Brad Thor - The Lions Of Lucerne

It was after 1:00 A.M. and the Kuntscafé was indeed closed, or at least that’s the message its proprietor wanted to send to anyone casually strolling by hoping to pop in for a quick bite or one last drink. Behind the blinds, the lights were still blazing, and Scot heard a mill of voices. Somewhere inside, a piano sprang to life and a beautiful tenor voice began to belt out a song.

The singing continued as Scot went around to the back of the small café. He peeled off his hat and the pieces of his disguise, then placed all of it in his jacket pocket. Garbage was piled high in the alley, and maneuvering around a stack of bright blue and yellow plastic beer crates filled with empty bottles, Harvath found the back door. He knew that if Herman was entertaining, he probably would still have staff on duty. As Harvath entered the kitchen, he surprised two rather stocky waiters. Before they could say anything, Herman’s cook, Fredrik, turned and saw Scot standing in the doorway. Instantly, his eyes lit up in recognition and a broad smile crept across his face.

Harvath put a finger to his lips to silence the cook, who in return gave him the thumbs-up and pointed toward the front of the café. After all, what good was surprising an old friend if you couldn’t really surprise him?

Herman was still singing and had his back to Scot as he emerged from behind a beaded curtain down the hall from the kitchen. Herman’s thick fingers crashed upon the last keys, and the small group collected in the front of the café clapped enthusiastically. When they stopped, one pair of hands was still clapping.

“Lovely. Simply lovely,” said Scot.

Herman looked up in the direction of the voice and then roared, “First, I am going to fire the cook, and then I am going to get the lock on that back door fixed!” His guests sat speechless. Who was this man standing at the end of the bar, and why was their host yelling at him in English?

It was amazing how quickly Herman moved his six-foot-four, 240-pound frame around the piano and over to Harvath. The limp from his injured leg didn’t slow him down at all. Herman’s huge hands reached out, and Scot almost flinched as he saw them close in on his face. The beefy German gave him a kiss on each cheek and then raised Harvath completely off the floor in an enormous bear hug. The pain in his shoulder was written across his face, and Herman noticed. Quickly, he set his friend back on the floor.

“What’s wrong with you? Are you hurt?” said Herman. “Did your hairdresser beat you up when you refused to pay for that awful hairstyle?’

“We need to talk. I’m sorry to interrupt your little party.”

“Party? This? Don’t worry, they’ll only stay as long as I keep the bar open, and the bar is now closed!” shouted Herman, who turned to the group and told them in German to settle up their tabs.

After the group left, Herman had the cook make them each up a plate of Würstel with potatoes and sauerkraut, then sent the staff home.

Herman set two large bottles of beer on the table and said, “It’s great to see you. Why don’t I call Diana? She’s probably asleep by now, but it doesn’t matter. She would love to see you, even with your hair like that.”

Scot responded as Herman drew a small cellular telephone from his breast pocket. “You know what? For now, let’s not tell Diana I’m here. I need to talk to you alone.”

Herman replaced the phone in his pocket. “Does this have anything to do with the face you made when I gave you the hug?”

“Kind of.”

“You’re getting soft! Look at me,” said Herman, flexing his right biceps and then slamming his hands upon his midsection. “I am still in better shape than most men my age, and I run a café now for a living. All this food, all this beer, and I haven’t put on more than two kilos…three max!”

Scot smiled. “You look great, Herman, and I am sure Diana does too. You will have to tell her that I asked about her.”

“What do you mean? You can tell her yourself. After we eat, we’ll go back to my place. You can have the guest room.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t stay that long. I just came because I need some information and a favor.”

Herman’s jovial expression turned quietly serious. “Are you in some sort of trouble?”

“Actually, my friend, I’m in many sorts of trouble.” Harvath brought Herman up to speed on everything that had happened to him. Herman listened intently, only picking at the plate of food in front of him. When Scot finished, Herman took a long swallow from his beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before responding. “So, what is it you need from me?”

“Like I said, information. I thought all of the shooters yesterday were working together until I heard the American voices and realized that there were probably two groups. The first, with the woman, must have been gunning for me because of the note I sent to the post office box in Interlaken, and the second was the hit team from D.C., who somehow managed to pick up my trail.”

“Okay, two separate groups, then. But why?”

“I have an idea who is behind the American team, but not the team from the Ice Palace at the Jungfraujoch. That team spoke German-”

“You said that. You also said it didn’t sound like German German, right?”

“It sounded like Swiss German, but it was only a couple of words. That’s pretty hard to nail an accent with.”

“Let’s assume for a moment that you’re correct on the accent. You said they also spoke Serbian?”

“Yes. That I am certain of.”

Herman leaned backward in his chair. He appeared to be staring at the ceiling, studying the wine-colored tiles that ran between the old wooden beams. Harvath knew he was thinking, turning something over in his mind.

“You are absolutely certain that your FBI and the rest of the U.S. government is wrong about Fatah?”

“I don’t know. I do know there is no way the Fatah, if they are even involved, could have pulled off something like this on their own. We can be sure they had inside help from people within my government.”

“And you’re positive you are on the correct path?”

“Positive? I don’t think anyone can be positive on something like this. All I know is that somebody else thinks I’m on the right path.”

“What do you mean, ‘somebody else thinks’?”

“I think the attempts on my life, two of them just yesterday in Switzerland, make for a pretty strong case that I’m on to something.”

“I agree. I also agree that this entire situation does not seem to fit the Fatah. Someone is using them as some sort of smoke screen.”

“So, if we’re on the same page, who do you think would be capable of an attack like this and kidnapping the president?”

“You’re right that it would have been undertaken by a group with exceptional mountaineering and military skills. They could have come from Germany or, like you said, France, Italy, Austria, or…”

“Or?”

“You are sure that what you heard in the Ice Palace was two men, the same who had been shooting at you, speaking Serbian?”

“It’s one of the few things in this whole mess that I am totally positive about.”

“Then that narrows the field considerably.”

“What the hell happened?” yelled Senator Snyder into the scramble phone in his study as Senator Rolander looked on.

“We acquired the target, but there was another interested party already present,” replied the hired killer.

“Another interested party? Who were they?”

“We have no idea. They made their move before we had a chance, so we hung back.”

“What happened?” asked Rolander.

Snyder cupped the mouthpiece and addressed Rolander. “The girl led the team right to him, but someone else made a move before they had a chance to take him out.”