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The Intercom Conspiracy (Vintage Crime/Black Lizard), by Eric Ambler
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Thirty years after Eric Ambler introduced the world to his unlikely hero, the academic and novelist Charles Latimer, in A Coffin for Dimitrios, Latimer returns in The Intercom Conspiracy.
Now a successful, bestselling author on the trail of a new book, Latimer steps in to help Theodore Carter, the hapless, hard-drinking editor of Intercom, a small, international political newspaper, investigate his bosses and the sources of the secrets he’s publishing. It was recently purchased by two magnates who are, unbeknownst to the frazzled Carter, chief intelligence officers in two minor NATO countries. Not all of Intercom’s readers are happy with some recent stories, which are surprisingly more truthful and a lot more dangerous than the rumors and fictions that used to fill its pages—and some of those readers will go to any length to keep their secrets safe. As Latimer and Carter get closer to the truth, they realize they’re jeopardizing more than just their careers.
- Sales Rank: #603199 in eBooks
- Published on: 2012-12-11
- Released on: 2012-12-11
- Format: Kindle eBook
Review
“A classic.”—Alan Furst, The Wall Street Journal
“[A] complex exploration of power, responsibility, and identity in the modern high-tech world. . . . [Ambler’s works are] political novels of a high order.” —The Washington Post
“A rarity . . . a thriller which compels belief.” —The Guardian (London)
“The best book he has written since the war. . . . It’s got everything the reader can possibly want . . . beautifully done.” —The Observer (London)
“Ambler is, quite simply, the best.” —The New Yorker
“Although the Old Master of Intrigue had been writing for more than 35 years when [The Levanter was] first published, he most certainly had not lost his touch.”—The New York Times Book Review
“The foremost thriller writer of our time.” —Time
“Brilliant. . . . To see [this] ordinary man thrust into an extraordinarily difficult situation and rising to the challenge is one of the most snugly satisfying scenes in fiction.” —The New York Times
“Mr. Ambler is a phenomenon!” —Alfred Hitchcock
About the Author
Eric Ambler was born into a family of entertainers and in his early years helped out as a puppeteer. However, he initially chose engineering as a full time career, although this quickly gave way to writing. In World War II he entered the army and looked likely to fight in the line, but was soon after commissioned and ended the war as assistant director of the army film unit and a Lieutenant-Colonel. This experience translated into civilian life and Ambler had a very successful career as a screen writer, receiving an Academy Award for his work on 'The Cruel Sea' by Nicolas Monsarrat in 1953. Many of his own works have been filmed, the most famous probably being 'Light of Day', filmed as 'Topkapi' under which title it is now published. He established a reputation as a thriller writer of extraordinary depth and originality and received many accolades during his lifetime, including two Edgar Awards from The Mystery Writers of America (best novel for 'Topkapi' and best biographical work for 'Here Lies Eric Ambler'), and two Gold Dagger Awards from the Crime Writer's Association ('Passage of Arms' and 'The Levanter'). Often credited as being the inventor of the modern political thriller, John Le Carre once described Ambler as 'the source on which we all draw'. A recurring theme in Ambler's works is the success of the well meaning yet somewhat bungling amateur who triumphs in the face of both adversity and hardened professionals. He wrote under his own name and also during the 1950's a series of novels as Eliot Reed, with Charles Rhodda. These are now published under the 'Ambler' umbrella.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Lewis Prescott
May 14
This is Michael Howell’s story and he tells most of it himself. I think that he should have told all of it.
He may not be the most persuasive of advocates in his own cause, and, as the central figure in what has come to be known as The Green Circle Incident, he is very much the defendant; but he alone can answer the charges and give the necessary explanations. It is upon his own words that he will be judged. In his sort of predicament declarations of sympathy and understanding from outsiders are apt to sound like pleas in mitigation. Instead of strengthening his case, my contributions could very well weaken it. I told him so.
He, however, did not agree.
“Supporting evidence, Mr. Prescott,” he said earnestly; “that’s what I need from you. Tell them what you know about Ghaled. Give it to them thick and strong. I can tell them what happened to me, but they have to understand what I was up against. They’ll believe you.”
“My opinion of a man like Ghaled formed in the course of a single interview isn’t evidence.”
“It will have the weight of evidence. I don’t expect you openly to side with me, Mr. Prescott—that would be asking too much—but don’t, I beg you, play into the hands of my enemies.”
Fruity and false; this was the Levanter speaking. I gave him a bleak look.
“I am not playing into anybody’s hands, Mr. Howell, least of all your enemies. I would have thought I had made that sufficiently clear.”
“To me, yes.” He held up a finger. “But what about the public and the news media? How can I vindicate myself, and the Agence Howell, when important independent witnesses, those who know the truth, choose to remain silent?”
“I wrote a three-thousand-word feature on the subject, Mr. Howell,” I reminded him. “I don’t call that remaining silent.”
“With respect, Mr. Prescott, your Green Circle article gave only a smattering of the truth.” He began wagging the raised finger at me. “If I am to be believed, I must tell it all. In that telling I need your help. I ask you to stand up with me and be counted.”
I paused before replying: “You may find yourself wishing that I had remained seated.”
“I am prepared to take that risk. What we have to do between us, Mr. Prescott, is to tell the whole truth. That is all, the whole truth.”
He made the telling of the whole truth sound very simple. He may even have believed that, in his case, it was.
For the record: at the time of which I am now writing I had neither met Mr. Howell nor even heard of his existence.
As a senior foreign correspondent working for the Post- Tribune syndicated news service, I am based in Paris. Two months prior to the Incident I had been assigned temporarily to the Middle-East to cover the visit of a U.S. Secretary of State making yet another attempt to resolve the Arab-Israeli conflict. The tour had ended in Beirut and it had been there that I had encountered Melanie Hammad.
My wife and I had met her originally in Paris at the apartment of mutual friends. Knowing her to be a freelance contributor to French and American fashion magazines, I had been surprised to find her sitting next to me at a Lebanese Ministry of Foreign Affairs press conference.
“A little off your usual beat, aren’t you?” I asked after we had exchanged greetings.
She raised her eyebrows. “This is my home. Didn’t you know that I was an Arab?”
“I knew that you were from the Lebanon.”
In Paris she had been an attractive young woman with sultry eyes who dressed well, spoke several languages and knew the high-fashion people. She had been helpful to my wife in the matter of getting special discounts on perfume, I remembered.
“Here,” she said firmly, “I am an Arab first and a Lebanese second.”
“Muslim or Christian?”
“My parents are Maronite Christian, so I suppose I am too.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “At present I am observing for the Palestinian Action Force.”
“I see.” I assumed that she was joking and added with a smile: “Unofficially, I take it.”
“I could scarcely do so officially.” She did not return the smile. “We could talk about it later if you wish.” Her fine eyes became intense. “I think you might be interested, Mr. Prescott.”
I hesitated. She seemed to be serious; but the only Palestinian Action Force I knew of was a splinter guerilla group led by a man named Salah Ghaled with a gangster reputation. It was difficult to think of the elegant Miss Hammad as in any way connected with him. Still, I was intrigued.
“All right,” I said. “I’m at the St Georges. If you’re free we might have lunch.”
The syndicate’s Middle East bureau has an office in Beirut. The man in charge is an Englishman named Frank Edwards who also acts as a stringer for one or two British newspapers. Before meeting Miss Hammad for lunch I made some inquiries.
Edwards laughed. “So, our Melanie’s picked on you, has she? I thought she was after the New York Times man.”
“What are you talking about?”
“She’s press agent for the Palestinian Action Force.”
“But my wife and I know her. She’s one of the Paris fashion girls.”
“In Paris she may be a fashion girl, but in this part of the world she’s a Palestinian activist. Ghaled recruited her when she was a student at the Sorbonne and he was still with El Fatah. Her old man’s rich, of course, or the police would be leaning on her. He owns that new office building you can see from the St Georges and a few more like it as well. She doesn’t have to work for a living, and, anyway, where Ghaled is concerned it’s love. We’ve got loads of stuff on them both. Do you want me to get it out?”
“I think I’ll see what sort of a pitch she makes first.”
“I can tell you that now. Extremism in the pursuit of liberty is no vice. Moderation is another name for weakness. I’m told that she can be very persuasive. You get handed an expurgated version of the PAF manifesto and, to warm the cockles of your heart, a mimeographed copy of the ‘Thoughts of Salah Ghaled.’ ”
“She could have given me that in Paris.”
“There you weren’t writing about the Middle East.”
However, in one thing Edwards had been mistaken. Melanie Hammad had more to offer than pamphlets.
“You have,” she informed me, “a reputation for being truly objective and independent, of not accepting uncritically a consensus of opinion, even when it would be prudent to do so.”
“That’s very flattering, Miss Hammad, but I hope you’re not suggesting that I am in any way unique.”
“I am not so stupid. There are other Americans like you, of course. But they are not often here, and when they are, they have no time to listen. I know what is said about the Palestinian Action Force. It is said that they are criminals using the Palestinian cause for their own ends, that Salah Ghaled deserted El Fatah when they were under attack, that he is no fighter for freedom but a mere gangster. You may be inclined to believe these things. You will at least have taken note of them. But you may also question and wonder if this received view, this consensus may be wrong. Given the chance, I think that you would prefer to form your own opinion.”
“But since nobody has asked me to form an opinion about Mr. Ghaled and his Palestinian Action Force . . .” I left the rest of the sentence in the air.
“I am asking you.”
“Unfortunately you are not my New York editor.”
“You have wide discretion. Your wife told me so. I am speaking of an important personal interview by you, Lewis Prescott. It would be exclusive, of course.”
I thought for a moment.
“Where would this exclusive interview take place?”
“Here in Lebanon. In secret naturally. Great discretion would have to be observed.”
“When would it take place?”
“If you agree today, I think I can arrange it within twenty-four hours.”
“Does Mr. Ghaled speak English or French?”
“Not well. I would be the interpreter. You have only to say the word, Mr. Prescott.”
“I see. Well, I’ll let you know later today.”
Edwards whistled when I told him of the proposal. “So Ghaled wants to come out of the woodwork!”
“Has he been interviewed much before? Hammad mentioned that she had done pieces on him.”
“That was when he was an El Fatah man. Since he started the PAF caper he’s been underground most of the time. The Jordanians put a price on his head and the PLO people in Cairo tried to persuade the Syrians to crack down on him. The Syrians wouldn’t quite go along with them on that, but he’s had to keep his nose clean there and be careful. Though he’s based in Syria he never sends his goon squads into action on Syrian territory. He’s poison here, of course. He could use an improved image, a little respectability.”
“Frank, you’re not suggesting, I hope, that, to please pretty Miss Melanie Hammad, I’d do a clean-up job on him.”
Edwards held his hands up defensively. “No, Lew, but I am reminding you that a personal interview of the kind you do tends to become a profile of the institution with which the person interviewed is generally identified. If you were to do a job like that in this case you’d be giving Ghaled a lift, the sort of international identity that he doesn’t at present have.”
“If I were out to do a piece on the Palestinian guerilla movement, which I am not, would I choose Ghaled as representative of it?”
“Representative?” He looked blank for a moment, then shrugged. “There are ten separate Palestinian guerilla movements, more if you include groups like the PAF. You might do worse than choose Ghaled. He’s been in one or other of the movements since he was a boy.”
“Isn’t he a maverick, though, a far-out fanatic?”
“They’re all far-out fanatics. By hatred out of illusion, the lot of them. They have to be. They couldn’t have survived otherwise.”
“No moderates at all? What about Yassir Arafat?”
Most helpful customer reviews
7 of 7 people found the following review helpful.
A Spy Classic!
By Katya
If you have read any Ambler at all, you MUST read this book. Everything that Ambler does well--characters, irony, suspense, world view--he does incredibly well here. I never tire of his intelligence and humor and just plain great writing style. The storyline is inspired and, according to one reviewer here, closer to the truth than we might think! Almost better than chocolate!
5 of 5 people found the following review helpful.
A Retirement Fund for Spies
By Donald Mitchell
Many espionage novels contain details about spies who have siphoned off some of their operating budgets into Swiss bank accounts. None other than The Intercom Conspiracy (to my knowledge) involves using a spy's awareness of how espionage is committed to encourage a retirement payoff by releasing "non-secret secrets."
The narration of The Intercom Conspiracy provides part of its charm. The central figure is Theodore Carter, the hard-drinking editor of a weekly newspaper that focuses on intelligence matters. He recounts his unpleasant experiences as editor when new owners begin providing him with real classified information . . . and various parties become interested in shutting down the Intercom, either by buying it out or by eliminating its editor.
Carter is approached by Charles Latimer, the inquisitive crime writer of A Coffin for Dimitrios, for his help in completing the story of those events at the Intercom. Latimer has learned about the background plot from one of the conspirators (a neighbor in Majorca) and wants to go public. Before long, Latimer disappears while Carter goes on to flesh out the story Latimer has dug up.
Using a combination of Carter's narration and Latimer's writing, you'll uncover what really happened. It's a chilling . . . but often perversely droll . . . tale of how espionage bureaucracies operate. Thinking back to the many intelligence "failures" that have been noted in recent years with regard to terrorism, it makes one wonder who may have been running a similar little game for their own benefit.
After you finish this intriguing story, think about how your work could be misdirected to harmful ends. How can you avoid that?
5 of 5 people found the following review helpful.
How It Really Works
By A Customer
As a career intelligence officer, I can say that this is my favorite piece of espionage fiction because it is so authentic. No swashes, no buckles, but like "Our Man in Havana," a real look into the real world. The two intelligence chiefs with their OSS heritage, the author's acute observations on the "big battalions" of the CIA and KGB, the role of lawyers and bankers, are all wonderfully drawn, as is the hero: a victim of a "practical joke perpetuated by strangers." A very subtle book but well worth your time. A classic and one of Ambler's best.
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