Zusatztext Strong characters! nonstop action! and superb suspense.Nelson DeMille Informationen zum Autor David Rollins is the author of The Death Trust and A Knife Edge , both international bestsellers. A former advertising creative director, he lives in Sydney, Australia. Klappentext Twelve bones are missing. When a U.S. colonel is found murdered in his Istanbul home! the grisliest detail is the one that links his murder to another that soon follows. To Special Agent Vin Cooper! it looks like there's a serial killer at large in Turkey. But looks can be deceiving. Onetime lovers! now the uneasiest of partners! Vin Cooper and Special Agent Anna Masters follow a trail of clues from Istanbul to Iraq and beyond. The victims were not selected at random. What looked like ritual was rife with clues. As evidence of a conspiracy snakes up the chain of command! these two seasoned special agents must dodge bullets! defuse bombs! and avoid being buried alive in their desperate effort to short-circuit a plan for world domination more audacious than they could ever have imagined. One They weren't fooling anyone. The place was called the Hotel Charisma because it had none. I sat in the lobby and passed the time with a pencil, using it to reach down into the fiberglass cast on my left hand and scratch an itch on my wrist. The bellhop at the front door pored over a few curled brochures for a cheap local belly-dancing joint while he chain-smoked something that smelled like horse blanket. I wasn't sure which one of us was more excited. I watched this spectacle as I waited for Special Agent Masters. She was upstairs, doing whatever she was doingwashing the flight out of her skin, I supposed. There was no hurry; even if he was important, the victim had been dead three days: He wouldn't be drumming his fingers, impatient for us to get on with it. A guy wearing baggy MC Hammer pants, a waistcoat that would have been small on a ten-year-old, and a red hat the shape of an ice bucket wandered in off the street past the bellhop. He saw me and came over to sell me a glass of something out of a polished metal urn strapped to his back. He insisted. I resisted harder. Eventually he gave up and wandered off to pester a couple of tourists standing around outside with their snouts buried in a guidebook. I went back to scratching with the pencil and staring absently out the window at the parade of stragglers coming and going. It was a new day in Istanbul, and outside, things were starting to liven up. While I waited, I recalled the victim's particulars. His name was Colonel Emmet Portman, and he was six foot two, eyes of blue, and just a little too perfect to be true. Well, maybe not perfect. According to his medical records, Portman's sperm count was down to a handful of stalwarts. Basically, the guy went to his grave shooting blanks. I was surprised to find that bit of information in his file. I wondered what interesting details my file might contain, but then I reminded myself that I didn't have to wonder. I knew what was in there: several hand grenades that would ensure I retired as the Air Force's oldest major, if I chose to stay on to the bitter end. Where was I? Yeah, Colonel Portman, U.S. Air Attaché to Turkey, who now resembled a human being in kit form prior to assembly. The colonel was divorced and childless; his ex lived in Van Nuys. Aside from that, Portman was so perfect he could have stepped straight off the production line. He'd been third in his class at the Air Force Academy in '79; he completed the Fighter Weapons School at Nellis Air Force Base in '81; there was a stint in West Berlin during the height of the Cold War; he'd helped put together Reagan's bombing raid into Libya in '86; a conversion to A-10 Thunderbolts came next, just in time to bust Iraqi tanks in Gulf War I; then it was on to a posting to Lakenheath, England, whe...

“Strong characters, nonstop action, and superb suspense.”—Nelson DeMille
 

Autorentext

David Rollins is the author of The Death Trust and A Knife Edge, both international bestsellers. A former advertising creative director, he lives in Sydney, Australia.

Klappentext

Twelve bones are missing.

When a U.S. colonel is found murdered in his Istanbul home, the grisliest detail is the one that links his murder to another that soon follows. To Special Agent Vin Cooper, it looks like there's a serial killer at large in Turkey.
But looks can be deceiving.

Onetime lovers, now the uneasiest of partners, Vin Cooper and Special Agent Anna Masters follow a trail of clues from Istanbul to Iraq and beyond. The victims were not selected at random. What looked like ritual was rife with clues. As evidence of a conspiracy snakes up the chain of command, these two seasoned special agents must dodge bullets, defuse bombs, and avoid being buried alive in their desperate effort to short-circuit a plan for world domination more audacious than they could ever have imagined.

Zusammenfassung
Twelve bones are missing.
 
When a U.S. colonel is found murdered in his Istanbul home, the grisliest detail is the one that links his murder to another that soon follows. To Special Agent Vin Cooper, it looks like there’s a serial killer at large in Turkey.
But looks can be deceiving.

Leseprobe
One

They weren’t fooling anyone. The place was called the Hotel Charisma because it had none. I sat in the lobby and passed the time with a pencil, using it to reach down into the fiberglass cast on my left hand and scratch an itch on my wrist. The bellhop at the front door pored over a few curled brochures for a cheap local belly-dancing joint while he chain-smoked something that smelled like horse blanket. I wasn’t sure which one of us was more excited. I watched this spectacle as I waited for Special Agent Masters. She was upstairs, doing whatever she was doing—washing the flight out of her skin, I supposed. There was no hurry; even if he was important, the victim had been dead three days: He wouldn’t be drumming his fingers, impatient for us to get on with it.

A guy wearing baggy MC Hammer pants, a waistcoat that would have been small on a ten-year-old, and a red hat the shape of an ice bucket wandered in off the street past the bellhop. He saw me and came over to sell me a glass of something out of a polished metal urn strapped to his back. He insisted. I resisted harder. Eventually he gave up and wandered off to pester a couple of tourists standing around outside with their snouts buried in a guidebook. I went back to scratching with the pencil and staring absently out the window at the parade of stragglers coming and going. It was a new day in Istanbul, and outside, things were starting to liven up.

While I waited, I recalled the victim’s particulars. His name was Colonel Emmet Portman, and he was six foot two, eyes of blue, and just a little too perfect to be true. Well, maybe not perfect. According to his medical records, Portman’s sperm count was down to a handful of stalwarts. Basically, the guy went to his grave shooting blanks. I was surprised to find that bit of information in his file. I wondered what interesting details my file might contain, but then I reminded myself that I didn’t have to wonder. I knew what was in there: several hand grenades that would ensure I retired as the Air Fo…