Pascual Rose, a former courier for European terrorist groups first seen in Lying Crying Dying, is coerced by what he thinks is a French intelligence group into identifying a former colleague who is now engaged in selling illegal weapons provided by the Russian mafia. The buyer is an Algerian general who has come to Paris for a meeting at a bank owned by Mirakl, the international conglomerate providing cover for the Russian gangsters. Soon Pascual hooks up with an expatriate Algerian reporter who wants to stop the endless killings in her country, and they follow a twisted path of intrigue and extreme danger from Paris to Zurich and back, never knowing who is the enemy. Martell, who also writes as Sam Reaves (Dooley's Back), has taken the overused character of the burned-out international adventurer-in this case an ex-terrorist-and has breathed new life into it. As sequels go, this is a successful book: the pace is fast, the plot believable, and the storytelling engaging. For all fiction collections where international intrigue is popular.-Jo Ann Vicarel, Cleveland Heights-University Heights P.L., OH Copyright 2003 Cahners Business Information.
Further adventures of Pascual Rose, the cowardly counterterrorist (self-avowed) who’s still trying to come in from the cold. Geopolitical chess, played by super-spies and begun last year in Lying Crying Dying—to which this is the sequel—revs up again, the moves sneakier and of darker intent. Probably the middle game’s been reached, but that’s hard to know for sure; hard for poor, embattled Pascual even to know precisely who his opposition is, though whoever it is, harm is assuredly the object. There he was, beached in Barcelona, broke but safe (he foolishly believed), having dodged a multiplicity of inimical forces: drinking too much, whoring more than he really wanted to, doing the odd translating gig in one or another of his six languages, keeping his head down. And then suddenly, looming large in Pascual’s out-of-the-way path, came the enigmatic Frenchman Morrell, packing one of those gut-wrenching can’t-refuse offers. A hundred thousand US dollars, says he, in exchange for a quick betrayal, an act not unfamiliar to a counterterrorist famously. . . er. . . pragmatic. French intelligence is interested in a former colleague of Pascual’s, an operator who’s changed sides as often as Pascual has himself. The havoc wrought by Daoud Najjar is well known. What he looks like, however, is a mystery to virtually all except Pascual. Come to Paris, plant "the Judas kiss," then fade into the night, pockets filled. Refuse, and bulletins will be sent to an array of those who’d kill—le mot juste—to learn Pascual’s hidey-hole. Bereft of choices, he wends his way to Paris, tracks his quarry (while his quarry tracks him), falls in love, gets caught up in multinational swindles, Algerian politics, Swisschicanery, and Russian hooliganism, but manages nevertheless to elude all pursuers and, quintessential survivor that he is, position himself for the end game. Endlessly convoluted, but if you’ve got a soft spot for the Byronic antihero, Pascual’s your man.