Bøger af Anna Schlegel

This is not a robbery. A bank is taken with all its guts: accounts, debts, points of exchange, the staff to the last secretary, the building. This is beautiful and clean fraud. I was out of work, while all around you could smell millions, even in the air outside. It was an unforgettable smell of public debt, oilfields, gold, bank guarantees, diamonds... I wanted to breathe in the air of easy cash Moscow, to revel and roll in this air. I could feel the smell of money in the wind on my face. This air was used to make up funds overnight, to make a fortune, to go rack and ruin and then grow rich again. It was going free across the wreckage of the sold out Soviet empire. I was asked to help redeem the debts of a bank. The insider man at the bank held the post of Vice President. A bit of danger and a bit of love. This novel is not based on real events, but you will feel the reality in every word. Book One Of The Dead Bank Diary Series ABOUT SERIES These are stories about a man who is not alive anymore. He was a financier, a retired intelligence officer. I had the good luck to arrange a couple of financial frauds. We bumped into each other before the recession, in the flood of shit, together in the dust. After his death I still had power of attorney. Of course, Victor knew I wouldn't be able to work on his contacts. I had tried. Now it's funny to think of it. I am, and always have been, a go-between, a rat. Nobody needs middlemen. They get rid of them; they send them to Hell. But I had a white shirt with a necktie, and copies of million-strong contracts for oil, gas, diamonds, and rare-earth metals: light-as-air, rolled fax sheets with lots of zeroes. They made me giddy; they made me drunk. And I ran along with them, and easily foisted them for the middlemen: muddy, middle-aged misters. When some of the first deals failed, I went into hysterics. I wanted to throw everything in. Once I had a dream. In my dream, I heard a telephone call, - Miss Schlegel? We need your signature to extend a contract concluded by Mr. ... I woke up scared; something turned over inside of me. I realized that I was spending my life waiting for such a call. It didn't matter where it caught me. But there was no going back. Once you've taken a step forward, you realize you can't turn back anymore. Why did he leave all this to me? I looked the papers over, recalling past years, deals, people, talks: everything from the first meeting to the last minute. And I couldn't find anything for me; because it wasn't for me, actually, for the old me. So I changed. I became a con. My life was changed. Sometimes it was as convincing and disgusting as a life of a whore. It was as inaccessible as the man who despises you. It was like vomit or sweat from the body from heavy hangover shivers. You wish to run, and there's no place to run to. It's a cold stupor. So it's stupid to look at the smeared corpse on the road, and it's impossible to regain consciousness to look away. This passion nests in the heart, and you don't know what is it. I have his photo, the last one, taken at Arkhangelskoe hospital. Summer. We're sitting on the edge of a dried-up fountain. He embraces me with one arm, and I'm lost next to him. He is gray-haired and corpulent. He has a mocking look. And behind us there are towering white marble angels.

Once you are able to see the intelligence's handwriting, you may see the words of failure inscribed in the same handwriting, telling of a failure they are yet unaware of. In looking at that other man from afar, he found it hard to shake off the feeling of observing his own self from the outside. That other man resembled him way too much. The man was better than him, more experienced, and he looked more convincing, and rather like a slime ball. Everyone could see it. The man succeeded in making everyone believe he was truly him, in person. And the man could prove it. What could eventually happen if the man slipped away? Then the only guy remaining would be him. And he would be constrained to be more like his former self. For all those long years, he had plain forgotten what kind of a person he was, underneath. He would have to recollect and become somewhat more life-like. He would hardly be able to make it, really, unless he was dead. But then, would that be a preferable option; something they truly wanted? Why do intelligence people become defectors? There may be two answers. One is obvious. They become defectors due to a landmark case against some other turncoat. Every agent, while keeping a close watch on the case, usually dissected the defendant's mistakes so he thought he would never do anything similar, convinced that he could be smarter, employing a lot more caution... The second answer is something else. People come to be turncoats long before they start working for the spy directorate. So, read it all: this is worth knowing. This is the answer from a legend. Listen to it, give it a touch, and you'll be blessed with the smile of God. ABOUT THE SLEEPER SERIRS What do the defectors really want? Why do these people betray their country and friends? Why are some of those defectors lucky, while some others are not? Why don't they ever have any regrets? What are their true motives? Is it about money? No. Do they do it for fear? No. Do they sometimes wish to build their careers in this alternative way? No. Are they seeking fame? No. Have they been brainwashed? No. Can they be naive idealists? No. Whatever answers you may think of, all of them would be probably wrong. Are they betrayers? Yes, they are. Are they doing the right thing? Yes, they are. Do they find in this treachery what they must have been looking for? They sometimes do. How can they live with this? They are perfectly in tune with their own selves. What are their goals? Now you will have the answer. It is worth knowing. This answer will surely change the way you see the world. This will be the answer from the legend. Each of the secret services has its own handwriting, faint and hardly perceptible. This handwriting is their custom. It does not change for years, and one can read it through. This handwriting can lead an agent to failure. This is what these books are written about, if anything. These books also tell of the legend that keeps recruiting people across time and distance; of something that is stronger than life. This legend is an eternal truth, refilled with the living blood of every new recruiter who would choose the way of the legend. These books are about the legendary Kim Philby. These books contain neither facts of Kim Philby's life nor any historical events. This is all about the modern-day, and is pure fiction. I'm giving an answer to the question: Why should the legend of Philby be everlasting? Why is this legend of Philby such a deadly, pulling force? How do the people survive under the wing of his legend? There is little said about it, yet this is the main point.

The British Intelligence cannot compromise its integrity; it will adhere to its principles like in the old times of rock 'n roll. And it's damn good to see it working... but then, it's scary to see it work against you They seemed to be looking for a perfect witness for that legal action. One was a sleeper, another a dead sleeper, and the third was a dummy agent. While this man alone passed for all three, he was never summoned to court. ABOUT THE SLEEPER SERIRS What do the defectors really want? Why do these people betray their country and friends? Why are some of those defectors lucky, while some others are not? Why don't they ever have any regrets? What are their true motives? Is it about money? No. Do they do it for fear? No. Do they sometimes wish to build their careers in this alternative way? No. Are they seeking fame? No. Have they been brainwashed? No. Can they be naive idealists? No. Whatever answers you may think of, all of them would be probably wrong. Are they betrayers? Yes, they are. Are they doing the right thing? Yes, they are. Do they find in this treachery what they must have been looking for? They sometimes do. How can they live with this? They are perfectly in tune with their own selves. What are their goals? Now you will have the answer. It is worth knowing. This answer will surely change the way you see the world. This will be the answer from the legend. Each of the secret services has its own handwriting, faint and hardly perceptible. This handwriting is their custom. It does not change for years, and one can read it through. This handwriting can lead an agent to failure. This is what these books are written about, if anything. These books also tell of the legend that keeps recruiting people across time and distance; of something that is stronger than life. This legend is an eternal truth, refilled with the living blood of every new recruiter who would choose the way of the legend. These books are about the legendary Kim Philby. These books contain neither facts of Kim Philby's life nor any historical events. This is all about the modern-day, and is pure fiction. I'm giving an answer to the question: Why should the legend of Philby be everlasting? Why is this legend of Philby such a deadly, pulling force? How do the people survive under the wing of his legend? There is little said about it, yet this is the main point.

It happens to everyone without exception. It will inevitably happen to you, unless you live under the wing of the legend. He was back. No one believed it was him until he started killing those who had no more doubts. ABOUT THE SLEEPER SERIRS What do the defectors really want? Why do these people betray their country and friends? Why are some of those defectors lucky, while some others are not? Why don't they ever have any regrets? What are their true motives? Is it about money? No. Do they do it for fear? No. Do they sometimes wish to build their careers in this alternative way? No. Are they seeking fame? No. Have they been brainwashed? No. Can they be naive idealists? No. Whatever answers you may think of, all of them would be probably wrong. Are they betrayers? Yes, they are. Are they doing the right thing? Yes, they are. Do they find in this treachery what they must have been looking for? They sometimes do. How can they live with this? They are perfectly in tune with their own selves. What are their goals? Now you will have the answer. It is worth knowing. This answer will surely change the way you see the world. This will be the answer from the legend. Each of the secret services has its own handwriting, faint and hardly perceptible. This handwriting is their custom. It does not change for years, and one can read it through. This handwriting can lead an agent to failure. This is what these books are written about, if anything. These books also tell of the legend that keeps recruiting people across time and distance; of something that is stronger than life. This legend is an eternal truth, refilled with the living blood of every new recruiter who would choose the way of the legend. These books are about the legendary Kim Philby. These books contain neither facts of Kim Philby's life nor any historical events. This is all about the modern-day, and is pure fiction. I'm giving an answer to the question: Why should the legend of Philby be everlasting? Why is this legend of Philby such a deadly, pulling force? How do the people survive under the wing of his legend? There is little said about it, yet this is the main point.

Should there be three pieces of crap this is of the British Intelligence classic He was not worth a straw to Intelligence; he was a mere sleeper, just a small coin. One day he felt that, behind his back, there was someone else; a big shot of such high value that they could not afford to lose him. Who could that be - a recent defector? He had no idea. He could only sense a trace of him, barely there; just a nip. They were seeking to ward off the trail, and not just by drawing it aside. Now it appeared to lead straight to him. Every little thing pointed to him. The trace would be lifeless, classically beautiful, and, as such, stone-dead. ABOUT THE SLEEPER SERIES What do the defectors really want? Why do these people betray their country and friends? Why are some of those defectors lucky, while some others are not? Why don't they ever have any regrets? What are their true motives? Is it about money? No. Do they do it for fear? No. Do they sometimes wish to build their careers in this alternative way? No. Are they seeking fame? No. Have they been brainwashed? No. Can they be naive idealists? No. Whatever answers you may think of, all of them would be probably wrong. Are they betrayers? Yes, they are. Are they doing the right thing? Yes, they are. Do they find in this treachery what they must have been looking for? They sometimes do. How can they live with this? They are perfectly in tune with their own selves. What are their goals? Now you will have the answer. It is worth knowing. This answer will surely change the way you see the world. This will be the answer from the legend. Each of the secret services has its own handwriting, faint and hardly perceptible. This handwriting is their custom. It does not change for years, and one can read it through. This handwriting can lead an agent to failure. This is what these books are written about, if anything. These books also tell of the legend that keeps recruiting people across time and distance; of something that is stronger than life. This legend is an eternal truth, refilled with the living blood of every new recruiter who would choose the way of the legend. These books are about the legendary Kim Philby. These books contain neither facts of Kim Philby's life nor any historical events. This is all about the modern-day, and is pure fiction. I'm giving an answer to the question: Why should the legend of Philby be everlasting? Why is this legend of Philby such a deadly, pulling force? How do the people survive under the wing of his legend? There is little said about it, yet this is the main point.

It was a bank robbery, however this time the gunmen came not for the cash but for the bank itself, and all that followed happened faster than a domino knockdown. The bank was bankrupted professionally. Bad debts of the Third World countries, Cuba, Zimbabwe, Morocco, and The Congo have been returned on the bank's balance sheet. Once, the bank sold the debts to itself, to an offshore company. Who did this? The banker finds out the bank in Amsterdam... and has taken it over completely. ABOUT THE SERIES These are stories about a man who is not alive anymore. He was a financier, a retired intelligence officer. I had the good luck to arrange a couple of financial frauds. We bumped into each other before the recession, in the flood of shit, together in the dust. After his death I still had power of attorney. Of course, Victor knew I wouldn't be able to work on his contacts. I had tried. Now it's funny to think of it. I am, and always have been, a go-between, a rat. Nobody needs middlemen. They get rid of them; they send them to Hell. But I had a white shirt with a necktie, and copies of million-strong contracts for oil, gas, diamonds, and rare-earth metals: light-as-air, rolled fax sheets with lots of zeroes. They made me giddy; they made me drunk. And I ran along with them, and easily foisted them for the middlemen: muddy, middle-aged misters. When some of the first deals failed, I went into hysterics. I wanted to throw everything in. Once I had a dream. In my dream, I heard a telephone call, - Miss Schlegel? We need your signature to extend a contract concluded by Mr. ... I woke up scared; something turned over inside of me. I realized that I was spending my life waiting for such a call. It didn't matter where it caught me. But there was no going back. Once you've taken a step forward, you realize you can't turn back anymore. Why did he leave all this to me? I looked the papers over, recalling past years, deals, people, talks: everything from the first meeting to the last minute. And I couldn't find anything for me; because it wasn't for me, actually, for the old me. So I changed. I became a con. My life was changed. Sometimes it was as convincing and disgusting as a life of a whore. It was as inaccessible as the man who despises you. It was like vomit or sweat from the body from heavy hangover shivers. You wish to run, and there's no place to run to. It's a cold stupor. So it's stupid to look at the smeared corpse on the road, and it's impossible to regain consciousness to look away. This passion nests in the heart, and you don't know what is it. I have his photo, the last one, taken at Arkhangelskoe hospital. Summer. We're sitting on the edge of a dried-up fountain. He embraces me with one arm, and I'm lost next to him. He is gray-haired and corpulent. He has a mocking look. And behind us there are towering white marble angels.

The bank facing bankruptcy fell out of the hands like a snowball rolling downhill, flattening everything under its weight. Behind every bankruptcy there are people who make it happen. But there are no influential people. Big figures are absent. It seems you stay face to face with the emptiness. This happens when the Central Bank is playing against you.