Brad Thor - The Lions Of Lucerne

“You do?”

“Surprised? You think being on the Senate Intelligence Committee doesn’t have a couple of advantages? Apparently, Harvath called Lawlor at the FBI yesterday proclaiming his innocence. Ever the thorough G-man, Lawlor put a trace on the call and found it was coming from a pay phone at the Ritz. By the time his guys got there, no one fitting Harvath’s description could be found, so they did the usual, questioned a bunch of staff and potential witnesses, took statements, and left.”

“So they didn’t nab him. What’s that got to do with our problem?”

“It has everything to do with our problem. When the FBI questioned people and they said they never saw Harvath there, they were telling the truth.”

“Okay…But I don’t follow you.”

“The FBI made the same mistake with Harvath that we did. They underestimated him. Do you actually think with half of D.C. looking for him he’d be wandering around without some sort of disguise?”

Senator Rolander’s eyebrows arched up.

“It makes sense, doesn’t it?” continued Snyder. “The Ritz is one of the city’s most security conscious hotels. They have cameras everywhere. Based on the timing of the phone call to Lawlor and which bank of phones it came from, it was just a matter of rolling back the videotapes and we had him. We also had an outside camera showing him getting into a cab. The doorman remembered that he spoke English with a German-sounding accent. We got the number of the cab and showed the picture to the driver, who said he took him to Union Station.”

“So he hopped on a train, but where to?” asked Rolander.

“He didn’t hop on any train. He switched cabs at Union Station and probably three or more times before he got to Dulles.”

“Dulles? What airline?”

“Swissair. We got ahold of the airport security tapes and quietly passed his picture around. He traveled under the name of Hans Brauner and flew to Zurich last night.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. I saw the video myself. He was still wearing the same disguise from the Ritz.”

“But Switzerland. Jesus, how did he figure out the Switzerland connection?” said Rolander, his voice taut.

“I have no idea. It must have something to do with André Martin and maybe that envelope Harvath was seen taking out of the locker at the train station.”

“I knew this was going to happen. You’re right, we underestimated him. Shit! What are we going to do?”

Rolander was sweating, but Snyder was as calm as ever. “I’ve already set the wheels in motion.”

“What does that mean?”

“I sent a team over to silence Agent Harvath once and for all.”

“But he could be anywhere. How are you going to find him?”

“Quietly, I flagged his passport and put both his name and the pseudonym Hans Brauner on the Swiss watch list. I’ve got someone manning a bogus State Department phone line and E-mail address. The directive I sent was not to try and apprehend him, only to keep him under surveillance and notify us if he shows up.”

“If he shows up.”

“Don’t worry, he will.”

“I think we should let our Lion know what’s happening.”

“Why?”

“What if Harvath tracks them down?”

“What if he does? He wouldn’t stand a chance against them.”

“I thought we weren’t going to underestimate Agent Harvath anymore.”

Exasperated at having to spell everything out for his fellow senator, Snyder took a deep breath before drawing the picture. “First of all, the only way I have to get in touch with them is via the post office box. It was set up that way to protect all of us. Secondly, they’re trying to screw us right now by asking for more money. If we tip them off about Harvath, they might figure out a way to use him against us. It’s better that we stay quiet about it. He’ll pop his head up at some point and we’ll be there to nail him. Don’t worry. Besides, even if Harvath did locate the Lions’ den, which I don’t think he has a snowball’s chance in hell of doing, he’s no match for these guys. They’ll rip him apart, and that’s not an underestimation.”

“But what about the president’s finger? Even you’ve got to admit that’s going too far. What if they kill him?”

“If they do, then that’s just the cost of doing business.”

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.