Bad Company (Sean Dillon)
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Jack Higgins's previous novels Edge of Danger and Midnight Runner put British intelligence agent Sean Dillon through "a lot of thrills [and] wild action" (Los Angeles Times). Now a new enemy has emerged with a dark secret from World War II--and a score to settle with agent Dillon.
Berger put an arm around Schneider, who was actually sobbing. “Come on, boy, we got out of Berlin, didn’t we? There’s nothing to cry about.” He called to the landlord, “The bill’s on me, my friend, let the beer flow.” He turned to Hoffer. “I’m so pleased to see you. Let’s sit down.” In a corner booth, they talked, young Schneider listening. “We’re getting by,” Hoffer said. “It’s mainly subsistence farming, but we’re all in it together. Everyone is taken care of.” “And you?” “Well, I act as
He took Dillon’s hand. “And you, my fine Irish friend.” “And where in the hell have you come from?” Dillon demanded. “The White House, of course.” Blake was in his early fifties, his hair still black, and an ex-Marine. He was also director of the White House’s General Affairs Department, though everyone who knew it—which wasn’t many—just called it “the Basement.” In actuality, it was the President’s private hit squad, totally separate from the CIA, the FBI, the Secret Service or any other
overcoat.” “Is there anything else you can tell us?” “Only that she had lung cancer. Wouldn’t have lasted more than a few months, anyway. Death by drowning, Charles, that’s the best I can do.” “Dammit,” Dillon said. “There has to be more.” “No, Mr. Dillon, she fell from the end of the jetty and drowned. Now, as to whether she had any help—which I know is what you’re wondering about—I couldn’t possibly comment on that. All I can say is that there are no signs of bruising, which on a woman as
bullet through the neck and two in the pelvis. As the Germans used to say when they took someone to prison camp, for you the war is over.” “Stuff you, Dillon.” Dillon turned to Ferguson. “Do you want it done or not? There’s an added benefit, you know. This could be just the thing we’ve been looking for to stir up von Berger, get him to make a mistake. We sink this boat, maybe something’ll happen that’ll give us a lead on that damned diary.” Ferguson said, “You’re right, on both counts. Let’s
I’ve said before, the Almighty has got little to do with it. I could take out Rossi quite cheerfully. Would that be okay?” “You’re being stupid.” Ferguson said, “Cut it out, you two. What about Rossi’s movements, Superintendent?” “He left Belfast this morning.” Ferguson turned to Dillon. “Call Roper. See if he’s got anything.” Roper had, of course. “Landed at Gatwick, one pilot, two passengers.” “You need two pilots for those things, it’s the law.” “Of course, but Marco Rossi’s fully