Sabrina.
"Videotaped?  Deliberately?" Madrid questioned.
Croucher opened his briefcase and removed a standard-looking videocassette.  "This is a copy.  The original was recovered from the murder scene by Berçut's people."
"You have all watched it?" Madrid asked.
Croucher cleared his throat as his deep set eyes looked away under darkened circles.  "Yes.  It's... disturbing, to say the least."
"And you say the original was found at the murder scene?" added Madrid.
"Left there, the police believe so.  Intended to be found.  And almost certainly intended to make its way back to us."
"Then perhaps we should watch it."
"Are you sure?"
It was not like Croucher to be so diffident.  Madrid hardened his voice.  "Isn’t it best to have more information  rather than less, no matter what the situation?”
Croucher nodded, rose, and pushed the cassette into the VCR.  He turned on the screen and sat back down.

             Two minutes later, Madrid gestured at Croucher. “That’s enough.” 
Sabrina swallowed audibly and said, "I think I'm going to be ill."
"Make sure that thing is safely locked away after the meeting," Madrid said to Croucher.  "Also, get Legal on this right away.  That tape doesn't see the light of day without a court order from a magistrate.  Is that clear?  And get hold of Media and make sure the police don't leak it, either."
"Yes, sir."
"This is dreadful," Sabrina said.  "That poor man."
"Not to mention the lions."  Ernst Farner leaned back in his seat and gave Sabrina a sanguine look.  As always, Ernst seemed to be battling a mild case of boredom.  But then, as Bancorp's Chief Financial Officer and undisputed heavyweight financial wizard, Farner was used to keeping up appearances.  Impeccably dressed in a grey three-piece suit, starched blue collar and diamond cuff links, with his full head of salt-and-pepper hair combed straight back and held in place by an ample application of gel, he looked like a United Nations diplomat.  This sleek image was weakened only by his ashen pallor, the result of too much smoking and too little fresh air.  He waved a hand at the darkened TV screen.  "I was under the impression it's against the rules to feed the animals at the zoo."
Sabrina's grey eyes flared.  "I can't believe you're making jokes at a time like this, Ernst.  Do you think--"
Just then the door opened and a young man entered, carrying a service tray of coffee.  Silence filled the room as he put everything out on the table.
"Thank you, Danny," said Madrid.
As the door closed behind the youth, Sabrina turned to Madrid and said, "That was close.  Can you imagine what they'd be talking about around the water cooler if he'd come in two minutes earlier?"
"Probably not about what they'd like for lunch," Farner said.
Sabrina turned on him again, but Madrid spoke first, looking at Farner.  "Let's go on with the factual accounting...shall we…without any more wisecracks, Ernst."  Actually, he would have preferred that Farner not be involved in this matter at all.  Bancorp controlled billions of dollars in the world's financial markets, and it was CFO's responsibility to outperform the competition, which Farner did with uncanny regularity.  It was no secret that he could have been president of any number of commercial banks of his choosing, but his loyalty to Madrid was unshakeable.  Still, this matter, as serious as it was, didn't concern him.  This matter should be of importance to only the insurance side of the business.  He thought to himself.
Madrid turned back to Croucher.  "Tell me the whole story of this tape, David, if you please.  From the beginning."
Croucher seemed to have fully regained his usual composure, something akin to a machine-like calm.  He answered without looking down at his notes in front of him.                      "Jean-Paul was scheduled to be in Germany on Saturday morning to investigate the death of a dressage horse named Geronimo at a training facility near Frankfurt.  This horse was extraordinarily valuable, I might add; the pride of the German team and a national asset."
"Its death was suspicious?" Madrid asked.
"That's what we wanted Jean-Paul to find out.  Jean-Paul is--was--our best equine mortality specialist.  At the time he was already working on a job in the Middle East, but we arranged to fly him to Frankfurt for a meeting with the horse’s owners, riders, trainers, sponsor’s...the lot. An entourage of sorts, you might say.  Anyway, the meeting was scheduled for Saturday.  Jean-Paul flew into Paris for a layover on Friday, checked into his hotel, went to dinner, then got into a cab outside the restaurant.  The cab was forced to the side of the street by a van. Two thugs kidnapped him.  That's all the cab driver remembers.  He's apparently the only witness but has already bee cleared of complicity.
"According to the French police, Jean-Paul was then bound and driven to the  Zoo.  The kidnappers knew what they were doing.  They waited for the security guards to take their coffee break, then drove Jean-Paul to the lion enclosure and lowered him in, as you saw.  The lions had not yet been fed for the day.  And of course now you know the rest of it.”
There was a moment of silence around the table as glances flicked toward the TV screen.
"So the question," Madrid said, "is 'why?'  Why murder a simple insurance adjuster?  Why in such a terrible manner?  And why leave a record of it?  Was there a note?  Any explanation at all?"
"Not that was found, sir." Croucher said.  "But there is something else you should know about.  The police say they have seen this particular M.O. before...it is evidently something that appeals to the Russians.”
He paused momentarily. “ Mafia."
"Mafia?"  Madrid's calm voice now clearly changing to one of extreme concern as he focused his eyes on Croucher without blinking.”
  "You mean the police believe this was a professional execution?  A 'hit?'"
Croucher nodded.
"But why would the Mafia want to snuff out a lowly insurance adjuster?  Unless... the Russians themselves are involved… as owners or financiers?”
"Well...the truth, Henri, is that we don't know. At least not yet. We have no idea who does own Geronimo."
"You're saying we insure something without even knowing who owns it?"
"Geronimo changed hands just a couple of weeks ago.  At the moment all I can tell you is that the new owner is a consortium, not an individual, and it is domiciled in Luxembourg.  Our only point of contact with them is the registered attorney-in-fact who represents the ownership group, and I haven't been able to get hold of him."
Farner grunted.  "And even if you do, he's under virtually no obligation to reveal the identities of the consortium members.  Not under Luxembourg law."
On the far side of the table, Rolf Ullenberg made a noise halfway between a laugh and a snort--the first sound from him all morning.  It was his style to wait until he had heard everything before weighing in.  He worked best under pressure and relished the challenge of unexpected situations.  He was Madrid’s go-to man when the chips were down, and gossip had it that he was being considered to replace Madrid as CEO after Madrid’s retirement. 
When everyone looked in his direction, as his notorious temper began to flar. "Luxembourg law, my ass!  They'll give us what we want.  They always do, even if we have to twist their arms a bit.  Those little weasels owe us plenty for all the favors we've done for them.  I'll have the information by the end of the week, Henri, or their cash flow at the bank is going to slow to a trickle."
"Wait just a minute, Rolf."  Farner said, leaning forward in his chair  "You're on my turf now, Rolf.  Just because we're not members of the Central Banking System doesn't mean we can walk all over everybody anytime it suites us.  If we squeeze Luxembourg too hard, there could be negative consequences to ourselves--like a sudden transfer of cash balances to a different bank, or another asset-restitution article in the press with our name all over it."
"I agree that now is not the time to stir the pot ," Madrid said.  "Nevertheless, Rolf, within that framework I will hold you to your word--have the names of those consortium members on my desk by the end of the week."
Ullenberg nodded.
"Look,” said Farner. “This all could be totally unnecessary. "We're assuming this whole mess is about insurance fraud--but Croucher, tell me this if you can. How do we know the horse didn't die of a heart attack or some other natural cause?"
"Simple. The official announcement on cause of death will come from the German Dressage Team’s veterinarian, Dr. Philip Siebert," Croucher said.  "I spoke with him briefly this morning, and he informed me that a necropsy will be required in order to determine exactly what happened."
"So, how long will that take?" Madrid asked.
"A couple of days, maybe."
"As of this moment, then, we have no idea what our exposure might be, is that correct?” said Madrid.
Ullenberg responded.  "Not yet.  Of course, we won't have any exposure if this turns out to be fraud.  On the other hand, if it turns out to be almost anything else, we're on the hook to make payment."
"Of how much?" said Madrid.
"Three million dollars."
Farner looked at the ceiling and shook his head.  "That's a lot of rubles."
"Is there anything unusual about the terms of the policy?" Madrid continued.  "Anything we should put on the table right now?"
Croucher  drummed his fingers nervously over Geronimo’s file folder lying unopened in front of him.  "The coverage was bound under our standard equine mortality policy with a double-indemnity rider.  This was acceptable to the client and was pre-authorized by Underwriting some time ago.  Sabrina, I don’t think you were here then so let me elaborate. Internally, we moved the underwriting numbers around to fit everything under the big umbrella of the Olympic Package.  That was a policy decision we made shortly after the Atlanta Games, as I remember it." 
It was a well known fact within Bancorp that the OOSC was one of Henri Madrid's favorite corporate clients, and one he took a personal interest in.  But Farner wasn't one to let delicate relationships bother him.  "Are we likely to regret that decision now?" he asked.
Ullenberg shrugged and added, "Our strategy was devised to discourage our  competitors from bidding against us.  We didn't want other companies doing any cut throat underwriting during the two year interval between Olympiads--keep the camel’s nose from getting under the tent, so to speak.  And it's worked very well up until now; we have almost total control of that market, and not a camel in sight." 
"Okay, I'll discuss all of this with Carlo later today," Madrid said, referring to his long-time friend Carlo Sebastiani, the President of the OOSC.  "Perhaps it's time to reconsider our approach, especially if it's about to cost us three million dollars."
"Not to mention the life of one of our employees," Sabrina added. 
There was a moment of thoughtful silence, then Farner’s analytical mind began stirring once again.  "All this assumes that the police know what they're doing which is far from certain."  He looked at his watch.  "Gentlemen, what we should do next is throw this unfortunate distraction over the wall to Legal.  Jean-Paul's murder is clearly out of our area of expertise. Insurance fraud is another matter entirely.  Believe me, it’s the money. It always is. Someone intends to profit from his death.  Perhaps Legal can reassure us that we don't have to fork over three million dollars to our German friends after all.  Rolf, do you agree?"
"Not particularly, Ernst.  With all due respect, I must say that the facts, as limited as they are, don't reassure me that fraud is all that’s involved here.  Not if Jean-Paul's murder and the death of the horse are connected, which they certainly seem to be."
"In what way?" Farner said.
Ullenberg turned to Croucher.  "David, you said that when Jean-Paul was kidnapped, he was on his way to Germany to meet with Geronimo's handlers and so forth, is that correct?"
"Yes."
"I would like to know who those people were, because they're bound to be the police's main suspects."
Croucher shuffled through some papers.  "Well, apart from Dr. Siebert, there was the owner’s representative, the trainer, and Geronimo's rider, Helena de Groot--probably the best rider on the team.  Given the importance of this particular horse, it's likely somebody from the Frankfurt police would have been there, and maybe even an Interpol agent."  He turned toward Madrid.  "Incidentally, Dr. Siebert seemed extremely suspicious when I told him the meeting had to be postponed."
"What reason did you give?" Madrid asked.
"I wasn't sure what to say, so I just winged it with a story about Jean-Paul being delayed in the Middle East."
Madrid scowled.  "Everybody is going to find out what happened eventually, so let's not erode our credibility by building a wall of ill will that we can't jump over later on.  As soon as we're finished here, I want you to call Dr. Seibert and set the record straight."
"Yes, sir."
"And from now on," Madrid said to the table at large, "let me suggest that all of you start thinking about the big picture.  Be very careful what you say to anyone until we know for sure what's going on.  And for God's sake, don't start covering up or putting spin on something that hasn't been approved personally by me or by our PR people.  Don't forget that the media will eventually get their hands on this.  By that time, I want us all to be on the same page.  When that time comes, I will personally take charge of damage control, and our PR people can take it from there.  After that, we can spin it any way we want, depending on what suits our purposes--and, of course, the interests of our clients."
"What about Jean-Paul’s family?" Sabrina asked.  "We can't give them spin."
"Of course not.  Tell them the truth--we're working with the French police on this matter, and also approaching it internally.  In fact, when this meeting is over I'll call them with you, Sabrina.  David, do you have any idea when more information might be available from the authorities?"
"Inspector Bercut told me they won't release any more information until the investigation is complete...which may take weeks."
"The routine answer," Farner said in disgust.
"Perhaps," Madrid said, "but this is not routine for us, so let's stop treating it that way.  And we can use the time. For now we must proceed as if we know for a fact that Jean-Paul’s murder and the death of the horse are linked. Finding out how and why  is our challenge now.
Everyone nodded.
"On the other hand, we don't want to unduly alarm our investors, stockholders, or for that matter our own employees.  So, let's try to follow normal operating procedures, starting with getting this meeting in Dreieichenhof rescheduled, ASAP.  David, I want you to go to the meeting personally, as head of the department."
Surprised, Croucher's looked up suddenly.  "Me?"
"To show how seriously we take this."  Madrid hesitated slightly.  "Bring someone from security with you.  As a  precaution, of course."
Farner coughed.  "Excuse me, but aren't we kidding ourselves?  Sending bodyguards to business meetings is hardly normal operating procedure.  The news will surely get around the rest of the organization, and then what?  I think it sends the wrong message.”
Sabrina stiffened in her seat at Farner’s callousness.  "Ernst, I have a message for you. If you don't think it's advisable to send security with David, perhaps you’d like to save him the trouble and expense by making the trip to Dreieichenhof yourself, instead."
Farner ground out his cigarette slowly as his ears began to ring.  "Goodness, Frau Petrova, your offer sounds a bit like a death sentence in disguise.  Or am I reading too much into it?"
"Probably not."
"Enough," Madrid said.  "Ernst, for God's sake, I'm not suggesting we dress the guard up in uniform and give him a machine gun.  But as much as I would like to avoid broadcasting fear to the world, I want to avoid even more getting another videotape like the one we just viewed this morning.  Understood?"
Everyone, even Farner, agreed with that.
"Very good, then."  Madrid looked around the table.  "If there's nothing else, let’s agree to meet again in two weeks and see where we stand.  Sabrina, if you'll wait behind, perhaps you and I could telephone Jean-Paul's family together."

             Croucher, Ullenberg and Farner all rose and left the room.  Sabrina waited for her moment alone with Madrid, the executive alpha male she admired so much.  Being singled out in front of her peers for a private meeting with Madrid was always something she enjoyed.  Being head of Human Resources had many perquisites, but for her, private time alone with Madrid was at the top of her list.
She followed him toward his private office.  As they passed Frau Hilfenberg's desk, the secretary signaled that Madrid had a call.  "It's Lausanne, Sir.  Mr. Sebastiani.  Are you in?"
"Take a message.  I'll call him back in twenty minutes.  Then when Sabrina and I are through, call Lyon and see if you can find out who Interpol has assigned to the case. Sabrina can explain the details."
He turned to Sabrina as he opened the door to his office and said in his characteristic candor,  "I doubt it's a coincidence that Sebastiani is calling now, of all times. He knows something. I wonder how he found out so quickly?"
Sabrina's three-inch spike heels placed her gray eyes slightly above Madrid's brown ones.  "Carlo always knows when his best interests are at stake, sir," she said.  "If  I had as many enemies as he reportedly does, I'd be sleeping in a different tent every night, like Kadaffy in Libya."
"I'll pass that idea along to him," Madrid said dryly.  "You'd be surprised what a good sense of humor Sebastiani has."
"I hope so. I’d say he needs one right now.”
Madrid acknowledge the throw away comment without revealing how close to home her remarks had actually come. He, too, would need a touch of humor when it came to explaining to his wife that their much anticipated retirement years may be put on hold for awhile.

 Claire Fischer awoke at five a.m. as she did every morning, ready to begin her daily training schedule at the prestigious Dreieichenhof Equestrian Center. But today would be different. There were other things on her mind. Disturbing things, that no innocent young girl should ever be tormented by. And so reluctantly she promised her coach, Hubertus Falckenstein, that she would  attend a meeting later that day concerning Geronimo's death.  A meeting already postponed once without explanation.  Lying in her bed, eyes still closed, she once again recalled her coach’s words:
"I would like you to stand in for Helena tomorrow. I can’t bare the thought of putting her through that kind of hell. It would kill her, especially with the incident occuring only days ago."  These surprising words repeated themselves in her mind seemingly with a life of their own, as though trapped in a perpetual replay loop that wouldn’t stop.  The tragic loss of one of the world’s greatest athletes had left her emotionally distraught and wanting to escape reality rather than face it down in a fact finding meeting attended by total strangers.  But her respect for her coach and her close personal friendship with Helena left her no choice.
‘Helena’ was the famous Helena de Groot,  Flackenstein’s greatest protege and the reigning equestrian queen at Dreieichenhof--which meant that she was one of the top competitors in the world of international dressage.  For Helena, riding Geronimo for her country was the highest personal honor of her life and an achievement reached by only a very few in her chosen profession. "But now, she refused to participate in any way.” Falckenstein  repeated her exact words to Claire. “You know her force of will." He said knowingly. And, indeed Claire did, as an understudy of Helena for the last three years. Helena’s sharp words continued to reverberate inside her head. “Most of the people invited to the meeting have never seen Geronimo when he was alive, much less cared about him one way or the other. I refuse to listen to anything they have to say about him now. It only matters that he is gone, gone from my life forever.” She told Claire in a state shock, gripped by a wrenching, debilitating grief.

Like the other riders at the training facility, Claire lived in a small apartment above the stalls along with the other so-called “working students.” Their rooms were close enough to run for help if they heard anything which might threaten the safety or well being of the horses below, hoping it would never be necessary.  Unfortunately, that’s exactly what happened only days ago.
The sounds Claire heard from  below her room that fateful day were haunting. The force of Helena's screams early in the morning hurled her out of bed....She remembered running down the stairs as fast as she could, half dressed, the first to arrive at the gruesome scene below. And now the memory  of that morning was gradually becoming  too much for her to bear.  Tossing her sheets aside, Claire slipped out of bed and walked over to her pint sized kitchen to prepare something to eat.  She moved in a trance, without thinking clearly, even neglecting to turn on the lights.
 Beginning each day in darkness was nothing out of the ordinary for her and the other riders like her; it was simply a price one paid for a life of dedication to horses and the classical art form known as dressage.  There were other sacrifices, too. More and more she became aware of how the joy of working with horses every day was balanced by trade-offs. The last time she had been on a conventional date was over a year ago.   She was sure she still owned some dresses, although they must have migrated by now to the  back of her closet.  She sometimes wondered if Helena ever even owned one?  Probably not, she thought.
And the sacrifices only grew worse the higher up the competitive ladder she climbed.  Claire knew that if she decided to make a career of riding, she must accept that in the end there would be no unemployment insurance, no retirement plan, and no financial safety net of any kind.  No wonder her father had urged her to stay in college.
These thoughts made her think, again, about Helena.  Riding professionally was not a zero-sum game.  In addition to all of its shortcomings, professional riders were subject to the whims of sponsors who provided the equestrian industry with its life's blood--money.  These fickle financiers came and went like the changing wind, more often than not leaving little behind little to nothing for the benefit of the riders and trainers.  Of course, for the horses the prospects for success were even grimmer.  If a dressage horse didn't have the talent or stamina to compete at the highest level, it was either sold or sidelined.  The hard truth was that in addition to being a sport and an art, dressage was a business, which meant that owners demanded performance and a healthy return on investment.
This was especially true in Germany, who’s national and Olympic teams were accustomed to being on top.  In all of the previous six Olympic Games, German  teams had medaled in either gold, silver, or bronze.  But staying on top requires capital and lots of it.  The most successful breeders happened to be German as well, but they were also keen businessmen, which meant that at times they could be persuaded to lose track of their patriotism for the right price.  That had nearly happened in Geronimo’s case.  The French national team, which had been working for years to become medal contenders in international competition, had offered a sum for the horse that would almost have financed a trip on the Space Shuttle.  But just before Geronimo crossed the border into the land of champagne and bottled water, a consortium of wealthy Germans had offered a superior counter offer--an amount rumored to be the largest ever paid for any one horse.  Geronimo would remain in Deutschland after all.
His new owners had asked Hubertus Falckenstein to recommend a rider, and he had selected Helena.  For three years, the results of this union had met or exceeded all expectations.  A new dynasty was clearly in the making.
But now all that wishful thinking and grand expectations had come to an unexpected end, leaving  just an  obscure footnote at the bottom of an imaginary page in Dressage history, chronicling a long litany of ‘almost success stories.’  Helena faced the immediate prospect of no longer being asked to model for advertising shots promoting her sponsor's clothing line. She would no longer be involved in the production of training videos; no longer be asked to travel around the world, conducting clinics for developing riders.  She would still have her position at Dreieichenhof, of course, and would continue to train other client’s horses and do all she could to improve her skills... but losing a champion and team horse like Geronimo was like losing one’s grip on the edge of a cliff.  Merely surviving the fall would certainly be problematic; but climbing back to the top again might well be impossible.

If only I’d heard something that terrible night. Claire thought, blaming herself.
 Helena had told her the whole story only a few days ago, speaking in the flat, emotionless voice of a shock victim.  She had arrived at the stables early in the morning as usual, well before anyone else. Or so she thought, expecting to be alone as usual.  But as she walked down the long aisle toward Geronimo's stall, she immediately sensed something was wrong.  Horses are creatures of habit and Geronimo never failed to greet her by stretching his long neck over the Dutch door of his stall and nickering for the sugar she always carried in her coat pocket.  But on that morning, no proud head turned toward her.  She heard no nickering or whinny.  In fact, she saw and heard nothing at all. It was, in fact, too quiet. She covered the last few meters at a dead run and then peered over the stall door which had been left unlatched and slightly ajar.  
The next part Claire had experienced first-hand--the terrible wailing of human grief, a disturbing primal scream permeated the air so completely around Dreieichenhof that it took Claire a few moments to sense exactly where it was coming from as it reverberated off the courtyard walls; the discovery of Helena sobbing over Geronimo's sprawled, lifeless body explained everything and nothing at the same time.  Claire was unable to pull her away, not even with the help of two stablemen who had just arrived for work. Helena was inconsolable and, for quite some time, unmovable.
"I wanted to die," Helena had told Claire in her new, emotionless voice.  When I saw Geronimo lying there, I wanted to join her. Thought Claire.

Badly needing some fresh air, Claire now sought a temporary escape from her tormenting thoughts.  Something… anything to help her cope with her own vicarious sense of grief and loss. She dressed warmly and went for a walk into the countryside, as she often did, following the many paths surrounding the expansive grounds of Dreieichenhof. Before long she had left the forest and entered a small clearing, her gaze picked up the flight of a large bird,  an owl in broad daylight, headed unmistakably her way just above the horizon, its golden wings reflecting the morning sun. It seamed to be honing in on her as it circled, not once but three times. Getting so close that she could feel the brush of air from its wings on her face; its yellow eyes were riveted on hers, as thought it was trying to tell her something. Startled and in disbelief, she didn’t know whether to freeze or flee. As her heart pounded like horses hooves against her chest, the words of her Aunt Madeleine rushed back to her, memorable ones about omens and their interpretation. She was told that they can be precursors of major events in one’s life, for good or evil. When she was a little girl, her Aunt loved to fill her head with superstitions and folk stories from the old country. “They are as real as life, itself.” Her aunt would tell her. “Learn to recognize them.” Claire never believed there was anything to it, that was, not until this moment. But if it were true, what could the owl’s odd behavior possibly mean?
The mysterious raptor then left, just as suddenly as it appeared, returning from the direction it had come, toward the east. Move east and follow me. Was that the message? Claire said to herself. Then, distracting her attention again, came a familiar sight. This time it was the sound of clattering hooves from a single horse and rider off in the far distance. Close enough though that she could make out the unmistakable silhouette of her coach, Hubertus Falckenstein. Unusual even for Dreieichenhof considering his advancing age and  busy travel commitments.  Competitive riding was a sport for the young.
As the handsome chestnut approached, galloping across the meadow, the hot air from its nostrils looked like smoke being blown from a chimney in the cool morning air. The tall rider came to an abrupt halt and looked down at Claire like a country squire surveying his property.
“Guten morgen, Claire.” He said, breathing a little heavy himself. “What brings you out in the country so early this morning?”
Before she could answer, he said. “How thoughtless a question. No doubt it’s the same reason that I ,too, am out here. I always think more clearly in the country, particularly when I’m on a horse and alone.”
Claire nodded.
“ I’m glad I ran into you young lady. You have inadvertently given me an idea, a solution really, to a large problem.  I want you to consider doing something very important for me today. As well as for Helena.”
“I’ve never turned you down yet, Hubertus. What is it?”
“Later this morning there is going to be a meeting in the administration building. Maybe you have heard about it?”
“Yes, I know. It’s about Geronimo, isn’t it? Helena told me.”
“Helena was supposed to attend but now I’m sure she won’t. And, in fact, I don’t want her to. Anyway, will you take her place as a representative of all the riders at Dreieichenhof?”
“Yes, of course, but why? I don’t think I have much in common with bankers and policeman, and don’t want to start now.”
“I understand how you must feel, but the meeting is about more than that, I’m afraid.”
Claire looked back, confused.
“What do you mean, Hubertus?”
“I don’t want to alarm you or any of the others, but I have a sneaking suspicion we have not seen the end of this, whatever it is that’s going on. And I think there will a great deal of new information coming out today. That’s all I can say for now. But please be there by eleven o’clock…at my office.”
Claire nodded again, feigning a smile as Falckenstein turned and galloped back in the direction of the stables, looking younger on a horse than many riders half his age.

            After returning to her apartment, Claire realizing she had no interest in eating. She walked from the kitchen to a small alcove under the dormer where she had fashioned a makeshift office.  She sat at her writing desk and peered out the window as she had countless times during the three years she had lived in Germany.  Even in the pre-dawn gloom, the view never failed to soothe her restless soul. Gazing across the landscape was like looking back into the past. 
Located on the edge of a vast fertile plateau, the terra firma which had come to be known as Dreieichenhof, had played host to landlords and farmers who for centuries  had worked the land in war and peace.  Many of the buildings within her line of sight dated from the medieval era; the dark and impenetrable forest beyond was older even than that. A familiar translucent light now began to cast an eerie glow over this sylvan retreat, fueling a young girl’s imagination and creating a transient dreamlike state, a temporary escape to a netherworld of wolves, witches and trolls.
By contrast, Claire could also see something else from her perch. Peering just over the horizon, rising up as a group of multi-colored spires representing the cosmopolitan city of Frankfurt, a symbol of modernity.  The mildly intrusive lights served as a somber reminder to all who understood their meaning, that there could be no escape from reality, not even from high atop the cloistered training stables of Dreieichenhof.

Catching herself and collecting her thoughts once again, Claire refocused on the much dreaded meeting now only hours away.  Strangers would descend upon the place she now called home. They would callously argue over the many ways to divvy up the spoils resulting from the untimely  death of one of its most famous former residents. And she prayed for Helena.

Chapter Three
Gothem
New York
                               

           Whack!  Bret Roemer's attention was riveted to the piercing sound of a white wooden ball being hammered fifty yards behind him.  He sank his spurs into his horse's sides, demanding maximum acceleration and getting it.  He found himself in the middle of a stampede toward the goalposts of the country club's polo field.  It was at times like this when he was glad to be wearing a helmet, thick kneepads and stiff leather boots.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, he picked up the flight of the ball as it outpaced the entire field of eight ponies.  He could tell the ball must have been hit by one of the Argentines, since it climbed in an upward trajectory that seemed to defy the laws of physics.  Only a pro could strike a ball that far and true.
But this was no time to dwell on aesthetics.  The other players on his team were gaining fast on his flank, readying themselves to take another swing.
One of the lead opposition players caught up to the ball and executed a perfect reverse swing, sending the ball back the other way, right over Bret's head.  Instantly the action reversed direction.
As Brett turned his pony, one of the cars parked by the long side of the field blasted its horn, sounding the end of the last chukker.
Bret sighed in disappointment and well earned weariness.  Although he had been playing polo regularly for six months, he had yet to score a single goal.  It was disheartening.  He didn't like to think of how much money his first goal was going to end up costing him.  That was probably why polo used to be called the game of kings.  Only kings could afford it.
He reined his horse to a walk, then headed to the sidelines with the rest of the players.  As he left the field, he was pleased--and surprised--to see his father's car parked near the tie rail where the team ponies were strung together.  His father had never come to watch him play before.  Max Roemer would have preferred that his son take up golf or tennis, something he could do with clients.  None of the firm's clients played polo.
Bret could understand his father's perspective, of course.  Max was a brilliant corporate attorney whose firm was very much in demand by the most prestigious corporations in the State of New York.  The proudest moment of his life had been ten years ago, when Bret had graduated from law school and become an associate.
Bret raised his mallet in a gesture designed to get his father's attention, but there was no acknowledgment.  It was then he noticed that a young woman whom Bret had been dating for the last few weeks had discovered Max and was in the process of introducing herself.  Bret winced; he could just imagine what his father would think of a woman who had been christened with the James Bond-esque name of Honeydew Mellen.
From astride his pony, Bret had a good view of his father.  It hadn't been that long ago that the old man had had a full head of reddish hair?  Now there was little red left and  Max's hairline was receding.  At five-feet-seven, he showed every ounce of the extra weight he had put on in the last few years.  The gain was due to the usual suspects--lack of exercise and long hours sitting at his desk.  But this was a price Max Roemer had paid gladly for the opportunity to build the successful legal practice that bore his name.
Bret wasn't so sure he was willing to make the same sacrifice.  He was taller than his father and had his mother's dark hair and eyes, and kept his body lean and muscular through involvement in sports of all kinds.  He knew from experience that women were attracted to his rough and ready looks, and he wanted to keep it that way.
He rode over to his father and Honeydew as she already turned toward him. Looking down at them from atop his sweating pony, he tried to brake the ice as gently as possible.  "Well, I see you two have met."
"Yes, Miss...Mellen...just introduced herself," Max said, without looking Bret in the eye.
"Good."  Bret smiled bravely at Honeydew but spoke to his father.  "I wish I'd known you were coming, Dad.  I could have used the extra moral support."
"I'm sure Miss Mellen was cheering you on."
"Yes, of course I was."   She was thirty-something, but covered so heavily in makeup that even Bret wasn't quite sure of her age.  She was also dressed rather formally for the country club in a blue pants suit, a silver chiffon blouse and an oversized black leather belt with large silver studs.  Multiple bracelets and rings, all real silver, adorned her wrists and fingers.  Her shoulder-length, strawberry-blond hair was perfectly composed, as though she had just come from the hairdresser, and her open-toed, spike-heeled shoes meant she was looking down on Max.
"What did you think of my game?" Bret asked Max as he swung his leg over his horse and dismounted.
"To be honest with you, son, I think a couple of things need a bit more work."  Max glanced at Honeydew.
Bret laughed nervously.  Honeydew had obviously made a questionable first impression on the old man.  That was not surprising; the level of his father's approval of the women Bret dated depended on how close they came to being like Bret's mother--which meant being gentle, soft-spoken and always conservatively dressed.
"Frankly, I'm surprised to see you out here, Dad. I didn't think you were the clubby type anymore."
"I have my reasons. I'm meeting Ari Fischer for lunch in the clubhouse in a few minutes."
"I see."  Bret was disappointed but not surprised that his father had come to keep a business appointment rather than to watch him play.  He was getting used to the idea of not seeing as much of his father as he once had.  Since Bret had joined the firm, Max had reduced his social calendar substantially.  When Bret needed to see his father now, it was always at the office.
Max smiled slightly.  "Now that I think of it, if you're finished with your...commitments..."  He cleared his throat--"on or off the polo field, how about joining us for lunch?  I don't think Ari would mind."
"Great," Bret said.  "Let me clean up and change my clothes, and I'll meet you in, say, twenty minutes."
Max nodded and turned to Honeydew.  "Sorry you can't join us, Miss Mellon, but we're going to be having a little business discussion over lunch.”
"I have to run along now, anyway.  It was nice to meet you, Mr. Roemer."
"Good day to you, Miss Mellen."  Max turned and walked toward his car.
When he was beyond hearing, Honeydew looked at Bret.  "I'm surprised I haven't met your father before.  He's been a member here for years, hasn't he?"  Because her family owned the club, she knew most of the people on the membership list, which read like a who's-who of upper New York State society.
"Dad's practically a founding member," Bret said.
"I got the feeling he wasn't exactly delighted when I introduced myself."
"Oh, don't pay any attention to that.  He can be a bit stuffy; his idea of fun is reading Goethe in the original German."
"No, I get the feeling he really doesn't like me."
"Of course he likes you.  He just doesn't know how to show it.  By the way, what are you doing tonight?"
"Nothing special."  She'd been saying that ever since he'd first noticed her watching him during polo matches, but he knew damned well she had plenty of suitors.  Her parents owned not only the country club but half the real estate in  New York.  A guy could do a lot worse....
"I'll pick you up at seven," he said.  "We'll think of something to do then.  But right now I've got to run."
"See you at seven."
The grooms came to take Bret's horse, and he hurried to the clubhouse to change his clothes.

              Dressed in a blue blazer, khaki pants and an open Madras shirt, Brett walked to the club's restaurant and approached the hostess stand.  The hostess smiled.  "Are you Mr. Roemer?"
"Yes. The younger one."
"I thought so.  Your father told me to keep an eye out for you.  Let me take you to his table."
Bret was often amused by the fact that total strangers could tell Max was his father, in spite of what Bret considered to be a total lack of resemblance.  He followed the hostess to the most distant corner of the room, far from other diners.  Ari Fischer had already arrived and appeared to be deep in conversation with Max.
When Bret reached the table, he extended his hand.  "It's good to see you again, Mr. Fischer.  It's been a long time."
"Too long," said Ari, as he rose to shake hands.
Bret was immediately struck by the expression on Ari's lined face.  The man was usually affable and smiling, but today he looked drawn, and there were dark hollows around his hazel eyes.  Unlike Bret's father, Ari had lost little of his hair.  Cropped close to his round head, it was iron gray on the top, with patches of snowy white at the temples. 
Bret's mind flashed back in time ten years, to the day he had sought Ari's advice about whether or not to accept his father's invitation to join the firm.  Ari's words had been clear and unequivocal.  "Yes, I would advise you to join.  Family is more important than you may think.  Take my word for it."
Brett had known immediately what Ari meant.  On the walls of Ari's office in Manhattan hung photographs of the people who, Ari had said, meant the most to him.  But the collection was far from complete.  Missing were photographs of the sixty members of his family who had not survived the Holocaust.

"Your father tells me you're a polo player now."
"Not a very good one, I'm afraid.  I'll have to keep my day job for a while longer."  Bret hesitated.  "You sure it's all right if I join you?  I get the feeling I might be intruding on something important."
"No, please stay.  In fact, I'm glad you're here." 
As Bret slipped onto the chair beside his father, Ari sat opposite him and said, "This is kind of a family matter anyway, and I would like you to hear what I have to say directly, without any translation from your father."
Max raised his chin in mock insult.  "And what's so bad about my translations?"
"Nothing at all.  It's just that this is not exactly a legal matter, and I don't have all the facts yet.  It's not like we're discussing case law."
"Fire away," said Max, then winked at his son.  "We Roemers are professionals; we can handle anecdotal testimony just fine."
The waiter approached.  They all decided to have the buffet, then ordered drinks:  wine for the two older men and beer for Bret.
After the waiter left, Ari leaned forward, clasping his hands on the tablecloth in what looked to Bret like an intentionally solemn gesture.  "Last night I had a very disturbing conversation with Claire.  You remember Claire, don't you, Bret?"
"Sure.  I last saw her...let's see, I guess it was five years or so ago, at her high-school graduation."
"She attended college for a couple of years, but has been in Germany for the last three years training in dressage.  You are familiar with dressage?"
"All I know is that it's a kind of fancy horseback riding."
"Well put.  Both my sister Madeleine and Claire are mad about it, so I took it upon myself to learn a bit of background.  The term 'dressage' is from the French dresser, which means 'to train.'  And that is what dressage riders do.  They spend enormous amounts of time and money conditioning themselves and their horses to perform very precise movements, like gymnastics on horseback, but only the horse moves. You can’t see the rider do anything. It’s like a magic act."
Bret had to laugh.  "And that doesn't make sense to you?"
"I can't honestly say it does, but at least I have been able to console myself with the fact that the greatest danger is falling off a horse now and then."  He paused.  "But that's changed."
"How so?" Max asked.
Ari sighed, then reprised a brief account of everything Claire had told him over the phone, including the terrible news about anthrax spores and the zoo fiasco. When they heard this, their chins dropped. Ari added, "Claire tried to minimize the threat to herself, personally, but it's clear to me that she could be in real danger--not because of anything she's done, but because she happens to be involved with the wrong sport, in the wrong place, at the wrong time.  I'm wondering what to do about it."
Max didn't hesitate.  "That's easy.  Just--"
He broke off as the waiter reappeared with the wine and beer.  After he left, Max leaned forward.  "Ari, my advice is simple:  bring Claire home.  Now.  I know your sister has horses over there for training, but why not persuade her to sell them?  Cut your losses, sleep at night, become a grandfather, and leave the rest to the police.  From what you just told us, Claire could be in the way of people who are willing to feed living human beings to lions."
"While videotaping it," Bret added.  Suddenly the thought of the luncheon buffet was no longer appealing.
Ari waved a hand.  "I agree with you completely, but I'm afraid Madeleine and Claire are both absolutely closed-minded about selling the horses.  That option is out of the question.  Also, apparently Claire is becoming a top-notch rider over there, so she's reluctant to break her training.  As for the police, pah!  I've done some checking, and the word is that between Interpol, Paris and Frankfurt, the authorities are too busy bickering with one another to do anything productive.  In fact, Interpol doesn't even believe the killings of the horse and the insurance man are connected."
"That's entirely beside the point," Max said.  "But the truth hurts sometime, and your daughter is a grown woman now.  No matter how worried you are, you can't force her to do something she doesn't want to do."
Ari snorted.  "That's more truth than I want to hear.  Which is why I need to have someone in Germany to act as my eyes and ears and maybe lean on the authorities a little bit. Meanwhile, whoever I send,  they could see to it that my daughter is protected.  I would go myself, but as much as I hate to admit it, I'm getting too old to be involved in something like this."  He sipped his wine.  "So what about you, Max?  Go for me, just like in the good old days.  You've always been my good-luck charm.  Isn't that so?"
Max chuckled.  "Not so fast, Ari.  I'm not getting any younger myself--and besides, I wouldn't make a very good Sherlock Holmes.  This sounds like a job for someone younger than me, and a lot more adventure……."  His voice trailed away.  After a moment his gaze flickered to Bret.  "Son, would you give your father and me a minute, please?"
"Sure," Bret said, still thinking that maybe he shouldn't have been so quick to accept the invitation for a free lunch.  Nevertheless, he got up and headed toward the buffet, but decided to pass on the roast beef this time.

             Max leaned over the table.  "Ari, Ari, Ari...I know what you're thinking, but I am not--hear me now--am not going to give you my only son.  I don't care how noble the cause is.  He needs to continue the practice of law and not be distracted by running off to Europe."
"I don't want you to give him to me, Max.  I just want to borrow him for a while."
"Oh, how innocuous you make it sound now--but it's too late; I've already heard enough about deadly diseases and man-eating lions."
"Max, listen.  We've been to hell and back together, haven't we?"
"Yes...." Max said warily.
"Having to deal with a few horse trainers and police detectives can't possibly match the difficulty of what we went through during the war, could it?  Or what about the negotiations we pulled off in Zurich and Coblenz twenty-five years ago?"
"That's different.  Horse trainers, police detectives and Swiss bankers do not typically feed people to lions."  But he spoke as if he weren't thinking about his own words.  "I wonder...is our old friend Henri Madrid still at the helm at Swiss Bancorp, do you know?"
"As a matter of fact, I do," said Ari.  "And the answer is 'yes,' thank God--although he must be getting close to retirement age by now.  Why?"
"You said Bancorp insured this dead horse, right?  Geronimo?"
"Yes."
"Then they've got a vested interest in what happened, too.  Which works to your advantage, because it means they've also got the kind of the clout they need to get things done in Europe.  Maybe Madrid will recommend someone to keep Claire under surveillance while..."
Ari was shaking his head.  "Forget it.  I'm not going to have someone snooping on my daughter without her knowledge, and I know she would never agree to a bodyguard.  But if someone she knows were to suggest--"
"'Someone she knows?'  She hasn't seen Bret since they were kids."
"Still..."
Max drummed his fingertips on the tabletop, then let out a sharp puff of breath.  "Let's see if we can establish some kind of connection with Madrid first.  Ari, I am not going to ask Bret to walk into a lions' den--so to speak--unless we have a few friends nearby in case he needs to be dragged out."
"Agreed," said Ari.  Now it was his turn to fall silent for a moment.  "Speaking of Madrid, I've been thinking... this might be a good time to tell Bret the family secrets."
Max's eyebrows rose.  "What about the confidentiality agreements?"
"This is family, and our children are old enough now to understand what we did.    Besides, if Bret agrees to go to Europe, he'll need to know the background--especially if Madrid gets involved."
Max thought a moment, then nodded.  "I have no problem with that.  Frankly, I've been dying to tell him myself for years."
"Then it's agreed."  The two men reached toward one another over the table and solemnly shook hands.
"When will you tell Claire?" Max asked.
"As soon as I can.  As for Bret--"  Looking toward the buffet, he saw Bret approaching with a plate heaped with salad.  Ari caught his eye and reassured him with a nod.  But the moment Bret took his seat the hostess appeared, carrying a cordless phone.  "Excuse me, Mr. Fischer, there's an emergency call for you.  Would you care to take it here, or...?"
"Thank you," said Ari, eyes sparking with worry.  He reached for the phone.  "Hello?  Yes?  What is it, Madeleine?"  He listened a moment, and his hand, laced with blue veins, tightened on the receiver.  "I see.  I see.  No, I haven't spoken to Claire today.  I agree.  Actually, I'm working on it right now.  With Max Roemer and his son Bret.  Please don't worry, Madeleine; we'll work something out.  I promise.  All right.  I'll call you later.  Goodbye."  He put the phone down on the tablecloth, then slowly lifted his head.
"What's wrong?" Max asked.  "Something about Claire?"
"My sister just got word through the equestrian grapevine that there was a big fire at a stable in Poland last night.  An American girl who trains there was badly injured; one of her horses was killed.  Other horses had to be put down from smoke inhalation."
"Do you think it was the same people who..."
Ari shrugged.  "Possibly Claire will know more.  I'm sure she knew about this before Madeleine, but didn't tell me for fear of making me even more worried.  Well, I am even more worried."  His gaze focused; his eyes regained their sharp energy.  "This clinches what we were just discussing, Max.  We need to get involved in this, and soon."
"I agree," said Max.  "Forgive me for whatever reservations I had before. I just realized in my selfishness that Claire is also your only child. How could I have been so insensitive?"
“I forgive you. Now let’s eat…”
Together, they then turned and looked at Bret.

Bret put down his salad fork.  "What?"

Chapter Four

Bon Appetite, New York.

Ari's gaze became even more intent and focused, locking at Bret as if Max’s son were, at that moment, the most important person in the world.  "We need your help, Bret.  That is, I need it, and so does Claire.  Whether you choose to go along or not is, of course, up to you.  But first, I ask that you hear me out completely."
"Sure," Bret said, settling back in his seat, his expression committing to nothing.  He had a pretty good "litigation face" himself.
Ari nodded.  "I'm going to start by telling you a story very few people have ever heard, or will ever hear.  You must promise to keep it in strictest confidence."
"Attorney-client privilege?"
"No.  The honor of honest men."
Bret nodded.  "Agreed."

            Although Ari had promised a rare story, he began by summarizing events that Bret had heard many times before, from his own father.  How Ari and Max had met in 1945, two little orphaned boys on a ship carrying them from Liverpool to Ellis Island.  "It was no picnic for any of us.  Imagine seeing the City of New York from the eyes of a child who had just arrived from a country in ruins."
Bret nodded, but he knew that he couldn’t imagine it, not really, and thought about how easy his life had been compared to his father’s.  That was the problem.  No matter what he did, he would never be able to match the achievements of men like his father and Ari.  The challenges just weren't there anymore.
Ari continued.  "We made do, as so many refugees did.  We grew up and found our ways.  Eventually Max went to law school, and I found work in sales for a printing company.  We were both very ambitious in those days.  I wanted to start my own company, as was my family’s tradition; Max wanted to one day have his own firm.  And we both eventually succeeded, of course."
Bret nodded patiently.  This was the point where the "immigrant saga" always ended, its lessons conveyed; after all, the rest of his family history simply described ever-increasing achievement.  Bret's favorite part of the tale was actually the very earliest part--the unlikely and unbreakable friendship that formed between an Aryan and a Jew during a time when such allegiances were not welcome, even in the New World.
Ari was still watching his face with unnerving intensity.  "Now jump forward to 1971.  Your father and I were still young men, grabbing the first rungs of the ladder in our chosen fields.  You may wonder why I was attracted to the printing business, as opposed to all the other options available in New York.  The answer is simple.  In Germany, my family owned and operated a very successful printing business.  Eventually, as happened to so many Jews, the Nazis confiscated our property and assets.  The records supporting most of the confiscation orders were hidden away.  They were concealed in unlikely places, such as the former Soviet Union or some of the more notorious South American countries.  In fact, only recently, newly discovered documents in Russia have been released to the public, which further confirmed suspicions about the purpose of the Wannsee Conference."
"The what?"
Max laughed ruefully.  "All those private schools, and for what?  Ari, I'm afraid you'll have to explain what you're referring to."
"Oh, yes.  I forgot, young people haven’t been taught these things in school.  Well.  The Wannsee Conference of 1942 was a meeting of the highest-ranking Nazi officials where the so-called ‘Final Solution’ was adopted as a policy of state-sponsored genocide.  Not just genocide--extermination; the elimination of any evidence that Jews, Gypsies and certain other groups ever existed.  Naturally, this included getting rid of their earthly wealth, including all the ownership records.  In some cases the wealth had already been transferred to so-called safe harbors, such as Switzerland.  But after the war, when the survivors tried to get their assets back,  few records existed. Trying to match specific personal information with the survivors making claims was, more often than not, impossible.  To make matters worse, the Swiss banks, notorious for secrecy, refused to cooperate with them or their representatives."
"Are you speaking from personal experience?" Bret asked.
Ari made a casual gesture with his hand.  "I knew my parents had managed to transfer some of their assets to the Bank of Switzerland before the rest was confiscated, and I had made a few inquiries over the years--with no result.  Fortunately, more recently organizations like the Simon Wiesenthal Center and the National Jewish Congress forced the U.S. Government to hold hearings, and a new dialogue finally began to emerge.  Truth and money are at last being released to their rightful beneficiaries."
He shifted his position slightly.  "Now, with this background, I would like your father to tell you what he and I did in Switzerland in 1971."
Bret twisted toward his father.  "I remember you leaving on that trip.  I was five or six years old, and Mom cried all the time you were gone--until one night she got a phone call and started walking around like she was in a dream."  He paused.  "Come to think of it, that was right before you started your own firm."  He looked at Ari.  "And your printing company, am I right?"
Max smiled.  "It all began when Ari and I were having one of our weekly luncheons downtown.  We got to brainstorming about life in America and what the future had in store for us, as we often did.  We knew there were thousands of lawyers in New York, and hundreds of printers.  We both disliked working for other people.  We realized we would never meet our goals if we didn't start thinking outside the box a little more.  So that day we hatched the beginnings of different strategy.  A unique strategy.  Frankly, to this day I'm still amazed we pulled it off."  He lifted his wine glass, as though he were about to propose a toast.  "It was Ari who came up with the plan."
Ari shook his head.  "Bret, don't give any credence to this unwarranted modesty from your father.  He was indispensable then, as he is now.  He is a man of considerable gravitas, your father, a genius in my book."
Bret smiled.  He couldn't remember the last time Max had taken credit for the many things he had accomplished.  It was simply not in his nature to gloat.
"The plan," Max said, "was unique and ethically justified--but it required just the right spin to make it work.  Ari and Iflew together to Europe.  He had already gathered all the available evidence concerning the assets his family had left behind after the Nazis took over.  The idea was that I would go to the Bank of Switzerland with this material and--"
"Wait," said Bret.  "Why you?  Why not Ari?  And you just said that finding documentation was always a problem, and the Swiss banks always stonewalled."
"That's correct," said Ari.  "During the war the Swiss banks were actually in cahoots with the Nazis; we know this from documents that were confiscated later.  When it came time to honor their commitments, all the banks acted in concert, deciding to honor only insurance policies and bank accounts outside of Germany and Austria.  The Swiss banks were in charge of most insurance at that time as well, you see.  They were afraid that if they allowed German Jews to make claims, world markets could be destabilized and ruin the entire Swiss banking industry’s financial credibility.  All claims that had been made directly by German and Austrian Jews had been turned down cold."
"But my father..."
"Am not a Jew," Max said.  "In fact, to my knowledge I was the only German national and United States citizen who had ever played the role of principal agent in a restitution claim."
"Still, if they gave in to you, that must have been some good evidence you showed them."
Ari smiled.  "Max had every single record concerning my family's pre-Wannsee assets.  Everything.  It had all been  preserved by a German man named Dr. Egon Falckenstein."
"Falckenstein...that does sound familiar."
"Yes, I’m sure  you've heard me mention it before.  Hubertus  Falckenstein, Egon's son, is my daughter Claire's riding coach."
"That's right.  So his father defied the Nazis and hid your family's records from them?"
"Oh, he hid more than that.  He and his wife hid Madeleine and me until we could escape to America; they kept us in a small room above the stables at Dreieichenhof for almost a year."  He smiled slightly.  "I suspect that's where Madeleine's obsession with horses began."
Bret cocked his head.  Stunned by the revelation. He swallowed hard into a dry throat and then chocked back the emotion swelling in his chest. This was no Hollywood movie, a light weight Broadway play, or some storytellers fantasy. This was real. The story of his family he had never heard. After a well hidden sigh, he exhaled and then caught his breath and composure once again.
"Couldn't they have been executed for hiding Jews?" he blurted out.
"Yes indeed."  Ari lifted his glass and gulped down his wine, as if to also find a way to clear his throat.  "When I saw Dr. Falckenstein again in 1972, I asked him point-blank why he risked so much for two Jewish children.  He said, 'Not all Germans agreed with the government’s policies in those days.  I did what I could.'"
Bret nodded.  He wondered what he would have done in the same circumstances.  He hoped he would have been as courageous as Dr Falckenstein, but how could one know a thing like that for sure?
"Dr. Falckenstein was a farmer and an agricultural scientist," said Max .  "The Fischers were printers and packaging manufacturers.  As the old saying goes, 'An army marches on its stomach,' so the Nazis were very interested in packaging and processing food.  In the early stages of the war they were not above taking advantage of Jewish enterprise, so Falckenstein and the Fischers were brought together in a close working relationship."
Ari picked up the thread, will you my old friend?  "As time went by the fact that my family was Jewish became more and more of an issue, but Falckenstein ignored that.  He was a man of character, and with the privileges attached to his government position, he had an unusual opportunity to see what was really happening to innocent people in his country.  He didn't like what he saw  and grew increasingly determined to thwart the injustices of his government no matter what the personal cost to himself or his family.  So when the confiscation order came down, he smuggled me and Madeleine to his estate and hid us away." 
Ari cleared his throat again.  "Over the years, my sister and I stayed in touch with Dr. Falckenstein, but it wasn’t until after Max and I had planned our trip back to Europe that I found out about the hidden documentation.  As you can imagine, I was elated.  I had expected to spend most of my time in Europe researching government archives and running into one obstacle after another, like everybody else.  But when we arrived in Frankfurt, we were taken to the office where the documents had been kept under lock and key for almost thirty years.  Everything was there:  insurance policies, bank account numbers, bonds and old corporate records of my family’s printing business.  The only thing that seemed to be lost was a copy of the 1942 confiscation order issued from Munich, with Goering’s signature on it. We never found it."  He glanced at his old friend.  "Why don’t you continue, Max?  The next part of the story is really yours."
Max nodded.  "Once we had the documents, Ari and I split up.  I went to the Swiss bank of record by myself, while Ari remained in Frankfurt.  We figured that even with the documentation we had, the Swiss would never agree to anything that would open the floodgates to other claimants.  We had to structure our request in such a way as to avoid establishing a precedent."
Brett raised his eyebrows.  "How in the world did you manage that?"
"With some help from one of the bankers, actually.  I arrived at the Bank of Switzerland--that was its name in those days--with key documentation in my briefcase, but no clear idea of how I was going to use it.  I was to meet a man named Henri Madrid, the only mid-level officer at the time.  That struck me as a bad sign, but Madrid seemed open and interested in doing the right thing.  He reviewed the documents I'd brought and told me quite candidly that although they appeared to be complete and authentic, he could never get approval for any traditional form of reparation, under any circumstances.  Still, he didn't throw me out.  We continued to discuss the matter, until three hours later we had a possible solution--though I wasn’t sure Ari would go for it."
"You're teasing me," Brett said.
"Perhaps a little.  The plan was this:  if Ari and the bank could agree on a sum that represented the value of the Fischer's confiscated assets adjusted over time, Madrid would persuade the bank to loan Ari up to eighty percent of that value, interest free, on a ten-year revolving cycle.  This loan could be extended twice under identical terms as long as the outstanding balance was paid off every ten years.  For his part, Ari would agree to never make the terms of the agreement public.
"But as I say, that was just the first step.  The next thing was to persuade Ari to go along, and that took considerable discussion over the phone.  But we worked it out, and I caught a train to Coblenz the next day to implement our plan.  This time we acted together, calling on a company called Print Machine International.  Before and during the war, PMI supplied equipment to the European printing industry, including the Fischers.  But Ari had done his homework on this company, and he knew that it had not only sympathized with the Nazi cause but collaborated in carrying out official confiscation orders.  The company had actually prospered during the war, and continued to do so afterward.
"It was clear from the moment we walked into their office that they expected trouble--remember, Ari?  Despite the short notice, all the Board members were there, and an attorney as well.
"Ari did all the talking.  I pretty much just sat there and watched as he laid out a non-combative strategy to deal with a potentially explosive situation.  He began by telling the Board that we had come looking not for restitution, but for a relationship that would benefit both parties then and in the future.  His proposal was to purchase state-of-the-art equipment from PMI, at their cost, for his printing company in New York.  He would pay cash, using the interest-free capital loaned by the Bank of Switzerland.  From then on, his shop would be the showcase for PMI’s advanced printing technology in America, and any cutting-edge engineering or equipment they developed would be available to him first, to further assure his commercial advantage."
Ari broke in.  "In the printing business, I knew all I needed was a six-month lead-time on my competitors and they would never catch me."
"For PMI's part," Max added, "they had been hoping for years to penetrate the American market.  Overall the situation was pure win-win, and PMI jumped at it--their counsel did nothing during that meeting but nod, and we had a contract signed before we returned to New York.  And to this day, both parties have benefited greatly."
Max eased back in his chair and smiled across the table at Ari.  Bret let out a breath.  "What an amazing story.  I don't know what to say."
Max pushed away from he table.  "Well, why don't you think about it while Ari and I get some food.  All this talking has made me hungry."
Ari rose, too.  "I could eat a little."
Bret tucked into his salad, which he'd hardly touched up to now.  When the older men returned to the table, he forced himself to let Ari eat a few bites before saying, "Forgive me, Mr. Fischer, but I'd like to ask a couple of questions.  I hope they don't seem impertinent."
Bret noted his father’s instant frown and realized that Max feared a rude inquisition, or at least disrespect.  But Ari said, "Please go ahead.  I appreciate the fact that you care enough to put me on the spot."
"Well, first of all, there's no question that what you both did turned out to be a good deal, for you personally...but what about all the other Jews who were not as fortunate?  Don't you feel a little bit guilty about that?"
The answer came without hesitation.  "In a word, no.  I thank God every day for His blessings, and in appreciation for my good fortune, I've done my best to use my success to help others who are less fortunate."
"Bret," Max said, "over the years Ari and Madeleine have donated millions of dollars to the Jewish Congress, the Simon Wiesenthal Center and other charitable organizations.  Not to mention the little foundation Ari and his wife set up ten years ago to aid needy families in New York City.  Or the fact that when the Congressional restitution hearings were held, Ari's donations to the legal fund helped produce meaningful results for the first time."
Bret nodded.  "I expected something like that.  But I'm also wondering about God."
"I beg your pardon?" Ari said.  
"You've thanked God a couple of times, and I think you mean it as more than a figure of speech.  I wonder about that.  Most of your family went to the gas chambers, and you became an orphan, all because of your heritage.  Didn't that shake your faith?  Weren't you ever angry with God?"
Ari folded his hands together on the table.  "Bret, I don’t think there is any other choice but to trust in God.  I ask you, what happens if you abandon God because you are angry with him and put all your faith in mankind?  What does history teach us about mankind's habits?"
Bret thought about that for a moment, then spread his hands wide in a gesture of acceptance.  "I understand.  In fact, I would feel very privileged if you would consider me your friend from now on, Ari, as you do my father."
"Of course, I would be honored to do so."
They shook hands over the table while they ate in silence.
When Bret eventually sat back he broke the spell in a way that made the older men proud.  "Now maybe you two schemers would do me the favor of telling me what, exactly, you want me to do for you."

            Max smiled with half his mouth.  "We hadn't planned to ambush you with this, son; I really did invite you here for a meal.  But now...well, we were wondering if you would mind taking a brief trip to Germany, to look in on things with Claire and the horses.  It would ease Ari’s mind tremendously to have you there."
"And Claire's mind too, I'm sure," Ari added.
Bret held up a hand, palm out.  "You don't have to talk me into it.  It's been years since I've visited Europe, and the history lesson you just gave me only whets my appetite for more.  Besides...sorry, dad, but environmental law isn’t the most exciting field in the world, even if it's personally very satisfying."  When his father rolled his eyes, Bret turned to Ari and smiled.  "Dad calls me a tree hugger.  But the truth is that lately I've been hugging more corporate clients than trees.  This sounds like an opportunity for me to take a break and smell the roses a while."  What he really needed, he thought, was some time away from the firm, to think more clearly about his future in general.
"You won't be smelling any roses in Germany my son," Max said.  "Don't mistake this for a vacation.  Not when there's a chance you might end up seeing a zoo from the wrong side of the bars."
"I can appreciate all that," Bret said.  "But that doesn't mean I can't enjoy myself while I'm there, does it?"
"Then it’s settled," said Ari, smiling.  "If it's all right with your father, you can pack this weekend and be on your way by early next week.  I'll give you Claire's phone number and e-mail address.  She can help you get a hotel and make any other arrangements you may need."
Max gave Bret a cautioning look.  "But don't forget about your clients.  Make sure they're fully informed about this sabbatical, or whatever we decide to call it."
"Fortunately," said Bret, "environmental law is such a slow-moving process that I probably won’t even be missed.  And if my clients need an explanation, why not tell them that I'm going abroad to study the European approach to environmental law?"
"That's perfect," said Ari.  "Max, I feel better already.  Bret thinks on his feet, just like his father, a chip off the old block for sure."
Bret looked at the expression of pride on his father's face and felt a sudden tremor of apprehension.  Not about ending up as food for lions, which seemed a very remote possibility now, but about the chance he might disappoint either of these great men in some unintentional way.  His father was right--this was not just about some kind of holiday he was undertaking.  It was a lot more.  It was… a mission. 

Chapter Five

Dreieichenhof, Germany

Later that afternoon, Claire stopped at the office to visit with Hubertus's administrative assistant, Frau Erlich. She made a point of doing so at least once every day.
The austere but functional office building housed the Dreieiechenhof staff for all of Falckenstein's various business enterprises. She peered through the glass partitions separating the interior cubicles and spotted her friend, Frau Erlich. As usual, she was well turned out, although conservatively dressed by American standards. She wore her medium-length gray hair pulled back in a severe bun, little jewelry, and a floral print blouse with a wool skirt that fell well below the knee. Despite the severe wardrobe, her youthful enthusiasm for her work and her loyalty to Falckenstein were always evident, making her seem much younger than her years.
When she turned her head and saw Claire, she immediately dropped what she was doing and came over, wearing an easy smile.
"Good morning," Claire said. "Any mail for me today?"
"Oh, I am so glad you came by. Yes, there is a letter for you, but there was also a man looking for you. Did you see him? I told him where to find your apartment."
"I wasn't there; I went for a walk before my afternoon riding schedule. Who was he?"
"He said he was from Interpol. First he asked to talk to Herr Falckenstein, then Helena, and finally to you."
"Did you get his name or ask for identification?"
Frau Erlich's smile vanished. "I didn't think...he seemed to be...oh, dear--"
"I'm sure it's all right, Frau Erlich," Claire said. "Was he a large, imposing-looking man with curly hair?"
"No, not at all. He was thin and muscular looking.”
"Then it's not the same Interpol agent who was here for the meeting yesterday. Do you know where I can find him?"
Frau Erlich was pale with concern. "He could still be talking to Helena."
"Helena?" Frau Erlich's mused. "Yes, Helena resumed her duties this morning."

Claire wasted no time and went searching for Helena immediately. Fortunately, she was sitting alone in the communal lunchroom. What Claire planned to discuss was not something for the working students to overhear. "Hello, Helena. Teaching today?"
Helena’s middle aged skin looked grayish under its perpetual tan. "Your cowboy movies have a saying: 'It is time to get back in the saddle.'"
"Everyone will be happy to see you out here again. I'm so glad," Claire said. "I'm sure Hubertus will be, too. Where are all your students? It’s not like you to be drinking coffee alone"
"Working hard, I hope. They aren't so happy with me right now. I had to scold them this morning for being irresponsible again." Helena shrugged her broad shoulders. "They'll get over it. They always do."
If Helena was back in full dictator mode, then she was definitely recovering from the loss of Geronimo. Claire had never been the recipient of one of Helena's tongue-lashings, but she had frequently seen others get dressed down. Helena even scolded the horses when they were naughty, using Dutch, French, English, or German, depending on the severity of the transgression. But even the most reprimanded student would admit that Helena was never mean, just short-tempered. And if they were honest about it, they deserved all the criticism they received.”
As Claire took a seat at the table, she looked closely at her friend, trying to read what lay under the surface of her face. Helena's expression gave nothing away except that she was tired, which was typical even without the added stress of recent events. While Claire was responsible for taking care of only three horses, Helena was expected to ride as many as twelve. She wore no make-up to hide the dark circles under her eyes or the weathering of her skin from spending ten hours each day in the open air in all kinds of weather. She was holding a half-empty coffee cup in one hand and a cigarette in the other.
She looked at Claire, "We have someone new in town with a lot of questions on his mind. Did you see him? He just left. From Interpol, of all places."
"Yes, I heard. Frau Erlich told me he was here. What sort of questions did he ask you?"
"Stupid ones, like have there been any unusual happenings here lately, and have we noticed any strangers on the property. What a joke! I told him to look around. 'You're a stranger yourself,' I said to him." She shrugged. "He seemed satisfied with that, and left."
"Was he looking for me, too," Claire asked. "If he comes back, please let him nothing, would you? Or tell him to leave a message for me with Frau Erlich."
"Okay. Really I don't mind sharing him with you, Claire," Helena said with a smile.
"Thanks, but no thanks. He doesn’t sound like my type."
"No? Well, who is your type then?"
"Right now, something with a mane, tail, and four legs."
"Ah, that's my type, too." Helena's smile vanished as her concern for the horses returned. "What do you think is happening, Claire? I heard about the fire in Poland. I hope the danger is past That Aladdin of yours, he's becoming quite well-known. Don't you worry about him now?"
"Yes. In fact...I was thinking about paying Saskia a visit soon."
"Saskia Handler? The girl who trains over at the Reitenlage?"
"Yes. I'm thinking about moving my aunt’s horses there. They have much better security than we do you know. Maybe you should consider it as well."
Helena's face sank into its fiercest dictator mode. "I've never thought of leaving here, for any reason. This is my home. It's all I've ever known."
"I'm not talking about moving permanently. Just until better arrangements can be made here to protect the horses. If I were you, I'd at least relocate Excalibur until the trouble blows over. It's only five minutes away, and Hubertus goes over there all the time."
Helena shrugged. "I'll consider it. But right now, get Aladdin ready before my evening students start to arrive. We'll work on the canter zig-zag. I have an idea for you that may help Aladdin smooth out his transitions in each change of direction...."

Chapter Six

Zurich

Henri Madrid eased back in his oversized leather chair and pondered what had become known at Swiss Bancorp as the "Kirchborn Enigma." It was not nearly enough. What he didn’t know left him with a feeling of extreme dissatisfaction, one he had never quite grown accustomed to. He had built his career by solving problems, not being victimized by them. He sank even deeper in his chair, putting his heels up on the desk. In ten minutes the Interpol agent assigned to the Geronimo case would be arriving for his appointment; after that, the executive staff would get together for the first time in weeks. Perhaps at the end of the day he would finally have what he wanted most, a clear sense of direction.
Meanwhile, he turned his thoughts to a conversation he'd had with Carlo Sebastiani recently. It, too, had been frustrating and inconclusive. To many people, Geronimo was "just another dead horse"--but not to Carlo Sebastiani. Geronimo was too well-known and too closely associated with the romantic image of the Olympic movement. It surprised Madrid that even Dressage competition was on Sebastiani’s radar screen. He had been known to refer to the Olympics as "my Games," and vehemently guarded against any suggestion of scandal that might threaten the blissful picture of world peace so carefully packaged for public consumption by the OOSC's marketing department.
Madrid also learned that Sebastiani had been informed first about the incident by Contessa Ballestora de Tarrentino, his countrywoman and a longstanding member of the Executive Committee at the OOSC. Coincidentally, she also just happened to be the head of the World Equestrian Institute, which--like the OOSC--was based in Lausanne. All international sport horse activity was tracked through her office.
It was not hard to understand the quid pro quo in this arrangement. The equestrian component of the Games was a perennial target for elimination. The events were judged too expensive, too elitist, and above all, too costly. But as long as the Contessa voted the way Sebastiani wanted her to, he would take a hands-off approach. Most OOSC appointments and elections were built around such flagrant reciprocity. Which was to say, business as usual.
Madrid understood this, but was not troubled by it. In his experience, acknowledging the way the world actually worked was more beneficial--and profitable--than pretending things were otherwise. Together, He and Sebastiani had learned the value of this lesson in 1980, when the United States and several other countries pulled out of the Olympic Games in protest over the Soviet Union's invasion of Afghanistan. No financial institution was willing to back a reduced program, particularly when the boycott threatened the future viability of the Olympics themselves.
No financial institution other than Swiss Bancorp & Indemnity, that is. The crisis erupted during Madrid's first month as Vice President of Finance for Bancorp and, coincidentally, Sebastiani's first year as director of the OOSC. Even back then it was Madrid's nature and strength to think long-term and strategically. For him, international politics was not an obstacle to investment, but rather a dynamic and fluid environment to be exploited. And he was impressed with the energy and commanding style of Sebastiani. He convinced the Bancorp Board of Directors to finance and indemnify the OOSC's multi-million-dollar capital requirements for the Moscow Games. His financial projections were very optimistic. If they were accurate, the bank would make out like a bandit.
As it turned out, they were accurate, and in the years that followed, Swiss Bancorp had become an ongoing financial partner of an increasingly sophisticated and growing OOSC. The creative accounting and confidentiality protocols of the Swiss banking system were used to shield the size, scope and nature of their relationship from preying eyes and the public view. It didn't hurt, either, that Madrid's mother was Italian and Madrid spoke the language fluently. For Sebastiani, a sentimental Fascist, it was like keeping things in the family.
Still, looking back on his last conversation with Sebastiani, Madrid felt unsettled. His client had seemed unusually interested in finding out what Madrid knew. When he asked why it mattered , Sebastiani became evasive. “Oh, just curious.” He said unconvincingly. Madrid, an excellent judge of people, felt that his friend had been fishing for information on the one hand while trying to conceal it on the other. Not his usual style. But why would he--

Ring, ring….the self induced trance was broken.
Madrid was nearly startled out of his chair. Was that Lausanne calling already?
No. It was Frau Hilfenberg, informing him that his two o’clock appointment--the agent from Interpol--had arrived.
Madrid sat up and straightened his tie. "Please show the inspector in."

When the door to Madrid’s office opened again following the meeting with Inspector Geisel, Madrid’s top lieutenants ,Croucher, Petrova, Farner, and Ullenberg, were waiting patiently outside his office. Madrid’s meeting with Geisel had run late, something they all noted as uncharacteristic of their leader. As the door opened, Geisel walked ahead followed by Madrid, who wore a grave expression.
“Good to see you again, Inspector.” Said Ms Petrova, taking his hand briefly. “Thank you for the beautiful flowers.”
Ullenberg and Farner looked at each other curiously, not knowing who the inspector was and why he was sending flowers to one of their vice-presidents. But they knew Madrid’s style and knew they would soon be told everything. Madrid was not one to keep secrets, especially from his management team.
“Inspector, this is Herr Ullenberg, the head of our Underwriting Department and his counterpart in Finance, Herr Farner. In the coming days, I suspect you will all need to work closely together.
“My pleasure, said Geisel as he shook their hands and headed for the door, not offering to make small talk.
“Ms Helfenberg, please see the inspector out.”
“Yes, sir.”
Madrid turned to his team. “Sorry we ran late but I think when you learn what I have just heard you will forgive me. Now, please close the door so we can get started.”



Chapter Seven

Frankfurt, Germany

Lufthansa Flight 1546 touched down on the tarmac of Frankfurt am Main Airport on schedule, and the passengers immediately began preparing to disembark. Most were traveling because they had to. The primary lure of Frankfurt am Main was business; the city was a hub for institutional commerce worldwide. Banking was central to the cities thriving economy, which had become a model for the growing economic strength and stability of the European Union.
Frankfurt was also a Mecca for equestrians. Many of the best riders in the world had moved there, hoping to find the right combination of training and competition to qualify for a national team.
Bret Roemer, tired by the long flight and in dire need of stretching his legs, straightened his tie, grabbed his carry-on bag from the overhead compartment, and walked down the jetway toward the terminal. He made the long trek through immigration, customs and baggage claim in a semi-fog. This was his first visit to Europe in years and his first ever to Germany—and he hoped, his last experience with serious jet lag.
But the time away from his legal duties and social obligations gave him a much-needed opportunity to think about what sort of reception he was going to get from Claire Fischer, and how he was going to accomplish his mission--a mission with no specific guidelines and no timetable. He was not used to unstructured working conditions. The practice of law was all about order, rules and precedent. He now had to play the role of afreelancer. The trip was as close to professional bungee jumping as he ever wanted to get. He would have to adjust to his new environment quickly and make up the rules as he went along. In short, he was under no illusion about the challenges ahead
After claiming his luggage, he negotiated his way through the sliding doors that separated the international passengers from the general public. Like just another bee in a swirling hive, blurry-eyed and disoriented, he was carried along by the flow, merging with the amorphous crowd milling chaotically around the terminal.

Claire Fischer stood on tiptoe, watching the large pneumatic doors open and close as they released a few passengers at a time from customs. It had been some time since she had seen the son of her father's best friend. But she recognized him instantly when she finally caught a passing glimpse through the congestion. Would time have changed him? Was he aging gracefully? Surprisingly, he hadn't changed much, after all. Tall, at six-feet-three, with dark, almost black hair inherited from his Argentinean mother, his boyish good looks were balanced by piercing brown eyes and an aristocratic nose.
She raised an arm and waved it over the bobbing heads that momentarily separated them. "Brett! Brett Roemer!" He heard his name as three musical notes floating over the rumble of footsteps and droning of loudspeakers. He turned to look for the source. As he recalled, Claire's teenage voice had been rather skinny and angular, just like the rest of her. Certainly nothing like the mollifilus sound he was hearing now.
Then he spotted a young woman looking directly at him from only a few feet away. Average height, blond hair, blue eyes, high cheekbones, lots of curves...if that was Claire, more than her voice had changed. He thought. But the closer he looked, the more he realized how much she looked like Ari's sister, Madeleine.
Claire slipped through the few people separating them and thrust out her hand. "Willkommen zu Deutschland, Bret. Wiegehts? I’m Claire. Do you recognize me?"
"Absolutely," he lied. "It’s great to see you again. But please take it slow on the German for a while, will you, till I get the hang of it? My Berlitz course is still in its box inside my luggage."
She laughed. "Oh, don’t worry about that. You'll be surprised how easy it is to get around without knowing much more than the basic vocabulary."
"That's a relief."
She guided him through the crowd by gently pushing his elbow. "You must be tired. We'll be out of here in no time, and I’ll drive you to the hotel. You probably could use some rest before dinner."
"You’re right about that. Airline food just doesn’t do it for me." he said.
As they shouldered their way through the terminal, she glanced up at him again. "I’m very relieved that you're here. And I confess, a little excited. There’s so much to tell you."
"I feel the same way," said Bret, smiling at her, thinking that his father couldn't have been more wrong about one thing: this trip was definitely not going to be all work.