Heat – Campbell Armstrong

‘Martin was like a jackdaw.’ ‘Yes.’ She was quiet a second. ‘Have you found anything interesting?’ You know we have, he thought. ‘There’s so much material to get through,’ he answered quietly. ‘Frank. Why don’t you just say it? I’m a bad liar.’ Pagan mumbled some mild protest, made a gesture with his hand.

‘Oh, Frank, I don’t like it when somebody demurs,’ she said. ‘I’m just not very good when it comes to fibbing. You saw the name, didn’t you?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘And you’re too tactful to ask about it.’ ‘Respectful more than tactful,’ Pagan said. ‘Respect won’t help you find this wretched woman.’ Pagan stood up. He wandered to one of the glass cases and peered inside. Lustrous feathers, glazed glass eyes. ‘Richard Pasco,’ Marcia said. ‘Martin worried himself sick about the man. You know how bloody high-minded he could be at times, Frank.

Anything that offended his sense of ethics caused him sleepless nights.’ ‘Tell me about Pasco, Marcia.’ She slumped back in the chair, tilting her face, gazing up at the ceiling. ‘Pasco, yes. I’ll tell you about him. But I believe I’ll have that drink first, Frank. If you’d be so kind as to do the honours. Gin if there’s any. A dash of tonic.’ Pagan went to the cocktail cabinet and poured a glass of Beefeaters. He added a touch of flat tonic water and took the drink to her.

‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘Martin always felt guilty about Pasco. I tried to tell him he was judging himself far too harshly. But you know what he was like. He was his own most severe critic.’ Pagan leaned back on the sofa. What had Martin written on the back of the envelope? Rule number one – begin at the beginning.

He said, ‘Why don’t we go through it slowly, Marcia. From the very start.’ ‘Yes,’ she said.

“Armstrong is among the most intriguing of blockbuster writers … near to un put down able.” —GQ “While touching on suspense with a skill to please hard-core thriller addicts, he manages to please people who … warm to readable novels of substance.” —Daily Mail “Armstrong’s skill is not just an eye for a criminally good tale but a passion for the people that will populate it.”—The Scotsman “Subtle and marvelous … This is a dazzling book.”—The Daily Telegraph on Agents of Darkness “A consummate psychological thriller …

Without doubt, Armstrong is now in the front rank of thriller writers.”—Books on Heat “Armstrong has outdone both Frederick Forsyth and Ken Follett.” —James Patterson on Jig “A full throttle adventure thriller.”—The Guardian on Mambo “A wonderful puzzle that keeps us guessing right to the end.” —Publishers Weekly on Mazurka OceanofPDF.com Heat A Frank Pagan Novel Campbell Armstrong OceanofPDF.com For Aidan, Connor, Neil and Owen OceanofPDF.com 1 BUCKINGHAMSHIRE, ENGLAND The resort hotel, surrounded by a golf-course and tennis courts, was located in a secluded green valley of the kind reserved for the sporting pursuits of the rich.

Horses were available for guests who wanted the experience of hacking country lanes, and there was a high-tech indoor gymnasium. Since Frank Pagan played neither golf nor tennis, and thought horses petulant creatures given to treacherous inclinations – and pumping iron, in his book, was an overrated activity with high cardiac arrest possibilities – he wasn’t altogether at ease in these expensive, rustic surroundings.

But he had more pressing reasons for his lack of comfort. Sixty-three of them, to be exact. Sixty-three men and women. He stood on the balcony outside his room and surveyed the area as far as the wooded horizon. It was glorious weather, the last day of an August that had been sunny and hot throughout.

A few figures in the distance trotted after golf balls; on one of the tennis courts a middle-aged Australian woman scampered across red clay with racket outstretched to make a return to her partner, a taut, leathery man from Dallas. Sixty-three reasons, Pagan thought. He continued to observe the view. Cloudless sky, copper sun, a golf ball in high flight. A horse whinnied nearby. These were peripheral details to him.

His concentration was elsewhere. He was thinking of the hidden figures in the landscape, the men and women who strolled among clumps of trees and communicated with one another by means of cordless phones, the casually dressed characters that drifted with apparent aimlessness around the edges of the tennis courts or wandered the foyer downstairs or strolled the corridors. These were the palace guard, the security forces he’d assembled to protect the sixty-three counter-terrorist specialists from around the world gathered here for this conference.

This is a short excerpt from the opening of “” by Unknown, quoted for review and introduction purposes. All rights belong to the copyright holders.

Book Information

• Unique ID: da8be78bb192b4b0
• File Extension: .pdf
• File Size: 2,372,224 bytes (2.262 MB)
• Title: –
• Author: Unknown
• Pages: 346
• Language: English (en)

Reading & Word Statistics

• Estimated Reading Time: 583.18 minutes
• Total Words: 116,637
• Total Characters: 661,159
• Average Words per Page: 337.1
• Average Characters per Page: 1910.86

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