destroy it?brbrControversial oncologist Dr. Anson Lunt dies in a suspicious plane crash, just as one of his researchers develops what appears to be a “magic bullet” against all forms of cancer. Before his mangled body is even cold, powerful forces are conspiring to seize control of the top-secret cure, either to reap the potential riches at stake—or else to suppress the discovery entirely. Industrial espionage, blackmail, and murder are only a few of the ruthless strategies employed in the no-holds-barred battle for the Cure.brbrA gripping tale of cutting-edge medicine and international intrigue, The Cure exposes the dark underside of the modern medical establishment.br/divDIVFrom Model T Fords and biplanes to space shots, laser surgery, and microwave pizza,bJack Hunter/bhas been there, done that. Born in 1921 in Hamilton, Ohio, he was raised in Kenmore, NY, schooled in Ridley Park, Pa., and, after graduation from Penn State with a degree in journalism, he served as a U.S. counter-intelligence agent in World War II. He subsequently worked as a newsman in Chester, Pa. and Wilmington, Del., then as a congressional staffer in Washington, and as a corporate PR executive in Charleston, W.Va., in Bridgeport and Newtown, Conn., and again in Wilmington.brbrEven as a boy, Hunter wanted to be a novelist, but the exigencies of war, peace, and family intervened, and he had to wait until he was 41 to write his first, The Blue Max. It was a hit, became a million-copy seller worldwide and a major movie, and was followed by 15 other novels, most of them derived from his experiences in war, political intrigue, and corporate life. In later years, he and his wife, S?è  (less)

is found dead, his body lacerated with razor wounds. Once again, Inspector Oskar Rheinhardt calls on his friend — and disciple of Freud — Doctor Max Liebermann, to help him investigate.brbrIn the closed society of the school, power is everything, and suspicion falls on an elite group of cadets with a penchant for sadism and dangerous games. When it is discovered that the dead boy was a frequent guest of the deputy headmaster’s attractive wife, other motives for murder suggest themselves.brbrA tangled web of relationships and dark secrets is uncovered, which Liebermann, using new psychoanalytic tools such as dream interpretation and the ink-blot test, begins to probe. At the same time, he finds himself romantically involved with a mysterious Hungarian concert violinist, Trezska Novak, a woman gifted with uncannily accurate intuitions. Again, all is not what it seems, and Liebermann is drawn into the perilous world of espionage. The choices he is forced to make will threaten the entire stability of the Habsburg Empire.“A fascinating portrait of one of the most vibrant yet sinister cities of fin-de-siecle Europe. On top of this, Tallis has laid a murder mystery of great intelligence.” —iThe Times/ibrbr“. . . his handling of the psychoanalysis and criminal pathology are fantastic . . . a romping tale.”–iScotland on Sunday/iFrank Tallis is a writer and practicing clinical psychologist. He is the author of two previous Dr. Max Liebermann novels:bVienna Blood/bandbMortal Mischief./b  (less)

for children. She was born in France, raised in Ottawa, and now lives in Toronto.Sophie needed some stones, but could not think where she might find any in the midst of the city. She wasn’t looking for a great boulder, but neither would she be satisfied with the few scrapings of gravel she could surreptitiously remove from the tiny, urbanized garden that jutted but a metre onto the pavement in front of the ground-floor flat in the building three doors down from her own. Wondering where she could get more sizable specimens, she remembered now with fondness and regret the tin bucket of pebbles and seashells that the child had kept in her bedroom for many years, souvenirs of their holidays that the little one had gathered on the beach and then refused to part with when it came time to get on the train and return home. And Sophie recalled too their regular walks in the nearby woods where there must surely be some stray rocks lying about beneath the trees. But the child was older and far away now, the tin bucket long since discarded. The family had not taken a trip to the Norman coast since the war began, and although the entrance to the Bois de Boulogne was but ten minutes on foot from the apartment, Sophie was increasingly cautious about venturing any further than the baker’s shop at the corner and did not want to risk an extra outing on top of today’s mission. She would just have to rely on finding stones at her destination.brbrShe noted with relief that Philippe had also gone out earlier that morning, so that she did not need to explain her own departure. Communication was increasingly strained between them and she lacked the energy to think of a @
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lives in Scotland.bChapter One/bbrbrThe man in the brown Harris tweed overcoat — double-breasted with three small leather-covered buttons on the cuffs — made his way slowly along the street that led down the spine of Edinburgh. He was aware of the seagulls which had drifted in from the shore and which were swooping down onto the cobblestones, picking up fragments dropped by somebody who had been careless with a fish. Their mews were the loudest sound in the street at that moment, as there was little traffic and the city was unusually quiet. It was October, it was mid-morning, and there were few people about. A boy on the other side of the road, scruffy and tousle-haired, was leading a dog along with a makeshift leash — a length of string. The dog, a small Scottish terrier, seemed unwilling to follow the boy and glanced for a moment at the man as if imploring him to intervene to stop the tugging and the pulling. There must be a saint for such dogs, thought the man; a saint for such dogs in their small prisons.brbrThe man reached the St. Mary’s Street crossroads. On the corner on his right was a pub, the World’s End, a place of resort for fiddlers and singers; on his left, Jeffrey Street curved round and dipped under the great arch of the North Bridge. Through the gap in the buildings, he could see the flags on top of the Balmoral Hotel: the white-on-blue cross of the Saltire, the Scottish flag, the familiar diagonal stripes of the Union Jack. There was a stiff breeze from the north, from Fife, which made the flags stand out from their poles with pride, like the flags on the prow of a ship ploughing into the wind. And that, he thought, was what Scotland was like: a smal?á™™™™™šÿ¾Û€  (less)