The Lions of Lucerne

by Brad Thor

“Are you sure?”

  “Yes. I saw the video myself. He was still wearing the same disguise from the Ritz.”

  “But Switzerland. Jesus, how did he figure out the Switzerland connection?” said Rolander, his voice taut.

  “I have no idea. It must have something to do with André Martin and maybe that envelope Harvath was seen taking out of the locker at the train station.”

  “I knew this was going to happen. You’re right, we underestimated him. Shit! What are we going to do?”

  Rolander was sweating, but Snyder was as calm as ever. “I’ve already set the wheels in motion.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I sent a team over to silence Agent Harvath once and for all.”

  “But he could be anywhere. How are you going to find him?”

  “Quietly, I flagged his passport and put both his name and the pseudonym Hans Brauner on the Swiss watch list. I’ve got someone manning a bogus State Department phone line and E-mail address. The directive I sent was not to try and apprehend him, only to keep him under surveillance and notify us if he shows up.”

  “If he shows up.”

  “Don’t worry, he will.”

  “I think we should let our Lion know what’s happening.”

  “Why?”

  “What if Harvath tracks them down?”

  “What if he does? He wouldn’t stand a chance against them.”

  “I thought we weren’t going to underestimate Agent Harvath anymore.”

  Exasperated at having to spell everything out for his fellow senator, Snyder took a deep breath before drawing the picture. “First of all, the only way I have to get in touch with them is via the post office box. It was set up that way to protect all of us. Secondly, they’re trying to screw us right now by asking for more money. If we tip them off about Harvath, they might figure out a way to use him against us. It’s better that we stay quiet about it. He’ll pop his head up at some point and we’ll be there to nail him. Don’t worry. Besides, even if Harvath did locate the Lions’ den, which I don’t think he has a snowball’s chance in hell of doing, he’s no match for these guys. They’ll rip him apart, and that’s not an underestimation.”

  “But what about the president’s finger? Even you’ve got to admit that’s going too far. What if they kill him?”

  “If they do, then that’s just the cost of doing business.”

  51

  Harvath hated jet lag. Even though he had slept for most of the plane ride and had forced himself to stay up late last night, he still woke up early this morning. Opening his eyes, he could see that it was dark, and the only indication that anyone was up at this hour was the occasional sound of traffic from the nearby street.

  He closed his eyes again and tried to force himself back to sleep, but soon realized he was up for good. The bare wood was cold under his feet. Quietly, he padded down the hall to the bathroom and then returned to his room. Scot began a slow routine of stretching, testing his muscles. Although the bruises would probably take weeks to disappear, at least the stiffness was dissipating. He chalked up his returning muscle function and mobility to the shape he’d been in before the avalanche. As he continued stretching, moving into a series of yoga postures, concentrating on his breathing, he noticed his head was still aching.

  From the yoga he moved into a series of push-ups, crunches, and dips using the footboard of the bed and a chair. Covered in a light film of sweat, breathing heavily, and with a somewhat queasy stomach, Harvath grabbed his towel, toiletry kit, and a stack of coins and headed off for the shower.

  When he returned, he had a breakfast of bread, cheese, fruit, and two Tylenols, followed by a cup of strong black coffee. After brushing his teeth, he dressed in another “hey, dude” snowboarder outfit, tucked the Glock into his waistband, put his jacket on, and crept from the hostel.

  When the post office opened, Harvath was standing at the main doors with a USA Today newspaper tucked beneath his arm. As he walked up to the window marked poste restante, Scot noticed that the same woman was behind the counter as yesterday when he’d been buying envelopes and stamps.

  “Good morning,” he said in English, knowing the woman was fluent.

  “Ah, good morning, sir. Here to see if we have received your letter yet?”

  “Yes. I hope it’s here. I need the money to buy my train ticket to Strasbourg.”

  “I will check for you. What is the name again, please?”

  Harvath had not wanted to give the woman his real name yesterday and so had used the first one that popped into his head, “Sampras. Pete Sampras.” He knew it was a stupid choice, but once the name had crossed his lips, he couldn’t pull it back.

  “Of course, like the tennis player,” she said.

  “Yeah, except he plays tennis better than I do and has a lot more money.”

  “Well, maybe we can change that. The money part, I mean,” she said with a smile, writing down his name and walking to the back.

  Yesterday, Harvath had completely cased the post office after his plan had come to him. Standing outside, he would never be able to tell if “Aunt Jane” or someone working for her had accessed the post office box. The only way he would be able to surveil it was from inside, but how could he sit around inside the post office all day without attracting suspicion? He remembered a con game he had seen in a movie called House of Cards and decided a spin on it might work.

  Post offices worldwide would accept mail for you even if you didn’t have a box with them, as long as the letter was addressed to you at the post office with the words poste restante. All you had to do was keep checking in for your mail, and when a piece arrived for you, show your passport and claim it. It was very simple.

  The clerk came back shaking her head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Sampras, we still have no mail for you.”

  “Darn it. I was hoping to catch a morning train.”

  “You can check back later if you like. We have mail arriving all day here.”

  “That’s very nice of you. You know, if it’s not too much trouble, it is very cold outside this morning and I don’t even have enough money to have breakfast. Would it be okay if I just sat over there and waited? I’m sure it will be here at some point today.”

  Harvath was pushing it. The idea of him sitting in the post office all day might not appeal to the clerk, but he had put just enough flirt into his dialogue with her that he felt she would say yes.

  “I don’t think it would be a problem.” She smiled. “I will keep your name here, and next time I go to the back, I will check again. Maybe I’ll even bring you a coffee.”

  “Thanks. I have my newspaper, and I will just be sitting over there.”

  “Very well. Next customer, please.”

  Scot made his way over to the wooden bench and sat down, making himself as comfortable as possible. This could be a very long wait. There was no telling how often Aunt Jane’s post office box got checked, if at all. For all Scot knew, the mail might get forwarded someplace else entirely.

  He positioned himself and the paper at such an angle that he could see the box, but to anyone looking in his direction, it would appear as if he were engrossed in his paper.

  Ten o’clock came and went. The friendly clerk called him back over to her counter and handed him a cup of coffee, apologizing that his letter was still not there. He sat back down on the bench and waited.

  At twenty past ten, a group of elderly people entered the post office en masse. Apparently, they all liked to hike down to the post office and do their business together. Several went to post office boxes, and for a moment Scot had trouble telling if the slight figure in the blue quilted jacket and brown hat was opening the box he had been watching. The group of septuagenarians milled about in front of him, blocking his view.

  Through a brief opening in the crowd he saw a gloved hand close and lock a box…his box! Aunt Jane, or someone connected to her, had opened the box and retrieved the letter. He had purposely purchased a brightly colored
envelope yesterday and could tell, even from where he sat, that the one in the gloved hand was his.

  The throng of elderly Swiss moved toward him as they prepared to get into the stamp line. He politely pushed his way through the tangle of walking sticks, hiking boots, and lederhosen.

  Outside on the concrete steps of the post office, Scot looked quickly to his left and caught a glimpse of a blue coat and brown cap turning the corner. He took off after it, slowing only when he got to the intersection.

  A person of average height and slim build was walking just ahead of him, seemingly unaware of being followed. Harvath followed and hadn’t made it fifteen feet when the figure crossed the street and looked into a pastry shop window. He knew what the person was doing. It was the same maneuver he had used on many occasions—checking the reflection in the glass to see if anyone was following. He had no choice but to look straight ahead and to continue down the block.

  Luckily, streets in Interlaken for the most part were small and provided ample opportunities for ducking off. The first chance Harvath got, that’s exactly what he did.

  Since the person he was following had been proceeding in this direction and Harvath was confident he hadn’t been noticed, he hid himself in a doorway and waited for him to walk by. Hopefully, his wait wouldn’t be in vain.

  Five minutes passed, then ten, then fifteen…nothing. Harvath had lost him. He was certain of it. Whoever he was following either had gotten spooked and doubled back or had never intended to take this route anyway. He was angry with himself for losing his quarry. Now he would have to show up for the meeting tomorrow blind, with no idea of whom to look for. That was extremely dangerous, but once more, he had no choice. The place he had set for the meeting was known as the Jungfraujoch, the Top of Europe. It was a tourist attraction carved into a glacier on the Jungfrau Mountain. The Jungfrau stood right next to the Eiger. The Jungfraujoch was a dangerous place in which to hold a clandestine meeting, but it was one of the few locations close to Interlaken that Scot felt he knew well enough and would feel safe in. The crowds of tourists would provide ample cover, it was next to impossible for a sniper to set up anywhere, and there was only one way into the Jungfraujoch—by train. Scot planned to have all of his bases covered.

  As he stepped out of his hiding spot and turned up a different street to make his way back to the hotel, a pair of steely eyes in another doorway stared out from beneath the brim of a brown cap and memorized every feature of his face. The only thing that prevented Harvath from being followed was his watcher’s need to discover what was inside the brightly colored envelope and return it to the post office box, before its rightful owner arrived to claim it.

  52

  “Hey there. Where’s your board?”

  The voice caught Harvath completely off guard. He turned to see the group of noisy Americans he had encountered two days ago walking toward him on the platform. Leading the pack was the cute girl with the nose ring.

  “You didn’t forget it, did you?” she asked.

  “Nope. My friends never showed up, so I’m going to have to rent my gear,” Harvath replied.

  “Bummer. We’re heading up to Wengen. You’re welcome to board with us.”

  “Thanks. I really appreciate it, but I bought this Good Morning Ticket thing so I’d get a cheap deal up to the Jungfraujoch.”

  “We did that yesterday. We took the 6:35 A.M. train. Boy, was that early. But we saved a few francs that way.”

  Harvath made small talk with the group until the older, greenish gray Berner Oberland-Bahnen train pulled into the station. The train had eleven cars, the front half of which would go toward Lauterbrunnen, while the back half would go toward Grindelwald. As Harvath was going to take the Grindelwald route to get to the Jungfraujoch, he said good-bye to everyone and hopped on one of the cars in back.

  At precisely 7:35, the train pulled out of the station and made its way toward the first stop of Wilderswil. The steep mountains seemed to begin right at the tracks and shoot straight up. Even at this time of year the mountains gave forth with the bright hues of evergreen trees, which were made even more brilliant by the contrast of the pure white snow. As beautiful as the rugged Alpine scenery was now, Scot knew it was nothing compared to what this region was like in spring.

  That was how he’d first experienced Interlaken and the Jungfrau region—mountains overflowing with a myriad of colors from all the blooming wildflowers. On the Schynige Platte alone, up and to the left of where the train was now, there were over five hundred different types of plant life visible in the spring. The waterfalls and rivers tumbled and roared into the valleys below, fed by glacier water and melting snow from high above on the surrounding peaks. As Scot continued to watch the scenery, he had to admit to himself that there really wasn’t a bad time of year to visit Switzerland.

  At Zweilütschinen, the back half of the train was joined to a new engine, which picked up speed and headed east toward Grindelwald. Looking out the window on the right side of the train, Scot got his first glimpse of Switzerland’s famous trio of mountains: the Eiger, the Mönch, and his destination, the Jungfrau. The mountains, packed with ice and snow, were beautiful and terrifying at the same time. When he’d first visited the Jungfrau region, he had purchased a book called The White Spider, about several of the earliest attempts to scale the Eiger. As he looked out the window, he tried to pick out the area known as Death Bivouac, but the combination of distance and the heavy snow covering made it too difficult.

  As the creaky old train rolled and squealed its way up the mountain, Harvath consulted his schedule. It was 8:03, and the train was pulling into Schwendi. One more stop and they would be in Grindelwald.

  Six minutes later on the dot, the quaint village, bathed in early morning light, rose directly up in front of them. Its glitzy shops and sports stores were all modestly housed in beautiful traditional Swiss chalets of varying shapes, sizes, and colors. Early-rising Europeans garbed in brightly colored outfits clunked along the streets in heavy ski boots with skis slung casually over one shoulder. It reminded him of Park City. Scot envied them their carefree strides and the ease of the day that faced them—where to ski, followed only by where to eat. He, on the other hand, had no such luck in predicting what the day would bring.

  His plan was to get up to the Jungfraujoch early and scout things out. While he could have taken the 6:35 train from Interlaken, he’d worried about being there too early and not having any crowds he could blend in with. Judging from the number of passengers on his train, he had made the right choice. A nice Saturday tourist throng would provide cover and help keep him safe. It would also be easy to disappear into if it came to that.

  At Grindelwald, passengers were required to transfer to a cogwheel railway. The view of the Eiger from the station was incredible. Scot had seen some pretty crazy things in his time, but he never understood why anyone would willingly choose to climb a mountain, especially one like the Eiger.

  Harvath took a last look back at the Hotel Derby and Grand Hotel Regina, which flanked the Grindelwald train station, as he crossed the platform toward the cogwheel train. It was composed entirely of second-class cars divided into smoking and nonsmoking sections. Noticing that the passengers were predominantly European and Japanese, he knew that the biggest crowd would be found in the smoking car and grudgingly climbed aboard. The honey-colored wooden seats were uncomfortable, but the incredible view of the snow-covered mountains made up for it in spades.

  The cogwheel railway wove slowly in and out between houses and small farms on the outskirts of Grindelwald. As they drew even with the face of the Eiger, the train stopped at Grindelwald Grund, Grindelwald’s second station, whose parking lot was filled with tour buses. The Good Morning Ticket seemed to have a lot of cost-conscious fans. As new passengers boarded, all of the remaining seats were quickly taken. Smoke filled the compartment, and Harvath was happy no one complained when he reached up for the two knobs imbedded in the glass window and pulled it down a frac
tion to let in some fresh air. A Japanese man, sensing Scot was not a smoker, laughed and offered him a cigarette.

  The train picked up speed, and the chalets grew farther and farther apart. Harvath knew from experience that in the spring and summer the fields they were now passing would be filled with a chorus of ringing bells hanging from the necks of grazing sheep, goats, and cows. Each group of bells had a different tone so the farmer could recognize his own livestock, even in dense fog.

  At Kleine Scheidegg, passengers changed to the final train that would take them all the way to the top of the Jungfrau. The red crushed-velour seats were a welcome respite from the wooden ones of the previous train. Harvath remained with his group of European and Japanese smokers, who were upset to find that for the rest of the ride there would be no smoking.

  For this leg of the journey, Scot and his fellow passengers were traveling completely inside the mountain. At 9,400 feet above sea level, the train stopped for five minutes at the Eigerwand station, where windows had been carved out of the rock face so passengers could look out onto Kleine Scheidegg and the Grindelwald valley far below.

  The next stop was for another five cold minutes to overlook the glacier at the Eismeer station, 10,368 feet above sea level. Harvath filed off the train and pretended to absorb the breathtaking views with the rest of the passengers.

  Back on board, his heart began to beat faster, and he felt moisture forming on his palms. He leaned back in his seat, somewhat reassured by the sharp stab of the plastic Glock in his waistband.

  Only moments after the train began moving, the overhead speaker began playing another tape-recorded message. It came as the others had, first in German, then French, followed by Italian, Spanish, and finally English:

  “This is Jungfraujoch. The highest railway station in Europe, 3,354 meters above sea level. Please follow the direction signs to observation points and the restaurants. Thank you for your visit, and we wish you a pleasant stay on the Jungfraujoch.”