Only coercion, and a beautiful government agent, could force Harry Thursday out of retirement. This time to find the mythical Mask worn by the Minotaur over three thousand years ago. The history of the mask resurfaces during the time of Count Bruno...
The smell of flowers and fresh air, the bright sun. Ring-neck ducks flew overhead toward the mountains in the distance. After they had passed Harry stepped onto the cobble-stone street and headed for the square. To his right and beyond the neighborhood buildings and through some trees and houses, the river Aare glistened with reflecting sunlight. Nearby, a goat brayed. The man with the dress shirt followed him at a safe distance.
The name Franz Hageen carries weight in Bern, and Harry took advantage of it. The clerk at the Hotel National greeted him with a dour stare as Harry approached the desk. He asked for a room. Without luggage and looking a bit travel-worn, he might expect such a look. Harry rested his arm on the counter, his jacket stained with mud and grease. After a painfully nettlesome three minutes, the tuxedoed clerk proclaimed, "How will the gentleman pay for the room?"
Harry, without a credit card, was so ready for a fight he almost forgot about Franz. "Franz Hageen," he blurted out, "Put it on his tab."
"Well, why didn't M. say so in the first place? Of course, a friend of M. Hageen is welcome." He barked orders to the bell station. Harry looked at the clock as he entered the elevator. It was 10 AM, and he had time until he met with Frank. He turned to the manager and asked him to send a clothier to his room. "Something casual but expensive."
His spacious room overlooked the square below, pale-blue mountains in the distance with snow-capped peaks. A spyglass designed to look antique as though Copernicus had built it himself stood on a tall adjustable wooden tripod in the middle of the large windows. Harry bent down slightly and peered through the lens, curious to see perhaps where the last user was looking - an empty ski resort with moguls exposed by the melted snow. Lift cables spanned the hills – motionless.
He put his bag on the bed and dug through his pockets one by one emptying them and patting them afterward; currency, notebook, keys, watch, a small twig from somewhere in the jungles of Panama, or was it Costa Rica, and the note from Sara. He had forgotten about that and read it again: Harry, I have given this letter to Julie because you left in such a hurry. Make your way to Bern and trust no one. Trust NO ONE but Julie. Then at the bottom of the note on a dog-eared corner, it read: Don't mention what we talked about to anyone!!!. PLEASE. esp. the Hyperboreans.
"About, Sara. About the Hyperboreans," he said aloud correcting her note like a teacher. Why the hell hadn't I seen this before? It's too late now. He hoped Frank would be alright. A knock on the door.
He answered it. The concierge showed the clothier in. A soft-looking man in his mid-fifties walked in followed by a young man even more effeminate than the first carrying yards of materials. The older man opened his mouth to speak but checked his watch first and then, "Good morning, Monsieur," he said with a broad smile. The younger man bowed also, and with a snap of his fingers, the older man directed him where to put the material.
"My name is Robert," he said in a heavy French accent and waited for a response from Harry, but given none continued, "at your service."
He handed Harry a business card and waived his arm towards the settee in the middle of the room where the boy had laid out his materials.
"Casual, but expensive, Oui?"
"That's right."
Robert assessed the lighting turning Harry this way and that and settled in one position, and without speaking spread his arms suggesting Harry do the same. With a thin tape, he deftly measured Harry in every position calling out numbers to the boy who skillfully wrote them down in a little book. From Harry's one-word answers, Robert who talked in a non-stop stream of words was able to conjure up an image of what type of clothing he should wear.
Frank is going to kill me. Harry smiled.
Twenty-five minutes later, the clothier and his assistant ushered themselves out the door. Robert promised four new outfits by morning. As they moved into the hallway, Harry mentioned he wanted to travel light and with as little luggage as possible.
"But I am sure Monsieur," he said and walked down the hall to the elevator followed closely by his gosling.
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