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 5:07p.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.
