She is an ingenious assassin, with as many methods as identities, a master of disguise with an instinct for escape '
She is Witch, and she makes for alluring prey, teasing her pursuers as she eludes them, hunting her victims with breathtaking creativity, beguiling the most powerful men in the world with her dark beauty and cunning. Witch is wanted by the world ' s most elite police agencies, doggedly pursued by three very different detectives ' one woman and two men. Two are at the beginning of their careers, one is staking a lifetime ' s experience on tracking Witch down, and all three display a professional determination that veers dangerously close to obsession. Working with and against each other, crossing paths and crossing swords, the detectives on her trail must stop her before she pulls off her most daring and ingenious assignment yet, a killing whose repercussions will reverberate throughout the world.
The intricate deceits and confidences that lead Witch to her latest target inspire an elaborate chase, but no matter how fast her pursuers track her, no matter how expertly they anticipate her every move, Witch always remains one step ahead of the game. With time growing scarce, it seems she will elude authorities again ' but an unexpected link to her own mysterious past may upset her streak of calculated terror.
Edgar Award winner Ian Rankin delivers a novel of espionage that rivals the classics of the genre, confirming his stature as one of the modern masters of suspense.
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1 . a good Rankin mystery
Posted May 09, 2009 by Nancy S. , HopatcongI love Ian Rankin's writing. I think the description of this book sounds sort of cheesy, but ignore that and read it knowing that Rankin is awesome. The story is engaging and addictive, and I think any fan of mystery will immediately appreciate Rankin's books.
Little, Brown and Company
August 01, 2005
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Excerpt from Witch Hunt by Ian Rankin
At least, that ' s how owner and skipper George Crane would have described it. It had been bought for pleasure back in the late 1980s when business was thriving, money both plentiful and cheap. He ' d bought it to indulge himself. His wife had nagged about the waste of money, but then she suffered from chronic seasickness and wouldn ' t set foot on it. She wouldn ' t set foot on it, but there were plenty of women who would. Plenty of women for George Crane and his friends. There was Liza, for example, who liked to stand on deck clad only in her bikini bottom, waving at passing vessels. God, Liza, Siren of the South Coast. Where was she now And all the others: Gail, Tracy, Debbie, Francesca . . . He smiled at the memories: of routes to France, Portugal, Spain; of trips taken around the treacherous British Isles. Trips taken with women aboard, or with women picked up en route. Wine and good food and perhaps a few lines of coke at the end of the evening. Good days, good memories. Memories of the pleasure boat Cassandra Christa.
But no pleasure tonight, the boat gliding across a calm British Channel. This was a business trip, the client below decks. Crane hadn ' t caught much more than a glimpse of her as she ' d clambered aboard with her rucksack. Brian had gone to help her, but she hadn ' t needed any. She was tall, he was certain of that. Dark maybe, as in dark-haired, not dark-skinned. European He couldn ' t say. Brian hadn ' t been able to add much either.
' Just asked if she could go below. Better down there than up here getting in the way. '
' She said that '
Brian shook his head. ' All she said was ' I ' m going below. ' Not even a question, more like an order. '
' Did she sound English '
Brian shrugged. He was a good and honest soul, unburdened by intellect. Still, he would keep his mouth shut about tonight ' s work. And he came cheap, since he was already one of George Crane ' s employees, one of that dwindling band. The business had overextended itself, that was the problem. Too big a loan to push the business into new areas, areas drying up just as George Crane arrived. More loans to cover the earlier loan . . . It was bad luck. Still, the business would weather it.
Cassandra Christa, however, might not. He ' d put word out that she was for sale, and an ad had been placed in a couple of newspapers: one quality Sunday, one daily. There had been just the one phone call so far but it was early days, besides which maybe he wouldn ' t have to sell after all. He glanced at his watch. Five minutes short of three in the morning. Crane stifled a yawn.