The Color of Night

by David Lindsey Narrated by Paul Hecht

Overview

David Lindsey's tightly-plotted novels have won him international acclaim and awards. Now translated into 17 languages, his works set new standards for suspense and intrigue. Color of Night whirls you through the major cities of Europe on an unforgettable journey of revenge.

Harry Strand is living a quiet life as an art dealer in Houston. But until four years ago, he was an intelligence agent for the foreign service.

His nemesis was Schrade, a ruthless international criminal who arranged the "accident" that killed Harry's wife. Now Harry has met a mysterious, beautiful woman who may have critical information about Schrade. And Harry begins to bait a trap for his enemy.

The more Harry learns, however, the more he feels pulled into a much deeper conspiracy. As confidences and betrayals shift, Harry and his new companion can not trust anyone.

Narrator Paul Hecht captures Harry's dangerous balance between caution and courage.

Editorial Reviews

bn.com

With The Color of Night, David L. Lindsey has proven himself a master chef, whipping up a tasty dish seasoned with a dash of deception, a pinch of betrayal, a drop of love, and a good measure of revenge.

Austin Chronicle

A triumphant work in the tradition of Graham Greene.

Chicago Sun-Times

Lindsey is as ripe for bestsellerdom as he is deserving of it.

Tim Sullivan

An exciting, well-written story.
—Washington Post Book World

Publishers Weekly - Publisher's Weekly

Unlike many suspense writers, who publish annually, Lindsey offers a novel every two to three years (his most recent was Requiem for a Glass Heart, 1996). The extra time has consistently paid off in supple prose and stories resonant with insight. But his sales, though respectable, haven't matched his skill, peaking in 1990 with Mercy. Lindsey's new novel should continue that trend. Though replete with finely shaded characters and settings, its languid pace ill suits its genre--post-glasnost espionage thriller--and its plot turns can defy credulity. Like many of Lindsey's works, the narrative launches (after a Venetian prelude) in Texas, in Houston, where art dealer Harry Strand observes a lovely young woman at his club's swimming pool. Harry then learns that a potential client has rare drawings to sell; the client is that woman, Mara Song, with whom Harry strikes up a friendship that turns to love. Meanwhile, in Europe, members of a defunct American espionage ring are being threatened or killed. Very slowly, it is revealed that Harry is a former spy who controlled the ring and who, in penance for colluding with diabolical criminals to further his espionage agenda, decided, along with his ring, to sting the worst of these criminals for several hundred million dollars. That criminal, a German financier named Wolfram Schrade, has discovered Harry's treachery and wants his money back--and vengeance; and Harry's spy agency wants the money, too. As Harry, in Europe with Mara, counterplots to defeat Schrade, the lovers are drawn into great danger. Scene shifts from Geneva to Paris to London and elsewhere help move an interlude-laden plot that, despite much conspiring, lacks the sort of vigor that more action might have given it, while coincidence mars the showdown between Harry and Schrade. A novel to admire more than to relish, elegant rather than robust, this is, ultimately, a series of rich character studies cast not quite successfully as a thriller.

Library Journal

Retired intelligence officer Harry Strand, a Houston art dealer, is still mourning the death of his wife, Romy, when a mysterious woman enters his life. Mara Song has several exquisite drawings for sale--will Strand represent her? When Strand sees devastating footage of Romy's last minutes on a videotape at Mara's house, he is catapulted into a world of intrigue and deceit. Lindsey's ninth novel (see, e.g., Requiem for a Glass Heart) revisits the end of the Cold War, when, as head of an international crime unit, Strand and his agents worked a double-cross on Wolfram Schrade, a sinister German crimelord and high-level government informant embezzling hundreds of millions of dirty dollars. Now one agent is dead, another missing; Strand is next. Lindsey, aptly compared to John le Carr , continues to turn out thoughtful and delicately written thrillers destined for the best sellers lists. -- Christine Perkins, Jackson Cty. Lib. Svcs., Medford, OR

Kirkus Reviews

An engrossing thriller about autumnal Cold Warriors. Harry Strand, erstwhile super spy, has been in from the cold for five solid years. The art dealer's world, once his cover, is now his reality. Though still in a kind of half mourning for his wife-killed 11 months earlier in an automobile collision-he is reasonably content, at least as content as melancholy Harry ever expects to be. His routines, his business, and his select company of friends solace and comfort him so that, in all, it's a manageable life. But enter Mara Song, a gorgeous Chinese-American divorcée with a collection of valuable drawings she wants him to sell for her. Before he knows it, Harry is head over heels. But just who is this remarkably attractive person? Is she at all who she purports to be? The question intensifies when Harry finds a certain shocking videocassette in her room detailing an auto smash-up, the very one that cost him his wife. And, clearly, what Harry had always supposed was an accident was anything but. Harry, though, convinces himself that Mara is true-blue and the cassette a plant. And almost instantly, he realizes who must have planted it. The implications are disruptive and scary: a deadly secret, which he'd long felt was safely buried, has been disinterred by a powerful enemy who's no longer a sleeping dog. Once duped by Harry, he now seeks retribution-on Harry and on the group of intelligence agents Harry once ran. What it comes down to, Harry grimly decides as one former ally after another is isolated and brutally dealt with, is kill or be killed. Lindsey (Requiem For a Glass Heart, 1996, etc.) is in that army of thriller writers who are regularly measured against leCarré. And he's one of the few who consistently bears up. .

APR/MAY 00 - AudioFile

This novel about Harry Strand, a former spy trying to elude a vengeful criminal, moves at a slow pace. Instead of relying on cliff-hangers in every chapter, David Lindsey builds tension through painstaking detail as he follows Strand’s methodical plan--and a loose end that could unravel it. Paul Hecht’s low-key reading--almost as methodical as Strand’s plotting--complements the tone of the novel, conveying both the danger the protagonists face and the cool professionalism with which they handle it. Although some descriptive passages could have been cut to improve the flow of the reading, this unabridged thriller is effective at full length. J.A.S. © AudioFile 2000, Portland, Maine

Product Details

BN ID:	2940171169596
Publisher:	Recorded Books, LLC
Publication date:	01/08/2016
Edition description:	Unabridged

Read an Excerpt

Chapter One

VENICE, SESTIERE DI DORSODURO

It was the middle of the afternoon, and the windows of the old palazzo were partially opened to the crisp spring air. The study, filled with books and artwork obsessively arranged and cataloged and situated, overlooked the narrow canal, and the light that the room received was reflected off the buildings opposite, their weathered colors throwing off pale hues of apricot and lilac, wan ocher and coral and vanilla.

    The sounds of the canal rose up on the summer heat and drifted into the room as well, carrying the voices of tourists strolling on the small fondamenta, the slosh of a passing gondola, the voices of merchants unloading produce from a small barge, water lapping under the bridge just beyond the window, a woman's laughter.

    "Just put them here," the German said to the dealer, spreading his arms out over the long refectory table at which he sat and that he used as a working desk. He had moved aside orderly piles of paperwork and books to provide a clean surface.

    The dealer nodded deferentially and approached the table with an oversize leather portfolio. His name was Claude Corsier, and he was a private art dealer from Geneva. He specialized in the drawings of artists of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, the secondary market. That is, deceased artists. His unusual ceremonious manner was not a demonstration of particular respect for the German client. Corsier was known for his courtesy to everyone, billionaire and housemaid alike. It was said that his manner was a reflection of his lifelong respect for the artwork in which he traded.

    Corsier put his portfolio on a small, marble-topped side table a step or two from his client and opened it. He was a large man, with big hands that one normally associated with farmworkers and laborers. But Corsier's hands were pale and soft, his nails manicured; they had never been darkened by the sun or stained by soil or lifted anything heavier than a folio reference book. His burly physique was genetic, not occupational. He had been bookish since childhood.

    Each drawing was enclosed in its own acid-free paper folder to protect it. After opening the first folder, Corsier turned it around and placed it on the table before the German.

    "First, the Italians you wanted to see. Giovanni Boldini. Becoming very difficult to find these days. Six images here, and a small, quick sketch of a hand on the back of the sheet. These are studies for portraits, it seems, but the finished work, if it was ever completed, has never been identified." Leaning over the refectory table, he gently pointed to an image with the barrel end of a marbled fountain pen. The pen was less intrusive than using one's finger. "The turned head is quite good here," he said.

    The German, whose name was Wolfram Schrade, nodded, bending over the sketch to look at it closely. He picked up a horn-handled magnifying glass from the table and examined each image on the sheet of paper. There were six.

    "These are very nice," Schrade said. His accent was heavy, but attractive, sophisticated.

    "I like them," Corsier agreed modestly.

    The German picked up the paper and looked at the drawing on the back. Corsier watched him as he turned and held it up to the diffused light from the windows. He was a handsome man, tall and lean, in his early fifties. His hair was thick and coarse, and Corsier had always marveled that it very nearly was the exact color of old vellum. His features were fine, a straight, narrow nose, a rather wide mouth with a full lower lip. The irises of his eyes were odd, almost lacking in any pigmentation at all.

    Without commenting further, Schrade closed the folder, set it aside, and looked at Corsier, who was already turning to get a second one.

    "Ettore Tito," Corsier said, placing the next opened folder before his client. "Studies for La Perla, now in a private collection. Very fine nudes.... The treatment here"—again the fountain pen pointed out a delicate line—"is exquisite, the way he handled the shadow at this concavity on the shoulder."

    Schrade closed the folder and set it aside with the other one.

    "And this artist is most difficult to find...." Corsier was unfolding a third folder.

    The presentation took up the better part of an hour, and by the time Corsier had shown his client nine works, the most he had ever shown him at one sitting, the light coming into the room from the canal had become richer with the lower angle of the sun. The circular rulli piombati panes in the Renaissance windows were now concentric smears of pastel.

    The drawings were stacked at Schrade's left elbow, and Corsier stood in front of the refectory table and folded his soft hands, looking down at the seated client.

    "I will have all of them," Schrade said.

    Corsier made a slight "as you wish" gesture with his hands. He had sold this man a fortune over the past dozen years, and this lot alone was a small fortune in itself.

    "A drink to celebrate?" the German asked.

    Corsier tilted his head forward, a bow of assent. Schrade got up from behind his desk and stepped across the marble floor to a sixteenth-century cabinet of dark walnut and opened the doors to reveal bottles of liquor. Two bottles were already opened, and he poured Corsier a glass of Prosecco, the dealer's favored drink with which to close a sale, and a glass of Bordolino for himself.

    "Please, sit for a while," he said, giving the aperitivo to Corsier and gesturing to a pair of heavy, X-frame wooden armchairs nearer the windows. When they were seated, the German raised his glass and said, "To resolution."

    Corsier was already drinking the Prosecco when he realized the toast didn't make any sense to him. He was still swallowing, relishing the movement of the drink on his palate, when Schrade continued.

    "I assume you've observed your usual discretion about bringing these to me," he said.

    "Of course."

    "There is no record that you've come here?"

    "None."

    "You've always been reliable on that score," Schrade conceded.

    "All of my clients require discretion." Corsier took another large drink of the Prosecco.

    The next few minutes were spent in casual conversation about drawings. The German was a voracious collector, and Corsier knew that he had large personal collections in his homes in Paris and Berlin. More than likely the drawings Corsier had just sold him would go to one of these two locations, where his client had elaborate archival spaces for exhibiting his collections.

    "As for the matter of payment," Schrade said offhandedly, "I'm sure you won't mind if I settle with you later."

    Corsier's last sip of Prosecco stuck in his throat and refused to go down. He struggled with it as his thoughts suddenly swarmed, turning, tacking, veering first in one direction, then in another, as he tried to concentrate on the most important implications of what his client had just said.

    First of all, this was now the second time. Wolfram Schrade already owed Corsier for a group of symbolists' drawings that Corsier had brought him four months before, perhaps the best group of symbolists that Corsier had ever had in his possession and which he had collected over a period of nearly a year, specifically with this client in mind. There had been an even dozen drawings of extraordinary quality. It had come to 1.3 million Deutsche marks. Corsier had taken them to the German's Berlin home. Where he had left them. With only a promise of payment.

    That was not so extraordinary. It wasn't an entirely comfortable position to be in, but he had known his client for twelve years and had never had any trouble collecting. So he had taken a deep breath....

    Now this. Nine drawings by the increasingly popular nineteenth-century Italian realists. Almost a million Deutsche marks. The German's assumption that Corsier would carry him yet again was appalling. Especially since in the corner behind the refectory table sat a computer. Its screen was dark, but a small lime green light burned on the keyboard, proving to Corsier that it still had a heartbeat. On more than a few occasions Schrade had turned around at his desk—in Paris or Berlin or here—and paid Corsier instantly from his accounts in Liechtenstein or Cyprus. So Corsier knew that it could be done. He was just an electrical spark away from two million Deutsche marks.

    He managed to swallow the Prosecco.

    The more serious implication of Schrade's remark, the one that had caused a sudden empty space in Corsier's chest, a huge cavity without tissue or feeling or breath, was the implication that these two reversals in their relationship—for, to a man of Corsier's sensibilities, they were irrefutably reversals—were premonitory.

    Schrade knew!

    Corsier looked at his client, whose neutral coloring was a perfect foil for the dusty colors that fell on him, the failing light passing through the concentric striations in the small panes of the windows. He heard a gondola, the thick chuck-chuck-chuck of the oar in the rowlock as the boat was propelled along the canal. He concentrated, desperate to absorb everything in these last moments. Was that a cat mewing? A barrel, or something like it, being rolled along the fondamenta? What could it be if not a barrel? A cart?

    All of this aural sensitivity had gone through his brain in an instant, no longer than it had taken him to swallow the imperceptibly hesitant Prosecco. After all, Corsier was a professional. He had been an operator most of his adult life, and he had done nearly all of his work in the brutal, high-stakes world of wealthy men. He had survived, and he had been successful. Corsier had brass balls, as a matter of fact. Though, to be sure, he himself would never, ever, have expressed it in such crass language.

    "Oh," he said, lowering his glass. "This is very awkward for me, I'm afraid." He knitted his brow and looked squarely at Schrade. "This seriously affects my liquidity. After accommodating your last request ... well, this is most difficult."

    "Difficult?" Schrade smiled ever so slightly. "Well, I certainly understand the awkwardness of a loss of ... liquidity."

    It was a pointed remark. Corsier knew that his client was never going to baldly state the real subject of this conversation. Corsier pursed his mouth thoughtfully as though he were trying to ferret out a mutually agreeable resolution. In fact, he was concentrating as he had never concentrated before in his life, bringing to bear his entire genetic code on one single thing: not bolting for the door.

    He was stunned at how complete, how all consuming, was his fear.

    How would it happen? A gunshot? Poison? Torture to make him tell everything, even things he could no longer remember himself, and then end it with simple asphyxiation? Why this charade first? This cruel pretense of civility? He couldn't imagine, but he struggled with the nausea and continued to play his own part flawlessly.

    "This is really quite irregular. Very difficult for me."

    "I'm sorry," Schrade said, which he clearly was not.

    "How long do you think you will need to delay payment?"

    "Payment? Oh, I plan to resolve this as quickly as possible."

    The double meanings shimmered before Corsier's sightless eyes. Venice, he thought, what a monumental surprise to die in Venice. He would never have imagined it. Never.

    As he rode in his host's private launch back down the Grand Canal on his way to Marco Polo Airport, Claude Corsier was numb with fear. He was also tremulous with hope. There was the launch driver and a companion. After they passed through the mouth of the Grand Canal and skirted San Giorgio Maggiore, more than ten kilometers remained across the lagoon to the airport. He looked at the two men in front of him. Was one of them the executioner? Surely not. They hardly paid him any attention.

    My God, Corsier thought, if he ever got away from this situation, he would disappear so thoroughly that he would become as invisible as breath.

    The wind picked up and the launch slapped the waves with a hard, rhythmic jolt, throwing a light spray from the hull. A short distance away he could see the public vaporettos filled with tourists headed to the same destination. He fought to avoid hyperventilation. His thoughts swung wildly back and forth between black, oppressive fear and an almost giddy exhilaration.

    Then he thought of the drawings. Holy Mary. The wretched German was going to get twenty-one of some of the finest drawings Corsier had ever possessed ... for absolutely nothing.

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