The first book about Ayesha Ryder introduced a capable
Mediterranean lady on a treasure hunt in London. What will
she discover in RYDER: BIRD OF PREY and where will her
path
lead?
British Prime Minister, Susannah Armstrong, speaks with
Ayesha who is an expert on the cultures of the Fertile
Crescent area. Unfortunately some of the PM's own party
hold strong isolationist views and are prepared to poison
the PM to get their way. The statuette of a Maltese Falcon
which was the centre of a Dashiell Hammet book is
rediscovered. The man who has secretly ordered the
poisoning is keen to lay hands on the fabled bird - and he
believes Ayesha Ryder knows where to find it.
Joram Tate is a librarian at the institute where Ayesha
works, and his knowledge of escape routes may be all that
keeps the two of them alive when sinister forces enter the
building. Ayesha doesn't know much about Joram, but she
has
no choice about trusting him. Weaving a Templar Knights
story in with the Battle of Hastings and the airship
Hindenburg disaster, the tale rushes from one twist to
another. With treasure hunt clues to be solved, Ayesha
must
travel around London's landmarks while the opposing men
trail her and try to claim the Falcon - and the treasure
it
conceals. To prevent Ayesha gaining police help, the
plotters claim that she has stolen an antiquity from a
museum collection.
Royal tombs, plague pits and Roman catacombs lie beneath
the city, but the danger comes from people alive, not
dead.
I liked some of the people, such as an archaeologist who
is
overcome to find the tomb of King Harold, and it's good
fun
to find Zeppelins in the sky using safe, non-flammable
gas.
Older tech still works, provided an archer is strong
enough
to draw a longbow, or someone can be found who knows how
to
fire a cannon - to devastating effect. Ayesha's shattered
family past returns to haunt her dreams - and sometimes
her
waking life too. Our admiration for this warrior woman
continues to grow throughout the adventure. I feel that
due
to strong language and some adult content, this instalment
is best suited to adult readers, especially if they have
read the earlier books in Nick Pengelley's Ayesha
Ryder series.
RYDER: BIRD OF PREY contains less clue-solving and more
action than the first book, and will continue to delight
fans of the series.
Fans of Steve Berry and James Rollins will devour Ryder: Bird of Prey, the latest white-knuckle thriller featuring Palestinian-born, British-educated adventurer Ayesha Ryder. She’s one of fiction’s boldest heroines—and now she’s rewriting royal history. According to the last words of a dying man, the Maltese Falcon was no mere legend: The fabulously jeweled golden bird really existed—still exists, in fact. And Ayesha Ryder is hot on its trail. Rumor says the Falcon conceals clues to the burial place of Harold II, the conquered Anglo-Saxon King of England—and to an artifact of astonishing significance that few besides Ryder would understand. Hunted by Scotland Yard, MI5, and those who seek the Falcon to break up the United Kingdom, Ryder joins forces with Joram Tate, a mysterious librarian with a reputation for turning up things that don’t want to be found. Soon Ryder and her handsome, erudite new companion are venturing through lost tombs and ancient abbeys, following a trail left ages ago by the Knights Templar. Ryder knows she’s close to a game-changing secret, hidden for a thousand years beneath an English castle. But with ruthless killers waiting in the wings, Ryder must go medieval—to defend her life, her country, and the world as we know it.
Excerpt
Ayesha glowered at the pub door, her hopes sinking. She checked her phone. Nothing. She sent a text to Zilinsky: Where are you? Eight minutes passed—she timed them. She finished her martini. No reply came to her text. No one came through the door. She rose from her booth, slipped her black leather jacket on over her black tube top. These, together with skinny jeans, leather ankle boots, and a silk bandanna—all black—constituted her uniform. That’s what her best friend, Lady Madrigal Carey, always called it. Outside the pub, a low hum caused Ayesha to look up. A long cigar shape blotted out the waning crescent moon. One of the new Zeppelins operated by British Airways. She’d been elated when the news was announced that a group of German entrepreneurs funded by an Australian billionaire had revived the Zeppelin company—keeping the name because it was more resonant than airship, or dirigible. Ayesha had always regretted that airships had come to an end with the Hindenburg disaster, in 1937. They shouldn’t have. The Hindenburg had only been using hydrogen because of U.S. embargoes on the sale of helium to Hitler’s government. That was hardly a problem these days. And with the new synthetic gas mixtures and lightweight metal aeronautical construction compounds, Zeppelins made more sense than ever. The ship overhead had all the lifting power of the Hindenburg, but, at about three hundred feet in length, it was less than a third of its size. She watched the airship until it passed out of sight. Ayesha scanned the street hopefully. She sighed. No Zilinsky. Or anyone, for that matter. This time of night in the City that was hardly surprising. A lot of people worked there, but not many lived in the area. She hesitated. Go home, to St. John’s Wood? She tapped her foot. She wasn’t in the least tired. Maddy? Ayesha’s closest friend, Lady Madrigal Carey, was nearing a hundred years old, but she hardly slept; Ayesha was welcome at any time of the day or night. But Maddy’s flat was in Mayfair, whereas Ayesha’s place of work, the Walsingham Institute for Oriental Studies, was only a short walk away, in Seething Lane. If she went there she’d be nearby if Zilinsky got in touch. Her mind made up, Ayesha strode toward Seething Lane, the click of her heels on the pavement echoing from the buildings in the silent street. Gaza. Her sister. The Maltese Falcon. Her thoughts ricocheted at random. She tried to focus on the contents of her inbox—requests for position papers on Syria, the Islamic State, the Libyan situation. Important, certainly. Interesting . . . not. She was passing the narrow alley on the far side of Trelawney’s Bank when she felt something snatch at her ankle. Shocked out of her reverie, she jerked back and whirled toward the alley, all her old instincts kicking in. Then she froze. Huddled against the wall of the bank, in the shadows at the entrance of the alley, was a man. At first she thought he was a vagrant, finding shelter for the night. Then she made out his clothing. He was well dressed; his graying hair neatly cut. “Ryder?” The man’s voice was a hoarse whisper. Ayesha recoiled at the sound of her own name. Then she stared at the man’s face. She’d only seen a photograph. “Zilinsky?” “Ja.” “Where are you hurt? Let me see.” “No time.” Zilinsky lifted a shaking hand; he held something out to her—a piece of paper. She leaned closer to take it. Zilinksy sagged against her; she lowered him gently to the pavement. She bent over him. His breathing was slow and ragged. The pulse in his neck was faint. “Ryder.” Zilinsky’s voice was a murmur. “I’m going to call an ambulance.” She groped for her phone. “No.” Zilinsky plucked feebly at her sleeve. “The Falcon.” “Yes?” “He wants it.” “Noel Malcolm? I know. He asked me to find it.” “No . . .” Zilinsky’s grasp tightened on her arm. “. . . Malcolm . . . mustn’t—” His grip loosened. He tried again, struggling to get the words out. “Don’t let . . .” “Zilinsky?” She felt for his pulse. Nothing. She ran her hands over his upper body. She peered at her fingers in the dim light. Not that there was any need. The smell had already told her it was blood. She rose, reaching for her phone once more. A car—a black Range Rover—glided along the street toward her. She half raised her hand to hail it; ask its occupants for help. She lowered her hand. Someone in the car was shining a flashlight into the pools of darkness where the streetlamps didn’t reach. Whoever was in the car was looking for something—or somebody. Suddenly the flashlight was pointed in her direction. The car sped up. Ayesha waited no longer. Turning, she dived into the alley. She raced to the back of Trelawney’s Bank. Swiveling on her heel, she looked back. A man, very tall, with the build of an athlete, bald head gleaming under the streetlights, stood over Zilinsky’s body. Her eyes narrowed. She’d seen him before. Where? Something in the man’s hand. A gun. Another man joined the bald one, then two more. Bad odds. She knew when to stand and fight, and when to run. Tonight, for now, valor must give way to discretion. The alley was in near-total darkness but Ayesha knew it well, and where it led. Her pursuers—Zilinsky’s killers she was sure—wouldn’t find her. Not until she was ready to fight back. As she ran, one thought was uppermost in her mind—the hunt for the Maltese Falcon had been fascinating. But that had been a tame affair; lacking excitement. It seemed things had picked up a notch or two. In the darkness no one saw her smile.
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