Of course he would return home. He couldn’t let himself think otherwise. He was the president of the most powerful nation on earth. Right now in D.C. they would be doing everything they could to get him back. He knew that, and had to keep focusing on it. If the kidnappers had wanted him dead, they could have killed him already. There was no reason to keep him alive unless they intended to return him once their demands were met.

To take his mind off his confinement, the president tried to think about his daughter, but that only led to more distress. He had no idea what had happened to her. The last thing he remembered was splitting up with her detail, planning to meet back at the house for hot chocolate. As he made his way down Death Chute, there was some sort of accident and he lost his vision. There were strange voices, and someone started an IV on him, and then he awoke in this cell dressed in a cheap and uncomfortable peasant robe bearing an Arabic logo. That was all he was really sure of.

Even though there was a huge chunk of his memory missing, it wasn’t hard to figure out that his detail had been ambushed and he had been drugged, kidnapped, and then taken someplace very far away. He only hoped Amanda hadn’t been harmed. He tried to convince himself that she had made it back to the house safely. Scot Harvath was on her detail, and he was one of the best. He wouldn’t have let anything happen to her. She had to be all right. She was all right. Anything else was unthinkable. Losing his wife had been painful enough, but if anything happened to Amanda, he didn’t know if he could go on living.

For now, though his body was weak and he had no sense of time, his mind was strong and he vowed to hold on. The United States would not allow its president to languish in a cell in the middle of some godforsaken desert. His salvation would come. He would be getting out, and getting out alive. This would be the only thought he would allow his mind to entertain. He had a daughter to get back to and a country to lead.

The president’s interior pep talk was interrupted by the sound of the bolt sliding back from his cell door. Two large men entered wearing desert fatigues and kaffiyeh headdresses that covered their faces. One was carrying a Kalashnikov AK-47 machine gun, and the other had one hand hidden behind his back. The man with the machine gun gestured for the president to move back against the wall.

Instead of moving, Rutledge rose to his full height and said, “I demand to speak with whoever’s in charge here. Now!”

For a moment, both of the men stood still, shocked into immobility by the outrageous insolence of their prisoner. The shock wore off quickly, though, and the guard with the machine gun covered the distance across the cell to the president in a fraction of a second. He raised the butt of his weapon and was preparing to strike Rutledge when the other man stopped him with what sounded to Rutledge like a quick stream of angry Arabic.

The guard lowered his weapon. The president began to breathe a sigh of relief, which immediately caught in his throat as the other man, who had been steadily moving toward him, grabbed him by the wrist and plunged a long hypodermic needle into his arm.

48

At precisely 12:20, Scot Harvath’s train pulled into Interlaken Ost’s tiny station. Using the stairs in the center of the platform, he descended into the pedestrian tunnel and reemerged two tracks over at the main station house. He fished in his pockets for the change from the soda and bag of chips he had bought from the roaming snack cart on the train, and came up with the right amount for a locker. He placed his bag inside, deposited the money, and withdrew the key. On a counter with train schedules and tourism brochures was a customer-comment form that could be folded over and sealed. He took one and began writing in it:

If you’re going to have a cocktail, you’ve gotta go for it. Nothing beats a full-double-full-full martini. I’ll be at the one place in Interlaken that has a lot of soul.

Sealing the envelope, Harvath walked outside into the bright sunshine. Sitting among a cluster of backpacks, skis, and snowboards was a group of loud American kids. They were either travelers or exchange students off for a long weekend of fun in the Alps. The one thing that was for sure was that they were all heading to the most popular youth hostel in Interlaken, Balmer’s.

“Hi there,” said Harvath.

“Hi yourself,” said a cute blond girl with a nose ring.

“Waiting for the Balmer’s van?”

“Yeah. Lucky it’s such a nice day and we can sit outside. Glad I brought my sunblock. It could be a blistering weekend if it stays this bright.”

“You never know in the Alps. Listen, I was wondering if you might be able to do me a favor.”

“That depends,” said the girl coyly.

“Yeah, right,” said Scot, smiling. “I’ve been split up from my friends, and I’m not sure if they are coming in on the next train or maybe got here earlier. The lady, Jackie, who runs the hostel, knows us from last year. Would you mind giving this note to one of the desk staff for her when you check in?” He handed her the sealed note.

“Sure. No problem. So you’re staying at Balmer’s too?”

“Yeah. We’re here doing a bit of boarding. Supposed to be some really nice fresh powder coming in.”

“Well, maybe I’ll see you later.”

“Maybe. Thanks for delivering my note.”

“My pleasure.”

Scot walked back into the station and waited for the Balmer’s van to pick up the Americans before heading out to the main street known as the Höheweg, where he turned right and walked toward town.

Interlaken had always been one of Scot’s favorite places in Europe. The name Interlaken meant “between the lakes” and it was exactly that, nestled between sparkling Lake Thun and Lake Brienz. Water surrounded the town in the form of deep blue lakes, bubbling fountains, rushing rivers, thundering waterfalls, and crystal-clear streams. Harvath marveled all over again as he walked by the fin de siècle palaces that stood as a reminder of Interlaken’s role as a health spa mecca in the second half of the nineteenth century.

He passed the Hotel du Nord on his left and the Restaurant des Alpes just after, on his right. The next sight to greet him was the enormous expanse of park known as the Höhematte. If I’m lucky, maybe I’ll be back here in the fall, sitting in the Höhematte, sipping Sekt and enjoying the jazz festival, Scot thought to himself.

At the far end of the park was the Jungfraustrasse and the Schuh Café. If Jackie was in and received his note, this was where she would meet him. The name of the café and its English equivalent were pronounced the same and meant the same thing, “shoe.” Knowing Jackie, she would be quick enough to make the connection between soul and sole. Full-double-full-full was a very difficult aerial ski jump and was Scot’s last winner before leaving the ski team. His old friend loved martinis, and since Scot had been the one to turn her on to them, he was pretty certain she’d be able to figure out who the note was from and what it meant.

Scot entered the tourist information office directly across the street and pretended to read brochures as he watched the front door of the café. Twenty minutes later, he saw a shock of bright red hair and a face full of freckles that could belong to only one person. Waiting first to make sure she wasn’t being followed, he then pocketed the brochure he was holding about Jungfrau region tours, left the information office, and crossed the busy street to the café.

Jackie Kreppler had her back to him as he entered. She was scanning the room, and he sneaked up behind her, covering her eyes with his hands.

“Quick. How do you get fifty freestylers into a shoe box?” said Harvath.