Three. Rick and I have come out of this closer than we have ever been before. I’m not even sure how to describe it, but our relationship is deeper, more meaningful, more fulfilling than it was before. He’s no longer in the spectator bleachers, and I’m no longer the Super Chick waiting for him to cheer me on. It is just super cool. Completely awesome. In a word, amazing.
Gotta run. Bye.
I met Rick at the back door, as we had previously arranged, opening it before he could knock. As he slipped inside, I said, “Grandpère’s in Dad’s office. Everyone else is still asleep.”
Nodding, he slipped out of his tennis shoes. “When do Joel and Clay arrive?”
“Nine.”
“And this is just him with you and me?”
“Yes. Grandpère said he thought it would be wise if we talked before anyone else gets here.”
“I’m glad,” he said. “I don’t know about you, but I didn’t sleep much last night.”
“Me neither. I think I got a couple of hours is all.” We were approaching the door to Dad’s office. “Okay, then. Here we go.”
We settled in quickly after Grandpère and Rick greeted each other. I saw that Grandpère had one of Dad’s yellow notepads on the desk in front of him. It was covered with his handwriting, and I wondered how much sleep he had gotten.
“Thanks for coming, Rick,” he began. “I thought there might be some value in us talking some things through before the others came.”
“We’re glad, Grandpère. I can’t speak for Rick, but I feel like I’m pretty much in way over my head here.”
“Amen to that,” Rick said.
“And I as well,” he said quietly. He picked up the notepad, looked at it for a moment, then put it down again. “A couple of preliminary thoughts, if I may.”
We both sat back. I wished I had brought a notebook or paper or something. No surprise when Rick reached in his shirt pocket and brought out a small notebook and pen. I shot him a look that said, You’re doing it again, Ramirez. Making me look bad. And he did what he always does. He grinned and lifted his pen.
“I think I need to clarify something up front about my feelings toward Gisela and Niklas,” Grandpère began. He stopped, inviting us to comment. Neither of us did.
“I absolutely and without equivocation believe that we cannot falter in our determination to stop these two individuals. The chariots are here, and we are the footmen. They are like an F5 tornado. They touch down here, then jump to another place, skipping some, hitting others. But wherever they touch down, they leave a swath of destruction and human misery behind.”
“And we are storm chasers,” I murmured.
“Yes, like it or not. The FBI and Interpol are there and working hard, but they have asked for our help.”
“Do you think they’ll be more specific today about what they want us to do?”
He shook his head. “I think they’re hoping we can give them some ideas about what they need to do. Now that we know for sure that the von Dietzes are in Argentina, their hands are pretty much tied. Our job will be to try to get them out of there.”
“You think that’s possible?” Rick asked. “If they’re safe there, they’re not going to be leaving.”
“Not unless we can convince them there is no other acceptable alternative.” He flashed a grin. “But you got them out of Switzerland without hurting anyone. That’s what we need from you again.”
“Too bad we don’t have another pot of gold to tempt them,” I said.
“Danni and I spent a lot of time talking about this yesterday,” Rick said. “I think we have some ideas.”
“Good. Let’s hear them.”
“We’re going to need a lot of help,” I said. “From you and Mom and Dad—mostly in keeping us from doing something stupid—but also from Clay and the FBI. And Louis and his team. We are going to need a lot of information.”
“Louis will be delighted to hear that. As you know, he is as dedicated to stopping them as we are. And money is not a problem for him.”
“And here’s the second problem,” Rick went on. “We both agree that the mind games approach is our best strategy. But so far we are baffled. How do we mess with their minds if we can’t communicate with them—if we don’t have any idea where they are?”
“You don’t need to know where a person is to communicate with him,” Grandpère pointed out. “We do that all the time on the Internet with people whose real names we don’t even know.”
“Great,” I said. “So can you get us their email address? Or their Facebook account, if they have one? A telephone number would be nice too.”
“Oh,” he said with a sleepy smile, “I think I can do better than that.”
We both stared at him. His smile broadened. “Well,” I finally said, “are you going to tell us or not?”
“Are you familiar with what they call keylogger software?”
I shook my head, but Rick was nodding. “Yeah,” he said. “It’s also called keystroke logging. It’s another form of malware or spyware on a computer.”
“Explain to Danni what it does.”
“Well, I’m hardly an expert, but it’s something you install on a computer that records every keystroke made on that computer. I know there are different kinds, some you can buy for under a hundred bucks, and others highly sophisticated and very difficult to detect.”
“Why would you want that?” I asked.
“Well, for example, parents can use it to see what their kids are saying on Twitter or Facebook. They can find out what websites they’re logging onto.” Grandpère shrugged. “They can read their user names and passwords. Actually, it can be pretty handy if you want to snoop around in someone’s life.”
Rick was nodding. “Basically, it can tell you everything a person has done on his or her computer.”
“Or is doing,” Grandpère added. “The more sophisticated ones can be monitored from a remote site. It’s like you have a virtual copy of the other computer at your fingertips and can actually watch what is being typed as it happens. You can ask Louis more. He’s the expert.”
With a jerk, I came to full attention. “And your reason for telling us this is ... ?”
Suddenly, he was that little boy again who stared down a Stuka dive bomber, grinning up and waving like he owned the world. “Well, you see, when we got Louis and Clay together, we discovered something kind of interesting. Louis’s security company has created this highly sophisticated and powerful keylogging software. And it turns out the FBI has one of their own. When they ... uh ... combined the two—which is highly classified, of course—they created something that is absolutely amazing, as you kids would say.”
“And you’re thinking that if we could get that onto Gisela’s computer, then we’d have the information we need? Great, so how do we do that?”
“Well ... uh. ...” He was playing the shy schoolboy again, but I could tell that underneath that, he was tickled pink with himself. “Actually, when I slipped into the villa that night, I had with me the very latest version of their combined program. And when everyone was kind of busy that first night after I got there, I ... um ... went ahead and installed it on Gisela’s hard drive.”
I sat back, too astonished to speak. Rick was shaking his head. “You really did that?”
“And we can get access to her computer, see everything that’s on it?” I cried.
“That’s my understanding. However, it is programmed to stay dormant for ten days, so if they were looking for it, they couldn’t find it. The question is, would that be useful to you two?”
I laughed aloud. “We have several ideas to put before you. We believe they have a lot of merit. We just weren’t sure if they could be implemented.”
“So,” he said, “what’s holding you up now?”
I looked at Rick, and we b
oth shook our heads. “Approval and further direction from Clay and Joel,” Rick said. “That’s about it.”
CHAPTER 43
Villa del Sol, Mina Clavero, Sierras de Córdoba Mountains, Córdoba Province, Argentina
November 17, 2011
Córdoba is Argentina’s second-largest city, with nearly a million and a half people living within its boundaries. It is the capital of Córdoba Province, which is in the heart of the region known as the Pampas. About three hours west of the city are the Sierras de Córdoba, one of Argentina’s more important mountain ranges.
Nestled in one of the valleys at the base of the mountains is the picturesque and serene little town of Mina Clavero. Lying at an elevation of 915 meters (just over 3,000 feet), the valley has more than three hundred days of brilliant sunshine each year. That and its cool nights, clean air, and small-town atmosphere have attracted some of the world’s wealthier elites to build second and third homes there. For Gisela and Niklas von Dietz—now officially known as Giselle Mary Elizabeth Smythe and Roger Carlton Smythe III—Mina Clavero was their permanent home.
Two years earlier, they had commissioned a global real-estate agent to start a search for a possible “retirement home” for them. When she found a run-down villa near the head of the valley that had been vacated by a widower returning to Austria, Gisela and Niklas flew to Argentina to see it for themselves. After Switzerland’s long winters and England’s endless overcast, Mina Clavero held a lot of appeal for the both of them. Though isolated, it was just a couple of hours from Córdoba and its exuberant metropolitan lifestyle. So they made the purchase, spent about a quarter of a million Euros remodeling it to their liking, hired a permanent staff of three to maintain it, and put it all in the name of the Smythes from Herefordshire, England.
They had been there now for just two weeks. After fleeing the United States in considerable haste, Gisela and Niklas split up. She took a circuitous route to South America, changing identities twice as she made her way to Argentina via Guatemala, Panama, Peru, and Chile. Niklas stayed with the gold.
Immediately upon landing in Mexico City, they had taxied their plane to a private and heavily guarded hanger and there transferred the gold to a steel-reinforced cargo container. With Niklas accompanying them, Jean-Claude and his four men drove the truck and the container to a small port on Mexico’s Gulf Coast. There the container was transferred to a secure hold on a small steamer and taken all the way around the east coast of South America to Buenos Aires. Using an armored truck escorted by three other vehicles, final transfer was made to the Province of Córdoba, to the villa in the valley above Mina Clavero.
Thus, twelve days after they left Rick Ramirez, Danni McAllister, and Jean-Henri LaRoche on a sandbar at Lake Powell, mother and son were finally reunited. The gold was off-loaded into a vault carved out of solid rock at the back of their underground garage. There it would stay for another six to nine months before they began cashing it in, one bar at a time, through various banks throughout Argentina.
Niklas often went down to the vault and stood there for a long time, awed by the sight of their newly won fortune, and planning how to best maximize the power and influence that it represented.
On this day, after completing an eight-kilometer run through the valley, followed by a few laps in the swimming pool to cool off, he went down to the vault to complete his morning ritual. He considered this as vital to his mental health as the other two activities were to his physical health. It always left him filled with a deep satisfaction. They had pulled it off, and it had gone flawlessly, and that was due largely to him. Leave nothing to chance. Nothing!
As he turned and started to leave, he was surprised to hear footsteps in the garage.
“Niklas?”
“I’m in here, Mama. I’m coming.”
“No!” It came out sharp and urgent. “We’re coming in.”
Surprised, he stepped back as his mother and Jean-Claude hustled into the room. Gisela had a single sheet of paper clutched in one hand. Niklas moved forward and bent down to kiss her cheek, but she brushed right past him. He could see that she was highly agitated.
“What is it, Mama?”
She whirled and thrust the paper at him, then motioned for Jean-Claude to join her as she moved over to the neatly stacked gold bars. Thoroughly puzzled, Niklas took the paper. His eyes widened as he saw what it was. It was an email, addressed to both him and Gisela. No sender was indicated, however. He brought it closer and began to read.
To our dear and valued friends:
We have just learned that in recent weeks you have, through a stroke of very good luck, come into possession of a vast fortune.
He exploded in shock. “What? Who is this?”
Gisela shook her head. “You’ll see at the bottom that they give no names. And somehow they managed to leave no email address.”
“But—”
“Keep reading,” she snapped.
We regret to inform you that we have also learned—from a totally unimpeachable source—that you may have been the victims of an elaborate hoax, a vast swindle. We cannot absolutely confirm this from our current location, but highly recommend that you immediately undertake a close examination of the “treasure” which is now in your possession.
A concerned friend.
P.S. For your safety and for ours we have chosen not to reveal our identities.
In one savage jerk, Niklas crumpled the letter and hurled it at the wall. “What kind of sick joke is this? No one even knows—” He stopped. “Mama. What are you doing?”
Gisela was bending over the stack of gold bricks. With some effort, she lifted one of them off the top and handed it to Jean-Claude. The Belgian always carried a wicked-looking hunting knife on his belt, along with a pistol. He had it out now as he took the bar from her. Bracing it against his leg, in one smooth movement he put the blade to the edge of the bar and pulled it toward him. It was like he was peeling an apple, only what came out from beneath the blade was not an apple peel, but a slice of dark gray metal.
For one long moment, Jean-Claude stared at what he had just done, then he looked up. “C’est une catastrophe!”
As Niklas gaped at what he was seeing, he said, “Catastrophe doesn’t begin to describe it.” He leaped forward and snatched the bar from Jean-Claude. He felt the sliver with his finger.
“I think it is lead,” Jean-Claude said, shock softening his voice.
“Of course it’s lead, stupide,” Niklas shouted hoarsely. “Try another.”
He did, with exactly the same results. The third, fourth, and fifth bricks were the same. By that time, Gisela had collapsed on the stack of bars, her head in her hands, muttering over and over, “No! No! No!”
About then, a woman’s voice called from the garage, “Señora Smythe?” It was the housekeeper. The servants had very strict rules about staying away from the vault, so Jean-Claude darted out to meet her. A moment later he returned with another sheet of paper in his hand. Without a word he handed it to Gisela. In two steps, Niklas was beside her. Gisela started to read it, then had to stop. Snatching it from her hand, Niklas read it aloud:
Greetings from the Red Rock Country of Southern Utah.
We heard that you have found a new home somewhere in South America. Since it is summertime there, we are most envious. We had our first desert blizzard yesterday. The temperature is in the teens, with a wind-chill factor of about ten degrees Fahrenheit (minus 12 degrees Celsius). :) Still keeping up on our metric conversions.
Greetings from Clay Zabriskie, our FBI friend. He asked that I express his gratitude for your excellent work in removing all of the lead bars from Lake Powell. Once the gold-leaf paint wore off, they could have constituted a serious environmental hazard to our water supply. The FBI had a diving team scheduled to remove all of the bars early next spring. :)
Gotta run. A lot going on. If you eve
r get back to the States, we’d love to have you visit Hanksville again. There are a lot of people here very anxious to meet you.
All the family says hello. Rick too. Give our fondest to Jean-Claude and the gang.
Danni (your gauche friend and former companion)
P.S. Grandpère asked that I let you know that he checked the price of lead on today’s commodities market. It is at $1.05 per pound. Experts say the price is expected to rise by two or three cents per pound in the next few weeks. He suggests you wait a little longer before selling so as to maximize your investment.
Gisela was still raging as she paced the large sitting room with its spectacular view of the valley and the mountains beyond. “I knew she was up to something. From the very moment she offered us the gold. I should have slapped her back in her cell and left her there to rot.”
Looking up from the computer, Niklas sighed. “Mama, there’s no use working yourself up. She played it perfectly, and we were all the more fools for assuming she was a child.”
“Oh, no,” she snarled. “This isn’t her work. She’s not that smart. This was the brainchild of Jean-Henri LaRoche. He set it up. He made sure she knew exactly what to say.”
“If that comforts you, Mama,” he murmured, weary of it.
“So how do we make this right?” she demanded.
He sighed again. “Mama, you saw their bank accounts. Even if we took every penny from them, it wouldn’t be a drop in the bucket compared to what we need.”
To Run With the Swift Page 55
