Author Description

Product Description A geologist runs for his life in Jamaica when he finds he's a pawn. Can he trust British Intelligence? From Publishers Weekly Ludlum's tale of international intrigue was originally published under a pseudonym in 1975.Copyright 1996 Reed Business Information, Inc. About the Author Robert Ludlum was the author of twenty-one novels, each aNew York Times bestseller. There are more than 210 million of his books in print, and they have been translated into thirty-two languages. In addition to the Jason Bourne series—The Bourne Identity, The Bourne Supremacy, andThe Bourne Ultimatum—he was the author of The Scarlatti Inheritance, The Chancellor Manuscript, and The Apocalypse Watch, among many others. Mr. Ludlum passed away in March 2001. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. London, England The tall, light-haired American in the unbuttoned Burberry trench coat walked out the Strand entrance of the Savoy Hotel. He stopped for an instant and looked up at the English sky between the buildings in the court. It was a perfectly normal thing to do--to observe the sky, to check the elements after emerging from shelter--but this man did not give the normally cursory glance and form a judgment based primarily on the chill factor.He looked.Any geologist who made his living developing geophysical surveys for governments, companies, and foundations knew that the weather was income; it connoted progress or delay.Habit.His clear gray eyes were deeply set beneath wide eyebrows, darker than the light brown hair that fell with irritating regularity over his forehead. His face was the color of a man's exposed to the weather, the tone permanently stained by the sun, but not burned. The lines beside and below his eyes seemed stamped more from his work than from age, again a face in constant conflict with the elements. The cheekbones were high, the mouth full, the jaw casually slack, for there was a softness also about the man...in abstract contrast to the hard, professional look.This softness, too, was in his eyes. Not weak, but inquisitive; the eyes of a man who probed--perhaps because he had not probed sufficiently in the past.Things...things...had happened to this man.The instant of observation over, he greeted the uniformed doorman with a smile and a brief shake of his head, indicating a negative."No taxi, Mr. McAuliff?""Thanks, no, Jack. I'll walk.""A bit nippy, sir.""It's refreshing--only going a few blocks."The doorman tipped his cap and turned his attention to an incoming Jaguar sedan. Alexander McAuliff continued down the Savoy Court, past the theater and the American Express office to the Strand. He crossed the pavement and entered the flow of human traffic heading north toward Waterloo Bridge. He buttoned his raincoat, pulling the lapels up to ward off London's February chill.It was nearly one o'clock; he was to be at the Waterloo intersection by one. He would make it with only minutes to spare.He had agreed to meet the Dunstone company man this way, but he hoped his tone of voice had conveyed his annoyance. He had been perfectly willing to take a taxi, or rent a car, or hire a chauffeur, if any or all were necessary, but if Dunstone was sending an automobile for him, why not send it to the Savoy? It wasn't that he minded the walk; he just hated to meet people in automobiles in the middle of congested streets. It was a goddamn nuisance.The Dunstone man had had a short, succinct explanation that was, for the Dunstone man, the only reason necessary--for all things: "Mr. Julian Warfield prefers it this way."He spotted the automobile immediately. It had to be Dunstone's--and/or Warfield's. A St. James Rolls-Royce, its glistening black, hand-tooled body breaking space majestically, anachronistically, among the petrol-conscious Austins, MGs, and European imports. He waited on the curb, ten feet from the crosswalk onto the bridge.