Janson Directive Robert Ludlum New Thriller *Free S & H

Janson Directive Robert Ludlum Reads Like a Bond Film Better then Bourne New Hardback

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Even after death, Robert Ludlum remains the master of the international spy caper, and whether this posthumously published new thriller was cobbled together by a real ghost or already completed before Ludlum died doesn't matter. All the trademarked Ludlum gifts of plotting, pacing, and suspense are on full display in this engrossing mystery about a former covert operative turned private security executive who's stranded, abandoned, and marked for murder by his old colleagues when he manages to survive an unsurvivable mission. Rescuing renowned philanthropist and statesman-without-portfolio Peter Novak from the clutches of the terrorist who murdered his wife and unborn child, Paul Janson watches, unbelieving, as the plane carrying Novak back to freedom explodes before his eyes. Soon after the first post-mission attempt on his life, Janson begins to put the pieces of the puzzle together, but Ludlum keeps the reader from seeing it whole until the last thrilling chapter. A page-turner that doesn't let up, this one will leave Ludlum's fans hoping there are more unpublished manuscripts where this one came from, a not unlikely possibility. --Jane Adams

From Publishers Weekly
Ludlum died in March 2001, but here he is again, back with yet another posthumous thriller. Such books rarely live up to the author's standards, but this one is different: it's vintage Ludlum-big, brawny and loaded with surprises. The hero is Paul Janson, a private security consultant who retired a few years ago after a notorious career as the U.S. government's go-to guy for nasty jobs no one else was willing to take. Against his better judgment, Janson accepts an assignment to rescue Peter Novak, a Nobel Peace Prize-winning philanthropist and international troubleshooter held captive by Islamic extremists on an island in the Indian Ocean. Janson pulls off the stunning rescue, but as they make their escape, Novak dies in a fiery explosion-or does he? Janson has his doubts; within hours, he finds himself targeted by separate groups of assassins for reasons that baffle him. As he zigzags his way across Europe, leaving piles of bodies at each stop, he begins to wonder who Novak really is. The answer he eventually discovers provides readers with one of Ludlum's most outrageous plot twists in years. Extremely engaging and agonizingly suspenseful, Ludlum's plot bolts from scene to scene and locale to locale-Hungary, Amsterdam, London, New York City-never settling for one bombshell when it can drop four or five. If this wild, unpredictable and colorfully cast novel is Ludlum's swan song (he supposedly left behind notes for several thrillers), it's a memorable one indeed.
Copyright Reed Business Information, Inc.

From Library Journal
It's bad enough when a man who once saved Peter Janson's life is about to be executed by terrorists. But things get worse when Janson's rescue efforts go off course.
Copyright Reed Business Information, Inc.

Book
Paul Janson, a typical Robert Ludlum leading character, becomes the victim of his own success and ends up embroiled in an overly complex plot of murder and deceit. Unknown forces entwine Janson in an ever-tightening web of circumstances. Who? Why? And why Janson? Reader Paul Michael does little to help readers wade through the verbiage. Although his voice is clear and crisp, his treatment of narrative sections is lacking. On the other hand, his dialects are wonderful, filled with personality and life. Die-hard Ludlum fans are sure to enjoy THE JANSON DIRECTIVE. For others, it will be an effort. T.J.M. © AudioFile 2003, Portland, Maine-- Copyright © AudioFile, Portland, Maine --This text refers to the Audio CD edition.

Kirkus Reviews
"Ludlum's best since his masterpiece of paranoia, The Bourne Identity."

Review
"A page-turner of non-stop action that should leave his fans begging for more." -- New York Post on The Prometheus Deception

"The intricately engineered plot thunders forward at breakneck pace....Ludlum has the reader hopelessly hooked." -- People Magazine on The Sigma Protocol

Book Description
Paul Janson has a difficult past that includes a shadowy, notorious career in U. S. Consular Operations. Now living a quiet life, nothing could lure him back into the field. Except Peter Novaka man who once saved Jansons lifewho has been kidnapped by terrorists and is set to be executed. Janson hastily assembles a team of former colleagues and proteges to rescue Novak but the operation goes horribly wrong. Now Janson finds himself marked for death and his only hope is to uncover the truth behind these eventsa truth that has the power to foment wars, topple governments, and change the very course of history.

From the Inside Flap

Explosive praise for Robert Ludlum's

The Sigma Protocol
"Perfectly executed...Packed with all the classic Ludlum elements...thunders forward at breakneck pace."--People

"[A] triumph...Harkens back to the roller coaster ride/thrill-a-minute Bourne Identity."
-The Midwest Book Review

"Ludlum at his best."--Sullivan County Democrat

"Vintage Ludlum."-Houston Chronicle

"Dazzling...a clean launch of the '80s spy novel into a thrilling action/adventure web of intrigue meant for the 21st century."--Publishers Weekly

"It's amazing that 10 pages before the end of the book, you still can't figure out how he's going to resolve the complex plot he's presented. Yet he does, and pretty satisfactorily."
-Colorado Springs Gazette

"[Ludlum] shows that...his storytelling skill was still at an all time high...provides no less suspense than his die-hard fans would expect."-Bookreporter.com

"An accomplished novel...classic Ludlum...moves at breakneck speed...with well-developed players and a fascinating stage, Ludlum has risen to some of his finest work in this clever and enjoyable novel." -Chattanooga Times Free Press

"Better than anything [Ludlum's] done in nearly 20 years...here is vintage Ludlum...the plot is rich with new insight."-Gannett Newspaper

"Ludlum keeps things moving with plenty of gunplay and running about...quite good."
-Booklist

Critical Praise for Robert Ludlum:

"Ludlum stuffs more surprises into his novels than any other six-pack of thriller writers combined."-The New York Times
s20
"Ludlum pulls out all the stops, and dazzles his readers."-Chicago Tribune

"Packed with all the classic Ludlum elements...the intricately engineered plot thunders forward at breakneck pace. Bottom Line: Perfectly executed."-People

"Robert Ludlum continues to jolt his readers with fresh juice...a page-turner of non-stop action that should leave his fans begging for more."-New York Post

"Welcome to Robert Ludlum's world...fast pacing, tight plotting, international intrigue."
-Cleveland Plain Dealer

"Dazzling...a clean launch of the 80's spy novel into a thrilling action/adventure web of intrigue mean for the twenty-first century."-Publishers Weekly

"Reading a Ludlum novel is like watching a James Bond film...slickly paced...all consuming."
-Entertainment Weekly

"Ludlum in light years-beyond his literary competition in piling plot twist upon plot twist, until the mesmerized reader is held captive...He dominates the field in strong, tightly plotted, action-drenched thrillers."-Chicago Tribune

"Readers will remain in the dark right up until the explosive climax."-The San Francisco Chronicle

"Gripping...Robust writing and a breakneck pace."-Boston Herald

"Don't ever begin a Ludlum novel if you have to go to work the next day."--Chicago Sun-Times

From the Back Cover

Robert Ludlum's novels have astounded readers and critics alike time and time again. Now The Janson Directive gives us another unforgettable hero who must uncover a truth that has the power to change the very course of history...

The Janson Directive
Nobel laureate, international financier, and philanthropist Peter Novak-a billionaire who has committed his life and fortune to fostering democracy around the world through his Liberty Foundation-has been kidnapped. The terrorist known as The Caliph is holding Novak in a near-impenetrable fortress and has refused to negotiate for his release, planning instead to brutally execute his hostage in a matter of days...

Running out of time and hope, Novak's people turn to a man with a long history of defeating impossible odds: Paul Janson-a legend in the notorious U.S. covert agency Consular Operations. Janson sets in motion an ingenious rescue operation. But the operation goes horribly wrong and Janson is marked for death, the target of a "beyond salvage" order issued from the highest level of the government. Now Janson is running for his life, pursued by Jessica Kincaid, a young agent of astonishing ability who can anticipate and counter his every move. To survive, Janson must outrace a conspiracy that has gone beyond the control of its originators. To win, he must counter it with a conspiracy of his own..

About the Author

Robert Ludlum's 24 internationally bestselling novels have been read by hundreds of millions worldwide. His books include The Bourne Identity and The Prometheus Deception.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

N. Indian Ocean, 250 miles east of Sri Lanka
Northwestern Anura

The night was oppressive, the air at body temperature and almost motionless. Earlier in the evening there had been light, cooling rains, but now everything seemed to radiate heat, even the silvery half-moon, its countenance brushed with the occasional wisps of cloud. The jungle itself seemed to exhale the hot, moist breath of a predator lying in wait.

Shyam shifted restlessly in his canvas chair. It was, he knew, a fairly ordinary night on the island of Anura for this time of year: early in the monsoon season, the air was always heavy with a sense of foreboding. Yet only the ever attentive mosquitoes disturbed the quiet. At half past one in the morning, Shyam reckoned he had been on checkpoint duty for four and a half hours. In that time, precisely seven motorists had come their way. The checkpoint consisted of two parallel lines of barbed-wire frames--"knife rests"--set up eighty feet apart on the road, to either side of the search and administration area. Shyam and Arjun were the two sentries on forward duty, and they sat in front of the wooden roadside booth. A pair of backups was supposedly on duty on the other side of the hill, but the hours of silence from them suggested that they were dozing, along with the men in the makeshift barracks a few hundred feet down the road. For all the dire warnings of their superiors, these had been days and nights of unrelieved boredom. The northwestern province of Kenna was sparsely populated in the best of times, and these were not the best of times.

Now, drifting in with the breeze, as faint as a distant insect drone, came the sound of a gunned motor.

Shyam slowly got to his feet. The sound was growing closer.

"Arjun," he called out in a singsong tone. "Ar-jun. Car coming."

Arjun lolled his head in a circle, working out a crick in his neck. "At this hour?" He rubbed his eyes. The humidity made the sweat lie heavily on his skin, like mineral oil.

In the dark of the semi-forested terrain, Shyam could finally see the headlights. Over a revved-up motor, loud whoops of delight could be heard.

"Dirty farm kids," Arjun grumbled.

Shyam, for his part, was grateful for anything that interrupted the tedium. He had spent the past seven days on the night shift at the Kandar vehicle checkpoint, and it felt like a hardship post. Naturally, their stone-faced superior had been at pains to emphasize how important, how crucial, how vital in every way, the assignment was. The Kandar checkpoint was just up the road from the Stone Palace, where the government was holding some sort of hush-hush gathering. So security was tight, and this was the only real road that connected the palace to the rebel-held region just to the north. The guerrillas of the Kagama Liberation Front knew about the checkpoints, however, and kept away. As did most everyone else: between the rebels and the anti-rebel campaigns, more than half the villagers to the north had fled the province. And the farmers who stayed in Kenna had little money, which meant that the guards could not expect much by way of "tips." Nothing ever happened, and his wallet stayed thin. Was it something he had done in a previous life?

The truck came into view; two shirtless young men were in the cab. The roof was down. One of boys was now standing up, pouring a sudsy can of beer over his chest and cheering. The truck--probably loaded with some poor farmer's kurakkan, or root crops--was rounding the bend at upward of eighty miles per hour, as fast as the groaning engine would go. American rock music, from one of the island's powerful AM stations, blared.

The yelps and howls of merriment echoed through the night. They sounded like a pack of drunken hyenas, Shyam thought miserably. Penniless joyriders: they were young, wasted, didn't give a damn about anything. In the morning they would, though. The last time this happened, several days earlier, the truck's owner got a visit later that morning from the youths' shamefaced parents. The truck was returned, along with many, many bushels of kurakkan to make amends for whatever damage had been done. As for the kids, well, they couldn't sit without wincing, not even on a cushioned car seat.

Now Shyam stepped into the road with his rifle. The truck kept barreling forward, and he stepped back. No use being stupid about it. Those kids were blind drunk. A beer can was lobbed into the air, hitting the ground with a thunk. From the sound, it was a full one.

The truck veered around the first knife rest, and then the second knife rest, and kept going.

"Let Shiva tear them limb from limb," Arjun said. He scrubbed at his bushy black hair with his stubby fingertips. "No need to radio the backstop. You can hear these kids for miles."

pard
"What are we supposed to do?" Shyam said. They were not traffic cops, and the rules did not permit them to open fire on just any vehicle that failed to stop.

"Peasant boys. Bunch of peasant boys."

"Hey," Shyam said. "I'm a peasant boy myself." He touched the patch sewn on his khaki shirt: ARA, it read. Army of the Republic of Anura. "This isn't tattooed on my skin, all right? When my two years are up, I'm going back to the farm."

"That's what you say now. I got an uncle who has a college degree; he's been a civil servant for ten years. Makes half what we do."

"And you're worth every ruvee," Shyam said with heavy sarcasm.

"All I'm saying is, you got to seize what chances life gives you." Arjun flicked a thumb at the can on the road. "Sounds like that one's still got beer in it. Now, that's what I'm talking about. Pukka refreshment, my friend."

"Arjun," Shyam protested. "We're supposed to be on duty together, you know this? The two of us, yes?"

"Don't worry, my friend." Arjun grinned. "I'll share."

When the truck was half a mile past the roadblock, the driver eased up on the accelerator, and the young man riding shotgun sat down, wiping himself off with a towel before putting on a black T-shirt and strapping himself in. The beer was foul, noisome, and sticky in the heavy air. Both guerrillas looked grave.
An older man was seated on the flat bench behind them. Sweat made his black curls cling to his forehead, and his mustache gleam in the moonlight. The KLF officer had been prone and invisible when the truck crashed the checkpoint. Now he flicked the communicate button on his walkie-
talkie, an old model but a sturdy one, and grunted some instructions.

With a metallic groan, the rear door of the trailer was cracked open so that the armed men inside could get some air.

The coastal hill had many names and many meanings. The Hindus knew it as Sivanolipatha Malai, Shiva's footprint, to acknowledge its true origins. The Buddhists knew it as Sri Pada, Buddha's footprint, for they believed that it was made by Buddha's left foot when he journeyed to the island. The Muslims knew it as Adam Malai, or Adam's Hill: tenth-century Arab traders held that Adam, after he was expelled from Paradise, stopped here and remained standing on one foot until God recognized his penitence. The colonial overlords--first the Portuguese and then the Dutch--viewed it with an eye to practical rather than spiritual considerations: the coastal promontory was the ideal place for a fortress, where mounted artillery could be directed toward the threat posed by hostile warships. It was in the seventeenth century that a fortress was first erected on the hill; as the structure was rebuilt over the following centuries, little attention was ever paid to the small houses of worship nearby. Now they would serve as way stations for the Prophet's army during the final assault.

Ordinarily, its leader, the man they called the Caliph, would never be exposed to the confusion and unpredictability of an armed engagement. But this was no ordinary night. History was being written this night. How could the Caliph not be present? Besides, he knew that his decision to join his men on the terrain of battle had increased their morale immeasurably. He was surrounded by stouthearted Kagama who wanted him to be a witness to their heroism or, if it should turn out to be the case, their martyrdom. They looked at the planes of his face, his fine ebony features, and his strong, sculpted jaw, and they saw not merely a man anointed by the Prophet to lead them to freedom but a man who would inscribe their deeds in the book of life, for all posterity.

And so the Caliph kept vigil with his special detail, on a carefully chosen mountainous perch. The ground was hard and wet beneath his thin-soled boots, but the Stone Palace--or, more precisely, its main entrance--glowed before him. The east wall was a vast expanse of limestone, its weathered stones and wide, freshly painted gate bathed in lights that were sunk into the ground every few feet. It shimmered. It beckoned.

"You or your followers may die tonight," the Caliph had told the members of his command hours before. "If so, your martyrdom will be remembered-- always! Your children and your parents will be sanctified by their connection to you. Shrines will be built to your memory! Pilgrims will travel to the site of your birth! You will be remembered and venerated, always, as among the fathers of our nation."

They were individuals of faith, fervor, and courage, whom the West was pleased to scorn as terrorists. Terrorists! For the West, the ultimate source of terror in the world, this term was a cynical convenience. The Caliph despised the Anuran tyrants, but he hated with a pure hate the Westerners who made their rule possible. The Anurans at least understood that there was a price to be paid for their usurpation of power; the rebels had repeatedly brought that lesson home, written it with blood. But the Westerners were accustomed to acting with impunity. Perhaps that would change.

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