Nazi. Fugitive. Murderer. Sadist. Who is the real Hans Schreiber? Two journalists conduct a desperate quest to reveal the real Schreiber in this time-jumping, harrowing thriller about bringing unimaginable secrets to light...and a monster to justice.
Crime reporter Mark Edwards and his colleague Danielle Green wade deep in red herrings and a twisting and turning plot as they seek to discover the terrible secret of a Nazi sadist who has continued his murdering ways in modern London. The story switches from a wartime transit camp in Czechoslovakia to contemporary Germany; from a London suburb to the Old Bailey, the world's most famous criminal court, where two men strive to claim that the other is the real Hans Schreiber.
Schreiber's Secret is a gripping tale of unimaginable horror and hatred revolving around a question of identity. Who is the real Hans Schreiber?
Genre: FICTION / Mystery & Detective / GeneralThe book is shortly to be given another marketing boost. To date there have been c.80,000 e-book sales,of which c.4,000 have been paid for. Ranking rises sharply following BooKBub campaigns. Original paperback sales were c.20,000 at £4.99.
“Woe betide any of you who try this sort of thing again,” he cautioned breathlessly. “Otherwise there will be another couple of losers.” With this, he climbed further up the mound and turned to face the prisoners from a safe distance. “Now, SOFERman, you and that pig at the end of the line take up your weapons. I’m counting on you, SOFERman.”
Soferman felt his heart plummet. The man he was expected to fight was smaller than himself but looked about ten kilos heavier. The pug face and squashed nose suggested experience as a prizefighter.
The man wore the yellow star but did not look Jewish. Nevertheless, he thought, it was indeed two Jews who were being ordered to fight the ultimate fight, one man having to die in order for the other to live for perhaps one more minute, one more hour, one more day.
As Soferman picked up the sharpened cudgel in his right hand and the rusting pitchfork in the other, he was reminded of the arenas of ancient Rome. The gallery was baying for blood and the supreme arbitrator, the black patrician of the Small Fortress, sat on his haunches, arms crossed and resting on his knees, watching impassively. Schreiber was not satisfied with simply killing Jews. He demanded the ultimate indignity: that Jew should kill Jew for sport.
The Berliner turned to face his opponent. He felt Schreiber’s beady eyes boring into his neck. He was the patrician’s favourite. He was expected to uphold the honour of the dark empire. He was expected to satisfy his master’s whim with the blood of an innocent.
“Wait!” ordered Schreiber. “Oberscharführer, where’s my camera?” It was his favourite pastime. He focused the Leica and then smiled the most evil of smiles. “Okay, fight!”
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Portuguese
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Already translated.
Translated by Renata Nascimento
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Author review: Virtually error-free! My Brazilian proof-reader loved it! |
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Spanish
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Already translated.
Translated by Carlos Ucar
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