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Now back in print?a taut spy thriller from The New York Times bestselling author of The Company
With the publication of his New York Times bestseller The Company, Robert Littell re-established his position among the highest ranks of writers of literary espionage novels. In The Debriefing, long out of print until now, Littell offers another novel of exquisite suspense.
Stone is the head of an elite arm of the Joint Chiefs of Staff?and a master of the psychologically sophisticated art of debriefing. When Oleg Kulakov defects from Russia, handcuffed to a sealed diplomatic pouch, it?s Stone?s job to find out if he?s genuine. As Stone uncovers Kulakov?s darkest secrets, he penetrates Russia itself to learn the chilling truth . . . a truth that tears his own world apart.
courier holding out?” “Better than I am,” replies Stone. “What’ve you got for me today?” “Lots of dirt,” says Mozart, tossing a thick folder onto the bed, “but no nuggets.” And in his maddeningly efficient monotone, he gives Stone a rundown on what the Topology people have come up with. Kulakov, it seems, has gotten several addresses wrong. At one point he mentioned a film he had seen in Moscow, but according to Topology records, it didn’t open until a month after he said he saw it. He made an
the view that worst-case contingency planning is still the basis of scenario construction. Now, it’s all well and good to pinpoint Soviet weaknesses in production, in procurement, in translating existing forces into field potentials, but the fact of the matter is that the Russians are capable of launching a major land conflict in the European theater, and a brush-fire affair in, say, the Gulf area. In other words, they can get up steam for one and a half wars—” “Nicholas, this is something we’re
suitcases. The inspector’s heavy-lidded eyes come alive as he begins to pull from the valises an assortment of blue jeans, Japanese transistor radios, phonograph records, cassettes, wrist watches, men’s shoes with high heels, colorful scarves, and other bits and pieces of plastic junk that pass for treasure in Moscow. A crowd forms; two uniformed policemen impatiently wave people on. The chief inspector saunters over, fingers one of the silk scarves, tries to read the headlines in the newspaper
“precisely because it isn’t your line of work. This is a one-shot affair for me. I don’t want to deal with professionals who will try to find out who I am and come back for more. Which is why I prefer your bodyguards outside.” “Yes, I see the logic of that,” Gurenko says. “Still, you might change your mind; you might decide to do it again. After all, this”—he gestures to the room full of well-dressed people talking in undertones, to the bouquets of flowers strewn with impeccable attention around
“The material I gave you is worth more than ten thousand dollars.” Gurenko’s eyes narrow. “What ten thousand dollars? There is twenty-five thousand dollars in the envelope. What game are you playing?” Stone looks again at the contents of the envelope. “I’m a bit confused,” he says vaguely. He pockets the envelope, starts to get up. “Let us hope,” he says, “that we don’t meet again.” A waiter dashes over to pull back the chair. Stone smiles and gestures with his thumb toward the Russian. “My