By Gerald Seymour
Celebrated for his "palm-sweating stress" (The manhattan occasions) and "rare perception" (The simple Dealer), Gerald Seymour defines secret agent fiction at its top. Now, during this chilling revenge challenge and haunting love tale, he floodlights the East German Stasi as a tender lady British military corporal seeks retribution for chilly warfare atrocities. One frozen evening, Tracy Barnes witnesses the killing of her lover via the East German mystery police. Years later, whilst the Wall has crumbled and previous enemies became new pals, Tracy encounters the assassin and plans to make him pay. yet in a rustic nonetheless at struggle with itself, Tracy unearths that she is being performed as a pawn in a much larger video game attaining all of the option to Moscow.
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Extra resources for Dead Ground
The accommodation block for junior ranks (female) knew, each last one of them, that Corporal Barnes was locked in a guardhouse cell. They also knew that she had done heavy damage in the officers’ mess and had put a German guest into Sick Bay for repairs. Her major and the captain with wife trouble were in the block and searching her room. The traffic down the first-floor corridor was brisk, but the fourth door on the right was closed and there was a provost sergeant outside. Those who did pass could only feed to the rumour factory that the room was being ripped apart.
Coats dumped on a chair in the corridor. They hit the noise. Perry Johnson boomed, ‘Thanks, Ben. They’re dying of thirst and restless — Corporal, the order is three Glenlivets, ice and lemonade for our guests, seven gin tonics, two orange juice, one with ice, five beers. ’ A wry smile on her face, at the edge of impertinence. ‘Whose tab, Major? ’ She was gone. Ben watched her. He thought she kicked Captain Wilson’s shin. Definite, she elbowed Captain Dawson. He saw her reach past Major Donoghue’s back and rap his right shoulder and when he turned right she’d wriggled past his left hip.
Julius Goldstein knew of nowhere more miserable than a commercial airport in winter as the passengers arrived for the first flights of the day. They had flowed past him, business people and civil servants, either half asleep or half dressed, either with shaving cuts on their throats or with their lipstick smeared, and they brought with them the shitty cold and shook the snow patterns off their legs and shoulders. He had gazed out into the orange-illuminated darkness, and each car and taxi showed up the fierceness of the cavorting snow shower.
Dead Ground by Gerald Seymour