ThrillerAnglais4 h de lecture
The Tehran Tuesday
de Stephen A. Sayle Écrit avec l'IA
The man who ran her network is hanged on live television, and the song he named could mean stay or run.
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Le livre
In Tehran, Leïla lives as Dr Lilit Sarkissian, an Armenian dentist in Vanak. She is also Israel's last agent in the city. When her courier Arash is hanged on state television, his forced confession names "Under Pressure", a song that fits both of his coded signals. Queen means he held. Bowie means run. She cannot tell which he meant.
A satellite message tells her to hold. Then a man arrives at her clinic whom she recognises from a briefing photograph as a Quds Force officer. She picks up the drill. Meanwhile her neighbour Kian is planning a protest on the roof, and he is already being watched.
In London, Jonah Ashdown, a hostage negotiator who now runs a failing Persian bookshop, is sent to Iran to talk about a seized Greek tanker. His real task is to bring out the woman in Tehran, with Farhad, an Iranian defector, beside him. Across the table sits Colonel Mehdi Rahimi, who has also noticed the song in Arash's confession.
Who in this web is telling the truth, and how long can a cover built with such care hold?
Pour qui. For readers who like slow-tightening espionage thrillers about double lives, coded signals and negotiations where every word may be a trap.
Le livre et sa présentation sont en anglais.
Les premières lignes
Chapter One
They hanged Arash on a Tuesday, at dawn, and state television showed it twice in case Leïla had missed it.
She had not missed it. She was standing in her kitchen in Vanak with a glass of tea going cold in her hand, and she watched the first broadcast at half past seven and the second at eight, and by the second time she had stopped looking at the crane and the rope and was looking only at his face in the confession they ran beforehand, because the face was the part that still had information in it.
They had shaved his beard. That was a small cruelty, and deliberate. Arash had been vain about his beard in the way of men who have nothing else to be vain about; he had trimmed it with nail scissors in the back of a Peugeot outside Isfahan while she kept watch, and he had asked her, quite seriously, whether it made him look like a poet. She had told him it made him look like a man who sold carpets to tourists. He had been delighted. Now his chin was raw and his eyes moved from left to right, left to right, reading from a card held somewhere above the camera.