Brad Thor - The Lions Of Lucerne

“Well, Agent Harvath, I once again maintain my innocence and can only say that in my life I have learned that under God all things are possible. It is my sincere hope that we do not meet again.”

“It appears as if we are no further along than we were when we started,” said Claudia.

“C’mon, Claudia. You don’t believe that. Of course we are. We aren’t exactly where we want to be, but we certainly have made progress. We talked to the cousin, and we know he’s involved. We can be sure Miner used him as cover so he could be out of the country with a perfect alibi. Why else would he have to come to meet us for lunch if he didn’t want to find out exactly what we know?”

“Well, now he knows. I think it did him more good than us.”

“Maybe, maybe not.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Say what?”

“‘Maybe, maybe not.’ Why don’t you just say what you are thinking?” Claudia sounded irritated.

“What’s bothering you?”

“The way you talked to him.”

“He was taunting us.”

“What were you thinking? You sounded crazy. And the language you used was awful. Is that standard law enforcement practice in America?”

“It can be. I didn’t mean to offend you. Miner is used to being in control and having people follow his orders. We needed to send him a message.”

“If the message was that you are unstable, I think he got it.”

“Actually, that was the message. I wanted him to know what he’s up against. He needs to understand that I’m convinced he’s responsible and that I’ll stop at nothing to nail him. He knows we’re on to him and it’s just a matter of time before we have enough to get him.”

“So we sent him a message. Are you happy?”

“No, not completely.”

“Why not?”

“It was the last thing Miner said. It didn’t make sense to me. I don’t know. Maybe it was just the translation.”

“What thing?”

“When he said ‘under God all things are possible.’ In English, we say with God, not under him, except in our Pledge of Allegiance. In Spanish I know they say vaya con Dios, ‘go with God.’ It’s normally with not under. Is it different in Swiss German?”

“No, we say ‘with’ as well. Maybe he made a mistake.”

“Miner’s act is a little too polished for me. But anything’s possible.” Scot started to laugh.

“What’s so funny?” asked Claudia.

“Look who’s grasping at straws now.”

Claudia smiled, more out of a feeling of defeat than anything else.

At that moment, the waiter reappeared at the table and presented Scot with a bottle of Saint Emilion Grand Cru. Scot waved him off, saying, “We’ve changed our minds. We won’t be having lunch.”

“But,” said the waiter in halting English, “you are Herr Miner’s guests. He has invited you. It is all paid for.”

“Then I’ll tell you what. Are you married?”

“No, sir.”

“Girlfriend?”

“Yes.”

“That’s a nice bottle of wine. Take it home tonight and share it with her; she’ll love it.”

“And the meals?”

“You and the staff can have them. We’ll be leaving shortly.”

The waiter removed the bottle and retreated to the kitchen.

“You know, I’m beginning to associate wine with unpleasant moments in my life,” said Claudia.

“Why?”

“Well, at the end of the first lunch I had with Miner, he ordered dessert for me, a sweet wine that he made a very big deal about. It was foreign, but not from France. He said an American friend of his had introduced him to it. It was supposedly very famous and very hard to get. This hotel keeps a private reserve for him. He was unbelievably pompous about it and practically insisted that I drink it. The whole experience made me extremely angry.”

“Wait a second. Back up.”

“Back up?”

“A dessert wine! Now I remember. Last night there was something about what André Martin had told me, something connected with Switzerland that I couldn’t remember. It was a small piece of information that I had let go of as inconsequential, but it might not be. You said an American friend turned Miner on to the wine?”

“That’s what he said.”

Scot racked his brain for everything André told him about the wine. It was a gift from Snyder, who had lied to him about being in France when he really was in Switzerland. The wine couldn’t have come from France because…because why? Because the sugar content and therefore the alcohol level were too high for EU standards. It wasn’t made in the EU. It was made in-

“Claudia, was the dessert wine from South Africa?”

“Yes. How did you know?”

“When Senator Snyder returned from his trip to Switzerland, he brought André Martin a bottle of wine. Snyder said he had been in France, but André found out that this type of wine wasn’t available in the EU. Snyder was obviously lying to cover his tracks. We’ve got to be talking about the same wine. Let’s get the waiter to bring us a bottle so we can check it out. After all, we are Herr Miner’s guests.”

“I have a better idea. Follow me.”

A front desk clerk pointed Claudia and Scot toward the office of the Hotel des Balances’ food and beverage manager, Johanus Schepp. After a short walk down the cream-colored marble hallway, they arrived at a door marked “Schepp.” Claudia knocked, and a small voice from inside told them to enter.

Schepp was about the same size as his voice, balding with bifocals, and looked around sixty years old.

“How may I help you?” said Schepp, looking up from a pile of papers on his neatly arranged desk.

Claudia replied in English, signaling to Schepp that the conversation would not be continued in German. “Herr Schepp, I am Claudia Mueller of the Federal Attorney’s Office, and this is my colleague Peter Boa of the South African Bureau of International Fraud.” Claudia flashed her credentials, and Harvath stood still with his hands at his side, but tilted ever so slightly so Schepp could see the butt of his Beretta protruding from inside his jacket.

“We have reason to believe,” continued Claudia, “that your hotel has been trafficking in illegal goods smuggled from South Africa.”

“Illegal goods? This is a most serious accusation. I must call the manager about this.”

Scot stopped the man as he reached for the phone. His South African accent was pitifully off, but he figured it would be enough to fool Schepp. “I don’t need to speak with your manager. If I did, I would have gone to see him first. Instead, I came to see you. Just because I come from South Africa doesn’t make me stupid. Okay?”

“Yes, sir. Of course. I didn’t mean to suggest-”

“Enough yammering. If you cooperate, there’s a chance you can get yourself out of this, and neither the hotel nor your manager need suffer any embarrassment.”

“But, why would I hide something from them?”

“Mr. Schepp, if you only knew how many times your name has come up in our investigation.”

“My name? But, I have not done anything illegal.”

“That’s what you think,” said Scot as he pulled a piece of paper from his inside pocket, completely revealing the gun this time, and pretending to read from it, “Have you ever heard of Tommy the Torch also known as Top Shelf Tommy?”

“No, I have not.”

“How about, Patrick the Ace?”

“Once again, no.”

“Jeff the Matchmaker?”

“Herr Boa, these names sound more like they come from an American gangster movie,” said Schepp, whose upper lip was beading with sweat.

“They might sound funny to you, but my government takes them very seriously.” They actually sounded funny to Harvath too. Sometimes his ad-libs were spectacular, and sometimes his warped sense of humor got the better of him. Harvath had always been the type of person who would laugh in church and, knowing he was not supposed to, couldn’t help laughing harder.