October Men (David Audley, Book 4)
Anthony Price
Language: English
Pages: 160
ISBN: 0385007647
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
Anthony Price – full name Alan Anthony Price – wrote twenty books from 1970 to 1990. Nineteen of those were spy novels (the twentieth, The Eyes of the Fleet: A Popular History of Frigates and Frigate Captains, a non-fiction title published in 1990, was his final work – at least, to date; Price is still with us), which, together, form one of the best espionage series ever penned by a single author, a brilliantly sustained, wonderfully interconnected, richly historical fictional – yet entirely plausible – universe starring operatives of a branch of Britain's Intelligence Services (later identified as the Research and Development Section).
Though written in the third person, each story is told from the perspective of one of a rotating cast of intelligence types. The series begins with 1970's The Labyrinth Makers and Dr. David Audley, a socially awkward, prematurely middle-aged Middle East expert with a fascination for archaeology and history – subjects that remain abiding concerns throughout the subsequent eighteen novels. We also meet Audley's fellow operatives, sensitive, dedicated Squadron Leader Hugh Roskill and hard-headed, carrot-topped military man Major – soon to become Colonel – Jack Butler, each of whom will take their turn in the limelight in later books.
Price's closest contemporary is probably John le Carré, but Price was well into his series by the time Le Carré's masterwork, Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy, arrived in 1974. And while there are similarities between the two writers in the way they have their characters examine evidence in order to arrive at conclusions, Price has little time for Le Carré's methodical digging through of old files; much of that sort of thing takes place off-page, leaving more room for the subsequent ruminations and discussions. The late H. R. F. Keating put it most appositely (and pithily) in a blurb reproduced on the back covers of some of the later editions of Price's books: "If think's your thing, here's richness in plot, dialogue, implications."
A Crime Writers' Association Silver and Gold Dagger Award winner, Price is rather overlooked these days, which is remarkable when you consider how terrific his stories are. There's scant information about him online; he has a Wikipedia entry – although the dates in the bibliography are inaccurate, possibly because they take the American publication dates rather than the original British ones; see below for a more accurate bibliography – and there are one or two good articles on the themes and chronology of his spy series (which ranges from 1944 to 1988); this one by Jo Walton and this one by David Dyer-Bennet (with its attendant booknotes) are the best of the bunch. But the odd individual review aside, that's about it.
David Audley - 4
In the fourth title of Anthony Price's gripping spy series, British Intelligence officer David Audley slips away to Italy without authorisation, taking his wife with him. Immediately the suspicion arises that he may have defected, and the head of Italian security is also interested in his arrival, particularly as it has flushed from cover a rogue communist.
But Audley has his own reasons for leaving Britain, in an investigation that becomes a matter of life or death.
Anthony Price Bibliography
The Labyrinth Makers (1970) (CWA Silver Dagger)
The Alamut Ambush (1971)
Colonel Butler's Wolf (1972)
October Men (1973)
Other Paths to Glory (1974) (CWA Gold Dagger)
Our Man in Camelot (1975)
War Game (1976)
The '44 Vintage (1978)
Tomorrow's Ghost (1979)
The Hour of the Donkey (1980)
Soldier No More (1981)
The Old Vengeful (1982)
Gunner Kelly (1983)
Sion Crossing (1984)
Here Be Monsters (1985)
For the Good of the State (1986)
A New Kind of War (1987)
A Prospect of Vengeance (1988)
The Memory Trap (1989)
finger, a finger which was long at first and then foreshortened as it came up to point directly at him: a shocking extension of the hand of the man who had appeared out of nowhere at the end of the alley. Ever afterwards, when he relived that instant through the light of his candle burning before the altar, it was with a prayer to the Virgin of Miracles for his deliverance from that finger steadying on his heart. But there was no prayer in his mind or on his lips in the instant itself, only
the older carboniferous layers onshore, but precious little of it, and drilling in the southern sector early on seemed to bear that out—in the end there was plenty of gas, but precious little oil.” “But they went on looking for it all the same.” “That’s because they’re oilmen. A good oilman’s rather like a gold miner—the next hole’s bound to be the end of the rainbow, he always thinks. And yet look at the timing: Groningen was in ‘58. It wasn’t until ‘65 that Phillips and Shell-Esso and one or
body in the cathedral—“ Boselli’s headache had gone, dissolved by the General’s approval, but the flashing lights and the motion of the car made it hard to think constructively. “—and he suffered from piles, only being an idiot he thought they were boils—“ The continuous narrative confused him, as perhaps it was intended to. It reminded him again that they were lying, despite their apparent frankness when he had returned to the terrace. “—and there he was, squatting over a mirror on the
uniform.” “Your mother must be disappointed.” Richardson held his glass steady. “What makes you think so?” “She always intended you to follow in your father’s footsteps. Assault Engineers—is that not so?” “You know my mother, sir?” “My dear boy—there was a time after the war when I might have become your stepfather.” Montuori smiled. “You will be so good as to remember me to her, perhaps?” “Of course.” Richardson nodded. “It’s a small world.” “Yes, I have always found it so. And never more
farther away, as though its owner had decided that they were still dangerous even though unarmed. “Turn round.” Boselli turned slowly. It was not Ruelle, certainly, though the age was about right, and not the confederate from England either, the man Korbel. The stained working clothes and the three-day beard suggested one of the Prezzolini brothers, the ex—executioners. And so did the machine-pistol in his hands: where the man was dirty and unkempt, the gun was spotless. “I want to talk to