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Zusatztext “She invades the turf of John le Carré. . . . It is very good.” — Los Angeles Times Book Review “Her most far-ranging and! arguably! her best.” — New Woman Informationen zum Autor Margaret Truman won faithful readers with her works of biography and fiction, particularly her ongoing series of Capital Crimes mysteries. Her novels let us into the corridors of power and privilege, and poverty and pageantry, in the nation’s capital. She was the author of many nonfiction books, including The President’s House, in which she shares some of the secrets and history of the White House where she once resided. Truman lived in Manhattan and passed away in 2008. Klappentext "She invades the turf of John le Carré. . . . It is very good."-Los Angeles Times Book Review Barrie Mayer, a beautiful Washington literary agent, arrives at London's Heathrow Airport with plenty of time to make her flight to Budapest, where she's planning to meet an author. The airport is crowded, but it's not a scheduling problem that keeps Barrie from getting off the ground. The doctors call her death a heart attack, but her best friend, Collette Cahill, has her doubts. A CIA agent herself, Collette knows that Barrie was carrying more than just contracts to Hungary. Then Collette gets the order from above: Find out what happened to Barrie. And, more important, what happened to her briefcase. So Collette sets off on a search that will take her from London to Washington to the Caribbean, from restaurants to psychiatrists' offices to bedrooms. After all-even CIA agents lose their hearts every now and then. But Collette may lose her life. . . . "Her most far-ranging and, arguably, her best."-New Woman 1 THE BRITISH VIRGIN ISLANDS, NOVEMBER 1985 Her name was Bernadette, eighteen, tall, a classic island “smooth skin,” as they say there—very dark and with a velvety texture—hair the color of ink and falling to her shoulder blades, a full, rounded body defined beneath a clinging maroon jersey dress, a true mantwana, the island word for voluptuous woman. They’d been teasing her since the launch left Anguilla Point on Virgin Gorda for its morning run to Drake’s Anchorage on Mosquito Island. She’d started seeing a popular young man from Virgin Gorda, which prompted the gentle ribbing. Although she protested, she enjoyed it. She was proud of her new boyfriend and knew the other girls were jealous. “Gwan tease me, marrow deh,” she said, a defiant smile on her lips. Tease all you want; tomorrow will be my day. There were fifteen of them on board; waiters and waitresses, the bartender, kitchen help, chambermaids, and gardeners. Most of the help lived on Virgin Gorda and were brought in by launch. Drake’s Anchorage was the only resort on Mosquito Island (named for a Colombian Indian tribe, not the dipterous insect), and there was only one house for staff, which was occupied by two engineers. Bernadette was the assistant manager. Her English was excellent; so were her number skills. Her father, a bone fisherman, waded out into the shallow flats of Murdering Hole at dawn each morning in search of the indigenous fish, the so-called ladyfish. Her parents had a hard life, one they hoped she wouldn’t inherit. She was their only child. She turned her face into the wind and thought of last night with her new love. Spray from the intensely blue water stung her face. Life was good now. Last week she’d been depressed, wondered whether she would have to spend the rest of her life in this one place, as beautiful as it might be. Now, he was there and the glass was half full again. The resort had been booked exclusively for two days by a Canadian businessman who’d done the same thing three months earlier, to hold seminars for key people, his assistant had said. The top echelon stayed in two magnificent vill...
