The Outsiders: A Thriller

The Outsiders: A Thriller

by Gerald Seymour

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A couple finds their perfect beach vacation shattered when MI5 use their villa to spy on the crime boss next door in the newest thriller from the "best spy novelist ever" (Philadelphia Inquirer)

MI5 officer Winnie Monks has never forgotten - or forgiven - the brutal murder of a young agent on her team at the hands of a former Russian Army officer turned fixer


A couple finds their perfect beach vacation shattered when MI5 use their villa to spy on the crime boss next door in the newest thriller from the "best spy novelist ever" (Philadelphia Inquirer)

MI5 officer Winnie Monks has never forgotten - or forgiven - the brutal murder of a young agent on her team at the hands of a former Russian Army officer turned fixer and criminal known as the Major. Now, ten years later, she learns that the Major is travelling to a villa at the popular Spanish holiday destination Costa del Sol, and she asks permission to send in a surveillance unit.

The spooks locate an empty property near the Major's: the Villa Paraiso. It's perfect to spy from - and as a base for Winnie's darker, less official, plans.

But it turns out the villa isn't deserted. The owners have invited a young British couple to house sit while they are away. Jonno and Posie, a new couple, think they are embarking on a romantic, carefree break in the sun. But when the MI5 team arrives in paradise, everything changes—their holiday is about to become a terrifying journey into the violent global business of organized crime in The Outsiders by Gerald Seymour—a sophisticated thriller from a renowned master.

Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
MI5’s Winnie Monks, the protagonist of this joyless, repetitive thriller from Seymour (The Dealer and the Dead), reassembles her scattered Graveyard Team of organized crime investigators to avenge the murder of young agent Damian Fenby five years earlier in Budapest. An unexpected break finally identifies the killer as veteran Russian crime boss Petar Alexander Borsonov, and when Monks learns he is going to visit the home of fellow Russian Pavel Ivanov on Spain’s Costa del Sol, she sets in motion a plan to take Borsonov down. Complications abound: Monk’s advance team finds house-sitting young Brits in the supposedly empty house next door that other team members intended to use, an aging British con man gets involved with Ivanov, and Monk’s chosen sniper suffers from debilitating PTSD. Seymour takes his time developing the major players with small, seemingly inconsequential incidents morphing into major developments. In the end, fickle fate holds the winning cards. Agent: Jonathan Lloyd, Curtis Brown (U.K.). (Feb.)
From the Publisher

Praise for Gerald Seymour:

"The three British masters of suspense, Graham Greene, Eric Ambler, and John le Carre, have been joined by a fourth—Gerald Seymour." –New York Times

"Not since the arrival of John le Carre has the emergence of an international suspense novelist been as stunning as that of Gerald Seymour." –Los Angeles Times Book Review

"[Seymour] isn't just abreast of the headlines, [but] ahead of them." --The Washington Post

"Seymour may be the best spy novelist ever." –Philadelphia Inquirer

"In a class of his own." –The London Times

"One of the modern masters of the craft." --Daily Mail

Praise for The Outsiders:

“Seymour again deploys a sizable cast of very well developed characters and a complex but utterly believable plot to produce another terrific read. Winnie is luminous, a force of nature. The Major is as cold an evildoer as fiction will see this year. Another 10 characters are similarly compelling, even the nameless Latvian policeman working in The Hague who serves as Seymour’s Greek chorus, explaining the architecture of contemporary Euro crime to EU politicians. Already classed with Eric Ambler and John le Carré as an espionage master, Seymour burnishes his reputation with each new book.” --Booklist

“Seymour keeps the book's motor humming, changing scenes and points of view with expert timing… A fresh Spanish setting, a stream of characters with great nicknames like "the Tractor," and a mix of British, Eastern European and American crime fighters make Seymour's 29th novel one of his most entertaining.” --Kirkus

“Those [Seymour] sends off into dangerous territory are, in fact, his readers. With each book, we enter a dangerous universe, and are totally involved with utterly plausible characters, faced with moral choices that are rarely straightforward.” – The Independent (UK)

“Once again demonstrating his ability to probe the moral murkiness of the spy trade and create an absorbingly diverse ensemble, Seymour crafts a sophisticated, reader-teasing tale.” --The Sunday Times (UK)

“Seymour is a master of the thriller set on the murky edges of modern war . . . As ever he juggles action, context and suspense with a special-forces level of expertise.” --i (UK)

“A gripping thriller.” –Sun (UK)

[Seymour's] books are rich in the drama of people reacting to events and situations they never could have expected. --Weekend Press (New Zealand)

Praise for The Dealer and the Dead:

"Seymour [is] incapable of creating a two-dimensional character . . . The ending is brilliantly orchestrated." –The London Times

"Crisp, taut and contemporary, by a stylish writer." --The Observer (UK)

"Discerning thriller readers can safely say that the best practitioner currently working in the UK is the veteran Seymour. He is, quite simply, the most intelligent and accomplished in the current field . . . Here, we have a typically compromised Seymour anti-hero, a masterfully organised globe-spanning narrative and a mass of highly persuasive detail. The Dealer and the Dead is Seymour firing on all cylinders, and his rivals need, once again, to look to their laurels." --Barry Forshaw, author of The Man Who Left Too Soon

"With Seymour, not only do you get a cracking story deftly told, but you also feel you are learning something." --Birmingham Press

"The final scenes are brilliantly orchestrated by Seymour, the sustained tension becoming almost unbearable . . . Without doubt, The Dealer and the Dead is one of the finest thrillers to be published so far this year." --Yorkshire Evening Post

"[Seymour's] meticulous research shines through in his latest thriller." --Oxford Times

"Riveting." --Manly Daily

"In a day when shop-worn plots in the disguise of well-written books are doing the rounds, The Dealer and the Dead comes as a refreshing, breathtaking story that keeps you gripped right till the very end." --Indian Express

"The Dealer and the Dead displays [Seymour’s] usual ability to concoct a tightly controlled plot that is cleverly engineered . . . steadily crafted into a compelling tale . . . Another first-class thriller from the always reliable Seymour." --Canberra Times

"A tense thriller." --Choice

Praise for A Deniable Death:

"Veteran British spy novelist Gerald Seymour has written an extraordinary work of fiction. This is Seymour’s 21st novel, and critics on both sides of the Atlantic have for years compared him to John le Carre, Graham Greene, Eric Ambler and other masters of spy fiction, but his reputation has never quite equaled theirs. No matter. Serious readers will find in A Deniable Death not only suspense, strong characters and a realistic look at the world of espionage, but a majesty that is rare in fiction. At a certain point, the novel rises to a mythic level, portraying courage and loyalty and sacrifice almost beyond understanding." –Washington Post

"Outstanding… Seymour (Harry’s Game) is strong on the details of surveillance and spycraft, but on even surer ground with his characters as he focuses on Gibbons’s stoic dedication, Badger’s ruthless single-mindedness, and Foxy’s prideful professionalism. Even the Engineer comes across as a human being, thanks to a complex subplot about getting his wife to the West for cancer treatment. Once the narrative gains momentum, it’s hard to put this one down." –Publishers Weekly, starred review

"A book for those seriously into espionage who want to absorb every detail of how a spy mission is planned and carried out… Seymour’s painstaking attention to detail is a plus, as it gives the story an authentic ring and lets the reader experience the mission in real time." --Kirkus

"A vividly drawn ensemble of spooks, terrorists and civilians." --Sunday Times Books of the Year 2011

"Picking up a novel by Gerald Seymour is like taking a deep breath of fresh air . . . When readers get to the nailbiting climax, involving an agonising wait for airborne rescue, they may be wondering why they should bother with any other thriller writer." --Independent (London)

"The novel exemplifies Seymour's ability to create and control a large, vividly drawn ensemble who are unwittingly connected (in this case via two fed-up soldiers)… Also characteristic is a Hitchcockian skewing of the reader's sympathies, with the ostensible good guys in Whitehall shown as coldly ready to sacrifice lives, and the bomb-maker seen in the round as both killer and devoted husband." --The Sunday Times (London)

"Seymour is a master of the thriller set on the murky edges of modern war . . . As ever he juggles action, context and suspense with a special-forces level of expertise." --i

"After 28 novels, Seymour's empathy for those he ensnares in his moral minefields remains movingly even-handed." --Daily Telegraph (London)

"A gripping thriller." --Sun

"Mr Seymour is . . . on form . . . The tradecraft of silent watching and the discomfort, thirst and increasing claustrophobia of the hideout are brought very much to life . . . the grim landscape of the border region and the harsh lives of its inhabitants are skilfully evoked." --The Economist (Australia)

"Great storytelling . . . You just have to read this novel as it is absolutely gripping." --Eurocrime

"Gerald Seymour is the grand-master of the contemporary thriller and Deniable Death is his greatest work yet. Gripping, revealing and meticulously researched, this is a page-turning masterpiece that will literally leave you breathless." --Major Chris Hunter, author of Extreme Risk

Praise for Seymour’s other work:

"Suspense master Seymour dazzles with commanding language and meticulous detail." –Entertainment Weekly on Rat Run

"Seymour is not one to cut corners. He does his research, thinks hard about his story and gives us richly imagined novels that bristle with authenticity." --Washington Post on The Collaborator

"Seymour [is] incapable of creating a two-dimensional character." --The Times

"In a class of his own." --The Times on THE WAITING TIME

'A dense, intensely satisfying thriller from one of the modern masters of the craft, Seymour's latest novel will remind the world just how phenomenally accomplished a thriller writer he is.' (Daily Mail on THE COLLABORATOR 20100824)

"Gerald Seymour is considered the dabbest hand in the industry . . . still a master who executes his spy tales of murderous and political intrigue with rigour and flair. Seymour is a master at evoking the seemingly unchartable terrain of foreign landscapes - as a former reporter covering wars in Vietnam, Northern Ireland and Borneo, he brings to bear some every pertinent experience. His research into the espionage world is meticulous. Splendid stuff." --City AM

"A vividly drawn ensemble of spooks, terrorists and civilians." --Sunday Times Books of the Year 2011

"A vividly drawn ensemble of spokes, terrorists and civilians." --John Dugdale

"One of the most venerable names of the thriller genre, Gerald Seymour, showed that age was not withering him." --Independent Books of the Year

Kirkus Reviews
Overrun with spies, cops and Euro mobsters, Seymour's 29th novel concerns a female MI5 veteran's obsessive need to avenge the death of a young colleague who was kicked to death by a Russian crime lord.Years after the brutal killing, word reaches Winnie Monks, former head of a since-dissolved organized crime group within MI5, that the mobster, known as the Major, is heading to Marbella on Spain's Costa del Sol. That intel is provided by "the Gecko," a young computer whiz working for the Major, in retaliation for getting beat up for a minor theft he didn't commit. Plans are made to set up surveillance in the vacant house next to the one in which the Major, a former KGB man, will be staying with a drug-smuggling associate. But when Monks and her team arrive at their appointed spot, they encounter housesitters: a moody and not easily handled young British couple, Jonno and Posie. This will prove to be more than a complication; it will alter the course of events. Working on a larger canvas than usual in terms of the sheer number of characters, Seymour keeps the book's motor humming, changing scenes and points of view with expert timing. The overall tone is lighter than in his pulse-pounders; some of the scenes could even pass for satire. And various elements here will recall bits and pieces from some of Seymour's better-known novels. But none of that diminishes his hold over the reader. A fresh Spanish setting, a stream of characters with great nicknames like "the Tractor," and a mix of British, Eastern European and American crime fighters make Seymour's 29th novel one of his most entertaining.

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Read an Excerpt

The Outsiders

By Gerald Seymour

St. Martin's Press

Copyright © 2012 Gerald Seymour
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4668-6337-8


'Jonno, your mother's on the phone for you.'

He was carrying a latte back into the open-plan work area from the dispenser in the corridor, and he might have blushed. Dessie, at the desk to the right of his, held up the telephone for him. On the other side of his work space, Chloë had twisted in her seat, had a grin, ear to ear – maybe his mother was ringing to check he'd put on clean socks that morning. Might have been worse – he might have been ignored and his desk phone left to ring unanswered. He gave them the finger and was rewarded with laughter. He could have been like Tracey or Chris, who sat on the far side and worked alone, ate their sandwiches alone and went home alone in the evenings.

For as long as he could remember he had been Jonno: there were documents – passport, employment contract with the department-store chain, Inland Revenue – where he was recorded as Jonathan, but everywhere else he was Jonno. People seemed to like him and he wasn't short of company in the evenings. He would have said life was good to him and ... He slapped the coffee beaker beside his mouse mat and took the phone from Dessie. Chloë rolled her eyes.

Jonno said, 'Hi, Ma – I'm surrounded here by doughnuts and donkeys. Did you hear manic laughter and think you were through to a nuthouse? Before you ask, I'm wearing clean underpants —'

His mother coughed, her annoyance clear.

'What's the problem, Ma?'

He was told. Not a problem, more of a miracle. His mind worked at flywheel speed as he identified the difficulties; then thought through the lies he needed to dump on the sour-faced woman who oversaw holiday entitlement in Human Resources. She said it again, as if she believed her son, aged twenty-six but still regarded as a child, had failed to grasp what was on offer and why.

'Have you written down the dates?'

'Yes, Ma.'

'Stansted would be best – that's where the cheapest go from. Jonno?'

'Yes, Ma.'

'Your dad and I, we've just too much on. Don't ask me to run through it all but the diary's full, and your father won't fly, anyway. It's not so much for your uncle Geoff as for your aunt Fran. They just want someone there, peace of mind, that sort of thing. Enough on their plate without worrying about the cat. It was premature of me but I sort of volunteered you. I think we're talking about two weeks. It's important, Jonno.'

'I'll call you back.'

'You could take a friend. The cat matters to them.'

He sat at his desk and faced his screen. If he had scrolled up or down he would have stayed with the statistics of the company's home-delivery vans, their mileage and routes from the three depots in the south and south-west of England, their annual fuel consumption and the price of the fuel. It was Jonno's job to drive down the consumption and the cost. Dessie did the drivers' wages, and worked out how to get more from their man-hours, while Chloë watched the transit of goods from warehouse to depots. They reckoned, all three of them, that they could have done the business with their eyes closed, but corporate discipline demanded enthusiasm. They both questioned him: had he won the lottery, or had his father done a runner? He smiled, then gave a little snort as if his mind was made up. He left the latte on his desk, with the mileage, consumption and tonnage, and let a sharp smile settle on his face.

He went out through the doors, past the coffee outlet and the cabinet that held the sandwiches, past the notice-boards displaying photographs of employees, the times of aerobics classes, the office choir's practice sessions, and an entry form for a charity half-marathon. It was neither exciting work nor an inspirational setting, but it was a job. His parents lived in a village between Bath and Chippenham, a mile off the old A4 trunk road, near to Corsham. He went home once a month and heard a regular litany: which of their neighbours' kids were on a scrap heap – temporary or permanent – having failed to find work. Truth to tell, enough of his friends from university were out of a job, pounding the streets, or stacking shelves and looking at dead-ends. He went down one floor in the lift.

How would he have described himself? Better: how would others have described him? Average. Conventional. Normal. A decent sort of guy. He made way for the director who oversaw that floor, and was rewarded with a manufactured smile. He wondered if the guy had the faintest idea who he was and what he did. It was the first week of November, a week when temperatures dropped, evenings closed in, leaves made a mess and rain was forecast every day – not the best time to go waltzing into Human Resources and demand time in the sunshine.

Jonno knocked on a glass door. He saw a face look up, a frown form, and matched it with a smile, a sad one. The frown softened. He was beckoned inside.

He was economical.

Jonno said Spain, but did not emphasise that he was talking about the Costa del Sol and the slopes above the coast that were sheltered by the foothills of the Sierra Blanca. A relative was leaving his home to travel to England for a life-threatening operation – he did not say it was a routine hip resurfacing with a high success rate. Neither did he say that the 'relative' was merely a long-standing friend of the family, nor that he had never met the 'relative' in question, Flight Lieutenant (Ret'd) Geoff Walsh, or his wife, Fran. He knew they sent a card each Christmas to his parents – not a robin in the snow but an aircraft, a fighter, a bomber or a transport C130, of the sort that used to fly out of the RAF base at Lyneham. The last had shown a jet lifting off a runway and had been sold in support of the Royal Air Force Association. He had never even seen a photograph of them. But a distress call had come.

He spoke of an elderly couple returning to the UK for surgery, might have implied 'war hero', and their fear of leaving their property unguarded, abandoned, while his uncle went under the surgeon's knife. Jonno's personal file was on her screen. There would have been commendations from his line manager, distant prospects of promotion, his allocation of days in lieu, the statutory bank holidays he had worked, and leave not yet taken. Against that were the pressures of November in the trading calendar.

She pondered. She played on it, miserable bitch, milking the moment. The arrogance of power.

It was done grudgingly. 'I think that would be all right. Don't make a habit of it. The compassion factor is big with the company, but it's not to be abused. It'll mean rejigging your holiday entitlement and we'll probably call you in for the sales and through into the new-year holiday.'


'Where exactly was it you were going?'

'Some dump down there – nothing too special. I'm grateful.'

The deceit had tripped easily off his tongue. It hurt him, denting his self- esteem. He would have liked to say, 'I apologise for lying to you. I don't know the man who's having his hip chopped around, but the weather here is foul, the job's dead boring, and it's a chance to go to Marbella and stay in a villa. My mum says I can take my girlfriend, and we only have to find the air fares and money for food.'

He thanked her again, sounding, he hoped, as though he'd made a big sacrifice in agreeing to mind a villa in the hills on the Costa del Sol. What did he know about the place? Nothing.

Last year, Jonno and four friends had gone to the North Cape of Norway. The year before three of them had hired bicycles and pedalled round southern Ireland. Before that there had been a coach trip to a village near Chernobyl, in radioactive Ukraine, where a gang had tried to build a nursery for kids on the edge of the zone that had been contaminated by the nuclear-fuel explosion. Jonno liked to get up a sweat on his holiday, not lounge on a recliner.

He went back to his desk and his cold latte. He wriggled the mouse and recalled the figures, but the lines seemed utterly meaningless. He was thinking of a luxury villa with a garden and views to infinity. He considered the chance of Posie taking him up on the offer and ... His mind darted. Chloë and Dessie were looking at him. An explanation was required.

Jonno said, 'It's a family problem. An old uncle needs an operation, but he and his wife need a house-sitter for the cat. I've drawn the short straw. HR were really helpful about me having some time out ... Sorry, and all that, but you're going to have to do without my sunshine lighting your lives for a while.' He shrugged. No way he'd let either of them – or anyone else in the building – know that he was bound for a villa in Marbella, top-of-the-range on the Costa del Sol, or tongues would wag and the gossip run riot on texts, emails and tweets. He wore a sober expression, gave nothing away. Dessie and Chloë had their heads down, expressions to match, and murmured sympathetically. He wished, fervently, that he hadn't had to bend the truth. He was asked where he was going. 'Nowhere either of you would want to be.'

More important was what Posie would say. He went back to his charts and made a pig's ear of it because his mind jerked him back to the Costa del Sol.

* * *

At the end of the first year, on the anniversary, Winnie Monks had told the Graveyard Team, 'Always think of the woman, tailored jeans and green wellies, who walks an arthritic retriever in the woods. Focus on her.'

They'd been outside among the burial stones in the garden behind Thames House. The wind had whipped Winnie's cigarillo smoke into their faces. An inventory of investigation avenues had been worked over. An FBI source, Polish, had named a Russian career criminal as the agent's killer. Months had gone into tracking the bastard, and on the relevant dates he'd been having kidney stones extracted in a Volgograd clinic. A French asset had pointed to a flight leaving Budapest airport at the time they'd flown in on that grim morning. The airport cameras were said to have been wiped and excitement had risen, so they'd hacked into the Malev 100 passenger manifest and pushed the names to Six. Six station in Moscow had failed to identify anyone on the list with criminal links.

Another source, in a harbourmaster's office downstream at Csepel, had produced video from a security camera that showed three indistinct shadows boarding a launch late on the relevant night. They were poorly lit, backs to camera, and little was to be gained from forensic study, but that was the best they had. They had gnawed at it, hounds with marrow bones. But they had no name.

Winnie had said, 'The woman in the woods with the dog always finds the body, or the clothing, or the school satchel, or the handbag. It can take a month or a year or a decade, but we'll find it, identify him ... We have to, because I promised.'

* * *

The policeman was Latvian, on contract to the Europol offices in the Dutch capital, The Hague. He briefed visitors – politicians, public servants, opinion formers. That afternoon a Czech foreign ministry functionary sat in front of a screen. The policeman used a zapper to put up his bullet points. The first showed a map of the European landmass, the zone of interest for the men and women co-ordinating the activities of disparate law and order agencies.

'In our Organised Crime Threat Assessment we speak of "hubs", each with heavy influence on the criminal dynamics of the European continent. With its huge wealth, Europe is centre stage: the consumers' shopping mall. The north-west hub, the first of our five, is the Netherlands and Belgium and is based on Rotterdam. The second is the north-east hub and works around the Russian harbour of Kaliningrad in the Baltic. For the third, we take the south-east hub – currently a source of anxiety – on the Black Sea. A Romanian harbour is a centre for considerable smuggling activity ... heroin, people-trafficking, illegal immigration, sex-industry workers. The southern hub is the one that we're most familiar with, the Italian problem and the trading in and out of Naples – the familiar names of Cosa Nostra, Camorra and the OCGs of Calabria and Puglia. Our analysts believe the old Mafia clans are in slow but irreversible decline.'

The Latvian gave his presentation on at least three days in every working week. It took an hour, and afterwards individual officers would be assigned for more detailed explanations of the Europol targets. A few he talked to seemed interested in the threat assessment, but most came with the intention of ticking a box on the career ladder – not a prominent one. He ploughed on, comforted in the knowledge that when he had finished and the Czech had left, he would be able to slip into the building's Blue Bottle bar and enjoy a pils or three with colleagues who likewise fought the unwinnable war.

'Fifth, we have the south-west hub, the Iberian peninsula, with particular emphasis on the docks of Cádiz and Málaga, either side of the so-called Costa del Sol. It's the most significant of the five hubs, the prime gateway into Europe for all forms of hard drugs, class A, immigrants, trafficked humans, weapons. And, because of lax banking regulations, for laundering money. Into that zone has come an influx of foreign criminals, not merely foot soldiers but leaders, men of influence, huge power, vast wealth. The southwest hub represents our greatest challenge.'

* * *

Another year, and Winnie Monks had said, 'We have to believe.'

And another candle had burned, small but bright, on her windowsill.

'It'll happen. It'll drop into our laps. One day.' There was power in her voice, authority and sincerity. None of her seniors – her own chief, the Branch director, the deputy director or the great man himself – would have dared to tell her the investigation was losing impetus and should be scaled down. They might have murmured it in an executive dining room or in a club's deep armchairs but they wouldn't have said it to her face. In her office, pride of place on a bare wall, was the outline of a head and shoulders, white on granite grey, no features filled in. Winnie maintained it was important to have it there. Beside it hung the horror-film image of Damian Fenby's ravaged face. None of her seniors would have said to her that it was mawkish and in poor taste to display the photograph.

'We have to believe. It's owed him. Life does not "move on".'

* * *

She slid her chair back from her desk, swung it round and stood up. There was little lustre in her face.

Winnie Monks was a stone too heavy, and the skirt she wore was a size too small. Her blouse strained and a cardigan that should have been loose was tight. She coughed, hacking. Her window, on the fourth floor of Thames House – offering a view of a narrow street – showed that the evening light was dropping, and the rain was steady, spattering the panes. The blastproof glass distorted the reflections from the streetlamps. She reached into her handbag and scrabbled for the packet of cigarillos and her Zippo lighter, which stank of its fuel. The wall that had once carried the pictures now accommodated a leave chart, but the Sellotape scars remained. She slipped on a raincoat, long, heavy, proof against the weather, and pocketed her necessities. There had been a time when, on a dank evening, the sight of Winnie Monks putting on her coat, or rifling the smokes out of her bag, would have been enough to get the outer office on their feet, donning raincoats and retrieving umbrellas. Not now. The Graveyard Team had not survived the new-year reorganisation, launched with dreary fanfares on 2 January 2008.

She went past the PA's desk. She had not chosen the girl but had been allocated her: there was no way Winnie Monks would have plucked out of the applicants' list anyone who was an alcohol abstainer, a vegan who seemed to survive on what her sisters' rabbits, long ago, had lived off. From behind her, 'Going for a comfort break, Winnie? If there's any calls for you, I'll say you're back in ten minutes.'

'I'm going for a smoke and —'

'I'm sure you've been told, Winnie, that tobacco will do your health no good at all.'

'My fucking problem, not yours,' she chipped cheerfully.


Excerpted from The Outsiders by Gerald Seymour. Copyright © 2012 Gerald Seymour. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
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

GERALD SEYMOUR was a reporter at ITN for fifteen years, where his first assignment was covering the Great Train Robbery in 1963. He later covered events in Vietnam, Borneo, Aden, Israel and Northern Ireland. Seymour was on the streets of Londonderry on the afternoon of Bloody Sunday, and was a witness to the massacre of Israeli athletes at the Munich Olympics. Seymour's first novel was the acclaimed thriller Harry's Game, set in Belfast, which became an instant international bestseller and later a television series. Six of Seymour's thrillers have now been filmed for television in the UK and US. The Outsiders is his twenty-ninth novel.

GERALD SEYMOUR was a reporter at ITN for fifteen years, where his first assignment was covering the Great Train Robbery in 1963. He later covered events in Vietnam, Borneo, Aden, Israel and Northern Ireland. Seymour was on the streets of Londonderry on the afternoon of Bloody Sunday, and was a witness to the massacre of Israeli athletes at the Munich Olympics. Seymour's first novel was the acclaimed thriller Harry's Game, set in Belfast, which became an instant international bestseller and later a television series. Six of Seymour's thrillers have now been filmed for television in the UK and US. A Deniable Death is his twenty-eighth novel.

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