Library Limelights 145

Camilla Lackberg. The Preacher. 2004. UK: HarperCollins, 2011.

Nice young cop Patrik Hedström in Fjällbacka, Sweden, is in charge of a murder enquiry, the girl's body found lying on top of two skeletons. So three murders. The small town police team is aghast and inexperienced. The prolific, repugnant Hult family is eventually under suspicion; it takes a while to sort out their family tree with various generations, brothers, cousins and so on. To makes matter worse, another girl goes missing which means time is of the essence to find her. Nevertheless many days go by while some of the cops merely goof around — attempts at humour to leaven the mix — and Patrik tries to pay more attention to his very pregnant wife Erica.

Can't help seeing the blurb on the front cover and in my opinion the cosiness was forced and the horror was fake. None of it sat right with me — the superficial personalities of the distasteful suspects, the meandering trails the cops follow, the DNA evidence. Suppressed rage seems to be a common factor among assorted unappealing characters. Erica's trials with unwanted house guests are occasion for a bit of action missing elsewhere; developing the dispute with her sister Anna and Anna's fate might have aroused more interest. True suspense is lacking in the mundane prose. Despite some mercifully non-detailed (but creepy) scenes of the kidnapped girls, this is not classic Scandinavian noir, more like Scandinavian-lite. Granted, it was a difficult case for the police to solve but I could hardly wait for it to be over.

One-liners:

Through the open window he could smell the rain in his nostrils. (60)

Certain duties demanded more of him than he could humanly bear. (77)

He had barely opened his mouth when she was already heaping scorn on him in her mind. (147)

Even when you had a lousy hand you had to play the cards you were dealt. (226)

"Every time we made love it was like dying and being reborn." (351)

Just say No, eh?!

"What a belly on you! Have you got twins in there or what?"
She really hated hearing people comment on her body that way, but she'd already begun to realize that pregnancy seemed to give everyone a free pass to make comments on your shape and touch your belly ‒ it was altogether too familiar. Complete strangers had even come up and started pawing at her stomach. Erica was just waiting for the obligatory patting to begin, and within seconds Conny was running his hands over her swollen stomach.
"Oh, what a little football star you have in there. Obviously a boy with all that kicking. Come here, Kids, feel this!" (28-9)

Obligation:

"How pleasant this is, don't you think?"
Solveig dipped a pastry in her coffee and peered at Laine, who said nothing.
Solveig went on, "It's hard to believe that one of us lives in a manor house and the other in a crappy shack. Yet here we sit like two old friends. Am I right, Laine?"
Laine closed her eyes and hoped that the humiliation would be soon over. Until next time. She knotted her hands under the table and reminded herself why she subjected herself to this torment, time after time. (197)

Joseph Kanon. Istanbul Passage. 2012. USA: Washington Square Press/Simon & Schuster, Inc., 2013.

Here's a Cold War espionage novel written by a master; no dull moment. Leon Bauer works in Istanbul, at times acting as courier for Tommy King in the U.S. consulate, unaware of the true nature or potential consequences of these "favours." The iconic city is full of political intrigue after WWII, the Turks seeking a balancing act in their international status. Leon's wife Anna was active in smuggling Jews to Palestine but now lies hospitalized, her mind lost to the world. Suddenly, Leon's latest errand backfires into murder; he finds himself stranded as the guardian of a wanted man and, known only to himself, the subject of a police hunt. The murder of U.S. embassy official (read: intelligence officer) Frank heightens the tension as Leon scrambles to verify his own network of resources.

Even Leon's dalliance with Frank's wife is fraught with guessing at the shifting alliances around him. Emniyet, the secret para-military police, suspiciously watch him. The history of some sordid Romanian and Russian actions during the war is but one influence on his decisions. What I like best ― it may take some mental adjustment ― is the narrative being all from Leon's perspective and absolutely spot on with the urgency of fleeting thoughts flicking through, and digesting, a catalogue of constantly updated information. Rich in Istanbul imagery and moral dilemmas, Istanbul Passages ranks with the best of spy tales in plot and style.

One-liners:

"He never thought he could have something like this, a girl in a room, waiting for him." (30)

They were going to make it, hanging like bats in the dark. (331)

You couldn't fight the next war until you'd lied about the last one. (381)

An old friend:

"I didn't know you were still in touch with the comrades. Anna said you'd left the Party."
"Old ties, only. It's a serious matter. They have to use every channel."
"And not the police."
"Georg looked away, watching the dog.
"What, Georg?" Leon said, then pointed to the trees. "Nobody's listening. Or is that why we came here? So we could talk. They asked you to approach me. Why?"
"You were a ‒ business associate."
"Of Tommy's? We weren't in business together."
"An acquaintance then. Maybe you have an idea why he was shot. Maybe he told you something. A man who's drinking with him the night before. You understand, they have to ask." (78-9)

The Romanian:

He turned. "Is that what you're asking? What's on my hands?" He held one out. "Not so clean. Are yours? In this business?" He lowered his hand. "Do you know how easy it can be? Something you never thought you could do. Easy. Later, it's harder. People forget, but you live with it, whatever you did." He turned. "We penetrated their military intelligence. That's all that should matter to you now. You want to put me on trial with Antonescu? For what? The Guard? The camps? All of it my fault. Maybe even the war. My fault too." He stopped. "Nobody cares about that anymore. Not them, not you. It's in the past." He looked up. "Except your Romanian friend maybe. So eager to tell you things. Maybe he'd like to tell someone else. A Romanian will sell anything. Maybe me." (84-5)

Crisis:

On the stair landing, stopping to catch his breath, he felt he could hear an actual ticking. How long? He looked up the steps. Think for a minute. Down the corridor a police photographer was probably still taking pictures. A crime scene. And the man who could link him to it waiting in his office. First deal with him. Then what? The car in Űskűdar. Alexei on the ferry to Haydarpaşa. The mountain road. But all that seemed impossible now, the drive endless, exposed. Something else. Think. People make mistakes when they're running. He tried to slow his breathing. (270)

Istanbul:

"We don't think we're a bridge. We think we're the center. The world used to spread out from here, in every direction. For years. But then it began to shrink. Piece by piece, then all at once. And now there's only us. Turkey. So we have to keep that." (350-1)

Daniel Silva. House of Spies. Toronto: HarperCollins, 2017.

In great contrast to the above, bold Israeli spymaster Gabriel Allon's method for catching ISIS leader Saladin is by patiently weaving an intricate trap. It's Silva's trademark style. Gabriel's measured plan over a period of months perforce includes input from French, British, and American agencies. Many of his colleagues, including Mikhail, Natalie, and the semi-Corsican Christopher Keller, go undercover in the elaborate ruse for making contact with a middle man. And that man, Jean-Luc Martel, is a celebrity in France, hiding his drug trafficking behind legitimate enterprises. Even his mistress Olivia is unaware of his hidden schemes.

The plot moves slowly but inexorably to climactic action in Morocco. A certain amount of suspending disbelief is necessary. The expense involved to set up the entrapment is in the scores of millions, supposedly funded by an earlier theft from the Syrian leader's secret offshore bank account. Silva unveils a slew of characters who are treated in depth, and one must remember the true identity of some beneath their disguises. The pace made me impatient for more action yet it's an entertaining, complex, devious journey.

One-liners:

"Your career has been a series of disasters interspersed with the occasional calamity." (105)

And so he built an army of streetwise killers, mainly Moroccans and Algerians, and unleashed them on his rivals. (141)

He was big and bluff, with a face like an Easter Island statue and a baritone voice that rattled the beams in the old house's vaulted entrance hall. (314)

Equals:

"So," said Seymour finally, "how does it feel to be a member of the club?"
"Our chapter of the club isn't as grand as yours," said Gabriel, glancing around the magnificent office. "Not as old."
"Wasn't it Moses who dispatched a team of agents to spy out the land of Canaan?"
"History's first intelligence failure," said Gabriel. "Imagine how things might have turned out for the Jewish people if Moses had chosen another plot of land."
"And now that plot of land is yours to protect."
"Which explains why my hair is growing grayer by the day. ..." (97-8)

No touching:

In fact, Herr Müller liked looking at Olivia more than her paintings. He was not alone. Her looks were a professional asset, but on occasion they were a distraction and a waste of time. Rich men―and some not so rich―made appointments at the gallery just to spend a few minutes in her presence. Some screwed up the nerve to proposition her. Others fled without ever making their true intentions known. She had learned long ago how to project an air of unavailability. While technically single, she was JLM's girl. Everyone in France knew it. It might as well have been stamped on her forehead. (228)

Bargaining:

"Fifty percent!" Martel waved his hand dismissively. "Madness."
"It is my final offer. If you wish to remain my distributor, I suggest you take it."
It was not Mohammad Bakkar's final offer, not even close. Martel knew this, and so did Bakkar himself. This was Morocco, after all. Passing the bread at dinner was a negotiation.
And on it went for several more minutes, as fifty shrank to forty-five and then forty and finally, with an exasperated glance toward the heavens, thirty. And all the while Mikhail was watching the man who was watching him. (400-1)