Extracts from Chapter 2 and Chapter 23 of The Trap by Ava Glass

 Chapter 2

As the two men shook hands, Emma stood stiffly; her mouth had gone dry. The man talking to Ripley was the most important person in British Intelligence. His real name was Giles Templeton-Ward but to everyone in the country he was known, as all heads of MI6 always had been known, simply as ‘C’.

‘Glad you could get here so quickly. The situation is developing.’ C spoke quietly. His accent was nearly identical to Ripley’s, making him a product of Eton or Harrow and then Oxford, undoubtedly. 

C glanced at Emma with enquiry, and Ripley said, ‘This is Emma Makepeace. The one I told you about.’

‘Ah, of course.’ In C’s cold gaze Emma saw that he already knew everything about her. He knew about her Russian parents, the languages she spoke, her time in the army, and everything she’d done right and wrong in her three years at the Agency. He would have a list of all her weaknesses.

‘Good to have you.’ Dismissing her with that short comment, he turned back to Ripley. ‘The Prime Minister is demanding answers about our plans for securing the G7. He would like those answers yesterday.’ Lowering his voice further he added, ‘He’s under pressure on this from the Cousins. They’re threatening to withdraw if they don’t have assurances our security is on track.’

‘The Cousins’ was intelligence code for the Americans.

‘Yes. I can’t say I’m surprised,’ Ripley said, dryly.

‘Indeed. Thinking hats will be needed.’ C glanced at his watch. ‘We’d better go in. They’re waiting.’

As she followed the two men through the door, Emma exhaled quietly and forced herself to relax. But she was beginning to wonder what she was doing here. Ripley had done all the talking on the way here, leaving her little time to wonder why he’d wanted her to come along. Only now did she consider whether that might have been intentional.

Inside was a small antechamber and another door, this one made of thick metal. It reminded her of a bank vault. Ripley and C walked through it without pausing.Squaring her shoulders, Emma followed them into a small, crowded space, more an oversized cupboard than a boardroom.

Although she’d never seen one before, Emma recognised it instantly. The Americans called them ‘Sensitive Compartmented Information Facilities’, because of course they would. In Britain they were known simply as ‘Secure Chambers’. The steel-walled rooms would be bug-proof and safe from prying eyes, built in secret locations for situations like this one. 

Three people already sat at the table. The first was Patricia Allan, the head of MI5, barely five feet tall and recognisable by her short steel-grey hair, which gave her a pleasingly androgynous look. Next to her was Dominic Larch, the Home Secretary. Not yet forty, he’d only been in the job three months. Everyone thought he was too much of lightweight to handle being in charge of police, security, and counter-terrorism.

Emma suspected they were right.

Beside him sat a confident, tall woman with shoulder-length blonde hair in a charcoal-grey suit. Emma recognised her from news reports as Lauren Cavendish, the Prime Minister’s special advisor.She and Ripley took the two empty seats on the far side of the table, squeezing past in the confined space. 

As she sat in a black leather chair, it struck Emma that there were no computers in the room. No phones. Not even a notebook. No records would be kept. When it was over, to all intents and purposes, this meeting would never have happened. But decisions would be made here.

The heavy metal door swung shut slowly. She heard a faint electronic buzz as it sealed until that sound faded disconcertingly to silence. Nobody spoke, but the tension was so palpable she could almost see it. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed that the Home Secretary’s right foot had begun to jiggle unconsciously.

Sitting at the head of the table, C looked at them with weary solemnity.

‘Let’s begin.’

Chapter 23

‘Is he dead?’

Nick Orlov stood in the doorway, staring at unconscious, blood-covered man on the floor of his hotel room. The hand covering his mouth trembled as Emma strode over to him, pulling him inside and closing the door.

Reaching past his shoulder, she switched on the lights. The subtle glow illuminated a spacious room, walls covered in taupe silk wallpaper that caught the light and glimmered. The king-sized bed had been turned down invitingly, the curtains pulled across the tall windows. 

Every item in the room had been skilfully chosen and beautifully arranged. The only thing out of place item was the bloody body on the floor.

Crouching next to Fridman, Emma set the gun down and picked up his thin wrist. His skin felt warm. She put a hand over his mouth and noted the steady passage of his breath. 

‘He’s alive.’ She remained beside the unconscious man for a few seconds more, thinking through their situation.

When she stood up, she picked up the gun and ejected the bullet cartridge, checking it with a quick professional glance. Fridman had fired three times. There were thirteen bullets left.

Lucky thirteen.

Extracted from chapter 2 and chapter 23 of The Trap by Ava Glass

The Trap by Ava Glass (Penguin in Paperback) Out Now £9.99)

How far would you go to catch a killer? This is the question UK agent Emma Makepeace must ask herself when she is sent to Edinburgh for the upcoming global G7 Summit. The Russians are in town and Emma and her team know a high-profile assassination is being planned. But who is their target? There is only one way to find out. Emma must set a trap using herself as bait. As the most powerful leaders in the world arrive and the city becomes gridlocked, Emma knows the clock is ticking.

More information about Ava Glass can found on her website. You can also find her on Twitter @AvaGlassBooks and on Instagram @avaglassbooks

I Stand Alone…Sometimes by Howard Linskey

 Howard Linskey’s standalones have a habit of turning into series.

I have written two series that weren’t supposed to be series when they started out. My debut novel, ‘The Drop’ was meant to be a standalone about a white-collar gangster called David Blake. He thinks that he sails above the violence of his world because he works for the top-boy in Newcastle and never gets his hands dirty. Then a large sum of money he is responsible for goes missing and he has to get it back in 72 hours or he is a dead man. 

It never crossed my mind that the characters in that novel might reappear. I visualised it as a gritty, one-off gangster story, in the mode of films such as 'The Long Good Friday' and 'Get Carter'. I was thinking "why don't they write that stuff anymore?" So, I went ahead and did it myself. Then a few things happened in quick succession. 

I had too many ideas to fit them all into one book, so I took a few bits out and put them to one side, for later. Then, I was offered a two-book deal by No Exit and that meant completing a second book for publication a year later. I had never written with a contract or a deadline before. No pressure. 

When ‘The Drop’ was published, exactly ten years ago, incidentally, The Times newspaper named it one of the top five thrillers of the year, which was amazing and highly unexpected. When my debut was then optioned, by the producer of the Harry Potter films, it started to feel really quite surreal but it did make me realise that these characters had lives interesting enough to carry on after ‘The Drop’ and there were two further books in the trilogy, ‘The Damage’ and ‘The Dead’, before their stories were concluded.

I could have gone on writing about those guys but I already had an idea for a different kind of story. That book, featuring journalists Tom Carney and Helen Norton, as well as the detective Ian Bradshaw, became ‘No Name Lane’. I will never forget the moment when my literary agent, Phil Patterson, phoned me from the London Book Fair to inform me that an editor from Penguin Random House wanted to buy it. My ‘Yay’ moment was swiftly followed by sense of panic, when he told me Penguin wanted a three-book-deal and the editor was ‘looking forward to seeing where you are going to go with the series’. The honest response to that should have been ‘what series?’ as it too was meant to be a standalone.

I parked my anxiety for twenty-four hours then sat down and wrote the words, ‘It is eighteen months later…’ at the top of a synopsis and I began to wonder where those characters would be now. In a day or two, I had fleshed out the plot for ‘Behind Dead Eyes’. Two further novels followed; ‘The Search’ and ‘The Chosen Ones’, and thankfully, Penguin wanted more books from me but after writing four novels I was looking forward to the freedom of writing a standalone with new characters. 

Last year, I came up with an idea that featured a rookie detective, Beth Winter, who is paired with a difficult veteran cop, Lucas Black. ‘Alice Teale Is Missing’ is a modern-day mystery involving the search for a missing teenage girl. The reviews for that book were lovely but a number of readers commented that they really liked the characters and were looking forward to seeing what would happen to them next. Oh dear, had I begun a third series by accident? 

Would Beth and Lucas reappear to solve a new case? There was no time to worry about this, because I was already halfway through my next book, ‘Don’t Let Him In’, which is published on May 13th. Rebecca Cole returns to her hometown from a long round-the-world trip, following the death of her father and soon discovers he has actually been murdered. She also realises he was on the trail of an almost mythical killer and she picks up where he left off, despite the obvious danger to herself. 

Surely there is no way that this one can become a series, because Rebecca is a civilian and the case concerns her own father? This is personal and Rebecca has no intention of becoming a serial sleuth. Unless of course she gets a taste for this kind of thing and then…no, stop it!

I blame the characters. After you have spent a year in their close company, you tend to like them, despite the faults you have given them. There is always a temptation to revisit characters a year or two down the line, as if checking in on an old friend to see how they are doing. Crime writers are like the serial killers we occasionally write about. Sometimes, we just can’t help ourselves. 

But really, no, this book should definitely be a one-off. Unless the reviews are really good of course and lots of people buy the thing and Penguin want more…oh, and if I wake up one morning and step from the shower having suddenly thought of a great idea for Rebecca Cole that just has to be written down. Then I will probably start my pitch to Penguin with the words, ‘It is eighteen months later…’ 

Don't Let Him In by Howard Linskey (Penguin Books Ltd) Out Now

Eriston is a small town. It's the kind of place where everyone knows your name - and your secrets. Rebecca hasn't been back in years, but she grew up in the shadow of the dark local legend. There have always been deaths in Eriston - more than can easily be explained. People dying in their houses, behind locked doors. Her father Sean had always warned her of the dangers. Don't let him in. When Rebecca returns, she discovers that her father wasn't willing to let the legend lie. He was on the verge of uncovering the town's darkest truth. He thought he was on the trail of a killer. Sean knew too much. Now he's dead. Rebecca could accept her father's death. Or she could risk her life by carrying on his work . . .

My Atomic Love by Jennie Fields

Writing a novel is like mixing a cocktail. The elements must balance, the flavors need to be complex and interesting, yet marry well. And given a good stir, the final product must have a kick. The first element of the cocktail which makes up my new novel Atomic Love was inspired by the fact that my mother was a scientist. Or to be clear, she began as a scientist, a biochemist trained at the University of Chicago in the 1940’s and someone whose cancer research was so significant, her cancer paper was referenced well into the 1960’s. I didn’t discover the impact of her work until recently. She sometimes mentioned to us that she’d worked on an important cancer paper, but frankly, I thought her tale was apocryphal. 

You see, by the time I came along, my mother was no longer a pioneering researcher; she was a housewife. Like many American career women in the late 1940’s, when she married, she was expected to forfeit her job to a returning GI, give birth to 2.5 babies and in between host themed dinner parties which ended with towering gelatin desserts. She took her task as seriously as she had science. Even after three babies, her dinner parties were legendary, and she showed up at every Parent/Teacher meeting on time with pearls on. But her love for science and the powerful position she’d once held haunted her. She told me constantly, whatever you do, don’t give up your career. Don’t be like me. 

Another family story also found its way into the mix. My mother walked every day to the University of Chicago with her cousin Jean, who worked at the Metallurgical Laboratory. Jean would never tell my mother what she did there. She was so secretive, it put something of a rift between them. It wasn’t until years later that my mother discovered the Metallurgical Laboratory was home to the Manhattan Project. I believe Jean was a clerical worker for the Project, but even late in life, she’d been so sternly warned to keep her job a secret, she never whispered a single specific. That enforced silence made me want to know more. 

Research told me that there was, in fact, a female physicist, Leona Woods who was the

youngest member of the University of Chicago team and the only woman. Woods was a mentee of Nobelist Enrico Fermi and an important contributor to the first nuclear reaction. I took the liberty of putting my main character, Rosalind Porter in Woods’ position. Young, female. But unlike Woods, Rosalind abruptly loses her career. Deeply depressed by the destruction and loss of life caused by the bomb, then abruptly left by her colleague and lover, Thomas Weaver, Rosalind discovers someone’s written a report that says she’s unstable. With men coming home from the war, it didn’t take much to push a woman out of a job they didn’t believe should have been hers in the first place. She feels certain it’s Weaver who’s betrayed her.

The book begins four years later when a contrite Weaver contacts Rosalind saying he must explain what happened between them. Shortly afterwards, she’s approached by FBI agent Charlie Szydlo, a wounded vet suffering with PTSD from his years as a Japanese prisoner of war. He asks Rosalind to let Weaver back into her life and spy on him, because the FBI believe Weaver’s selling atomic secrets to the Russians. 

Stirred right into this mix is the paradoxical culture of the early 1950’s. The war is over. People desperately want to be happy, to wear a smile again. But almost everyone is damaged by their war experiences. Many of the returning G.Is, like Charlie suffer from disabling PTSD. A large number of women, like Rosalind, have lost the jobs they loved, and have been relegated to being helpmates. The common trope of the day is the happy four person household with the wife in an apron and heels handing a stiff drink to the husband who’s loosening his tie after a long day. The children are playing quietly in the corner. Everyone is smiling, but in truth, almost no one is happy. 

So here’s the cocktail of Atomic Love: a disgraced female scientist, a possible spy, an FBI agent looking for answers. All stirred into the backdrop of a scarred postwar America. To find out more, you’ll have to take a sip.

Atomic Love by Jennie Fields is published by Penguin Books on 17 September 2020 £12.99

Chicago, 1950. Rosalind Porter has always defied expectations - in her work as a physicist on the Manhattan Project to design the atomic bomb, and in her passionate love affair with coworker Thomas Weaver. Five years after the end of both, her guilt over the results of her work and her heartbreak over Weaver are intertwined. She has almost succeeded in resigning herself to a more conventional life . . . Then Weaver gets back in touch. But so does the FBI. Agent Charlie Szydlo wants Rosalind to spy on Weaver, whom the FBI suspects of selling nuclear secrets to Russia. As Rosalind's final assignment launches her on a dangerous mission to find the truth, she faces a heartbreaking choice . . . Believe the man who taught her how to love? Or trust the man who her love might save?

Excerpt from He Started it by Samantha Downing

I am pleased to host an extract from Samantha Dowling’s new book He Started It as part of the He Started It blog tour.

14 Days Left

You want a heroine. Someone to root for, to identify with. She can’t be perfect, though, because that’ll just make you feel bad about yourself. A flawed heroine, then. Someone who may break the rules to protect her family but doesn’t kill anyone unless it’s self-defense. Not murder, though, at least not the cold-blooded kind. That’s the first deal breaker.

The second is cheating. Men can get away with that and still be the hero, but a cheating wife is unforgivable.

Which means I can’t be your heroine. I still have a story to tell.

It begins in a car. Rather, an SUV. We sit according to our rank, the oldest in the driver’s seat. That’s Eddie. His wife sits next to him, but I’ll get to her.

The middle seat is for the middle child, and that’s me. Beth. Not Elizabeth, just Beth. I’m two years younger than Eddie and he never lets me forget it. I’m okay to look at, though not as young or thin as I used to be. My husband sits next to me. Again, later for that, because our spouses weren’t supposed to be here.

One seat left, way in the back, and that’s Portia. The surprise baby. She’s six years younger than me and some- times it feels like a hundred. With no spouse or significant other, she has the whole seat to herself.

In the very back, our luggage. Stacked side by side in a neat single row because that’s the only way it fits. I told Eddie that the first time. Our handbags and computers bags go on top of the roller bags. You don’t have to be a flight attendant to figure that out.

Under the bags, there’s the trunk compartment. One side has the spare tire. In the other, a locked wooden box with brass fittings. This special little box in this special little place, all by itself with nothing else around, is to hold our grandfather. He’s been cremated.

We aren’t talking about him. We aren’t really talking at all. The sun beams through the windows, landing on my leg and making it burn. The A/C dries out my eyes. Eddie plays music that is wordless and jazzy.

I look back at Portia. Her eyes are closed and she has headphones on, probably listening to music that is neither wordless nor jazzy. Her black hair is long and has fallen over one eye. It’s dyed. We all have pale skin, and we were all born with blond hair and either blue or green eyes. My hair is even lighter now because I highlight it. Eddie’s is darker because he doesn’t. Portia’s hair has been black for a while now. It matches her nails. She’s not goth, though. Not anymore.

The music change is abrupt. I didn’t even see Krista move. That’s Eddie’s wife. Krista, the one with olive skin, dark hair, and brown eyes with gold flecks. Krista, the one he married four months after meeting her. She used to be the receptionist at his office.

Pop music blares out of the speakers, a dance song from five years ago. It was bad then, too.

‘The jazz was putting me to sleep,’ Krista says.

My husband’s eyes flick up from his laptop. He probably didn’t notice the change in music, but he heard Krista’s voice.

Maybe she’s the heroine.

‘It’s fine,’ Eddie says. I can hear the smile on his face.

I continue to stare out the window. Atlanta is long gone. We aren’t even in Georgia. This is northern Alabama, past Birmingham, where the population is sparse and skeptical. If we were trying to rush, we’d be farther along by now. Rushing isn’t part of the equation.

‘Food?’

That’s Portia, her voice groggy from her nap. She’s sit- ting up, headphones off, wide-eyed like a child.

She’s been milking that baby-of-the-family shit for a long time.

‘You want to stop?’ Eddie says, turning down the music. ‘Let’s stop,’ Krista says.

My husband shrugs. ‘Yes,’ Portia says.

Eddie looks at me in the rear view mirror, like I get a say in the matter. I’m already outnumbered.

‘Great,’ I say. ‘Food is great.’

We stop at a place called the Roundabout, which looks just as you imagine. Rustic in a fake way, with the lasso and goat on the sign, but naturally rundown with age. Authentic but not – like most of us.

We all climb out and Portia is first to the door; Krista isn’t far behind. Eddie is the one who takes the most time. He stands outside the car, staring at the back. Hesitating.

It’s our grandfather. This is our first stop of the trip, meaning it’s the first time we have to leave him alone.

‘You okay?’ I say, tapping Eddie’s arm.

He doesn’t look at me, doesn’t take his eyes off the back of the car because Grandpa’s ashes are everything to us. Not for emotional reasons.

‘You want to stay out here? I can bring you a doggie bag,’ I say. Sarcasm drips.

Eddie turns to me, his eyes wide. Oh, the shock. Like if I had just told him I was leaving my long time partner for someone I met two months ago.

Oh wait, he did that. Eddie left his live-in girlfriend for the receptionist.

‘I’m fine,’ he says. ‘You don’t have to be so bitchy about it.’ Yes. I’m the villain.

Inside the Roundabout, everyone is sitting in a semi- circle booth. It’s twice as big as it needs to be. The seats are wine colored pleather. Krista and Portia have scooted all the way to the center of the booth, leaving Felix on one side. That’s my husband, Felix, the pale one with the strong jaw and white-blond hair with matching eyebrows and lashes. In a certain light, he disappears.

‘No,’ Portia says. ‘There’s nothing vegan.’

She isn’t vegan but checks anyway. Portia also looks for wheelchair access and won’t go in anywhere that doesn’t have it because fairness is important.

‘Should we leave?’ I say. No one answers. I sit.

The burgers are chargrilled, the fries are crisp, and the bacon is greasy. A fair deal, if you ask me. The only thing missing is decent coffee, but I drink their bitter version of it without complaint. I can be a good sport.

‘We probably should get something settled,’ Eddie says. He looks like our father. ‘We’re going to be driving for a while. A lot of gas, food, and motel rooms. I propose we take turns covering the expenses. More than anything else, let’s not argue about it. The last thing we need to do is fight over a gas bill.’

Before I can say a word, my husband does.

‘Makes sense,’ Felix says. ‘Beth and I will pay our fair share.’

Only a spouse can betray you like that. Or a sibling.

That leaves Portia. Given that she’s doesn’t really have a career, the deal isn’t fair.

Oh, the irony.

She yawns. Nods. In Portia-speak, she’s agreeing for now but reserves the right to disagree later.

‘Great,’ Eddie says. ‘I’ll get this one.’

He takes the check up to the register, because that’s the kind of place this is. Felix goes to the restroom and Portia steps out front to make a call. That leaves Krista and me, finishing those last sips of lukewarm coffee.

‘I know this must be terrible for all of you,’ she says, placing her hand on mine. ‘But I hope we can have some good times, too. I’m sure your grandfather would’ve wanted that.’

It’s a nice enough thing for Krista to say, if a little generic. Given the circumstances, I expect nothing less and nothing more.

Still. If everything falls apart and we all start killing one another, she goes first.

You think I said that for shock value. I didn’t.

No, I’m not a psychopath. That’s always a convenient excuse, though. Someone who has no empathy and has to fake human emotions. Why do they do bad things? Shrug.

 

Who knows? That’s a psychopath for you. Or is it the word sociopath? You know what I’m saying.

This isn’t that kind of story. This is about family. I love my siblings, all of them, I really do. I also hate them. That’s how it goes – love, hate, love, hate, back and forth like a seesaw.

That’s the thing about family. Despite what they say, it’s not a single unit with a single goal. What they never tell us is that, more often than not, every member of the family has their own agenda. I know I do.

He Started It by Samantha Downing (Penguin Books)

No-one knows you better than your family.  They know the little things that make you smile. Your proudest achievements. Your darkest secrets. Sure, you haven't always been best friends. But if it seemed as though someone was after you, that you might be in danger, then you'd be on each other's side.  Right?  So gripping you won't stop reading.  So twisty that you won't know who to trust.  And so dark that you'll realise something truly chilling:  No-one is more dangerous than the ones who know you best.