The Lions Of Lucerne

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 fraction 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.”

Pleasant stay. As the train came into the final station and the doors opened, Harvath knew there wasn’t much chance of that.