“Sorry, back up a sec.”
“What?”
“About the Swiss. Nestle is a Swiss chocolate maker, right?”
“Yeah. They make Nestle Crunch bars and I think that Coffee-mate creamer stuff.”
“Right, those are a couple of the products we have here in the States, but what about in Europe?”
“In Switzerland, they make tons of different products. They make chocolate, but they also make things like baby food.”
“Let’s stick with the chocolate.”
“Fine, from what I saw in Switzerland, there were lots of different varieties of Nestle chocolate.”
“And if they were going to import, or try a particular brand here in the U.S., they would probably give the chocolate a name in English, right?”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Take something like Toblerone or Baci, neither of them changed their names when they exported to the U.S. from Europe. But those are one of those deals where the European company has built its entire identity around that one brand. The identity is the name of the chocolate, so they don’t change it. If there were a Nestle product that was kind of known in Switzerland, but not super famous, I think they would have their marketing people here come up with a new name for it. Let’s face it, the U.S. market for fine chocolate with foreign-sounding names has got to be a lot smaller than the market for something like Snickers.”
“That’s a good point.”
“Hey, I didn’t get to where I am by being stupid,” said Palmer with another warm smile. “I’m beginning to worry about you, though. Let’s get off this chocolate subject. I’m sure Nestle has a web site. It’ll either be a dot- com or a dot-Ch, for Switzerland.”
“Thanks, Palmer. I appreciate it,” said Scot, standing to leave.
“Where are you going?”
“I haven’t had anything to eat since that wonderful breakfast you cooked me this morning. I was thinking about walking down to the restaurant at the Silver Lake Lodge to grab a bowl of chili.”
“Want some company? I could probably take my break a little early.”
“No, thanks anyway. I need to be alone and get some things straight.”
“I understand. Stick your head in when you get back.”
“Okay.”
Scot quickly shut the door of the Winnebago behind him, so as not to let too much cold air in and piss off the other agents inside. As he reached the bottom step, he heard the door open behind him.
Palmer peeked her head around the door. “There was one other thing. There might not be a connection, but an ambulance was found abandoned on the west side of the valley over by the Kennecot Copper Mine.”
“Really? Had it been reported stolen?”
“No, the report didn’t come in until after it was discovered.”
“Where was it stolen from?”
Responding to the shouts of the agents inside, Palmer closed the door behind her and walked down the stairs to where Scot was standing.
“It was stolen from a mechanic’s shop called Grunnah Automotive. Apparently, Mr. Grunnah had towed the ambulance in on Saturday-”
“Towed? What was wrong with it?”
“There was a problem with the brake line, so Mr. Grunnah towed it into his garage Saturday afternoon and told the ambulance company he wouldn’t be able to get to it until Monday. He was closed Sunday and claims that it must have been stolen between when he closed Saturday night and when he opened up again this morning.”
“How does somebody drive an ambulance that was in such bad shape it had to be towed to the mechanic’s in the first place?”
“Mr. Grunnah says it was fixed.”
“Fixed? I thought you said Grunnah told the ambulance company he couldn’t get to it until Monday.”
“That’s exactly right. Grunnah says whoever stole it fixed it first.”
“Seems like a lot of work to go through for a joyride,” said Scot.
“For a joyride, yes. But, it’s not a lot of work if you want a getaway vehicle that you can drive as fast as you want with no risk of being stopped by the police.”
“I’m sure the FBI will come to the same conclusion. Thanks for the update.”
Palmer turned and went back to the Winnebago as Scot made his way up the driveway toward the security gate and the main road down to the lodge. Passing through, he saw an ambulance parked adjacent to the driveway. Scot had never noticed before, but the body of the ambulance was very similar to a truck’s, with a high shell over the bed. Looking down, he saw that while the tires in front were singles, the ones in back had been doubled to bear the extra weight.
Another piece of the puzzle fell into place, but the picture was still no closer to being complete.
26
Knowing that there would be a baying pack of newshounds at the bottom of the road, Scot turned into the woods where he could cut across a nearby ski slope and hopefully walk the rest of the way unassaulted.
The peace, quiet, and cold air actually did him some good. His mind had been spinning since he had awakened that morning, trying to assimilate and process each new piece of information heaped on top of the last. The break from not thinking was refreshing. He watched some of the skiers coming down the slope as he walked along its edge. Though the avalanche had claimed a handful of civilian lives, it hadn’t seemed to stop most people from pursuing the rest of their vacations. Human nature never ceased to amaze him. People would ski all day as if they were a million miles away and then gather around TVs in the lodge afterward saying how terrible it was that the president still had not been located.
Cooking aromas wafted uphill from the Silver Lake Lodge and into Scot’s nose, sending a signal to his stomach, which started to grumble on cue. Chili in a bread bowl with a cup of hot chocolate would probably cost eleven bucks at the midmountain resort restaurant, but so what?
Coming downhill from this angle, he could make out Nick and Vance’s office on the far side of the restaurant. There was another favor they could do for him, but it could wait until after lunch.
Scot’s training had become second nature, and he never entered a room without scanning it completely, as he did now in the restaurant. He noted each exit, the placement of the windows, and what was beyond them. Though the large log dining room sat hundreds of people, he scanned the faces and builds of everyone within his line of sight. It was habit, and it had saved his life and those of his charges more times than he cared to admit. Harvath would walk into the rec room of a senior center in his nineties, if he was lucky to live that long, and size up each and every potential enemy, his mind engaged in reflex threat assessment.
Grabbing a tray, Scot fell in line behind a raucous bunch of Germans who had raced to get into the food corral before him. He remembered a story one of the guys on the Swedish ski team had told when they were practicing for an event in Germany. Scot had been complaining that at the lift lines it seemed as if it was every German man, woman, and child for themselves and that more than once he had come close to punching someone out for skiing right over his skis or cutting in front of him while he waited patiently for his turn. The Swede laughed and told him that was why everyone in Sweden called the Germans the Liftwaffa. Scott said the word under his breath as the boisterousness of the men in front of him grew.
When he finally got to the steam table, he ordered chili in a bread bowl with onions and extra cheese. Next he ordered a hot chocolate, and when the woman pointed to a coffee bar across the room with an equally long line, he opted for a milk. That they would make you stand in a completely separate line for hot chocolate made no sense, but all Scot wanted to do was eat, so he paid his bill and wandered into the sea of tables, hoping to find a vacant one for himself.
