By William Diehl

Because the global trembles with the procedure of global warfare II, a girl dies by the hands of Hitler's henchmen. Her homicide without end adjustments her lover, Francis Scott Keegan, a continuing anti-Nazi mercenary, who turns into locked in a determined cat-and-mouse video game with the 3rd Reich's ideal secret agent, a guy of 1000 faces. In an enviornment that encompasses presidents and gangsters, spies and sirens, the lethal current and the darkish prior, Keegan pursues his elusive quarry into the innovative of global events—and into the key internal workings of a terrifying challenge identified merely as "27."

"The top ebook of its sort because the DAY OF THE JACKAL...Edge-of-the-seat stuff."--PEOPLE

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Sidney Sheldon
"A rip-roaring rollercoaster of suspense, riveting from starting to end."

Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
Diehl integrates old occasions akin to Hitler's upward thrust to strength and Dillinger's financial institution robberies into this mystery a few heroic ex-bootlegger and his nemesis, agent 27, a Nazi making plans to kidnap a few of America's strongest males. ``Despite a few inconceivable coincidences, his solidly researched story is suspenseful, creative and, in areas, deeply moving,'' stated PW.

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Sample text

Sieg heil! Sieg heil! ” But it was that night, when Hitler made his speech, that Ingersoll recognized the true power of the man. Thousands crowded into the town square, their faces transfixed in the flickering light of torches, hypnotized by the sound of his voice and by the stern discipline of his stare. It was a Gothic opera, a blend of choreography chorus and aria that both chilled and excited the actor. What had been called the Führer’s Fingerspitzengefuhl, his ‘fingertip touch, “ was immediately obvious to Ingersoll.

He usually arrived with only a small, black suitcase, ran up impressive bills, stayed only one night and always paid in British pounds. He went up to the suite, checked it out, then left the hotel immediately to begin cruising the Helgestrasse in his Mercedes. Driving through the dark streets, he was light-headed with anticipation. Less than two blocks from the hotel he passed four brownshirts standing in front of a jewelry store. One held an old Jewish man by the collar while two others stood with their faces inches from his, berating the old man, who was wearing a yarmulke.

And he hated the Jews who bought his postcards. He hated them because they had pitied him. Pity was a word that turned to ashes in his mouth. Well, nobody, nobody laughed at him anymore. Five nights before he had stood in the window of the Chancellery for four hours while thousands marched by under torchlight, screaming his name and singing the “Horst Wessel” song, the Nazi anthem. The excitement of that night still clung to him. Now they threw flowers at his feet, exhibited his early architectural paintings in a special section of the Vienna museum, raised their arms in stiff salute and howled Hell Hitler when he drove through the city.

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