Review
"An irresistible, gorgeously written thriller....impossible-to-put-down....Hollywood, let the casting wars begin."
--The Dallas Morning News
“Extraordinary….No one has written a more exhilarating, adroit, and stylish debut for a suspense series since Raymond Chandler introduced Philip Marlowe in The Big Sleep back in 1939."
--TheDailyBeast.com
"A globe-trotting thriller. . . . The Informationist is an accessible, crisply told tale."
--NYTimes.com
"One can't help but think that Munroe and Salander are lone wolves who, if they ever had a chance to meet, might discover they are really part of the same hunting pack...Stevens...writes with the confidence of one who knows she's hit on a winning series character who has the world at her beck and call."
--Los Angeles Times
"The Informationist is a remarkable thriller; intense and heartbreaking, with a chilling, killer climax."
--Associated Press
"In the wake of the stunning success of Stieg Larsson's The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo comes a thriller by an American writer whose protagonist is drawing comparisons to Lisbeth Salander. The good news: Vanessa Munroe, the woman at the center of The Informationist, Taylor Stevens' debut novel, lives up to the hype. Best of all, Munroe evokes the spirit and intelligence of the gutsy, damaged Salander, but she's far from derivative...Much will be made of the similarities between Munroe and Salander. But in some ways, Munroe's brooding personality and her ability to blend in to her surroundings bring to mind the provocative Jason Bourne. Thank goodness a sequel to this fiery novel is in the works."
--USA Today
"Vanessa Munroe is the book world’s newest tough-girl action hero."
--New York Post
"A Dazzling new thriller...The Informationist is Steven's first novel but it reads as if she's already a master of the genre."
--New York Daily News
"Stevens' debut novel, The Informationist [is] an international thriller featuring a most unusual hero."
--Fort Worth Star-Telegram
"The star of this novel- an androgynous espionage agent named Vanessa Munroe- boasts a mysterious past and impressive survival skills."
--Entertainment Weekly
"Taylor Stevens in her first novel has achieved the gripping story telling technique of many acclaimed authors."
--Paramus Post
"The Informationist pushes every one of my buttons: exotic locale, sassy and competent protagonist, crisp dialogue and nonstop action. A fine debut—can’t wait for the sequel!"
--Book Page, Bruce Tierney
"Stevens’ debut novel is as compelling as her actual back story. Like Vanessa Munroe, a heroine haunted by her hijacked childhood, Stevens was raised all over the world in a religious cult. But the similarity ends there in this breathless, international thrill ride as Vanessa lies, kills and uses her incredible gift for getting what she wants. But underneath all the action is an even more powerful story of a woman trying to make peace with her personal demons."
--Family Circle, Darcy Jacobs
"Stevens’s blazingly brilliant debut introduces a great new action heroine, Vanessa Michael Munroe, who doesn’t have to kick over a hornet’s nest to get attention, though her feral, take-no-prisoners attitude reflects the fire of Stieg Larsson’s Lisbeth Salander…. Thriller fans will eagerly await the sequel to this high-octane page-turner."
--Publishers Weekly (Starred, boxed review)
"Stevens has penned a fast-paced, gripping, edgy mystery with a heroine whom even Lisbeth Salander would admire."
--Library Journal (Starred)
“Dazzling…Munroe is a model of an emerging action heroine: like Stieg Larsson’s Lisbeth Salander, not a guy in a girl suit but not one to whimper in the corner, either.”
--Booklist
"A riveting procedural, and a multi-dimensional thriller, with a heroine that hooks you from her first appearance."
--OpenLetters.com
"An utterly smashing debut, starring an unforgettable heroine who could go toe to toe with Lisbeth Salander—and claw her way on top. One of the best thrillers of the year!"
--Tess Gerritsen, New York Times bestselling author of Ice Cold
"With its break-neck pacing set against the simmering violence of Central Africa, THE INFORMATIONIST is a thriller of the highest caliber. Michael Munroe is a heroine you’ve never seen before—a shape-shifter who’s sharp, fast, and deadly, but still vulnerable to her own demons. Powered by intricate plotting that leads to a climax on a grand scale, this novel announces Taylor Stevens as a writer to watch."
--Colin Harrison
"A turbo-charged debut with a protagonist as deadly as she is irresistible. With THE INFORMATIONIST Taylor Stevens has crafted a thriller that’s smart, sexy, fast-paced—and impossible to put down."
--Vince Flynn
"A terrific thriller with piercing tension, chest-tightening adventure, and a one-of-a-kind heroine I’ve continued to think about long after finishing the last page. Taylor Stevens is a born storyteller. I couldn’t put THE INFORMATIONIST down."
--Michael Palmer, author of The Last Surgeon
"Stevens debuts with a tightly written thriller woven around an uncommon heroine with a knack for putting facts together and coming up with the right answers...the writing is stellar, the heroine grittier than Lara Croft and the African setting so vivid that readers can smell the jungle and feel the heat—a gifted debut with much promise."
--Kirkus
About the Author
TAYLOR STEVENS is the award-winning New York Times bestselling author of The Innocent, The Doll, The Catch, The Mask, and the novella The Vessel. The series featuring Vanessa Michael Munroe has received critical acclaim and the books are published in twenty languages. The Informationist has been optioned for film by James Cameron's production company, Lightstorm Entertainment. Born in New York State, and into the Children of God, raised in communes across the globe and denied an education beyond sixth grade, Stevens was in her twenties when she broke free to follow hope and a vague idea of what possibilities lay beyond. She now lives in Texas, and is at work on the next Munroe novel.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Chapter 1
Ankara, Turkey
Vanessa Michael Munroe inhaled, slow and measured, focused entirely on the curb of the street opposite.
She’d timed the motorcade from Balgat to the edges of Kizilay Square and stood now, motionless, watching from a shadowed notch while the target group exited the vehicles and progressed down a wide, shallow stairwell. Two men. Five women. Four bodyguards. A few more minutes and the mark would arrive.
Multistoried glass buildings reflected neon onto broad streets still alive with late-evening pedestrian traffic. Bodies brushed past, seemingly unaware of her presence or of how her eyes tracked movement in the dark.
She glanced at her watch.
A Mercedes pulled to a stop across the way, and she straightened as the solitary figure stepped from the backseat. He walked casually toward the entrance, and when he was fully out of sight, she followed, down the stairwell to the Anatolia: private of all private clubs, Ankara’s holy of holies, where together the wealthy and powerful fattened the cogs of democracy.
At the door she flashed the business card that had taken two weeks of greased palms and clandestine meetings to acquire.
In acknowledgment the doorman nodded and said, “Sir.”
Munroe replied with a nod, slipped a knot of cash into his hand, and entered into the din of smoke and music. She moved beyond the hive of secluded booths, past the bar with its half-filled line of stools, through the corridor that led to the restrooms and, finally, the “staff only” door.
Inside was not much more than a closet, and here she shed the Armani suit, the Italian shoes, and the trappings of the male persona.
It was unfortunate that she was known as a man to the contact she’d used to gain access, when tonight of all nights she needed to be a hundred percent woman. From her chest she shrugged down the sheath that would function as a figure-hugging dress and slid thin lacy sandals from the lining of the jacket onto her feet. She pulled a mini clutch from the suit pocket and then, checking that the hallway was empty, stepped into the restroom to finish the transformation with makeup and hair.
Back in the main room, the motorcade’s bodyguards stood as homing beacons, and she walked, with long and languid strides, in their direction. Time slowed. Four seconds. Four seconds of direct eye contact with the mark and then the slightest hint of a smile as she averted her eyes and continued past.
She placed herself at the end of the bar, alone, face turned away, body turned toward him. Ordered a drink. And demurely toying with the chained medallion at her throat, she waited.
This final step and the job would be complete.
She’d estimated ten minutes, but the invitation to join the party came within three. The bodyguard who delivered the message escorted her to the table, and there, with only the briefest round of introductions, coy smiles, and furtive glances, she slipped into the evening’s role—seeking, hunting, prodding, all in the guise of the bimbo’s game.
The charade lasted into the early morning, when, having gotten what she wanted, she pleaded exhaustion and excused herself from the group.
The mark followed her from the club to the street and, in the glow of the neon lights, offered a ride that she declined with a smile.
He called for his car, and as she began to walk away, he came after her, fingers gripping her arm.
She pulled away. His grip tightened, and she inhaled deeply, forcing a veneer of calm. Her vision shifted to gray. Her eyes moved from his face to the veins on his neck, so easily slit, to his throat, so easily crushed, and back again. With blood pounding in her ears, she fought down the urge to kill him.
Against instinct she maintained the smile and sweetly said, “Let’s have another drink.”
The Mercedes pulled to the curb. The mark opened the rear door and, before the chauffeur had a chance to step out, shoved Munroe into the backseat. He climbed in after her and slammed the door. Ordered the chauffeur to drive and then pointed in a brisk movement toward the minibar. “Have your drink,” he said.
With a flirtatious smile, she looked over her shoulder, seeing but not seeing. It was the smile of death and destruction, a disguise to the fire of bloodlust now coursing through her veins. She struggled to maintain reason. Focus. Subduing the urge, she reached for the bottle of Jack with one hand, her clutch with the other, and said, “Drink with me.”
Reacting to her calm, and with the unspoken promise of sex to come, he relaxed and took the drink she offered. She dipped her fingers into it and then pressed them to his mouth. She repeated the gesture, playfully, teasing the Rohypnol into his system until the glass had been emptied, and when it had been done, she staved him off until the drug took effect. She told the chauffeur to take the man home and, without resistance, stepped out of the car.
In the cool of the predawn, she breathed deeply to clear her head. And then she began to walk, oblivious to time, aware only of the lightening sky and eventually the morning call to prayer that sounded from the minarets across the city.
It was fully light when she arrived at the apartment that had served as home for the last nine months.
The place was shuttered and dark, and she flipped on the light. A bare low-wattage bulb hung suspended from the ceiling, revealing a one-room apartment with more floor space devoted to cluttered stacks of books, file folders, and computers with their attendant wires and paraphernalia than to either the desk or the couch that doubled as a bed. Beyond that, the place was empty.
She removed the medallion from around her neck and paused, momentarily distracted by the blinking red light at the foot of the couch.
Then, with the medallion flat between her palms, she twisted it and removed a microcard from the opened halves. She sat in front of the computer, slid the card into a reader, and, with the data downloading, reached for the answering machine.
The voice on the recording was like champagne: Kate Breeden at high noon. “Michael, darling, I know you’re still wrapping up and aren’t expecting another assignment for a while, but I’ve received an unusual request. Call me.”
Munroe sat on the couch, replayed the recording, leaned her forehead onto her arms, and closed her eyes. Exhaustion from the day’s work weighed heavily, and she lay back, eyes glazed in the direction of the monitor and the download status. She glanced at her watch. Just after ten in Dallas. She waited a moment, then straightened, and bracing for what was to come, picked up the handset, and dialed.
The effervescence in the voice on the other end brought the crack of a smile, and Munroe said, “I just got your message.”
“I know that you aren’t looking for new work for a few months,” Kate said, “but this is an exception. The client is Richard Burbank.”
Munroe paused. The name was familiar. “Houston oil?”
“That’s him.” She sighed. “Okay, fax me the documents, I’ll take a look.”
There was an awkward silence, and then Breeden said, “For a hundred thousand dollars, would you be willing to meet in person?”
“In Ankara?”
“Houston.”
Munroe said nothing. Simply let the silence of the moment consume her.
Breeden spoke again. “It’s been two years, Michael. Consider it a good omen. Come on home.”
“Is it worth it?”
“You can always go back.”
Munroe nodded to empty space, to the inevitable that she’d so far managed to postpone, and said, “Give me a week to wrap things up.” She dropped the phone into the cradle, lay back on the couch, and with an arm draped over her eyes inhaled long and deep.
There would be no sleep today.
