The Prometheus Deception
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After fifteen years as a brilliant master spy, Nick Bryson has disappeared into anonymity as a professor at an exclusive college in western Pennsylvania―until he's suddenly lured back into the game.
Recruited by the CIA, Bryson has been commissioned to track the moves of the Directorate. Once, the ultra-secret intelligence agency was his training ground. Now it's a multinational terrorist conspiracy bent on global domination…
But for Bryson to eliminate the core of corruption means plunging into his own past, investigating the motives of a beautiful stranger who may be his greatest downfall, and infiltrating a secret nexus of power called Prometheus that holds the terrifying clues to his past―and the even more terrifying possibilities of the future...
I like to think that I’ve made my contribution to that worthy cause.” Monsignor Battaglia could feel his face turn red. A vein on his temple started to throb. “Perhaps there is an accommodation that we might reach,” Battaglia said at last. * * * Those thick-lensed round spectacles were starting to give Bryson a splitting headache, but at least he had achieved what he’d come to Rome to do. He was exhausted, having landed the small plane at an airfield outside of Kiev, safely outside of Russian
commercial and specially written for the occasion. She did what was called a “stealth scan” to fingerprint the system, see what sort of intrusion-detection software was present; and she inserted a pre-written script designed to overload the system with an unexpectedly large quantity of data—create a buffer overflow. Then she ran a network packet sniffer to map out the systems on the security network, to find out what kind of network traffic was being sent and received, what the basic organization
in the vicinity; in any case, he could not afford to wait any longer. Built into the front lawn, as required by state building code, would be several grates, ventilation for the underground parking garage immediately below. One of the accounts he had read of the travails of constructing the mansion had alluded to a minor battle with the building inspector over the placement of the garage, invariably and inevitably called the Bat Cave because Manning and his guests entered it via an access ramp
of it was strictly outlawed, of course, by the Nazi occupiers. Simple possession of a shortwave radio transmitter could send you to the firing squad. Stephen Metcalfe was one of a handful of agents who operated out of Paris for an Allied network of spies whose existence was unknown but to a handful of powerful men in Washington and London. Metcalfe had met few of the other agents. That was the way the network operated. Each part of the network was kept separate from the others; everything was
realities. What have you been told, Bryson? What lies have you been fed?” “The ‘new realities,’” Bryson began hollowly, not understanding. He was stunned, baffled to the point of momentary speechlessness, when he saw the enormous shape suddenly looming in the plate-glass window, abruptly appearing from out of nowhere. He recognized it as a helicopter only at the instant that the fusillade of bullets riddled the glass, the automatic machine-gun fire shattering the glass into a crystalline