Library Limelights 211

Liza Marklund. The Long Shadow. 2008. Vintage Canada edition, 2013.

Once upon a time three little girls lived on an orphanage farm, very devoted to each other, and they grew up to have children, who went into business together, and basically all tried to kill each other. But relationships are not revealed until well into the tale’s very complicated threads. Stockholm journalist Annika Bengtzon is on her way to the Spanish Costa del Sol that attracts many Swedes for vacation or retirement. It’s a working assignment to send as many articles as possible to her newspaper. She’s glad to escape disagreeable news editor Patrik and her divorce misery with Thomas. Behind her is the satisfaction of her part in the exoneration of two different people wrongfully accused of murders; Annika is unaware that both will enter her current life in unexpected ways.

With translator Carita at her side, she navigates around what some call the Costa Cocaine, seeking news and interviews regarding the tragedy of a Swedish family, recently gassed to death in their home. Only a missing teenager survived. The very large cast of characters grows and grows, rotating as Annika’s focus moves around the murders to international drug running and Mediterranean money laundering, and back again. She finds much more fodder for her newspaper than anticipated, some of it menacing and deadly. Meanwhile, a fairy tale about three little girls is interspersed ‒ a true Scandinavian touch. As a thriller it’s completely absorbing but I found that trope confusing if anything; guessing its identities are less important than the real life action. This novel is in the middle of Marklund’s series featuring Annika. I’ll be looking for her next adventure.

One-liners:

▪ Was Nina in Spain, or was there something wrong with the signal on her mobile? (197)

▪ “I never meant to hide anything, but my family and childhood are a bit of an open wound for me.” (224)

▪ Was that why you joined the police? Annika thought, but didn’t say. (224)

Multi-liners:

▪ “Newspaper wars are just like any other,” Annika said. “The ground troops are cut and everything gets spent on technology and smart bombs.” (29)

▪ “Look at a map,” Garen said. “An hour by boat to Morocco, Europe’s very own hash plantation.” (273)

▪ This isn’t love, she thought. This is just because I want to do it. (290)

▪ Was this why Veronica Söderström had travelled to Gibraltar every day? To uphold some sort of washed-out British business morality in a make-believe country on the edge of Africa? (350)

Losing it with Thomas:

She was so angry she had trouble saying anything. “You hypocrite! You left me and the kids in a burning house and ran off to your little fuck-buddy. I’ve been homeless for six months, falsely accused of arson, at risk of losing my children because you’re trying to take them from me, and now you’re the one who feels all upset. You make me feel sick!” 

She was about to end the call, the way she usually did, but changed her mind. 

Instead she waited, taking quick, shallow breaths. 

“Annika?” he said. 

She coughed. "I'm here,” she said. 

“How can you say I left you in a burning house?” 

“You did.” 

“You’re being very unfair. I went round to Sophia’s because you and I had a row, and when I came back to talk to you the house was in ruins. How do you think that felt? I didn’t know if you were okay, if the children were still alive—“ 

“It’s always about you!” she said. “Poor Thomas!” (119)

Editor-in-chief checks:

“What did you discuss, by the way? And how much did you drink? And who the hell paid?” 

She collapsed into a little ball. “Okay,” she said. “To take them one by one: none of your business, I drank water, and Halenius paid. Not his department.” 

“How do you know him?” 

She hesitated. “I grew up with his cousin.” 

“I heard you on the speaker-phone a little while ago. You really should watch your language, you know.” He hung up.

Cannabis farms:

“In October and November, nights in Morocco echo to the sound of sticks beating the ground, da-dunk, da-dunk. That’s the hundred and twenty thousand families crushing the seed heads of their hemp plants. Obviously, outsiders have no idea what’s making the sound.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “It goes on all night long,” he said, “until the plants have been beaten three times. Then they’re done, and that’s when the buyers show up.” (274)

Daniel Silva. The New Girl. USA: HarperCollins, 2019.

Another wild and thrilling ride from Silva’s fertile imagination. Gabriel Allon, now chief of Israeli Intelligence, is once again heading a field team to thwart a hostage situation at the personal request of Khalid bin Mohammed (KBM), crown prince of Saudi Arabia. The man is the virtual ruler of the kingdom, but reviled globally on suspicion of the murder of journalist Omar Nawwaf in Istanbul. Beginning to sound familiar? Khalid contacts acquaintance Sarah Bancroft, New York art curator and sometime CIA spy, as a go-between to reach Gabriel. To release the hostage, the kidnappers demand and soon get Khalid’s abdication as Saudi crown prince. All for naught when the hostage is killed regardless. Khalid becomes a recluse; his uncle Mohammed becomes the new crown prince. Nonetheless, Gabriel and Khalid have come to a certain meeting of minds despite their cultural differences.

With his trusty aides Mikhail and Lavan, Sarah tagging along, Gabriel seeks to identify and find the brutal people behind the kidnapping. He’s allowed the services of Brit spy Christopher Keller by a prime minister overwhelmed with Brexit angst. An old enemy from Russia appears on their radar, requiring an intricate plot among double agents. The possibility of redeeming Khalid is alive in Gabriel’s mind ‒ if he’s successful, these two men, Jew and Arab, could realign the Middle East power struggle for a more peaceful compromise. Never mind the bits of technology or chronology that occasionally seem out of whack. This has everything to engage news junkies and thriller fans; Silva at his best.

Words:

hamartia – tragic personal flaw leading to downfall

ashlar – dressed stone masonry

hegemon – a major power, as in politics

One-liners:

▪ “Surely,” said Khalid after a moment, “you have no wish to die for a man like me.” (186)

▪ Gabriel introduced Khalid to the children as “Mr. Abdulaziz,” but he insisted they refer to him only by his given name. (231)

▪ “I can’t change the world if I’m dead, can I?” (238)

▪ “Do you know what the Middle East will look like if Russia, Iran, and the Chinese displace the Americans in the Persian Gulf?” (285)

Multi-liners:

▪ Rousseau frowned. “I’m surprised a man like you would offer your services to a man like him.” (101)

▪ There was no sniper. The child was the weapon. (206)

A New York meeting:

They regarded one another in the half-light of the atrium before Khalid offered a hand in greeting. Sarah did not accept it. 

“I’m surprised they let you in to the country. I really shouldn’t be seen with you, Khalid.” 

The hand hovered between them. Quietly, he said, “I am not responsible for Omar Nawwaf’s death. You have to believe me.” (26)

Mini-history:

“Khalid once showed me a photograph from the sixties of unveiled Saudi women walking around Riyadh in skirts.” 

“It was like that all over the Arab world. Everything changed after 1979.” 

“That’s exactly what Khalid says.” 

“Is that right?” 

“The Soviets invaded Afghanistan, and Khomenei seized power in Iran. And then there was Mecca. A group of Saudi militants stormed the Grand Mosque and demanded the Al Saud give up power. They had to bring in a team of French commandos to end the siege.” 

“Yes, I remember.” 

“The Al Saud felt threatened,” said Sarah, “so they trimmed their sails accordingly. They promoted the spread of Wahhabism to counter the influence of the Shiite Iranians and allowed hard-liners at home to enforce religious edicts strictly.” 

“That’s a rather charitable view, don’t you think?” 

“Khalid is the first to admit mistakes were made.” (59-60)

Ransom terms:

They characterized their demand not as a threat but as a humanitarian gesture, one that would guarantee the safe return of the hostage, always the most perilous element of a kidnapping. They preferred to deal with a professional, they said, rather than a desperate and volatile father. Gabriel, however, was under no illusion as to why the kidnappers wanted him on the other end of the phone. The men behind the plot, whoever they were, whatever their motive, intended to kill him at the first opportunity. And Khalid, too. (184)

Re Putin (the “Tsar”):

Khalid nodded. “We were going to rule the world together. And the best part was that he would never lecture me about democracy or human rights.”“How could you refuse an offer like that?” 

“Quite easily. I wanted American technology and expertise to power my economy, not Russian.” He was suddenly animated, like the KBM of old. “Tell me something, what was the last Russian product you purchased? What do they export other than vodka and oil and gas?” 

“Wood.” 

“Really? Perhaps we should begin exporting sand. That would solve all our problems.” 

“Did you tell the Tsar how you felt?” 

“Yes, of course.” 

“How did he take it?” 

“He gave me that dead-fish stare and told me I had made a mistake.” (279)

Håkan Nesser. Woman with Birthmark. 1996. USA: First Vintage Crime/Black Lizard Edition, 2010.

“Revenge, thy name is ...”. Her name doesn’t really matter, because she changes it at will. We know from the beginning that it’s a woman and she has a mysterious mission. Veteran chief inspector Van Veeteren and his crew are stymied by the cold-blooded shooting of a man upon opening his front door. No evidence, clues, or motive of course. Then a second killing, same method. Both men were receiving odd telephone calls ‒ playing the same old song from the 1960s (see original date of publication). By dint of extremely hard slogging into their backgrounds, the two men had been in a military class in 1965. Is the killer aiming to eliminate the entire class?

The reader finds it not difficult to beat the police to the motive as we are privy to the fears of two more men. Until, that is, the police have narrowed down dozens of men, trying to protect them all. But they don’t know who’s next, if anyone is. Let’s just say: mission successful. The conclusion is predictable, and dark, with engaging cop professionals providing some leavening humour in and out of the office. While Nesser is Swedish, Van Veeteren’s location is fictional. The author has written many Van Veeteren crime novels as well as other series and stand-alones; definitely an award-winner to peruse.

One-liners:

▪ Just one damned chance to make something sensible of her life. (6)

▪ Her way of striking and then withdrawing, over and over again, suggested both coldness and decisiveness. (237)

▪ Is that why she’s murdering these men? Because she never had a chance? (283)

Multi-liners:

▪ One mourning at the side of the grave. The other lying in it. (6)

▪ “You can make a perpetrator profile only in the case of a serial killer. And even then it’s a decidedly dodgy method.” (139)

▪ “Good thing you have such a big bathtub,” commented Winnifred ten minutes later. “If I do take you on, it’ll be because of the bathtub. So don’t imagine anything else. Okay?” (139)

▪ It had evidently decided to haunt him yet again. It never gave up, and could never be atoned for. (156)

The single man:

Half an hour later he had acquired a lobster, two bottles of wine, and eleven roses. Plus a few other goodies. That would have to do. He left the inferno and a quarter of an hour later went through the front door of his apartment in Zuyderstraat. Put away his purchases in their appointed places, then made a phone call.

“Hi. I’ve got a lobster, some wine, and some roses. You can have them all if you get yourself here within the next hour.” 

“But it’s Monday today,” said the woman at the other end. 

“If we don’t do anything about it, it’ll be Monday for the rest of our lives,” said Reinhart. 

“Okay,” said the woman. “I’ll be there.” (59)

The chief inspector:

When he got home and had gone to bed, he realized that his tiredness had not yet overcome the tension in his brain once and for all. The image of Rickard Maasleitner’s bullet-ridden body kept cropping up in his mind’s eye at regular intervals, and after ten minutes of vainly trying to fall asleep, he got up and went to the kitchen instead. Fetched a beer from the refrigerator and sat down in the armchair with a blanket around his knees and Dvoȓák in the speakers. (92)

VV reflecting:

Not that he believed that the society in which he lived had higher or lower moral principles than any other. It was simply the way things were—two to three thousand years of culture, and lawmaking bodies were unable to do anything about it. The veneer of civilization, or whatever you preferred to call it, could begin to crack at any moment, crumble away and expose the darkness underneath. Some people might have imagined that Europe would be a protected haven after 1945, but Van Veeteren had never been one of them. And then things had turned out as they did. Sarajevo, Srebenica, and all the rest of it. (93-4)

Breakthrough:

A woman, then, just as Reinhart had predicted—yes indeed, there was a lot to support that thesis. ... Perhaps most of all this feeling he had, which he always seemed to have when something was happening. A little signal saying that now, now things were suddenly getting serious, after all those days of hard work and despair. (224)

After meeting with the boss:

“What did he have to say?” asked Reinhart. 

“He’s nervous,” said the chief inspector, pouring some coffee into a plastic mug. Raised it to his mouth, then paused. 

“When was this brewed?” he asked. 

Reinhart shrugged. 

“February, I should think.” 

There was a knock on the door and Münster came in. 

“What did he have to say?” 

“He wonders why we haven’t arrested her yet.” 

“You don’t say,” said Münster. 

Van Veeteren leaned back, tasted the coffee, and pulled a face. 

“January,” he said. “Typical January coffee.” (272)