The Lions of Lucerne Read online

  THE LIONS

  OF LUCERNE

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  Copyright © 2002 by Brad Thor

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  ISBN: 0-7434-8329-4

  POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  Designed by Kris Tobiassen

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  http://www.SimonSays.com

  This book is for my beautiful wife, Trish—

  my life, my love, and my best friend.

  For reasons of national security, certain names, places, and tactical procedures have been changed within this novel.

  Fortes Fortuna Adjuvat.

  Fortune favors the brave.

  THE LIONS

  OF LUCERNE

  Prologue

  “Senators,” said Fawcett as he strode across the polished floor in his monogrammed Stubbs and Wooton opera slippers, “I’m so very pleased you could make it.”

  The study was lined from floor to ceiling with beautiful leather-bound books, most of them first editions. Velvet draperies were drawn tight against the windows, obscuring from view the frigid waters of southern Wisconsin’s famed Lake Geneva. The industrialist’s eagerly awaited guests sat in two leather club chairs by the fireplace.

  Senator Russell Rolander was the first to stand. “Donald, good to see you.” The senator stuck out his beefy paw and pumped Fawcett’s hand. Rolander and Fawcett had been roommates together at the University of Illinois. The senator had been a college football star and continued his notoriety through many years with the Chicago Bears before going into Illinois politics. Long known as one of Washington, D.C.’s, biggest power brokers, Rolander was a ranking member of the U.S. Senate, held a coveted position on the Appropriations Committee, and owned a weekend home down the road from Fawcett’s.

  Slower to rise was New York senator David Snyder. Snyder shook Fawcett’s hand only after it had been offered. Described as a sneaky little son of a bitch by his adversaries, Snyder had scaled the rocky heights of the American political landscape by adhering to a simple mantra: do unto others before they do unto you. He was a master of dirty tricks, and there were few in Washington who had dared cross Snyder’s path. Those who had, hadn’t survived long politically. Snyder, a slight man of wiry build and soft features, was the mirror opposite of the large, rugged, blond-haired Rolander. However, what Senator David Snyder lacked in physical stature, he more than made up in brainpower. That intelligence, coupled with a genius for strategy, had landed him an all but permanent spot on the Senate Intelligence Committee. There wasn’t a covert operation conducted in the last seven years that didn’t somehow or other have Snyder’s fingerprints on it.

  Fawcett, always the showman, picked up a remote from the inlaid Egyptian box on his desk and pointed it at a wall of books to the right of the fireplace. The false wall slid back to reveal the entryway to a smaller room, about fifteen by fifteen feet. The white walls were decorated with rococo trim and were lined with more leather-bound books. The entire space was permeated with the smell of honey. The wood floor was covered by a large oriental rug. A small fireplace, trimmed in marble, stood in the southwest corner. It utilized the same chimney system as the fireplace in the large study, which helped keep this room a secret to outsiders. Several gilded mirrors hung on the walls and reflected the room’s centerpiece, an enormous antique rolltop desk. A plush couch, with handsomely carved legs, sat opposite the desk. Fawcett waved his guests into the adjoining room. Once all three were together, he tapped a button on his remote and the wall slid shut behind them. With only minimal pressure from Fawcett’s fingertips, a set of faux book spines sprang forward from one of the bookshelves, revealing a set of crystal decanters.

  “Brandy anyone?” said Fawcett as he removed a large snifter and a decanter filled with the amber-colored liquor.

  “I’ll take one,” replied Rolander.

  “Scotch rocks, if you’ve got it,” said Snyder.

  As Fawcett began pouring the drinks, he motioned for the men to take a seat on the couch. Rolander, very much at ease with himself, plopped right down onto the antique sofa. Snyder lingered, wandering around the small room for a few seconds pretending to admire the decor. The high-tech surveillance sweeper, disguised as a beeper on his hip, had vibrated uncontrollably as he and Rolander were led down the long hallways of Fawcett’s palatial home toward the study. An adept student of security and surveillance systems, Snyder had noticed many of Fawcett’s obvious safety measures and had guessed at the ones he couldn’t see. No doubt Fawcett had the best money could buy. An extremely cautious man, he never left anything to chance. Snyder knew that much about him and that was one of the reasons he’d agreed to become this deeply involved.

  The sweeper hadn’t vibrated at all since he had entered the secret room, and for the moment, Snyder was satisfied their conversation wasn’t being monitored. He took his three fingers of scotch from Fawcett and sat down on the sofa next to Rolander.

  “You know, Donald, we should have all of our meetings in this room,” said Rolander. “I like it. In fact, this has got to be one of my favorite rooms in the whole house.”

  “What’s that smell?” broke in Snyder. He vaguely recognized the scent, but couldn’t exactly place it, nor why it was arousing him. “It’s strangely familiar. Smells like some kind of powder.”

  “It’s honey,” said Fawcett. “Technically, it’s beeswax. The wood floors in here are polished with it.”

  The minute Fawcett said the word honey, Snyder knew why the smell was so familiar and so arousing.

  Mitchell Conti, or Mitch, as everyone was fond of calling him, had joined Senator Snyder’s staff two summers ago. He was a strikingly handsome twenty-three-year-old who quickly became very popular on the Hill. He cut a wide swath, dating numerous female aides and pages. To any outside eyes, Mitch Conti was into women only, but David Snyder knew better and so did Mitch. There had been constant electricity between David and Mitch from the moment they met, and one weekend when Mitch brought papers over to the senator’s town house for his signature, long looks over drinks led them straight to the bedroom.

  Mitch had been fond of a product known as Kama Sutra Honey Dust that he’d found at an adult novelty store. The dust was really a fine powder that smelled and tasted like honey. Mitch would brush it all over Snyder’s body with a small feather duster and then lick it off. Not only had David liked it, but so had the many women who’d shared his bed between visits from Mitch.

  The half-empty canister of honey dust under the bathroom sink was Snyder’s only reminder of his twenty-three-year-old lover. Several months into their affair, Snyder had discovered that Mitch not only had been seeing another man on the side, but also had plans to blackmail him, David Snyder, one of the most powerful senators in New York history. Snyder had come too far to have it all come crashing down over something like that.

  Two weeks later, Mitch and the other man were the victims of yet another D.C. drive-by shooting. The politicians were up in arms that this sort of thing could happen again, and this time to someone from the Hill. But the anger quickly subsided. The deaths became, as David Snyder knew they would, just another unfortunate statistic on the D.C. crime blotter.

  ”The entire room, inc
luding the beeswax polish, is an exact copy of Louis XV’s secret study at Versailles,” said Fawcett. “As a matter of fact, this rolltop desk,” he said, sweeping his hand over the smooth wood, “is Louis’s original desk. The first rolltop ever made. The one at Versailles is just a copy, though those putzes have the balls to try and pass it off as the real thing.

  “I told you how we got it, didn’t I?” Fawcett said to Senator Rolander.

  “Yeah, you used to have it in your place in Chicago.”

  “Well, Senator Snyder here hasn’t heard the story.” Fawcett looked at Snyder and raised an eyebrow as if to say, You’re not going to believe this. “When the palace of Versailles was stormed by the people of France, they saved the paintings and sold off the furniture. Those prissy academics who run Versailles now have been scouring the world trying to buy back all of the original furniture.

  “They made it perfectly clear that they believed the desk was a national treasure and that they would go to any lengths to get it back. They claim that they were dealing directly with the owner, but that’s a load of bullshit. The owner was a savvy old bird who used Sotheby’s on the sly to mount a very discreet bidding war. I had one of my lawyers from Amsterdam represent me as an anonymous buyer. The French bid high right from the get-go, and we followed them straight up. There was no way I was going to let them get it. Bill Gates was hovering around the fringes of the bidding, and I thought I was really going to have some trouble out of him, but he lost interest after a while. When the other players fell out of the running and we were neck and neck with the French, we let them win the bid.”

  Snyder leaned forward surprised. “If you let them win the bid, how’d you end up with the desk?”

  “I’ll tell you how,” said Fawcett, “and if I do say so myself, it’s brilliant. We had a girl inside who handled the banking. For their deals, especially one of this size, Sotheby’s has very strict rules. They don’t care if you’re Charlie de Gaulle or Charlie Potatoes, if you can’t come up with the payment, you lose your place in line. They came back to us when the French money didn’t show and asked if we would match the bid. Meanwhile, the Frogs were going batshit trying to figure out what went wrong. It was beautiful. Our girl had worked it so she was spotless. It looked like the bank in France screwed things up. We were able to get the rolltop for a fraction of what it would have cost if there’d been an all-out bidding war. And let me tell you this, it felt good to stick it to the Frenchies.”

  Rolander had heard the story before, but the guile of his old college roommate made him smile nonetheless. Rolander was amazed at how far sheer force of will and personality had carried Fawcett. He sometimes wondered where he would be if he’d been as ruthless. Being a senator wasn’t bad by a long shot and Russ Rolander hadn’t got to where he was by sitting around, but what would it be like to have Fawcett’s money and power? What would it be like for him to support all of his vices with his own money, rather than depending on the steady stream of Fawcett deposits to his Caribbean bank account?

  Well, if you were going to be in a pocket, Rolander reasoned, it might as well be a deep one.

  Snyder’s reaction wasn’t much different. He was also amazed at the lengths to which Fawcett would go to get what he wanted. Snyder felt a bizarre sense of camaraderie with the man. Both he and Fawcett knew no limit to their passions, nor to the depths to which they would descend to force the world to give them what they wanted. As much as they had in common, though, there was one thing that Snyder knew for sure, he was smarter than Donald Fawcett would ever be.

  “So,” continued Fawcett, “that’s how my little Louis XV room came to be. How much do you want to bet that he banged Marie Antoinette right on that couch you’re sitting on?”

  Snyder tried to suppress it, but a slight smile crept across his lips. Fawcett might have monkey loads of money, but he didn’t know shit when it came to history. Marie Antoinette wasn’t married to Louis XV, she was married to Louis XVI.

  “I get what I want. Don’t I, Russ?”

  “That’s right,” Rolander managed between coughs, as Fawcett, who had been walking behind the couch, had smacked him hard on the back mid-swig of his brandy.

  Snyder didn’t like the way Fawcett circled the room like a buzzard looking for a wounded animal, and was glad when he finally sat down behind the desk.

  “Enough small talk,” said Fawcett, looking into his snifter as he swirled his brandy, releasing the sweet, metallic vapor. “Where do we stand?”

  Rolander sat up straighter, his imposing size dominating the couch, and cleared his throat, “As you know, Donald, the deal has been moving along smoothly. We have our foreign assets in place, and the advance information we have received fits the equation perfectly…as we knew it would. In an undertaking such as this, the CYA, or cover-your-ass factor, cannot be stressed greatly enough—”

  Fawcett interrupted Senator Rolander. “That’s what I never did like about politicians, always worrying about covering their asses when they should be worrying about doing their jobs.”

  “Listen, Donald,” said Rolander, “don’t you fucking patronize me. This is one serious deal, and if you think I’m not covering my flanks, you are sorely mistaken.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with covering your flanks, Russ. Just don’t spend so much time watching your ass that you miss what’s right in front of you. Understand?”

  “Yeah, I understand, all right. I just hope you do. This isn’t shooting fish in a barrel. This is serious business. The smallest detail could turn this into a major cluster fuck and send us all running for cover…or worse.”

  “Spare me the lecture, Russ. I know this is serious business. I’ve got billions riding on it. Jesus, with all of the power problems in California alone, you’d think we’d be developing our fossil fuel capabilities further, not scaling back. What the fuck are they thinking? Alternative energy sources? Not only are they dangerous and unreliable, they’re just too much of a hard sell to the American public.”

  “But, you forget about the greenhouse gases and global warming,” broke in Rolander.

  “Fuck the greenhouse gases, fuck the Kyoto Protocol, and fuck global warming,” spat Fawcett. “That’s all a bunch of inconclusive bullshit. I have invested tens of millions of dollars trying to get you and your colleagues back east to see the light on this one. God, if I never see another lobbyist or politician with his hand out again, it’ll be too soon. But, after all is said and spent, where’d my money get me? Nowhere, that’s where. If this fossil fuel rollback happens, I don’t even want to think about how much money I’ll lose. It’s bad enough the government has forced us into selling power to states like California at fire-sale prices, but now they want to go further and whittle away our market. I have gone at this thing every way I can, and now the buck stops here.”

  “Which brings me right back to what I was saying, Donald. To avoid this thing hitting the fan, we’ve got to have a flawless strategy,” said Rolander.

  “Relax, Russ. I told you already that I have the details all worked out. You think I want this deal to go sour? Besides, the trail goes so cold before it reaches either of your doors that even Rudolph the fucking Red Nosed Reindeer couldn’t follow it. Got me?”

  “I gotcha,” said Rolander, “but you get me, Donald. I don’t care how much money you’ve put into this deal and I don’t care how much you stand to lose. No more changes. This thing goes off as planned. You of all people should appreciate the value of what I’m saying. Our offshore associates are not happy with how you’ve pushed up the closing.”

  “You let me worry about them,” said Fawcett. “In fact, as I’ve said before, let me worry about everything. All of the players are being extremely well compensated for their participation. There is no reason for anyone to be getting jumpy. The closing was moved up because the closing had to be moved up. That’s the nature of the business. We’re all professionals here, so let’s get our acts together and get on with the deal. Now”—Fawcett rubbed
his hands together in anticipation and leaned forward over his desk—“what’s the word from Star Gazer?” Two sets of eyes fell upon Senator Snyder and awaited his report.

  Snyder took a deep breath and, smoothing the crease in his left trouser leg, began to speak. “As we expected, he has agreed to become a player in the deal, but he did have some reservations.”

  “He didn’t have any objections other than those we forecasted, is that correct?”

  “That is correct,” said Snyder.

  This was the part of the game that Fawcett loved, the psychology. He had known exactly how Star Gazer would react. He would be indignant at first, considering the proposal out of the question. Then the stroke and sting, as Fawcett liked to call them, would begin. First his ego would be stroked and then his fears would be stung. It was an age-old tactic, but it worked every single time. The more self-absorbed the personality, the greater the success. Star Gazer was about as self-absorbed as they came, although he hid it very, very well. This camouflage ability was Star Gazer’s greatest strength. Seeing people for exactly who they were, knowing what motivated them and how to turn those motivations to his advantage, was Donald Fawcett’s.

  “What are you two talking about?” demanded Rolander.

  “What we’re talking about,” answered Snyder, “is that Mr. Fawcett read Star Gazer like an open book. He accurately forecasted what Star Gazer’s objections and areas of concern would be. He knew which cards should be played, and in which order, to successfully bring him on board. Star Gazer has left us with a brief list of ‘demands,’ our full agreement with which being the only way he will participate. The list is exactly as Mr. Fawcett predicted.”

  Rolander looked at Fawcett, impressed. “He agreed to come aboard?”

  “Indeed he did,” replied Snyder. “Now, as to his conditions.”