The Tears of Autumn

The Tears of Autumn

Charles McCarry

Language: English

Pages: 168


Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub

'There is no better American spy novelist. It's like the best parts of ten John le Carré novels all put together' - TIME. 'Charles McCarry's masterpiece... would be intriguing even if told in pedestrian prose, but the grace of its writing gives it a special dimension... beautifully written, its conspiracy theory still intrigues and it most assuredly is a classic' --Washington Post

'The best writer of intelligence and political novels in the world' - Boston Globe. 'Cool, intelligent... superbly readable... rich entertainment' --Sunday Times

'Ranks up there with Le Carré in a select class of two' - Daily Mail. 'Possibly the greatest espionage novel ever written and certainly the most compelling effort to unravel the many secrets surrounding the assassination of President Kennedy' --Otto Penzler, New York Sun
About the Author
Charles McCarry is the author, most recently, of the critically acclaimed thriller 'Christopher's Ghosts'. His other much-praised novels include 'The Miernik Dossier', 'The Last Supper' and 'Old Boys'. During the Cold War he was an intelligence officer operating under deep cover in Europe, Africa and Asia.

Midnight in Madrid (The Russian Trilogy, Book 2)

Henry McGee is Not Dead (November Man, Book 9)

Cross My Heart and Hope to Spy (Gallagher Girls, Book 2)

The Great Leap Forward

The First Commandment (Scot Harvath, Book 6)





















and played chess together. While Patchen was still in a wheelchair, they were mustered with a handful o other wounded men to be decorated by a visiting admiral. Afterward, as Christopher pushed Patchen along a path planted with oleanders, Patchen unpinned the Silver Star from his bathrobe and threw it into the bushes. Both men were younger sons who had grown up in families in which an older brother was the preferred child. They were contemptuous of human beings who needed admiration. Later, they

my dying, and the odd thing is, I’m less concerned about being murdered than about being alone for a week.” “It’ll be over very soon.” “I know it will,” Molly said. “Help me to get this stuff off the bed. Before I go I’d like to hold the clean part of you between my legs once more.” Webster went ahead of them in another car the next morning. They met him on the road to the airport by the ruins of Ostia Antica. Webster turned his back while they kissed, and watched the road behind them. There

the path for a distance of a hundred meters, so cleverly designed that not a drop of water fell on anyone who walked beneath the spray. “It belonged to some Roman nobility, and afterward to one of Mussolini’s mistresses,” Christopher said. “Late in the war, the SS used it as an interrogation center for important prisoners —after that, nobody wanted it.” The Rome station had furnished the villa with black leather furniture, antique tables left behind by the Italians and the Germans, and thick

Glavanis, standing at the bar, grinned and drank from a glass of ouzo, taking in a noisy breath as he swallowed. Eycken, who had the face of a suspicious shopkeeper, raised immediate objections. Christopher listened, knowing that it was Glavanis who would set a price on the services of his friend. “The time element is very short,” Eycken said. “We have to drive all the way to Calabria, take this man out of a guarded house, drive all the way back to Rome. And break him. All in three days or

a finger. As he spoke to Pigeon, he tapped the glass barrel of the syringe with his fingernail. “This hypodermic is filled with the live bacteria of Hansen’s disease,” Christopher said. “I wonder what you know about Hansen’s disease.” Frankie Pigeon’s eyes were fixed on the syringe and on Christopher’s rhythmically tapping finger. “Hansen’s disease is caused by the Mycobacterium leprae,” Christopher said, “which is why it’s more usually called leprosy. It’s a peculiar disease. The incubation

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