Readers will bite their nails to the quick long before they reach the icy rain-soaked triple climax of this hard-driving thriller, third in a series after The Broken Hearts Club and Irresistible. The author, a savvy New York City newspaperman disguised behind a pseudonym, knows his milieu and so does his hero, NYPD detective Conrad Voort. When an old friend passes him a list of five people scattered around the nation, each having had some relationship with terrorism, Voort confronts with terrifying timeliness the same kind of violence that destroyed the Federal Building in Oklahoma City. Several of the people on the list are dead "accidentally," but Voort suspects they may have been murdered. Of those still alive, Dr. Jill Towne is a beautiful physician Voort can't help falling for. Her specialty is tropical diseases, and she insists on treating a Saudi financier-turned-terrorist, Abu Bin Hussein, exiled in Afghanistan. Frank Greene, another man on the list, is a reader of Timothy McVeigh's favorite terror primer, The Turner Diaries, and is driving a truckload of fertilizer and dynamite to New York City, to explode it at a party packed with hundreds of policemen. Voort also discovers the existence of a clandestine and murderous government agency, the National Threat Assessment Agency. A former war hero, John Szeska, formerly with NTAA and now an assassin, wants the bomber; he also wants Voort. Black's timely thriller addresses questions of terrorism and government corruption with intelligence and flair. The social underpinnings never get in the way of the supercharged suspense as the novel proceeds to a flawless, slam-bang conclusion. (Aug. 28) Forecast: Speeding off the starting block,this latest Voort thriller is already slated to become a major motion picture (produced by Mace Neufeld), and is a selection of the Literary Guild, the Doubleday Book Club and the Mystery Guild. Copyright 1999 Cahners Business Information.
All the Dead Were Strangers
Narrated by James Daniels
Ethan BlackUnabridged — 11 hours, 33 minutes
All the Dead Were Strangers
Narrated by James Daniels
Ethan BlackUnabridged — 11 hours, 33 minutes
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Overview
Voort meets his childhood friend Meechum at a downtown bar for a drink and a disturbing conversation. His long-lost friend is paranoid and troubled, and vaguely hints at a military career gone terribly wrong . . . and then he suddenly disappears, and is later found dead under curious circumstances. A devastated Voort is left with only one clue: a list of names on a napkin that Meechum has asked him to investigate.
One after another, Voort discovers that the people on the list are dead: victims of seemingly innocent accidents that begin to look more and more suspicious as the next comes to light. As he sifts through more information, Voort begins to uncover a mysterious plot masterminded by a former Army hero who is following a lethal agenda - - a plot involving a covert U.S. military operation targeting Americans suspected of terrorist leanings. Voort quickly learns that he must battle two enemies as they battle each other: one, a champion of valor turned cold blooded killer, and the other an ordinary man about to unleash a massive and deadly attack.
Editorial Reviews
What starts off as a List of Adrian Messenger retread ends up as a helter-skelter race against terrorists and antiterrorists alike in the third and best of Black's overscaled, overheated thrillers. Since Conrad Voort works sex crimes for the NYPD, he never would have gotten wind of Meechum Keefe's list if Meechum hadn't been an old friend of his. Soon after the old friend asks him to gather information about the names of five people across the country, Voort is shaken by the news that three of them-right-wing organizer Alan Clark, food researcher Lester Levy, and furniture-chain-owner Chuck Farber-have died in apparently unexceptionable accidents. And his apprehension turns to alarm when he learns that Meechum was killed in a hotel fire only hours after passing on the list. Where did he get those five names from, and what do they have in common that put them at such risk? Running down leads on the remaining two candidates for prematurely fatal accidents-elusive cop-hater Frank Greene and beautiful tropical-disease specialist Dr. Jill Towne-Voort is detoured by his attraction for Dr. Towne, whose instantaneous hostility toward the cop who wants to protect her life has all the earmarks of foreplay. Readers who slog through the portentous flashbacks detailing Voort's mournful background (his cousin Matt's cancer, his ex-lover Camilla's abortion) and his antagonists' motivation (Vietnam, rogue operations, full-blown hatred of diverse governmental agencies) will be rewarded with a smartly paced series of twists, a constant widening of the canvas-though at the expense of characters who are tossed out the window once they've moved the plot along to the next surprise-and a slam-bang ending. IfBlack doesn't exactly shine as a stylist, or Voort (Irresistible, 2000, etc.) as detective, lover, or avenger, their greased-lightning adventures will keep you guessing and turning pages long into the night. Film rights to Paramount; Literary Guild/Doubleday Book Club/Mystery Guild selection
People Dead on.
Denver Rocky Mountain News First-rate.
People Black nails the cops' esprit de corps, but the baddies are even better, at once diabolic and heroic....[Black has a] flair for action.
Library Journal Black writes nearly perfect thrillers.
Publishers Weekly (starred review) Gripping...fast-paced...Riveting....Black's timely thriller addresses questions of terrorism and government corruption with intelligence and flair. The social underpinnings never get in the way of the supercharged suspense as the novel proceeds to a flawless, slam-bang conclusion.
Milwaukee Journal Sentinel A good mystery novel is more than a simple whodunit. At best it's a morality play that wrestles with the ambiguities of life and it's various shades of gray. In that regard, Ethan Black's All the Dead Were Strangers is as good as it gets.
Amazon.com (A Penzler Pick) The best entry yet in this excellent series....One of the best page-turners of the year.
American Way The vulnerability of the U.S. to terrorist attacks — homegrown or imported — is the foundation for this book....Intelligent and believable.
Booklist (starred review) An exciting, carefully crafted novel.
Stan Pottinger There are cop thrillers and serial killers, and then there is All The Dead Were Strangers. The difference is Conrad Voort. An everyman detective we recognize in the mirror, he comes face-to-face with a conspiracy so powerful and insidious it threatens to destroy him. Will he rise to it? If he doesn't, everyone he cares about will pay an awful price — but if he does, he will pay the ultimate price. Got your seatbelt fastened? Turn the first page and take the ride.
Product Details
| BN ID: | 2940172530982 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Brilliance Audio |
| Publication date: | 05/16/2017 |
| Edition description: | Unabridged |
Read an Excerpt
Admit it. You’re disappointed,” says the dark-haired man across the table. “Things didn’t turn out the way you planned.”
An old friend. A boyhood pal. A best buddy Voort hasn’t seen in nine years, drunk enough to talk too much, sober enough to keep secrets. Meechum Keefe smiles at some private thought, some unshared bit of bitter knowledge. He reaches for his third Johnny Walker Red as eagerly as a cardiac patient picking up a nitroglycerin tablet. He downs the liquid as carefully as a diabetic administering his insulin shot.
“You said you needed help,” Voort prompts. “You were afraid to even say the name of this bar, on the phone.”
They occupy a rear table in the White Horse Tavern, on Hudson Street, in Greenwich Village, a few short blocks from the Hudson River. The hundred-and-twenty-year-old bar is all dark wood and whirling ceiling fans. The burgers are fat and the beers are dark, cold, foamy. The men, both about thirty, draw glances from admiring women at adjacent tables. Both, to females, are prime-of-life, head-turning males.
But the women might be surprised to hear the dark-haired man mutter, “It’s going to sound crazy, Voort. The nuttiest story you ever heard.”
“I’ve heard a lot.”
The dark man is shorter but makes up for it with bundled energy, physical power compressed into his wide shoulders and corded neck, and shining in the half-drunken intensity of his Irish-black eyes. His hair is on the long side of acceptably corporate, slicked down on top but rebelling with a slight curl at the tail, over the collar of his fisherman’s knitsweater. His hands are smooth, like an office worker’s, but powerful, gripping his glass. His ring finger is bare of intimate entanglement. He hovers over his drink, protecting turf.
“People start out believing in things, but then they see the truth,” he says.
The blond is leaner but equally fit, more kayaker than weight lifter. His hair is shorter and brushed to the side, his attentive eyes the vivid blue of the sky in New Mexico. He wears a pressed white shirt without a tie, and an Italian jacket of black corduroy. His jeans are stone washed. He’s still on his first beer.
“In the end,” Meechum says, “people find out their career was dirty. Their boss screwed them. Their girl cheated on them. Their kid shot drugs. Pick an area. The subways are collapsing. The stock market is falling. The good times are over, and getting worse fast.”
Over the sounds of the televised Monday night Jets– Buffalo Bills game, the place is packed with a hodgepodge of neighborhood types—brokers still in their rumpled business suits after a hard day on Wall Street; writers who need to get out of their apartments each night, after pounding on a keyboard all day, alone; tourists who peruse the guidebooks that recommended this historic tavern, reading about the night George Washington spent here, during his retreat up the West Side of Manhattan, when it was forest.
“How about a steak to go with that scotch?” Voort says.
“I’m not hungry,” says the deep, familiar voice that had surprised Voort over the phone this afternoon with “The prodigal best friend, old buddy, is home after nine long years.”
Meechum signals the waitress for a refill by lifting his empty glass.
He says, with a half-drunken flourish, “The seven deadly sins all start with disappointment. Greed? ‘I don’t have enough.’ Lust? ‘My woman got fat, boring, older.’ You know what I’m talking about. I called One Police Plaza and some secretary said you quit for awhile and just came back. Something disappointed you, didn’t it?”
“I took a leave, got out of town awhile.”
“Ha! For two months? All you ever wanted to do, all your whole family ever did, for three hundred years, was police work. Voorts don’t disappear for two months. What went wrong?”
“We’re talking about you,” Voort says, thinking that the job hasn’t been as satisfying, nothing has been satisfying since his return.
“We’re talking about blame. How you get disappointed and blame someone for it. And then you dwell on it and it becomes all you think about. And finally you set out to destroy the thing you blame.”
“Is someone trying to do that to you?”
“They did already.”
“So you’re the one who wants revenge on them.”
“You’re good, Voort, but I told you, I’ll get to it when I’m ready.”
“I have all night.”
Meechum’s eyes slide over Voort’s right shoulder, across the crowded restaurant, to the front door and back.
In the oak-framed mirror above his friend’s head, Voort tries to guess what Meechum sees. Is it a specific person? Or is he worried that a specific person will appear?
“Ah, you were always able to zero in on the fundamental questions, Voort. Or am I too drunk to make sense anymore? Sometimes it turns out, in the end, that a person has everything, even the little pieces, upside down in his head. The devil turns out to be an accountant. Mephistopheles needs glasses, and he’s pigeon-toed to boot.”
To Voort, Meechum’s unexplained fear is not overdramatic. He’s seen too much justifiable terror on the job. Usually it’s been in women—victims stalked by boyfriends, husbands, fathers, strangers. Women tracked to their apartments, offices, bedrooms, or shops. He’s seen the sick mail they receive. He’s listened to the perverted messages on their answering machines. Time after time he’s answered radio calls, out of the sex crimes unit, to find a body— someone who was once afraid, who perhaps no one took seriously—bloodied and, if lucky under these perverted circumstances, at least half alive.
It had not occurred to him when he became a policeman that he would become an expert on fear. He’d started out with a more romantic vision of the Blue Life. But nine years after graduating from the police academy, Voort understands fear the way a physicist understands atoms. He smells its variations with the skill of a French chef appraising the freshness of a fish. He has come to understand, since he took a leave, that there had been a time when he could have chosen a different area of life professionally—Nature perhaps, or commerce, or the arts.
My father told me to quit if things were getting to me. I just need a little equilibrium now, and I’ll be fine again.
And now he sees the thousand ways New Yorkers have incorporated fear into their daily lives, weaving it into the fabric of his city. There’s the quiet fear in the subway as passengers clutch bags to their laps, their wary eyes attuned to strangers. There’s the nervous fear of pedestrians hurrying home, keeping to the center of dark streets at night, and away from parked cars, dark doorways, alleys. Fear makes women hide their engagement rings, their proudest possessions, in public places. It stalks workers in a suddenly failing economy. They work longer hours. They pore over financial pages, seeking magic in a stock market that may be coming apart. Their fights about money at home elevate over the cost of a new hat, a nine-dollar ticket to the cineplex, or a sixty-watt lightbulb left burning in an empty flat.
Now Voort says, “Let’s change the subject if you need time to get to things. Tell me. How’s the army? I figured after all these years, you’d be a general by now.”
“I quit.”
“But it’s all you ever wanted to do.”
“That’s why we’re pals. We think the same way. We get disillusioned together. I left Washington two years ago and moved back to New York. Sorry I didn’t call you before. I guess I had to keep to myself while I figured things out. Now I work in a . . . you’ll laugh . . . corporate head-hunting firm.”
Meechum laughs at Voort’s stunned expression, and glances, again, toward the front door. “Hey, remember the old army commercial, before they started firing people instead of hiring them? Learn skills for the real world? Well, I took those computer talents and now I use ’em to do psychological profiling. It’s the biggest thing in hiring. You sit around with some six-hundred-thousand-dollar-a-year exec, and a ten-page questionnaire, and ask questions like, ‘Which would you rather do? Go fishing alone, or watch a Yankee game with friends?’ You ask five hundred questions and feed ’em into our trusty analyst computer, and it gauges the guy’s suitability to take responsibility to fire workers at General Motors, International Harvester, Calgary Wheat. It’s astounding, the way those computers can predict the way someone will act.”
“Sounds boring,” Voort says.
“Boring,” Meechum says, draining the glass, “is my goal in life now.”
“The day you got into West Point was the proudest I ever saw you.”
“And the stupidest. But now it’s time to tell you why I’m here.”
Meechum twists around to extract from his wallet a folded napkin, which, Voort sees, has writing on it, in Magic Marker. From his perspective the writing is backwards and has soaked through the paper, so Voort can’t read what it says.
“I need a favor,” Meechum says. His hand is trembling.
“I’ll do it,” Voort tells him.
“Don’t you want to hear it first?”
“No. I want you to know that I’ll do it, whatever it is, first.”
A slow smile relaxes the tense expression on Voort’s old buddy’s face. “You know, Voort, after all these years, I still think of you as the only person, outside family, who I can trust. You and family. That’s about it. Even at fifteen, with your parents dead, you were the head of your family. You had that house, and your uncles came to you for advice, not the other way around, and . . .”
His eyes freeze, focused, over Voort’s shoulder, on the front door.
Voort is up instantly, even before he sees who is there. He swings around and strides toward the entrance, Mee-chum’s “No!” dying into the general din behind the laughter and Monday night football and the Tony Bennett revival hit, “San Francisco,” blaring over a jukebox, forcing people to shout to be heard.
Through the crowd, Voort catches sight of a man in a brown flight jacket pushing out of the restaurant, in a hurry.
He cannot see the face, but from the back the man has the normal quickened gait of a native New Yorker, or of someone from anywhere else, in a rush. Voort remem- bers seeing no such jacket in the big carved mirror over Meechum’s head, although he could have missed it, or it could have been lying in one of the booths, or beneath another coat, on a peg.
Voort follows the man onto Hudson Street, a wide, northbound avenue which retains much of New York’s older flavor. The buildings, three- or four-story brownstones, are smaller than structures uptown. The shops are more dis- tinctive than sizable: a wine specialty store, shuttered and grated; a Moroccan restaurant with only ten tables inside; a tailor who’s been there for twenty-five years. There are no chain stores, no A&Ps or Barnes & Nobles or McDonalds.
He’s ducking into the entranceway of that closed liquor store, pulling out a cell phone.
Back when the avenue was forest, not tar, three hundred and fifty years back, Voorts patrolled a few miles from this spot in the Dutch colony of New Amsterdam, as night watchmen, and later, under the British, as Colonial constables, and finally, as American citizens in the growing city, Voorts passed here proudly as mounted police, beat cops with nightsticks, mobile guys in squad cars, sergeants, lieutenants, plainclothes detectives.
He’s talking urgently into the phone. He’s gesturing at the tavern.
Autumn in New York is the season of nature’s disappointment. The maple trees on the block are bare, their dead leaves in the gutter. The wind whipping east, off the Hudson, reeks of brine, oil slicks, furtively dumped garbage. In the dark sky, vaguely threatening cumulus clouds scud through a night haze of toxic metropolitan pollutants.
Voort’s shout makes passersby spin around.
“Curt!”
He rushes toward the man in the flight jacket, a sloppy grin on his face, as if he’s drunk, although he has only had the one beer. The man snaps his phone shut as Voort calls out, much too loud, “I thought that was you, Curt!”
Voort halts as he reaches the man.
“Whoops,” he says, grinning. “I thought you were my old college buddy. Fifty lashes for me.”
He is looking into a narrow, balding face registering equal measures of surprise and urban wariness. After all, Voort blocks the man’s path from the entrance of the closed shop back to the street. He catalogs, rapidly, automatically, White man, late forties, flannel collar under the jacket. His tan makes the pale blotches on his neck stand out, as if he’s had lesions removed.
Check the shoes. If you’re following someone, it’s better to wear rubber soles.
The man tries to inch around Voort and back to the freedom of the open sidewalk. His voice lacks any iden- tifiable accent. “I must have one of those faces. Everyone thinks I’m their cousin Max.”
He reaches the sidewalk and turns, already walking off and He’s wearing Reeboks, and Voort, tagging along like a pesky drunk, says, “You could be Curt’s brother. You could be his goddamn twin.”
“I said, no problem.” Meaning, politely, get lost.
“I didn’t see you eating in there, and if you like burgers, that’s the primo place around here. The fried onions are the greatest.”
“I was supposed to meet someone,” the man says, “but she didn’t show.”
“Stood up?”
“Yeah.” The man is looking more put out, which is, under the circumstances, entirely and reassuringly normal. “Stood up.”
“Well, if it’s any help, just before you came in, there was this woman by the bar,” Voort says. “I thought she was looking for someone. Man, she was gorgeous. Blond hair down to her ass. White fur coat. I thought she was an actress or something. You’re a lucky guy if she was yours.”
This time the man slows and his brown eyes fix on Voort’s face, and linger there a fraction of a second too long. The posture remains impatient, but that barest flicker of greater interest decides the issue for Voort.
“I never had that much luck with women,” the man says. “Excuse me.”
He steps to the curb, scans the street for a cab, turns back, and registers Voort’s scrutiny.
A cab pulls over and Voort waits until the man leaves.
When he gets back to the restaurant, his table is empty.
Shit.
Then Voort sees Meechum returning from the men’s room.
“You shouldn’t have gone after him, Voort.”
“Who is he?”
Meechum sighs. “I never saw him before, and that’s the truth. The point is, you shouldn’t be going after anyone. Next time it could be someone I know.”
“We’re getting out of here,” Voort says, raising his hand, signaling the waitress that they are through.
“And you’re going home, old buddy. Forget I called.”
“Too late.”
Meechum shakes his head, pulls money from his wallet. “You know what my problem is? I overdramatize things. I’ve been listening to myself and I sound like some nervous girl. Tell you what,” he says heartily, “I’ll call you in a couple of days. We’ll hit the old spots. Does Arturo’s still have the best pizza?”
Voort grips Meechum’s wrist, stops the hand putting bills on the table.
“We’re going to Collier’s,” he says, “where you’ll finish telling me what you started.”
“Hey, Herr Hitler, don’t get so riled. I thought you could do me a favor and no one would know. I reconsidered.”
Voort doesn’t move. “Collier’s,” he repeats.
Meechum grins. “I’m impressed, Voort. I disappear for years. I show up drunk. I babble like an idiot and instead of laughing, you take me seriously. By the way, do you know the derivation of the word idiot? It’s ancient Greek. It means ‘he who has no interest in politics.’ ”
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