The Lions Of Lucerne

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.