Spook Street: THE BOOK BEHIND the 4th season of SLOW HORSES, the APPLE ORIGINAL

Description: Spook Street by Mick Herron THE BOOK BEHIND THE FOURTH SEASON OF SLOW HORSES, THE APPLE ORIGINAL SERIES STARRING GARY OLDMAN IN HIS EMMY-NOMINATED ROLE AS JACKSON LAMB. What happens when an old spook loses his mind? Does the Service have a retirement home for those who know too many secrets but dont remember theyre secret? Or does someone take care of the senile spy for good?These are the paranoid concerns of David Cartwright, a Cold War–era operative and one-time head of MI5 who is sliding into dementia, and questions his grandson, River, must figure out answers to now that the spy who raised him has started to forget to wear pants. But River, himself an agent at Slough House, MI5s outpost for disgraced spies, has other things to worry about. A bomb has detonated in the middle of a busy shopping center and killed forty innocent civilians. The "slow horses" of Slough House must figure out who is behind this act of terror before the situation escalates. FORMAT Paperback LANGUAGE English CONDITION Brand New Author Biography Mick Herron is a British novelist and short story writer who was born in Newcastle and studied English at Oxford. He is the author of six books in the Slough House series (Slow Horses, Dead Lions, Real Tigers, Spook Street, London Rules, and the novella The List) and four Oxford mysteries (Down Cemetery Road, The Last Voice You Hear, Why We Die, and Smoke and Whispers), as well as the standalone novels Reconstruction, Nobody Walks and This Is What Happened. His work has won the CWA Gold Dagger for Best Crime Novel, the Steel Dagger for Best Thriller, and the Ellery Queen Readers Award, and been nominated for the Macavity, Barry, Shamus, and Theakstons Novel of the Year Awards. He currently lives in Oxford and writes full-time. Review Praise for Spook StreetWinner of the CWA Ian Fleming Steel Dagger for Best ThrillerWinner of the 2018 CrimeFest Last Laugh AwardShortlisted for the CWA Gold Dagger for Best Crime Novel An Irish Times Best Book of the YearThe Guardian Best Books of the YearA Seattle Times Notable Book of the YearA Boston Globe Best Book of the YearNominated for the Barry AwardShortlisted for the British Book AwardLonglisted for the Theakstons Old Peculier Crime Novel of the Year Award"Terrific spy novel . . . Sublime dialogue, frictionless plotting."—Ian Rankin"Irony and black humor abound."—Newsday "Spook Street is thoroughly gripping espionage, focused on intelligent plotting over action for its own sake—think le Carré, but with a heartier dash of dry humor."—The Seattle Times "Stylistically, you can draw comparisons with the work of Raymond Chandler, though Herron keeps a tighter grasp on his narrative than Chandler ever did . . . Herron is a master of timing, word by word, sentence by sentence. His language creates its own world, with streaks of satire and loss that prevent it from becoming too comfortable."—The Spectator "[Herron] is superb at evoking the le Carré-esque air of ennui, cynicism and self-loathing which permeates an intelligence service on its uppers, but which remains—the alternative being too awful to contemplate—duty bound to keep calm and carry on . . . Herron also leavens the mood with flashes of mordant humour, while the hilariously repellent Jackson Lamb—the anti-Smiley—is a constant source of politically incorrect one-liners."—The Irish Times "Its not often a reviewer can say, Youve never read anything quite like this but its a safe encomium to use in the case of Mick Herron. The authors idiosyncratic writing is unique in his genre: the spycraft of le Carré refracted through the blackly comic vision of Joseph Hellers Catch-22."—Financial Times"Sheer fun. Herron is spy fictions great humorist, mixing absurd situations with sparklingly funny dialogue and elegant, witty prose."—The Times (UK)"The lavishly loathsome Jackson Lamb oversees the action with all the finesse of a shark in a swimming pool."—Metro News (UK) "Brilliant."—The Boston Globe "Terrific . . . A heady mixture of deadpan humor, deft characterizations, and acute insight."—Publishers Weekly, Starred Review "All espionage aficionados are—or soon will be—reading Herron. But its high time, too, that readers of literary fiction embrace him in the way they have John le Carré."—Booklist, Starred Review "Terrific . . . its a real pleasure to watch the super-smart if damaged Slough House agents rising to the occasion."—The Seattle Review of Books"Snappy dialog, crafty twists . . . Ive enjoyed each of the books in this series and always find them hard to put down."—A Fresh Fiction "Fresh Pick""Droll, fast-paced, and with a cast of crazy characters, you wouldnt want to work at Slough House but you certainly want to read about it."—Bookgasm "[Herron] does it all with a darkly deadpan humor that is as scathingly funny as it is irreverent. Theres no let up, no let down, its one hell of a tale told masterfully."—Open Letters Monthly "Laced with black humor, this intense fourth in the series won the 2017 Steel Dagger Award."—Reviewing the Evidence Praise for the Slough House novels "[Herrons] cleverly plotted page-turners are driven by dialogue that bristles with one-liners. Much of the humor comes from Herrons sharp eye for the way bureaucracies, whether corporate or clandestine, function and malfunction. The world of Slough House is closer to The Office than to 007."—The Associated Press"The sharpest spy fiction since John le Carré."—NPRs Fresh Air"Compulsively readable, tightly plotted."—Los Angeles Times"[Herron is the] le Carré of the future . . . The characters are brilliant." —Patrick Neale on BBCs The Oxford Book Club "Heroic struggles, less-heroic failures and a shoot-out-cum-heist . . . with no let-up in the page turning throughout." —Esquire "Herrons strength is in examining at close hand the absurdities, conflicts, and dangers of the intelligence agency as an institution at the center of some of the most central conflicts in the 21st century." —Los Angeles Review of Books "[Reads] like an episode of Spooks written by Ricky Gervais . . . With his poets eye for detail, his comic timing and relish for violence, Herron fills a gap that has been yawning ever since Len Deighton retired." —The Daily Telegraph, … … … … … "A superb thriller . . . Herron may be the most literate, and slyest, thriller writer in English today." —Publishers Weekly, Starred Review Review Quote Praise for Spook Street WINNER OF THE 2017 CWA IAN FLEMING STEEL DAGGER FOR BEST THRILLER Shortlisted for the CWA Gold Dagger for Best Crime Novel "Terrific spy novel . . . Sublime dialogue, frictionless plotting." --Ian Rankin, via Twitter " Spook Street is thoroughly gripping espionage, focused on intelligent plotting over action for its own sake--think le Carr, but with a heartier dash of dry humor." --The Seattle Times "Stylistically, you can draw comparisons with the work of Raymond Chandler, though Herron keeps a tighter grasp on his narrative than Chandler ever did . . . Herron is a master of timing, word by word, sentence by sentence. His language creates its own world, with streaks of satire and loss that prevent it from becoming too comfortable." --The Spectator "[Herron] is superb at evoking the le Carr-esque air of ennui, cynicism and self-loathing which permeates an intelligence service on its uppers, but which remains--the alternative being too awful to contemplate--duty bound to keep calm and carry on . . . Herron also leavens the mood with flashes of mordant humour, while the hilariously repellent Jackson Lamb--the anti-Smiley--is a constant source of politically incorrect one-liners." --The Irish Times "Its not often a reviewer can say, Youve never read anything quite like this but its a safe encomium to use in the case of Mick Herron. The authors idiosyncratic writing is unique in his genre: the spycraft of le Carr refracted through the blackly comic vision of Joseph Hellers Catch-22 ." -- Financial Times "Sheer fun. Herron is spy fictions great humorist, mixing absurd situations with sparklingly funny dialogue and elegant, witty prose." -- The Times "All espionage aficionados are--or soon will be--reading Herron. But its high time, too, that readers of literary fiction embrace him in the way they have John le Carr." -- Booklist , Starred Review "Terrific . . . A heady mixture of deadpan humor, deft characterizations, and acute insight." -- Publishers Weekly, Starred Review "Terrific . . . its a real pleasure to watch the super-smart if damaged Slough House agents rising to the occasion." --The Seattle Review of Books "Snappy dialog, crafty twists . . . Ive enjoyed each of the books in this series and always find them hard to put down." -- A Fresh Fiction "Fresh Pick" "Droll, fast-paced, and with a cast of crazy characters, you wouldnt want to work at Slough House but you certainly want to read about it." --Bookgasm "[Herron] does it all with a darkly deadpan humor that is as scathingly funny as it is irreverent. Theres no let up, no let down, its one hell of a tale told masterfully." --Open Letters Monthly "Laced with black humor, this intense fourth in the series won the 2017 Steel Dagger Award." --Reviewing the Evidence Praise for the Slough House novels "[Herron is the] le Carr of the future . . . The characters are brilliant." --Patrick Neale on BBCs The Oxford Book Club "Heroic struggles, less-heroic failures and a shoot-out-cum-heist . . . with no let-up in the page turning throughout." -- Esquire "Herrons strength is in examining at close hand the absurdities, conflicts, and dangers of the intelligence agency as an institution at the center of some of the most central conflicts in the 21st century." -- Los Angeles Review of Books "[Reads] like an episode of Spooks written by Ricky Gervais . . . With his poets eye for detail, his comic timing and relish for violence, Herron fills a gap that has been yawning ever since Len Deighton retired." -- The Daily Telegraph , "A superb thriller . . . Herron may be the most literate, and slyest, thriller writer in English today." -- Publishers Weekly , Starred Review Excerpt from Book Heat rises, as is commonly known, but not always without effort. In Slough House, its ascent is marked by a series of bangs and gurgles, an audible diary of a forced and painful passage through cranky piping, and if you could magic the plumbing out of the structure and view it as a free-standing exoskeleton, it would be all leaks and dribbles: an arthritic dinosaur, its joints angled awkwardly where fractures have messily healed; its limbs a mis-matched mudd≤ its extremities stained and rusting, and weakly pumping out warmth. And the boiler, the heart of this beast, wouldnt so much beat as flutter in a trip-hop rhythm, its occasional bursts of enthusiasm producing explosions of heat in unlikely places; its irregular palpitations a result of pockets of air straining for escape. From doors away you can hear its knocking, this antiquated heating system, and it sounds like a monkey-wrench tapping on an iron railing; like a coded message transmitted from one locked cell to another. Its a wasteful, unworkable mess, but then this shabby set of offices--hard by Barbican underground station, on Aldersgate Street, in the borough of Finsbury--isnt exactly noted for its efficiency, of equipment or personnel. Indeed, its inhabitants might as well be banging on pipes with spanners themselves for all their communication skills are worth, though on this cold January morning, two days after an appalling act at Westacres shopping centre claimed upwards of forty lives, other noises can be heard in Slough House. Not in Jackson Lambs room, for once: of all the buildings occupants, he may be the one most obviously in tune with its rackety plumbing, being no stranger to internal gurglings and sudden warm belches himself, but for the moment his office is empty, and his radiator its sole source of clamour. In the room opposite, though--until a few months back, Catherine Standishs; now Moira Tregorians--there is at least some conversation taking place, though of a necessarily one-sided nature, Moira Tregorian currently being the rooms sole occupant: her monologue consists of single, emphatic syllables--a "tchah" here, a "duh" there--interspersed with the odd unfractured phrase, never thought Id see the day and what on earths this when its at home? A younger listener might assume Moira to be delivering these fragments down a telephone, but in fact they are directed at the papers on her desk, papers which have accumulated in the absence of Catherine Standish, and have done so in a manner uncontaminated by organisational principle, whether chronological, alphabetical or commonsensical, since they were deposited there by Lamb, whose mania for order has some way to go before it might be classed as neurotic, or even observable. There are many sheets of paper, and each of them has to be somewhere, and discovering which of the many possible somewheres that might be is Moiras job today, as it was yesterday, and will be tomorrow. Had he done so deliberately, Lamb could hardly have come up with a more apt introduction to life under his command, here in this administrative oubliette of the Intelligence Service, but the truth is, Lamb hasnt so much consigned the documents to Moiras care as banished them from his own, out of sight/out of mind being his solution to unwanted paperwork. Moira, whose second day in Slough House this is, and who has yet to meet Jackson Lamb, has already decided shell be having a few sharp words with him when that event comes to pass. And while she is nodding vigorously at this thought the radiator growls like a demented cat, startling her so she drops the papers she is holding, and has to scramble to retrieve them before they disarrange themselves again. Meanwhile, from the landing below, other noise floats up: a murmur from the kitchen, where a kettle has lately boiled, and a recently opened fridge is humming. In the kitchen are River Cartwright and Louisa Guy, both with warm mugs in their hands, and Louisa is maintaining a nearly unbroken commentary on the trials and tribulations accompanying the purchase of her new flat. This is quite some distance away, as London flats tend to be if theyre affordable, but the picture she paints of its size, its comfort, its uncluttered surfaces, is evidence of a new contentment that River would be genuinely glad to witness, were he not brooding about something else. And all the while, behind him, the door to his office creaks on a squeaky hinge, not because anyone is currently using it, but in general protest at the draughts that haunt Slough House, and in a more particular complaint directed at the commotion arising from the next floor down. But while his door remains unused, Rivers office is not empty, for his new colleague--a slow horse for some two months now--sits within, slumped in his chair, the hood of his hoodie pulled over his head. Apart from his fingers he is still, but these move unceasingly, his keyboard pushed aside the better to accommodate this, and while an observer would see nothing more than an advanced case of the fidgets, what JK Coe is describing on the scuffed surface of his desk is a silent replica of whats coursing through his head via his iPod: Keith Jarretts improvised piano recital from Osaka, November 8, 1976, one of the Sun Bear concerts; Coes fingers miming the melodies Jarrett discovered on the night, all those miles and all those years away. Its a soundless echo of another mans genius, and serves a dual purpose: of tamping down Coes thoughts, which are dismal, and of drowning out the noises his mind would otherwise entertain: the sound of wet meat dropping to the floor, for instance, or the buzz of an electric carving knife wielded by a naked intruder. But all this he keeps to himself, and as far as River and the other denizens of Slough House are concerned, JK Coe is a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma, the whole package then refashioned in the shape of a surly, uncommunicative twat. Though even if he were yodelling, hed not be heard over the commotion from the floor below. Not that this racket is emanating from Roderick Hos room, or no more of it than usual (the humming of computers; the tinnitus-rattle of Hos own iPod, loaded with more aggressive music than Coes; his nasal whistling, of which he is unaware; the rubbery squeak his swivel-chair emits when he shifts his buttocks); no, whats surprising about the atmosphere in Hos room--or what would surprise anyone who chose to hang out there, which no one does, because its Hos room--is that its upbeat. Cheerful, even. As if something other than his own sense of superiority is warming Roddy Hos cockles these days, which would be handy, given the inability of his radiator to warm anything much, cockles or otherwise; it coughs now, and spits fizzily from its valve, spurting water onto the carpet. Ho doesnt notice, and nor does he register the following gurgle from deep within the systems pipes--a noise that would disturb any number of serious beasts: horses, lions, tigers--but this is not so much because Ho is a preternaturally cool character, whatever his own views on that subject, and more because he simply cant hear it. And the reason for this is that the lapping and gurgling of the radiators innards, the banging and clicking of pipes, the splashy rattling of the systems exoskeleton, are all drowned out by the noise from next door, where Marcus Longridge is waterboarding Shirley Dander. "Blurgh--bleurgh--off--coff--blargh!" "Yeah, I didnt follow any of that." "Blearrrgh!" "Sorry, does that mean--" "BLARGH!" "--uncle?" The chair to which Shirley was tied with belts and scarves was angled against her desk, and nearly crashed to the floor when she arched her back. A loud crack suggested structural damage, at the same moment as the flannel that had covered her face slapped the carpet like a dead sea creature hitting a rock. Shirley herself made similar noises for a whi≤ if you were asked to guess, you might hazard that someone was trying to turn themselves inside out, without using tools. Marcus, whistling softly, replaced the jug on a filing cabinet. Some water had splashed his sweater, a pale blue Merino V-neck, and he tried to brush it away, with as much success as that usually has. Then he sat and stared at his monitor, which had long defaulted to its screensaver: a black background around which an orange ball careened, bumping against its borders, never getting anywhere. Yeah: Marcus knew how that felt. After a few minutes Shirley stopped coughing. After a few minutes more, she said, "It wasnt as bad as you said." "You lasted less than seven seconds." "Bollocks. That was about half an hour, and--" "Seven seconds, first drops to whatever it was you said. Blurgh? Blargh?" He banged his hand on his keyboard, and the screensaver vanished. "Not our agreed safety word, by the way." "But you stopped anyway." "What can I tell you? Getting soft." A spreadsheet opened into view. Marcus couldnt immediately recall what it represented. Not a lot of work had happened in this office lately. Shirley freed herself from scarves and belts. "You didnt time it properly." Details ISBN1616958693 Author Mick Herron Short Title SPOOK STREET Pages 336 Series Slough House Language English ISBN-10 1616958693 ISBN-13 9781616958695 Format Paperback DEWEY 823.92 Series Number 4 Year 2017 Publication Date 2017-12-12 Country of Publication United States AU Release Date 2017-12-12 NZ Release Date 2017-12-12 US Release Date 2017-12-12 UK Release Date 2017-12-12 Place of Publication New York Publisher Soho Press Inc Imprint SohoCrime,US Audience General Subtitle THE BOOK BEHIND the 4th season of SLOW HORSES, the APPLE ORIGINAL SERIES starrin g Gary Oldman in his Emmy-nominated role as Jackson Lamb We've got this At The Nile, if you're looking for it, we've got it. With fast shipping, low prices, friendly service and well over a million items - you're bound to find what you want, at a price you'll love! TheNile_Item_ID:117274601;

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