Amy‎ > ‎

Money Can't Lie (The Sleeper #1) by Anna Shlegel

posted 5 Sep 2017, 10:17 by Archaeolibrarian I Dig Good Books!

Add to Goodreads  |  BookLikes

#Thriller, #Suspense, #Espionage

Should there be three pieces of crap this is of the British intelligence classic 

One day there happened what may happen to a sleeping agent, he was burnt by the same intelligence he worked for. He expected to be arrested and suddenly realized all those things he felt overwhelming for the last week were nothing but seeming true. And in reality it was all quite different, and he had to save not his neck but the operation to which he was a shadow partner. 

This deal left no legible trace. It was just like a woman always staying with somebody else in her pursuit of money. It was made of thin air, of powerful links, of noncommittal talks and handshakes. In this deal every cent was lying in someone’s hands. So not knowing the hand that handed this cent over to some other hands one could learn nothing at all, and the whole thing turned to be a number of bulging bubbles of virtual money that disappeared from bank accounts with a single keystroke. It became the reality pulling in to death. 
So many people wanted to hold that deal in their hands. 

Therefore he understood nothing would happen to him there, he could just walk out with no glance back since he knew so well all those counterparties involved in this operation, and these people could sense something went wrong from miles away and could read it by his walk, there was no need to warn them, they would scatter away on their own and hideaway like rats. And the deal would vanish alongside with them, flowing like sand between his fingers. 

If someone wanted to hold down that deal nothing wrong could happen to him. He just had to walk into the street. But then, what if he was mistaken?

(one click for every reader everywhere)

2 out of 5 (below average)

Independent Reviewer for Archaeolibrarian - I Dig Good Books!

Sadly, I can’t say that I even remotely enjoyed this book. It feels like the author tried too hard to tell a good story. The details were way to intense, provided too much detail and descriptions, and seemed to double back on each other.

It felt that as soon as I could understand or grasp one concept of the story, the next chapter went against everything that was just stated. There was far too much explanation. The information was confusing to the average reader.

* A copy of this book was provided to me with no requirements for a review. I voluntarily read this book, and my comments here are my honest opinion. *

Why do I know so much of the Intelligence? It must have been from between the bed sheets and not only this much. Victor returned to Moscow after a few years work as a financial expert. He was more of a moneyman than a special service agent, even more he was of a swindler. He became a raider like so many others in those years. He used to have both good strokes and failure in bank seizures, in which he lost money. I imperceptibly turned to be just the same like him. 
These books are written from an adventurer’s perspective. There are no good guys since those good guys have no chance of attracting a female. Women want bastards.

Why read my books? I’ve got the undeniable strength of being a Russian author, which means that I’m writing about the Russian Intelligence without using much fiction. 
Of course, these are just mere fiction novels, a kind of multi-twist mind game; yet I’m describing events the way they could have touched me in reality. So these books actually represent my "might-have-been" by seizing the fact that I could have lived a number of alternative lives. Understandably, one life is enough for me: my behind would hardly stand more adventures. I’m writing about things that I find interesting. I’ve only read a few books of spy fiction - for the most part, they are deadly boring. 

I was born in Moscow. I studied at the Moscow State University at the Philosophical facility. I got a PhD in philosophy and stayed without work and without money. The financial crisis began. Some years I looked for a work, but took it easy. I became a securities trader in an investment company by chance. And then came the default in 1998. I was without work again.
This was my best time. I became the financial middleman for off-market private transactions. I had nothing. I had been looking for too-big deals. But then there was a time when it was quite possible for me to be the middleman in the sale of a Libyan oil tanker or for the sale of an aircraft abroad. I got sick of conducting multi-million dollar transactions and lost all sense of reality.
I met Victor. Capturing the bank was in my sights. The insider of the bank was its vice-president. I write about his capture almost verbatim. Before leaving, he gave me his three passports… So I do not know his real name. There were no closed doors for him. He had friends from the federal agency for government communication and information from the board of directors of Deutsche Bank. All kinds of people.

Years passed. Victor is long gone. And there are fewer middlemen.
I feel myself to be on the way out. My whole generation is on the way out as well; those who are described as robbing the country.
I like those who robbed the country, and I’m pleased about how it was done. They were really talented financiers; nothing worse than the financiers on Wall Street. They left the country and took the money with them.
Since then, Moscow’s air did not smell of millions any longer. But, it seemed to me, it was still in the depths of my house between a pile of white shirts. Now there are no more financial middlemen. The young have gotten jobs first. They receive a salary at the end of the month, and seem to have already forgotten the smell of crazy millions. It’s like being drunk. There’s a dizziness from it … They did not want to breathe this air. They did not want to poison their lives. They earned their money. They had wives, children, dogs, and cars, which it was necessary to care of… Their heads have overflowed with thoughts of petty cash.

Then the middlemen were old. And I stayed with them. Therefore, the heroes of my novels are in their sixties. To the former friends who stayed in the stock market, I became infected. No, I just died. And I smell of sweet cadaveric decay. It seemed to me that I was among the dead. And it felt really bad for me, as a living being. But I shared their way of thinking. I was the same as they were: ridiculous and old-fashioned, useless clutter, rubbish. Market garbage. My friends were precisely the same as middle-aged gentlemen.
Sometimes I catch a strange look directed towards me, but then forget about it. The metropolis wiped me from their memory. There was no need to be as nice as kind people who talk with clients and colleagues daily. I had a different way of talking. My talking always led to a deal. And if it didn’t, I would give the finger and immediately forget the useless person, as if shaking off dust. And that’s all.
I have nothing to regret. I had nothing to blame myself for. Dogs wouldn’t blame themselves for their dog’s life, would they?
I cannot return to the stock market. It has changed. Brokers, buyers, and sellers have been changed. They all grew up a little. They have got each other for 0.1 percent interest, ready to sell their ass to everyone at 0.5 percent, and would sell their own mother at one percent. I could not do that. The market has kicked me out as garbage.
And the old, among whom I used to be, are gone. The reality of small money has burned out people all around me as fire burns wood. Sometimes it seems to me that I have gone mad; that I live in a world turned inside out. Sometimes I would like to be like anyone… to have a rest, eat, dress, buy a car… 
But I can’t do it. It would be a living death.
It seems to me I would lose days and years and would end up in devastation and poverty. And I would lose the scent of money, and my skills … so I clung to the sale of oil, diamonds, and bank guarantees, though I’m sure that it was simply thin air and there was nothing behind it. Sometimes I woke up and thought that all was not with me. But I lived and breathed the air of millions. It was my life. In my life, I gained money from thin air. Emptiness is a magnet for me.
Now I have got nothing. I do not care. I like my life. I like to go for millions. It’s impossible to stop me. I might have to be put down like a mad dog.
And I still have a sense of money. I can smell the street’s air and say that the market has changed. It smells as sharp as the smell of fresh bread from a bakery in the winter.

If you love the TV series "The Americans", you'll like my books.

For information please visit
Amazon   |   BookBub  |  BookLikes   |   Facebook  |  Goodreads  |  Google+  |  Twitter  |  Website