The Lions of Lucerne

by Brad Thor

The train whistle blew and the group boarded. This compartment was larger and they had been joined by faces that Scot didn’t recognize, but none had the eyes of a killer. Nevertheless, he had to expect that they had seen him and that the attack would come at any time. If it did, what would he do? He had only his plastic Glock. He needed to be preemptive. There was only a half hour until the next stop, which was Wengen. That’s where Scot would make his move. Another plan was beginning to form in his mind.

  55

  Half an hour gave Harvath plenty of time to become cozy with the members of the tour group sitting around him. A healthy dose of charm made him the darling of the conversation while the train slowly descended from the Jungfraujoch.

  As the overhead speaker began announcing the stop for Wengen, Scot could feel the train slowing down. Timing would be everything.

  He looked at his watch and then out the window to judge how much distance was left.

  “…It’d be great to have you. We’ll take you out on the boat and show you nothing but whales, seals, and beautiful Washington State scenery. Camano Island is like no other vacation you’ve ever taken,” Scot said as he wrote down a fictional address with a pen he borrowed from one of the group members. On vacation, people were so willing to give strangers personal information that they never would at home: names, addresses, phone numbers…it was a phenomenon unique to traveling.

  As Scot was about to hand the ballpoint pen back to the man he’d borrowed it from, he made it appear as if he had accidentally dropped it.

  “What butterfingers I’ve got. Sorry about that,” he said, bending down to pick it up. The train came to a stop in the Wengen station, and Harvath kicked his plan into action.

  From where he was fishing beneath the seats for the dropped pen, he screamed, “Oh, my God! There’s a bomb underneath the seats! Everybody out!”

  A murmur of shock floated across the train compartment, but only a couple of people moved. He didn’t have time for this. They were getting out whether they liked it or not. A little added influence was needed. Scot drew the fake Glock from his waistband and began yelling once again as he waved the pistol in the air where everyone could see it, “A bomb! A bomb! A bomb! We’re all going to die! Everybody get out! Run for your lives!”

  Whether it was the added urgency in his voice or the gun he would never know, but it didn’t matter. Passengers were screaming and trampling each other to get out of the compartment and as far away from the train as possible. This only helped Harvath as passengers began streaming out of the other compartments, shouting for help and running for their lives. It was sheer chaos.

  Using the fleeing passengers for concealment, Harvath hopped out of the train and began running with the herd’s forward direction. Tentatively, he shot a glance backward and his stomach immediately cramped at what he saw—three very large, broad-shouldered men standing alongside the train scanning the crowd and not moving. Trouble in paradise.

  Harvath turned around, but not quickly enough to see that a woman in front of him had stumbled, and he fell right down on top of her. She was panicked, hyperventilating, and clawing at the snow-covered ground to get back up and away from the soon-to-be-exploding train. Next, a man ran straight over the top of Harvath, unknowingly digging the toe of his boot into the small of his back. Scot let out a groan of pain. Maybe his ruse had been a little too effective.

  Knowing he had to move fast, he saw a break in the people running to his right and rolled off the woman, who was up and away in an instant. Scrambling to his feet, Harvath dug his boots in and shot forward out of his crouch, just in time to see two explosions in the snow where he had been lying. The killers had seen him too and were now firing. Harvath took off as fast as his legs would carry him.

  There wasn’t enough time to try to do another quick change to throw the men off his path. His only hope was to outrun them, or lose them somehow in the village.

  Wengen played host every year to the world’s longest downhill ski race, the Lauberhorn. Although downhill had not been Scot’s area of expertise, he had come to Wengen to see the race twice and cheer on the American team, as well as competitors he knew from other countries.

  The village hadn’t changed much since he’d last been here. Completely devoid of cars, it seemed frozen in time. Were Goethe to come back to revisit the nine-hundred-foot-high Staubach waterfall, only the fashions would seem out of place.

  Harvath’s breath came in quick, short gasps as he ran uphill deeper into the village. Dodging the brightly attired skiers that crowded the narrow lanes, he didn’t dare venture a look back. He knew his pursuers were right on his tail.

  He took a quick right turn, and wood splintered as an ornate balustrade on a low-lying balcony exploded just above his head. Running hard, Harvath removed his purple cap and threw it to his left into a narrow alley between two chalets. He then dove right, behind a wall of hay stacked only a few feet high.

  Focusing on his breathing, he willed his body to calm down or at least to quiet down. He strained his ears for sounds of the men coming down the small street. Fifteen feet in front of him, a herd of mountain goats, realizing Harvath was not here to distribute any of the hay he was hiding behind, went back to rubbing their heads against the rough posts of the tiny paddock, their bells ringing in a disjointed chorus.

  Scot continued to listen, and slowly, he began to hear the telltale sounds of heavy boots crunching upon the snow. The shooters were close, but they weren’t stupid. Taking their time, they moved cautiously down the street, ever watchful for an ambush.

  When they were almost even with the bales of hay, Harvath held his breath, his hands tight around the toy Glock, for all the good it would do him. He heard one of the men speak. “Look. On the ground. Ten o’clock. That’s the hat he was wearing. He went this way.”

  “We’ll check it out. You go the other way and radio if you see anything. We don’t want any more screwups. Get moving, and remember, he has a gun,” said another voice. This one was obviously in charge.

  These men were speaking English…American English. They weren’t the same voices he had heard in the Ice Palace. They were different, but the second man sounded familiar. He knew that voice. It was the same one Harvath had heard yell the word gun days before outside his bank. These were the men in the ghettomobile with the automatic weapons who had tried to kill him. What were they doing here? How could they possibly have followed him all this way? Harvath was sure that his trail stopped dead in Zurich, even if someone had been sharp enough to have been looking for Hans Brauner. Switzerland was a small country, but not that small. He couldn’t figure out how in the world they had tracked him.

  He quickly did the math—the woman and at least two men at the Ice Palace and now these three here. What was the connection? Were they all working together? Were the woman and the two men from the Ice Palace also searching for him in the village? There wasn’t any time to figure things out; he needed to get moving again.

  Peering over the bales of hay, he saw that two of the men had taken the bait and had headed off down the passage between the two chalets, back toward the village. The other man continued down the street in the direction his group had been heading before they split up. There was only one option open to Harvath, and that was to go through the paddock.

  It would allow him to put a lot of distance between him and his pursuers quickly, and that was all that mattered. Taking one more look over the bale of hay, he decided to make his move. Tucking the Glock back into his waistband, he covered the fifteen feet to the paddock in seconds. In hindsight, he probably should have brought some of the hay with him.

  The minute he jumped into the enclosure, the animals started going crazy. The neighing and jangling of their bells grew as the animals converged on Harvath. Some of their horns were long and sharp, and undoubtedly could do a lot of damage. The goats didn’t look happy, and Scot didn’t want to hang around and see if they were friendly. This wasn’t a day at the petting zoo.

  T
he animals converged on him almost at once as he tore across the territory they were so vigorously trying to defend. When he got to the far rail and placed his hands on top, ready to vault over, he felt something tear through the upper part of his left arm. He was sure one of the goats had gotten him with its horns, but looking back, he saw it wasn’t that at all.

  The commotion from the goats had caught the attention of the lone shooter, who’d raced toward the paddock and was able to get off one silenced round before Scot got over the fence. It connected with Scot’s arm, tearing through the windbreaker, as well as the clothes and flesh beneath. Harvath could already feel the warm spread of blood running down his arm. He didn’t want to give the guy a chance at a second shot.

  With only his right arm for support, Harvath vaulted the fence and rolled when he hit the ground on the other side, wincing from the pain. He ran alongside a decaying shed that looked as if it were three hundred years old and then headed to where he could see crowds of people on a more populated thoroughfare.

  He heard the muffled spits being fired from behind as the bullets tore up everything around him. Scot ran faster.

  Hitting the thoroughfare, he ran across it and saw that he was parallel with a café that must have been popular with skiers, because there were rows and rows of skis and poles resting on racks outside. Quickly, he grabbed a pair that were entangled with ski poles and headed for an alley about twenty feet down.

  The alley actually passed beneath an old chalet and therefore was relatively dark compared with the bright sunshine outside. As he hurriedly unlocked the skis, Scot glanced out the far end of the passageway and could see the peak of the Schilthorn off in the distance.

  His back flat up against the wall, he looked at his left arm and saw that it was completely covered in blood. The blood had even run down to his hand. There was nothing he could do about it now.

  Bottom of the ninth, bases loaded… Harvath wrapped both of his hands around one of the skis as tight as he could, the tip resting against the wall above his right shoulder. Time seemed to creep at a snail’s pace. Where is he? He had to have seen me come this way.

  His left arm was killing him, and holding it in this position wasn’t doing it any good. He didn’t know how much longer he could keep it up.

  Then, he heard footsteps from the other side of the wall. Careful…wait for it.

  The gun preceded the shooter through the entrance to the passageway. Scot fought against every impulse in his body that told him to swing and run. Wait, he told himself, not yet.

  Whoever the shooter was, he seemed to sense Harvath was near and chose his steps very carefully. It almost appeared as if he weren’t moving at all, but he was. Scot could now see the hand, wrist, and forearm of the gunman. Soon.

  The upper arm appeared, then the shoulders, a torso…Now! Swinging with all of his might, Harvath nailed the gunman square in the chest with the ski, and the man went down, dropping his gun. He went for it, but Scot kicked him hard in the ribs. The man grunted, and instead of clutching his side where he’d been kicked, he rolled quickly to his right and grabbed for Scot’s leg. The shooter brought his feet quickly around behind him, ready to jump up, and then there was a flash of something in the man’s hand…a knife.

  That was the last straw. Harvath’s anger raged. He didn’t know what the hell was going on, but he’d had enough and he certainly wasn’t going to grapple with one bad arm and try to fight this guy for the knife.

  The man pointed his knife at Harvath.

  “You know what? I really, really don’t like it when people point things at me,” said Harvath.

  The man froze for a moment, confused that Scot would address him, rather than attack, but the confusion was only temporary.

  “If it’s not a gun, then it’s a knife. Here’s the deal. I’m not playing around anymore.”

  Just as Scot finished, the man lunged and slashed at him with the blade. Harvath turned in time and grabbed one of the ski poles from where it rested against the wall. As the man attacked again, Scot faked left, then spun around hard to his right and plunged the pole deep into the man’s chest. The knife fell from his hand, and in seconds, blood gurgled out of his mouth, painting his jacket a deep crimson.

  “It looks like you got my point,” said Scot as he let go of the pole.

  The man, still on his knees, fell forward, but only a foot before the bottom of the pole hit the ground and he was propped up like a human pup tent. Not wasting a moment more, Harvath went for the man’s pistol.

  A blanket of fire erupted in front of him as bullets ricocheted off the cobblestones of the passageway. The gunman must have radioed his position to his two colleagues. There was no telling how far away they were. The bullets were close enough, and that was all that mattered. Harvath ducked and rolled toward the opposite entrance. Snaking around the outer wall of the chalet, he jumped to his feet and ran.

  56

  The first thing Harvath needed to do was to stop his bleeding. The next was to get the hell out of Dodge…Wengen…whatever.

  The village was situated on what the Swiss call the Wengen sun terrace: a long westward-facing plateau that got fabulous sun in the afternoon. That was definitely the case today.

  Quickly and carefully, Harvath picked his way from chalet to chalet, trying to stay concealed as best as was possible in the blazing sunshine. He made a makeshift pressure bandage from his windbreaker so he wouldn’t leave a trail of blood for the remaining two gunmen to follow.

  Seven chalets later, Harvath came upon a restaurant that was blaring techno music. This was definitely a snowboarder hangout. Scot scanned the crowd of young faces, hoping to find his little blond girlfriend with the nose ring and her friends. They would be perfect cover, but they were nowhere to be seen. Scot needed to come up with another plan.

  Snowboarding was an interesting sport in that it offered a high probability for wipeouts. And, wiping out in the strong sunshine meant that the snow you picked up melted quickly and even the most waterproof of snowboarding outfits got wet.

  A leafless tree on the side of the restaurant had become the snowboarders communal coat rack. Why these kids never took them inside or out onto the terraces with them to dry out was beyond him, but right now Harvath was grateful for it. He found a drab brown-and-gray coat that looked as though it would fit and chose a good-sized black helmet from the pile so neatly arranged at the base of the tree. A couple of people would be very angry to find their gear had been stolen, but at least Harvath might have a better chance at survival. Walking away from the restaurant, he also grabbed the last snowboard in the line leaning against the wall.

  He put the jacket on and found there was a pair of goggles in the pocket, which he put on along with the helmet. Quickly, he made his way toward the Männlichen gondola. The pain in his arm was almost unbearable. He didn’t think he had any arterial damage, but he needed to get a better look at the wound. If he wasn’t careful, he could risk bleeding to death. Spotting a busy pizzeria, he ducked inside and went downstairs to the men’s room.

  Taking off the coat, he saw the windbreaker pressure bandage was stained with blood. Untying the knotted sleeves, Scot braced himself for a gush of blood. The bullet had nailed him pretty good, but it hadn’t penetrated an artery. A fraction more to one side and he would have been in real trouble. He checked the injury over thoroughly and realized it was a serious grazing wound and would definitely need stitches, but that should take care of it.

  Harvath’s belt was made of woven black leather, the type whose buckle can be placed anywhere. He removed it from his cargo pants and quickly wrapped it around the upper section of his left arm, pulling the belt tight, his eyes pinched shut in response to the pain. He looked at his watch and marked when he would need to release the tourniquet. He covered his arm with the bloody windbreaker, hoping to prevent any blood from seeping outside of the jacket, cleaned his hands as best he could, and left the restaurant.

  With a snowboard under his right ar
m, the jacket zipped all the way up, and the helmet and the goggles on, Harvath had his best disguise yet. He moved as fast as his legs would carry him to the gondola and watched for signs of his attackers.

  Before getting on board, he bought a hot dog and a couple of cans of Red Bull energy drink. He needed to build his strength back up. A gondola operator pointed at the no eating/no drinking sign.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” said an exasperated Harvath.

  The operator wasn’t kidding.

  I’ve been shot at, trampled, chased by goats, shot at again, and this guy’s worried about me eating in his precious gondola? What a day, he thought to himself.

  After two fast bites of the hot dog, Scot threw the rest of it out and slid the Red Bull into his pocket.

  As the gondola drew up the mountain, Harvath stood facing the back, and watched Wengen slowly recede in front of him. He had made it. He was safe, but for how long?

  Once at the top of the Männlichen, it was a short but painful walk to the Grindelwald gondola that took him back into the village he’d been in only hours before. The only way down from Grindelwald was the train to Wilderswil. He watched the station carefully, letting two trains go before he decided to get on board. In the station’s bathroom, he had released the tourniquet for a moment of precious relief. The fingers of his left hand had gone numb half an hour ago.

  In Wilderswil, he caught the bus to Interlaken’s Centralplatz, where he found a pay phone and called Balmer’s. He told Jackie where he was, that he was hurt and needed her to pick him up.

  The weight of the snowboard helmet threatened to crush his neck. He was light-headed, his legs were like rubber bands, and his stomach was churning. He stayed in the phone booth, leaning against the side until Jackie arrived twenty minutes later.

  57

  “You look like shit,” was the first thing Jackie said as Scot eased himself into the passenger seat.