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A miracle in war-torn Siena that begins with the persecution of a young nun in the turbulent days of the sixteenth century and culminates in the bitter German retreat from Italy; a drug-smuggling heist on an international flight where the knock are only one step ahead of the smugglers; a ruthless urban murder, where a brilliant QC decides to defend the killers, resulting in a startling act of justice; an incandescent art scam at a famous London auction house, and a brilliantly plotted revenge that shatters the elegant world of Old Masters - each story is a remarkable tour de force.
And above all here is a brilliant novella, 'Whispering Wind', which begins with the single survivor of Custer's Last Stand at the battle of Little Big Horn. It follows the defense from rape and murder of a Cheyenne girl and a flight across the mountains and forests of the West, ending in a savage present-day manhunt in the wild lands of Montana.
Whether his theme is international espionage, miraculous events in war-torn Italy or a Customs drug bust, these stories all share Forsyth's trademark for compulsive storytelling, his clinical eye for authentic detail and an unnerving sense of suspense.
Not since his New York Times bestselling story collection No Comebacks has he crafted such remarkable work.
Five breathtaking tales from the greatest storyteller of them all.
turned and ran down the path whence he had come. The scout let drop from his left hand the fifty-foot thong with which he had tweaked the branch, recovered his axe and his hat and ran on to find his horse. Braddock, his son and remaining three men found the major leaning up against a tree, breathing deeply, when they caught up. Sheriff Lewis and his party had heard the fusillade of carbine fire, the second that day, but quite different from the fugitive’s single-shot rifle, and rode in fast.
with his clients’ new barrister. The meeting was fixed for two p.m. Vansittart turned out to be all Slade had expected: urbane, charming and courteous, plying his guest with tea in bone china and, spotting a slight yellow stain on the two first fingers of the right hand, offering a silver box of Balkan Sobranie. Slade lit up gratefully. A good East End lad, these bastards made him nervous. Vansittart looked at the file, but did not open it. ‘Tell me, Mr Slade, how do you see this case? Just run
Gore?’ ‘I am he, sir.’ ‘My name’s Benny Evans. This is my friend Suzie Day. I am . . . was with the House of Darcy. Are you the gentleman who offered a small old painting in a chipped gilt frame for sale about November last?’ Trumpington Gore looked worried. ‘Indeed I did. Nothing wrong I hope? It was sold at auction in January. Not a fake, I hope?’ ‘Oh no, Mr Gore, it wasn’t a fake. Just the reverse. It’s chilly out here. Could we come in? I have something to show you.’ The hospitable
and the lights that illuminated Windsor Castle. The undercarriage went down; the flaps eased down in sequence to the full twenty-five degrees required. To a ground observer Speedbird One Zero appeared to be drifting, almost motionless, across the last miles to the concrete; in fact she was still flying at 170 knots, but slowing and dropping. Adrian Fallon checked all his instruments yet again and acknowledged the instruction from Heathrow Tower that he was clear to land. Ahead of him a Boeing
final stop next to the mobile passenger tunnel, applied the parking brake and let the First Officer close her down. Power went from the main engines to the APU, causing a second-long flicker of the cabin lights, which then resumed burning brightly. Below him the cabin staff at the front end watched the gaping maw of the passenger tunnel move towards them and, as it clamped onto the side of the airliner, hauled back the door. Standing immediately outside was a young man in the coveralls of the