Description: Touchstone by Laurie R. King Hailed for her powerful works of psychological suspense as well as her "New York Times"-bestselling mysteries, King now presents a work that is both a harrowing thriller and a thought-provoking exploration of the forces that drive history--and human destinies. FORMAT Paperback LANGUAGE English CONDITION Brand New Publisher Description "New York Times" bestselling author Laurie R. King takes us to a remote cottage in Cornwall in this gripping tale of intrigue, terrorism, and explosive passions that begins with a visit to a recluse code-named . . .Once studied by British intelligence for his excruciating sensitivity to the worlds turmoil, Bennett Grey has withdrawn from the world-until an American Bureau of Investigation agent comes to assess Greys potential as a weapon in a new kind of warfare.Agent Harris Stuyvesant needs Greys help to enter a realm where the rich and the radical exist side by side-a heady mix of power, celebrity, and sexuality that conceals the free worlds deadliest enemy. Soon Stuyvesant finds himself dangerously seduced by one woman and-even more dangerously-falling in love with another. As he sifts through secrets divulged and kept, he uncovers the target of a horrifying conspiracy, and wonders if he can trust anyone, even his touchstone. Author Biography Laurie R. King is the "New York Times" bestselling author of eight Mary Russell mysteries, four contemporary novels featuring Kate Martinelli, and the bestselling novels A Darker Place, Folly, and Keeping Watch. She lives in northern California. "From the Hardcover edition." Review "This suspense novel unfolds slowly, but King is so adept at telling a story that the pace never lags. …. an entertaining mix of ambition, intrigue, social unrest and unfettered idealism."—Arizona Republic"Cinematic…richly, even lushly, imagined." –Booklist, starred review"Intelligent and nuanced . . . Indelible characters . . . a plot as tight as a drum. What more could you want?" –Seattle Times"An Anglophiles treat of sixth sense and sensibility." –Entertainment Weekly Review Quote "This suspense novel unfolds slowly, but King is so adept at telling a story that the pace never lags. …. an entertaining mix of ambition, intrigue, social unrest and unfettered idealism."-Arizona Republic From the Hardcover edition. Excerpt from Book Chapter One Eight days after stepping off the Spirit of New Orleans from New York, Harris Stuyvesant nearly killed a man. The fact of the near-homicide did not surprise him; that it had taken him eight days to get there, considering the circumstances, was downright astonishing. Fortunately, his arm drew back from full force at the last instant, so he didnt actually smash the guys face in. But as he stood over the prostrate figure, watching the woozy eyelids flicker back towards consciousness, the tingle of frustration in his right arm told him what a near thing it had been. Hed been running on rage for so long, driven by fury and failure and the scars on Tims skull and the vivid memory of bright new blood on a sparkling glass carpet followed by flat black and the sound of the funeral dirges that-well, the guy had got off lucky, that was all. He couldnt even claim it was self defense. The cops were right there-constables, he should call them, this being England-and theyd already been moving to intercept the red-faced Miners Union demonstrator who was hammering one meaty forefinger against Stuyvesants chest to make a point when Stuyvesants arm came up all on its own and just laid the man out on the paving stones. A uniformed constable cut Stuyvesant away from the miners friends as neatly as a sheepdog with a flock and suggested in no uncertain terms that now would be a good time for him to go about his business, sir. Stuyvesant looked into the clean-shaven English face beneath the helmet and felt his fist tighten, but he caught hold of himself before things got out of control. He nodded to the cop, glanced at the knot of demonstrators forming around the fallen warrior, and bent to pick up the envelope hed dropped in the scuffle. He turned on his heels and within sixty seconds and two corners found silence, as abrupt and unexpected as the sudden appearance of the Union workers had been five minutes earlier. He put his back against the dirty London bricks, closed his eyes, and drew in, then let out, one prolonged breath. After a minute, he raised his hand to study the damage: a fresh slice across the already-scarred knuckle, bleeding freely. With his left hand he fished out his handkerchief and wrapped the hand, looking around until he spotted a promising doorway down the street. Inside was a saloon bar. "Whisky," he told the man behind the bar. "Double." When the glass hit the bar, he dribbled half of it onto the cut-teeth were dirty things-and tossed the rest down his throat. He started to order a repeat, then remembered, and looked at his wrist-watch with an oath. Late already. Oh, what the hell did it matter? Hed spent the last week chewing the ears of one office-worker after another; what made him think this one would be any different? But that was just an excuse to stay here and drink. Stuyvesant slapped some coins on the bar and went out onto the street. It was raining, again. He settled his hat, pulled up his collar, and hurried away. It had proven a piss-poor time to come to London and talk to men behind desks. Hed known before he left New York that there was a General Strike scheduled at the end of the month, in sympathy for the coal miners. However, this was England, not the States, and hed figured there would be a lot of big talk followed by a disgruntled, probably last-minute settlement. Instead, the working classes were rumbling, and their talk had gone past coal mining into a confrontation with the ruling class. The polite, Olde Worlde tea-party dispute hed envisioned, cake-on-a-plate compared to some of the rib-cracking, skull-smashing strikes Stuyvesant had been in, didnt look as if it was going to turn out the way hed thought, either-not if men like those demonstrators had their way in the matter. And God, the distraction it had caused in this town! One after another, the desk-bound men hed come to see had listened to his questions, then given him the same response: Does this have anything to do with the Strike? Then please, Im busy, theres the door. Yeah, that miner had been damned lucky, considering. Maybe when this next one showed him the door-Carstairs was his name, Aldous Carstairs, what kind of pansy handle was that?-maybe that would be where his temper broke. Maybe the bureaucrat would get what the demonstrator hadnt. He couldnt help feeling he had reached the bottom of the barrel when it came to a straightforward investigation. Certainly, he held out little hope that Carstairs would do more than go through motions-hed heard of the man more or less by accident the previous afternoon, sitting across the desk from a Scotland Yard official hed met in New York years before. Now an exhausted and harassed-looking official in a day-old shirt who, even before the inevitable tea tray arrived, was sorry hed let Stuyvesant in. "No, Ive already talked to that man," Stuyvesant told him, in answer to a suggested contact. "Yeah, him, too. And him. That idiot? He was one of the first I saw, and frankly, the sooner he retires, the better off your country will be. No, that guys in France, and his secretarys useless. Now, him I havent talked to, where-Scotland? Jesus, do I have to go to Scotland to ask about a man who lives in London?" "I should give you to Carstairs," the Yard official muttered, then immediately regretted the slip and hurried on. "What about-" "Been there. Whos this Carstairs fellow?" Stuyvesants instincts had come alert, aware of some overtone in the way the man said the name, but the fellow shook his head. "Just a name, honestly, he doesnt have anything to do with what you need. I think you should go talk to . . ." Stuyvesant was soon out the door, holding nothing more than three names on a slip of paper. Outside the office door, a pair of men in bowlers sat waiting. Stuyvesant nodded to them, collected his hat and overcoat, and walked down the hallway and around the corner. There he stopped, staring unseeing at the scrap of paper. Give you to Carstairs. Not, Give you Carstairs, which would have suggested the resolution of a grudge, but a phrase with a touch of fear in the background: I should feed you to Carstairs. Stuyvesant counted to thirty, then doubled back to the Yard mans office. The two men were nowhere in sight when he walked in, and the secretary was just settling back at his desk. "Sorry," the American said, "I neglected to get a phone number. Just let me pop in-" "Im sorry, sir, he has another appointment." "Oh, Ill just be-wait, maybe I could get it from you instead? The names Carstairs." The secretary looked blank for a moment and Stuyvesant resigned himself to a dud, but then the mans eyebrows shot up. "Aldous Carstairs?" "Thats the man. You have a phone number for him?" The secretarys glance at the closed door was eloquent testimony of the unusual nature of the request, but reluctantly, he went to a book in the bottom drawer of his desk, opened it to a page at the back, and copied out a number. "Thanks," Stuyvesant told him, and that was how he found himself running ten minutes late on a pouring wet Friday afternoon, a bloody handkerchief around one hand and a sodden scrap of paper in the other, searching for an address that he finally located in an utterly anonymous building a stones throw from Big Ben. Chapter Two The doorman took one look at the figure that lurched into his tidy foyer and moved to return the straying lunatic to the streets. Stuyvesant pushed down the impulse to deck another Brit and summoned his most charming, lop-sided smile, assuring the man that he did, in fact, have an appointment with Mr. Carstairs, although hed had a little accident, if he could just phone . . . ? Without turning his back on the disheveled American, the doorman went to his desk to pick up his telephone. He spoke, listened, grunted, and hung up. "If youll just wait a minute." It was less time than that when a weedy specimen with freckles and twitchy hands came through the connecting door and stopped dead. He looked at Stuyvesant, and at the doorman (who gave him a What-did-I-say? shrug), then stood back, holding the door. "Mr. Carstairs?" Stuyvesant asked. "His secretary," the man replied. "The Major is expecting you." He led the sodden visitor through a hallway and up a flight of stairs to a dark, highly polished wooden door. Inside, he took Stuyvesants hat and coat, hung them over the radiator, and went to the desk, where he pushed a button and said to the air, "Mr. Stuyvesant." He got the pronunciation right, Sty rather than the usual Stooey. The response five seconds later was a click at the inner door; the secretary came back around the desk and opened it. Stuyvesant stepped into the dim office. The man behind the desk was in his early forties, slightly older than Harris Stuyvesant, and smooth: dark, oiled hair, the sheen of manicured fingernails, a perfectly knotted silk tie, and nary a wrinkle on his spotless shirt. A visitors gaze might have slid right off him had they not caught on his striking eyes and unlikely mouth. The eyes were an unrelieved black, with irises so dark they looked like vastly dilated pupils. They reminded Stuyvesant of a wealthy Parisian courtesan hed known once who attributed her success to belladonna, used to simulate wide-eyed fascination in the gaze she turned upon her clientele. Personally, her eyes h Details ISBN0553586661 Author Laurie R. King Short Title TOUCHSTONE Pages 548 Publisher Bantam Language English ISBN-10 0553586661 ISBN-13 9780553586664 Media Book Format Paperback DEWEY FIC Illustrations Yes Year 2008 Publication Date 2008-12-31 Residence Watsonville, CA, US Series Number 1 Place of Publication New York Country of Publication United States AU Release Date 2008-12-30 NZ Release Date 2008-12-30 US Release Date 2008-12-30 UK Release Date 2008-12-30 Series Stuyvesant & Grey Imprint Random House Inc Subtitle A Stuyvesant & Grey Novel Audience General We've got this At The Nile, if you're looking for it, we've got it. With fast shipping, low prices, friendly service and well over a million items - you're bound to find what you want, at a price you'll love! 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Book Title: Touchstone
ISBN: 9780553586664