The Spy
George Morgan Crosby arrives in the volatile South American republic of Valencia on what he believes is a routine diplomatic assignment for the State Department. But Valencia is a powder keg. The Nitrate Trust controls more than just the country's wealth, it controls its politicians, its press, and its prisoners. When Crosby is mistaken for an English spy, he finds himself trapped in a maze of shifting alliances, double-crosses, and manufactured accusations. Schnitzel, the unscrupulous agent who delights in the game of espionage, becomes his unlikely guide through a world where every handshake hides a blade. As Crosby digs into the power struggles surrounding the nitrate beds, he uncovers political imprisonment, systemic betrayal, and the moral rot at the heart of international deal-making. The climax leaves Schnitzel dying in his own web of deceit, his final revelation cutting to the bone: even the betrayers themselves are betrayed. Davis, drawing on his real experience as a war correspondent, crafts a tale that moves at the pace of a bullets and never lets go.
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“The savor of preparation which had been noticed by Captain Lawton began to increase within the walls of the cottage; certain sweet-smelling odors, that arose from the subterranean territories of Cæsar, gave to the trooper the most pleasing assurances that his olfactory nerves, which on such occasions were as acute as his eyes on others, had faithfully performed their duty; and for the benefit of enjoying the passing sweets as they arose, the dragoon so placed himself at a window of the building, that not a vapor charged with the spices of the East could exhale on its passage to the clouds, without first giving its incense to his nose. Lawton, however, by no means indulged himself in this comfortable arrangement, without first making such preparations to do meet honor to the feast, as his scanty wardrobe would allow. The uniform of his corps was always a passport to the best tables, and this, though somewhat tarnished by faithful service and unceremonious usage, was properly brushed and decked out for the occasion. His head, which nature had ornamented with the blackness of a crow, now shone with the whiteness of snow; and his bony hand, that so well became the saber, peered from beneath a ruffle with something like maiden coyness. The improvements of the dragoon went no further, excepting that his boots shone with more than holiday splendor, and his spurs glittered in the rays of the sun, as became the pure ore of which they were composed.””
— Richard Harding Davis
