The Isis Crisis - Hardcover

St George, Mark

Hardcover

ISBN 10: 0962054119 ISBN 13: 9780962054112

Publisher: Proteus, 1999

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MYSTERY CULT OF FEMALE ASSASSINS LAUNCHES ARMAGEDDON

Developed by women active in Her Majesty's Foreign Service in the Middle East, ISIS targets male tabloid celebrities and operates now under an umbrella of nuclear endgames.

Jack Obermann, Rhodes Scholar and NFL Pro quarterback, is recruited by family friend Admiral Chronus, Deputy Director CIA, to track the ISIS ladies through the playgrounds of Europe. His unofficial mission leads finally to a deadly confrontation with the Bomb and Michelle Lovelace.

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About the Author:

MARK ST GEORGE is a Los Angeles-based writer with a background in Law, Real Estate and Financial Markets, with a J.D. degree from Southwestern University School of Law. Originally from Raleigh, North Carolina, he has also been an actor, a New York cab driver, a cross-country biker (motorcycles) and a construction worker. He presently has (6) titles published under the imprint Proteus, with a forthcoming Mystery Adventure "TWYLLA" due in July.

THE ISIS CRISIS

[Excerpt]

"Sas parakalo, ehete tin ora?"

"I'm sorry, I don't speak Greek."

"The time. Do you have the time?" asked the man.

"Yes, it's almost four. What do you want?"

"My. No need to get huffy. I thought you might allow me to buy you a drink. Frightfully warm this afternoon, wouldn't you say?"

Ben Talaat checked his fury toward the man. Of all times to get hustled by a queer. He started to get up and leave the cafe, then reconsidered.

"Sure. That would be nice. Why don't you have a seat?"

"Why, thank you. I was rather hoping I'd get a chance to practice my Greek-- no pun intended-- but a pleasant acquaintanceship would be just as nice," said the man.

Ben Talaat nodded. The man sat in the white ironwork chair beside him. His eyes probed the parade of faces passing on the sidewalk. The man was talking to him.

"I'm sorry, what did you say?"

"I was saying, what a lovely avgolemoni soup they have at the Tabula. Do you know it?"

"No. I've never been there," said Ben Talaat.

A group of four longhairs was passing out pamphlets among the caf� patrons. One of the two girls, dark with turquoise bangles on her arms, offered a pair of Scientology brochures.

"It's never too late to develop your full potential," smiled the girl.

Ben Talaat waved her away.

"It's beastly the way one gets accosted in public these days," sniffed the man. "I've found it's the same in all the major cities now. Rather like Blackpool on a Saturday night."

"Where are you staying?" asked Ben Talaat.

"Oh my. Well, heh-heh. I thought you'd never ask," said the man. "I have a lovely set of rooms at the Meridien, just up the street. There's certainly space enough for two. If you like, we could have a drink there later this evening."

"Why not now? Let's go now."

"Well, you don't beat about the bush, do you? My name's Hillary. Are you Lebanese?"

"We can talk as we go, Hillary. Come on, the service here is terrible."

Ben Talaat escorted the man through the swarm of tables to the sidewalk.

They turned toward the corner. They passed other sidewalk cafes with patrons sipping cool drinks in the afternoon sun.

The Israeli put his arm around the other man's shoulders, smiling. They crossed with the light and proceeded up Perikleous Street toward the Meridien.

"You might at least tell me your name, you know," said Hillary, chuckling. "My God, I hope you're not a policeman."

"I assure you not, Hillary. You can call me Robert."

"I've always felt that Robert's a very robust name. I have a nephew named Robert, who teaches beekeeping in the Cotswolds," said Hillary. "Have you ever. . . ."

Ben Talaat had not seen the VW Minibus. It was shielded by a furniture van proceeding along the avenue toward them.

He was scanning the front entrance of the Grand Bretagne up the block when a searing jolt of pain slammed into his right ribcage. The pain traversed his chest cavity, thudding against a far rib.

He was staggered by the impact of the silent projectile. His knees quickly buckled. The sounds of traffic on the avenue became fluid in his head. Another shot caught him mid-spine, causing the sounds to dance crazily as his vision faded into nothingness.

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