Because he couldn’t get much traction on the ice, he wasn’t able to cover much ground. He moved into an alcove to catch his breath and drew the replica Glock from his pocket. He heard more muffled spits from a suppressed weapon coupled with the tinkling of breaking ice as it shattered and hit the floor. When the noise stopped, it was replaced by a scratching noise that sounded like mice behind drywall. Now he knew how the shooter was able to move so fast-crampons.

The scratching sounds stopped only feet away from where Harvath now hid. There were two shooters, and they were listening for him. No one moved, and Harvath dared not even breathe.

Then one of the shooters broke the silence. “Links?” he asked, German for left. His companion didn’t answer.

The man spoke again. “Links, rechts, was?” (Left, right, what?)

Obviously angry at his partner for talking, the other man heatedly admonished him with something that sounded like, “Chew Tea.” It didn’t sound like German, but Scot thought he recognized the word from somewhere.

The first man now responded with what sounded like, “Yah beh say!”

And the second man came right back with, “Chutee!”

Harvath now knew what he was hearing. During his travels on the ski team he had made it his goal to learn specific phrases in as many different languages as possible. His favorites had been the ones for shut up and fuck you. It was juvenile, he knew, but people always said, in any language you learn the bad words first. Besides, even if you knew nothing else, you could always get a guy laughing if you could say “shut up” and “fuck you” in his own language.

The “shut up” and “fuck you” he was hearing now, chutee and yah beh say, were Serbian. Why were these men speaking German first and then swearing at each other in Serbian?

Scot heard the resumed scrape of crampons along the ice. They were less than three feet from where he now stood. His hands tightened around the toy Glock. If one of them moved close enough, he could surprise him and press the pistol to his head while he ordered the other to drop his weapon. It might work. It would have to work. His ears strained, trying to judge how close they were now.

Abruptly they stopped again. They had heard something. Was it him? He hadn’t even breathed and was beginning to get light-headed from holding his breath. The men began backing away. It wasn’t him. They had heard something else, but what? Maybe someone else was in the hallway.

The men picked up speed, tracing back along the route they had come. Scot didn’t waste any more time wondering why. He skidded out of the alcove and ran as fast as his shuffling feet would carry him in the other direction.

Slipping, he cracked his knee against one of the steps carved out of the ice on his way to the elevator. He regained his footing and allowed himself to slide down the rest of the passageway. He pressed the call button and after two seconds decided it might not be such a good idea to hang around and wait. He turned to his left and ran down the hallway toward the restaurants and the exhibition hall, thankful to be off the ice.

When he reached the other end of the corridor, another set of elevator doors was just closing and he shoved his arm inside to stop them. They opened back up, and aside from a few startled tourists, it looked safe. Harvath rode down one level and exited. He sneaked into the Kino Audiovisual show and took a seat off to the side, where it would be difficult to spot him. He glanced at his watch. The next train out wasn’t for forty minutes.

Being careful that no one would see him transferring the Glock back to his waistband beneath his sweater, he took his jacket off, rolled it up, and placed it beneath his seat. He put his wool cap on again and pulled it down low. He also put on his wraparound sunglasses and slipped out of the Kino.

In the hall, he checked both ways and then ran for the stairs. He descended three levels and walked quickly down another hall to the souvenir shop. There he bought a red Top of Europe windbreaker and a purple Jungfraujoch knit ski cap. Neither were his favorite colors, nor were they good for remaining inconspicuous, but he needed to change his appearance fast and this was the best way to do it. The goods in hand, he climbed the stairs one level and ducked into a men’s room. Picking an empty stall, he went in and locked the door.

Scot took off the hat he was wearing and shoved it into his pocket. He put on the red windbreaker and purple hat and was about to unlatch the stall door when he heard someone enter the washroom. Quickly, he sat on the toilet and raised his legs off the floor. Withdrawing the Glock, he readied himself. The sound of heavy boots thudding along the floor echoed throughout the bathroom. A grunt was followed by someone farting and then a chorus of laughter. Scot relaxed. These weren’t his killers.

Peering through the crack in the door to make sure the coast was clear, he flushed the toilet and exited the stall. The appearance of the young men at the urinal was pure snowboarder, and in Scot they thought they saw a kindred spirit and nodded in his direction. He made small talk with them, and they told him that they had finished lunch and were headed back out. Scot joined them. Whoever was looking for him was looking for a lone male in different clothing, not the person he was now and certainly not someone traveling with a group.

Keeping his head down and laughing with the group, Harvath made his way to the Glacier exit. His new friends hopped on their boards, said good-bye, and shot off down the mountain. He was alone and once again a target.

The thing to do was to keep moving. As far as he knew, there were at least three people with guns who were after him. Standing in one spot for too long was not going to pay off. Timing how long it would take him to get back for the one o’clock train, Harvath struck off on the Glacier Trek trail, praying he would figure a way out of all this.

54

Harvath walked as long as the cold and the time would allow. Although the idea crossed his mind, he knew he couldn’t stay up here all night; he’d freeze to death. As he turned to walk back to the main complex, he was joined by one of the many groups of hikers who had passed him along the trail. A plan began to form in his mind. It wasn’t a very good plan, but it was better than nothing.

When he was shot at, it had been in a relatively deserted part of the Jungfraujoch. He had chosen the Ice Palace because he thought the tourists would give him good cover. With practically no one in sight, the men had fired indiscriminately, almost taking out their female partner, whom Scot had now come to accept was Aunt Jane herself. He had counted on the fact that whoever he was meeting wouldn’t try anything stupid in a group of people. There was no reason to think that didn’t still apply.

With a two-and-a-half-hour train ride back to Interlaken, there would probably be a lot of people catching the one o’clock. Whoever was looking for him would undoubtedly be at the station, but the longer he waited up here, the thinner the tourist crowd and his cover would get. Even if he was able to get on the train without incident, surely they were going to follow him. That hadn’t been part of his original plan. He had expected to control the situation. At this point, though, that didn’t matter. He would think of something.

Blending in casually with the group of hikers, he asked them if they were on their way down. No luck, they were going in for lunch. Dejected, Scot scanned the entrance of the complex as they neared it, hoping to find three or more people he could blend in with. Up ahead, two families were readying their children, and Scot caught snatches of conversation that told him they were on their way down.