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That’s a good question. I didn’t think this through.
While I scramble for a reasonable answer, Hans jumps in. “What’s happening? Did someone get hurt?”
The man shakes his head. “Celebrities. They always cause problems.”
Hans purses his lips in a silent whistle. “So much trouble. My brother worked that concert in Munich. Did you hear about it?” Apparently, Hans has no qualms about the truth. He has no brother.
The officer raises his hands in disgust. “Don’t get me started. That was insane.”
Hans offers the guy a piece of candy. “Who is it this time? And what did they do?”
“I shouldn’t.” I’m not sure if he’s referring to taking the treat or telling Hans, but he does both. “Lotte von Friedl.”
“The singer? Is Jonah with her?” Hans holds the bag of candies out again as if he has nothing better to do than gossip all night.
“She has a whole entourage, but Jonah was not with them. I think that marriage is—” He points his thumb at the ground and gives Hans a meaningful look. “One of Jonah’s teammates is here. And that actress from England. And I heard Vivienne de la Courte is here, too, but she wasn’t with Lotte.”
I release my held breath. This mess isn’t Andela’s fault. Not that anyone at the palace will believe it with those videos. “That’s a lot of celebrities for a relatively unknown K-pop group.”
“K-pop? This isn’t K-pop. This is the Kursalon.” He points across the street at a huge, brightly lit Italian Renaissance building. Banners depicting busts of Italian masters hang from two tiers of stone arches, with bright spotlights illuminating the images. “There’s a gala.” He makes the last word sound dirty.
I raise my phone and show him the K-pop venue’s website. “Where is this place?”
“Do I look like a tour guide?” The man glares at me, then glances at Hans, and his expression softens. He raises his brows and looks over our shoulders, jerking his head a little. “Over there.”
We turn. Across the wide boulevard, a row of old stone buildings stand dark and quiet. I frown at the officer. “Really? It looks too quiet.”
“Down that road.” He nods again, a little to the right.
Hans points. “There.”
Following his finger, I catch a glimpse of light down a narrow side street. I check my phone—the taxi driver must have misunderstood our destination. Or didn’t want to drive around the other side. “Thank you, officer.”
“Good luck.”
Hans and I hurry across the blocked street, skirting the other police, and slip between the pedestrians clogging the sidewalk. The side street is narrow—barely wide enough for a single lane of cars to squeeze past the parked vehicles. Halfway down, a grand entrance breaks the white stone façade with a high arch and Greek style statues on either side. Tall wood doors stand open, so we walk in.
The glittering lobby is empty. A ticket office on one side is shuttered. Voices carry down the broad stone steps—lots of voices. I raise a brow and jerk my head at Hans. “Upstairs?”
“Best bet.”
We hurry across the polished parquet floor and up the vast stairs. On the second floor, we follow the commotion to a side hallway. A gaggle of men carrying large cameras stomp past us, grumbling, with a pair of venue security agents herding them along. “You missed the scoop,” one of the camera-toting men crows at me. “May as well go back to the stuffy party next door.”
The guard urges the three men past us. Another uniformed man makes a pushing motion at us. “You two. Go with the rest of them.”
“We aren’t with them.” I shrug off my backpack. “We’re looking for my sister and her friends. She was here earlier.” I unzip the hidden back pocket and slide my hand inside.
“Try another one. I wasn’t born yesterday.” He grabs my shoulder and gives me a push toward the door.
“No, really.” Hans whips out his phone, showing Eva’s video. “These girls. We know they were here.”
The guy spares a glance at Hans’s phone then rolls his eyes so hard I’m surprised they don’t pop out of his head. “One of those girls is your sister? Sure. And my cousin is Lotte von Friedl. Do you think they’ll let me look for her down at the Kursalon? Get out.” He shoves Hans this time.
I pull out my passport, waving it to brandish the green cover. Most European passports are red or blue, so ours stand out. When the guy’s eyes narrow, I flip it over and show him my identity page.
“Big deal, you’re from Freiberg. It’s not that small a country.” He frowns and yanks the document from my grip, holding it up beside my face. “That’s you, all right. But it says your name is Feltz. Nice try.” He shoves the booklet at me.
“Have you looked at Princess Andela’s passport?” I lean forward and point to a line at the bottom. “It looks remarkably like this.”
