Zusatztext Evocativememorablea classic World War II espionage tale. The Washington Post Briskly suspenseful. The New York Times A satisfying and fast-paced World War II espionage thriller. San Francisco Examiner Bodies pile up! and Silva keeps the suspense keen as he advantage shifts back and forth between the good guys and the Nazis. Los Angeles Times [Silva] has clearly done his homework! mixing fact and fiction to delicious effect and building tensionwith breathtaking double and triple turns of plotlike a seasoned pro. People Layers of depth and intrigueSilva succeeds with panache. USA Today [A] tautly drawn thrillerPlenty of nail-biting scenes. The New York Post Informationen zum Autor Daniel Silva Klappentext #1 New York Times bestselling author Daniel Silva's celebrated debut novel, The Unlikely Spy, is "A ROLLER-COASTER WORLD WAR II ADVENTURE that conjures up memories of the best of Ken Follett and Frederick Forsyth" (The Orlando Sentinel)."In wartime," Winston Churchill wrote, "truth is so precious that she should always be attended by a bodyguard of lies." For Britain's counterintelligence operations, this meant finding the unlikeliest agent imaginable-a history professor named Alfred Vicary, handpicked by Churchill himself to expose a highly dangerous, but unknown, traitor. The Nazis, however, have also chosen an unlikely agent. Catherine Blake is the beautiful widow of a war hero, a hospital volunteer-and a Nazi spy under direct orders from Hitler: uncover the Allied plans for D-Day... Leseprobe CHAPTER ONE Suffolk, England: November 1938 Beatrice Pymm died because she missed the last bus to Ipswich. Twenty minutes before her death she stood at the dreary bus stop and read the timetable in the dim light of the village's single street lamp. In a few months the lamp would be extinguished to conform with the blackout regulations. Beatrice Pymm would never know of the blackout. For now, the lamp burned just brightly enough for Beatrice to read the faded timetable. To see it better she stood on tiptoe and ran down the numbers with the end of a paint-smudged forefinger. Her late mother always complained bitterly about the paint. She thought it unladylike for one's hand to be forever soiled. She had wanted Beatrice to take up a neater hobby -- music, volunteer work, even writing, though Beatrice's mother didn't hold with writers. "Damn," Beatrice muttered, forefinger still glued to the timetable. Normally she was punctual to a fault. In a life without financial responsibility, without friends, without family, she had erected a rigorous personal schedule. Today, she had strayed from it -- painted too long, started back too late. She removed her hand from the timetable and brought it to her cheek, squeezing her face into a look of worry. Your father's face, her mother had always said with despair -- a broad flat forehead, a large noble nose, a receding chin. At just thirty, hair prematurely shot with gray. She worried about what to do. Her home in Ipswich was at least five miles away, too far to walk. In the early evening there might still be light traffic on the road. Perhaps someone would give her a lift. She let out a long frustrated sigh. Her breath froze, hovered before her face, then drifted away on a cold wind from the marsh. The clouds shattered and a bright moon shone through. Beatrice looked up and saw a halo of ice floating around it. She shivered, feeling the cold for the first time. She picked up her things: a leather rucksack, a canvas, a battered easel. She had spent the day painting along the estuary of the River Orwell. Painting was her only love and the landscape of East Anglia her only subject matter. It did lead to a certain repetitiveness in her work. Her mother liked to s...

ldquo;Evocative…memorable…a classic World War II espionage tale.”—The Washington Post

“Briskly suspenseful.”—*The New York Times

*“A satisfying and fast-paced World War II espionage thriller.”—*San Francisco Examiner

*“Bodies pile up, and Silva keeps the suspense keen as he advantage shifts back and forth between the good guys and the Nazis.”—*Los Angeles Times

*“[Silva] has clearly done his homework, mixing fact and fiction to delicious effect and building tension—with breathtaking double and triple turns of plot—like a seasoned pro.”—*People

*“Layers of depth and intrigue…Silva succeeds with panache.”—*USA Today

“[A] tautly drawn thriller…Plenty of nail-biting scenes.”—*The New York Post

Auteur

Daniel Silva

Texte du rabat

1 New York Times bestselling author Daniel Silva's celebrated debut novel, The Unlikely Spy, is "A ROLLER-COASTER WORLD WAR II ADVENTURE that conjures up memories of the best of Ken Follett and Frederick Forsyth" (The Orlando Sentinel). "In wartime," Winston Churchill wrote, "truth is so precious that she should always be attended by a bodyguard of lies." For Britain's counterintelligence operations, this meant finding the unlikeliest agent imaginable-a history professor named Alfred Vicary, handpicked by Churchill himself to expose a highly dangerous, but unknown, traitor. The Nazis, however, have also chosen an unlikely agent. Catherine Blake is the beautiful widow of a war hero, a hospital volunteer-and a Nazi spy under direct orders from Hitler: uncover the Allied plans for D-Day...

Résumé

#1 New York Times bestselling author Daniel Silva’s celebrated debut novel, The Unlikely Spy, is “A ROLLER-COASTER WORLD WAR II ADVENTURE that conjures up memories of the best of Ken Follett and Frederick Forsyth” (The Orlando Sentinel).

“In wartime,” Winston Churchill wrote, “truth is so precious that she should always be attended by a bodyguard of lies.” For Britain’s counterintelligence operations, this meant finding the unlikeliest agent imaginable—a history professor named Alfred Vicary, handpicked by Churchill himself to expose a highly dangerous, but unknown, traitor. The Nazis, however, have also chosen an unlikely agent. Catherine Blake is the beautiful widow of a war hero, a hospital volunteer—and a Nazi spy under direct orders from Hitler: uncover the Allied plans for D-Day...

Échantillon de lecture
CHAPTER ONE

Suffolk, England: November 1938

Beatrice Pymm died because she missed the last bus to Ipswich.

Twenty minutes before her death she stood at the dreary bus stop and read the timetable in the dim light of the village's single street lamp. In a few months the lamp would be extinguished to conform with the blackout regulations. Beatrice Pymm would never know of the blackout.

For now, the lamp burned just brightly enough for Beatrice to read the faded timetable. To see it better she stood on tiptoe and ran down the numbers with the end of a paint-smudged forefinger. Her late mother always complained bitterly about the paint. She thought it unladylike for one's hand to be forever soiled. She had wanted Beatrice to take up a neater hobby -- music, volunteer work, even writing, though Beatrice's mother didn't hold with writers.

"Damn," Beatrice muttered, forefinger still glued to the timetable. Normally she was punctual to a fault. In a life without financial responsibility, without friends, without family, she had erected a rigorous personal schedule. Today, she had strayed from it -- painted too long, started back too late.

She removed her hand from the timetable and brought it to her cheek, squeezing her face into a look of worry. Your father's face, her mother had always said with despair -- a broad flat forehead, a large noble nose, a receding chin. At just thirty, hair prematurely shot with gray.

She worried about what to do. Her home in Ipswich was at least …