Typhoon [antikvár]

Prologue'Washington has gone crazy.'I am standing at the foot of Joe's bed in the Worldlink Hospital. Six days have passed since the attacks of 11 June. There are plastic tubes running from valves on his wrists, a cardiac monitor attached by pads to the spaces between the bruises and cuts on his chest.'What do you mean?''Only a handful of people at Langley knew what Miles was up to. Nobody else had the faintest idea what the hell was going on out here.''Who told you this?''Waterfleld.'Joe turns his head towards the window and looks out on another featureless Shanghai morning. He has a broken collarbone, a fracture in his left leg, a wound on his skull protected by loops of clean white bandage.'How much do you know about all this?' he asks, directing his eyes into mine, and the question travels all the way back to our first months in Hong Kong.'Everything I've researched. Everything you've ever told me.'My name is William Lasker lam a journalist. For fourteen years I served as a support agent of the British Secret Intelligence Service.1