Late last night. I was fighting a prolonged cold. Had tried reading a highly-rated book which turned out to be a disappointment so I ditched it and scanned the shelves.
"The Last Supper" by Charles McCarry. I've always liked his spy novels. I started it and immediately knew I was in safe hands.
In his dream, Paul Christopher, thirteen years old, wore a thick woolen sweater with three bone buttons on the left shoulder. His father's yawl Mahican was sailing before the wind, her port awash in the swelling waters of the Baltic Sea. The weak northern sun was just rising astern, behind the mist that hid the coast of Germany: not the mainland, but the island of Rügen, whose white chalk cliffs rise four hundred feet above the sea. Aboard the yawl, the man the Christophers called the Dandy scampered, quick as a rat, down the ladder into the cabin. Paul's mother was alarmed. "Our guest is hiding in the picnic basket," she said. "Sshhh, every time a secret is told, an angel falls."