The Spanish Gambit
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From Stephen Hunter, whose first two novels established him as a master of the espionage thriller, comes a richly detailed, spellbinding tale of international intrigue set against the cataclysm of the Spanish Civil War.
Florry's masterpiece. The masterpiece of the bridge." "I almost died on that bloody bridge!" shouted Florry. "Damn you, a hundred good men died that day!" "Yet the Fascists knew well in advance of the attack that it was planned, did they not?" "Yes, they did. We were betrayed. But not by---2' "And is it not true that only you-you alone--of the attacking party survived?" "Yes. Yes, but we blew the bloody thing. We dropped it into the gorge-" "Yet is it not true, Comrade Florry, that the
in such a haughty and commanding tone? He turned to discover his mentor Glasanov closing on him with a look of terrible desperation, at the same time gesturing to two of the other Russian thugs from the new mob who had arrived in the aftermath of the coup. Glasanov appeared almost mad with fury. Lenny had never seen him so distraught. "Bolodin!" Mink fixed him with the dead eyes, waiting. "Bolodin," said Glasanov, "damn you. We found the old man, Levitsky, in the convent. He's been tom to
was terrible, but after a time a voice came on the line. in N@mero, porfavor? "Policia, " he said into the speaker. "Gracias, " came the reply; there were clicks and buzzes and then another voice arrived. "policia! i Viva la Revoluci6n! Levitsky cursed him in Russian. There was confusion and chatter from the other end, as the speaker demanded in Spanish to know what was going on. Levitsky cursed again and again, and after a time and some confusion, at last a Russian speaker came on. "Hello.
rose as he approached. "Comrade," he announced in a clear, commanding, humorless voice, "I'm Maximov. From Madrid. You have my wire. Where is Comrade Commissar Glasanov? Let's get going. I've had a long and dusty drive. I have come to take possession of the criminal Levitsky." He watched a great range of emotions play across her face in what seemed to be a very short time. Finding at last her breath and her way out of her shock to some kind of coherence, she leaped up and shouted, "Comrade!
it day after day, smoking the Luckies he bought on the black market, quietly watchful, utterly imperturbable, in his blue serge suit, his almost handsome, almost ugly, blunt features calm and under control. He merely watched and smoked. It was on the third day when he noticed her. She was pretty and slim and lively. Everybody liked her, he could tell. She was the sort of girl you could like a lot. I never had a girl like that, he thought. In time, he grew to hate her. She made him think of