He said, ‘Let’s be clear: there are two things that I want to come out of this. First, I want to be sure I’m being followed. Secondly, I want to know by whom. Do we understand each other?’
How difficult could this case be?
Private investigator Sam Dyke soon learns, however, that Frank Wallace, the client, hasn’t revealed the whole truth. And in the world of secret intelligence in which Wallace has earned his living for the last forty years, it’s probable the truth has rarely seen the light of day.
Dyke travels into London and out of his comfort zone, soon finding himself tangled in a web of deceit in which Government Intelligence services, mysterious blondes, private security firms and vintage Blues music are all bound together. Only he can clear a path through to find out what everyone really wants—and not just what they say they want.
THERE WAS A MAN sitting in my office at nine o’clock that morning, and there were two things wrong with this picture.
First, he was sitting in my chair. And second, I’d locked the office door the previous night.
He added a third wrong thing by lying about it: ‘Hope you don’t mind, the door was open.’
He was a respectable-looking geezer somewhere in his sixties with a long, serious face and wearing a country gentleman’s outfit—a green Barbour jacket, a grey flat cap, and, poking out from under my desk, a pair of solid brown shoes, probably by Church. There was a thin walnut cane leaning against the desk. My desk. His eyes were steady and there was a slightly challenging air about the way he reclined in the seat and waited for my response.
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