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.
46
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.
Following the overhead signs, he reached an information counter and picked up a small brochure that had a map of the airport and a list of shops and services. He found the establishment he was looking for and made his way toward the next concourse.
Along the way, he counted fourteen more billboards for Swiss watches, seven for pens, eleven for jewelry, and nine for chocolate. It was amazing.
Coming upon a men’s room, Harvath carefully rechecked to make sure he wasn’t being followed and ducked inside. He chose a stall at the end, walked in, and locked the door. Quickly he changed out of his earth-toned clothes and into a pair of baggy cargo pants, boots, and a T-shirt, which he covered with a retro seventies green sweater with red and brown racing stripes across the chest and down one sleeve. The false eyebrows, goatee, and glasses were all safely packed away. Scot was still wearing the brown contact lenses, and as he pulled on a blue knit cap, he exited the men’s room. To any casual observer, Scot Harvath now appeared no different from any of the other twenty-something European or American youths who either lived in Switzerland or were vacationing there for its incredible skiing and snowboarding. This disguise, though, needed one final element to make it complete.
Harvath covered the distance to his objective in the next terminal with the slow, lackadaisical stride he imagined his new persona would have. He found the Zoom hair salon exactly where the airport services guide said it would be and went in. As the young hairstylist worked, Scot discovered she was eager to practice her English. When he told her he was in Switzerland for the snowboarding, she launched into reviews of the different places she and her friends had been throughout Switzerland, France, and Austria. He had stumbled upon a real devotee.
When she was finished, Scot paid her in the Swiss francs that he had gotten at the currency exchange in the baggage claim area before proceeding through customs. He took a final look in the mirror and gave the stylist a thumbs-up.
She had done a very good job. While anyone looking for Scot Harvath or Hans Brauner would be searching for men with brown hair, parted on the side or in the middle, Scot now sported an extremely short haircut that had been bleached a bright blond, bordering on white. While it wasn’t the most inconspicuous hairstyle on the planet, it would suit Harvath’s needs, and it was cold enough in Switzerland that he could always cover up with a hat if needed. Popping on a pair of dark blue wraparound SPY brand sunglasses, he strutted out of the hair salon and followed the signs to the airport train station.
The first time Scot came to Europe had been with the U.S. freestyle ski team. He smiled as he thought about how his new clothes and hairstyle would probably make him fit right in with all the members of this year’s team. Scot remembered now how impressed he had been with the European rail system. Almost all of the major airports had railway terminals, as opposed to America, where the airports were on the outskirts of town and the railroad stations were right in the center, requiring some sort of transportation in between.