The Lions Of Lucerne

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.