The Silent Man
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The New York Times bestselling author of The Ghost War and The Faithful Spy
CIA agent John Wells has spent years in the company of evil men. He's paid the price and is beginning to doubt if he can ever live a normal life. And when a powerful adversary from his past finds him, Wells must once again enter the fray.
For his country. For his soul. For revenge...
almost a week, since the meeting in the hotel. Two days before, Wells had called Bernard and briefly updated him on the progress he was supposedly making in getting the beryllium and promised to deliver the rest within seventy-two hours. Bernard had seemed satisfied. Wells figured he’d try to string Bernard along for a few more days, give the agency as much time as possible to find out where the bombmakers were hiding. But this morning, Shafer had called Wells, told him he needed to get hold of
of the vehicle they had once been. Inside the cab Nepetrov tried to get his bearings. Still alive, though he couldn’t understand how. His seat belt had saved him. That crazy farmer on his tractor. Why hadn’t he moved? No matter. Now . . . he needed to get out. He reached for the belt. But his arms weren’t working. In fact, as he looked at his right wrist he saw a bone poking through his skin. Though it didn’t hurt, didn’t bother him at all. What about his legs? He tried to wriggle in his seat,
music, the same overpromoted brand names, the same fake tits, about as erotic as helium balloons. Everywhere an orgy of empty consumption and bad sex. Las Vegas was the cult’s world headquarters, Donald Trump its patron saint. Wells had spent ten years in the barren mountains of Afghanistan and Pakistan. He never wanted to live there again. But if he had to choose between an eternity there or in the supposed luxury of this club, he’d go back without a second thought. Roman the Russian poured
Web. Stewart leaned forward, offering Wells a deceptively soft smile. “Mind if I ask, Jim, where’d you serve? Reserves? Guard? You’re a little gray for active duty.” “If it’s all the same, I’d rather not say.” Stewart slid his chair a half-foot closer to Wells. A couple of the other regulars leaned in, too. They’d planned this, Wells thought. “Can’t let you off that easy, Jim. Can’t have men who aren’t vets in here.” Stewart wasn’t smiling anymore. “Can’t have accountants sneaking in,
Nasiji wasn’t at all sure Bernard would come through. In the meantime, they’d have to plan on using a simpler material, something they could pick up in Rochester or Buffalo without attracting too much attention. Tungsten carbide would probably be too much for Bashir to forge. In the end, steel would probably have to do. With that thought, Nasiji spent several hours calculating the optimal thickness of a steel reflector. The calculation was complex, but the necessary variables were available: the