By Alex Dryden
“Alex Dryden is a author who can please all people from enthusiasts of outdated le Carré to scholars of present affairs.”
—James Grippando, New York Times bestselling writer of Afraid of the Dark
“Ex-KGB Colonel Anna Resnikov is an amazing heroine.”
—Phillip Margolin, New York Times bestselling writer of Supreme Justice
“Alex Dryden is the genuine factor. If he acquired any realer, he could step out of the pages and bodily punch you, with either beauty and regret.”
—Hugh Laurie, big name of “House”
An writer whom the Richmond occasions Dispatch calls, “the subsequent John le Carré,” Alex Dryden returns with The Blind Spy—the 3rd publication in his severely acclaimed espionage fiction sequence that includes Anna Resnikov, previously of the KGB in Moscow. the most exciting lady protagonists in modern fiction, Anna is again within the rifle attractions of her former masters as she races to show Russia’s plot to destabilize the Ukraine and retake their former territory. a narrative nearly actually ripped from the headlines, The Blind Spy is a gripping, shrewdpermanent event that crackles with actual glossy spycraft—an absolute must-read for enthusiasts of John le Carré, Alex Berenson, Martin Cruz Smith’s Arkady Renko sequence, secret agent novel and geopolitical mystery devotees, and for any readers drawn to what’s relatively occurring within the “new Russia.”
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Additional info for The Blind Spy
Sample text
Nicht die Frau in Spokane, die ihren Anwalt zu sprechen verlangte, die Frau, die alle mit den Morden belasten wollten. Schon wieder schniefend, lehnte Alvarez sich auf ihrem Stuhl zurück. Man jagte ihr nicht so leicht Angst ein, doch heute empfand sie eine Furcht, die sie von Herzen gern verleugnet hätte. Das Grauen lag vor ihr, in Form der farbigen Hochglanzfotos von den Opfern. Insgesamt fünf. Beziehungsweise fünf, von denen wir schon wissen, dachte sie und griff nach dem Foto von Theresa Kelper, dem ersten Opfer.
Wurden realer, deutlicher. Diese Schulhofrüpel hatten recht. Ihr Zustand war absonderlich. Jetzt folgte sie dem Weg bis zu ihrer Haustür und sah, dass sie halb offen stand. Im Haus war es kalt, denn die uralte Heizung war den arktischen Temperaturen nicht gewachsen, die der heulende Wind ins Haus trieb. Sie schloss die Tür hinter sich, schaltete das Licht an und schlüpfte aus ihren Stiefeln. Sie war überreizt. Kribbelig. Übernervös. Sie hängte ihren Mantel in den Garderobenschrank, warf ihren Morgenrock über und zog den Gürtel straff.
Sie kochte vor Zorn. Stinksauer war sie. Sie umfasste das Steuer ihres Jeeps so krampfhaft, dass ihre Knöchel weiß wurden, biss die Zähne fest zusammen und sah starr auf die Straße, als könnte ihr zornfunkelnder Blick das Bild des herzlosen Schweinehunds heraufbeschwören, der sie in diesen Zustand namenloser Wut versetzt hatte. �Mistkerl«, zischte sie. Die Reifen ihres Dienstwagens gerieten auf dem vereisten Abhang leicht ins Rutschen. Ihr Herz raste, ihre Wangen waren trotz der Minustemperaturen draußen gerötet.