I'd gone on many travels in the last few years, voyages that had taken me
halfway around the world, to Chile, and Venice, and the Turks and Caicos. But
it's fair to say I had never felt quite so far away from home as I did at that
moment, at the bottom of the wornout stairs of the Astrid Hotel. Looking around
at my hairy companions, my ears still ringing from the volume of the band, the
memory of Brandy's lips on my neck, I thought of the phrase my sister and I used
to call at the end of a round of hideandseek: Olly olly oxen free.
A Man Called Intrepid author dies aged 89(Dec 03 2013) William Stevenson, a journalist and author who drew on his close ties with intelligence sources to write two best-selling books in the 1970s, A Man Called...