To Run With the Swift

by Gerald N. Lund

  He started to turn away, but her hand shot out and gripped him by the chin. “Don’t you ignore me. Think about it! Your whole life turned upside down. Not because of mistakes you made, but because evil men wanted what you have. What would you do?”

  He pulled free and backed away. “All right, I get it. I’m sorry. But, Mama, you’re asking too much. I will not be part of something that risks everything our family has accomplished.”

  She sat back down and motioned toward his chair. “Sit down, Niklas. I want to ask you a question. And you have to be absolutely honest with me.”

  He forced a smile. “Are you setting a trap for me?”

  She chuckled. “I surely hope so.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Are your concerns only financial, only about the bank and our other companies? Or do you find what I am suggesting morally distasteful as well?”

  “I ...”

  “Come on. You and I both know that your father and his father—and probably several generations of von Dietzes beyond that—didn’t mind bending the law occasionally if they could make a profit. And you personally have been part of acquisitions and mergers that have left hundreds, even thousands, of people in financial ruin. I also know that you personally have used considerable sums of von Dietz capital to influence the outcome of deals, or as downright bribes—all off the books, of course. So get off your moral high horse and answer my question.”

  He glowered at her for a time, but finally he shook his head. “I knew it was a trap.”

  “And you’re caught. Admit it.”

  “All right. So the moral implications of what you’re talking about are not my first concern.”

  She hooted softly. “More like, ‘not any concern.’ But go on.”

  “You asked me to picture what it would mean if I were torn from my present life. Well, I’m asking you the same thing. Because if something goes wrong here, we’re talking about you spending the rest of your life in a prison cell. And Granny too, for that matter.”

  “You think I’ve not considered that? But it’s not going to happen.”

  “Oh, really? Guarantee me that, and you can count me in.”

  “It’s simple. What was your father’s favorite saying? You know, the one you heard about fifteen or twenty times a day?”

  He hesitated, then smiled. “Plan impeccably. Strike boldly. Exit swiftly. And leave nothing to chance. Nothing.”

  “Yes. Well, that’s your answer.” She decided it was time to go in for the kill. “So what if I told you we can do all that Mother wants done, keep ourselves totally safe while doing it, and make a ton of profit at the same time?”

  “I would say that you were getting senile in your old age.”

  Her brows lowered. “I’ll let that pass, boy, but watch your mouth. I’m not too old to have you stripped of your vice president’s position.”

  That clearly knocked him back. He laughed nervously. “I do believe you could, Mama.”

  “Not only could, but would. Not for saying you want no part of this. That is your choice. But you start forgetting your place in this family and start thinking you’re something really special, and I will feel it is my duty to teach you some humility. Got it?”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  “Good. Here is what I propose. If you are in, I want you to start immediately on a plan for making this work. That would include setting up bank accounts, creating whatever organizational structure you feel is required, recruiting the kinds of people we need, and so on—and all of this totally off the grid. You’re the one with the Harvard MBA, so just do it. I know this will take time, especially since we want it seamless and flawless. That will be hard on Granny, but if she knows we’re really committed to this, then she’ll be all right.”

  “And where does the funding for all this come from? I’m guessing we’re going to need a million Euros just to get under way. And if you agree that we can’t take it out of Von Dietz, then—”

  “I will fund the initial one million out of my own personal funds. After that, you generate your own income.”

  “And how do I do that?”

  Her look instantly made him color. “Never mind. But here’s the deal, Niklas. Everything you make from there on, minus expenses, is yours to keep.”

  She was pleased to see the greed that filled his eyes almost immediately. “Everything?”

  “Yes. So are you in or out?”

  Taking a deep breath, he nodded. “I’m in.”

  Her face was like flint now. “And what is our guiding philosophy?”

  “Plan impeccably. Strike boldly. Exit swiftly. And leave nothing to chance. Nothing.”

  “Good boy. We’ll tell Granny in the morning. She was sure you would see it our way.”

  Schloss von Dietz, Bern, Switzerland

  December 24, 2009

  One year and just over a month later, on Christmas Eve 2009, Elizabette Decker passed away peacefully at 11:29 a.m. She was eighty-eight years old.

  Her family were all there at her bedside. As were the household servants, at Elizabette’s request. She thanked them for their kindness to her. She next bid farewell to her granddaughter, Anina, Anina’s husband, and their three children. All were crying, but Anina was so distraught she could barely stand. When finished, Elizabette then requested some time alone with her daughter and her grandson.

  As the door closed and the two of them moved up to the bed, she reached out and took the hands of Niklas and Gisela. And these were her last words to them.

  “Swear to me that my death will not end this. Swear it to me now. Swear it on my grave. Swear it!”

  “I so swear,” Gisela said in a choked voice.

  “It is under way,” Niklas said, eyes glistening.

  “Swear it!” she shouted hoarsely.

  “I swear it, Granny. You have our word.”

  PART ONE

  Return

  CHAPTER 1

  Lakeview Motel, Page, Arizona

  June 21, 2011, 11:33 p.m.

  Hi! My name is Carruthers Monique McAllister, AKA Danni McAllister to everyone other than my mom.

  If you are wondering how and why anyone living in the 21st century could have a name like Carruthers, please see “My Personal Journal: Volume 1, p. 2.” The details of how I got my nickname and why my mother steadfastly refuses to call me by it are all found there. It’s pretty boring stuff, so I won’t repeat it here.

  I am currently sitting on the toilet—and FYI, the lid is down, thank you very much!!!—in the bathroom of a motel in Page, Arizona. Mom and my little brother, Cody, are asleep in our room, and this is the only place where I can have the light on without waking them up. We’re here because my best bud, Rick Ramirez, is in a clinic a block or two from here with a gunshot wound in his leg. And no, I’m not going to explain that further. See Vol. 1 where all is revealed.

  I am 16 years and 9 days old. I will be a junior at Wayne County High School this fall. I am five feet five inches tall, have green eyes and a ton of Irish freckles. I weigh about ... ha! Had you going there, didn’t I?

  I have dark, straight hair—like my mom’s—which I haven’t cut since I was twelve. It is nearly down to the middle of my back now. Usually I wear it in a ponytail, or Mom puts it in a long French braid. It takes a lot of work to take care of it, and so I’ve been thinking about cutting it off before school starts. But when I told Rick that last night, he told me not to be stupid. He loved it the way it was, especially when it’s braided. That’s Rick. As usual, I wasn’t sure if it was a compliment or a put-down. But, FYI, I won’t be cutting my hair anytime this year.

  Okay, enough with the introduction stuff. I see that it’s close to midnight and I am getting very tired. As is my bottom. So just a quick word about today. Me and Mom and Cody are the only ones still here in Page with Rick. Grandpère had to go to SL to be with D
ad, and Charlie Ramirez (Rick’s dad) and Rick’s sisters had to go back to Hanksville, so they all left yesterday.

  The doctors say that Rick can go home today. So Clay—that’s Clay Zabriskie, AIC (Special Agent in Charge) of the SLC Regional FBI office—is coming down in a chopper to take us all home. Which is way cool! I’m going to see if the pilot will do a flyover of Hanksville so we can wave to everybody from the air. Wake them up a little.

  It’s going to be good to get Rick out of here. The nurses here—especially the single, younger ones—have spoiled him shamelessly. Another day or two of this and his ego will be bigger than a football stadium. I’ve told him that several times just to keep him humble.

  Seriously, all kidding aside, every day I thank Heavenly Father that Rick is okay. If he had died, I—nope! Not going there. Not now. Not ever. I can’t even think about that.

  So, before I start bawling my eyes out, let me explain about this Volume 1, Volume 2 thing. On my thirteenth birthday, my grandfather, who lives with us and whom we call Grandpère, gave me my first journal. He encouraged me to keep a record of significant things in my life. I have been doing that now for three years.

  But about a week ago, my family had a terrible experience. A gang of professional thieves tried to kidnap us and hold us for ransom. It was a horrible few days, but we were very blessed, and with the help of God, along with a friend by the name of Le Gardien (French for The Guardian), we managed to escape and stop them. That was how Rick got shot.

  As you might guess, during that week I didn’t do a lot of writing in my journal. But now, with Rick in the hospital, I decided this was a good time to catch up on everything that had happened. I wrote quite a bit on Monday when Rick was still sleeping a lot because of his pain meds. Then this morning, I left Mom and Cody sleeping in the motel and came down early. Rick was awake and we had a good talk, but he crashed again after breakfast, so while Cody and Mom went back to the motel to watch a movie, I finished the rest of my account.

  I was glad I did. A little before noon, Grandpère called from Salt Lake City. (He and my father are up there closing on the sale of the Danny Boy Mine.) After asking how Rick was doing, he asked me if I had my journal with me. When I said yes, he said that it was very important that I write up a full account of all that happened while it was still fresh in my mind. He seemed very pleased when I told him that I already had done so.

  What he said next really kinda knocked me off my saddle. He said that he was sending me a new journal. When I told him that I had only used about two-thirds of the first one, and that I didn’t need a new one yet, here’s kinda how the conversation went from there:

  Grandpère: Did you write about the part Le Gardien played in all that happened?

  Me: Of course.

  GP: In full detail? Even the little things?

  Me: Yes, everything. Did you not want me to?

  GP: No, I’m glad you did. We need a record made. But Danni, promise me that you’ll keep the journal with you every moment until we can put it in the safety deposit box in the bank.

  Me—in mild shock: Are you kidding? My journal in a bank vault. What? Do you think someone’s going to offer us a movie contract or something? (Ha Ha)

  GP—not a hint of a smile in his voice: I’m sending you a new journal via overnight mail. Finish the record up to the sinking of the boat and the arrests. That should be your last entry. Thereafter, write in the new journal.

  About then, I didn’t know what to say. For some reason I had little chills dancing up and down my back.

  GP: You’ve watched your Dad use dynamite enough that you know what it can do, right?

  Me: Yes.

  GP: Good. Think of your journal as if it were a dozen sticks of dynamite, okay?

  Then he suddenly said he had to go and hung up on me.

  Sure enough, my new journal was delivered to the clinic just before lunch. That is what I am writing in now, sitting on the toilet in our bathroom while Mom and Cody sleep. And BTW, the old journal is locked in the motel safe, along with the duplicate pouch. Oh, yeah. That’s another story, but not for tonight. It’s past midnight. My handwriting looks like a lizard just ran across the page, so good night, one and all. This ol’ girl is headed for bed.

  The intermittent buzzing, though very far off, was an unwelcome intrusion. I was lost and didn’t want to be interrupted. This was bliss that you never wanted to end. And then it started again.

  “Carruthers! Wake up.”

  I cracked one eye open with a tremendous effort. To my surprise, Mom was standing in a doorway, one towel clutched around her, another towel rubbing at her hair. For a moment, I had no idea where I was. “Mom?” I managed to mumble.

  Buzz. Buzz.

  “Carruthers!” Much sharper now. “Answer the phone.”

  With a groan I rolled onto my side and started groping for my phone. I recognized the sound now. I had put my phone on vibrate last night so as not to wake up Mom and Cody.

  “Not your phone. My phone. There on the dresser. Hurry!”

  “Where’s Cody?” I said, pulling myself up to a sitting position.

  “At the swimming pool. Hurry, Carruthers. I can’t get it. I’m dripping wet.”

  I got out of bed and retrieved her phone, swiped my thumb across the “slide to unlock” button, and put it up to my face. “Hullo?”

  “Angelique?”

  “No, sorry. This is Danni. I’m her daughter.”

  “Hi, Danni. This is Clay. Is your mom there?”

  “Oh, hi, Clay. Yeah, but she’s just getting out of the tub. Can she call you back? Or can I give her a message?”

  “Sure. You ready?”

  “Uh ...” I looked around for a paper and pencil.

  “It’s not that long, Danni,” he chuckled. “You don’t need to write it down.” He paused. “You all right? You sound like you’ve got a hangover.”

  “Thanks. What time is it, anyway?” I turned to see sunlight behind the drapes.

  “Almost nine. Sorry to wake you up.”

  “Who said I was awake? What’s the message?”

  “I talked to the clinic administrator a couple of minutes ago. The doctors have confirmed that Rick will be released today, but they want him to take it easy for at least another week.”

  “Good luck with that,” I said. “He’s already saying he won’t need the crutches.”

  “That’s a good sign, but the doctors will set him straight on that.” He paused for a moment. “Danni, tell your mom that we’ll be to the clinic about ten. We’ll be coming by car because—”

  “Car? I thought you said you were bringing down a chopper.”

  “We are, but we’re going to set her down a little ways out of town. This one has FBI markings on it, and we want to avoid attracting a lot of attention. We’ll have a car waiting for us. There are some things I need to share with you guys before we take off. So we’ll have a little meeting there at the clinic before we leave.”

  With that, I was finally fully awake. “Is something wrong, Clay?”

  “No, no. Just some logistical things that we need to talk through. No big deal.”

  I stifled a huge yawn. “All right. I’ll tell her.”

  “Great. See you in about an hour.”

  Clay stuck his head into the medical center’s conference room at 10:07. He was not in a suit and tie but in jeans, sports shirt, and hiking boots. He looked like one of the locals. He went straight to Rick and shook his hand. “How’s the leg coming along?”

  “A little slower than my other one at the moment,” he said.

  Clay’s face softened. “As you may remember, I once took a bullet in my right leg, so you have my full sympathy.”

  He moved down the table, briefly greeting Mom, me, and Cody. Then, taking a seat at the end of the table, he plunged right in. “Okay. We don’t
want to spend a lot of time here, but there have been some new developments, so we need to make a couple of changes in our plans.”

  “What developments?” Mom asked.

  “First, some good news. Danni’s guess that your kidnappers might be Europeans was a good one. We contacted Interpol and—” He glanced at Cody. “Do you know what Interpol is?”

  That irked Cody. “Yes. It’s like the FBI, only it’s in Europe.”

  “Actually, they have offices in about a hundred and ninety countries, but yeah, that’s pretty much it. Anyway, we sent them what little information your family was able to provide, along with a few fingerprints we were able to pull off the houseboat and the vehicles.”

  “And?” I asked eagerly.

  “More than I expected, to be honest. It turns out that they have been tracking a highly sophisticated, very professional group that has been operating in Europe for the last several years. They believe this group is responsible for at least half a dozen kidnappings and extortion schemes.

  Mom broke in. “You mean like some kind of political extremist group?”

  “No. Their motivation seems to be strictly financial. So far they have raked in about nine million dollars. So you can guess how frustrated they must be with losing your twenty million. But they have no known political or religious affiliation, so far as Interpol can determine.”

  Mom was not liking this one bit. “So how did they pick a family in Hanksville, Utah?”

  “That’s what Interpol would like to know. They’re sending over a couple of their people to interrogate our prisoners. Not that I have a lot of hope for that. So far the prisoners have refused to say a single word to us. They even refused to talk to their court-appointed attorney.”