An American Spyby Olen Steinhauer
In Olen Steinhauer’s bestseller The Tourist, reluctant CIA agent Milo Weaver uncovered a conspiracy linking the Chinese government to the highest reaches of the American intelligence community, including his own Department of Tourism-the most clandestine department in the Company. The shocking blowback arrived in the Hammett Awardwinning
In Olen Steinhauer’s bestseller The Tourist, reluctant CIA agent Milo Weaver uncovered a conspiracy linking the Chinese government to the highest reaches of the American intelligence community, including his own Department of Tourism-the most clandestine department in the Company. The shocking blowback arrived in the Hammett Awardwinning The Nearest Exit when the Department of Tourism was almost completely wiped out as the result of an even more insidious plot.
Following on the heels of these two spectacular novels comes An American Spy, Olen Steinhauer’s most stunning thriller yet. With only a handful of “tourists”-CIA-trained assassins-left, Weaver would like to move on and use this as an opportunity to regain a normal life, a life focused on his family. His former boss in the CIA, Alan Drummond, can’t let it go. When Alan uses one of Milo’s compromised aliases to travel to London and then disappears, calling all kinds of attention to his actions, Milo can’t help but go in search of him.
Worse still, it's beginning to look as if Tourism's enemies are gearing up for a final, fatal blow.
With An American Spy, Olen Steinhauer, by far the best espionage writer in a generation, delivers a searing international thriller that will settle once and for all who is pulling the strings and who is being played.
The New York Times Book Review
The Washington Post
“David Pittu's careful, taut narration makes it possible for listeners to follow every move of the array of agents and spymasters – Chinese, American, even some Germans. His accents are carefully modulated and punctuate passages with authentic precision. Listeners new to the series will be hooked and will want to explore more of this excellent espionage series in the vein of John le Carré and Len Deighton” AudioFile Magazine, winner of AudioFile Earphones Award
“Like the two novels that precede it, this one is richly populated with characters of shifting loyalties from many lands, an assembly that demands a range of accents and voices: German, Eastern European, African, Chinese and American of both sexes. David Pittu executes them all…he transfers his voice from person to person in the book's many conversations (and interrogations) with dexterity, leaving the listener in no doubt as to who's speaking.” The Washington Post
Read an Excerpt
An American Spy
By Olen Steinhauer
Minotaur BooksCopyright © 2012 Olen Steinhauer
All right reserved.
The time Xin Zhu spent trying to be unheard could have added up to an entire life. Hours driving extra laps through a city, watching the rearview; accumulated minutes gazing into street-window reflections and standing in queues for bread or soup he didn’t even want because his stomach was in knots. Sitting behind desks, thinking through cover stories and diversions and wondering how long ago his office was last scoured for bugs. Visits to cemeteries and bars and churches and empty warehouses and parking garages, only to find that his date wasn’t going to show up. Meals lost sitting for hours in dark rooms, in airports and train stations and wet public squares, waiting.
Then today, driving the dull hour and a half from Beijing to Nankai along the G020, ditching his ten-year-old Audi and taking a taxi to the train station in tree-lined Xiqing. Waiting on the platform until the Qingdao train started to roll before heaving his large body and small gray overnight bag onto the last car. Hovering in the doorway as the station passed, watching for latecomers. All this, even though this same train began life in south Beijing, not so far from where his journey began. All this, just to meet someone who, like him, lived and worked in Beijing.
The story, which his assistant could be depended on to proliferate, was that Xin Zhu was on a weekend trip to Shanghai to gain 665 miles of perspective and consider his dwindling options. By the time the masters in Beijing realized—if they realized—that the big, silent man checking into Shanghai’s Pudong Shangri-La was not Xin Zhu, it would be too late.
As the train headed southeast on its five-hour itinerary, he worked his way toward the front. He was a conspicuously fat man, and when he came upon others either he or they had to squeeze into a spare seat to allow space to pass. Newspapers, covered with photos of devastation—Sichuan province, annihilation by earthquake—were folded noisily to let him by. Occasionally, when coming upon young women with children, he offered a smile of sympathy as he raised his bag above his head, and they wedged themselves past each other. Finally, he found a pair of free seats in the front row of a clean, beige-paneled car. Zhu lifted the armrest between them and settled down gratefully before spotting more photos on more newspapers, rubble and weeping.
There was no other subject in the country, which almost made him feel guilty for this excursion. Four days ago, an earthquake had struck Wenchuan, in eastern Sichuan province, powerful enough to be felt more than a thousand miles away in the capital. The nation had mobilized. Nearly a hundred thousand soldiers were deployed, two thousand Health Ministry medical staff, a hundred and fifty aircraft. The confirmed dead totaled twenty thousand, but the published estimate was at least fifty thousand, which was probably low. In the face of that, what did the future of one fat spy matter?
As he waited for his breathing to ebb and the fine layer of sweat over his blunt features to evaporate, the ash-colored outskirts of Xiqing passed. The air was better here, and would only grow cleaner as they neared the coast. He, too, felt cleaner, being out of the capital. He always felt better in the field.
The conductor, a pleasant-looking woman in an immaculate blue uniform, darkened when he said that he wanted to buy a ticket from her. “You boarded with no ticket?”
“Last-minute change in plans. I had no choice.”
“We always have a choice.”
He could have ended the discussion by producing his Guoanbu ID, but instead he said, “My choice was to board the train or let my mother die.”
“She’ll die if she doesn’t see your face?”
“The Qingdao hospital is out of blood. She’ll die if I don’t give her mine.”
He could tell from her eyes that she didn’t believe him—at least, she didn’t want to believe him. She finally said, “You think you can move into one seat?”
Zhu opened his hands to display his girth. “Plainly impossible.”
“Then you’ll have to pay for two seats.”
She was modern in her hairstyle and speech, but Zhu recognized her lineage in the millions of petty dictators China had produced during the Cultural Revolution. Rules as badges, laws as weapons. He said, “Then I will pay for two seats,” and reached for his wallet.
As the hours and the sinking landscape passed, he tried to put both Wenchuan and his personal troubles out of his head and watched the young couples that boarded and disembarked at each stop. They looked nothing like the peasant couples of his youth—they had clean teeth, fine clothes, modest jewelry, cell phones, and the sparkle of life about them, as if they could very clearly see what tomorrow looked like and were undeterred. He admired such optimism, even as the newspapers denied it with grisly photographs of collapsed buildings and helmeted workers digging through rubble to find corpses. The whole nation, perhaps the whole world, was watching as hope faded, and Xin Zhu was riding a train to the coast, rather than westward, to work alongside the volunteers. The first step toward helping others, he reflected with only a touch of self-consciousness, is to ensure your own survival.
As they left Jinan, one of his cell phones buzzed. “Shen An-ling,” he said into it, his tone one of a man on vacation, “Shanghai is beautiful.”
“So I’ve heard, Xin Zhu,” came his assistant’s thin voice. “I have also heard that, while you’ve checked into the hotel, you’ve barricaded yourself in the room. Might I suggest taking in the sights?”
Shen An-ling was pushing the cover a little too hard, which meant that he wasn’t alone. “For the thinking I have to do, distractions will just get in the way.”
“Nature, time, and patience are the three great physicians,” Shen An-ling said, banally—and uncharacteristically—quoting proverb. “Don’t think it can be rushed. You should get some air.”
“I’ll open the window. Is the office running smoothly?”
“We’ve been honored by a visit from Yang Qing-Nian.”
Of course—Yang Qing-Nian, the right hand of Wu Liang. Who else would have asked why Xin Zhu was not leaving his hotel room? “Does he bring good news from the Supervision and Liaison Committee?”
“He brings good wishes … and a request for you to visit the committee at nine o’clock on Monday morning.”
“I look forward to it,” Zhu said with as much conviction as he could muster. “Make sure Yang Qing-Nian is comfortable. The best tea for Yang Qing-Nian.”
His thoughts now utterly derailed, he hung up and took from his bag a small box of rice balls his young wife had prepared. He began to eat them, one by one, imagining Yang Qing-Nian in his Haidian District office, sniffing and touching everything, storing every detail away for his report to Wu Liang. The place is a mess. They work like English clerks, noses to their screens. Stuffy, no open windows, and it stinks of cigarettes and peanut sauce. The place could do with a good cleaning.
The irony was that Yang Qing-Nian and his master, Wu Liang, believed that they, in themselves, were enough to inspire fear. They believed that the appearance of Yang Qing-Nian, or anyone from the Ministry of Public Security, the domestic intelligence service, could throw him off his game, or leave him worrying all weekend in Shanghai about a Monday morning scolding. Were they his only worry, he actually would be in Shanghai, at a rooftop bar, enjoying a cognac and a Hamlet. Instead, all he could do now was ask a passing uniformed girl for one of her overpriced bottles of water.
It was nearly five when they pulled into Qingdao Station, which had been renovated for the Olympic boating competitions that would descend in the coming months. As he wandered the platform, bumping into hunched men lighting cigarettes, he gazed up at the freshly ubiquitous spiderweb ceiling of steel and glass. How much had it cost? With all the bribes and evictions that had riddled the great cities’ expensive facelifts, no one knew for sure. Then, across the hall, he saw a long but orderly queue leading to a temporary Red Cross counter, handing over donations. Yesterday, the newspapers reported that donations for the earthquake victims had reached 1.3 billion yuan. Zhu walked toward the counter, paused, then approached a wet-faced old woman near the front of the line and gave her ten hundred-yuan notes, about 150 dollars, to add to her offering. She was speechless.
Outside, a bright late-afternoon sun was tempered by the Yellow Sea breeze. He set down his bag, took out a cigar tin, and lit a filtered Hamlet before joining a crowd of young people crossing Feixian Road. They passed two bright, packed restaurants—Kentucky Fried Chicken and McDonald’s—on their way to Bathing Beach #6. The teenagers raised their voices and hurried down to the water, while he remained on the sidewalk, smoking and watching their lean, young bodies prance across the sand and dive into the sea.
Though his own people had been from the mountains, he had always felt sympathy for coastal people. They shared the pragmatic objectivity of their mountain brothers. He watched the out-of-towners flop in the water while the stoic locals looked on and sold them fried things from steaming carts.
The #501 bus was half empty, and he took a pair of seats in the back for the hour-long journey. An entire life could be filled doing these things.
The sun was low in the west when he got out in front of a high-rise on a broad avenue in Laoshan, at the foot of Laoshan Mountain. He was one of five passengers to disembark: two old women, a nervous pregnant woman, and a teenaged boy in a camouflage T-shirt. The old women left the bus stop together, the teenager was met by his mother, and the pregnant woman was met by no one. She sat on the bench, an empty polypropylene bag clutched to her large stomach, and lowered her eyes to the ground. She was, he suspected, crying.
Behind the high-rise he found the inconspicuous dirty-white Citroën Fukang in a small lot full of a variety of makes in a variety of conditions. Behind the wheel, a fifty-six-year-old man smoked with his eyes closed.
“Wake up, Zhang Guo,” said Zhu.
Zhang Guo didn’t jump; he was too full of himself for that. It was one of his most wonderful traits. Instead, he cracked his eyes and said, “You’re late.”
“Not by much.”
“This whole thing is ridiculous, you know.”
“So you’re doing well, Zhang Guo?”
“The doctor says my prostate is preparing to explode.”
Zhu tossed his overnight bag through the open rear window, then went around to the passenger’s door. As he climbed in, the car groaning on its shocks, he said, “So things are about normal for you.”
“I should be back in Beijing now, with Chi Shanshan; might as well fill my last days with her.”
“I think she’ll manage a day without your loving ways. Your wife will be the one suffering.”
“How about Sung Hui? Is she as beautiful as last summer?”
“More so. She sleeps a lot.”
“Good for her, but not for you.”
“Perhaps it is good; my prostate is fine.”
Zhang Guo flicked his cigarette out the window, then started the car. “It’s remarkable how a man with less time than me can make jokes.”
Zhu stared through a crack in the windshield at overgrown grass and more high-rises.
Zhang Guo said, “I’m not driving up the mountain.”
“It’s a good place to be alone.”
“So is this car.”
“Then let’s drive around the mountain.”
Zhang Guo sighed, put the car in reverse, and pulled out.
They began talking while they were still in town, stopping behind trucks and cars in worse shape than their Citroën, idling at lights as clouds of black exhaust billowed around them. Zhu brought up the earthquake, and they compared bleak estimates of fatalities, wondering aloud whom they knew in Sichuan, and which ones they’d heard from. It was a dismal topic, as well as unconstructive—the dead would not be raised by their concern—so Zhu asked some personal questions, giving Zhang Guo license to complain about life in his prestigious neighborhood of Beijing’s Dongcheng District, his unbearable wife, his jealous mistress, and the atmosphere of paranoia that was enveloping the Supervision and Liaison Committee. “It’s a place full of bad news,” he said as they finally left town and started down the seaside highway that skirted the base of Laoshan Mountain and its famous spirits. To their right, the Yellow Sea opened.
“You heard about Wu Liang?” asked Zhang Guo.
“That he’s preparing to destroy me?”
“The other thing.”
“He’s taking over Olympic security.”
“And it’s a smart decision. Jiang Luoke wasn’t organized enough.”
“Jiang Luoke made the truce with al Qaeda.”
“Which is only as good as the paper it’s written on.”
“It’s not written on any paper.”
Zhu clapped his hands twice.
Zhang Guo leaned into a turn as they entered the mountain’s shadow. “Maybe we should have pushed your name,” he said lightly, then shook his head. “Oh, that’s right. You’re the one who started a war with the CIA, then accused the esteemed Ministry of Public Security of harboring CIA vipers. I’d forgotten.”
“You’re being melodramatic.”
“Xin Zhu, you killed three dozen CIA agents.”
“Not quite. A few got away.”
Zhang Guo showed him a pair of raised brows and flat yellow teeth, then returned to the road. “Of course, your mistake wasn’t slaughtering the CIA. It was letting our masters learn of it.”
“I didn’t tell anyone.”
Again, those eyes and teeth. “I’m guessing that your assistant, the one with the girl’s name, boasted like a peacock after too many glasses of baijiu.”
“An-ling is a unisex name. It’s the kind of name you get when you’re cursed with parents from the artist class.”
“This is what happens when you hire from the artist class, Xin Zhu.”
“Shen An-ling said nothing.”
Zhang Guo took a dark, heavy hand off the wheel and patted at his shirt pockets until he’d found another cigarette. “The point,” he said after slipping it between his lips, “is that Wu Liang has you cornered. He’s got his ministry as well as the whole committee in a panic. Yang Qing-Nian is boasting that he’ll get you dismissed.”
“Yang Qing-Nian is a child, and he’s terrified of the CIA.”
“We’re all terrified of the CIA. All except you, of course. People think you’ve gone mad. You realize that, don’t you?”
Through squinted eyes, Zhu gazed at the long mountain shadow reaching across the water, smothering rocks and sailboats and white brushstrokes of wave. If he was mad, would he know? Or would it only take a coordinated effort by those he’d angered over the years to give him a proper diagnosis? Wu Liang and Yang Qing-Nian of the Ministry of Public Security, both ranking members of the Supervision and Liaison Committee, the Party organ that, among other things, oversaw discipline in their particular profession. Zhang Guo was also a member of that committee, from the Supreme People’s Procuratorate, while Xin Zhu was merely a Guoanbu foot soldier. Could men such as these properly diagnose something he would never see in himself?
He said, “The committee also thinks the future of espionage lies in hacking California tech companies. They’re afraid of their own shadows.”
“That’s possible,” Zhang Guo said, “but now you’ve dragged me out to the edge of the country because you’re afraid of them. What are we doing here?”
“The committee wants to talk to me on Monday morning.”
“Does this surprise you?” When Zhu didn’t answer, he said, “They want to know what all of us want to know, Xin Zhu. They want to know why. Why you set up a mole inside that secret Department of Tourism, and then, once the mole was uncovered, you killed thirty-three of their agents in all corners of the world. Without requesting permission. They think they know the reason—revenge. For the death of your son, Delun. But that wasn’t the CIA’s fault. It was the fault of some Sudanese farmers with machetes and sunstroke.”
To their right, a peninsula reached out into the water, marking the halfway point of their journey around these mountains, pointing in the direction of South Korea. Zhu said something.
Zhu turned back. “We’ve had this conversation before. Theirs is a causal responsibility. They killed an opposition figure in order to disrupt civil order in Sudan. Therefore, any deaths that result from that disorder are their fault.”
“You can’t treat a bureaucracy like an individual. Imagine if we were treated that way.”
“I’d expect no less from the fathers of our victims,” Zhu said, knowing as he said it that they would all be dead if that really came to pass. He waved at a parking area up ahead, a scenic outpost. “Pull over.”
As they slowed and parked, two cars passed. One had Laoshan plates, the other Beijing. Zhang Guo nodded at them. “You don’t think…”
“I have no idea,” Zhu said, then gazed out the open window. Sea, horizon. He said, “It wasn’t just revenge, you know. Everyone thinks that’s what it was—the committee, you, probably even the Americans. Revenge factored into it, but it was also a practical decision. That’s something I’ll have to explain on Monday morning. By eradicating one of their secret departments, we have sent a serious message to the Americans, the same message we want to send with the Olympic Games. That we are the primary force in the world. We are a nation that has suffered long enough—that’s the past. The present is this: We are a superpower of unfathomable riches, and we will not stand for interference, particularly from a country on the other side of the planet that still refers to itself as the world’s only superpower.”
Zhang Guo let that sit a moment before shaking his head. “Then they see fifty thousand die in Sichuan. Is this how a superpower takes care of its people?”
Zhu didn’t answer, because he’d had this thought himself. Instead, he turned in his seat as best he could, reaching toward the bag he’d left in the back, but his hand only batted air inches from its handle. An involuntary grunt escaped his lips.
“Just sit back,” Zhang Guo said, sighing.
Zhu did so, and, without looking, Zhang Guo reached his long right arm back and deftly snatched the bag. He tugged it up to the front and handed it to Zhu.
Zhang Guo watched another car pass, then got out and walked around to where slanted trees framed the view of the sea. Inside the car, Zhu unlatched the strap and fingered at a thin file inside, finding a 4R-sized blowup of a passport photo. Here was the real reason for this meeting. He sat staring at it a moment, at the black woman, midthirties, before opening his door and placing his feet on dirt. The freshness of the salty breeze was a shock after the car’s smoky interior. Down below, surf raged. “Come look at this.”
Zhang Guo wandered back and took the photo. “Pretty,” he said after a moment, “for one of them.” He passed it back.
“You’ve seen her before?”
“Should I have?”
There was no sense being coy with Zhang Guo. “She’s one of the ones who survived.”
“One of the Tourists?”
“She went by the name Leticia Jones. We never did learn her real name.”
“Why are you carrying around her photograph?”
Zhu sniffed. “A week ago she landed in Shanghai on another passport—Rosa Mumu, Sudanese.”
A bang sounded as Zhang Guo hit the roof of the car with his fist, then walked away, feeling his chest for another cigarette. Once he had it lit, he turned back. “Where is she now?”
“She left Beijing last week, flying to Cairo. As for the week she spent here, we’re just starting to piece it together.”
“But why would she be here? An agent on her own can’t expect to do anything, particularly one that’s blown.”
“She did elude us for a week, all by herself. I only found out that she’d been here once she was gone. A border guard heard her speaking English to another Sudanese. The Sudanese tried to speak Arabic with her, but she didn’t know it. It wasn’t reason enough to hold her, but the guard noted her name for later examination. Someone from Sun Bingjun’s department passed it on to me, as a query. I recognized her photo from my Tourism files.”
Zhang Guo cursed loudly.
“It means little at this point,” Zhu said, as much for himself as for Zhang Guo, “but she wouldn’t be here without a reason; something operational, or just to scout opportunities.”
“Opportunities for what? For an act of revenge against the great Xin Zhu?”
Zhu slipped the photo back into his bag. “I have no idea. I don’t even know if she works for the CIA anymore.”
“She had a forged Sudanese passport.”
“The CIA doesn’t have a monopoly on forged passports.”
“Perhaps she’s working for Wu Liang,” Zhang Guo suggested.
“I’ve considered that.”
“It was a joke, Xin Zhu.”
Zhu gave a smile, but it wasn’t a joke to him. None of this was. Wu Liang and the Supervision and Liaison Committee, the CIA, or any number of agencies he’d given trouble to over the last decades could be after him. After enough years, the idea of “the other” becomes faceless and broad, its tentacles ubiquitous enough to hide in every crevice.
“So what do you want from me, Xin Zhu?”
“I’d like to know what I’ll be facing on Monday morning. Specifics. The precise examples they will use against me.”
Zhang Guo nodded. “You’ll have it by Sunday.”
“As for the woman, I’ll need to know if the Ministry of Public Security has anything on her.”
This time Zhang Guo hesitated. He took a long drag and exhaled smoke that was instantly swept away by the wind. “Xin Zhu, two months ago you claimed that the Ministry of Public Security was harboring a Western mole, and then you cut it off from your intelligence product. When asked to show your evidence, you handed the committee notes detailing Chinese information owned by the Department of Tourism, information you said could only have been gathered by an inside source. The information could not be verified because the CIA had closed the Department of Tourism after your assault, but did that stop you? No. You demanded that the committee freeze the ministry’s entire administrative section until someone had been arrested.”
“I was ignored,” Zhu pointed out.
“But not forgotten. You don’t run the Guoanbu. You don’t even preside over a core department. You’ve always been on the fringe, and you’ve always made enemies. My suspicion is that, on Monday morning, you’ll be sent to preside over some township collective near Mongolia while your office is closed down to make room for an elementary school. You’re more trouble than you’re worth.”
“Does that mean you won’t ask if they have anything on the woman?”
Zhang Guo stared at him, eyes large, then threw down his cigarette. He started to laugh. “Okay. I’ll talk to the Ministry of Public Security. I’ve got someone who might help, just as long as he doesn’t know that it’s for you.”
“And you have no idea what this Jones did during her week here?”
“We have the hotel. We have one night at the hotel restaurant,” Zhu said, which was not necessarily a lie, only a misleading omission. “What we need is help.”
“What you need is to prepare a defense for Monday morning.”
“What I need is a drink. Shall we?”
Zhang Guo approached and placed a hand on Zhu’s thinning scalp. “You are one ugly, fat bastard. Sung Hui must be blind.”
“Finally, we’re in agreement.”
Copyright © 2012 by Olen Steinhauer
Excerpted from An American Spy by Olen Steinhauer Copyright © 2012 by Olen Steinhauer. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Meet the Author
OLEN STEINHAUER is the New York Times bestselling author of seven novels, most recently The Nearest Exit. He is also a two-time Edgar Award finalist and has been shortlisted for the Anthony, the Macavity, the Ellis Peters Historical Dagger, the Ian Fleming Steel Dagger, and the Barry awards. Raised in Virginia, he lives in California.
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I regret that it's the third book in a trilogy. I read the first 2 back to back and then had to wait for An American Spy. The read was worth the wait, but I hope a new trilogy will launch.. with less of an interval. Great author. Try his other books, too, all excellent reads for the genre.
Well written, excellent character and story development. I appreciate that Steinhauer can give a realistic international perspective on American influence in the spy genre. I love that the story has to be discovered by the reader and that the wrap up is at the end. It is not for a lzay reader,it is not just laid out and alittle thought is required of the reader. Once again, well done.
A great read, and a welcome addition to spy novels. Following his books The Tourist and The Nearest Exit, Steinhauer continues his global-trotting story of an American spy raised through an off the books CIA special unit. His plotting is dense and intricate, and far more worthy than the usual pulp fiction we get today. I note many learned reviewers and authors compare him to John Le Carre; close perhaps. My only beef about that is Steinhauer's cartoonish high body count in each novel. It really detracts from the realism his stories could provide. Le Carre might have one body in each novel...much more realistic. But highly entertaining reading nonetheless, and well worth your time, though the many characters and moving back and forth in time can get confusing.
As a sequel to the tourist this left much unexplained. It was different than The Tourist in that it explored the machinations of the supposed "bad guys" as well as the "good guys." I was never gripped with the "I can't put this down" syndrome and don't know that I'd rush to reah any more Steinhauer books. And I still can't believe a rogue senator hasn't been exposed.
An American Spy- After really enjoying the first two books I waited with great anticipation for almost 2 year for An American Spy. As soon as it was available on the Nook pre-order, I secured my opportunity to devour the 3rd book in this trilogy. The day finally came.......I'm ready to find my lost love. Well, the first 80 pages tested every ounce of patience I had, I was bored to tears. I read 3 pages at a time and turned out the lights. I kept thinking, "Did a different author write this first part?" "Where is Milo.....where is the excitement...where is the action?" Finally, after about 80 pages of Chinese characters, we were blessed with the return of Milo et al. But keep going long enough, and it just got too COMPLICATED by the time it was all said and done. By the time I got to page 300, I said, "I'm done, I don't care anymore!" I couldn't even muster up the strength or patience to read another page! So, the last 36+ pages, I fanned though. The End.........sorry Milo, I love you, but I'm over you!
I didn't read an earlier installments of this series, so perhaps that is why it was a bit confusing....also all of the jumping around of dates didn't help...the main character was good...the female characteres were annoying. But overall a very interesting take on the "spy world." I'd give the author another chance and read the next book in the series, just to see what happens to the Milo.
Wonderful end to the trilogy. Don't keep us waiting another 2 years for the next offering.
There are about a dozen confusing and confused characters, some American and some Chinese. Some travel great distances, using many name and flight changes only to be met by the person they are avoiding for reasons that are murky. I was unable to figure out what was supposed to be going on and finally could not care less.
I read about 50 pages . the writing is obtuse( maybe lost in translation), the characters are uninteresting. the plot is uninvolving, whilst being unnecessarily complex. What was the publisher thinking to publish such rubbish? Straight to "trash" or "archive"!
This final novel in the trilogy picks up after the slaughter, in the previous novel, of 33 “tourists” engineered by the Chinese spymaster, Xin Zhu, head of the Expedition Agency of the Sixth Bureau of the Ministry of State Security, setting the stage for a complicated plot in which Milo Weaver, one of the few surviving “Tourists,” is a reluctant participant. The ensuing events are like a chess match played blindfolded. The Tourists department of the CIA is shut down in the aftermath of the slaughters, and its chief of six months, Alan Drumond, and Milo are unemployed and seeking jobs. But Alan can’t let go and comes up with a scheme to “get” Xin Zhu and revenge what has happened. This sets off a chain of events causing each participant to make moves and countermoves without really knowing what the game really is all about. Nor does the reader. All in all, the trilogy is a wonderful work, and this novel caps the previous two by being even better-plotted and -written. The characterizations are marvelous and the unexpected twists in the plots sometimes ingenious. The insights into the way the Chinese Republic is governed, and the minds and machinations of its officials, is worth every struggle the reader has with the myriad number of names and the devious plotting of the principals. By all means go out and get a copy and read this fine work. Highly recommended.
No focus. Poor writing. Sorry I spent the money on this trash.
I made it to page 113. After reading other reviews, sounds like it's not getting to get any better. Life's too short to waste it on poorly written novels.
Olen Steinhauer is an excellent writer, and that's one reason I have read all 3 of his Milo Weaver novels. Weaver is a crack government agent among a group so secret it is only known as the Tourists. The spy capers they engage in are not for the feint of heart, and always well-written and intricately plotted. It's that latter fact that causes me some concern, especially in American Spy, because the plot was a bit too intricate. I got rather confused at some points, and no where more than at the end where he tries to wrap up what the plot entailed. Some things happened that just seemed to make no sense, and the constant wondering over hwo was on who's side got to be a bit much.