The Spanish Gambit
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From Stephen Hunter, whose first two novels established him as a master of the espionage thriller, comes a richly detailed, spellbinding tale of international intrigue set against the cataclysm of the Spanish Civil War.
fates." "Sylvia--" "Robert, for God's sake, we can make it. Don't you see? There's nothing-" "I told Julian I would give his ring to his mother. His ring is in my coat. My coat is in your bag. Your bag is in the hotel. If I could, I would go myself, alone. But don't you see, the room is in your name. They wouldn't let me-" She shook her head. "Two weeks ago you hated him. Now you love him. Now you'll risk yourself to perform some foolish romantic gesture in his memory. You really are a
years earlier, Honors Day at Eton, a June afternoon. The sixth-formers, liberated that morning at matriculation from the rigors of the college, had gathered with their parents on the lawn of one of the yards, near the famous Wall, for a last mingle or whatever before commencing with the lives to follow. These lives usually meant university or something promising in the City or at Sandhurst; however, not for Florry. He knew by then he'd spend the summer boning up on engineering and math at a
squashing them about in your fingers while she tells you she wants you to do it harder." "You filthy bastard!" "Think of her wonderful cunt, old man, all wet and fishy and warm. Think of grousing it out as a piggy snorts after truffles. That should revive your interest in living." "You filthy fucker, Julian. I ought to-" "Yes. that's the spirit, chum. Come along then." "Julian, you bastard-" "Stink, she's just quim. Damned good quim, I'd bet, but quim just the same. Come on, old boy." Up
saying. "One Anarchist may not lock up another Anarchist. Est6 libre. i Viva la anarquia! " Levitsky could see the American Bolodin through the open doorway, sitting at the cafe, and beyond that he could see an elderly man in Guardia Civil uniform head across the square, and at that same moment, a black Ford, the Twenty-ninth Division staff car, with Julian Raines and Robert Florry in the rear, pulled through the square and disappeared down the road and out of town. 11 i Viva la anarquia! "
small garrison town called Baiolo, and pulled into it, under the watchful eyes of several Moorish sentries. "God, it looks like Berlin," said Julian. Indeed it did-, the square was jammed with gray Jerry vehicles, not only the tanks but armored trucks With machine guns and tank tracks on them. German specialists stood about barking orders stoutly to their assistants who translated into Arabic. For of the vast population of the village, nearly three-quarters were Moorish infantry, now loading