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- Kurzbeschreibung"This looks like the launch of a great career in spy fiction." - Booklist (starred review)
"A moody debut spy novel inspired by real events...Dead-on Cold War fiction. Noir to the bone." - Kirkus Reviews
"Cold War spy fiction in the grand tradition-neatly plotted betrayals in that shadow world where no one can be trusted and agents are haunted by their own moral compromises." -Joseph Kanon, New York Times bestselling author of Istanbul Passage and The Good German
Publishers Weekly Top Ten Mysteries & Thrillers of Spring 2016
A debut espionage novel in the style of Alan Furst and John le Carré, An Honorable Man is a chilling Cold War spy thriller set in 1950s Washington, D.C.
Washington D.C., 1953. The Cold War is heating up: McCarthyism, with all its fear and demagoguery, is raging in the nation's capital, and Joseph Stalin's death has left a dangerous power vacuum in the Soviet Union.
The CIA, meanwhile, is reeling from a double agent within their midst. Someone is selling secrets to the Soviets, compromising missions around the globe. Undercover agents have been assassinated, and anti-Communist plots are being cut short in ruthlessly efficient fashion. The CIA director knows any news of the traitor, whose code name is Protocol, would be a national embarrassment and compromise the entire agency.
George Mueller seems to be the perfect man to help find the mole: Yale-educated; extensive experience running missions in Eastern Europe; an operative so dedicated to his job that it left his marriage in tatters. The Director trusts him. Mueller, though, has secrets of his own, and as he digs deeper into the case, making contact with a Soviet agent, suspicion begins to fall on him as well. Until Protocol is found, no one can be trusted, and everyone is at risk.
- AutorPaul Vidich
- SerieAtria Books
- VerlagSimon + Schuster
- FormatGebundene Ausgabe
- Seiten288 Seiten
- Gewicht377 g
- LeseprobeAn Honorable Man
WASHINGTON, D.C., 1953
MUELLER STOOD at the apartment's third-floor window and said to the FBI agent, "It's been too long. He won't show." He ground his cigarette into the overflowing ash tray. "We're wasting our time."
"He'll come. He can't resist the bait."
Mueller looked across the icy street at the dilapidated apartment building separated from the sidewalk by a wrought iron fence. Bars protected first-floor windows. There was no activity and there hadn't been since he'd arrived. A streetlamp at the corner cast its amber glow up the block, but it didn't reach the stoop. An unmarked car stood at Twelfth Street NE and Lincoln Park, and a black Buick was around the corner, in the alley, out of sight, but Mueller had seen it on his way over. Further up the block, an agent waited in the dimly lit phone booth, self-conscious with his newspaper.
"He's been scared off."
"He has no reason to believe we're here."
"He doesn't need a reason. It's instinct. Even an amateur would wonder why that man's been in the phone booth an hour. For you it's a job." Mueller dropped the curtain. "It's his life. He knows."
Mueller glanced at his watch. "When do you call it quits?"
"There's time. We spotted her making the drop at five. She's Chernov's wife. She went in the lobby with the package. She came out without it. He'll come."
"You're sure it was her?" Mueller asked.
He waited for FBI agent Walker to respond. Mueller thought Walker flamboyant, enjoying his status as agent-in-charge, eager to hunt. He dressed the part: dark hair combed straight back, polished shoes, double-breasted suit, and thin moustache like a Hollywood leading man. Through the window street sounds spilled into the darkened apartment-a car's honk, a woman's anger. The agent raised opera glasses and scanned the street and then shifted his attention to the edge of Lincoln Park. Automobiles cruised single men sitting alone on wood benches. A giant mound of dirty snow from the weekend storm buried parked cars.
"We know it was her," Walker said in his drawl. "We have surveillance. Two cars. She left the Soviet embassy, took a taxi to the residence, and walked here with the package. It's still inside."
Mueller waited. He looked at his watch again, and then without thinking, he did it again. Waiting was the hardest part. He moved to the center of the room. There was the rank smell of cigarettes in the small apartment, half-drunk coffee cups, and the wilted remains of a take-out dinner. All waiting did was give him time to be irritated. He took a tennis ball from the table and squeezed it, working out his tension, squeezing and resqueezing. At another window he lifted the curtain
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