By Jack Higgins
A veteran agent is going undercover to prevent a wave of legal escapes orchestrated by way of a sinister legal community The vintage Jack Higgins thriller
A mysterious guy referred to as the Baron is the mastermind at the back of a spate of bold jailbreaks that experience set the British Intelligence provider on part. simply Paul Chavasse, an excellent operative who can imagine like a legal, can hinder the get away of one other of Britain's most deadly inmates. Chavasse needs to pose as a prisoner and win the belief of Harry Youngblood, a disappointed member of the Baron's internal circle. The project sends Chavasse and Youngblood on a perilous trip via a dismal legal underworld as they race to thwart the plot of an evil mastermind.
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Additional info for Dark Side of the Street (Paul Chavasse, Book 5)
I am asking you to present a false face to your hosts, and an honest man should pause before taking on such a role. But remember, Bruno, whenever you feel the wrench between conscience and duty, your care should always be for the greater good. ” He looked puzzled. ” I was silent for a moment while he regarded me through narrowed eyes. “We do not punish men for their beliefs here, Bruno. Her Majesty once eloquently declared that she had no desire to make windows into men’s souls, and nor do I. ” I asked pointedly.
But you must be careful, my friend—he collected many of these manuscripts of ancient magic during the destruction of the monastic libraries, and he is called a necromancer and worse for it, not just by the common people. And he is a native Englishman, and the queen’s own astrologer too. ” He stepped back and looked at me with curiosity. ” “When I was living in Paris, I learned that it was brought out of Florence at the end of the last century and, if my adviser spoke the truth, it was taken by an English collector to one of the great libraries here, where it lies unremarked because no one who has handled it has understood its significance.
He pressed into my hand a small bone-handled dagger in a leather sheath. I looked at him in surprise. “It was a gift from my father,” he whispered. “You will have more need of it than I, where you are going. And now, sbrigati. ” The narrow window of our cell was just large enough for me to squeeze myself onto the ledge, one leg at a time. We were on the first floor of the building, but about six feet below the window the sloping roof of the lay brothers’ reredorter jutted out enough for me to land on it if I judged the fall carefully; from there I could edge my way down a buttress and, assuming I could make it across the garden without being seen, climb the outside wall of the monastery and disappear into the streets of Naples under cover of darkness.