31 Bernese Oberland
Bernese Oberland
His new iPhone was resting on the Audi’s center console, and the car’s superb Bang & Olufsen audio system was tuned to Radio
Swiss Jazz. For that much, at least, Gabriel was grateful. At present he was slouched in the passenger seat of the Mitsubishi,
laptop balanced on his knees. Ingrid was stretched out in the back seat, eyes closed. Peel was handling the driving.
“Where do you suppose he’s going?” he asked.
It was Ingrid who answered. “To the mountains, Inspector Dalgliesh. Where else?”
“And when he arrives? What then?”
“Someone,” said Gabriel, “will have to make the climb with him.”
“Since I’ve spent the entirety of my life at sea level, it will have to be someone other than me.”
“I couldn’t possibly do it. My back is giving me fits today.”
“That leaves your friend.” Peel lowered his voice. “The one who stole the wrong bloody phone.”
“It was an understandable mistake, Timothy. Anyone could have made it.”
“Anyone?” Peel shook his head. “There aren’t more than a handful of pickpockets in the world who could pull off a move like hers. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“You should see her with a pool cue in her hands.”
“Where did she learn her craft?”
“Billiards?”
“Theft,” said Peel.
“She’s self-taught, I believe.”
“A professional, is she?”
“It’s more of a hobby.”
“Now I know how she got the money to buy that villa on Mykonos.”
“Trust me, Detective Inspector, you don’t know the half of it.”
Peter Hoffmann received his first phone call of the day as they were approaching the border between Canton Zurich and Canton
Zug. The man at the other end of the connection was a wealthy Lebanese businessman who had entrusted Hoffmann with several
hundred million dollars and was unhappy with the performance of his investments. By the time the conversation ended the banker
was approaching the eminently climbable mountain inhabited, according to ancient Christian legend, by the deathless soul of
Pontius Pilate. He sped past the peak and continued to the picturesque resort town of Interlaken. A few kilometers to the
south were some of the highest mountains in the Bernese Alps. After making a brief stop for coffee, Peter Hoffmann headed
straight for them.
“Something tells me we’re getting warmer,” said Gabriel.
“Or colder,” said Peel, his eyes on the snowcapped peaks.
“It’s summer, Timothy.”
“Not up there, it isn’t.”
They were approaching the turnoff for Grindelwald.
A climber’s paradise, the town was surrounded by three of the most famous mountains in the Bernese Oberland: the Monch, the Jungfrau, and the Eiger.
Of the three, the Monch was the most accessible, the Eiger the most treacherous.
None were of interest to Peter Hoffmann, it seemed, for he sped past the turnoff without slowing.
“He must be going to Lauterbrunnen,” said Gabriel.
“Lederhosen?” asked Ingrid playfully.
“You’ve never been?”
“To Lauterbrunnen? It’s not really my style.”
Gabriel interpreted the remark for Peel. “Your friend Ingrid prefers places like Zermatt and Gstaad.”
“And St. Moritz,” she added. “I positively adore the Badrutt’s Palace Hotel.”
“And why is that?” asked Peel.
“Use your imagination,” answered Gabriel.
Lauterbrunnen, widely regarded as Switzerland’s most beautiful village, lay at the bottom of a U-shaped glacial valley with
thousand-meter walls, over which spilled numerous waterfalls. The most famous, the Staubbach Falls, was on the western side
of the valley. Beyond it stretched the village high street, at the end of which stood a small rail station. On the opposite
side of the valley, perched on a sloping green meadow, was a colony of handsome timbered chalets.
One of the chalets, the grandest of the lot, stood slightly apart from the others. It was the one where Peter Hoffmann, two
hours and fifteen minutes after leaving his home, finally stopped. He parked the Audi next to a BMW X5. Then, after fetching
a nylon duffel from the boot, he unlocked the front door of the chalet and disappeared inside. He left his phone on the car’s
center console, its camera staring into space, its microphone listening to a deep and abiding silence.
It was not the sort of place where three strangers sitting in a parked SUV would go unnoticed for long, so they retreated to the village high street and had breakfast at the Hotel Oberland.
Gabriel brought along his laptop so he could monitor the feed from Peter Hoffmann’s phone.
Its position hadn’t changed by the time the waitress cleared their plates.
“Something tells me Peter isn’t going climbing today,” said Peel.
“You think?” replied Ingrid archly.
Peel looked at Gabriel. “Is she always like this?”
“Don’t take it personally, Timothy. She just has issues.”
“Besides kleptomania?”
“She prefers the term impulse control.”
“A rose by any other name,” said Peel.
Leaving the hotel, they took a leisurely walk down the high street to the base of the Staubbach Falls. In the crystalline
Alpine air they could see the large chalet on the other side of the valley—and the black Audi A8 parked outside. The car was
still there at two o’clock when they sat down for a late lunch at the Hotel Silberhorn, and it hadn’t budged when, at half
past three, they departed. Ingrid had the waiter’s all-in-one corkscrew in her coat pocket.
“What now?” she asked.
“Take a stroll across the valley,” said Gabriel. “Have a closer look at that chalet.”
She rented a bike instead, from a shop next door to the hotel, and for an additional charge of five Swiss francs they gave
her a helmet that rendered her all but unrecognizable. She pedaled past the large chalet twice, then led herself on a pleasant
tour of the valley. It was approaching five when she returned the bike to the shop. Gabriel and Peel were at the coffee bar
on the opposite side of the street, the open laptop resting on the table between them. Ingrid sat down and delivered her findings.
“The shades were drawn tight. I couldn’t see a thing.”
“He’s definitely not sitting there alone,” said Peel.
“He might be,” replied Gabriel.
“Doing what, exactly?”
“Give me a minute, Timothy. I’ll think of something.”
But just thirty seconds later the compromised iPhone resting on the center console of Peter Hoffmann’s Audi transmitted the
distinctive sound of a well-made car door opening and closing. Then the engine turned over and the winking blue geolocation
light on Gabriel’s laptop was suddenly in motion. At 5:07 p.m. the Audi flashed past the coffee bar on the high street of Lauterbrunnen. Peter Hoffmann was on the phone to his wife, Ursula.
His climb had gone well, he told her. He would be home at seven fifteen at the latest.
“Shouldn’t we follow him?” asked Peel.
“No,” replied Gabriel. “We should acquire lodging here in beautiful Lauterbrunnen.”
Ingrid sighed. “I only wish we were in St. Moritz.”
After reviewing the available options, they rented a rustic holiday cottage located not far from the rail station. It had
few amenities save for an unobstructed view of the large chalet on the opposite side of the valley. At ten o’clock that evening,
as night fell over the Bernese Oberland, lights burned behind the tightly drawn shades of the chalet’s windows.
“They could be on a timer,” suggested Peel.
“And how would you explain that?” asked Gabriel as a figure, indistinguishable in the darkness, stepped onto the chalet’s
veranda.
“Man or woman?” was Peel’s only reply.
“Impossible to tell.”
Given the circumstances, an overnight watch was warranted.
Gabriel volunteered to take the first shift and somehow managed to remain awake until seven, when Peel relieved him.
He roused Ingrid and together they drove down the valley to Interlaken, where they purchased a pair of Zeiss night vision binoculars and enough outdoor clothing to make them appear as though they were ordinary tourists.
Returning to the cottage, they found Peel slouched in a chair in the window, eyes on the chalet on the opposite side of the valley.
“Anything?” asked Gabriel.
Peel shook his head.
Gabriel removed the Zeiss binoculars from their packaging and trained them on the chalet. Drawn shades, closed doors, a BMW
X5 parked in the drive. He handed the glasses to Ingrid, who raised them to her eyes.
“What are you looking at?” he asked.
“Could be nothing more than a love shack,” she answered.
“Peter Hoffmann has a little something stashed away here in lovely Lauterbrunnen?”
“It would certainly explain why he lied to his wife.”
Gabriel reclaimed the binoculars and aimed them toward the chalet. “But what if Peter Hoffmann has something else stashed
away here in lovely Lauterbrunnen?”
“Such as?”
“A hostage.”
“That would explain why the shades are always closed,” said Ingrid.
“And the single figure we saw standing watchfully on the balcony last night.” Gabriel scrutinized the chalet window by window.
He thought he saw movement behind one of the drawn shades but couldn’t be sure. “I’m wondering whether it’s time to borrow
a cup of sugar.”
“Forgive me, Mr. Allon, but you don’t look like the cup-of-sugar type.”
“I enjoy baking as much as the next person.” He snatched up the key to the Mitsubishi and handed the binoculars to Peel. “Keep
an eye on me.”
“Don’t worry, I will.”
Gabriel slipped out of the cottage and made the short drive across the valley. He parked next to the BMW, climbed out, crossed
the tidy front garden, rang the bell. Receiving no answer, he rang the bell a second time, with the same result. He was about
to make a third attempt when suddenly the door was flung wide and he found himself staring into a pair of liquid blue eyes.
“Hello, Mr. Allon,” said Alice Winter. “I was hoping it would be you.” She stepped to one side. “Won’t you please come in?
I was just about to make a pot of tea.”