Scratch One (Hard Case Crime)
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To prevent an arms shipment from reaching the Middle East a terrorist group has been carrying out targeted assassinations in Egypt...Portugal...Denmark...France. In response, the United States sends one of its deadliest agents to take the killers down.
But when the agent is delayed in transit, lawyer Roger Carr gets mistaken for him. Now, with some of the world's deadliest men after him, will he survive long enough to prove his identity?
please?” “Roger Carr. C-a-r-r.” “Carr … Carr … Roger … Carr, Roger.” Obviously she was checking his name against some sort of list. But he was startled to hear her say briskly, “I’m sorry, sir. You can see someone here immediately. Do you wish to meet at the consulate, or elsewhere?” “At the consulate, of course. Why the hell would I want to meet anywhere else?” This seemed to confuse her. She made little flustered noises at the other end of the line. Then: “Yes, sir. We will be expecting
him, but he couldn’t figure it out. “Now then, Mr. Carr, about your own problem.” Gorman bent forward over his desk and doodled on a pad. He was frowning. “As I understand it, you have received a great deal of annoyance since your arrival in Nice, and you want to know what to do about it, and what it all means.” Carr nodded, and lit a cigarette. “I’ve given those up,” Gorman said. “What?” “Cigarettes. Given them up. Bad for you. You know the surgeon general’s report, all that—it’s been very
road. The road was cut into the rock wall, partway up the canyon; the drop over the pavement was so sheer, Carr could not tell how far below the water was, though he could hear it rushing and boiling. “There’s one particular place,” Anne said, still watching the side of the road. She pulled over. “Here. Come on.” They got out, and Carr walked to the low stone wall lining the lip of the road. The water was at least forty feet below them, a narrow fast stream barely a yard wide. It continued to
was about to answer when they heard the deep roar of an automobile starting up. “Dr. Liseau’s Ferrari,” the maid said. “The silver one? That’s his?” “Yes. C’est jolie, hein?” Carr nodded, remembering Cannes. He got up and set off across the lawn. He wanted first to walk around the house, to get some idea of how it was laid out. He stepped back to get a better view of Le Scalpel. It was immense: two stories high, and shaped like an L, with the short arm cantilevered out over a sloping
air in the two front tires. Then he straightened and dropped back into a nearby alley. He did not have long to wait. Within minutes, Liseau appeared at the far end of the street, walking briskly, not looking around him. He was a man in a hurry, but still cool, still confident. Liseau unlocked the Renault, got in, and started the engine. Carr stepped out and walked over to the window. “You have a couple of flats, you know. Both front tires. Very, very flat.” Liseau looked at him from behind the