The Cry of the Halidon

Zusatztext Praise for Robert Ludlum Don't ever begin a Ludlum novel if you have to go to work the next day. Chicago Sun-Times Ludlum stuffs more surprises into his novels than any other six-pack of thriller writers combined. The New York Times Informationen zum Autor Robert Ludlum Klappentext Alex McAuliff has received an offer he can't refuse: two million dollars for a geological survey of Jamaica. All Dunstone Limited requires is his time! his expertise! and his absolute secrecy. No one-not even McAuliff's handpicked team-can know of Dunstone's involvement. But British Intelligence is aware of the deal! and they've let Alex in on a secret of their own: The last survey team Dunstone dispatched to Jamaica vanished without a trace. Now it's too late to turn back. Alex already knows about Dunstone-which means he knows too much. From the moment he lands in Jamaica! Alex is a marked man. On an island paradise where a beautiful woman might be a spy and every move could be his last! Alex's only clue to survival is a single mysterious word: Halidon. Praise for Robert Ludlum "Don't ever begin a Ludlum novel if you have to go to work the next day."-Chicago Sun-Times "Ludlum stuffs more surprises into his novels than any other six-pack of thriller writers combined."-The New York Times London, England The tall, light-haired American in the unbuttoned Burberry trench coat walked out the Strand entrance of the Savoy Hotel. He stopped for an instant and looked up at the English sky between the buildings in the court. It was a perfectly normal thing to do--to observe the sky, to check the elements after emerging from shelter--but this man did not give the normally cursory glance and form a judgment based primarily on the chill factor. He looked. Any geologist who made his living developing geophysical surveys for governments, companies, and foundations knew that the weather was income; it connoted progress or delay. Habit. His clear gray eyes were deeply set beneath wide eyebrows, darker than the light brown hair that fell with irritating regularity over his forehead. His face was the color of a man's exposed to the weather, the tone permanently stained by the sun, but not burned. The lines beside and below his eyes seemed stamped more from his work than from age, again a face in constant conflict with the elements. The cheekbones were high, the mouth full, the jaw casually slack, for there was a softness also about the man...in abstract contrast to the hard, professional look. This softness, too, was in his eyes. Not weak, but inquisitive; the eyes of a man who probed--perhaps because he had not probed sufficiently in the past. Things...things...had happened to this man. The instant of observation over, he greeted the uniformed doorman with a smile and a brief shake of his head, indicating a negative. "No taxi, Mr. McAuliff?" "Thanks, no, Jack. I'll walk." "A bit nippy, sir." "It's refreshing--only going a few blocks." The doorman tipped his cap and turned his attention to an incoming Jaguar sedan. Alexander McAuliff continued down the Savoy Court, past the theater and the American Express office to the Strand. He crossed the pavement and entered the flow of human traffic heading north toward Waterloo Bridge. He buttoned his raincoat, pulling the lapels up to ward off London's February chill. It was nearly one o'clock; he was to be at the Waterloo intersection by one. He would make it with only minutes to spare. He had agreed to meet the Dunstone company man this way, but he hoped his tone of voice had conveyed his annoyance. He had been perfectly willing to take a taxi, or rent a car, or hire a chauffeur, if any or all were necessary, but if Dunstone was sending an automobile for him, why ...

Praise for Robert Ludlum
 
“Don’t ever begin a Ludlum novel if you have to go to work the next day.”—Chicago Sun-Times
 
“Ludlum stuffs more surprises into his novels than any other six-pack of thriller writers combined.”—The New York Times

Autorentext

Robert Ludlum

Klappentext

Alex McAuliff has received an offer he can't refuse: two million dollars for a geological survey of Jamaica. All Dunstone Limited requires is his time, his expertise, and his absolute secrecy. No one-not even McAuliff's handpicked team-can know of Dunstone's involvement. But British Intelligence is aware of the deal, and they've let Alex in on a secret of their own: The last survey team Dunstone dispatched to Jamaica vanished without a trace. Now it's too late to turn back. Alex already knows about Dunstone-which means he knows too much. From the moment he lands in Jamaica, Alex is a marked man. On an island paradise where a beautiful woman might be a spy and every move could be his last, Alex's only clue to survival is a single mysterious word: Halidon.

Praise for Robert Ludlum

"Don't ever begin a Ludlum novel if you have to go to work the next day."-Chicago Sun-Times

"Ludlum stuffs more surprises into his novels than any other six-pack of thriller writers combined."-The New York Times

Zusammenfassung
Alex McAuliff has received an offer he can’t refuse: two million dollars for a geological survey of Jamaica. All Dunstone Limited requires is his time, his expertise, and his absolute secrecy. No one—not even McAuliff’s handpicked team—can know of Dunstone’s involvement. But British Intelligence is aware of the deal, and they’ve let Alex in on a secret of their own: The last survey team Dunstone dispatched to Jamaica vanished without a trace. Now it’s too late to turn back. Alex already knows about Dunstone—which means he knows too much. From the moment he lands in Jamaica, Alex is a marked man. On an island paradise where a beautiful woman might be a spy and every move could be his last, Alex’s only clue to survival is a single mysterious word: Halidon.
 
Praise for Robert Ludlum
 
“Don’t ever begin a Ludlum novel if you have to go to work the next day.”—Chicago Sun-Times
 
“Ludlum stuffs more surprises into his novels than any other six-pack of thriller writers combined.”—The New York Times

Leseprobe
London, England

The tall, light-haired American in the unbuttoned Burberry trench coat walked out the Strand entrance of the Savoy Hotel. He stopped for an instant and looked up at the English sky between the buildings in the court. It was a perfectly normal thing to do--to observe the sky, to check the elements after emerging from shelter--but this man did not give the normally cursory glance and form a judgment based primarily on the chill factor.

He looked.

Any geologist who made his living developing geophysical surveys for governments, companies, and foundations knew that the weather was income; it connoted progress or delay.

Habit.

His clear gray eyes were deeply set beneath wide eyebrows, darker than the light brown hair that fell with irritating regularity over his forehead. His face was the color of a man's exposed to the weather, the tone permanently stained by the sun, but not burned. The lines beside and below his eyes seemed stamped more from his work than from age, again a face in constant conflict with the elements. The cheekbones were high, the mouth full, the jaw casually slack, for there was a softness also about the man...in abstract contrast to the hard, professional look.

This softness, too, was in his eyes. Not weak, but inquisitive; the eyes of a man who probed--perhaps because he had not probed sufficiently in the past.

Things...things...had happened to this man.

The instant of observation over, he greeted the uniformed doorman with a smile and a brief shake of his head, indicating a negative.

"No taxi, Mr. McAuliff?"

"Th…