The Lions of Lucerne - Brad Thor



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.

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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

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Designed by Kris Tobiassen

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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.




“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