James Jackson

Author of the Best Selling Books Pilgrim & Blood Rock



The Armada is coming

1588. In Lisbon the great Spanish Armada prepares to set sail for England. Along the coast of the Low Countries, the army of the Duke of Parma readies itself for embarkation. Threat is imminent. Yet behind it is a darker and more secretive game, one of espionage and murder, of treachery and deceit. The stiletto-blade to the back, the poison in the chalice, the tortuerer’s rack in the dungeon. This is the realm of the spy. And at its heart is the legendary Elizabethan spymaster Sir Francis Walsingham. One-by-one his intelligence sources vanish, day-by-day the danger to his queen and country grows. Finally, he sends the young soldier and agent Christian Hardy to discover the truth. But to reach it, Hardy must confront the deadliest of foes, the Spanish Inquisition, turncoats among his own, and the might of the enemy fleet. Time is running out. For Hardy, for England, for its sovereign queen Elizabeth…

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The war has turned – but the Nazis can stll unleash inferno

Surrender had thrown up its own overnight crop. Whiteness billowed in sheets and pillowcases, bright and clean like the silk chutes of a thousand downed airmen. This was the end, spotless, unequivocal. Across the blitzed graveyard swathe of Europe, the survivors and the dead littered the streets and the camps, lay huddled in the craters and shell-scrapes. A wrecked continent, its blackened cities made rubble, its children orphaned. But here, in this corner of Swabia, the morning of April 21st 1945, just white and pristine cotton…

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In war, the final struggle is the bloodiest

War was bad for business. The beautiful and rich of the continent had migrated, the English and Americans stayed away. Even the local fascists were too busy mopping up and mopping down, paying homage to their dictator Franco, to bother with the town of Algeciras. It was the end of the railroad from Madrid, an Iberian backwater to the blood-letting across Europe. Only the strays came to visit out of season, only marooned drunks, the occasional journalist, the odd spook, bothered to sip chilled sherry on the peeling verandahs of the Hotel Reina Cristina. Late February 1942. A poor time to visit…

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