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.
him the machine gun spoke rapidly, raining spent shells over the railing, and the three Moors collapsed in a lazy string of bullet spurts that kicked up clouds of dust and slate at their feet. "Do hurry, old man," yelled Julian. "Jerry's getting ready for a push." Florry now had only the detonator to insert. He plucked it from his pockets and awkwardly plunged it into the exposed end of one of the sticks, felt it crumble into the chalky stuff. There! Ah! Now for the bloody wire. If only ...
coincidence? Or can Florry have inflicted his own wound as an excuse to go into hiding because he knew a Stalinist agent, acting on information he had supplied-and perhaps had been sent to enlist in our militia to obtain-was planning the potentially dangerous destruction of our munitions?" Florry saw his chance. Give them Julian, he thought. It was Julian. Give them Julian Raines, spy and traitor, neatly tied and bundled. You believed it yourself. Yet he said nothing. "Now we come to Comrade
me to play it out, or would you prefer that I resign now?" "It is up to YOU." "It was brilliant, young man." "Thank you. I was very lucky." "No, it was more than luck. I've played against enough luck in my time to know luck." Schlecter took his pawn with a rook and Levitsky completed the action: he moved his lead pawn into the back rank, thereby castling it. In the back row it acquired extraordinary force; it was born again. It mated Herr Schlecter's poor king. The theme had been a variation
who he was, and what he was, and he didn't like that one bit. It was her eyes, those sleepy, calm, knowing gray green eyes, and the way she stood, so ladylike and refined, and the way she listened so intently. She seemed to work for their English-language newspaper, The Spanish Revolution, which they sent out, and it meant she knew everybody. One night, Glasanov had them do a crash job on some guy named Carlos. They picked him up at the Grand Oriente and the girl was there. Lenny hung back. He
rogue who'd become a great hero in the civil war, but utterly worthless at any other time. The Anarchists were all like that: wedded to absurd notiotis of a stateless society. "You're an Anarchist, no?" he asked. "Si, I'm an Anarchist. Long live Anarchism. Death to the state!" proclaimed the boy. Levitsky saw just the slightest chance. "I'm an Anarchist also," he said carefully, hoping his Spanish was right. "No," said the boy. "Russians can't be Anarchists. Russians are all gangsters.