To Run With the Swift

by Gerald N. Lund

  “I’m calling a friend in Zurich. We need to know what’s going on and—”

  “Don’t you do that on a phone that can be traced to here!”

  “Oh. Uh ... sorry.”

  Niklas handed him a cell phone from a drawer in the desk. “This is a throwaway. But keep it brief.”

  Heinrich put it on speakerphone, then dialed the number. He kept the conversation to just under two minutes and asked four questions.

  How much was taken from the company? Fifty million dollars.

  Do they know how it was done? They’re pretty sure it was someone on the inside who came through a back door and circumvented the firewalls.

  Do they know where the money is now? No, but there is some evidence that it may still be within VDG’s financial system, but well hidden.

  How soon will funds be available again? This is such a huge loss to the company and such a serious breach of the multi-tiered security system that the three to four weeks mentioned in the email is likely a highly optimistic estimate. The guys in the know are talking more like five to six weeks.

  When he hung up, Gisela gave her son a scathing look. “I told you this was a mistake. What if they discover who’s behind the breach?”

  “They won’t do that,” Heinrich said. “I left no footprint.”

  “The jails are full of men who left no footprints,” she said in disgust.

  Angry now, he turned on Niklas. “Thank heavens we can get it out sooner. I’m sure all we have to do is take two forms of ID to the regional office in Buenos Aires and see if they won’t release the funds to you. I think our situation could be described as an emergency.”

  Niklas got to his feet, eyes smoldering. “Remember what you said about me being cheeky, Mama? Well, that street runs in both directions.”

  He stalked out of the room without another word. A moment later Heinrich and Jean-Claude followed after him, not daring to look at Gisela as they skirted around her and exited the room.

  Villa del Sol, Mina Clavero

  January 17, 2012

  “Señora Smythe?”

  Gisela looked up from her needlepoint. “Yes, Rosita?”

  “There are two members of the Police Nationale at the front gate asking to see you and Señor Smythe.”

  She shot to her feet, sending the needlepoint flying. “Get Señor Smythe. Pronto.”

  “I already called him, Señora. He is coming now.”

  Even as she finished speaking, Niklas strode into the room, followed by Heinrich, Jean-Claude, and one of the other guards whose name she could not recall.

  “What shall we do, Niklas?” she cried. “What do they want?”

  “Be calm, Mama. I have no idea. But if they came to arrest us, there would be many more than two of them. Just stay calm.”

  He was right. They were not there to arrest them. Not exactly.

  When the two officers were shown in, the older of the two men stepped forth. “Señor Smythe, I understand that you do not speak much Spanish, so I shall speak in English, though I do not speak it very well.”

  Both Niklas and his mother spoke fairly fluent Spanish, but Niklas didn’t want them knowing that. “Thank you,” he said. “What is this about, Officer?”

  The man carried a leather pouch beneath his left arm. He removed it, unzipped it quickly, and withdrew a sheaf of papers. For a moment, Niklas thought they were the same papers that the mayor had brought earlier. Then he saw that there were more of them. And there was a letter on the top, written on fine linen paper and with an official-looking letterhead on the top. Without preamble he began to read:

  January 16, 2012

  Office of the President

  República Argentina

  Mr. Roger Carlton Smythe, III

  Mina Clavero, Province of Córdoba

  Dear Mr. and Mrs. Smythe,

  It has recently been brought to our attention by various law-enforcement officers in the United States of America, France, Belgium, Switzerland, and Germany that there are numerous criminal charges and arrest warrants issued in your names. (See enclosed dossier.) While we are not obliged by the laws of our sovereign nation to comply in any way with another country’s demands, it is not the policy of the State of Argentina to harbor known fugitives or suspected criminals. This letter is to inform you that you are, therefore, officially declared persona non grata in any part of the Argentine Republic or any of its territories.

  Since none of the alleged crimes occurred on Argentine territory, no further action against you is planned. None of your property will be confiscated, nor will your freedom be restricted in any way until the deadline set below. This declaration hereby revokes or cancels all visas and other documents that grant the two of you the right to maintain permanent residence in our country.

  This declaration becomes effective at 12:01 a.m. on 1 February 2012. If you have not left Argentina by that time, a warrant for your arrest will be issued and you will be forcibly ejected from our country.

  Capitán Juan Vasquez, the bearer of this letter, has instructions and full authority from this office to assist you in identifying a country or territory willing to grant you asylum and to help you in any reasonable way to remove to that country. All expenses incurred in such a removal will, however, be your personal responsibility.

  With deepest regrets,

  What followed was an undecipherable signature.

  Gisela collapsed in a heap on the couch and began to sob. Stone-faced, Niklas held out his hand. “May I see the dossier, Capitán?”

  He handed it over without saying a word. It came as no surprise that the first page inside the cover held a picture of Lucas and Angelique McAllister and their two children, along with Jean-Henri LaRoche. Their individual names were typed beneath the photo. Beneath the names, the type read:

  Country: United States of America

  Charges: Kidnapping, extortion, conspiracy to kidnap, conspiracy to extort, physical assault with a deadly weapon, theft and destruction of property, deliberate creation of extreme mental distress.

  Then followed a two-paragraph description of what had taken place back in June 2011.

  He went to the next page. It was identical to the first except that the picture was of Rick and his family. The charges were also the same, with the addition of conspiracy to commit second-degree murder.

  Niklas suddenly had to sit down too. There it all was in black and white—the names, the charges, the terse, cold summaries of kidnapping, embezzlement, extortion, defamation of character, giving false testimony to officers of the law, arson, and on and on.

  When he finally shut the dossier and handed it back to the captain, the officer shook his head. “That copy is yours to keep.” He straightened his shoulders. “As noted in the letter, I am at your service, Lord Smythe.”

  “Where shall we go?” Gisela wailed. “What shall we do?”

  “My staff is hard at work trying to answer those questions, Lady Smythe,” Captain Vasquez assured her. “That said, I can tell you where you will not be going. Inquiries have already been made to all the major countries of Latin America concerning possible asylum. All but four have responded in the negative. The exceptions are Panama, Colombia, Venezuela, and Nicaragua. Of those, Venezuela and Nicaragua require a deposit of one million dollars in a bank of their choosing as a precondition for acceptance.”

  Gisela’s head snapped up. “Not Venezuela. Their president is a pig and I will not live there as long as he is president.”

  The captain sighed deeply, but spoke to Niklas. “Perhaps you would prefer a European country. If so, all members of the European Union have an agreement that does not grant asylum when criminal activity is involved. You would have to look to Eastern Europe to—”

  Gisela looked like a little girl lost in a supermarket at rush hour. “Niklas,” she cried plaintively. “Niklas? W
hat shall we do?”

  He went to her and took her in his arms. “It’s all right, Mama. It’s all right. I’m here. I will take care of you.” He looked up. “See if Colombia will have us. I have been to Colombia once. It is a beautiful country.”

  “What about us?” Heinrich cried. “What about his employees? We haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “There is an addendum at the back of the dossier listing those who are considered to be accomplices in all of this. What is your name?”

  “Heinrich Müller. I hold joint citizenship in Switzerland and Germany.”

  “You are not on the list. If your papers are in order, you are free to go or stay as you like.” He swung around on Jean-Claude. “What is your name?”

  “What does it matter? My place is by their side.”

  Captain Vasquez clicked his heels together and snapped off a salute. “I shall return tomorrow morning to provide further assistance. Until then,” he said, saluting again, “hasta luego.”

  On Approach to El Dorado International Airport, Bogotá, Colombia

  January 30, 2012

  Niklas von Dietz, aka Roger Carlton Smythe III, reached over and went to lay a hand on his mother’s shoulder. But he stopped and let it hover over her for a moment, looking at her face, now in repose as she slept so soundly. He pulled his hand back, a wave of sorrow sweeping over him.

  He had noticed just in the last week or so how much she was changing. But now, even in the kindness of the soft morning light that just precedes sunrise, he saw for the first time the toll these last two months had taken on her. She looked old, and that was something he had thought he would never say of her. There were dark circles under her eyes. Her skin seemed sallow, almost gray, and the depth of the wrinkles around her mouth left it looking pinched. But his deepest pain came from the blank, momentary confusion that filled her eyes with increasing frequency. This woman, who had been a towering pillar of strength and determination and independence for all of Niklas’s life, was more and more becoming the young child—lost, innocent, confused, vulnerable.

  He sighed, feeling the bone-deep weariness in his own soul. These last two months had been pure hell for both of them. He could see that in his own face and the premature gray around his temples. Little wonder. But at last, they were coming to the end of it. Two days following their final visit from Captain Vasquez, Niklas had gotten a call from their real-estate agent. She had a buyer for their beach house in Barbados. A cash buyer. The house was listed at 1.5 million U.S. dollars. The buyer was offering exactly half that. It didn’t matter. It was cash. It was a lifeline that they desperately needed right now.

  Niklas accepted it on the condition that they close in no later than ten days. They agreed, and nine days later a cashier’s check for the full amount arrived by FedEx. He put it in a bank in Córdoba, under yet another name, using yet another passport. He didn’t open an online account. He didn’t make record of it on any of their computers. There was no way anyone could get at this. He had made triple sure of that.

  So now there was hope again. Never before in his life had he realized what a precious gift hope was. There was a way out. Things would be okay. They had enough now to see them through until Von Dietz Global sorted out the nightmare of their security breach and released their funds. They were saying that could be any day now.

  He reached out and laid his hand on her shoulder. “Mama. It’s time to wake up. We’re almost there.”

  It didn’t come quickly—another sign of the depths of her weariness. Normally she was wide awake and completely alert in an instant. Now he had to shake her several times before she came fully awake. As she stretched and yawned, looking around in some confusion, he reached over and pushed up the window blinds. Leaning forward, she peered out the window. There was a soft cry of surprise and pleasure. “Oh, Niklas. It’s beautiful.”

  She was right. The plane was banking around on its last approach, and the city and the line of green peaks on either side of it were in full view. Bogotá was the third-highest airport in the world, and the scenery surrounding it was spectacular. As they continued to turn, the first rays of the sun struck one of the skyscrapers and its windows glowed like gold. It was like a welcome sign. “Yes, Mama. It is beautiful. And this is going to be our new home.”

  A momentary flash of fear twisted her features. “No, Niklas. This isn’t home. I want to go home. To our real home.” But as quickly as it had come, the moment passed. She turned her head away. “Never mind. I remember now,” she said softly.

  They cleared customs without the slightest complication. Captain Vasquez had done his job well. Jean-Claude was waiting for them in the baggage area and waved when he saw them coming. They were descending one of the escalators, so Niklas had a clear view of the area and saw him immediately. He waved back, but even as he did so, his hand froze in midair. He jerked forward, gaping in astonishment. “Anina?”

  “What did you say?” Gisela asked.

  “Mother, it’s Anina.”

  “Who?”

  “Anina. Your daughter. What in the world is she doing here?”

  She was waving now too, pushing her way through crowds and calling out to them, smiling and crying all at once. Jean-Claude was following, trying to keep up with her. As they reached the bottom of the moving stairway and stepped off, Niklas’s sister threw her arms around her mother and pulled her in close. “Oh, Mama. Oh, Mama,” she kept saying over and over, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  Niklas touched her shoulder. “Anina. I can’t believe it. You, here?”

  But even as he asked the question, a movement caught his eye. He turned and saw five or six men in business suits moving in toward him, forming a loose semicircle as they came. Jean-Claude saw it too. He whirled and bolted away. He wasn’t nearly fast enough. Two of the men whipped out pistols and cut him off.

  As Niklas stared, totally dumbfounded, he felt a hand on his shoulder turn him around. A middle-aged but very fit-looking man was facing him. He had a small, black leather case that looked like a wallet in one hand. He flipped it open to reveal a gold badge. “Niklas von Dietz. Agent Clay Zabriskie, United States Federal Bureau of Investigation. You are under arrest for crimes committed on U.S. soil.”

  Niklas jerked free. “That is not possible. We have been offered asylum here.”

  “Colombia and the United States have come to an agreement based on a cooperative arrangement between our two countries. Your asylum, and that of your mother, has been revoked, and we have permission to take you back to the United States. However ...” He stepped back.

  A taller, younger man stepped forward and flashed another badge. With a sickening drop in his stomach, Niklas recognized it instantly. It was the badge carried by Interpol officers the world over. “Mr. von Dietz. I am Colonel Pierre Pelletier, from Interpol International Headquarters in Lyon, France. You are hereby charged with kidnapping, extortion, fraud, conspiracy, and several other counts of criminal activity. You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney. However, those rights do not go into effect until we land on French soil.” Two of the other men stepped forward, producing handcuffs.

  The colonel kept speaking. “A federal judge here in Colombia has signed an order to have you immediately extradited to France, where you will stand trial for the crimes of which you are accused.”

  A man behind him handed him a paper. He looked at it quickly. “At the request of your sister, we have drawn up a document of confession. If you are willing to take full responsibility for the criminal acts of which you are accused, your mother can avoid arrest and will be allowed to return to Switzerland with her daughter. Is that something you are willing to consider?”

  Niklas’s face had gone completely white now. His mouth worked, but nothing came out. Clay stepped forward. “If you choose to sign that statement, I am authorized to say that the United States will not take furthe
r action against your mother. She will be free to go.”

  He still couldn’t speak. Anina came to him, tears streaming down her face. “Please, Niklas. Look at her. Think what a trial will do to her. Think of the publicity. It will kill her if she goes to prison.”

  For most of his adult life, Niklas von Dietz had been a decision maker. Big, small, hard, easy—it was what he did. Choking back a sob, he took the paper. “Do you have a pen?” he asked.

  EPILOGUE

  The Village of Le Petit Château, Near Strasbourg, France

  June 11, 2012

  “Dad. Stop the car!”

  He turned his head. “Here?”

  “Yes. Rick and I want to walk from here.”

  He let off the accelerator. I leaned up from the backseat of the van and touched Grandpère’s shoulder. “Do you want to come with us?”

  “I do,” Cody sang out.

  “No, I think it is best if just those two go,” Grandpère said. He gave Cody a warning look. “You can walk it later, if you wish.”

  Grandpère scooted his seat up and opened the sliding door of the van. I was out in a second, and Rick was right behind me. “’Bye,” we called out in unison as we set off at a brisk walk.

  It had been September when my family first came to Grandpère’s ancestral home. The fall colors had been glorious. But now? “Magnifique!” I exclaimed as we entered the narrow, two-track road that led to the château. We were surrounded—embraced, engulfed, immersed—in a thousand shades of green, and all of them so vibrant and warm. I loved it even more than the fall colors.

  I slipped my arm through Rick’s. “I’m so excited. I can hardly wait for you to see it.”

  When we came around the last bend in the road and Le Petit Château finally was in full view, we both stopped. “Wow!” Rick said softly. We stood and looked at it for a moment, then started forward again.