To Run With the Swift

by Gerald N. Lund

  “Yes,” Louis answered. “That was my first thought too. But revenge for what? That was the question. So I sent my team to find out.”

  “And did they find some kind of common link between all of these crimes?” I wondered.

  “Oh, yes, a couple of things. In the first place, no one has ever been physically harmed.” He glanced at Rick. “Except for you, but that seems to have been not by preplanned design.”

  “That’s right.”

  “But that seems strange if the motive is revenge. Second, in every case, with only one exception, the targeted families were devastated by the crimes. They were utterly ruined—mentally, emotionally, socially, economically. And where money was not a factor, that devastation seems to have been the primary motive behind the crimes. For example, one woman in Toulouse tested positive for sexually transmitted diseases. She was a nun in a Catholic girls’ school. It was later proven that she was a virgin and that the lab tests had been falsified. But by that time the story had been leaked to the media and went viral on the social networks. She finally asked to be transferred to South America where she could start over.”

  Louis turned back to Grandpère. “By the way, as you sit here in my Mercedes, being watched by a very expensive security team, you may have guessed that I am that exception. But this is only because I had the money to fight back, to hire security. And we have blocked several attempts to destroy or steal my assets. But those without my resources have not fared so well.

  “You are very wise, Jean-Henri,” Louis went on. “It is revenge. Of that I am sure. But it is revenge of a very different kind. It is a war of the mind more than a war against the body.” He shook his head, a sense of horror evident in his voice. “Their purpose is incredibly simple and absolutely devastating.”

  Grandpère turned to me. “Like waiting for us at the mine so they could blow it up before our eyes. Like an anonymous person who kept feeding the media sensational information. Look what that has done to our lives.”

  This was making me literally sick. It was too horrible to contemplate.

  “They destroy hope,” Louis said quietly. “That is their real target.”

  “Exactly,” Grandpère sighed.

  “And the other common link?” Louis said. “This, I think provides us a possible answer to our questions. I had my investigators dig more deeply into the backgrounds of these victims, and one thing turned up again and again. They had all had some role in the war.”

  “Like what?” Rick asked.

  “Two weeks ago, while I was going over all the reports from my security team, I saw something that about bowled me over. I saw a name in one of the reports. That was such a shock that I just stared at it for a long time, not really believing what I was looking at. Two documents later, I saw it again.” The pain etched deep lines into his face. “I sent the investigators back to look at every individual case. And without exception, every person is linked to this same name.”

  “Who?” I cried out. “Who is doing these awful things?”

  “No, Danni. This man is not responsible for the crimes. He cannot be ...” He let the pause hang there in the air for what seemed like forever, “ ... for he has been dead now for over sixty years.”

  “Dead? How can that be?” Rick exclaimed.

  “May I guess?” Grandpère asked, his voice so low I barely heard him.

  Louis nodded. “Yes. You know, don’t you.”

  He nodded. “The name is Horst Kessler of Munich, Germany.”

  I gasped. Rick was confused.

  “Colonel Horst Kessler,” Louis answered. “Commandant of the Strasbourg branch of the Secret State Police, which in German was called the Geheime Staatspolizei, which is usually shortened to Gestapo.”

  For the longest time, none of us spoke. Finally, Grandpère visibly pulled himself together. “Have you told Interpol this yet?”

  Louis shook his head. “No. My security firm is pretty sure there is a leak in the Interpol headquarters in Paris. So we cannot let these people know that we are closing in on them, or they will simply disappear.”

  I turned to Rick. “Horst Kessler is the man who arrested Grandpère’s mother and father.”

  “And who struck my mother across the face, cutting her cheek with his ring,” Grandpère added. “I was there. I saw it happen.”

  “And because you were there,” Louis came back in, “your parents—and you—were called to Nuremberg, Germany, to testify in the war crime tribunals of 1947. As were my parents and I. As were Jacques Rousseau, Étienne Giroux, André Villeneuve, and Célina Chastain Morneau. It was our testimonies that led to Kessler’s conviction and sent him to the gallows.”

  “But wait,” I said. “That doesn’t make sense. If it was Célina Chastain’s testimony that led to his conviction, why not go after her? Why frame her grandson and granddaughter ... ?” I stopped. I already knew the answer. What better way to destroy hope than by bringing pain and loss on those most loved? My eyes widened. Like me and Cody and Mom and Dad.

  “There’s more,” Louis said quietly. “And this, I think, helps us better understand what is going on. Once we saw the link to Kessler, I sent an investigative team to Munich. Here is what they have learned so far.

  “Horst Kessler was the oldest son of a very wealthy and influential family in Munich. He was married and had two children, a boy and a girl. When the war broke out, he was given a commission in the German army and eventually became a colonel with the SS and the Gestapo. When he was captured by the Americans, I guess some of his old so-called friends and associates back in Munich saw an opportunity to profit from his downfall. They started rumors that he had turned traitor and was cooperating with the Allies.

  “The Gauleiter in Munich—” He looked back at me and Rick. “A Gauleiter was the leader of a regional branch of the Nazi Party. Anyway, the one in Munich evidently was the one who started these accusations. Documents were forged. They even brought forth witnesses to testify against him. His palatial home and bank accounts were all seized and divided up amongst a small circle of his enemies. The Gauleiter moved into his palatial villa using forged deeds of title. Kessler’s wife and children, now thoroughly disgraced, were thrown out into the cold. Then the Gauleiter’s wife spread rumors that Frau Kessler had been receiving food and supplies from her husband and selling them on the black market—a crime punishable by death. She and her children had to flee for their lives, living from hand to mouth in the bombed-out ruins of the city. This was in the early spring, when the weather was still very cold. Her son caught pneumonia and died.”

  “How horrible,” I exclaimed.

  “Yes, very horrible for her.” He leaned forward. “Now, here is where things really get interesting. The Gauleiter quickly changed sides and cooperated with the Americans in their search for Nazi war criminals. So he not only escaped punishment himself but he helped give evidence against his former comrades, including Horst Kessler. And by capitalizing on their misfortunes, the Gauleiter, whose name was Werner, became a wealthy and influential man in postwar Munich.

  “Then, not quite two years ago now, the Gauleiter’s wife and two children were kidnapped and held for ransom. This was the first of all the kidnappings here in Europe—”

  “Wait,” Rick said. “I thought you said there were only three kidnappings.”

  “No, only three kidnappings among those who belonged to the Resistance. We totally missed the one that involved the Werners at first because it was kept very hush-hush, and also because it took place in Germany. Eventually, they had to pay almost five million Euros to free them.”

  I whistled softly. “Whoever this is, they’re making huge amounts of money, aren’t they?”

  “Enormous amounts. But that’s not the whole story. The oldest Werner daughter was a prominent socialite who married a very wealthy businessman from Frankfurt. But one of the tabloid newspapers broke
a story that she was actually living a secret life as a high-class call girl when her husband was traveling. They had pictures and evidence to prove it.”

  “But she was innocent,” Rick said, not making it a question.

  “Totally,” Louis agreed, “which eventually came out. But by then her husband had divorced her, leaving her with absolutely nothing from him. She eventually had a mental breakdown and is now in a mental institution in Munich. A few months ago, Mr. Werner suffered a massive stroke and died. Doctors attributed it largely to the stress he was under.”

  I was reeling. It was like some horrid nightmare.

  Louis nodded, looking half apologetic. “I’m sorry to take so long, but let me share one last thing, and then we shall discuss what we do next.” He took another breath. “When we learned all of this, I asked our research team to try to find out what ever happened to Horst Kessler’s wife. It took some digging, but here’s what they learned. After Frau Kessler was thrown out of her home, one of Kessler’s fellow officers in the German army, a man by the name of Manfred Hoffman, went looking for her. It turns out that Kessler had done him some kind of favor early on in his career, and he felt that he had a debt of honor to be paid. So he finally found her in a bombed-out shell of a building. By that point, her son had died. Hoffman risked his own standing and reputation and helped her and her daughter escape to Switzerland and hid her in the home of his sister there. Together, they managed to create new documents for Frau Kessler and her daughter and smuggle them out of Switzerland. We’re not sure where they went yet, but we’re getting closer to finding out.”

  Grandpère started to say something, but Louis went on quickly. “Let me finish, for this is the most important part. Manfred Hoffman was captured by the Americans in Munich and put in a POW camp. But he was never charged with any war crimes. He was eventually released and went on to live a quiet and respectable life as a college professor in Hamburg. He passed away of cancer in 2004, leaving a wife, three children, and several grandchildren. His sister was married to a Swiss banker and is now a widow. She and her family still live in Zurich.”

  “So there is at least one happy part to this story,” I suggested.

  “Indeed. But here is what is fascinating. Several months after the Werners paid their ransom, an anonymous donor deposited five hundred thousand Euros into the account of Manfred Hoffman’s widow. And the taxes on that amount had been prepaid.”

  “Five hundred thousand?” I gasped.

  He nodded. “Another hundred thousand tax-free Euros were given to the sister. In all cases, the donor was never identified, but the bank that transferred the money certified to the authorities that these contributions came from a completely legitimate source.”

  “Je suis bouche bée,” Grandpère breathed softly.

  It was the French cry of astonishment, literally, “My mouth is agape.”

  “So, it is not just revenge motivating these people. I think the better word is justice,” Louis concluded. “Those who helped the Kesslers have been richly rewarded. Those who hurt the Kesslers are being systematically ruined. It is quite a remarkable story, no?”

  Grandpère’s head had been down now for several minutes as he stared at the floor, listening. Now it came up with a snap. He yanked his door open, then turned to Rick and me. “We have to go. Now! Get in the van.” He turned back and extended his hand. “Thank you, Louis. I’ll be in touch. We are greatly in your debt, but we must go.”

  I didn’t move. This abrupt urgency left me, Rick, and Louis totally stunned. Grandpère got out of the car and went to shut the door. When he saw that Rick and I were still sitting there, too dumbfounded to move, he barked, “Now, Danni! We have to go.”

  We both scrambled out of the car and ran to the van. I looked back and saw that Louis was out of the car too. He and Grandpère embraced for a long moment. As we climbed into the car, they separated for a moment but were talking earnestly. Or I should say, Grandpère was talking earnestly while Louis listened intently and kept nodding his head.

  “Au revoir,” I heard Louis call as Grandpère left him and came and opened the driver’s door and got in. Grandpère waved back. “Au revoir. Merci beaucoup, mon ami.” “Good-bye. Many thanks, my friend.”

  He shut the door and inserted the key in the ignition, and the engine roared into life. Moments later, we shot out of the parking lot, the back end of the van fishtailing wildly in the snow.

  PART EIGHT

  The Rumble of Chariots

  CHAPTER 29

  “Danni?”

  “Yes, Grandpère?”

  “Try them again.”

  I did, going through the same exact routine as the previous two times. Hit the “Favorites” button for Dad. Wait. No answer. Hang up. Hit the button for Mom. No answer. Hang up. Hit the button for Cody. Nothing changed. “Still no answer,” I said.

  “Maybe they’re down at the swimming pool,” Rick suggested from behind us. “You know Cody. He’s a fish.”

  I shook my head. “Mom would take her cell phone. Maybe not Dad. Definitely not Cody. But Mom would. Dinner?” I said it without much hope.

  “Same thing,” Grandpère grunted.

  I was riding in the front seat with Grandpère. Rick was behind us. I gave Grandpère a sideways glance. “Do you feel like something is wrong?”

  His head jerked around. “Don’t you?”

  “I ... I’m not sure. I’m worried, of course.”

  He turned his gaze back on the road, but not before I saw his mouth turn sharply down. I kept my eyes straight ahead. The windshield wipers were starting to have trouble keeping the windshield clean. The highway was still only slushy, but it was snowing hard now, and at this rate, the roads would be slick before we got back to Caen.

  Suddenly, Grandpère let off the gas and started to pull over.

  “Uh ... why are you stopping?”

  “Where’s Le Gardien, Danni? I want it out from under your coat. We need help.”

  I looked away quickly, but not before I saw Rick’s look. With shame lancing through me, I dropped my chin and stared at my hands. “I ... um ... don’t have it with me.”

  What hurt even more than his expression was the realization that my confession didn’t surprise him. It was if he were expecting it. So I rushed on. “We were in such a hurry to get on the road again that I went off and left it in my suitcase. I’m sorry.”

  Grandpère put the van in gear, checked the rearview mirror, and pulled back onto the road again without saying a word. Not a good sign.

  “I’m really sorry, Grandpère,” I said in my most contrite voice.

  He just shook his head slowly back and forth. “Oh, Danni.” There was a deep, pain-filled sigh, then very softly, “Danni, Danni, Danni.”

  And that was the last word spoken in our vehicle until we turned off the highway and started down the road that led into Caen and to our hotel.

  As we stopped at a traffic light about two blocks from our hotel, Grandpère finally spoke again. “If the family is with Juliette, we’ll say nothing of this until we are alone.”

  I turned, caught off guard by his comment. “Why not?”

  “Nothing, Danni. Do you understand me?” There wasn’t much warmth and affection in his voice.

  “Okay. But why, Grandpère? If our family is in danger, then so is she, and ...” My voice trailed off as understanding dawned. “You don’t think that ...” I just gaped at him. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying I don’t want to speak about Louis in any way if she is there. I mean it, Danni. Don’t fight me on this.”

  “I can’t believe this. That’s not fair, Grandpère. Not after all she’s done for us.”

  “Ah, yes,” he mused, the sarcasm thicker than cold bacon grease. “Let’s talk about all she’s done. She bought Le Petit Château and spent a ton of money turning it into a bed a
nd breakfast, supposedly because she and her husband had an emotional attachment to it, and also to provide her with some income in her retirement.”

  He had me on that one. I had wondered about that myself more than once.

  He went right on. “And how convenient that they somehow just happened to get my name and email so they could offer us this fantastic deal if we would come and stay with them.”

  “Oh, come on, Grandpère,” I said. “I find that hard to believe. She had no way of knowing we would come to France. We didn’t know it ourselves until just a short time before we actually left.”

  “That’s right. Not until someone blew up the mine so we would know that the danger wasn’t over. Not until someone copied your journal so they knew every detail about Le Gardien and about you and Rick. Not until carefully orchestrated leaks to the media led us step-by-step to the point that we had to escape to somewhere.”

  He blew out his breath in utter disgust. “And all along, we thought we were being so clever. We were so careful every time we went out to dress and look so that no one would recognize us. I can’t believe we were such fools.”

  Rick leaned forward over the seat. “Grandpère, what if the food poisoning today wasn’t an accident?”

  “Of course it wasn’t an accident,” he retorted. “That’s why she volunteered to provide the lunches. That’s why she kept them right with her on the ride up here.”

  I was getting angry now. “Come on, guys,” I pleaded. “If that’s the case, then why didn’t we get sick? And why would she make herself sick?”

  “Actually,” Rick answered, “she never was really sick. She just said she was sick. We never saw her throw up. And maybe she wanted us separated.”

  I gave Rick a sharp look, but my uneasiness was growing in leaps and bounds. If Rick had doubts too ... I turned back to Grandpère. “So what? You think she’s Frau Kessler? That would make her over ninety years old.”

  “No, not his wife. His daughter.”