The Lions Of Lucerne

53

Harvath looked at his watch. It was exactly 9:53 A.M. The Swiss were amazingly precise. Not one of the trains he had been on in the last three days had wavered one minute from its timetable. He had just over two hours to survey the area and get ready for his meeting with dear Aunt Jane.

Harvath didn’t waste time. From the station, he measured how long it took him to get to the Ice Palace. Thirty meters deep within the glacier, it was a horseshoe-shaped tunnel carved completely out of the ice. Even the floor was ice. The Europeans didn’t have the healthy fear of lawsuits that the Americans did. Getting any traction on the floor was next to impossible. The best one could do was a shuffle that mimicked ice-skating.

He continued on to the outdoor plateau, then back inside to check the rest rooms, shops, restaurants, and the exhibition hall. He passed the blue coin-operated luggage lockers and made his way up the long hallway to the Eiger climbing wall and the computers that let you send free E-mails from “The Top of Europe.” He was tempted, but decided against it. Taking the fastest elevator in Switzerland he arrived at the Sphinx observation area and weather station. After a good look around, he descended in the elevator and headed outside to the “Adventure” area, with its dog sled rides, tobogganing, skiing, and snowboarding. The slopes were already packed.

The fact that almost the entire complex was buried deep within the icy mountain gave Scot an odd feeling of déjà vu. His mind wandered to being caught in the avalanche with Amanda. As quickly as the thought came up, Scot slammed shut an iron door to that part of himself and focused on the job at hand.

He suspected Aunt Jane and her people would show up on the 10:53 train, if they hadn’t come on the 9:53 with him or arrived even earlier on the 8:53. He felt certain that they would not be coming on the one that arrived at seven minutes before noon. That would be cutting it too close and would not give them enough time to case the area and make sure it wasn’t a trap.

Scot kept his eyes open the entire time he was surveying the Jungfraujoch. He looked for that same blue quilted coat and brown cap or any man that might be of the same build. He soon found that style of jacket to be quite popular with the Europeans and was frustrated on three different occasions when he thought he had spotted his prey.

For his part, he kept his wool cap pulled tight around his ears and the collar of his coat turned up. He glanced at the exhibits, picked up postcards, and looked for souvenirs while marking in his memory each nook, cranny, crevice, and exit door that could hide an enemy or provide a means of escape for him if necessary. One of the biggest advantages the Jungfraujoch had presented when he was considering it for his meeting was also its biggest disadvantage. There was only one way in or out…by train. Scot began to realize how stupid he might have been. Whether his head was still scrambled or he had just been too desperate to think of something else, he was quickly beginning to realize that this was not one of his all-time greatest plans. Control of the situation was everything. If he lost control, things would go very bad very fast.

As twelve o’clock grew near, Scot’s hopes of swarms of tourists to use as camouflage began to diminish as many of them headed off to the restaurants for lunch. A few stragglers were still roaming about, and there were the people who probably got off the 11:53 train to look forward to, but he didn’t hold out much hope for the cover he had counted on.

His nerves began to crackle and adrenaline coursed through his body as he walked down the snowy path toward one of the entrances to the Ice Palace. He figured they would expect him to enter from the main door off the elevator from the train station, and therefore chose a completely different approach. He stood outside, waiting for the right moment to start walking, having timed to the second how long it would take him to reach the halfway point. As soon as he entered the mouth of the Ice Palace, the wind that had been whipping around his face outside immediately dropped off.

He walked ahead slowly, ever aware of the slick floor beneath his boots. One hand gripped the railing as his other hand remained in his right coat pocket, where he’d transferred the Glock. Pretending to admire the sculptures carved out of the sheer ice walls, he moved from niche to niche, as if he were following the stations of the cross in an old cathedral. He was no longer picking up his feet, but rather shuffling them along the ice, getting a feel for the movement.

Up ahead, the corridor turned to the right and obstructed his view. He kept up his pace-shuffle to a sculpture, stand for a moment to appreciate it, and then shuffle to the next. He listened intently for any other sounds coming from within the cavern of ice, but heard nothing.

A wisp of a voice, from behind the iron door he had clamped down on his mind, asked him how he would know whom he was looking for and what he would do when he found them. Scot pushed the thought away and focused his energy. He would know whom he was looking for. He would be able to tell by looking in their eyes. People accustomed to killing had a very distinct look and bearing about them, just like the men at Union Station who had tried to kill him on Wednesday.

He rounded the bend in the corridor, a gust of circulating air biting at his earlobes. Before he had come in, he had removed his hat, thinking his odd appearance might fool the people he was after and thereby give him a slight advantage.

The bend behind him, Harvath now was looking at a sculpture of a large bear with a salmon captured in its jaws. Another gust of ventilation wind blew through the corridor, which glowed an eerie blue from the ice. As Harvath prepared to move along to the next sculpture, he felt a hard jab in his back and heard a woman’s voice. She spoke in English, but with a Swiss accent. “We are quite fond of bears in Switzerland. It’s a lovely sculpture, isn’t it, Mr. Sampras? Or should I say, Mr. Harvath?”

“Sonofabitch,” Scot mumbled to himself. He was taken completely by surprise. He hadn’t heard her sneak up. She must have been behind one of the sculptures, waiting for him to pass before coming after him. His body tensed, ready to strike.

She could feel it. “Relax, Mr. Harvath. This is a gun I have at your back.”

“You don’t say. And I thought you were just happy to see me.”

“I am not amused, Mr. Harvath. Please take your hand out of your pocket. Slowly.”

Scot did as he was told. “How do you know my name?”

“That is not important. What is important is your interest in-”

At once, the woman’s sentence was interrupted by flying pieces of ice. At first it seemed as if the statue were falling apart, but as the trajectory of the chips began changing, Scot knew all too well what was going on. Someone was shooting at them with a silenced weapon from the bend in the hallway, and they were closing fast.

The woman behind Harvath was equally distracted by the flying ice chips, quickly coming to the same conclusion he had. Without wasting a moment more, Scot drove his right elbow down hard into her stomach. He heard her gun clatter onto the ice. With a moan, she fell backward.

Scot spun, intending to pick up her weapon, but it slid in the direction of the approaching shooter and he would have had to climb over the woman to get to it. His eyes locked on her face for a brief moment. She is amazingly beautiful, was the last thing that registered in his mind before he took off running as fast as he could down the corridor.

Because he couldn’t get much traction on the ice, he wasn’t able to cover much ground. He moved into an alcove to catch his breath and drew the replica Glock from his pocket. He heard more muffled spits from a suppressed weapon coupled with the tinkling of breaking ice as it shattered and hit the floor. When the noise stopped, it was replaced by a scratching noise that sounded like mice behind drywall. Now he knew how the shooter was able to move so fast-crampons.

The scratching sounds stopped only feet away from where Harvath now hid. There were two shooters, and they were listening for him. No one moved, and Harvath dared not even breathe.

Then one of the shooters broke the silence. “Links?” he asked, German for left. His companion didn’t answer.

The man spoke again. “Links, rechts, was?” (Left, right, what?)

Obviously angry at his partner for talking, the other man heatedly admonished him with something that sounded like, “Chew Tea.” It didn’t sound like German, but Scot thought he recognized the word from somewhere.

The first man now responded with what sounded like, “Yah beh say!”

And the second man came right back with, “Chutee!”

Harvath now knew what he was hearing. During his travels on the ski team he had made it his goal to learn specific phrases in as many different languages as possible. His favorites had been the ones for shut up and fuck you. It was juvenile, he knew, but people always said, in any language you learn the bad words first. Besides, even if you knew nothing else, you could always get a guy laughing if you could say “shut up” and “fuck you” in his own language.

The “shut up” and “fuck you” he was hearing now, chutee and yah beh say, were Serbian. Why were these men speaking German first and then swearing at each other in Serbian?

Scot heard the resumed scrape of crampons along the ice. They were less than three feet from where he now stood. His hands tightened around the toy Glock. If one of them moved close enough, he could surprise him and press the pistol to his head while he ordered the other to drop his weapon. It might work. It would have to work. His ears strained, trying to judge how close they were now.

Abruptly they stopped again. They had heard something. Was it him? He hadn’t even breathed and was beginning to get light-headed from holding his breath. The men began backing away. It wasn’t him. They had heard something else, but what? Maybe someone else was in the hallway.

The men picked up speed, tracing back along the route they had come. Scot didn’t waste any more time wondering why. He skidded out of the alcove and ran as fast as his shuffling feet would carry him in the other direction.

Slipping, he cracked his knee against one of the steps carved out of the ice on his way to the elevator. He regained his footing and allowed himself to slide down the rest of the passageway. He pressed the call button and after two seconds decided it might not be such a good idea to hang around and wait. He turned to his left and ran down the hallway toward the restaurants and the exhibition hall, thankful to be off the ice.

When he reached the other end of the corridor, another set of elevator doors was just closing and he shoved his arm inside to stop them. They opened back up, and aside from a few startled tourists, it looked safe. Harvath rode down one level and exited. He sneaked into the Kino Audiovisual show and took a seat off to the side, where it would be difficult to spot him. He glanced at his watch. The next train out wasn’t for forty minutes.

Being careful that no one would see him transferring the Glock back to his waistband beneath his sweater, he took his jacket off, rolled it up, and placed it beneath his seat. He put his wool cap on again and pulled it down low. He also put on his wraparound sunglasses and slipped out of the Kino.

In the hall, he checked both ways and then ran for the stairs. He descended three levels and walked quickly down another hall to the souvenir shop. There he bought a red Top of Europe windbreaker and a purple Jungfraujoch knit ski cap. Neither were his favorite colors, nor were they good for remaining inconspicuous, but he needed to change his appearance fast and this was the best way to do it. The goods in hand, he climbed the stairs one level and ducked into a men’s room. Picking an empty stall, he went in and locked the door.

Scot took off the hat he was wearing and shoved it into his pocket. He put on the red windbreaker and purple hat and was about to unlatch the stall door when he heard someone enter the washroom. Quickly, he sat on the toilet and raised his legs off the floor. Withdrawing the Glock, he readied himself. The sound of heavy boots thudding along the floor echoed throughout the bathroom. A grunt was followed by someone farting and then a chorus of laughter. Scot relaxed. These weren’t his killers.

Peering through the crack in the door to make sure the coast was clear, he flushed the toilet and exited the stall. The appearance of the young men at the urinal was pure snowboarder, and in Scot they thought they saw a kindred spirit and nodded in his direction. He made small talk with them, and they told him that they had finished lunch and were headed back out. Scot joined them. Whoever was looking for him was looking for a lone male in different clothing, not the person he was now and certainly not someone traveling with a group.

Keeping his head down and laughing with the group, Harvath made his way to the Glacier exit. His new friends hopped on their boards, said good-bye, and shot off down the mountain. He was alone and once again a target.

The thing to do was to keep moving. As far as he knew, there were at least three people with guns who were after him. Standing in one spot for too long was not going to pay off. Timing how long it would take him to get back for the one o’clock train, Harvath struck off on the Glacier Trek trail, praying he would figure a way out of all this.