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Dead line / Stella Rimington.

By: Rimington, Stella.
Material type: materialTypeLabelBookPublisher: Bath : Paragon, 2009Description: 344 pages ; 24 cm.Content type: text Media type: unmediated Carrier type: volumeISBN: 9781408428122(Lg print).Subject(s): Carlyle, Liz (Fictitious character) -- Fiction | Intelligence service -- Great Britain -- Fiction | Secret service -- Syria -- FictionGenre/Form: Action and adventure fiction.
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Enhanced descriptions from Syndetics:

MI5 Officer Liz Carlyle returns in a powerfully suspenseful, psychologically riveting thriller to diffuse a terrorist plot.
As plans get under way for a Middle East peace conference at the Gleneagles resort in Scotland, MI5 Intelligence Officer Liz Carlyle is summoned to a meeting with her boss, who has just received an alarming tip: two individuals are mounting an operation to violently disrupt the conference and lay the blame on Syria, and Liz must stop them. No one knows who they are or exactly what they're planning, but given the stature of the conference attendees no chances can be taken. As the conference deadline draws closer, Liz keeps running into one dead end after another, and she begins to understand that the threat is far greater than she could have imagined.

Originally published: London: Quercus, 2008.


Excerpt provided by Syndetics

1 In his flat near the British embassy in Nicosia, Peter Templeton woke early. For a few minutes he lay staring at the ladder pattern on the wall of his bedroom made by the sun shining through the venetian blinds. Then, with an anticipatory jolt, he remembered the message he'd received yesterday: the code word from Jaghir that called him to an urgent meeting. Templeton was MI6's head of station in Cyprus, and Jaghir was one of his most important agents. There was little traffic in Nicosia this early, so when Templeton's black saloon pulled out of the car park beneath his block of flats it had the street to itself. But within thirty seconds a small, battered hatch-back swung round a corner and began to follow closely behind the saloon. The two cars went south through the old walled city, a cautious convoy, avoiding the UN Green Line and the Turkish sector in the north. They took the narrow side streets, past old stone houses with ornate balconies, their tall wooden shutters still firmly closed, and shops that were not yet open for business. Driving through an opening in the old Venetian wall, former boundary of a once much smaller city, they crossed the Pedieos River. The two cars proceeded carefully, their drivers alert and tense; another vehicle could have followed their labyrinthine progress, but not without being detected. As they emerged from the outskirts of the city, a hinterland of white concrete apartment blocks, the cars accelerated and drove on towards the Troodos mountains. Slowly the road began to climb, and at the base of the range it split, its main artery moving north around the mountain, a smaller track heading in a tortuous zigzag up the mountain itself. In the crook of the junction sat a small café, just half a dozen tables in a dusty courtyard under an overhanging tourathes rigged to block the sun. Templeton lifted his hand briefl y from the wheel in a quick salute to his colleague, and drove on up the track. The hatchback pulled into the café's small parking lot and the driver got out to sit at a table, ordering a coffee when the proprietor emerged blinking in the bright light. But the driver's eyes watched the road he'd come along. It was barely seven o'clock and cooler here than in Nicosia, but already the temperature was nearly 90 degrees. As Templeton made his way up the treacherous track that cut through the large stands of umbrella pines lining the mountainside, he kept an eye on his rear-view mirror, but all he could see was the cloud of dust his car was stirring up. It was just three miles to his destination, yet he knew it would take at least another fi fteen minutes. He manoeuvred carefully up the incline with its seemingly infinite twists and curves, catching glimpses through the trees of an ancient monastery ahead of him, nestled neatly into a wide ledge halfway up the mountain. Its walls of white ashlar blocks seemed to grow out of the mountain, enfolding a group of buildings, their tiled roofs aged over the years to a dark mocha brown. After a final twist of the road, he reached the walls and, driving through an arch, he left his car parked at the base of a short, steep flight of steps. He climbed them slowly, allowing his eyes to adjust to the shade after the blinding sunlight of the hillside. At the top, on a long terrace tiled in white stone, he stopped and gazed down at the road he had come along. Beside him a roofed portico stretched to a large squat chapel with a cloister on one side, from which came the sound of the monks going to prayer. That would keep them occupied for the half hour Templeton required for his meeting. He sat down on the ledge that overlooked the mountainside and the valley below, picking a shady corner where the terrace joined the portico. The air was scented by the dry, dropped needles of the pines and by the thyme growing in cracks in the walls. Perched here, he could see the café, not much bigger than a speck. As he waited, the mobile phone in his jacket pocket vibrated. "Yes," he said quietly. He could hear the whirr of cicadas on the hillside below. "On his way. Alone so far." "Okay. Keep me posted." He watched patiently, until far below him he saw dust kicking up in small clouds from the track, then a moving dot that gradually turned into a car, a Mercedes, grey with dust. The noise of its tyres grew louder as it came quickly up the track, and braked with a small squeal next to Templeton's car. A moment later, an Arab in a smart light-grey suit appeared at the top of the stairs. He was in his forties, trim and thin, his hair short but expensively cut, and even in the heat his shirt was crisply pressed, the collar uncreased. Seeing Templeton, he came over to the corner, his eyes alert. "Salam aleikum, Abboud," said Templeton as he stood up to shake hands. He spoke classical Arabic, learned in six months' intensive tuition at the language school in the hills outside Beirut, then honed to fl uency by twenty years of postings in the Middle East. " Aleikum-as-salam," the man named Abboud replied, then switched to English. "We are alone, I take it." "Entirely," said Templeton. He gave a small smile and nodded at the chapel. "The brothers are all at prayer." They sat on the ledge, Abboud peering warily down the mountainside. Templeton said, "You must have something important to tell me." Their next meeting had not been due for a month, but the message from Abboud--Jaghir--had been unambiguously urgent. "I do," said Abboud. He took a cigarette case from his pocket, waving it towards Templeton, who shook his head. Lighting a Dunhill with a gold lighter, Abboud inhaled deeply, then blew smoke in a long snow-coloured stream over the ledge. A hundred yards out a hunting kestrel hovered high over the mountainside, its wings fl uttering slightly to steady itself against the movement of the thermals. "I was in Damascus last week. Tibshirani called me back." Templeton nodded. Tibshirani was the deputy director of Idarat al-Mukhabarat, one of Syria's dreaded secret services, and Abboud's direct superior. He was a man who mixed intellectual sophistication (he had been a postgraduate student at Berkeley in California) and peasant brutality. "What did he want?" "We are having some problems with the Turks. They arrested one of our agents last month in Ankara. It could have consequences--especially here in Cyprus." He took another drag on his cigarette. "But that is not why I wanted to see you. I had dinner with Tibshirani on my second night. In the old quarter. No wives, though there was some other female entertainment." He gave the briefest fl icker of a smile. "Afterwards Tibshirani started talking about another operation. I thought he was just drunk and being indiscreet--he's known me since I joined the service--but then the next morning in his office he briefed me formally about it." He paused for a moment, looking down the mountain, then stood up to gain a better view. Satisfi ed that nothing was coming up the track, he sat down again on the ledge, throwing down his cigarette and grinding it out with the heel of his tasselled loafer. He said, "You've heard about these talks between my country and the Americans." "Yes," replied Templeton. It was a sore point in Whitehall, since the British had been excluded from the discussions. "It's commonly thought they are going nowhere--without Israeli involvement, it's said, the Americans cannot agree to anything. If they do, the Jewish lobby will just block it in Congress. That's what the media says, at any rate." This was true. The original enthusiasm that the two hostile governments were actually talking to each other had gradually given way to a widespread cynicism that nothing of consequence would emerge from the "secret" meetings the whole world now knew about.   Abboud tugged at one of his cuffs and stared out at the arid valley towards Nicosia. The kestrel was lower in the sky now, moving patiently above the slope, like a gundog working a field. He said, "I tell you, my friend, this time the on dit is wrong. For once talks may lead to something--the administration in Washington seems determined to break the impasse in the Middle East at last, even if it means standing up to Israel. They want a legacy and they have chosen this to create it." Was this why Abboud had called an urgent meeting? wondered Templeton. It was all interesting stuff, but hardly worth the risk each man had taken coming here. Sensing Templeton's impatience, Abboud held out a reassuring hand. "Do not worry--I am coming to the point. I don't want to stay here any longer than I have to." He looked at his watch, a sliver of gold that glinted in the harsh, still-rising sun. "In two months' time there is going to be an international conference in Scotland. You may know about it. It has not attracted much interest so far because only the moderates have agreed to attend. But my government wants progress. We need a settlement for the stability of our country. So we have decided to attend. I am to be part of our delegation, which is why Tibshirani told me the story." He raised his eyes to the sky. "What story?" "We have information that certain parties are working to disrupt the process. We know of two individuals acting to prevent any peaceful solution to the current stalemate. They intend to blacken the good name of Syria and thus to destroy all trust at the conference." "How will they do that?"   "I don't know. But I can tell you, my friend, that if they succeed there will be a bloodbath in the region." "Do you know who they are, who is directing them?" "I know they have connections to your country, and I know their names. But Tibshirani does not know who is controlling them. He does not think it is the British." He smiled, a gleam of white teeth in the sunlight. Then he gave Templeton two names, reciting each one twice, quite slowly, to make sure there was no misunderstanding. Nothing was committed to paper by either man. "Okay," said Templeton, having memorised the two names. "Where does this information come from?" "That I cannot tell you." Abboud laughed as he saw the irritation spreading across Templeton's face. "But only because I do not know myself. Believe me, it's not worth my trying to find out; I already know more than I should. I believe it to be true, and so does Tibshirani. But listen to me; here is the most important thing. These people, these two parties who are working against us--my colleagues are going to move against them before they can do harm." "Move?" Abboud merely nodded. They both knew full well what this meant. "When will they 'move'?" "Soon, very soon. They will do it in the United Kingdom. Secretly. So it will not be known who has acted. My side does not want anything to disrupt this conference. We see much for Syria to gain--we hope to get back our country from the Israeli invaders. So my superiors consider that action against these people is worth the risk if it keeps the conference alive. Personally, I fear that if they make a mistake it may have the opposite effect, which is why I am telling you. But now I must go," said Abboud, standing up. Templeton stood up too, looking down the mountainside. The kestrel was no longer circling; it must have found its prey. Excerpted from Dead Line by Stella Rimington All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

Reviews provided by Syndetics

Library Journal Review

Liz Carlyle makes her fifth foray (after Illegal Action) into thwarting the vile plots of evildoers, this time at the famed Gleneagles resort in Scotland, site of an upcoming peace summit. For its Middle Eastern players, the tense quest has never looked this promising, but reports point to a wily saboteur at work. Liz plumbs deeply into her quirky intuition to snag the elusive plotter but is catastrophically sidelined by a traffic accident. Or not? Rimington, onetime head of the famed British spy agency MI5, creates a tight cat's cradle of a plot along with plenty of realistic tradecraft and a shimmer of romance for a terrific summer read. VERDICT Suspense-loving Anglophiles will want to stock up on this and earlier Carlyle titles as well. And readers who have read all of Gayle Lynds's thrillers might want to try Rimington. [Ebook ISBN 978-0-307-59375-7.]-Barbara Conaty, Falls Church, VA (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

Publishers Weekly Review

In Rimington's fine fourth spy thriller to feature MI5 officer Liz Carlyle (after Illegal Asset), the 35-year-old counterespionage agent takes the lead in unraveling disturbing intelligence received from MI6 regarding a plot to disrupt an upcoming Middle East peace conference in Scotland. According to a Syrian source, a Lebanese businessman living in London and a freelance journalist are suspected of planning to lay the blame for the projected attack on Syria. With the high-profile conference quickly approaching, every clue raises more questions for Liz, who begins to wonder if the intelligence wasn't all just disinformation. Liz's intuition proves correct when she uncovers an ingenious conspiracy that, if successful, could throw the entire Middle East into chaos. Rimington, the former director general of MI5, can be a bit methodical at points, but the impressively Ludlumesque plot will keep readers blissfully turning the pages until the end. (July) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

Booklist Review

Rimington brings a great deal of credibility to her espionage thrillers she worked in MI,5, Britain's intelligence agency, for 27 years and was serving as director general of the agency at the time of her retirement in 1996. She has mined that experience in an autobiography published in the UK, Open Secret (2001), and three previous spy novels starring MI5 officer Liz Carlyle. This time Carlyle is the pivot point for a tale involving a plot to disrupt an upcoming Mideast peace conference in Gleneagles, Scotland. Much of the novel constitutes MI5's build-up to the conference. What could be tedious in another author's hands is absolutely sweat-inducing in Rimington's, as she guides readers through the terrorist plot, the intelligence counterplot, and the protocol involved in staging a conference. A secondary story line stems from Carlyle herself an old friend asks her to check out the young admirer of the mother-in-law, who may be involved in Israeli intelligence. Fast moving, engrossing, and well constructed.--Fletcher, Connie Copyright 2010 Booklist

Kirkus Book Review

Who's trying to torpedo the latest round of Mideast peace talks?According to Peter Templeton, head of MI6's Cyprus station, a trusted source has told him that two men, Lebanese importer Sami Veshara and freelance journalist Chris Marcham, plan to subvert the peace conference scheduled at a quiet Scottish shooting resort and cast the blame on Syria. The questions for Liz Carlyle and her counter-espionage colleagues in MI5 are clear: Is the intelligence credible? If it is, what exactly is the nature of the threat? What motives do the two accused conspirators have? Finally, given the stakes of the conference, should MI5 let Syria's secret service deal with the alleged plotters, or protect and interrogate them? But none of these questions is easy to answer because, in Liz's world, nothing is quite what it seems. Marcham's relationship with Alexander Ledingham, who's fascinated with churches, has a dark side. American divorce Hannah Gold's new friendship with Israeli trade attach Danny Kollek bears closer examination. Aleppo, the hot new intelligence source for Ben Ahmad, of Syrian counter-terrorism, is more mysterious and powerful than any source Ahmad has used before. The wires are crossed between Andy Bokus, the head of the CIA's London office, and Charles Wetherby, Liz's boss at MI5, but not for the reasons they think. Liz is even wrong about Edward Treglown, the new man in her mother's life. Sorting through the thicket of plots and red herringssome planted by a devious and manipulative villain, others less forgivably tossed in by Rimington herselfLiz, together with her friend Peggy Kinsolving and debonair Miles Brookhaven of the CIA, identifies the likely source of the trouble just in time for the obligatory action-packed showdown in the Scottish hills.A lumpy tale with a retro baddie and too many subplots, but still a step up from Illegal Action (2008). Maybe Liz, who's certainly earned it, needs some time to herself. Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.