The Lions of Lucerne

by Brad Thor

  “Well, even if Rolf was in town, we would have found a way to deal with this. You and I go back a long way.”

  “We certainly do.”

  “I just hope you can get yourself out of this mess you’re in.”

  “I will. Don’t worry.”

  Jackie gave his hand a squeeze and rose from the table. “I take it drinks are on you?”

  “You bet. When can I look for the key?”

  “The garbage was picked up this morning, so I don’t think there’ll be any problem if you try in about an hour. You remember the back way, round by the volleyball court?”

  “You have the volleyball court going even in the cold?”

  “Scot, have you forgotten the stupid stuff we used to do in the middle of winter after a couple of drinks?”

  “Yes,” he said, smiling.

  “Liar. Anyway, I’ll have you know winter volleyball happens to be a huge draw with our young clientele. I’ll have the key there within the hour.”

  Jackie gave his hair a ruffle and let out a disapproving sigh. “You used to be such a handsome guy,” she joked.

  “Thanks a bunch, Jack.”

  “I’ll see you later.”

  She gathered her purse and coat. Scot watched her disappear out the front door and then reappear outside the window as she made her way up the Jungfraustrasse back to Balmer’s Herberge.

  He finished his beer and decided to retrieve his bag at the station, then wander around town to kill some time before heading up to the hostel.

  49

  The key and a note were left under the smallest red garbage can, just as promised. The little map Jackie had drawn showed that his room was in the far south end of the structure just off the main building. Despite the fact that broad daylight made it difficult not to be seen, Harvath managed to get inside and up to his floor without being noticed.

  As he climbed the stairs, his nose was greeted by the sweet smell of fresh lumber. The Herberge itself looked like something out of an old Heidi movie. It was a typical Swiss-style chalet, wood inside and out. Painted under all of the gables were scenes of historical Swiss daily life. Flower boxes hung from every window.

  Dodging assorted construction debris, Scot found his room and opened the door. Jackie had made the bed and left him several bottles of mineral water, cheese, a couple of apples, bread, a salami, an electric coffeepot with coffee, dishes, a fork, a knife, and a spoon. Next to these staples was a notepad with writing on the top sheet that read: “By the way, none of this stuff is free. It all goes on your bill. Enjoy your stay. J.”

  She hadn’t changed one single bit, and thank God for that. Scot didn’t know what he would have done without her. Staying at a regular hotel would have been tricky. They would have requested he leave his passport as a deposit. As it stood now, he didn’t want either of the two he carried to be out of his possession.

  The floor, the walls, and the gently sloping ceiling were all constructed from beautiful blond wood. The double bed had white sheets and a red checkered comforter. There was a sink off on one wall, and he figured the toilets were down the hall next to the showers he had seen. Per Jackie’s suggestion, Scot had changed some of his paper money for five-franc pieces at the Interlaken post office so he could enjoy a shower with hot water in the morning. He’d also bought a couple of envelopes and some stamps. He set the coins on the counter next to the sink.

  Feeling a bit warm, he opened the casement windows just a crack. They opened outward like mini French doors. In her note Jackie had mentioned that the workmen often opened them during the day but that he must remember to close them at night, or one of the staff might come up to investigate. He kicked off his shoes and sat down on the bed. From a blue plastic bag, he withdrew the purchase he had made at a shop just around the corner from the Herberge.

  When Scot had passed a gun store called the Waffenhaus Schneider, he couldn’t believe his luck. Though he wasn’t a Swiss citizen and couldn’t purchase a real firearm, something else sat smiling out at him from the display window.

  Harvath entered and admired the wide range of weaponry. As he moved from section to section, he finally settled in front of a display by the window that read, “New from Tokyo. Airsoft!” Airsoft products were a line of authentic-looking replica firearms that fired six-millimeter plastic balls. They were so realistic that they were used in Hollywood movies and by several federal and local law enforcement agencies for training. The toy guns came in revolver models, semiautomatics, machine guns, shotguns, sniper rifles…you name it and Tokyo Marui made it.

  Scot had finally settled on a Glock 17. It was an almost perfect copy of the exact weapon, minus the silencer, he had used to save his life just the day before. He hoped he wouldn’t need to count on a toy gun to save his life in the future, no matter how realistic it looked, but until he could get his hands on a real one, this would have to do.

  Sliding the cover off the box now, he removed the gun from the inner Styrofoam box. It had cost him about sixty dollars U.S., but at least now maybe he wouldn’t feel so vulnerable. In a pinch, bluffing with the fake Glock would be better than having nothing at all, but the sooner he got ahold of a real weapon, the better. Rolf undoubtedly had one of the government-issued assault rifles somewhere in their house, but the Swiss didn’t issue their civilian army ammunition with their rifles. That was okay; Scot didn’t want to put Jackie any further out than he already had. Besides, how the hell would he conceal an assault rifle?

  He continued to plug the little white balls into the magazine. To his surprise, they helped bring the weight of the pistol closer to what it would be in real life and didn’t make any rattling noise when he twisted the gun from side to side. The best part was that it would fit neatly in his waistband without being seen. Scot set it aside and reached for the pad and pencil Jackie had left on the table with the food.

  He tore off the top piece of paper with her handwriting and set the pad on the bed next to him. Fishing the manila envelope from André Martin’s locker at Union Station out of his pocket, he began flipping through the papers until he found what he was looking for, the note to Aunt Jane and the address in Interlaken.

  Trying to copy the senator’s handwriting wouldn’t be necessary. He wanted whoever read his letter to know there was a new player in the game. Putting the pencil against the pad to begin his own little note to Auntie Jane, Harvath noticed that he could see an impression of the note Jackie had written on the page before it. The realization came to him in a flash, and he felt stupid for not seeing it before. His brain really had been scrambled. It was one of the oldest tricks in the book.

  The reason the note to Aunt Jane, which Scot had decided beyond a shadow of a doubt came from the senator, looked like a negative on the photocopied page was because that’s essentially what it was. He had to hand it to André Martin; he’d been extremely thorough. Finding the senator’s pad, André had lightly sketched with a pencil across the top page to see what had been written on the page before it. Most people wrote hard enough that their writing could be read several pages deep in a pad. Martin had known this trick and had been able to salvage the letter. It was all beginning to make sense. There was no way the senator would have engaged in his shadowy business at his office; there were too many opportunities to be found out. Instead, he worked from home, confident in his security. Based on the evidence in front of him, Harvath decided the senator was either very careless or André Martin was very clever. It was probably a combination of the two.

  Scot stuck as close as he could to the language of the note contained in the manila envelope. The key was for the reader to know someone was on to him:

  Dear Aunt Jane,

  You have been a very bad girl. You have taken something that doesn’t belong to you and many people want it back. I have no disagreement with you, but believe my silence is worth something. Why don’t we meet to discuss it? I will be at the Top of Europe’s Ice Palace at noon the day after you receive this.

  I
look forward to a mutually profitable chat.

  Yours,

  A friend of Edwin’s

  Scot read the letter several times before sealing it in the envelope he had bought. After addressing it with the Interlaken post office box, he stamped it and left for the post office.

  Walking down the Centralstrasse, Harvath roamed the neighborhood, and pretended to window-shop until five minutes before the post office closed. Then, he slipped his letter into the outdoor slot, satisfied that the letter would not make it into the post office box until tomorrow morning at the earliest.

  He walked back to Balmer’s and ran his plan through his mind yet again. It was a long shot, and he knew it, but at this point, it was the only shot he had.

  50

  Star Gazer hurriedly grabbed the wastebasket beneath his desk and vomited. Lying on a crumpled piece of wax paper on his desk was a man’s severed finger. He knew whom it belonged to and who had sent it.

  I can’t believe they managed to get this into my office, he worriedly thought to himself. First, all of those Secret Service agents get killed, then the Special Ops team, and now this. This is getting way out of hand. It has to end.

  Two hours later, Star Gazer sat in his study facing Senators Rolander and Snyder. Once the doors had been closed by Star Gazer’s bodyguards and it was safe to talk, Rolander began, “I don’t think calling this meeting was such a good idea.”

  “Oh, you don’t?” replied Star Gazer, anger notching his voice up as he spoke. “Well, guess what? I am done listening to you! This is all totally out of control!”

  “Keep your voice down!” snapped Snyder. “Now, just tell us what’s got you so worked up.”

  “What’s got me so worked up? I received a note today along with the president’s finger!” he said, ignoring Snyder’s request that he lower his voice.

  Rolander was speechless.

  “I am not going to tell you again. Calm down. What did the note say?”

  “The kidnappers want fifty million dollars deposited to an account in Buenos Aries, or the next package I receive will contain President Rutledge’s head.”

  “Our friends are getting a little greedy,” said Snyder.

  “They can’t do this,” said Rolander.

  “They are doing it,” replied Snyder, who turned back to Vice President Marshfield. “Are you sure it was Rutledge’s finger?”

  “Positive. It had a funny half-moon-shaped scar at the knuckle which he always bragged about getting in a sailing accident.”

  “What did you do with the finger?”

  “What did I do with it? What do you think I did with it? I gave it to the Secret Service.”

  “Jesus. What about the note? You didn’t show anyone the goddamn note, did you?”

  “The note? Of course I did. You expect me to keep this to myself? This is all so insane. You have to stop this!” cried Star Gazer, the hysteria creeping back into his voice. “I never agreed to all of this killing, and what’s more, our deal was that the president be returned safely to his office.”

  Marshfield was stepping on Snyder’s last nerve. “Don’t tell me what our deal was. I put it together, remember? You get your big fat war chest filled with untraceable campaign contributions and a chance to prove that you’re made of the right stuff to be president. You stand tough and don’t negotiate with terrorists and come out smelling like a rose. We know Rutledge doesn’t plan on running for a second term, so you sail right into the number one position in the world. We handed you exactly what you wanted, so don’t start telling me what our deal was.”

  “I damn well will tell you, because your whole operation is falling apart!” shot Marshfield.

  “The only thing falling apart here, Mr. Vice President, is you.”

  “Me? You don’t even have enough fingers and toes to count all the dead bodies on. And from what I hear, you let that Secret Service agent, Harvath, slip right through your grasp!”

  “I’m not going to tell you again. You do your job and we’ll do ours. All you have to do is to talk tough to the cameras and make sure the president’s coalition for that fossil fuel reduction bill completely collapses. We want every yes vote so solidly no that even if he walked back onto the floor tomorrow morning, there’d be no resurrecting it. Do you understand me? The rest you leave to us. And for God’s sake, man, pull yourself together. You certainly don’t look like presidential material to me.”

  “I know. The pressure is just—”

  “Marshfield, I’m going to say this once. I know you’re a smart man and I won’t have to say it more than that. If a president can disappear, think how easy it would be for a vice president to vanish…permanently. Get your shit together. This is the last time I am going to warn you.” Snyder stood and said to Rolander, “Let’s go.”

  * * *

  Fifteen minutes later, with the privacy screen raised and knowing Snyder had his limousine swept continually for bugs, Rolander felt safe to speak. “I’m worried about Marshfield.”

  “There’s nothing to worry about,” said Snyder.

  “Nothing to worry about? The man’s falling apart.”

  “He’ll be fine. Besides, he knows what will happen to him if he tries to unburden his soul. I’ve got a pair of eyes on him at all times.”

  “How deep does this thing go?”

  “Deep enough to make it work. Right now, Marshfield is the least of our worries. I never should have let you talk me into concocting that plot to set up Harvath.”

  “There wasn’t enough time to sit around and think. At the time, it made perfect sense. Killing him would have been too suspicious. Framing him solved a lot of problems in one tidy little package.”

  “And then it created a whole hell of a lot more. We should have terminated him in his apartment when we had the chance.”

  “Listen, David, there’s no use crying over spilt milk. He’s on the lam, and all that stunt has done is cemented Washington’s belief that he’s guilty.”

  “But he knows too much.”

  “Not enough. It’s all circumstantial. The rantings of a nut who has suffered severe head trauma. It will never stick.”

  “He’s managed to kill two of my best contract agents outside the bank and seriously wound three others between there and the Union Station fiasco. Harvath is not someone I’m going to underestimate again.”

  “From what you’ve told me, the two he killed were lucky shots. Your other guys, especially the one that got his arm torn out of its socket, deserved what they got for being stupid. They knew full well what kind of a background Harvath has. To try and take him up close was a mistake. One which I’m sure your people won’t make again.”

  “No, they won’t.”

  “Fine, now what about that ransom note Marshfield received?”

  “What about it?”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing? What do you mean, nothing?”

  “I mean just that. I’ve already been through this potential scenario with Fawcett. He thought this might happen, especially considering how much money he’s already paid out. It was a natural to expect our Lions to get greedy. His decision was we do nothing.”

  “But how can we do that?”

  “Simple. If the president doesn’t return alive, then Marshfield remains in the number one position to finish out Rutledge’s term. A couple more well-orchestrated high-profile events while he runs down the clock for the former president and he’s a shoo-in to get reelected. Then he has the potential to serve for two full terms and we’ll own him all the way. It makes a lot of sense, really. We can’t lose.”

  “Except, there’s a fly buzzing around that might land in the ointment.”

  “Who, Harvath? For Chrissake, Russ. One minute you tell me not to worry about him and the next you’re painting him as the one thing that could bring everything crashing down around us. You think I’m going to let that happen? I already have a lead on him.”

 
“You do?”

  “Surprised? You think being on the Senate Intelligence Committee doesn’t have a couple of advantages? Apparently, Harvath called Lawlor at the FBI yesterday proclaiming his innocence. Ever the thorough G-man, Lawlor put a trace on the call and found it was coming from a pay phone at the Ritz. By the time his guys got there, no one fitting Harvath’s description could be found, so they did the usual, questioned a bunch of staff and potential witnesses, took statements, and left.”

  “So they didn’t nab him. What’s that got to do with our problem?”

  “It has everything to do with our problem. When the FBI questioned people and they said they never saw Harvath there, they were telling the truth.”

  “Okay…But I don’t follow you.”

  “The FBI made the same mistake with Harvath that we did. They underestimated him. Do you actually think with half of D.C. looking for him he’d be wandering around without some sort of disguise?”

  Senator Rolander’s eyebrows arched up.

  “It makes sense, doesn’t it?” continued Snyder. “The Ritz is one of the city’s most security conscious hotels. They have cameras everywhere. Based on the timing of the phone call to Lawlor and which bank of phones it came from, it was just a matter of rolling back the videotapes and we had him. We also had an outside camera showing him getting into a cab. The doorman remembered that he spoke English with a German-sounding accent. We got the number of the cab and showed the picture to the driver, who said he took him to Union Station.”

  “So he hopped on a train, but where to?” asked Rolander.

  “He didn’t hop on any train. He switched cabs at Union Station and probably three or more times before he got to Dulles.”

  “Dulles? What airline?”

  “Swissair. We got ahold of the airport security tapes and quietly passed his picture around. He traveled under the name of Hans Brauner and flew to Zurich last night.”