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Sant of the Secret Service: Some Revelations of Spies and Spying

In the gloom I caught sight of his upraised arm and the flash of a knife. It is hard to catch the practised student of jiu-jitsu unawares, and that fascinating form of self-defence has been one of my special hobbies.


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Like a flash I jumped in to meet the charge of my assailant. Before his knife could descend my right arm was crooked into his and I had his wrist in the grip of my left hand. Flinging my whole weight forward, I wrenched his right arm savagely backward and downward. With a half-stifled scream of pain the man toppled over backward, his head striking the ground with a crash that left him senseless.

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Here was a pretty coil! I dared not wait to give the man into custody, for that would have meant police inquiries and endless publicity, to say nothing of missing my train and a fatal delay to my important mission. And just now I could not afford publicity. So I decided to leave him alone, to take his chance and make his own explanation, if necessary. Picking up his knife, I thrust it deeply into a flower-bed, and, stamping it well down with my heel, hurried on to the station, and was soon on my way to France.

Who and what my assailant was I never heard. But I pondered over the incident a good deal on my journey, for it may have meant that my mission was already known. Still, this was unlikely, so I merely decided to keep an extra sharp look-out. On Friday, at the hour I had appointed with Madame Gabrielle, I passed the barrier and walked along the platform of the Orleans station in Paris, where in the summer twilight the express, with its powerful, constantly exploding locomotive, stood ready for the long run across France to the Spanish frontier.

I bought a copy of Le Soir at the bookstall, and while doing so my eye fell on a rather shabbily-dressed, insignificant-looking little man who apparently was lounging absently about. The things which matter in our calling are often seemingly the most trivial. There was nothing about this shabby little stranger to call particular attention to him, yet from the moment I saw him I felt instinctively that in some way my lot and his were bound up together.

And, try as I would, I was unable to shake off that feeling. As I entered the train I saw Madame Gabrielle, carrying her dressing-bag and followed by a porter with her hand luggage, pass the window of my compartment and enter a first-class carriage nearer the front of the train. Her eyes met mine as she passed, but she gave no sign of recognition.

Of the little shabby man I saw nothing, though I kept a sharp look-out, and I concluded at last that he had left the platform.

Sant of the Secret Service: Some Revelations of Spies and Spying

We will let you know when in stock. Thank you for your interest You will be notified when this product will be in stock. I agree to the. Terms and Conditions. How It Works? IMEI Number. Exchange Discount Summary Exchange Discount -Rs. Final Price Rs. Apply Exchange. Other Specifications. About the Author The author of more than one hundred novels, William Le Queux was an Anglo-French journalist, diplomat, and outspoken critic of British defense efforts. The images represent actual product though color of the image and product may slightly differ.

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Sell on Snapdeal. In Same Price. Buy now Loading They need [them] for the safety of ordinary crummy people like you and me. There's clearly more than a little adolescent corn in this -- an easy romanticism of the sordid, a self-serving protestation that really honest people like Leamas who truly care about individual lives and the harmony of ends and means are simply not fit for this filthy world. There's a strong dose of moral snobbery and self-pity in Leamas's final self-sacrifice for love. Smiley appears in this book as an ominous representative of a rival agency, a member of the evil but realistic modern espionage Establishment, effective but devoid of honor and idealism.

The use of historical details and the sense of the German political climate during Britain's bid for entry to the Common Market are ambitions and well done. The plot is strong but relatively simple, a straight line: find the defector, expose hypocrisy, all in a few days. He is the best man, responding to the call of duty: to spy against his former colleagues. The story of Jim Prideaux, a strong field agent like Leamas who was shot in the back in suspicious circumstances abroad, counterpoints Smiley's research activities with melodramatic foreign adventures.

His characterization too has become much richer: we meet Cabinet ministers, Whitehall officials, aides, journalists, old office hands; and there is an extremely dextrous off-stage portrait of Smiley's faithless wife. Smiley has become humanity at its decent English best; the glamour of the Empire has faded, but he quietly carries on. It is the late Victorian fantasy of "the inarticulate supremacy of the English gentleman" that is expressed in the traditional British spy novel. The genre grew with the British Empire; Stevensonian boy's novels of adventure in exotic places came to express a grandiose political and racial delusion from Kipling's "Kim" and John Buchan's "The Thirty-Nine Steps" , through W.

In none of these books do the authors worry about ends and means and class inequities. He employs the techniques and conventions of these spy novels and is obviously concerned with the management of suspenseful effects -- there are plenty of pursuits and disguises and escapes in his books -- but he also draws upon the great tradition of English social realism, especially that part which in many ways begins with Dickens's "Bleak House" in In that novel Dickens uses a detective to help resolve the action: Inspector Bucket of the London Police brings the questing heroine to the symbolic center of England -- a dark graveyard in a London slum from which a smallpox epidemic and a network of deadlocked legal and sexual claims have spread out like ripples in a filthy well until they touch all of British society.

This symbolic and melodramatic kind of social criticism was continued in Henry James's "The Princess Casamassima" and Joseph Conrad's "The Secret Agent" , in both of which the political spectre of anarchism was introduced. By the 's and 's Graham Greene could draw on this tradition to write chiaroscuro thrillers in which sordid crimes and rotten ideologies are portrayed as emblems of man's fallen condition; "The Confidential Agent" and "The Ministry of Fear" employed both the conventions of the spy novel and the critical possibilities of the Dickensian mode in order to express Roman Catholic theology.