The Second Saladin
Stephen Hunter
Language: English
Pages: 496
ISBN: 0440221862
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
A second chance...
In the windswept sands of the Middle East, Paul Chardy fought side by side with Ulu Beg: one, a charismatic, high-strung CIA covert warrior, the other a ferocious freedom fighter. Then Chardy fell into the hands of the enemy, and Beg was betrayed. Now the two men are about to meet again.
A second gun...
Beg has come over the Mexican border under a hail of bullets--determined to assassinate a leading American political figure and avenge his people's betrayal. The CIA wants Chardy to stop the hit. Chardy wants to save Beg's life.
Between the two men is a tragic past, a failed mission, and a woman who knew them in war--and who knows their secrets now. Around both men is a conspiracy of lies and violence that reaches back to the Cold War. But as Beg moves in for his kill and as Chardy breaks loose from his handlers, a terrible truth begins to emerge: somewhere, someone wants both men to die.
the world, on his own.” “And Chardy?” “Chardy’s in the hospital. Badly beaten during a child’s game. An excessively violent man, Chardy. Always in some kind of trouble or other. His own people distrust and detest him.” “But what good can this do us? The Americans can organize a huge hunt for this man Danzig as soon as they see he’s gone. They’ll catch him soon: a fat old man, trying to evade his own police. He’s no trained man. We cannot hope to rival them in this search.” “Ulu Beg,” said
really sorry. You can see my position?” Is he giving? Miles wondered. “It’s not your fault,” Miles said, not moving an inch. “I should have checked on the new regs. No problem. The hike’ll keep me humble.” “Christ,” Bluestein said bitterly, “it’s not as if they do anything with the Twelves. They just sit in Dunne’s office until he throws them out.” “It’s okay, Bluestein. Really it is.” “It’s such a stupid, stupid rule,” Bluestein said. “They think them up, up there, just to justify their
Farzanda, the old man, waiting patiently. I could see Haji Ishmail, who had been a porter in Baghdad before leaving to join the fight in the mountains. I could see Sulheya, the old woman, in her black scarf, who had told me stories and myths that I had recorded, and her daughter Nasreen, who did the cooking. I could see … well, I could see them all, people I’d lived with for seven months and grown, as much as is possible for a foreigner, a foreign woman even, to love. The helicopters hung over
big mystery. Mexico is full of mysteries. It’s a land of mysteries.” Ramirez laughed. “Gangsters? Pimps? Dope runners?” Ramirez finished the drumstick and threw the bare bone across the room into a corner, where a dog scuffled after it, and wiped his hand on his pants. Trewitt was beginning to feel as if he’d awakened in the cave of the Cyclops. “They make pretty good chicken,” said Ramirez. “That Colonel. I bet he’s a rich man.” He yawned, then looked over at Trewitt. “Mister, I’ll tell you
They’d let him hang on ropes for three days now, in his own filth, in a cell with rats, a medieval place full of damp straw where other men screamed in the night, and his nightmares were huge and terrible and he could think of nothing but the torch. “It’s not as if anybody cares,” Speshnev said. “Do you really think all those Ivy Leaguers care? I mean, think about it, Paul: have you been really satisfied with your treatment from them? Haven’t they always regarded you with contempt as some sort