Brad Thor - The Lions Of Lucerne

The first book in the Scot Harvath series

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

“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, including 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.