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becke_davis
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Please Welcome Author JOSEPH FINDER!

 

Please welcome author JOSEPH FINDER to our Month of Suspense & Thrillers!

 

 

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becke_davis
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Re: Please Welcome Author JOSEPH FINDER!

 

 

Vanished 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The New York Times bestselling "master of the modern thriller" (Boston Globe) returns with his most compelling hero — and his most electrifying tale yet. Lauren Heller and her husband, Roger, are out to dinner one night when they’re brutally attacked. Twenty-four hours later, Lauren awakes in the hospital to find that her husband has vanished without a trace. The only one who has any chance of finding him is his brother, Nick, a high-powered investigator with a private intelligence firm. Nick Heller is tough, smart, and stubborn.

 

Trained in the Special Forces, he specializes in digging up secrets that powerful people would rather keep hidden. He and his brother have been estranged ever since the imprisonment of their notorious billionaire father. But Nick will do anything to protect Lauren and her son. He never backs down. Even if it means taking on the most lethal enemies he’s ever had to face. Plunged headlong into a desperate chase, Nick begins making shocking discoveries about his brother's life — and about the giant defense contractor he works for.

 

Now, in order to keep Lauren and her teenage son alive, Nick must take on a powerful and deadly conspiracy that will stop at nothing to protect its secrets. With breathtaking suspense and pulse-pounding action, right down to its final, astonishing twist, here is "the finest of the contemporary thriller novelists" (Pittsburgh Post-Gazette) at the top of his game. On Sale Now in Paperback! Want to know more about Nick? Follow him on Twitter @nickheller. … Read more

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Re: Please Welcome Author JOSEPH FINDER!

 

 

Power Play 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was the perfect retreat for a troubled company. No cell phones. No BlackBerrys. No cars. Just a luxurious, remote lodge surrounded by thousands of miles of wilderness.

All the top officers of the Hammond Aerospace Corporation are there. And one last-minute substitute — a junior executive named Jake Landry. He’s a steady, modest, and taciturn guy with a gift for keeping his head down and a turbulent past he’s trying to put behind him.

Jake’s uncomfortable with all the power players he's surrounded by, with all their swaggering and posturing.The only person there he knows is the female CEO’s assistant—his ex-girlfriend, Ali.

When a band of backwoods hunters crash the opening-night dinner, the executives suddenly find themselves held hostage by armed men who will do anything, to anyone, to get their hands on the largest ransom in history. Now, terrified and desperate and cut off from the rest of the world, the captives are at the mercy of hard men with guns who may not be what they seem.

The corporate big shots hadn’t wanted Jake there. But now he’s the only one who can save them. 

POWER PLAY is a non-stop, pulse-pounding, high-stakes thriller that will hold the reader riveted until the very last page.

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Re: Please Welcome Author JOSEPH FINDER!

POWER PLAY

 

Read an Excerpt

Chapter 1

“We got trouble.”

I recognized Zoë’s voice, but I didn’t turn around from my computer. I was too absorbed in a news report on the website AviationNow.com. A competitor’s new plane had crashed a couple of days ago, at the Paris Air Show. I wasn’t there, but my boss was, and so were all the other honchos at my company, so I’d heard all about it. At least no one was killed.

And at least it wasn’t one of ours.

I picked up my big black coffee mug—the hammond skycruiser: the future of flight—and took a sip. The coffee was cold and bitter.

“You hear me, Landry? This is serious.”

I swiveled slowly around in my chair. Zoë Robichaux was my boss’s admin. She had dyed copper hair and a ghostly pallor. She was in her mid-twenties and lived in El Segundo not too far from me, but she did a lot of club-hopping in L.A. at night. If the dress code at Hammond allowed, I suspected she’d have worn studded black leather every day, black fingernail polish, probably gotten everything pierced. Even parts of the body you don’t want to think about getting pierced. Then again, maybe she already did. I didn’t want to know.

“Does this mean you didn’t get me a bagel?” I said.

“I was on my way down there when Mike called. From Mumbai.”

“What’s he doing in India? He told me he’d be back in the office today for a couple of hours before he leaves for the offsite.”

“Yeah, well, Eurospatiale’s losing orders all over the place since their plane crashed.”

“So Mike’s lined up meetings at Air Indiainstead of coming back here,” I said. “Nice of him to tell me.”

Mike Zorn was an executive vice president and the program manager in charge of building our brand-new wide-bodied passenger jet, the H-880, which we called the SkyCruiser. Four VPs and hundreds of people reported to him—engineers and designers and stress analysts and marketing and finance people. But Mike was always selling the hell out of the 880, which meant he was out of the office far more than he was in.

So he’d hired a chief assistant—me—to make sure everything ran smoothly. Crack the whip if necessary. His jack-of-all-trades and U.N. translator, since I have enough of an engineering background to talk to the engineers in their own geeky language, talk finance with the money people, talk to the shop floor guys in the assembly plant who distrust the lardasses who sit in the office and keep revising and revising the damned drawings.

Zoë looked uneasy. “Sorry, he wanted me to tell you, but I kind of forgot. Anyway, the point is, he wants you to get over to Fab.”

“When?”

“Like an hour ago.”

The fabrication plant was the enormous factory where we were building part of the SkyCruiser. “Why?” I said. “What’s going on?”

“I didn’t quite get it, but the head QA guy found something wrong with the vertical tail? And he just like shut down the whole production line? Like, pulled the switch?”

I groaned. “That’s got to be Marty Kluza. Marty the one-man party.” The lead Quality Assurance inspector at the assembly plant was a famous pain in the ass. But he’d been at Hammond for fifteen years, and he was awfully good at his job, and if he wouldn’t let a part leave the factory, there was usually a good reason for it.

“I don’t know. Anyway, like everyone at headquarters is totally freaking, and Mike wants you to deal with it. Now.”

“**bleep**.”

“You still want that bagel?” Zoë said.

Copyright © 2007 by Joseph Finder. All rights reserved.

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Re: Please Welcome Author JOSEPH FINDER!

 

 

Killer Instinct 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jason Steadman is a thirty-year-old sales executive living in Boston and working for an electronics giant, a competitor to Sony and Panasonic. He's a witty, charismatic guy who's well liked, but lacks the "killer instinct" necessary to move up the corporate ladder. To the chagrin of his ambitious wife, it looks as if his career has hit a ceiling. Jason's been sidelined.

All that will change one evening when Jason meets Kurt Semko, a former Special Forces officer just back from Iraq. Looking for a decent pitcher for the company softball team, Jason gets Kurt, who was once drafted by the majors, a job in Corporate Security. Soon, good things start to happen for Jason - and bad things start to happen to Jason's rivals. His career suddenly takes off. He's an overnight success.

Too late does Jason discover that his friend Kurt has been paving his path to the top by the most efficient means available. After all, Kurt says, "Business is war, right?"

When Jason tries to put a stop to it, he finds that his new best friend has become the most dangerous enemy imaginable - and far more than his career hangs in the balance.

A riveting tale of ambition, intrigue, and the price of success, KILLER INSTINCT is Joseph Finder at his best.

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Re: Please Welcome Author JOSEPH FINDER!

KILLER INSTINCT


EXCERPT:

 

Chapter One

 

Okay, so I'm an idiot.

The Acura went into a ditch because I was trying to do too many things at once. Radiohead's "The Bends" was playing, loud, while I was driving home, too fast, since I was late as usual. Left hand on the wheel, while with my right hand I was thumbing my BlackBerry for e-mails, hoping I'd finally nailed a deal with a huge new customer. Most of the e-mails were blowback from the departure of our divisional vice president, Crawford, who'd just jumped ship to Sony. Then my cell phone rang. I dropped the BlackBerry on the car seat and grabbed the cell.

I knew from the ring that it was my wife, Kate, so I didn't bother to turn down the music--I figured she was just calling to find out when I'd be home from work so she could get dinner ready. She'd been on a tofu kick the last few months--tofu and brown rice and kale, stuff like that. It had to be really good for you, since it tasted so bad. But I'd never tell her so.

That wasn't why she was calling, though. I could tell right away from Kate's voice that she'd been crying, and even before she said anything I knew why.

"DiMarco called," she said. DiMarco was our doctor at Boston IVF who'd been trying to get Kate pregnant for the last two years or so. I didn't have high hopes,plus I didn't personally know anyone who'd ever made a baby in a test tube, so I was dubious about the whole process. I figured high tech should be for flat-screen plasma monitors, not making babies. Even so, it felt like I'd been punched in the stomach.

But the worst thing was what it would do to Kate. She was crazy enough these days from the hormone injections. This would send her over the edge.

"I'm really sorry," I said.

"They're not going to let us keep trying forever, you know," she said. "All they care about is their numbers, and we're bringing them down."

"Katie, it's only our third try with the IVF stuff. It's like a ten percent chance or something per cycle anyway, right? We'll keep at it, babe. That's all."

"The point is, what are we going to do if this doesn't work?" Kate's voice got all high and choked, made my heart squeeze. "Go to California, do the donor egg thing? I can't go through that. Adopt? Jason, I can barely hear you."

Adoption was fine with me. Or not. But I'm not totally clueless, so instead I focused on turning down the music. There's some little button on the steering wheel that I've never figured out how to use, so with the thumb of my driving hand I started pushing buttons, but instead the volume increased until Radiohead was blaring.

"Kate," I said, but just then I realized that the car had veered onto the shoulder and then off the road. I dropped the phone, grabbed the wheel with both hands, cut it hard, but too late.

There was a loud ka-chunk. I spun the steering wheel, slammed on the brakes.

A sickening metallic crunch. I was jolted forward, thrown against the wheel, then backwards. Suddenly the car was canting all the way down to one side. The engine was racing, the wheels spinning in midair.

I knew right away I wasn't hurt seriously, but I might have bruised a couple of ribs slightly. It's funny: I immediately started thinking of those old black-and-white driver-ed shock movies they used to show in the fifties and sixties with lurid titles like The Last Prom and Mechanized Death, from the days when all cops had crew cuts and wore huge-brimmed Canadian Mountie hats. A guy in my college frat had a videotape of these educational snuff flicks. Watching them could scare the bejeezus out of you. I couldn't believe anyone learning to drive back then could see The Last Prom and still be willing to get behind the wheel.

I turned the key, shut off the music, and sat there for a couple of seconds in silence before I picked the cell phone off the floor of the car to call Triple A.

But the line was still open, and I could hear Kate screaming.

"Hey," I said.

"Jason, are you all right?" She was freaking out. "What happened?"

"I'm fine, babe."

"Jason, my God, did you get in an accident?"

"Don't worry about it, sweetheart. I'm totally--I'm fine. Everything's cool. Don't worry about it."

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Re: Please Welcome Author JOSEPH FINDER!

CONTINUED:

 

Forty-five minutes later a tow truck pulled up, a bright red truck, m.e. walsh tow painted on the side panel. The driver walked over to me, holding a metal clipboard. He was a tall, broad-shouldered guy with a scruffy goatee, wearing a bandana on his head knotted at the back and long gray-flecked brown hair in a kind of mullet. He was wearing a black leather Harley-Davidson jacket.

"Well, that sucks," the dude said.

"Thanks for coming," I said.

"No worries," Harley said. "Let me guess. You were talking on your cell phone."

I blinked, hesitated for a microsecond before I said sheepishly, "Yeah."

"Damn things are a menace."

"Yeah, totally," I said. Like I could survive without my cell phone. But he didn't exactly seem to be a cell phone kind of guy. He drove a tow truck and a motorcycle. Probably had a CB radio in there along with his Red Man chewing tobacco and Allman Brothers CDs. And a roll of toilet paper in the glove compartment. Kind of guy who mows his lawn and finds a car. Who thinks the last four words of the national anthem are "Gentlemen, start your engines."

"You okay?" he said.

"Yeah, I'm good."

He backed the truck around to my car, lowered the bed, hooked the winch up to the Acura. He switched on the electric pulley thing and started hauling my car out of the ditch. Fortunately, we were on a fairly deserted stretch of road--I always take this shortcut from the office in Framingham to the Mass Pike--so there weren't too many cars whizzing by. I noticed the truck had a yellow "Support Our Troops" ribbon sticker on one side and one of those black-and-white POW/MIA stickers on the windshield. I made a mental note to myself not to criticize the war in Iraq unless I wanted to get my larynx crushed by the guy's bare hands.

"Climb in," he said.

The cab of the truck smelled like stale cigar smoke and gasoline. A Special Forces decal on the dashboard. I was starting to get real warm and fuzzy feelings about the war.

"You got a body shop you like?" he said. I could barely hear him over the hydraulic whine of the truck bed mechanism.

I had a serious gearhead friend who'd know, but I couldn't tell a carburetor from a caribou. "I don't get into accidents too often," I said.

"Well, you don't look like the kinda guy gets under the hood and changes the oil himself," Harley said. "There's a body shop I know," he said. "Not too far from here. We're good to go."


We mostly sat there in silence while he drove. I made a couple of attempts to get a conversation started with Harley, but it was like striking a wet match.

Normally I could talk to anyone about anything--you name it, sports, kids, dogs, TV shows, whatever. I was a sales manager for one of the biggest electronics companies in the world, up there with Sony and Panasonic. The division I work for makes those big beautiful flat-panel LCD and plasma TVs and monitors that so many people lust after. Very cool products. And I've found that the really good sales reps, the ones who have the juice, can start a conversation with anybody. That's me.

But this guy didn't want to talk, and after a while I gave up. I was kind of uncomfortable sitting there in the front seat of a tow truck being chauffeured around by a Hells Angel, me in my expensive charcoal suit, trying to avoid the chewing gum, or tar, or whatever the hell it was stuck on the vinyl upholstery. I felt my rib cage, satisfied myself that nothing had broken. Not even all that painful, actually.

I found myself staring at the collection of stickers on the dashboard--the Special Forces decal, a "These Colors Don't Run" flag decal, another one that said "Special Forces--I'm the Man Your Mother Warned You About." After a while, I said, "This your truck?"

"Nah, my buddy owns the towing company and I help out sometimes."

Guy was getting chatty. I said, "He Special Forces?"

A long silence. I didn't know, were you not supposed to ask somebody if they were in the Special Forces or something? Like, he could tell me, but then he'd have to kill me?

I was about to repeat the question when he said, "We both were."

"Huh," I said, and we both went quiet again. He switched on the ball game. The Red Sox were playing the Seattle Mariners at Fenway Park, and it was a tight, hard-fought, low-scoring game, pretty exciting. I love listening to baseball on the radio. I have a huge flat-panel TV at home, which I got on the friends-and-family discount at work, and baseball in high-definition is awesome. But there's nothing like a ball game on the radio--the crack of the bat, the rustling crowd, even the stupid ads for auto glass. It's classic. The announcers sound exactly the way they did when I was a kid, and probably sound the same as when my late father was a kid. Their flat, nasal voices are like an old pair of sneakers, comfortable and familiar and broken-in. They use all the well-worn phrases like "high--fly--ball!" and "runners at the corners" and "swing and a miss." I like the way they suddenly get loud and frenzied, shouting things like, "Way back! Way back!"

One of the announcers was commenting about the Sox pitcher, saying, ". . . but even at the top of his game, he's never going to come close to the fastest recorded pitch speed of one hundred point nine miles an hour, thrown by . . . ? Jerry, you must know that one."

And the other guy said, "Nolan Ryan."

"Nolan Ryan," the first guy said, "very good. Clocked at Anaheim Stadium, August the twentieth, nineteen-seventy-four." Probably reading off the prompter, some research fed him by a producer.

I said, "Wrong."

The driver turned to me. "Huh?"

I said, "These guys don't know what they're talking about. The fastest recorded pitch was Mark Wohlers."

"Very good," Harley said, nodding. "Mark Wohlers. Hundred and three."

"Right," I said, surprised. "Hundred and three miles per hour, in nineteen-ninety-five."

"Atlanta Braves spring training." Then he smiled, an easy grin, his teeth even and white. "Didn't think anyone else knew that," he said.

"Of course, the fastest pitcher ever, not in the major leagues--"

"Steve Dalkowski," said Harley. "Hundred and ten miles an hour."

"Shattered an umpire's mask," I said, nodding. "So were you a baseball geek when you were a kid, too? Collection of thousands of baseball cards?"

He smiled again. "You got it. Those Topps gum packs with that crappy stale bubble gum inside."

"That always stained one of the cards in the pack, right?"

He chuckled.

"Your dad take you to Fenway a lot?" I said.

"I didn't grow up around here," he said. "Michigan. And my dad wasn't around. Plus we couldn't afford to go to games."

"We couldn't either," I said. "So I listened to games on the radio a lot."

"Same here."

"Played baseball in the backyard?" I said. "Break a lot of windows?"

"We didn't have a backyard."

"Me neither. My friends and I played in a park down the street."

He nodded, smiled.

I felt like I knew the guy. We came from the same background, probably--no money, no backyard, the whole deal. Only I went to college and was sitting here in a suit, and he'd gone into the army like a lot of my high school buddies did.

We listened to the game for a bit. Seattle's designated hitter was up. He swung at the first pitch. You could hear the crack of the bat. "And there's a high fly ball hit deep to left field!" one of the announcers crowed. It was headed right for the glove of a great Red Sox slugger, who also happened to be a famously clumsy outfielder. And a space cadet who did things like disappear from left field, right in the middle of a game, to take a leak. When he wasn't bobbling the ball.

"He's got it," said the announcer. "It's headed right for his glove."

"He's going to drop it," I said.

Harley laughed. "You said it."

"Here it comes," I said.

Harley laughed even louder. "This is painful," he said.

A roar of disappointment in the ballpark. "The ball hit the back of the glove," said the announcer, "as he tried to slide to make the play. This is a major-league error right here."

We groaned simultaneously.

Harley switched it off. "I can't take it anymore," he said.

"Thank you," I said, as we pulled into the auto body shop parking lot.


It was a kind of scuzzy place that looked like a converted gas station. Willkie Auto Body, the sign said. The manager on duty was named Abdul and probably wouldn't have an easy time getting through airport security these days. I thought Harley would start off-loading the carcass of my poor Acura, but instead he came into the waiting room and watched Abdul take down my insurance information. I noticed another "Support Our Troops" sticker on the wall in here, too, and a Special Forces decal.

Harley said, "Jeremiah at home?"

"Oh, yeah," said Abdul. "Sure. Home with the kids."

"This is a friend of mine," he said. "Make sure you guys take care of him."

I looked around and realized the tow truck driver was talking about me.

"Of course, Kurt," Abdul said.

"Tell Jerry I was here," Harley said.

I read an old copy of Maxim while the tow truck driver and Abdul walked back to the shop. They returned a couple of minutes later.

"Abdul's going to put his best master tech on your car," Harley said. "They do good work here. Computerized paint-mixing system. Nice clean shop. Why don't you guys finish up the paperwork, and I'll get the car in the service bay."

"Thanks, man," I said.

"Okay, Kurt, see you," said Abdul.

I came out a few minutes later and saw Harley sitting in his tow truck, engine idling, listening to the game.

"Hey," he said, "where do you live? I'll drop you off."

"It's pretty far. Belmont."

"Grab your stuff out of the car and jump in."

"You don't mind?"

"I get paid by the hour, buddy. Not by the job."

I got my CDs off the floor of the car and my briefcase and baseball glove off the backseat.

"You used to work in a body shop?" I said when I'd gotten back into the truck.

The walkie-talkie started blaring, and he switched it off. "I've done everything."

"How do you like towing?"

He turned and gave me an Are you out of your mind? look. "I take whatever work I can get."

"People don't like to hire soldiers anymore?"

"People love to hire soldiers," he said. "Just not ones with DDs."

"What's a DD?"

"Dishonorable discharge. You gotta put it down on the application, and as soon as they see that, you're out the door."

"Oh," I said. "Sorry I asked. None of my business."

"No big deal. It just pisses me off. You get a DD, you don't get any VA benefits or pension. Sucks big-time."

"How'd it happen?" I said. "If you don't mind my asking."

Another long silence. He hit the turn signal, changed lanes. "Nah, I don't mind." He paused again, and I wasn't sure he was going to answer. Then he said: "The CO of my Special Forces A-team ordered half of us to go on this suicide mission, this broke-dick reconnaissance mission in Tikrit. I told the CO there was a ninety-nine percent chance they'd get ambushed, and guess what? The guys got ambushed. Attacked with rocket-propelled grenades. And my buddy Jimmy Donadio was killed."

He fell silent. Stared straight ahead at the road as he drove. Then: "A good kid, just about finished with his tour, had a baby he'd never even seen. I loved that guy. So I just lost it. Went after the CO--head-butted the bastard. Broke his nose."

"Wow," I said. "Jesus. I can't blame you. So you got court-martialed or something?"

He shrugged. "I'm lucky they didn't send me to Leavenworth. But nobody in the command wanted to draw any attention to what went down that night, and they sure as hell didn't want CID looking into it. Bad for army morale. More important, bad PR. So the deal was, dishonorable discharge, no time."

"Wow," I said again. I wasn't sure what CID was, but I wasn't going to ask.

"So are you, like, a lawyer or something?"

"Salesman."

"Where?"

"Entronics. In Framingham."

"Cool. Can you get me a deal on a plasma TV?"

I hesitated. "I don't sell the consumer line, but I might be able to do something."

He smiled. "I'm kidding. I couldn't afford one of those anyway, even wholesale. So, I noticed the glove you got back there. Sweet. Rawlings Gold Glove, Heart of the Hide. Same as the pros use. Looks brand-new. Right out of the box. Just get it?"

"Um, about two years," I said. "Gift from my wife."

"Oh. You play?"

"Not much. Mostly on my company's team. Softball, not baseball, but my wife didn't know the difference." Our team sucked. We were on a losing streak that resembled the Baltimore Orioles' historically pathetic 1988 season. "You play?"

He shrugged. "Used to."

A long beat of silence.

"In school or something?" I said.

"Got drafted by the Detroit Tigers, but never signed."

"Seriously?"

"My pitch speed was clocked at ninety-four, ninety-five miles an hour."

"No way. Jesus!" I turned to look at him.

"But that wasn't where my head was, at that point. Enlisted instead. I'm Kurt, by the way." He took his right hand off the wheel and gave me a firm handshake. "Kurt Semko."

"Jason Steadman."

There was another long silence, and then I had an idea.

"We could use a pitcher," I said.

"Who?"

"My company's team. We've got a game tomorrow night, and we sure could use a decent pitcher. How would you like to play on our team tomorrow?"

Another long pause. Then: "Don't you have to work for the company?"

"Guys we play have no idea who works for us and who doesn't."

Kurt went quiet again.

After a minute, I said, "So what do you think?"

He shrugged. "I don't know." He was staring at the road, a half smile on his face.

At the time it seemed like a fun idea.

Copyright © 2006 by Joseph Finder

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Re: Please Welcome Author JOSEPH FINDER!

 

 

Company Man 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Nick Conover is the CEO of a major corporation, a local boy made good, and once the most admired man in a company town. But that was before the layoffs.

When a faceless stalker menaces his family, Nick, a single father of two since the recent death of his wife, finds that the gated community they live in is no protection at all. He decides to take action, a tragedy ensues -- and immediately his life spirals out of control.

At work, Nick begins to uncover a conspiracy against him, involving some of his closest colleagues. He doesn't know who he can trust -- including the brilliant, troubled new woman in his life.

Meanwhile, his actions are being probed by a homicide detective named Audrey Rhimes, a relentless investigator with a strong sense of morality -- and her own, very personal reason for pursuing Nick Conover.

With everything he cares about in the balance, Nick discovers strengths he never knew he had. His enemies don't realize how hard he'll fight to save his company. And nobody knows how far he'll go to protect his family. 

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Re: Please Welcome Author JOSEPH FINDER!

COMPANY MAN


EXCERPT:


CHAPTER 1:

 

Nick backed his Chevy Suburban out of his space too fast, not bothering to check whether anyone was behind him, and careened through the parking lot that encircled the headquarters building. Even at the height of the workday, it stood half-empty as it had for the last two years, since the layoffs. Gallows humor abounded among the employees these days, Nick knew. The upside of losing half the workforce was, you could always find a parking space.

His nerves felt stretched taught. Acres of empty black asphalt, surrounded by a great black field of charred buffalo grass, the remains of a prescribed fire. Buffalo grass never needed mowing, but every few years it had to be burned to the ground. The air smelled like a Weber grill.

Black against black against the black of the road, a desolate landscape. He wondered whether driving by the vast swath of scorched earth everyday, staring at the charred field through the office windows, left a dark carbon smudge on your psyche.

You need to go home. Now.

When you have kids, they're the first thing you think of. Even a guy like Nick, hardly a worrywart, you get a call from the cops and your imagination takes flight in a bad direction.

But both kids were all right, the cops had assured Marjorie. Julia was on her way back from school, and Lucas - well, Lucas had been in classes today and was doing whatever the hell he did after school these days, which was another issue entirely.

That wasn't it.

Yes, it was another break-in, they'd said, but this time he really needed to come by. What the hell could that mean?

Over the past year or so, Nick had gotten used to the periodic calls from the alarm company or the police. The burglar alarm would go off in the middle of the day. There'd been a break-in. The alarm company would verify that the alarm was genuine by calling home or Nick's office and requesting a code. If no authorized user said it was a false alarm, the company would immediately dispatch the Fenwick police. A couple of cops would then drive by the house, check it out.

Inevitably it happened when no one was there - the crew working on the kitchen were taking one of their frequent days off; the kids were at school; the housekeeper, Marta, was out shopping or maybe picking up Julia.

Nothing was ever stolen. The intruder would force a window or one of the French doors, get inside, and leave a little message.

Literally, a message: words spray-painted in Day-Glo orange, all capital letters formed with the precision of an architect or mechanical engineer: NO HIDING PLACE.

Three words, one on top of another.

Was there any doubt it was a deranged laid-off employee? The graffiti defaced the walls of the living room, the dining room they never used, the freshly plastered walls of the kitchen. In the beginning it had scared the **bleep** out of him.

The real message, of course, was that they weren't safe. They could be gotten to.

The first graffiti had appeared on the heavy, ornate ash wood front door, which Laura had deliberated over for weeks with the architect, a door that had cost a ridiculous three thousand dollars, a **bleep**ing door for God's sake. Nick had made his feelings known but hadn't objected, because it was obviously important to her, for some reason. He'd been perfectly content with the flimsy paneled front door that came with the house they'd just bought. He didn't want to change anything about the house except maybe to shrink it to half its size. There was a saying that was popular at Stratton, which old man Devries was fond of repeating: the whale that spouts gets the harpoon. Sometimes he thought about having one of those bronze-looking estate wall plaques made for him by Frontgate, the kind you see on stone entrance pillars in front of McMansions, saying in raised copper letters, SPOUTING WHALE HOUSE.

But to Laura, the front door was symbolic: it was where you welcomed friends and family, and it was where you kept out those who weren't welcome. So it had to be both beautiful and substantial. "It's the front door, Nick," she'd insisted. "The first thing people see. That's the one place you don't cheap out."

 

Maybe, on some level, she thought a three-inch-thick front door would make them safer. Buying this insanely big house in the Fenwicke Estates: that was her idea too. She wanted the safety of the gated community. It took only a couple of anonymous threatening phone calls, as soon as the layoffs were announced.

"If you're a target, we're all targets," she said. There was a lot of anger out there, directed at him. He wasn't going to argue with her. He had a family to protect.

Now, with her gone, it felt as if he'd absorbed her neurosis, as if it had penetrated his bones. He felt, sometimes, that his family, what remained of it, was as fragile as an egg.

He also knew that the security of their gated community was little more than an illusion. It was a show, an elaborate charade, the fancy gatehouse and the guards, the private security, the high black iron fence with the spearhead finials.

The Suburban screeched to a stop before the ornately scrolled cast-iron gate beside the brick gatehouse built to resemble a miniature castle. A brass plaque on one of the piers said FENWICKE ESTATES.

That little 'e' at the end of Fenwick - he'd always found it pretentious to the point of being irritating. Plus, he was so over the irony here, this posh enclosed neighborhood equipped with the priciest security you could get - the tall wrought-iron perimeter fence with the fiber-optic sensing cable concealed inside the top rail, the pan-tilt-zoom CCTV surveillance cameras, the motion-sensor intruder alarms - where you couldn't stop the loonies from scrambling in through the dense surrounding woods and climbing over the fence.

"Another break-in, Mr. Conover," said Jorge, the day guard. Nice guy, couldn't be nicer. The security guards were all professional in demeanor, all wore sharp uniforms.

Nick nodded grimly, waited for the motor-driven gate to open, ridiculously slow. The high-pitched electronic warning beep was annoying. Everything beeped these days: trucks backing up, dishwashers and clothes dryers, microwaves. It really could drive you crazy.

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CONTINUED:

 

"Police are there now, you know," said Jorge. "Three cruisers, sir."

"Any idea what it is?"

"No, sir, I don't, I'm sorry."

The damned gate took forever to open. It was ridiculous. In the evening sometimes there was a line of cars waiting to get in. Something had to be done about it. For Christ's sake, what if his house caught fire - would the fire department trucks have to sit here while his house turned to toast?

He raced the engine in annoyance. Jorge shrugged a sheepish apology.

The second the gate was open far enough for the car to get through, he gunned it -the Suburban's pickup never ceased to amaze him - and barreled over the tiger-teeth tire-shredders that enforced one-way traffic, across the wide circular court paved in antique brick in a geometric pattern by old-world Italian stonemasons shipped over from Sicily, past the SPEED LIMIT 20 sign at twice that at least.

The brick pavement turned into glass-smooth macadam road, no street sign. He raced past the old-growth elms and firs, the mailboxes the size of doghouses, none of the houses visible. You had to be invited over to see what your neighbor's house looked like. And there sure as hell weren't any block parties here in Fenwicke Estates.

When he saw police squad cars parked on the street and at the entrance to his driveway, he felt something small and cold and hard forming at the base of his stomach, a little icicle of fear.

A uniformed policeman halted him a few hundred feet from the house, halfway up the drive. Nick jumped out and slammed the car door in one smooth, swift motion.

The cop was short and squat, powerful-looking, seemed to be perspiring heavily despite the cool weather. His badge said MANZI. A walkie-talkie hitched to his belt squawked unceasingly.

"You Mr. Conover?" He stood directly in front of Nick's path, blocking his way. Nick felt a flash of annoyance. My house, my driveway, my burglar alarm: get the **bleep** out of my way.

"Yeah, that's me, what's going on?" Nick tried to keep the irritation, and the anxiety, out of his voice.

"Ask you some questions?" Dappled sunlight filtered through the tall birches that lined the asphalt lane, played on the cop's inscrutable face.

Nick shrugged. "Sure - what is it, the graffiti again?"

"What time did you leave the house this morning, sir?"

"Around seven-thirty, but the kids are normally out of there by eight, eight-fifteen at the latest."

"What about your wife?"

Nick gazed at the cop steadily. Most of the cops had to know who he was at least. He wondered if this guy was just trying to yank his chain. "I'm a single parent."

A pause. "Nice house."

"Thank you." Nick could sense the resentment, the envy rising off the man like swamp gas. "What happened?"

"House is okay, sir. It's brand-new, looks like. Not even finished yet, huh?"

"We're just having some work done," Nick said impatiently.

"I see. The workers, they're here every day?"

"I wish. Not yesterday or today."

"Your alarm company lists a work number for you at the Stratton Corporation," Officer Manzi said. He was looking down at an aluminum clipboard, his black eyes small and deeply inset like raisins in a butterscotch pudding. "You work there."

"Right."

"What do you do at Stratton?" There was a beat before the policeman looked up and let his eyes meet Nick's: the guy knew damned well what he did there.

"I'm the CEO."

Manzi nodded as if everything now made sense. "I see. You've had a number of break-ins over the last several months, is that correct, Mr. Conover?"

"Five or six times now."

"What kind of security system you have here, sir?"

"Burglar alarm on the doors and some of the windows and French doors. Basic system. Nothing too elaborate."

"Home like this, that's not much of a system. No cameras, right?"

"Well, we live in this, you know, gated community."

"Yes, sir, I can see that. Lot of good it does, keeping out the wing nuts."

"Point taken." Nick almost smiled.

"Sounds like the burglar alarm isn't on very often, sir, that right?"

"Officer, why so many cars here today for a routine-"

"Mind if I ask the questions?" Officer Manzi said. The guy seemed to be enjoying his authority, pushing around the boss man from Stratton. Let him, Nick thought. Let him have his fun. But-

Nick heard a car approaching, turned and saw the blue Chrysler Town and Country, Marta behind the wheel. He felt that little chemical surge of pleasure he always got when he saw his daughter, the way he used to feel with Lucas too, until that got complicated. The minivan pulled up alongside Nick and the engine was switched off. A car door opened and slammed, and Julia shouted, "What are you doing home, Daddy?"

She ran toward him, wearing a light-blue hooded Stratton sweatshirt and jeans, black sneakers. She wore some slight variant of the outfit every day, a sweatshirt or an athletic jersey. When Nick went to the same elementary school, more than thirty years before, you weren't allowed to wear jeans, and sweatshirts weren't considered appropriate school attire. But he didn't have time in the mornings to argue with her, and he was inclined to go easy on his little girl, given what she had to be going through since the death of her mother.

She hugged him tight around his abdomen. He no longer hoisted her up, since at almost five feet and ninety-something pounds, it wasn't so easy. In the last year she'd gotten tall and leggy, almost gangly, though there was still a pocket of baby fat at her tummy. She was starting to develop physically, little breast buds emerging, which Nick couldn't deal with. It was a constant reminder of his inadequacy as a parent: who the hell was going to talk to her, get her through adolescence?

The hug went on for several seconds until Nick released her, another thing that had changed since Laura was gone. His daughter's hugs: she didn't want to let him go.

Now she looked up at him, her meltingly beautiful brown eyes lively. "How come there's all these police?"

"They want to talk to me, baby doll. No big deal. Where's your backpack?"

"In the car. Did that crazy guy get in the house again and write bad stuff?"

Nick nodded, stroked her glossy brown hair. "What are you doing home now? Don't you have piano?"

She gave him a look of amused contempt. "That's not till four."

"I thought it was three."

"Mrs. Guarini changed it like months ago, don't you remember?"

He shook his head. "Oh, right. I forgot. Well, listen, I have to talk to this policeman here. Marta, you guys stay here until the police say it's okay to go in the house, okay?"

Marta Burrell was from Barbados, a mocha-skinned woman of thirty-eight, tall and slender as a fashion model with an air of sultry indifference, or maybe arrogance, her default mode. Her jeans were a little too tight, and she customarily wore high heels, and she was vocal about her disapproval of Julia's daily uniform. She expressed disapproval of just about everything in the household. She was ferociously devoted to the kids, though, and was able to make both of them do things Nick couldn't. Marta had been a superb nanny when the kids were little, was an excellent cook, and an indifferent housekeeper.

"Sure, Nick," she said. She reached for Julia, but the girl scampered off.

"You were saying," Nick said to the cop.

Manzi looked up, fixed Nick with a blank look, bordering on impertinence, but there was a gleam in his eyes; he seemed to be restraining a smile. "Do you have any enemies, Mr. Conover?"

"Only about five thousand people in town."

The policeman's eyebrows shot up. "Excuse me."

"We laid off half our workforce recently, as I'm sure you know. More than five thousand employees."

"Ah, yes," the cop said. "You're not a popular man around here, are you?"

"You could say that."

It wasn't that long ago, Nick reflected, that everyone loved him. People he didn't know in high school started sucking up to him. Forbes magazine even did a profile. After all, Nick was the youthful blue-collar guy, the son of a guy who'd spent a life bending metal in the chair factory-business reporters ate that stuff up. Maybe Nick was never going to be beloved at the company like Old Man Devries, but for a while at least he'd been popular, admired, liked. A local hero in the small town of Fenwick, Michigan, sort of, a guy you'd point out at the Shop 'n Save and maybe, if you felt bold, walk up to and introduce yourself in the frozen-foods section.

But that was before - before the first layoffs were announced, two years ago, after Stratton's new owners had laid down the law at the quarterly board meeting in Fenwick. There was no choice. The Stratton Corporation was going down the crapper if they didn't cut costs, and fast.

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Paranoia 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Adam Cassidy is twenty-six and a low-level employee at a high-tech corporation who hates his job. When he manipulates the system to do something nice for a friend, he finds himself charged with a crime. Corporate Security gives him a choice: prison—or become a spy in the headquarters of their chief competitor, Trion Systems.

They train him. They feed him inside information. Now, at Trion, he's a star, skyrocketing to the top. He finds he has talents he never knew he possessed. He's rich, drives a Porsche, lives in a fabulous apartment, and works directly for the CEO. He's dating the girl of his dreams.

His life is perfect. And all he has to do to keep it that way is betray everyone he cares about and everything he believes in.

But when he tries to break off from his controllers, he finds he's in way over his head, trapped in a world in which nothing is as it seems and no one can really be trusted.

And then the real nightmare begins. . . . 

 

 

 

 

 

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PARANOIA

 

EXCERPT:

 

The Fix Fix: A CIA term, of Cold War origin, that refers to a person who is to be compromised or blackmailed so that he will do the Agency's bidding.
-The Dictionary of Espionage
*****

Until the whole thing happened, I never believed the old line about how you should be careful what you wish for, because you might get it.
I believe it now.

I believe in all those cautionary proverbs now. I believe that pride goeth before a fall. I believe the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, that misfortune seldom comes alone, that all that glitters isn't gold, that lies walk on short legs. Man, you name it. I believe it.

I could try to tell you that what started it all was an act of generosity, but that wouldn't be quite accurate. It was more like an act of stupidity. Call it a cry for help. Maybe more like a raised middle finger. Whatever, it was my bad. I half thought I'd get away with it, half expected to be fired. I've got to say, when I look back on how it all began, I marvel at what an arrogant prick I was. I'm not going to deny that I got what I deserved. It just wasn't what I expected-but who'd ever expect something like this?

All I did was make a couple of phone calls. Impersonated the VP for Corporate Events and called the fancy outside caterer that did all of Wyatt Telecom's parties. I told them to just make it exactly like the bash they'd done the week before for the Top Salesman of the Year award. (Of course, I had no idea how lavish that was.) I gave them all the right disbursement numbers, authorized the transfer of funds in advance. The whole thing was surprisingly easy.

The owner of Meals of Splendor told me he'd never done a function on a company loading dock, that it presented "decor challenges," but I knew he wasn't going to turn away a big check from Wyatt Telecom.

Somehow I doubt Meals of Splendor had ever done a retirement party for an assistant foreman either.

I think that's what really pissed Wyatt off. Paying for Jonesie's retirement party-a loading dock 0guy, for Christ's sake!-was a violation of the natural order. If instead I'd used the money as a down payment on a Ferrari 360 Modena convertible, Nicholas Wyatt might have almost understood. He would have recognized my greed as evidence of our shared humanity, like a weakness for booze, or "broads," as he called women.

If I'd known how it would all end up, would I have done it all over again? Hell, no.

Still, I have to say, it was pretty cool. I was into the fact that Jonesie's party was being paid for out of a fund earmarked for, among other things, an "offsite" for the CEO and his senior vice presidents at the Guanahani resort on the island of St. Barthelemy.

I also loved seeing the loading dock guys finally getting a taste of how the execs lived. Most of the guys and their wives, whose idea of a splurge was the Shrimp Feast at the Red Lobster or Ribs On The Barbie at Outback Steakhouse, didn't know what to make of some of the weird food, the osetra caviar and saddle of veal Provencal, but they devoured the filet of beef en croute, the rack of lamb, the roasted lobster with ravioli. The ice sculptures were a big hit. The Dom Perignon flowed, though not as fast as the Budweiser. (This I called right, since I used to hang out on the loading dock on Friday afternoons, smoking, when someone, usually Jonesie or Jimmy Connolly, the foreman, brought in an Igloo of cold ones to celebrate the end of another week.)

Jonesie, an old guy with one of those weathered, hangdog faces that make people like him instantly, was lit the whole night. His wife of forty-two years, Esther, at first seemed standoffish, but she turned out to be an amazing dancer. I'd hired an excellent Jamaican reggae group, and everyone got into it, even the guys you'd never expect to dance.

This was after the big tech meltdown, of course, and companies everywhere were laying people off and instituting "frugality" policies, meaning you had to pay for the lousy coffee, and no more free Cokes in the break room, and like that. Jonesie was slated to just stop work one Friday, spend a few hours at HR signing forms, and go home for the rest of his life, no party, no nothing. Meanwhile, the Wyatt Telecom E-staff was planning to head down to St. Bart's in their Learjets, boink their wives or girlfriends in their private villas, slather coconut oil on their love handles, and discuss company-wide frugality policies over obscene buffet breakfasts of papayas and hummingbird tongues. Jonesie and his friends didn't really question too closely who was paying for it all. But it did give me some kind of twisted secret pleasure.

Until around one-thirty in the morning, when the sound of electric guitars and the screams of a couple of the younger guys, blotto out of their minds, must have attracted the curiosity of a security guard, a fairly new hire (the pay's lousy, turnover is unbelievable) who didn't know any of us and wasn't inclined to cut anyone any slack.

He was a pudgy guy with a flushed, sort of Porky Pig face, barely thirty. He just gripped his walkie-talkie as if it were a Glock and said, "What the hell?"
And my life as I knew it was over.

Copyright 2004 by Joseph Finder

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High Crimes 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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EXCERPT:

 

She'd taught her last class and instructed Connie to turn away all requests from potential clients. There would be final exams, but she'd have the completed exams FedExed down to her here. She told her students she was available by telephone and gave her number in Washington. Two of her pending cases she turned over to a friend at a downtown Boston firm. That left her with one appeal before the Supreme Judicial Court, which would involve a quick flight to Boston and back. Their house would stand empty, but Rosa — who had kids of her own and certainly couldn't come down to Washington to work — would stop in every couple of days to make sure everything was alright. Jackie, who paid the rent doing what she called "boring **bleep**ing technical writing" could do her work down here and was willing, saint that she was, to take care of Annie.

She'd placed a couple of calls to friends in Boston, told them she'd be in Washington for awhile, perhaps even several months, working on a case she wasn't supposed to talk about. A few hours later, Claire and Jackie were still unpacking and settling in and Annie was discovering new rooms and new hiding places, the doorbell rang.

An army courier, a young black man wearing a nametag that said "Lee," was carrying a large carton. "I need your signature on some forms, ma'am, but first I'm going to need to see a driver's license."

She signed with a sense of anticipation and anxiety far different from her customary feelings about documents provided her during litigation. These were documents about Tom and his life before he met her, his concealed life.

They were copies of his enlisted-evaluation reports — DA Form 2166-6,photocopies of what she imagined were old yellowed pieces of paper from deep in files somewhere in North Carolina (Special Forces trained at Fort Bragg). They were stamped FOR OFFICIAL USE ONLY and included ADMINISTRATIVE DATA and PERFORMANCE EVALUATION — PROFESSIONALISM and PERFORMANCE and POTENTIAL EVALUATION. She settled down in the room that she'd chosen as her office — a comfortable library on the first floor, far removed from the living quarters — and examined copies of Tom's service-records books. Most of them were boring and anodyne, but she forced herself to read closely. She discovered his file photo, attached to a copy of his personnel file, taken when he was sent to Vietnam. He was almost thirty years younger. A kid of nineteen. Younger, yes, but also a very different face — a different nose, more bulbous, hollow cheeks, a receding chin. If she hadn't known it was Tom, she wouldn't have recognized the photo. It surprised her that the plastic surgery that had altered his appearance so dramatically had also improved his looks considerably.

Then she read something that made her blood run cold.

Copyright ) 1998 by Joseph Finder

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Zero Hour 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

FBI Agent Sarah Cahill doesn't know the terrorist she's tracking. But he knows her—intimately. He also knows how to destroy Wall Street, and he's about to do it. Can she stop him before THE ZERO HOUR?

A breathtaking escape from a South African prison. A call girl found brutally murdered. A fugitive American billionaire obsessed with revenge. A digitally encrypted telephone call is intercepted by the NSA's spy satellites high over Switzerland, and Special Agent Cahill is urgently summoned to investigate an impending terrorist attack on Manhattan. Her investigation immediately turns into a desperate pursuit of a charismatic and exceptionally dangerous South African terrorist-for-hire. Realizing Sarah is onto his plans, he plunges her—and her eight-year-old son—into a terrifying cat-and-mouse game in which their lives become intertwined, forcing Sarah to race to uncover a diabolically clever terrorist conspiracy…before the zero hour.

 

 

 

 

 

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Extraordinary Powers 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Joseph Finder's first novel, THE MOSCOW CLUB, was hailed by The Washington Post as "riveting," and by The Boston Globe as "superb." Now, in EXTRAORDINARY POWERS, this dazzling new talent explodes with a spellbinding, lightning—paced novel of international intrigue that assures his place among the masters of suspense.

The news is shattering: Harrison Sinclair has been killed in a car accident. While his daughter, Molly, and her husband, Ben Ellison, mourn the tragedy of a powerful man cut down in his prime, the realization slowly dawns that Sinclair's death was no accident.

Harrison Sinclair was the director of the CIA.

Harrison Sinclair may have been a traitor—or the Agency's last honest man.

Even his son-in-law, Ben, has heard rumors of sinister forces within the Agency that could have ordered Sinclair's assassination: Ben was an agent himself until a rendezvous gone lethally wrong made him seek the safer waters of a staid patent law practice in an old-line Boston firm.

But suddenly, with the free-falling acceleration of a nightmare, Ben is thrust into a web of intrigue and violence beyond his control, compelled by an artful, inescapable maneuver back into the employ of the CIA, and lured into a top-secret espionage project in telepathic ability funded by American intelligence. As the project's first success, Ben uses his "extraordinary powers" in the perilous search for Vladimir Orlov, the exiled former chairman of the KGB—the only man who might unlock the secret of Harrison Sinclair's death and the whereabouts of a multibillion-dollar fortune in gold spirited out of Russia in the last days of the Soviet Union.

The hunt for the truth will rush Ben headlong from Roman piazzas to a crumbling castle in Tuscany, from an impenetrable steel-clad vault beneath Zurich's glittering Bahnhofstrasse to an opulent spa in Germany's Black Forest, and through the dangerous tunnels of the Paris Métro.

It is a chase that will bring Ben Ellison face to face with his past and culminate in a crowded Washington hearing room where, behind high security barriers, a Senate investigating committee is about to call its secret witness….as an assassin prepares to strike. Here, finally, with only seconds to act, Ben Ellison must call upon his extraordinary powers to stop a killer—or die trying. 

EXTRAORDINARY POWERS is a mesmerizing tale of suspense that interweaves high-stakes financial intrigue with a terrifying conspiracy conceived with icy precision deep within the heart of American intelligence. It is a galvanizing and masterful entertainment enriched by an insider's knowledge of the world of international espionage, politics, and spy tradecraft—truly an espionage novel for the nineties.

 

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The Moscow Club 

 

 

 

 

In September 2006, Publishers Weekly named THE MOSCOW CLUB among the ten best spy thrillers of all time. THE MOSCOW CLUB, first published in 1991, predicted the actual coup d’etat that led to the end of the Soviet Union.

Charlie Stone is a brilliant analyst for the CIA—young, wealthy, a maverick, an avid mountain climber. He has made an illustrious reputation for predicting the unpredictable ways of the Kremlin, even now, after the Cold War, when everything seems to have changed. He's summoned urgently to read the transcript of a tape recording smuggled out of the Soviet Union by one of the few remaining moles. His expert assessment—not only is there an ominous coup in the making, a power struggle that will make glasnost a thing of the past—but he senses that the conspiracy may well be linked to an old family mystery: why his father, a prominent Harvard historian, was imprisoned during the McCarthy era.

Suddenly, Stone's investigation becomes deeply personal. He finds himself delving into a conspiracy whose roots lie in the first days of the Cold War. Stone's search leads him to the private archives of his own godfather, the legendary Winthrop Lehman, a man who was the confidant of FDR and Truman, and once, secretly, the confidant to Lenin himself.

At once, Stone is plunged into a nightmare of violence and paranoia. Framed for brutal murder, Stone finds himself in a cat-and-mouse pursuit across the United States, Europe, and finally, the Soviet Union, which, for the first time in history, has been seized by an unnerving wave of terrorism. Within the Kremlin, a secret group that calls itself the Moscow Club—outraged by Moscow's loosening grip on world power—is laying groundwork for an ingenious, violent coup d'état, led by one rogue member of Gorbachev's Politburo, which will topple the Kremlin leadership from within—and change the world order forever.

As the days, and finally hours, tick by, Stone must elude his pursuers long enough to find an elusive woman who holds a power she does not know she has—if she is indeed alive. She alone may be the key not only to the identity of the one man who seeks the reins of power—but to a final, amazing mystery almost as old as the Soviet Union itself.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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