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“AN ENTERTAINING PAGE-TURNER . . . . The kind of book that hooks you . . . . Guaranteed to keep readers of suspense thrillers up into the wee hours feverishly reading to discover the outcome.”
“HIGH-SPEED STORYTELLING, zigzagging from Paris bistros to the Zurich lairs of the rich and famously evil.”
“SPELLBINDING . . . and the last line is a kilter.”
“A PAGE-TURNING WHOPPER . . . . A veritable encyclopedia of planes, trains, automobiles, plastic explosives, hairbreadth escapes, and passionate clinches.”
“TAUTAND SUSPENSEFUL . . .COMPELLING ADVENTURE.”
“IT STARTS OUTWITH A BANG, REMAINS ACTION-PACKED THROUGHOUT . . . . It’s got evil science of a gleaming, high-tech sort; it’s filled with stylish European locales, and . . . there’s a love interest of the sexiest sort”
“HARROWING . . . Two pages into the novel, the hero tries to choke a stranger to death. The pace picks up from there . . . . Expect to see this book tucked into carry-on baggage, propped up on beach blankets, and tossed on poolside tables for months to come.”
“A ONE-SITTING NOVEL . . . DELIVERS IN FULL— AND THEN SOME!”
“[YOU’LL] BE HOOKED FROM PAGE ONE!... Folsom keeps his complex plot spinning with tremendous brio and momentum.”
“A COMPLEX, LAYERED THRILLER. Each development yields some answers but also deepens and widens the mystery.”
“YOU WILL BE PLUNGED IN, SUDDENLY AND CERTAINLY HOOKED;... Fun, and the ultimate triumph over evil is both ironically appropriate and spectacular.”
—St.
“NEVER A DULL PAGE . . . . Guaranteed to keep you reading past midnight”
—San Gabriel Valley Newspapers
“SKILLFULLY WRITTEN AND IMAGINATIVE . . . . The conclusion is too ingenious, too artfully sustained until the book’s final page—its final two words—to say anything more.”
“A BLOCKBUSTER PACE that races at breakneck pace through Europe. . . . But be forewarned, don’t even dare peek at
Copyright © 1994 by Allan Folsom
All rights reserved.
1
Paris, Monday, October 3.
5:40 P.M.
Brasserie Stella, the rue St.-Antoine.
PAUL OSBORN sat alone among the smoky bustle of the after-work crowd, staring into a glass of red wine. He was tired and hurt and confused. For no particular reason he looked up. When he did, his breath left him with a jolt. Across the room sat the man who murdered his father. That it could be he was inconceivable. But there was no doubt. None. It was a face forever stamped in his memory. The deepset eyes, the square jaw, the ears that stuck out almost at right angles, the jagged scar under the left eye that worked its way sharply down across the cheekbone toward the upper lip. The scar was less distinct now but it was there just the same. Like Osborn, he was alone. A cigarette was in his right hand and his left was curled around the rim of a coffee cup, his concentration on a newspaper at his elbow. He had to be at least fifty, maybe more.
From where Osborn sat, it was hard to tell his height. Maybe five foot eight or nine. He was stocky. Probably a hundred and eighty pounds. His neck was thick and his body looked hard. His complexion pale, his hair was short