One decade. One man who stops being himself. Rhys Morgan, flagged at twelve as something rare, hidden by parents who wanted him ordinary, claimed years later by a service with no name. The service takes his one gift — an ear that hears the shape of a language before he knows a word of it — and builds other men out of him. Hamburg. Beirut. Istanbul. The analog trade run the hard way: aliases aged in person, paranoid networks earned and then turned, dead drops, cassettes, money sewn into a coat lining. He is good at it. He is too good at it. Every man he becomes takes a little of the first one and gives nothing back. Then a cover demands a price with a body count, and to hold the lie he betrays the one man in the cell who calls him friend. In the white heat of Jeddah he shakes the hand of a soft-spoken young veteran of the war he helped win — and understands, far too late to say it aloud, that he had a hand in building the next one. A tragedy in a thriller’s clothes, in the tradition of le Carré and Forsyth. Written by a career intelligence officer. The Persona is fiction. The texture is not.
https://a.co/d/09yBGCQ2
..
