Twice a Spy

( 30 )

Overview

On the heels of Once a Spy, which PW hailed as a “wildly original debut [with] an action-packed story line,” Keith Thomson returns with a breakneck thriller that’s twice as explosive as the original.

In the tradition of Robert Ludlum, with a witty twist, Thomson’s second novel featuring a former spy and his son once again poses the question: What happens when a former CIA agent can no longer trust his own mind?

Charlie and Drummond Clark are ...

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Overview

On the heels of Once a Spy, which PW hailed as a “wildly original debut [with] an action-packed story line,” Keith Thomson returns with a breakneck thriller that’s twice as explosive as the original.

In the tradition of Robert Ludlum, with a witty twist, Thomson’s second novel featuring a former spy and his son once again poses the question: What happens when a former CIA agent can no longer trust his own mind?

Charlie and Drummond Clark are now in Switzerland, hiding out from criminal charges in America and using the time to experiment with treatments to retrieve Drummond’s memory. When NSA operative Alice Rutherford, with whom Charlie has fallen in love, is kidnapped, the Clarks must dodge a formidable CIA case officer and his team to get her back.

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Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
Razor-sharp writing, laugh-out-loud humor, and a sturdy plot combine to make Thomson's sequel to Once a Spy a real treat for thriller fans tired of more of the same old same old. Charlie Clark has left his life as an inveterate gambler far behind as he and girlfriend Alice go on the lam in Switzerland from Alice's employer, the NSA, and a special CIA black ops unit known as Cavalry. The real star of the group is Charlie's father, Drummond Clark, who after a career as a CIA agent is sinking into the throes of early Alzheimer's, but who's able, when the occasion demands, to revive his old skills and save their skins. The plot surrounds the sale to terrorists of a small nuclear bomb disguised as a washing machine. The nonstop action and quirky, engaging characters will leave readers eager for the next installment and the next and the next. (Mar.)
From the Publisher
PRAISE FOR TWICE A SPY:

"[Thomson] writes fluid, vivid prose, good dialogue and first-rate action scenes."
The Washington Post

"Razor-sharp writing, laugh-out-loud humor, and a sturdy plot combine to make [Twice a Spy] a real treat for thriller fans... The nonstop action and quirky, engaging characters will leave readers eager for the next installment and the next and the next."
Publishers Weekly, starred review

"Buoyant, fast and fun... Thomson again hits a sweet spot in this highly original thriller, balancing gripping action sequences with humor a step or two above what you'd expect from the genre."
Kirkus

PRAISE FOR ONCE A SPY:

“It takes a huge talent to blow dust from the corners of today’s comfortable thriller genre. Keith Thomson has that talent, in spades.” —Lincoln Child, author of Deep Storm

Once a Spy is the most enjoyable book I’ve read this year. Utterly original, it is an adrenaline-fueled concoction of sidesplitting humor and genuine suspense. What a find! I can’t imagine not loving this gem of a novel.” —Christopher Reich, author of Rules of Deception

“First-novelist Thomson has his tongue firmly in cheek in this clever, engaging, and frenetic tale . . . His knowledge of spooks’ tools, techniques, and mind-sets builds verisimilitude . . . A terrifically entertaining thriller.” —Booklist

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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780307473158
  • Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
  • Publication date: 2/28/2012
  • Format: Mass Market Paperback
  • Pages: 448
  • Sales rank: 159,677
  • Product dimensions: 4.30 (w) x 6.88 (h) x 1.21 (d)

Meet the Author

KEITH THOMSON is a former semipro baseball player in France, an editorial cartoonist for Newsday, a filmmaker with a short film shown at Sundance, and a screenwriter who currently lives in Alabama. He writes on intelligence and other matters for the Huffington Post.
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Read an Excerpt

1

"Do you see a ghost?" Alice asked.

"You'd know if I did because I'd mention it." Charlie fixated on someone or something behind her, rather than meet her eyes as he usually did. "Or faint."

"Ghost is trade lingo for someone you take for a surveillant, but, really, he's just an ordinary Joe. When you have to look over your shoulder as much as we have the past couple of weeks, it's only natural that everybody starts seeming suspicious. You imagine you've seen one of them before. It's hard to find anybody who doesn't look like he works for Interpol."

"Interpol would be an upgrade." Charlie laughed a stream of vapor into the thin Alpine air. "After the past couple of weeks, it's hard to find anybody who doesn't look like a veteran hit man."

Charlie Clark owned no Hawaiian shirts. He didn't chomp on a cigar. In no way did he match anyone's conception of a horseplayer: He was a youthful thirty with a pleasant demeanor and strong features in spite of Alice's efforts to alter them--a brown wig hid his sandy blond hair, fake sideburns and a silicone nose bridge blunted the sharp contours of his face, and oversized sunglasses veiled his intelligent blue eyes. But--tragically, Alice thought--until being thrust on the lam two weeks ago, Charlie had spent 364 days a year at racetracks. And that number would have been 365 if tracks didn't close on Christmas Day. He lived for the thrill not merely of winning but of being right. As he'd often said: "Where else besides the track can you get that?"

So why, Alice wondered, had his attention veered from the race?

Especially this race, a "white turf" mile with thoroughbreds blazing around a course dug from sparkling snow atop the frozen Lac de Morat in Avenches, Switzerland, framed by hills that looked like they had been dispensed by a soft-serve ice cream machine, sprinkled with chalets, and surrounded by blindingly white peaks. Probably it was on an afternoon just like this in 1868 that the British adventurer Edward Whymper said of Switzerland, "However magnificent the imagination may be, it always remains inferior to reality."

And Edward Whymper didn't have a horse poised to take the lead.

Flying past four of the nine entries, Charlie's choice, Poser Le Lapin, spotted a gap between the remaining two.

Knowing almost nothing about the horses besides their names, Charlie had taken a glance at the auburn filly during the post parade and muttered that her turndowns--iron plates bent toward the ground at a forty-five-degree angle on the open end of the horseshoes--would provide better traction than the other entrants' shoes today.

Alice followed his sight line now, up from the snowy track apron where they stood and into the packed grandstand. Ten thousand heads pivoted at once as the horses thundered around the oval.

It was odd that Charlie wasn't watching the race. More than odd. Like an eight-year-old walking past a candy store without a glance.

The horses charged into the final turn. Alice saw only a cloud of kicked-up snowflakes and ice. As the cloud neared the grandstand, the jockeys came into view, their face masks bobbing above the haze. A moment later, the entire pack of thoroughbreds was visible. Cheers from the crowd drowned out the announcer's rat-a-tat call.

Poser Le Lapin crossed the wire with a lead of four lengths.

Alice looked to Charlie expecting elation. He remained focused on the grandstand behind him, via the strips of mirrored film she'd glued inside each of his lenses--an old spook trick.

"Your horse won, John!" she said, using his alias.

He shrugged. "Every once in a while, I'm right."

"Don't tell me the thrill is gone."

"At the moment, I'm hoping to be wrong."

A chill crept up her. "Who is it?"

"Guy in a red ski hat, top of the grandstand, just under the Mercedes banner, drinking champagne."

She shifted her stance, as if to watch the trophy presentation like everyone else. Really she looked into the "rearview mirrors" inside her own sunglasses.

The red ski hat was like a beacon.

"I see him. What, you think it's weird that he's drinking champagne?"

"Well, yeah, because it's, like, two degrees out."

Alice usually put great stock in Charlie's observational skill. During their escape from Manhattan, in residential Morningside Heights, he'd pegged two men out of a crowd of hundreds as government agents when they slowed at a curb for a sign changing to don't walk; real New Yorkers sped up. But after two harrowing weeks of being hunted by spies and misguided lawmen who shot first and asked questions later, anyone would see ghosts, even an operator with as much experience as she had.

"Sweetheart, half the people here are drinking champagne."

"Yeah, I know--the Swiss Miss commercials sure got Switzerland wrong. The thing is the red hat."

"Is there something unusual about it?"

"No. But he was wearing a green hat at lunch."

2

The man in the blood-red knitted ski cap looked as if he were in his late twenties. Gaunt and pallid, he was Central Casting's idea of a doctoral candidate. Which hardly ruled him out as an assassin. Since he had been dragged into this mess two weeks ago, the killers Charlie had eluded had been disguised as a jocular middle-aged insurance salesman, a pair of wet-behind-the-ears lawyers, and a fresh fruit vendor on the Lower East Side.

"You're sure you saw him at the café?" Alice asked.

"When I doubled back to our table to leave the tip, I noticed him in the corner, flagging the waitress all of a sudden. What's that spook saying about coincidences?"

"There are none?"

"Exactly."

"I never say that. The summer I was eleven, I got a Siamese cat. I named him Rockford. A few weeks later, I started a new school, and there was another girl who had a Siamese cat named Rockford. Coincidence or what?"

"I always wondered about that saying."

"In any case, why don't we go toast your win?"

One of their exit strategies commenced with a walk to the nearest concession stand. "I would love a drink, actually," Charlie said.

Leaving the track apron, they stepped into a long corridor between the rear of the grandstand and Lac de Morat's southern bank. While his nerves verged on exploding, she retained her character's bounce. In fact, if he hadn't been in the same room this morning when she was getting dressed, he might not recognize her now. She remained a stunning woman despite a drab wig and a prosthetic nose that called to mind a plastic surgeon's "before" photo. Ordinarily she moved like a ballerina. Now the thick parka, along with the marble she'd placed in her right boot, spoiled her stride. And her sunglasses, relatives of the ski goggle family, concealed her best feature, bright green eyes that blazed with whimsy or, at times, inner demons.

No one else was in the corridor. But would anyone fall in behind them?

Charlie's heart pounded so forcefully that he could barely hear the crunching of his boots through the snow.

Sensing his unease, Alice took his hand. Or maybe there was more to it than that. Twelve days ago, caring only that he and his father were innocent, she decided to help them flee the United States in direct defiance of her superiors at the National Security Agency. "Girlfriend" was just her cover then. Their first night in Europe, however, it became reality. Since then, their hands had gravitated into each other's even without a threat of surveillance.

She steadied him now.

He recalled the fundamental guiding principle of countersurveillance, which she'd taught him: See your pursuers, but don't let them know you see them.

The spooked-up sunglasses--part mirror, and, to the uninitiated, part kaleidoscope--made it difficult to find a specific person behind him, or for that matter a specific section of grandstand. He fought the urge to peer over his shoulder. As little as a backward glance would be enough for the man in the red hat to smell blood.

"See anything?" Charlie muttered.

"Not yet." Alice laughed as if he'd just told a joke.

They came to a white cabana tent with a peaked top. Inside, a rosy and suitably effervescent middle-aged couple popped corks and filled plastic flutes with the same champagne whose logo adorned banners all around the racecourse. Falling into place at the end of the small line enabled Charlie and Alice to, quite naturally, turn and take in their environs: Thirty or forty white-turf fans wandered among the betting windows, Port-o-Lets, and a dozen other concessions tents.

No man in the red hat.

And the corridor behind the grandstand remained vacant.

Charlie felt only the smallest measure of relief. Their tail might have passed them to another watcher. Or put cameras on them. Or fired microscopic transponders into their coats. Or God knew what.

"Sorry about this," Charlie said.

"About what?" Alice seemed carefree. Part of which was her act. The rest was a childhood so harrowing and a career full of so many horrors that she rarely experienced fear now. If ever.

"Talking you into coming here."

"Knock it off. It's breathtaking."

"To a track, I mean. It was idiotic."

"Hermits are conspicuous. We have to get out some of the time."

"Just not to racetracks. Of course they'd be watching racetracks."

"Switzerland has an awful lot of racetracks, not to mention all the little grocery stores that double as offtrack betting parlors. And there's no reason to think that anyone even knows we're in Europe. Also this isn't exactly a racetrack. It's a course on a frozen lake--who knew such a thing existed?"

"They know. They always do."

"They" were the so-called Cavalry, the Central Intelligence Agency black ops unit pursuing Charlie and his father, Drummond Clark. Two weeks ago, after the various assassins all failed their assignments, the Cavalry framed the Clarks for the murder of U.S. national security adviser Burton Hattemer, enabling the group to request the assistance of Interpol and a multitude of other agencies. With no way to prove their innocence, the Clarks knew they wouldn't stand a chance in court. Not that it mattered. The Cavalry would avoid the hassle of due process and "neutralize" them before a gavel was raised.

Readying a twenty-franc note for two flutes of champagne, Alice advanced in line. "Look, if they're really that good, they're going to get us no matter what, so better here than a yodeling hall."

She could always be counted on for levity. It was one of the things Charlie loved about her. One of about a hundred. And he barely knew her.

He was wondering how to share the sentiment when a young blonde emerged from the corridor behind the grandstand, a Golden Age starlet throwback in a full-length mink. Breathing hard, perhaps from having raced to catch up to them. Or maybe it was the basset hound, in matching mink doggie jacket, wrenching her forward by his expensive-looking leather leash.

Clasping Charlie's shoulder, Alice pointed to the dog. "Is he the most adorable thing you've ever seen or what?"

Charlie realized that pretending not to notice the dog would look odd. Acting natural was part of Countersurveillance 101. The best he could muster was "I've always wanted a schnauzer."

"Why a schnauzer?" Alice asked.

All he knew about the breed was that it was a kind of dog.

The starlet looked at them, her interest apparently piqued.

"I just like the sound of schnauzer," Charlie said.

The woman continued past as a slovenly bald man stumbled out of a Port-o-Let, directly into her path. She smiled at him.

Women like her don't smile at guys like that, Charlie thought. Especially with Port-o-Lets in the picture.

Alice noticed it too. She yawned. "Well, what do you say we head back to Geneva?"

Charlie knew this really meant leave for Gstaad, sixty miles from Geneva.

Fast.

Read More Show Less

First Chapter

Twice a Spy

A Novel
By Keith Thomson

Doubleday

Copyright © 2011 Keith Thomson
All right reserved.

ISBN: 9780385530798

1

"Do you see a ghost?" Alice asked.

"You'd know if I did because I'd mention it." Charlie fixated on someone or something behind her, rather than meet her eyes as he usually did. "Or faint."

"Ghost is trade lingo for someone you take for a surveillant, but, really, he's just an ordinary Joe. When you have to look over your shoulder as much as we have the past couple of weeks, it's only natural that everybody starts seeming suspicious. You imagine you've seen one of them before. It's hard to find anybody who doesn't look like he works for Interpol."

"Interpol would be an upgrade." Charlie laughed a stream of vapor into the thin Alpine air. "After the past couple of weeks, it's hard to find anybody who doesn't look like a veteran hit man."

Charlie Clark owned no Hawaiian shirts. He didn't chomp on a cigar. In no way did he match anyone's conception of a horseplayer: He was a youthful thirty with a pleasant demeanor and strong features in spite of Alice's efforts to alter them--a brown wig hid his sandy blond hair, fake sideburns and a silicone nose bridge blunted the sharp contours of his face, and oversized sunglasses veiled his intelligent blue eyes. But--tragically, Alice thought--until being thrust on the lam two weeks ago, Charlie had spent 364 days a year at racetracks. And that number would have been 365 if tracks didn't close on Christmas Day. He lived for the thrill not merely of winning but of being right. As he'd often said: "Where else besides the track can you get that?"

So why, Alice wondered, had his attention veered from the race?

Especially this race, a "white turf" mile with thoroughbreds blazing around a course dug from sparkling snow atop the frozen Lac de Morat in Avenches, Switzerland, framed by hills that looked like they had been dispensed by a soft-serve ice cream machine, sprinkled with chalets, and surrounded by blindingly white peaks. Probably it was on an afternoon just like this in 1868 that the British adventurer Edward Whymper said of Switzerland, "However magnificent the imagination may be, it always remains inferior to reality."

And Edward Whymper didn't have a horse poised to take the lead.

Flying past four of the nine entries, Charlie's choice, Poser Le Lapin, spotted a gap between the remaining two.

Knowing almost nothing about the horses besides their names, Charlie had taken a glance at the auburn filly during the post parade and muttered that her turndowns--iron plates bent toward the ground at a forty-five-degree angle on the open end of the horseshoes--would provide better traction than the other entrants' shoes today.

Alice followed his sight line now, up from the snowy track apron where they stood and into the packed grandstand. Ten thousand heads pivoted at once as the horses thundered around the oval.

It was odd that Charlie wasn't watching the race. More than odd. Like an eight-year-old walking past a candy store without a glance.

The horses charged into the final turn. Alice saw only a cloud of kicked-up snowflakes and ice. As the cloud neared the grandstand, the jockeys came into view, their face masks bobbing above the haze. A moment later, the entire pack of thoroughbreds was visible. Cheers from the crowd drowned out the announcer's rat-a-tat call.

Poser Le Lapin crossed the wire with a lead of four lengths.

Alice looked to Charlie expecting elation. He remained focused on the grandstand behind him, via the strips of mirrored film she'd glued inside each of his lenses--an old spook trick.

"Your horse won, John!" she said, using his alias.

He shrugged. "Every once in a while, I'm right."

"Don't tell me the thrill is gone."

"At the moment, I'm hoping to be wrong."

A chill crept up her. "Who is it?"

"Guy in a red ski hat, top of the grandstand, just under the Mercedes banner, drinking champagne."

She shifted her stance, as if to watch the trophy presentation like everyone else. Really she looked into the "rearview mirrors" inside her own sunglasses.

The red ski hat was like a beacon.

"I see him. What, you think it's weird that he's drinking champagne?"

"Well, yeah, because it's, like, two degrees out."

Alice usually put great stock in Charlie's observational skill. During their escape from Manhattan, in residential Morningside Heights, he'd pegged two men out of a crowd of hundreds as government agents when they slowed at a curb for a sign changing to don't walk; real New Yorkers sped up. But after two harrowing weeks of being hunted by spies and misguided lawmen who shot first and asked questions later, anyone would see ghosts, even an operator with as much experience as she had.

"Sweetheart, half the people here are drinking champagne."

"Yeah, I know--the Swiss Miss commercials sure got Switzerland wrong. The thing is the red hat."

"Is there something unusual about it?"

"No. But he was wearing a green hat at lunch."



2

The man in the blood-red knitted ski cap looked as if he were in his late twenties. Gaunt and pallid, he was Central Casting's idea of a doctoral candidate. Which hardly ruled him out as an assassin. Since he had been dragged into this mess two weeks ago, the killers Charlie had eluded had been disguised as a jocular middle-aged insurance salesman, a pair of wet-behind-the-ears lawyers, and a fresh fruit vendor on the Lower East Side.

"You're sure you saw him at the café?" Alice asked.

"When I doubled back to our table to leave the tip, I noticed him in the corner, flagging the waitress all of a sudden. What's that spook saying about coincidences?"

"There are none?"

"Exactly."

"I never say that. The summer I was eleven, I got a Siamese cat. I named him Rockford. A few weeks later, I started a new school, and there was another girl who had a Siamese cat named Rockford. Coincidence or what?"

"I always wondered about that saying."

"In any case, why don't we go toast your win?"

One of their exit strategies commenced with a walk to the nearest concession stand. "I would love a drink, actually," Charlie said.

Leaving the track apron, they stepped into a long corridor between the rear of the grandstand and Lac de Morat's southern bank. While his nerves verged on exploding, she retained her character's bounce. In fact, if he hadn't been in the same room this morning when she was getting dressed, he might not recognize her now. She remained a stunning woman despite a drab wig and a prosthetic nose that called to mind a plastic surgeon's "before" photo. Ordinarily she moved like a ballerina. Now the thick parka, along with the marble she'd placed in her right boot, spoiled her stride. And her sunglasses, relatives of the ski goggle family, concealed her best feature, bright green eyes that blazed with whimsy or, at times, inner demons.

No one else was in the corridor. But would anyone fall in behind them?

Charlie's heart pounded so forcefully that he could barely hear the crunching of his boots through the snow.

Sensing his unease, Alice took his hand. Or maybe there was more to it than that. Twelve days ago, caring only that he and his father were innocent, she decided to help them flee the United States in direct defiance of her superiors at the National Security Agency. "Girlfriend" was just her cover then. Their first night in Europe, however, it became reality. Since then, their hands had gravitated into each other's even without a threat of surveillance.

She steadied him now.

He recalled the fundamental guiding principle of countersurveillance, which she'd taught him: See your pursuers, but don't let them know you see them.

The spooked-up sunglasses--part mirror, and, to the uninitiated, part kaleidoscope--made it difficult to find a specific person behind him, or for that matter a specific section of grandstand. He fought the urge to peer over his shoulder. As little as a backward glance would be enough for the man in the red hat to smell blood.

"See anything?" Charlie muttered.

"Not yet." Alice laughed as if he'd just told a joke.

They came to a white cabana tent with a peaked top. Inside, a rosy and suitably effervescent middle-aged couple popped corks and filled plastic flutes with the same champagne whose logo adorned banners all around the racecourse. Falling into place at the end of the small line enabled Charlie and Alice to, quite naturally, turn and take in their environs: Thirty or forty white-turf fans wandered among the betting windows, Port-o-Lets, and a dozen other concessions tents.

No man in the red hat.

And the corridor behind the grandstand remained vacant.

Charlie felt only the smallest measure of relief. Their tail might have passed them to another watcher. Or put cameras on them. Or fired microscopic transponders into their coats. Or God knew what.

"Sorry about this," Charlie said.

"About what?" Alice seemed carefree. Part of which was her act. The rest was a childhood so harrowing and a career full of so many horrors that she rarely experienced fear now. If ever.

"Talking you into coming here."

"Knock it off. It's breathtaking."

"To a track, I mean. It was idiotic."

"Hermits are conspicuous. We have to get out some of the time."

"Just not to racetracks. Of course they'd be watching racetracks."

"Switzerland has an awful lot of racetracks, not to mention all the little grocery stores that double as offtrack betting parlors. And there's no reason to think that anyone even knows we're in Europe. Also this isn't exactly a racetrack. It's a course on a frozen lake--who knew such a thing existed?"

"They know. They always do."

"They" were the so-called Cavalry, the Central Intelligence Agency black ops unit pursuing Charlie and his father, Drummond Clark. Two weeks ago, after the various assassins all failed their assignments, the Cavalry framed the Clarks for the murder of U.S. national security adviser Burton Hattemer, enabling the group to request the assistance of Interpol and a multitude of other agencies. With no way to prove their innocence, the Clarks knew they wouldn't stand a chance in court. Not that it mattered. The Cavalry would avoid the hassle of due process and "neutralize" them before a gavel was raised.

Readying a twenty-franc note for two flutes of champagne, Alice advanced in line. "Look, if they're really that good, they're going to get us no matter what, so better here than a yodeling hall."

She could always be counted on for levity. It was one of the things Charlie loved about her. One of about a hundred. And he barely knew her.

He was wondering how to share the sentiment when a young blonde emerged from the corridor behind the grandstand, a Golden Age starlet throwback in a full-length mink. Breathing hard, perhaps from having raced to catch up to them. Or maybe it was the basset hound, in matching mink doggie jacket, wrenching her forward by his expensive-looking leather leash.

Clasping Charlie's shoulder, Alice pointed to the dog. "Is he the most adorable thing you've ever seen or what?"

Charlie realized that pretending not to notice the dog would look odd. Acting natural was part of Countersurveillance 101. The best he could muster was "I've always wanted a schnauzer."

"Why a schnauzer?" Alice asked.

All he knew about the breed was that it was a kind of dog.

The starlet looked at them, her interest apparently piqued.

"I just like the sound of schnauzer," Charlie said.

The woman continued past as a slovenly bald man stumbled out of a Port-o-Let, directly into her path. She smiled at him.

Women like her don't smile at guys like that, Charlie thought. Especially with Port-o-Lets in the picture.

Alice noticed it too. She yawned. "Well, what do you say we head back to Geneva?"

Charlie knew this really meant leave for Gstaad, sixty miles from Geneva.

Fast.

Continues...

Excerpted from Twice a Spy by Keith Thomson Copyright © 2011 by Keith Thomson. Excerpted by permission of Doubleday, a division of Random House, Inc.
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.

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Customer Reviews

Average Rating 4
( 30 )
Rating Distribution

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See All Sort by: Showing 1 – 20 of 30 Customer Reviews
  • Posted January 2, 2012

    Not the typical spy thriller - but in a good way.

    Picks up where Once A Spy ended. A retired spy with Alzheimer's (Drummond Clark) on the run with his son (Charlie Clark). Dad has snippets of clarity, always at just the right time. If you're looking for a completely believable story, this isn't it. (After all, it is Fiction.) I very much like this author's writing style - it flows well. Enough detail to keep it interesting without being cumbersome. However, I do admit to being a bit lost once or twice. I had to go back up a few pages, thinking I missed something. All in all a good read, but reading Once A Spy first is a must.

    2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Posted May 8, 2011

    more from this reviewer

    Twice A Spy

    This espionage thriller keeps you on your seat, but if you haven't read the first book, Once A Spy, you may be a little confused like I was. Charlie Clark is on the run with his ex-spy father who has Alzheimer's disease. While trying to find a way to show that they are innocent, Charlie's girlfriend, Alice who happens to work for the NSA is kidnapped. This novel is filled with a lot of spy stuff and with relationship issues as Charlie learns more about his dad. I would have enjoyed this more if I had read the first book.

    2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted March 23, 2011

    more from this reviewer

    Give this one a pass

    On a scale of 1-10 with WEB Griffin, Joseph Wambaugh, Daniel Silva, Tom Clancy, Robert Crais a 10 I rate this a 2/10. The plot is good however too much fantasy in this horrid book. I am finding it difficult to push through, have only read half of it and frankly it sucks.

    2 out of 3 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted May 5, 2011

    more from this reviewer

    Fun, engrossing read!

    I enjoyed Twice a Spy partly for the spycraft which was fascinating and fun, but largely because of the father-son interplay. What would it have been like to have had 007 or an elder Jason Bourne as your father? Charlie Clark is finding out just that - except his father is in the early stages of dementia. So it takes some understanding, creativity, and patience to get the elder Clark to reveal his techniques, his craft, and his secrets.

    The father-son dynamic and Drummond Clark's dementia add a certain levity and sadness to the novel and make Twice a Spy a particularly enjoyable read. If you are partial to spy novels and thrillers, don't miss Keith Thomson's Twice a Spy!

    ISBN-10: 9780385530798 - Hardcover
    Publisher: Doubleday; First Edition edition (March 8, 2011), 336 pages.
    Review copy provided by the publisher.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted April 6, 2011

    more from this reviewer

    Half-Interesting

    Twice A Spy is not twice as good. But it is twice now that I read a book because the author blurbs on the cover were by authors I liked, and it is twice now that those authors have disappointed me. Twice A Spy is a hard read as it is mostly just silly. The author's need to write in a comic way turned me off. Now, those pre-publication books that get all the good reviews might have been more fun, I don't know. I never get one.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted March 8, 2011

    Great Read!

    Advanced Copy Review: One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest meets The Bourne Ultimatum. The story/plot line was magically crafted, how you weave Alzheimer's into a spy tale I'll never know, but the father and son duo are a hit. I thoroughly enjoyed this second book in the series. I would recommend reading the first book Once a Spy before reading this one, things will flow much better for you. I am now a super fan of Keith Thomson and can't wait for the next installment. Give this author a shot, I promise you will not be disappointed.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted November 25, 2012

    Cloyd

    Wow

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  • Anonymous

    Posted November 24, 2012

    Emily to all

    I know i just joined earlier today but im quiting. Nothing ever happens. * walks away*

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted November 25, 2012

    A strange ball

    *Rolls in and encases itself in smoke. No one can see. A voice is heard. A mufled voice so thay no one can trace the voice.* hello i hope that you dont mind the temporary blindness but i just cant let you see me now can i? Well im just introducing myself to you for i know we will meet again soon. And next time dont expect me to be so polite. * the smoke clears and they can see again. Whoever was there is gone. The only clue left is a small hair* not that its even got a chance of being mine*said the voice coming from the ball his time. The ball rolls away*

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted November 24, 2012

    Grayson

    "Girl are overrunning almost everything now." Said a boy around 18, who walked in and looked around." Hiya. I'm Grason."

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted November 25, 2012

    Hawk

    Ok?

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted November 23, 2012

    Sonia

    Ok

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted November 23, 2012

    Arin

    "Alright." She nods, and proceeds there.

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted November 23, 2012

    Can i join

    Agent jeff i want to be a feild agent

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted November 23, 2012

    Clove

    Ok

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted November 23, 2012

    N¿1

    Uh , ok.

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted November 28, 2012

    THE INTERCOM

    Buzzes on. Skandar's voice comes through. "Mike this is Skandar. Please come to the weapons lab. Ive got a lead on the orb." There is a buzz as the intercom shuts off.

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted November 24, 2012

    Mike

    You can go to the dorm pick out wepons or do something

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted November 23, 2012

    Adam

    I'm interested in being in the research lab. *a black haired guy walks in.*

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted November 24, 2012

    Sergeant Lianne Parkingsonner

    The irish co-commander in chief came out. She was dressed in a traditional military uniform. She polished her sniper.

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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