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Lana Dukovskaya has spent her life in her mother, Marina's, shadow, and nowhere more so than at Russia's world-famous Bolshoi Ballet, where Marina danced years ago. But when Daniela, Lana's friend and chief rival, is brutally attacked on the eve of a New York tour, Lana is given her coveted solo - an unlikely stroke of luck that makes Lana the chief suspect in the attack. Once in New York, Lana meets Georgi Levshik, a powerful Russian emigre who claims to know the truth about Marina's past. She's torn between her distrust of Levshik's offered patronage and her need for answers. But when another young dancer is struck down on the day of her debut, Lana becomes the prime suspect in not one, but two attacks.
Les informations fournies dans la section « Synopsis » peuvent faire référence à une autre édition de ce titre.
Extrait :
CHAPTER ONE
BLOOD DIAMOND
The night that Daniela almost died, I wanted to kill her myself.
That sounds terrible. Not because I wanted to kill my friend but because, you know, who cares what I wanted. She’s the one who will never dance again.
I can actually hear her voice. I can hear her scolding: Lana, why’s it always got to be about you? Do you have to make everything personal?
Well, no. I guess I don’t. I guess I could sit by Daniela’s hospital bed and hold her hand. I could meet all the suspicious glances with big, dumb eyes. I could tell myself: this has nothing to do with you, Lana.
But I would be wrong.
Call me a narcissist if you like, but when my friend Daniela was nearly killed—and not by me—I knew I should take it personally.
We were just out on a lark, me and Stas.
I was supposed to be in repertoire class, but to hell with that. It was a warm spring day, the streets tickled with pollen and the sky blown by clouds the size of small
Siberian lakes. A glorious mid-May afternoon like that and you’ve got no business locking yourself in a windowless practice room. Not when you’ve poured your soul into windowless practice for four months, only to find out you’ve been passed over.
We’re sending Daniela on the New York tour. She’s the more reliable dancer.
I could have accepted the decision graciously and headed back into the studio: that place where I had given it my all and stayed late every night. That place full of edgy egos, shifting alliances, and the occasional unwanted advance from our playboy of an artistic director, Pavel Vartukh. That place where I had maybe thrown one or two tantrums—not because I’m a diva, but because I don’t react well to abuse. And trust me, the rehearsal studio where the New York tour was being assigned was a den of abuse—abuse of power, talent, and aspiration.
So I didn’t head back for more. I figured I was in Moscow, and I was staying in Moscow. The sun dappled the city like a chandelier. It was half empty, the traffic
drained from the center out Rublevskoye highway, west to the mega-dachas and the “rustic” shopping malls where the wealthy people summer behind electric gates.
Stas wanted to head that way, too. Out Rublevskoye.
A box holder—one of those odious types who brings their own booze to the Bolshoi performances and has an entourage waiting backstage during intermission—was throwing a party at his country estate. I said I wouldn’t be caught dead at a party like that. Anybody with enough money for season tickets to the Bolshoi Ballet is automatically disqualified from my list of respectable fans. Anybody who calls his dacha a “country estate” is a grade-A douche bag. This guy Strelets, in particular, is
a perv as well as a philistine.
But he is powerful. He can make or break a dancer who graces the gardens of his country estate.
I tried shaming Stas, reminding him how Strelets had once painted testicles on the Nutcracker’s grandfather clock. I figured that as a set designer, Stas would be more
outraged by that insult than the ones regularly endured by us ballerinas. But he just laughed and tried a new tactic.
“If I take the back way through Dmitrovka, we can fly. There won’t be any traffic on those narrow roads. Six minutes and we’ll be out of town. Top velocity.”
He saw me waver. I’m a speed demon. He handed me the spare helmet.
“C’mon Lana. It’s Friday night,” he wheedled. “We don’t have to stay long. Just long enough for you to charm Mr. Box Holder into weighing in on your behalf. What you do is you feed him strawberries and sniffle sadly. Tomorrow he’ll call the theater, indignant that you’ve been robbed of your place on the tour.”
“How’d you know?” I asked.
“Could see it on your face. They made New York assignments yesterday, right?”
I nodded. I thought about my face. What exactly did it show? I’m not a sullen girl, not prone to sniffles.
“Let’s see your pout,” teased Stas.
“Cute,” I said. “You’re real cute.” My heart was heavy, though.
Once upon a time, when the Bolshoi Ballet was the most prestigious in the world, hard work and talent would get you to the stage and something deep and indefinable would make you beloved—an “Artist of the People,” a hero in feathers and tulle. But that was long ago, before the Bolshoi became a victim of the same crass commerce and greed that have spoiled the only things about the old Soviet Union that were worth any pride.
Here’s a quick history lesson, courtesy of a girl more interested in flexibility than ideology, better at pas de bourrée than politics: Thirty years after the collapse of Communism, Russia is both richer and poorer than it was back then, and nowhere is that contradiction more on display than at the Bolshoi Theatre. Because the only thing as steady as the money pumped into the theater are the scandals that come skulking out its back door. Sordid headlines about the truth behind the Bolshoi’s curtains are regular tabloid fare: embezzlement, bribery, corruption, vendettas.
Sure, a lot of it is sensational nonsense—like the story about Pavel Vartukh’s secret gay lover who came back from a sex-change operation in Belgrade ready to become a prima ballerina. I mean—what? But too much of it is based in the truth that we all recognize: Fortune has trumped fame. Greed has bested grace. Put simply, starring roles at the ballet are more easily bought than earned.
Which is why Stas and his pep talk failed to cheer me up.
I grabbed the helmet from Stas. Swung it around like it was my wrecking ball.
Daniela may be the more reliable dancer, but I am the better dancer. I wanted to believe that the day would come again when that was the only consideration for a Bolshoi ballerina. Or that, more realistically, a day might come when pigs like Strelets still ordered around goats like Vartukh, but girls like Daniela and me could be left alone to dance hard, but in peace.
“Okay, listen,” I told Stas. “I will go and I will take a swim in the pool, and I will drink two glasses of wine: one to Daniela’s success and one to our corpulent host’s imminent cardiac arrest. And then we leave. Got it?”
Stas smiled. Maybe he thought that, deep down, I wanted to go to this party to work my advantage. I would let him believe it. Not because it was true. But because the only thing more humiliating than being a suck-up to a powerful “friend” of the Bolshoi Ballet is being afraid of one. Keeping your distance is one thing. Hiding your head in the sand is another.
I added, “But if that nasty toad Strelets gets too close I want you to shout: ‘There’s not a man here who can shoot a bigger gun than me!’”
“How about: ‘There’s not a man here who can piss farther than me!’” Stas suggested.
“No—better: ‘There’s not a man here who can put more ballerina toes in his mouth than me!’”
“Got it,” said Stas. “That will certainly divert his attention.”
He looked down at my feet. “Good girl. Motorcycle boots. Excellent for joyrides and discouraging foot fetishes alike.”
The instant he hit the gas, I felt my disappointment slip away. We turned onto the tree-lined boulevard, and the pale green necklace of Moscow’s inner ring worked with me. I stretched out my hand and gave the early leaves a high five. Then I squeezed Stas. I needed some speed in my budding spring. He obliged with a rev of his engine and a reckless dodge in the slow lane.
Downhill from the raucous geometry and bright paint of Saint Basil’s Cathedral, we encountered the Friday evening traffic. The Kremlin, seat of State power loomed above us, the sun sparking its gold, and we raced along the Moscow River’s floodplain, headed west. We crossed the river on an old bridge, crossed it again on an older one, and then we were scattering roadside crows disoriented by the lengthening days.
Once Moscow was behind us, it felt as if we were in another era. At least to me. An era when Moscow stopped after three concentric rings around the Kremlin. I closed my eyes and wished that the road would never end, or that when it did, it would end at a lopsided wooden dacha with wide verandahs and hand-carved windowsills. A place where wealth was measured in books. Or letters. Or best . . . acres of woods and fields.
Stas turned left and then right and we joined the inching parade of weekenders. We hadn’t really left Moscow after all. Just made a ruckus down her underarm and
got caught in her fist. We weaved in and out of gridlock, our reflections everywhere. There are a lot of tinted windows on the Rublevskoye highway. We arrived in their hot mess.
The guard outside the high metal gates checked me out. In my jeans, boots and helmet I didn’t exactly exude ballerina. But Stas dropped the right name and the guard
nodded. As he opened the gates to let us pass, I could feel him searching me for my supple, slender calling card.
Sorry chump, I thought. I left my wings and tiara backstage tonight.
Boris Strelets, president of Krylatskoe Bank, trustee of the Bolshoi Ballet and member of the parliamentary committee on cultural investment, was walking his greyhounds down the driveway as we pulled in. He wore tight black jeans that looked terrifically uncomfortable. He reminded me of whatever you call a squirmy, slow thing. Fifteen years ago he was almost certainly a grub. But now, with his wealth and his government connections and his new artistic pet project—the ballet—he was a vazhnaya persona: a VIP, a person of significance.
I groaned. Stas was already striding toward our host, his hand outstretched. Strelets looked up, clearly hoping to see a young woman instead. I sidestepped into a
grove of palm trees. Grateful, by God, for fake imported landscaping where once upon a time there must have been gooseberry bushes. I heard the crackle of a sound system on overdrive. Then the cackle of Julia Zemphira, the most coveted dance DJ in Moscow.
“Rebyata—kakaya okhuitel’naya vecherinka!”
Oh yes, Julia. A fucktastic evening indeed.
I was already sick of this party. And it wasn't even dark yet.
Revue de presse :
BLOOD DIAMOND
The night that Daniela almost died, I wanted to kill her myself.
That sounds terrible. Not because I wanted to kill my friend but because, you know, who cares what I wanted. She’s the one who will never dance again.
I can actually hear her voice. I can hear her scolding: Lana, why’s it always got to be about you? Do you have to make everything personal?
Well, no. I guess I don’t. I guess I could sit by Daniela’s hospital bed and hold her hand. I could meet all the suspicious glances with big, dumb eyes. I could tell myself: this has nothing to do with you, Lana.
But I would be wrong.
Call me a narcissist if you like, but when my friend Daniela was nearly killed—and not by me—I knew I should take it personally.
We were just out on a lark, me and Stas.
I was supposed to be in repertoire class, but to hell with that. It was a warm spring day, the streets tickled with pollen and the sky blown by clouds the size of small
Siberian lakes. A glorious mid-May afternoon like that and you’ve got no business locking yourself in a windowless practice room. Not when you’ve poured your soul into windowless practice for four months, only to find out you’ve been passed over.
We’re sending Daniela on the New York tour. She’s the more reliable dancer.
I could have accepted the decision graciously and headed back into the studio: that place where I had given it my all and stayed late every night. That place full of edgy egos, shifting alliances, and the occasional unwanted advance from our playboy of an artistic director, Pavel Vartukh. That place where I had maybe thrown one or two tantrums—not because I’m a diva, but because I don’t react well to abuse. And trust me, the rehearsal studio where the New York tour was being assigned was a den of abuse—abuse of power, talent, and aspiration.
So I didn’t head back for more. I figured I was in Moscow, and I was staying in Moscow. The sun dappled the city like a chandelier. It was half empty, the traffic
drained from the center out Rublevskoye highway, west to the mega-dachas and the “rustic” shopping malls where the wealthy people summer behind electric gates.
Stas wanted to head that way, too. Out Rublevskoye.
A box holder—one of those odious types who brings their own booze to the Bolshoi performances and has an entourage waiting backstage during intermission—was throwing a party at his country estate. I said I wouldn’t be caught dead at a party like that. Anybody with enough money for season tickets to the Bolshoi Ballet is automatically disqualified from my list of respectable fans. Anybody who calls his dacha a “country estate” is a grade-A douche bag. This guy Strelets, in particular, is
a perv as well as a philistine.
But he is powerful. He can make or break a dancer who graces the gardens of his country estate.
I tried shaming Stas, reminding him how Strelets had once painted testicles on the Nutcracker’s grandfather clock. I figured that as a set designer, Stas would be more
outraged by that insult than the ones regularly endured by us ballerinas. But he just laughed and tried a new tactic.
“If I take the back way through Dmitrovka, we can fly. There won’t be any traffic on those narrow roads. Six minutes and we’ll be out of town. Top velocity.”
He saw me waver. I’m a speed demon. He handed me the spare helmet.
“C’mon Lana. It’s Friday night,” he wheedled. “We don’t have to stay long. Just long enough for you to charm Mr. Box Holder into weighing in on your behalf. What you do is you feed him strawberries and sniffle sadly. Tomorrow he’ll call the theater, indignant that you’ve been robbed of your place on the tour.”
“How’d you know?” I asked.
“Could see it on your face. They made New York assignments yesterday, right?”
I nodded. I thought about my face. What exactly did it show? I’m not a sullen girl, not prone to sniffles.
“Let’s see your pout,” teased Stas.
“Cute,” I said. “You’re real cute.” My heart was heavy, though.
Once upon a time, when the Bolshoi Ballet was the most prestigious in the world, hard work and talent would get you to the stage and something deep and indefinable would make you beloved—an “Artist of the People,” a hero in feathers and tulle. But that was long ago, before the Bolshoi became a victim of the same crass commerce and greed that have spoiled the only things about the old Soviet Union that were worth any pride.
Here’s a quick history lesson, courtesy of a girl more interested in flexibility than ideology, better at pas de bourrée than politics: Thirty years after the collapse of Communism, Russia is both richer and poorer than it was back then, and nowhere is that contradiction more on display than at the Bolshoi Theatre. Because the only thing as steady as the money pumped into the theater are the scandals that come skulking out its back door. Sordid headlines about the truth behind the Bolshoi’s curtains are regular tabloid fare: embezzlement, bribery, corruption, vendettas.
Sure, a lot of it is sensational nonsense—like the story about Pavel Vartukh’s secret gay lover who came back from a sex-change operation in Belgrade ready to become a prima ballerina. I mean—what? But too much of it is based in the truth that we all recognize: Fortune has trumped fame. Greed has bested grace. Put simply, starring roles at the ballet are more easily bought than earned.
Which is why Stas and his pep talk failed to cheer me up.
I grabbed the helmet from Stas. Swung it around like it was my wrecking ball.
Daniela may be the more reliable dancer, but I am the better dancer. I wanted to believe that the day would come again when that was the only consideration for a Bolshoi ballerina. Or that, more realistically, a day might come when pigs like Strelets still ordered around goats like Vartukh, but girls like Daniela and me could be left alone to dance hard, but in peace.
“Okay, listen,” I told Stas. “I will go and I will take a swim in the pool, and I will drink two glasses of wine: one to Daniela’s success and one to our corpulent host’s imminent cardiac arrest. And then we leave. Got it?”
Stas smiled. Maybe he thought that, deep down, I wanted to go to this party to work my advantage. I would let him believe it. Not because it was true. But because the only thing more humiliating than being a suck-up to a powerful “friend” of the Bolshoi Ballet is being afraid of one. Keeping your distance is one thing. Hiding your head in the sand is another.
I added, “But if that nasty toad Strelets gets too close I want you to shout: ‘There’s not a man here who can shoot a bigger gun than me!’”
“How about: ‘There’s not a man here who can piss farther than me!’” Stas suggested.
“No—better: ‘There’s not a man here who can put more ballerina toes in his mouth than me!’”
“Got it,” said Stas. “That will certainly divert his attention.”
He looked down at my feet. “Good girl. Motorcycle boots. Excellent for joyrides and discouraging foot fetishes alike.”
The instant he hit the gas, I felt my disappointment slip away. We turned onto the tree-lined boulevard, and the pale green necklace of Moscow’s inner ring worked with me. I stretched out my hand and gave the early leaves a high five. Then I squeezed Stas. I needed some speed in my budding spring. He obliged with a rev of his engine and a reckless dodge in the slow lane.
Downhill from the raucous geometry and bright paint of Saint Basil’s Cathedral, we encountered the Friday evening traffic. The Kremlin, seat of State power loomed above us, the sun sparking its gold, and we raced along the Moscow River’s floodplain, headed west. We crossed the river on an old bridge, crossed it again on an older one, and then we were scattering roadside crows disoriented by the lengthening days.
Once Moscow was behind us, it felt as if we were in another era. At least to me. An era when Moscow stopped after three concentric rings around the Kremlin. I closed my eyes and wished that the road would never end, or that when it did, it would end at a lopsided wooden dacha with wide verandahs and hand-carved windowsills. A place where wealth was measured in books. Or letters. Or best . . . acres of woods and fields.
Stas turned left and then right and we joined the inching parade of weekenders. We hadn’t really left Moscow after all. Just made a ruckus down her underarm and
got caught in her fist. We weaved in and out of gridlock, our reflections everywhere. There are a lot of tinted windows on the Rublevskoye highway. We arrived in their hot mess.
The guard outside the high metal gates checked me out. In my jeans, boots and helmet I didn’t exactly exude ballerina. But Stas dropped the right name and the guard
nodded. As he opened the gates to let us pass, I could feel him searching me for my supple, slender calling card.
Sorry chump, I thought. I left my wings and tiara backstage tonight.
Boris Strelets, president of Krylatskoe Bank, trustee of the Bolshoi Ballet and member of the parliamentary committee on cultural investment, was walking his greyhounds down the driveway as we pulled in. He wore tight black jeans that looked terrifically uncomfortable. He reminded me of whatever you call a squirmy, slow thing. Fifteen years ago he was almost certainly a grub. But now, with his wealth and his government connections and his new artistic pet project—the ballet—he was a vazhnaya persona: a VIP, a person of significance.
I groaned. Stas was already striding toward our host, his hand outstretched. Strelets looked up, clearly hoping to see a young woman instead. I sidestepped into a
grove of palm trees. Grateful, by God, for fake imported landscaping where once upon a time there must have been gooseberry bushes. I heard the crackle of a sound system on overdrive. Then the cackle of Julia Zemphira, the most coveted dance DJ in Moscow.
“Rebyata—kakaya okhuitel’naya vecherinka!”
Oh yes, Julia. A fucktastic evening indeed.
I was already sick of this party. And it wasn't even dark yet.
Praise for Hider, Seeker, Secret Keeper
"Even though the dancers have come to New York, [in Hider, Seeker, Secret Keeper] the book is still steeped in Russian culture. This is a novel full of plot twists and turns that help uncover the lies, the betrayals, and the resentment of generations."
—VOYA
"A tangled web of intrigue ensnares three generations of Bolshoi ballerinas . . . Russian secrets, treachery and strong family ties pulsate and captivate in this complex tale."
—Kirkus Reviews
"Infused with a grim urgency, both cold and vividly alive . . . Those looking for the thrill of a wrongly accused heroine, infused with the passion of a dancer’s dedication to her craft, will enjoy this taut mystery."
—Booklist
"A smart, tough thriller with an all-too-timely topic . . . Lana is a persuasive heroine; jaded, mature, and self-reliant. She has few illusions about the world in which she operates."
—School Library Journal
"Like Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring, Elizabeth Kiem’s tale of ballerinas and bratva is primal and raw, brutal in its examination of human behavior, and pulsing with tension and spilled secrets. But Hider, Seeker, Secret Keeper is also brimming with grace—the perfect-posture elegance of complex characters who are haunted by their pasts and tradition as they try to emerge into modernity. Kiem’s detailed knowledge of Russian language and culture adds just the right amount of authenticity to a thrilling adventure."
—Lindsay Smith, author of Sekret
“This is a hair raising tale of lost illusions and self-discovery. It was almost disturbing how much I recognized Lana and her personal heartbreak. A look behind the curtains at the dangers and obstacles of ambition for the dancer in Russia today.”
—Joy Womack, principal ballerina, Kremlin Ballet
"Layered with intrigue, suspense and complex relationships . . . Lana’s personality jumps off the page; she isn’t your typical cliché protagonist, and this isn’t your typical young adult story."
—TeenReads.com
Praise for Dancer, Daughter, Traitor, Spy
“Dancer, Daughter, Traitor, Spy culminates in a tangle of bad guys and intrigue . . . [Evokes] the bleakness and nostalgic charms of the early 1980s [in Russia]. The results are enjoyably escapist. For [readers] enamored with the Russia of literature and film, who want something slightly more contemporary.”
—The New York Times
“An action filled story line, beautiful similes, and aspects of Russian Culture.”
—Teen Ink, Exceptional Review
"Terrifying . . . Historical fiction meets spy thriller, Dancer, Daughter, Traitor, Spy is sure to keep you on the edge of your seat."
—Dance Spirit Magazine
“In a world where nothing makes sense, what is sanity? . . . This atmospheric, suspenseful story is one of devotion and deception, innocence and independence, friendship and love, music and dance, immigration and coming of age.”
—Booklist, Starred Review
"Sophisticated storytelling with complex characterization and details that provide color and texture . . . A compelling portrait of a young woman on the verge of adulthood, caught up in the domestic secrets of her parents and the enmity of two countries."
—Kirkus Reviews
"I love a book that plunges me headlong into an unfamiliar world. This twisty, dark mystery has it all—terrible choices, narrow escapes, last chance gambles, and the desperate risks you’ll take to save the person you love."
—National Book Award Winner Judy Blundell
"Dancer, Daughter, Traitor, Spy has it all: love, death, ballet, and pop music during the Cold War '80s. A romantic, suspenseful, and gracefully written novel."
—Natalie Standiford, author of How to Say Goodbye in Robot and Confessions of the Sullivan Sisters
"Fascinating . . . The twists and turns, as Marina tries to decide whom she can really trust, keep readers guessing right up to the end, just as a good spy novel should."
—School Library Journal
"Think The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo meets Sookie Stackhouse."
—Brooklyn Based
“Kiem has a way with language that brings her surroundings to life whether it's 1982 Russia with its long bread lines, Brighton Beach with its Russian gangsters or the dirty streets of Manhattan.”
—Fresh Fiction
"Even though the dancers have come to New York, [in Hider, Seeker, Secret Keeper] the book is still steeped in Russian culture. This is a novel full of plot twists and turns that help uncover the lies, the betrayals, and the resentment of generations."
—VOYA
"A tangled web of intrigue ensnares three generations of Bolshoi ballerinas . . . Russian secrets, treachery and strong family ties pulsate and captivate in this complex tale."
—Kirkus Reviews
"Infused with a grim urgency, both cold and vividly alive . . . Those looking for the thrill of a wrongly accused heroine, infused with the passion of a dancer’s dedication to her craft, will enjoy this taut mystery."
—Booklist
"A smart, tough thriller with an all-too-timely topic . . . Lana is a persuasive heroine; jaded, mature, and self-reliant. She has few illusions about the world in which she operates."
—School Library Journal
"Like Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring, Elizabeth Kiem’s tale of ballerinas and bratva is primal and raw, brutal in its examination of human behavior, and pulsing with tension and spilled secrets. But Hider, Seeker, Secret Keeper is also brimming with grace—the perfect-posture elegance of complex characters who are haunted by their pasts and tradition as they try to emerge into modernity. Kiem’s detailed knowledge of Russian language and culture adds just the right amount of authenticity to a thrilling adventure."
—Lindsay Smith, author of Sekret
“This is a hair raising tale of lost illusions and self-discovery. It was almost disturbing how much I recognized Lana and her personal heartbreak. A look behind the curtains at the dangers and obstacles of ambition for the dancer in Russia today.”
—Joy Womack, principal ballerina, Kremlin Ballet
"Layered with intrigue, suspense and complex relationships . . . Lana’s personality jumps off the page; she isn’t your typical cliché protagonist, and this isn’t your typical young adult story."
—TeenReads.com
Praise for Dancer, Daughter, Traitor, Spy
“Dancer, Daughter, Traitor, Spy culminates in a tangle of bad guys and intrigue . . . [Evokes] the bleakness and nostalgic charms of the early 1980s [in Russia]. The results are enjoyably escapist. For [readers] enamored with the Russia of literature and film, who want something slightly more contemporary.”
—The New York Times
“An action filled story line, beautiful similes, and aspects of Russian Culture.”
—Teen Ink, Exceptional Review
"Terrifying . . . Historical fiction meets spy thriller, Dancer, Daughter, Traitor, Spy is sure to keep you on the edge of your seat."
—Dance Spirit Magazine
“In a world where nothing makes sense, what is sanity? . . . This atmospheric, suspenseful story is one of devotion and deception, innocence and independence, friendship and love, music and dance, immigration and coming of age.”
—Booklist, Starred Review
"Sophisticated storytelling with complex characterization and details that provide color and texture . . . A compelling portrait of a young woman on the verge of adulthood, caught up in the domestic secrets of her parents and the enmity of two countries."
—Kirkus Reviews
"I love a book that plunges me headlong into an unfamiliar world. This twisty, dark mystery has it all—terrible choices, narrow escapes, last chance gambles, and the desperate risks you’ll take to save the person you love."
—National Book Award Winner Judy Blundell
"Dancer, Daughter, Traitor, Spy has it all: love, death, ballet, and pop music during the Cold War '80s. A romantic, suspenseful, and gracefully written novel."
—Natalie Standiford, author of How to Say Goodbye in Robot and Confessions of the Sullivan Sisters
"Fascinating . . . The twists and turns, as Marina tries to decide whom she can really trust, keep readers guessing right up to the end, just as a good spy novel should."
—School Library Journal
"Think The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo meets Sookie Stackhouse."
—Brooklyn Based
“Kiem has a way with language that brings her surroundings to life whether it's 1982 Russia with its long bread lines, Brighton Beach with its Russian gangsters or the dirty streets of Manhattan.”
—Fresh Fiction
Les informations fournies dans la section « A propos du livre » peuvent faire référence à une autre édition de ce titre.
- ÉditeurSoho Press Inc
- Date d'édition2014
- ISBN 10 1616954124
- ISBN 13 9781616954123
- ReliureRelié
- Nombre de pages264
- Evaluation vendeur
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Hider, Seeker, Secret Keeper (The Bolshoi Saga)
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(2014)
ISBN 10 : 1616954124
ISBN 13 : 9781616954123
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