Available:*
Library | Call Number | Status |
---|---|---|
Searching... Hardwood Creek Library (Forest Lake) | FICTION BEL | Searching... Unknown |
Searching... Park Grove Library (Cottage Grove) | FICTION BEL | Searching... Unknown |
Searching... Valley Library (Lakeland) | FICTION BEL | Searching... Unknown |
Bound With These Titles
On Order
Summary
Summary
Swashbuckling counter Spy Alex Hawke returns inNew York Timesbestselling author Ted Bell's most explosive tale of international suspense to date.There dwells, somewhere in Russia, a man so powerful no one even knows his name. His existence is only speculated upon, only whispered about in American corridors of power and CIA strategy meetings. Though he is all but invisible, he is pulling strings -- and pulling them hard. For suddenly, Russia is a far, far more ominous threat than even the most hardened cold warriors ever thought possible.The Russians have their finger on the switch to the European economy and an eye on the American jugular. And, most importantly, they want to be made whole again. Should America interfere with Russia's plans to "reintegrate" her rogue states, well then, America will pay in blood.In Ted Bell's latest pulse-pounding and action-packed tour de force, Alex Hawke must face a global nightmare of epic proportions. As this political crisis plays out, Russia gains a new leader. Not just a president, but a new tsar, a signal to the world that the old, imperial Russia is back and plans to have her day. And in America, a mysterious killer, known only as Happy the Baker, brutally murders an innocent family and literally flattens the small Midwestern town they once called home. Just a taste, according to the new tsar, of what will happen if America does not back down. Onto this stage must step Alex Hawke, espionage agent extraordinaire and the only man, both Americans and the Brits agree, who can stop the absolute madness borne and bred inside the modern police state of Vladimir Putin's 'New Russia'.
Author Notes
Ted Bell received a B.A. in English from Randolph-Macon College in Virginia. Before becoming a full-time writer in 2001, he was president and chief creative officer of the Leo Burnett Company. He was later named vice-chairman of the board and world-wide creative director of Young and Rubicam, one of the world's largest advertising agencies. He won numerous awards for his work including Clios and Cannes Gold Lions. At age 25 he sold his first Hollywood screenplay, Screamathon, to producers Joel Michaels and Garth Drabinsky. He wrote the Alex Hawke series and the Nick McIver Adventures through Time series. He made The New York Times Best Seller List with his title Warriors.
On January 20, 2023, he died of an intracerebral hemorrhage at the age of 76.
(Bowker Author Biography)
Reviews (3)
Publisher's Weekly Review
In bestseller Bell's rousing fifth thriller (after Spy), Alex Hawke fights the leaders of a new and invigorated Russia, where Vladimir Putin has been locked up in a lethal prison built over a massive radioactive waste site. Evil mastermind Count Ivan Korsakov (aka the Dark Rider) is determined to return Mother Russia to her rightful place in the world order by reacquiring her former colonies, after which he intends to conquer Europe and reign as the new tsar. The only thing standing in his way is Hawke, who, as series fans well know, is more than up to the task of thwarting those who try to take over the globe. Life throws Hawke a curve when he finds himself falling in love with the astoundingly beautiful Anastasia, who just happens to be Korsakov's daughter. As always, Bell pulls out all the stops with terrific action scenes, fiendish murders, diabolical villains, dramatic rescues and all the cool weaponry the reader could possibly hope for. (Sept.) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved All rights reserved.
Booklist Review
The hero of Ted Bell's spy series, Alex Hawke, battles treachery and love in his fifth adventure. Recuperating in Bermuda from the major injuries he received in Spy (2006), Alex is lounging on a beach when a ravishing beauty appears. His heart flutters, and he is smitten. She is the daughter of the ruthless power broker in the new Russia a man who wants to destroy the U.S. and become the next tsar. In the meantime, a sadistic killer in the heartland of America unleashes his wrath, and a small town pays the price. Now Hawke must put aside his feelings for his new love and (once again) save the world. One subplot too many and the overplayed cliché of every woman in the novel being drop-dead gorgeous get in the way here, but even so, the main narrative flies by, displaying again Bell's ability to turn out action-heavy espionage.--Ayers, Jeff Copyright 2008 Booklist
Library Journal Review
In Bell's fifth thriller starring Alexander Hawke, the British lord and spy has recovered from his last mission (Spy) and is relaxing on a Bermuda beach when he encounters Anastasia Korsakova, a beautiful Russian artist. Her father, a count, is about to receive the Nobel Prize in physics. Among his inventions are a fabulous airship with a new mode of propulsion and the Zeta, a computer that costs only $50. What Hawke doesn't know is that the count also happens to be a virtual tsar, secretly ruling the Russian Federation behind the president's back. Now, Russian troops are massed on the borders of the Soviet Union's former states, and a deadly agent has been sent to wreak havoc on an American town, only the first steps in a drive for global conquest. Yes, as one character puts it, the bad old days are back, Cold War II. Only now the once cozy equilibrium between East and West no longer holds. Hawke and his band of brothers may save the day but not without sacrifice. Many thriller writers come up with doomsday scenarios, most farfetched and unbelievable, but Bell delivers with larger-than-life characters full of elan and a threat that is both ingenious and convincing. Recommended for public libraries.--Ron Terpening, Univ. of Arizona, Tucson (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Excerpts
Excerpts
1 Bermuda, present day War and peace. In Alexander Hawke's experience, life usually boiled down to one or the other. Like his namesake late father, a hero much decorated for his daring Cold War exploits against the Soviets, Hawke greatly favored peace but was notoriously adept at war. Whenever and wherever in the world his rather exotic skill set was required, Alex Hawke gladly sallied forth. Cloak donned, dagger to hand, he would jubilantly enter and reenter the eternal fray. He was thirty-three years old. A good age, by his accounts, not too young and not too old. A fine balance of youth and experience, if one could be so bold. Alex Hawke, let it first be said, was a creature of radiant violence. Attack came naturally to him; the man was all fire. Shortly after his squalling birth, his very English father had declared to Kitty, his equally American mother, "He seems to me a boy born with a heart ready for any fate. I only wonder what ballast will balance all that bloody sail." He was normally a cool, rather detached character, but Alex Hawke's simmering blood could roil to a rapid boil at very short notice. Oddly enough, his true nature was not readily apparent to the casual observer. Someone who chanced to meet him, say, on an evening's stroll through Berkeley Square would find him an amiable, even jolly chap. He might even be whistling a chirrupy tune about nightingales or some such. There was an easy grace about the man, a cheery nonchalance, a faint look of amusement uncorrupted by self-satisfaction about the eyes. But it was Hawke's "What the hell" grin, a look so freighted with charm that no woman, and even few men, could resist, that made him who he was. Hawke was noticeable. A big man with a heroic head, he stood well north of six feet and worked hard at a strict exercise regimen to keep himself extremely fit. His face was finely modeled, its character deeply etched by the myriad wonders and doubts of his inner experience. His glacial blue eyes were brilliant, and the play of his expression had a flashing range, from the merriment and charm with which he charged his daily conversation to a profound earnestness. His demeanor quickly could assume a tragic and powerful look, which could make even a trivial topic suddenly assume new and enlightening importance. He had a full head of rather untamable jet-black hair, a high, clear brow, and a straight, imperious nose. Below it was a strong chin and a well-sculpted mouth with just a hint of come-hither cruelty at the corners. Picture a hale fellow well met whom men wanted to stand a drink and whom women much preferred horizontal. He'd been dozing on a pristine Bermuda beach for the better part of an hour. It was a hot day, a day that was shot blue all through. The fluttering eyelids and the thin smile on Hawke's salt-parched lips belied the rather exotic dream he was having. Suddenly, some noise from above, perhaps the dolphinlike clicking of a long-tailed petrel, startled him from his reverie. He cracked one eye, then the other, smiling at the fleeting memory of sexual bliss still imprinted on the back of his mind. Erotic images, fleshy nymphs of pink and creamy white, fled quickly as he raised his head and peered alertly at the brightness of the real world through two fiercely narrowed blue eyes. Just inside the reef line, a white sail shivered and flipped to leeward. As he watched the graceful little Bermuda sloop, the sail turned to windward again, and from across the water he distinctly heard a sound he loved, the ruffle and snap of canvas. No question about this time and place in his life, he thought, gazing at the gently lapping surf: my blue heaven . Here on this sunlit mid-Atlantic isle, peace abounded. These, finally, were the "blue days" he had longed for. His most recent "red" period, a rather dodgy affair involving a madman named Papa Top and armies of Hezbollah jihadistas deep in the Amazon, was mercifully fading from memory. Every new blue day pushed those fearful memories deeper into the depths of his consciousness, and for that he was truly grateful. He rolled over easily onto his back. The sugary sand, like pinkish talc, was warm beneath his bare skin. He must have drifted off after his most recent swim. Hmm . He linked his hands behind his still damp head and breathed deeply, the fresh salt air filling his lungs. The sun was still high in the azure Bermuda sky. He lifted his arm to gaze lazily at his dive watch. It was just after two o'clock in the afternoon. A smile flitted across his lips as he contemplated the remainder of the day's schedule. He had nothing on this evening save a quiet dinner with his closest friend, Ambrose Congreve, and Congreve's fiancée, Diana Mars, at eight. He licked the dried salt from his lips, closed his eyes, and let the sun take his naked body. His refuge was a small cove of crystalline turquoise water. Wavelets slid up and over dappled pinkish sand before retreating to regroup and charge once more. This tiny bay, perhaps a hundred yards across at its mouth, was invisible from the coast road. The South Road, as it was called, had been carved into the jagged coral and limestone centuries earlier and extended all the way along the coast to Somerset and the Royal Naval Dockyard. Fringed with flourishing green mangrove and sea-grape, Hawke's little crescent of paradise was indistinguishable from countless coves just like it stretching east and west along the southern coast of Bermuda. The only access was from the sea. After months of visiting the cove undisturbed, he'd begun to think of the spot as his own. He'd even nicknamed it "Bloody Bay" because he was usually so bloody exhausted when he arrived there after a 3-mile swim. Hawke had chosen Bermuda carefully. He saw it as an ideal spot to nurse his wounds and heal his battered psyche. Situated in the mid-Atlantic, roughly equidistant between his twin capitals of London and Washington, Bermuda was quaintly civilized, featured balmy weather and a happy-go-lucky population, and it was somewhere few of his acquaintances, friend or foe, would ever think to look for him. In the year before, his bout of nasty scrapes in the Amazon jungles had included skirmishes with various tropical fevers that had nearly taken his life. But after six idyllic months of marinating in this tropic sea and air, he concluded that he'd never felt better in his life. Even with a modest daily intake of Mr. Gosling's elixir, called by the natives black rum, he had somehow gotten his six-foot-plus frame down to his fighting weight of 180. He now had a deep tan and a flat belly, and he felt just fine. In his early thirties, he felt twenty if a day. Hawke had taken refuge in a small, somewhat dilapidated beach cottage. The old house, originally a sugar mill, was perched, some might say precariously, above the sea a few miles west of his current location. He had gotten into the very healthy habit of swimming to this isolated beach every day. Three miles twice daily was not excessive and not a bad addition to his normal workout routine, which included a few hundred situps and pullups, not to mention serious weight training. His privacy thus ensured, his habit at his private beach was to shed his swimsuit once he'd arrived. He'd made a ritual of stripping it off and hanging it on a nearby mangrove branch. Then a few hours sunning au naturel , as our French cousins would have it. He was normally a modest man, but the luxuriant feeling of cool air and sunlight on parts not normally exposed was too delightful to be denied. He'd gotten so accustomed to this new regime that the merest idea of wearing trunks here would seem superfluous, ridiculous even. And -- what? He stared with disbelieving eyes. What the bloody hell was that? Copyright (c) 2008 by Theodore A. Bell Excerpted from Tsar: A Thriller by Ted Bell 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.