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When Dunstone, Ltd., offers Alex McAuliff, a geologist, $2 million to survey Jamaica's dark interior, there's a catch: no one can know Dunstone's involved. But British Intelligence finds out and warns Alex that the last survey team Dunstone dispatched vanished without a trace. Now Alex knows too much, and he's a marked man from the moment he lands in Jamaica. But who wants him dead? Dunstone? A rival company? British Intelligence? In this island paradise, a beautiful woman might be a spy and Alex's only clue to survival is a single mysterious word: Halidon.
When Dunstone, Ltd., offers Alex McAuliff, a geologist, $2 million to survey Jamaica's dark interior, there's a catch: no one can know Dunstone's involved. But British Intelligence finds out and warns Alex that the last survey team Dunstone dispatched vanished without a trace. Now Alex knows too much, and he's a marked man from the moment he lands in Jamaica. But who wants him dead? Dunstone? A rival company? British Intelligence? In this island paradise, a beautiful woman might be a spy and Alex's only clue to survival is a single mysterious word: Halidon.
Due to publisher restrictions the library cannot purchase additional copies of this title, and we apologize if there is a long waiting list. Be sure to check for other copies, because there may be other editions available.
Due to publisher restrictions the library cannot purchase additional copies of this title, and we apologize if there is a long waiting list. Be sure to check for other copies, because there may be other editions available.
Excerpts-
From the book
London, England
The tall, light-haired American in the unbuttoned Burberry trench coat walked out the Strand entrance of the Savoy Hotel. He stopped for an instant and looked up at the English sky between the buildings in the court. It was a perfectly normal thing to do—to observe the sky, to check the elements after emerging from shelter—but this man did not give the normally cursory glance and form a judgment based primarily on the chill factor.
He looked.
Any geologist who made his living developing geophysical surveys for governments, companies, and foundations knew that the weather was income; it connoted progress or delay.
Habit.
His clear gray eyes were deeply set beneath wide eyebrows, darker than the light brown hair that fell with irritating regularity over his forehead. His face was the color of a man's exposed to the weather, the tone permanently stained by the sun, but not burned. The lines beside and below his eyes seemed stamped more from his work than from age, again a face in constant conflict with the elements. The cheekbones were high, the mouth full, the jaw casually slack, for there was a softness also about the man...in abstract contrast to the hard, professional look.
This softness, too, was in his eyes. Not weak, but inquisitive; the eyes of a man who probed—perhaps because he had not probed sufficiently in the past.
Things...things...had happened to this man.
The instant of observation over, he greeted the uniformed doorman with a smile and a brief shake of his head, indicating a negative.
"No taxi, Mr. McAuliff?"
"Thanks, no, Jack. I'll walk."
"A bit nippy, sir."
"It's refreshing—only going a few blocks."
The doorman tipped his cap and turned his attention to an incoming Jaguar sedan. Alexander McAuliff continued down the Savoy Court, past the theater and the American Express office to the Strand. He crossed the pavement and entered the flow of human traffic heading north toward Waterloo Bridge. He buttoned his raincoat, pulling the lapels up to ward off London's February chill.
It was nearly one o'clock; he was to be at the Waterloo intersection by one. He would make it with only minutes to spare.
He had agreed to meet the Dunstone company man this way, but he hoped his tone of voice had conveyed his annoyance. He had been perfectly willing to take a taxi, or rent a car, or hire a chauffeur, if any or all were necessary, but if Dunstone was sending an automobile for him, why not send it to the Savoy? It wasn't that he minded the walk; he just hated to meet people in automobiles in the middle of congested streets. It was a goddamn nuisance.
The Dunstone man had had a short, succinct explanation that was, for the Dunstone man, the only reason necessary—for all things: "Mr. Julian Warfield prefers it this way."
He spotted the automobile immediately. It had to be Dunstone's—and/or Warfield's. A St. James Rolls-Royce, its glistening black, hand-tooled body breaking space majestically, anachronistically, among the petrol-conscious Austins, MGs, and European imports. He waited on the curb, ten feet from the crosswalk onto the bridge. He would not gesture or acknowledge the slowly approaching Rolls. He waited until the car stopped directly in front of him, a chauffeur driving, the rear window open.
"Mr. McAuliff?" said the eager, young-old face in the frame.
"Mr. Warfield?" asked McAuliff, knowing that this fiftyish, precise-looking executive was not.
"Good heavens, no. The name's Preston. Do hop in; I think we're holding up the...
About the Author-
Robert Ludlum was the author of twenty-one novels, each a New York Times bestseller. There are more than 210 million of his books in print, and they have been translated into thirty-two languages. In addition to the Jason Bourne series—The Bourne Identity, The Bourne Supremacy, and The Bourne Ultimatum—he was the author of The Scarlatti Inheritance, The Chancellor Manuscript, and The Apocalypse Watch, among many others. Mr. Ludlum passed away in March, 2001.
Reviews-
This is as close as words alone can take one to the experience of watching a slick Hollywood thriller: a rapid-fire barrage of vivid language that never loses momentum or focus. True, the listener may be tempted to make a chart to keep track of who is doing what to whom in the wilds of Jamaica, where a survey team is caught in the cross-fire between conflicting covert interests. Michael Prichard reads in an appropriately serious, emphatically masculine voice, always maintaining tension but never becoming rushed. His character voicings are on the light side but are consistent and appropriate. He's a narrator who lets the story tell itself without leaving a strong personal impression of the teller. J.N. (c)AudioFile, Portland, Maine
November 4, 1996 Ludlum's tale of international intrigue was originally published under a pseudonym in 1975.
The New York Times
"Don't ever begin a Ludlum novel if you have to go to work the next day."--Chicago Sun-Times
"Ludlum stuffs more surprises into his novels than any other six-pack of thriller writers combined."
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Bahrain, Egypt, Hong Kong, Iraq, Israel, Jordan, Kuwait, Lebanon, Libya, Mauritania, Morocco, Oman, Palestine, Qatar, Saudi Arabia, the Sudan, the Syrian Arab Republic, Tunisia, Turkey, the United Arab Emirates, and Yemen
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This is as close as words alone can take one to the experience of watching a slick Hollywood thriller: a rapid-fire barrage of vivid language that never loses momentum or focus. True, the listener may be tempted to make a chart to keep track of who is doing what to whom in the wilds of Jamaica, where a survey team is caught in the cross-fire between conflicting covert interests. Michael Prichard reads in an appropriately serious, emphatically masculine voice, always maintaining tension but never becoming rushed. His character voicings are on the light side but are consistent and appropriate. He's a narrator who lets the story tell itself without leaving a strong personal impression of the teller. J.N. (c)AudioFile, Portland, Maine
