Without speaking, the visitor set the briefcase on the desk, worked the combination, then opened it. Every eye was riveted on it—and every eye was filled with greed. He began extracting packets of crisp, new, hundred-dollar bills. Without a word, he handed each man two packets—twenty bills or two thousand dollars per packet. Finished, he closed the briefcase again and locked it. He looked up, letting his eyes move from face to face. “You’ll have the rest when I’m on my way out and everything is still quiet.” His voice was soft, his accent strange, perhaps Eastern European.
He looked up at the camera mounted on one corner. Seeing that, the first man quickly spoke. “The tapes will be erased before you’re out of the parking lot.”
He nodded curtly. He looked around. “Gentleman, I have a legal right to be here. I am Armando Mendosa’s legal counsel.” There were vigorous nods. “The only illegal thing we are doing tonight is making sure that I come and go without anyone knowing it.” That, he thought, and the ten-thousand-dollar bribe I’m paying each of you to help me get in and out without detection. But he didn’t say that, of course. His face turned hard. “If this ever becomes known to anyone outside the five of us, you will die. Slowly and horribly. Do we understand each other?” No one said anything. They didn’t have to. They were thoroughly frightened men. Which was as it should be.
“All right. Take me to him.”
“We already have him waiting in one of the interrogation rooms,” the first man said quickly.
“Good. As agreed, I’ll be no more than fifteen minutes.”
Armando Mendosa, the man who chose to call himself El Cobra, was a beaten man. He sat on a chair across the table from the attorney—who was no attorney at all—in an interrogation room where they could not be overheard. His head was down, his hands massaging his temples. He was still trying to throw off the effects of being awakened from a dead sleep. Finally, the older man leaned forward. “All right. Talk fast. Start from the first. What went wrong?”
El Cobra began, quickly becoming more and more agitated as he spoke. Soon he was bouncing back and forth like a tennis ball at a Wimbledon match. He would remember a detail he’d forgotten, or break off the narrative to try to defend his actions. The words poured out, and he grew more desperate as he realized just how utterly insane it must all sound to this sophisticated stranger.
After nearly ten minutes, Mendosa finally stopped. “I know it sounds fantastic, but that’s the truth of it.”
The man’s hand moved so fast that it was barely a blur. His palm caught Armando fully on the left cheek so hard it snapped his head back. “And that is what you expect me to tell your employers? That it was all the girl’s doing?” He openly scoffed. “She’s a sixteen-year-old kid from a town that’s no more than a pimple on a map. And her boyfriend’s what? A year older? Come on, Armando. What game are you playing here?”
El Cobra leaped up and started pacing, wringing his hands. “I swear to you, Señor, it is God’s truth. Ask Eileen. Ask Raul. They will confirm everything I say.”
His inquisitor went on as if he hadn’t spoken. “Your employers are fully prepared to keep their part of the agreement. Fifty thousand Euros have already been transferred into private bank accounts in each of your names. Those funds will be released when it is fully clear that you have fulfilled your part of the agreement, which is total silence. Should your case ever come to trial—and plans are already under way to ensure that will never happen—my firm, one of the largest and most prestigious law firms in America, will represent you. And rest assured that none of you will be spending any significant prison time.”
He suddenly jerked forward so quickly that Armando recoiled. “But all of that will be withdrawn in an instant if I go back and tell them this ridiculous story. Do you think they are fools?”
“I swear it, Señor. It is God’s truth. You have to believe me. Ask Eileen. She was in the boat with me when it sank.”
The lawyer stood up and picked up his briefcase. “Your wife is in a separate women’s facility up near Phoenix. I cannot get to her right now.”
“Do you really think I would be such a fool as to make up a story like that?”
A thin smile came, then quickly vanished again in the thickness of the older man’s white beard. “Funny you should suggest that. I was just asking myself that same question.”
The payoff of the remainder of the ten thousand per guard went quickly. They were as anxious to see him gone as he was to be gone. Their leader escorted him to the front entrance, then stood behind the glass and watched until the car pulled out of the parking lot and disappeared.
Five miles down the road, the old man slowed, watching closely for the spot he had scouted out yesterday. When he found it, he turned off onto a gravel road. Two miles to the south, he stopped and got out. A quick look around told him that he was no longer in sight of the highway, and there was not a light within miles of where he was.
With a sigh of relief, he began stripping off his suit and tie. Next came the wig, then the false beard and eyelashes, then the padding in both cheeks that had fattened his face. Finally he unwrapped the three towels around his waist that had given him bulk. Beneath all of that he wore the kind of lightweight athletic clothes that runners prefer. He had also shed about thirty years in age.
He glanced up at the eastern sky. The first blush of light was defining the horizon. It had taken him about fifteen minutes longer than he had planned, and he was tempted to find a rubbish bin—what the Americans called a dumpster—somewhere back in Tucson and chuck his things. But the temptation didn’t last long. Leave nothing to chance.
He grabbed a short-handled shovel from the trunk and buried everything under two feet of sand. Satisfied, he returned to the car and headed for Tucson, where a chartered plane was waiting for him.
Schloss von Dietz, Bern, Switzerland
June 22, 2011, 3:24 p.m.
From the huge desk in the library, one had only to lift one’s head to see one of Switzerland’s most spectacular views. In the foreground were the deep blue waters of Lake Thun. Behind it, like towering ramparts, were the snowcapped peaks of the Bernese Alps.
But the woman seated at the desk was not looking out her window. She was totally focused on what lay on the enormous mahogany desktop before her. This kind of concentration was not uncommon for Gisela Decker von Dietz. It was a gift she had learned early in her life that still served her well.
The desk was massive and was clearly a working desk and not just an expensive piece of furniture. To one side, a slightly lower cabinet constructed of matching wood held a desktop computer with two monitors, a combination fax/printer/scanner machine, and a desk organizer. On the desk itself, which was covered with custom-cut glass, there were only four things: a small reading lamp, a multiline phone, and two framed photographs, side by side. The first of these was a grainy, faded, eight-by-ten photo of a woman in a servant’s uniform outside an elegant English manor house. Standing beside her was a girl of nine or ten. One didn’t have to look too closely at the girl to see that she was a younger version of the woman behind the desk.
The second photograph was also of mother and daughter, only this time they were seated on upholstered chairs in front of a huge Christmas tree. The older woman was but a shadow of herself, and she seemed lost and confused. It had been taken nine days before she had passed away. It was the last photograph taken of her.
Although Gisela often got distracted by the two photos, today she had eyes only for the two sheets of paper that lay before her. They had come by overnight mail less than a quarter of an hour before. About a month ago, she had been reading one of the dossiers prepared by the security company in London. Something odd had caught her eye. After closer examination, she had called London and given her team a very specific set of instructions on what she needed. This was the result.
The document was written in English and formatted in three p
arallel columns. As she pored over it, her lips moved, but there was only the faintest murmur of sound.
FAMILY HISTORY
CHEVALIER/LAROCHE FAMILY
NAME/BIRTH
PERTINENT HISTORY
Le Gardien???
1. Alexandre Chevalier. 1801, Le Petit Château, France
Grandfather of Angelique Chevalier (#3).
Notation in family Bible: “Keeper of the Pouch.” Unconfirmed family tradition says he was the 3rd or 4th in the line of keepers.
2. Jacques Pierre Chevalier. 1828, Le Petit Château
3rd son of Alexandre; married Angelique Bertrand of Strasbourg. Purchased farm in Rhine Valley, Germany.
1871. Killed by mob allegedly seeking magic purse. Wife accused of witchcraft, killed same day near French border.
3. Angelique Chevalier, 1863. Rhine Valley
Daughter of Jacques (#2). Escaped mob by fleeing to France where she lived with her grandfather (#1). Married Jean Baptiste LaRoche of Strasbourg, 1885. Died at Le Petit Château, 1932.
Family records list her as “Keeper of Le Gardien.” First known use of that name. Parents killed on her 13th birthday as she fled to France to live with her grandfather (#1). Some rumors of strange happenings with her.
4. Pierre Baptiste LaRoche. 1902, Le Petit Château
Youngest son of Jean Baptiste and Angelique Chevalier (#3). Married Monique Bourchard of Moselle, France. Member of French Resistance in WW II; arrested by Gestapo, 1944. Taken to Paris for interrogation and execution. Liberated by American forces.
No written references to pouch. Villagers at Le Petit Château still refer to him as Le Gardien. Still remembered and greatly revered in the village. More rumors of miraculous happenings.
5. Jean-Henri LaRoche. 1934, Le Petit Château
Only surviving child of Pierre (#4) and Monique LaRoche. Aided in 1944 rescue of American airman that led to his father’s arrest. Family immigrated to Boston in 1947. Married Kathleen Carruthers of Boston in 1958. Retired French history and literature professor.
Likely the next in line of pouch keepers. Colleagues and friends speak of remarkable gifts, which he passes off to being an avid amateur magician.
6. Angelique Carruthers LaRoche McAllister. 1969, Boulder, Colorado
4th child of Jean-Henri (#5) and Monique. Married Lucas (Mack) James McAllister of Butte, Montana, 1993.
No evidence of her either having the pouch or being its keeper.
7. Carruthers Monique McAllister. 1995, Ann Arbor, Michigan
Oldest child of Lucas and Angelique (#6), granddaughter of Jean-Henri (#5). Current residence, Hanksville, Utah
No information available at this time. Under further investigation.
Finished, Gisela looked up, letting her eyes rest on the framed photographs. Reaching out, she briefly touched the most recent of the two pictures. “Soon, Mama. Very soon.”
Half an hour later, the phone rang. Turning from her computer, she snatched it up. “Yes?”
“Guten Morgen, Mama,” said the voice on the other end of the line. The German was flawless, something he knew would please her.
“Or guten Tag,” she said happily. “It’s after three in the afternoon here.”
“I am well aware of that,” he groaned. “I haven’t slept in twenty-four hours.”
She dropped back into her chair, her face a study in joy. “Ah, Niklas! I’m so glad it’s you. I’ve been very anxious to hear how it went.” She glanced at the large grandfather clock in the corner behind her. “Are you still in Arizona?”
“No, no,” he said quickly. “I was out of there before the sun was up. Actually, I’m back in Utah now. But yes, here it is still morning.”
She checked her phone to make sure the encryption light was showing, then went on. “Any problems?”
“None, other than it cost us forty thousand U.S. dollars. There were four guards who had to be bought off instead of two. But I was in and out in just over half an hour.”
She chuckled. “And in that wonderful disguise of yours?”
“Of course.”
Then she couldn’t resist poking at him a little. “So you agree now that taking that special course on makeup and disguises was not such a bad idea after all?”
“Once again, Mama, you were right.”
“Oh, I love those words. So, did Armando suspect anything?”
“No. There wasn’t a flicker of suspicion. But then, he had never seen me before, either.”
“And that’s good.” She took a quick breath. “So tell me everything. How was Armando?”
He sighed, and she could sense his frustration. “Troubling, and that’s putting it mildly.”
“What went wrong? How is it that we get this exuberant phone call saying the whole thing is a done deal and we are twenty million dollars richer, then an hour or so later, the whole thing has unraveled and half the team is in custody.”
“More than half, Mama. All but three. The ones we kept on station out in the desert.”
“Where are they now?”
“They’re in place and waiting. We hope to start Phase Two any day now.”
“Isn’t that a little dangerous? Someone’s bound to stumble across them.”
He snorted softly. “You have no concept of how utterly desolate that land is, Mama. You can drive a hundred miles without seeing a sign of human habitation. These guys are not fools. No one is going to stumble across them. And besides, I’ve called in a couple of ‘sightings’ to the FBI. They think they’re headed for Mexico.”
“Are they?”
“No, we’ll bring them out by way of Vancouver, in British Columbia.”
“Excellent! When?”
“I thought you said you didn’t care about all the details, Mama? But just so you know, originally we planned to pull them out after a few days. But now that everything has fallen apart out here, I want to keep them on station in case we need them.”
“I agree. This has been a disaster. So, what’s El Cobra’s story?”
Niklas had a remarkable memory, so he repeated Armando’s account with a lot of detail. He fully expected to be interrupted as he made reference to the so-called magic purse and the fantastical things it supposedly had done. But to his surprise, she accepted it all without comment. She stopped him only once to ask him if Armando had said if the pouch had a name.
“Yes,” he said, puzzled that she would ask. “He said that the words Le Gardien were embroidered on the flap.”
“Le Gardien?” There was sudden excitement in her voice.
“Yes. It’s French for ‘The Guardian.’”
She hooted softly. “My dear boy, I do speak French, you know.”
“Sorry, Mama. I—” Feeling sheepish, he went on quickly, adding details now about the pouch that he had planned to skip over because he hadn’t given them any credence. The only time she interrupted him was when he came to Armando’s account of the gold bars.
Gisela jerked forward, hunching over the phone. “Really? That’s what sank the boat?”
“No, Mama. That’s what Armando claims sank the boat.” He was incredulous. “You surely don’t believe him. Gold bars out of nothing. That’s Dark Ages stuff, what they called alchemy. Pure nonsense.”
“How many?”
There was a weary sigh. “Armando wasn’t sure. Somewhere around forty. Enough that the boat swamped when another boat came close to them.”
“Do you know how much a full-sized gold bar is worth?”
“Actually, I do,” he said tartly. “Remember, before I took my new ‘job’ with you and Granny, one of my responsibilities was managing our gold res
erves. Forty bars would come out to about twenty-five million Euros, or around thirty million U.S. dollars.”
“Oh, my,” she breathed. “That would balance out the loss of the twenty million nicely.”
He made a sound of disgust. “Even if it were true, Mama—which I think is about one chance in a million—don’t start counting your Euros yet. Not only is the gold at the bottom of a lake, but there’s no way the FBI is going to leave it there.”
“What if I told you the FBI knows nothing about the gold?”
He openly scoffed. “Of course they know about it. The girl and her grandfather were in the boat with Armando, remember? They would have told them.” Then her words sank in. “Wait. How do you know the FBI doesn’t know about the gold?”
“Because I received a copy of the FBI’s report on this whole matter just a few hours—”
“You what?”
She chuckled softly. “Just because I’m seventy doesn’t mean I’m stupid. I happen to have a working agreement with a key staff member in the Paris Interpol office. I pay her a lot of money, and she sends me copies of whatever information I need. There was no mention of any gold in the FBI report. Not a word. They say only that Armando’s boat was swamped when a larger craft came too close to it.”
To Run With the Swift Page 9
