I Spy: The Constantinople Caper
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Trey is thrilled to be accompanying his father, influential Chicago businessman T Drummond MacIntyre II, on a trip to Constantinople. Armed with a suitcase packed full of his favorite tales of super-sleuths and daring detectives, Trey can't wait for his holiday to begin. So imagine his excitement when, as father and son board the Orient Express, Trey thinks they are being followed by a mysterious stranger. Surely Trey's been reading one too many spy capers?
However, as they make the journey across Europe, Trey's father appears distant and evasive. Is he simply busy with work, or is something more untoward happening? When T Drummond MacIntyre II goes missing, Trey is plunged into the secretive and dangerous world of 1920s espionage, trawling the chaotic streets of Constantinople in search of his father's whereabouts.
But while Trey has always dreamed about being a spy, nothing can prepare him for the breathtaking escapades that await him in this exotic and enticing city - Combining the action-packed exploits of Alex Rider, with the historical adventures of Young Indiana Jones, "I Spy" is a gripping story of one boy's fight to find his father.
be when you grow up, MacIntyre?” “You talking to me?” Trey frowned at Arthur, who hadn’t even bothered to look up as he spoke. “I do believe I must have been, old chap.” Trey took a deep breath, aware that Christina was watching him like a hawk and for some reason he did not want to come out of this looking like he’d been gotten the better of. “Let’s make a deal, okay? You keep out of my hair and I’ll keep out of yours. That way I won’t have to boot your keister, old chap.” Christina snorted
advised, surprised by the rich, aromatic smell of the dark, slightly bitter (but then again quite sweet) liquid, which tasted nothing like the coffee he’d had back home in Chicago. Which is when he remembered he hadn’t asked his second question, about checking the hotel... “Your baba,” said Evren, before Trey could open his mouth, “he have brother?” “One hundred per cent!” Baba Duan lit himself a congratulatory cigarette, as if celebrating his son’s genius. “On the button of the nose, fruit of
all necessary.” “I do hope not.” Gessler looked at his watch. “I do not have so much time.” “What could I possibly know that you do not already?” “Tell me about the American and his son. Tell me everything you know...” “Would it not be quicker, if your time is of an essential nature, for you to tell me what you know, and I will do my absolute level best to fill in the spaces left over?” Gessler’s right hand whipped out like a snake, the barrel of the gun slashing across Baba Duan’s ear. “I
dark mustache getting up from his chair behind a quite plain, leather-topped desk looked the same as any other civil servant he’d ever seen. Which was exactly as Baba Duan had expected. In Mr., the Honourable Stanhope-Leigh’s business, it would pay to appear unexceptional. “Thank you, Jenkins.” George Stanhope-Leigh nodded at his secretary, who left the room. “Do sit down, Mr., um, Hendek. What exactly can I do for you?” “For me? Nothing.” “Nothing? I see...” George Stanhope-Leigh couldn’t
London with his two sons and a cat called Boots. Find out more about Graham Marks at www.marksworks.co.uk