By Bill Granger
The chilly battle is over--yet new, much more scary wars have sprung up inside our borders. Now, the sector of conflict for Devereaux, code identify November, is to be present in Washington and Chicago itself.
The conspirators are a wealthy, attractive radical; a disenfranchised military officer; and a playboy U.S. Senator. They're subsidized via a mysterious Lebanese financial institution referred to as the foreign credits Clearinghouse. And their target is a surprising one: wreck the whole civilian power in a single daring stroke.
In below twenty-four hours, the November guy should defuse the main in all probability devastating act of sabotage in history--and avenge an agonizingly own injustice.
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Additional info for Burning the Apostle (The November Man, Book 13)
She’s up on the eleventh,” he told me, nodding towards the apartments. Then he drove off, and I turned to face the imposing brick and limestone façade of the building the driver had called the Colosseum. I rarely find myself any farther north than the Upper West Side, so this was pretty much terra incognita for me. The doorman gave me directions, after giving both me and Fong’s box the hairy eyeball, and I quickly made my way to the elevators, hurrying through that ritzy marble sepulcher passing itself off as a lobby.
I returned the gun to its holster, then I started rifling through everything in sight – the great disarray of papers heaped upon the desk, Fong’s accounting ledgers, sales invoices, catalogs, letters and postcards written in English, Mandarin, Wu, Cantonese, French, Spanish, and Arabic. I still had my gloves on, so it’s not like I had to worry over fingerprints. A few of the desk drawers were unlocked, and I’d just started in on those, when the phone perched atop the filing cabinet rang. I froze, whatever I was looking at clutched forgotten in my hands, and stared at the phone.
But somewhere along the way, I lost my nerve, failed at my slow suicide, and bought a ticket back to the States. And the manuscript in question was one of the many strange and unsavory things I brought back with me. I’d always had a nose for the macabre, and had dabbled – on and off – in the black arts since college. At Radcliffe, I’d fallen in with a circle of lesbyterians who fancied themselves witches. Mostly, I was in it for the sex…but I’m digressing. A friend of a friend heard I was busted, down and out and peddling a bunch of old books, schlepping them about Manhattan in search of a buyer.