Brad Thor - The Lions Of Lucerne

“Yeah, at a bar in D.C.”

“No. A desk clerk at the Radisson in Alexandria said that Martin and Sperando were picked up by a Secret Service agent who identified himself with credentials as Scot Harvath and perfectly fit your description.”

“And my gun was found near the scene of the murders. Well, someone thought of everything, didn’t they?”

“Scot, if you are innocent, running is not going to help your case. Let me bring you in. I swear nothing will happen to you.”

“Do you believe I’m innocent, Gary?”

“I need to hear your side first.”

“I’m not coming in. Not now. Somebody has gone to a lot of work to set me up, and it looks like they’re hedging their bets by trying to bump me off. I’m sorry, but I think I stand a safer chance on my own right now.”

“Scot, I can help you, but this has got to be done by the book. You have to come in.”

“Sorry, Gary. No way. You’re not going to hear from me for a bit, but I want to leave you something to think about. If someone could put this whole elaborate plan together to silence me, what could that same person do to keep the whereabouts of the president secret? You’re barking up the wrong tree with the Abu Nidal and the FRC. It’s a red herring. I’m sure of it. Widen your nets. I’ll be in touch.”

Harvath hung up the phone, went back through the lobby, and told the doorman he was going to Union Station. Once there, he found another cab and told the driver to take him to Dulles International Airport.

“Yah, dis is a problem ven you are a businessman, no?” said Harvath in his German-accented English.

“But it is so sweet. Your wife will be thrilled,” said the Swissair ticket agent as she checked the passport of Herr Hans Brauner.

“Yah, I hope zo. I also bought her a little zomething zpecial,” said Harvath, putting the women’s Pamper Yourself gift basket from Crabtree amp; Evelyn on the counter between himself and the agent. “Do you think she will like it?”

“I think she will love it. You are so sweet to drop everything and rush home to be with your wife when she has the baby. Some things are more important than jobs, aren’t they?”

“Unfortunately, my boss doesn’t approve, and I am forced to use my traveler’s checks to pay for zee flight. I vas supposed to be here for another three veeks, but now vis zee baby coming early, vee do vat vee can, no?” said Harvath as he counted out almost six thousand dollars in American Express traveler’s checks.

It was a risky proposition. He knew airlines were very wary of customers who paid in cash, especially for same-day reservations, but he could not use any of his Scot Harvath credit cards, even if he hadn’t broken them all into pieces and flushed them back at the Georgetown Park mall, because whoever was watching would be able to track him right away. At least disguised and paying cash, he would be harder to trail. Winning the ticket agent over would definitely help him. Had she or another agent been the slightest bit suspicious, they could have created a lot of trouble for him before he even got away from the desk. It had been an expensive gamble, but it looked as if it would pay off.

Harvath continued to smile as the agent asked him the standard questions about who packed his bag and whether it had been out of his sight at any time. With a final glance at his passport, she thanked him, gave him his ticket, wished him and his wife good luck, and directed him toward the business-class lounge, where he could wait until his flight was called.

So far he had lucked out. Harvath’s German was relatively limited, and he would be extremely hard-pressed to carry on more than a brief conversation with anyone, but that wasn’t a problem with the American-born Swissair agent. He knew these agents would converse with him in the language he chose to use. Swissair was a thoroughly professional outfit, and that’s why he had chosen to fly with them. This airline would respect his privacy. To them he was another harried businessman, torn between work and family, and trying to get back home to Europe. Because of Zurich’s close proximity to the German border, there was no reason a German businessman returning home wouldn’t choose to fly into Zurich rather than Munich, especially if time was of the essence and Swissair’s was the next flight out.

Harvath hadn’t eaten anything since his bagel and orange juice that morning. While he could have picked something up at the mall, he hadn’t wanted to waste time. He was thankful for the food in the Swissair lounge and discreetly loaded up while he waited for his flight to be called.

When the 5:40 flight to Zurich was called in the lounge, Harvath stood with the rest of the businessmen and made his way to the plane. A German newspaper tucked under his arm and walking slowly, almost wearily with his bag in tow, Hans Brauner blended in with the rest of the business travelers and boarded the plane without incident.

Finding his seat, he accepted an orange juice from one flight attendant as another took his coat. He felt his muscles relax as the plane pulled away from the gate and taxied out onto the runway. When the plane’s engines revved up, he felt even more of the tension drain away from his body. Placing a Do Not Wake Me for Meals sticker on his headrest, he slipped out of his shoes, donned the Swissair booties and eye-mask from his courtesy kit, and was asleep before the plane reached its cruising altitude.

Scot awoke in time for breakfast and enjoyed a vegetable omelet, croissant, fruit, and coffee. He made one last trip to the bathroom to make sure his disguise was still firmly in place and then watched out the window as the plane made its final approach into Zurich International.

As he walked along the never-ending moving sidewalks toward passport control, he grew convinced that the Swiss government was in cahoots with airport advertisers. Why else make passengers walk so far, if not to take in the endless stream of advertisements for Swiss watches, jewelry, pens, and chocolate?

Finally, Harvath reached passport control. It was almost eight o’clock in the morning local time, and in an uncharacteristically Swiss fashion, there was only one passport control agent on duty. Being in business class did have its advantages, one of which was getting off the plane with the first-class passengers before everyone else and being at the head of the line for passport control, but that wasn’t the case today. Apparently, another flight had arrived just before Scot’s, and there was already a good-sized line at passport control. The grumbling of tired, cranky passengers could be heard up and down the queue. He stood nervously in line for only a few minutes, before another passport control officer appeared at the next booth, and the line began to move faster.

Scot had decided to stay with the Hans Brauner disguise and present his German passport just in case his real one had been flagged. As the plane was landing, he went through all of the possible questions he might be asked by the German-speaking passport control officials and how he would respond. As it turned out, he didn’t need any of it. Anxious to clear the backup, the passport officer just glanced at the stamps of Hans Brauner’s passport and added a new one. It was a red rectangle with the corners rounded off. It had the German word for Switzerland, Schweiz, with the date, followed by the words Zürich Flughafen. As Harvath was waved through by the officer, he said a small thanks for the good fortune that had brought Herman the German into his life.

Harvath exited through the customs nothing to declare lane. Everything had gone off without a hitch, but Harvath reminded himself not to get too comfortable. Pretending to be slightly confused, Harvath purposely walked past the departure monitors and sign boards only to turn around and come back to them, which allowed him to check whether anyone was following him. As far as he could tell, no one was.