Volk's Game: A Novel [NOOK Book]

Overview


The explosive debut introducing Russian gangster Alexei Volkovoy—not since Robert Ludlum’s Jason Bourne has a hero shifted so effortlessly between hunter and hunted

A firefight reverberates through Moscow’s dark, rain-soaked streets; shattered glass and screams echo in the air. In the lawless ways of Russia’s capital city, the gunmen melt away into the night. Two men are dead, the targets not what they seem.

A shadowy figure lopes along the ...

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Volk's Game: A Novel

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Overview


The explosive debut introducing Russian gangster Alexei Volkovoy—not since Robert Ludlum’s Jason Bourne has a hero shifted so effortlessly between hunter and hunted

A firefight reverberates through Moscow’s dark, rain-soaked streets; shattered glass and screams echo in the air. In the lawless ways of Russia’s capital city, the gunmen melt away into the night. Two men are dead, the targets not what they seem.

A shadowy figure lopes along the riverbank outside the Kremlin walls. Known to all as Volk, a battle-hardened veteran of Russia’s brutal war in Chechnya, he prowls Moscow’s grim alleyways, a knife concealed in his prosthetic foot at all times.

As both a major player in the black market and a covert agent for the Russian military, Volk serves two masters: Maxim, a psychotic Azeri mafia kingpin with hordes of loyal informers; and a man known only as the General, to whom Volk is mysteriously indebted. By his side is Valya, an exotic beauty charged with protecting her lover from his unsavory associates. Valya is the most dangerous weapon in Volk’s arsenal.

Together they are commissioned to steal a long-lost da Vinci painting called Leda and the Swan from St. Petersburg’s Hermitage Museum. Leda’s ethereal radiance is undeniably captivating and incalculably dangerous. Volk must choose which powerful man he will betray in order to escape with the painting—and with his life.

With the high-octane rush and vivid intensity of a feature film, Volk’s Game delivers at every turn, announcing Alexei Volkovoy as the boldest hero of a new generation.


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Editorial Reviews

Patrick Anderson
Brent Ghelfi's first novel, Volk's Game, is pretty much state of the art with regard to a certain kind of thriller. It's an exciting, often brutal story of Russian gangsters fighting over priceless works of art. Its characters are colorful, its descriptions of Russia are vivid and its suspense is palpable. In terms of sheer entertainment, Volk's Game is an impressive debut, and it is not without its serious moments, too, particularly with regard to the bitterness the war in Chechnya has brought home to Russia. The only possible objection to the book is its level of violence, which is off the charts. This is not a novel for the faint of heart.
— The Washington Post
Publishers Weekly

Former attorney Ghelfi's impressive debut introduces a compelling antihero, Alekei "Volk" Volkovoy. A brutal killer maimed in Russia's war against Chechnya, Volk leads two lives—one as a powerful gangster with a hand in virtually all underworld rackets, the other as a covert military operative. When Volk gets the chance to steal a previously unknown Da Vinci painting, Leda and the Swan, which has been concealed beneath another painting in a St. Petersburg museum, Volk enlists the aid of Valya, a beautiful assassin, in plotting the theft. After an ostensible ally sabotages the operation, Volk seeks vengeance. The twists and turns accumulate at an almost dizzying pace, building to a satisfactory resolution. Frederick Forysth fans will appreciate the crisp writing. This thriller could mark the start of a successful long-running series. (June)

Copyright 2007 Reed Business Information
Library Journal

Plunging to the nadir of noir, this debut novel features Alexei Volkovoy, a.k.a. Volk, a Russian double agent who handles mayhem and grace with equal talent. Volk operates in the black market's murderous confluence of corrupt military and mafiosos. Valya, Volk's aide-de-camp and lover, is a slight woman of awesome powers who shares his tortured past. Together they dissect a plot involving Leonardo da Vinci's Leda and the Swan--or maybe a forged copy. Thrillmaster Ghelfi's deft and controlled writing viscerally describes the snarling Russian underworld. This blazing tale opens a new series (the publisher notes that Ghelfi is currently at work on the sequel), so expect Volk--and, one hopes, Valya--to join Martin Cruz Smith's Arkady Renko in the top ranks of hyperbolic heroes. For all action/adventure/suspense collections.
—Barbara Conaty

Kirkus Reviews
In this testosterone rampage, a super-studly master thief pulls off gonzo caper in post-Soviet Russia. Having absorbed every cliche of Bond-knockoff tale-telling-the outsize villains, the world-weary cynicism, the sexy girl-debut novelist Ghelfi breathlessly parlays them all again. The girl is comely Valya, whom protagonist Volk (the name means "wolf") meets cute as a "mud-masked Chechen fighter dwarfed by the smoking Kalashnikov she carried." Volk is a "Special Forces wunderkind" who loses a leg in combat after weathering five years of the "assault of rapists, skin-fillet artists, flesh-burning pyromaniacs, and other assorted torturers." The former foes become squeezes and then a sort of Hart-to-Hart on amphetamines: boy/girl desperadoes. Guns for hire, they're enlisted by rival Very Bad Guys. Their mission impossible is to break into the Hermitage, St. Petersburg's ultra-secure treasure trove of big-name artworks. Under a canvas by the obscure Pierre Mignard, a stunner has been discovered-one of the 15 paintings actually done by Leonardo, the only artist-since the canonization of Dan Brown-of whom popular entertainment knows the existence. Volk/Valya have to nab it. Moonlighting from his day job of manufacturing porno, Volk constructs a head-spinningly elaborate game plan, requiring Valya's "renting an ancient four-seat Moscvitch, two Lambretta scooters, and a skiff, buying secondhand clothes and scuba gear, and arranging drop points." Predictable betrayals, sex scenes and violence ensue. Lurid, if not original. Agent: Scott Hoffman/PMA Literary & Film Management
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9781429915564
  • Publisher: Holt, Henry & Company, Inc.
  • Publication date: 6/12/2007
  • Series: Volk Novels , #1
  • Sold by: Macmillan
  • Format: eBook
  • Edition description: First Edition
  • Edition number: 1
  • Pages: 320
  • Sales rank: 479,382
  • File size: 2 MB

Meet the Author


Brent Ghelfi has served as a clerk on the U.S. Court of Appeals, been a partner in a Phoenix-headquartered law firm, and now owns and operates several businesses. He has traveled extensively throughout Russia, and lives in Phoenix with his wife, a former prosecutor, and their two sons. Volk's Shadow is due out in July 2008, and Brent is currently working on the third book in the series.
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Read an Excerpt


Chapter One

“What do you know about art, Volk?”

Maxim Abdullaev hurls the question through the airwaves as if it were an ax, cleaving pretense.

I cram my Nokia cell phone against my ear. Clattering dishes, jostling diners, and raised voices give me an excuse to delay answering his question. “Hold on,” I say, then step downstairs to my table in the basement of Vadim’s Café near Staraya Street, where I make my office.

Maxim could be anywhere. His headquarters are in the Solsnetskaya neighborhood just a few blocks away, but he changes his personal place of business weekly, sometimes daily, so it is impossible to develop a mental picture of where he is or what he is doing.

Once I’ve moved away from the din, I take a moment to gather my thoughts. “Art? I have a master’s in art history from Moscow University.”

I’m sure that Maxim knows enough about my life to catch the sarcasm. Dead mother, disappeared father, late-era Soviet poverty, and five years of killing and worse in Chechnya unsurprisingly failed to harmonize into a world-class education. The things I have learned are not taught in universities. He barks a deep-throated chuckle that offers no comfort. A polar bear probably makes the same sound just before it eats.

“Listen,” he says. “You do something for me. Talk to Gromov. Yes?”

“Yes,” I say, as if I have a choice, and Maxim disconnects.

Two hours later, nearing midnight, Gromov clumps like a plow horse into my basement office. The flesh on his bald head and puffy face droops like a shar-pei’s skin and slits his eyes, which are shifty-nervous, with good cause. Valya lurks hidden among the shelves of café sundries behind him.

“You talked to Maxim?” he says.

I grunt acknowledgment.

He collapses into a padded roller chair that disappears, creaking, beneath his bulk. Even its silvery round feet are covered by the hanging folds of his overcoat, where one hand stays buried in a deep pocket. He likes to show off a chromed Colt .45 Peacemaker, an outdated cannon that rends great holes in bodies, a good weapon for a man whose business is intimidation.

“I got a business opportunity,” he begins. “Maxim says you’re the guy to help me assess it.”

“I don’t do partners.”

He knows this. My rule is one source of the friction between us. “Yeah, yeah.” Scarred leather biker boots twirl the chair as he takes in the surroundings.

There’s not much to see here in the basement level. Black slate floor, rows of shelves, exposed raw-wood beams, plaster walls randomly damaged to show the red brick beneath, and dusty ’60s-era slot machines. Gromov is looking for Valya, I know, but she won’t be seen unless she wants to be. He finishes his survey and grins through crooked yellow teeth ridged black with omnipresent chewing tobacco.

“Maybe you should do partners.”

“Say what you came to say.” I point to the empty tabletop in front of me. “I’ve got work to do.”

“You know diamonds?”

“Maxim says art, you say diamonds. Which is it?”

“Same thing, asshole.”

When he yanks his hand from his overcoat pocket, Valya materializes behind him and aims the short barrel of a pistol-grip, 12-gauge Mossberg at the back of his shaved skull. But instead of drawing the Colt, he tosses a crystal rectangle that tumbles sparkling through the air before smacking into my palm.

Valya withdraws.

Gromov leans back, smugly oblivious to the nearness of death, while I examine his prize. The stone is about one centimeter square by three long. One end is broken, jagging up into a ragged half peak. Unreadable inscriptions are etched into its flat sides. The etchings are names written in Persian, I know. I toss it back, and he catches it deftly.

“You’re an idiot, Gromov.”

His jaw muscles are so big that his face widens into a pyramid when he clenches his teeth. “Fuck you.”

I wave toward his hand. “That’s a bad imitation of the Shah Diamond. The real one’s five blocks up the road in the Kremlin Armory under more security than Putin.”

That’s a lie. The real one’s gone. It was originally a gift to Tsar Nicholas I to atone for a Russian diplomat made dead in 1820s Tehran. Famous, in part, because all the unlucky owners named in the inscriptions died owning it. Damn near ninety carats preserved in uncut form. Three years ago I helped it make a symbolic but unpublicized journey back to Persia, to the rare arts collection of a spoiled Saudi prince, in return for financial considerations benefiting my primary patron, the Russian army. A better fake than this one sits behind glass under twenty-four-hour security in the Kremlin’s Diamond Fund.

“See?” he says. “You know about this kind of shit.”

“Even the tourists know about the Shah Diamond.”

He leans forward as far as his muscle-bound body will allow and settles flying-buttress elbows on my table, which groans but holds. Like much of the older furniture in Moscow, it was sturdily built by cold gulag hands. “What if I told you I could get the real thing, with nobody the wiser?”

“You can’t. Don’t waste my time.”

“Listen.” He scrunches his broad face, concentrating. “We got inside guys. Military, pissed off by Putin capitalism. They’re like pensioners on the dole while guys like us get rich. They take the diamond, replace it with the fake. Think about it. The fucker’s under glass all day, like goddamn Lenin. Who knows if what’s under there is real? Who cares? In five years some Swiss prick looks at it under a microscope and raises hell. By then, shit, there’s no way to trace who did what and when.”

I say it can’t be that easy, although it was.

“You just worry about your end,” he says.

“What’s my end?”

“Work the distribution angle.” Gromov’s running hot, trembling, obviously excited. “You’re tight with that fag, Nigel Bolles.” He mouths Nigel’s name with curled-lip contempt. “He’ll point you to guys in London or New York or wherever and help us find someone with too much money to buy it.”

“I’m not your guy.”

His jaw drops. “Why not?”

“I told you. I don’t do partners. And I think your chances of getting the real thing out of there are zero.”

Pounding veins ripple under the five o’clock shadow that darkens his enormous dome. “Why do you make things so fucking hard, Volk? Three times I say let’s do business. Three times you tell me to fuck off.” He rolls mountainous shoulders, as if to make room under the overcoat. “Business is getting too tight. Every time I turn around you’re there. You’re in my way.”

He’s right about our businesses bumping into each other, at least the parts of mine he knows about—drugs, identity theft, pictures, and a Russian brides operation that caters to the middle classes of America and industrialized European and Asian countries. Russia has ten million more women than men, one product of her endless fighting and purging, and she always imports more than she exports. I figure the bride business evens out both imbalances.

Gromov’s interests collide with mine in several ways, although he’s big into child prostitution and other things that I won’t touch. But he’s wrong to worry about it, because there’s plenty of business for both of us on this little stretch of road below old Lubyanka prison and because the Internet has made us international.

“Don’t be so parochial, Gromov.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“It means we’ll get along fine if you concentrate on business instead of territorial bullshit. Steal your diamond. Hump Lyudmilla. Just stay away from me.”

He doesn’t like my way of rejecting him or the reference to his billowy-breasted girlfriend. He stands so suddenly his chair overturns. Snarls, roars something unintelligible, hauls out his hand cannon, and starts to bear down, slow and amateurish. I don’t think he’s going to fire. He just wants to make a point. But then the racking slide of a shotgun cracks through everything. He stops dead. His eyes click back and forth like the ones in the plastic clocks that look like tail-wagging pets, but he’s careful not to turn around and provoke her.

“It’s Valya,” I offer, and both of his hands go up slowly until the muzzle of the Colt brushes the bottom of a low beam.

She’s behind him, looking amped, ready for anything, almost lost in lace-up boots, cinched parachute pants, and a chrome-colored jacket with its sable-lined hood turned down. The Mossberg rests lightly in her hands. Her white hair sprays backlight like a halo.

“I’m done,” he says without turning around.

I nod at him, and he shucks open the overcoat and slots the Colt into a holster made from more than one cow. “I got no choice,” he says in the same tone you use to tell a cabdriver to turn right. “I gotta put you out of business, gimp.”

The gibe about my foot doesn’t bother me. Impending war does, especially given Maxim’s newly found interest in the world of art. The General and I had three years to operate freely in that arena. I wish our time wasn’t coming to an end.

“Have at it, big man,” I say.

He turns fast, but Valya is nowhere to be seen. One last baleful look at me, and then Gromov lumbers away.

Lunch the next day is sliced smoked pork on the sunny side of an outdoor gazebo in grassy Gorky Park. Halfway through, I’m joined by Yuri, a baton-twirling cop. He goes sixty kilos, maybe. He approaches with his spindly chest puffed out, slides his baton into a steel ring attached to his belt, and plops down across from me. The sun glints through the silver birch trees and gambols off the gold double-headed Russian eagle in his cap as I slide an envelope stuffed with American dollars across the plastic tabletop. He plucks the envelope and tucks it under his leg, fast and furtive.

“Shit, Volk!”

His eyes dart, but I’m busy with the pork. I don’t care who sees. I stop chewing long enough to say, “There’s an extra five hundred for Viktor. And a note.”

Viktor commands Yuri’s area. He’s been on my payroll for two years. The note explains the information I want about Gromov, and the extra money pays for it. Gromov is probably paying for similar reports about me.

Yuri pulls a foil-wrapped sandwich from a brown bag blotched with oil stains, but then he sits and watches me without eating. He sets his cap on the table and licks the down on his upper lip, which has been the same since I met him a year ago, so I suppose it’s a mustache.

“Where’s Valya?” he asks.

The pork is gone. I suck the fat off my fingers and pat his balding head. He’s younger than me, mid-twenties, but the hair gods are fickle. He’s softer than me as well. War and want have hardened my appearance. Military-cut bronze hair, hazel eyes with a feral blaze, stubbled jaw—I look ferocious even when I’m trying not to. Each pat makes his head bounce.

“Don’t mess with me, Yuri.”

His eyes widen. “God no, Volk.”

I leave him to his sandwich. I’m tromping through the high grass of Gorky Park to my Mercedes S-600 when the Nokia buzzes.

“Go.”

“It’s Nigel.”

Bolles. My largest procurer of foreign business. The British expat fop Gromov asked about the day before. I wait.

“Word’s out you’re in a war, old boy,” he says.

His lilting voice is strained, due, no doubt, to a night of hard drinking and no morning Stolichnaya fix. “Business is always tough.”

“How can I help?”

Just what I need. “The British are coming,” I say, but he apparently misses the negative reference.

“Precisely. I am at your service.”

“Just keep finding customers.”

“Right.” He clears his throat. It sounds like a cold motor coughing to life. “In that regard, you’ll be pleased to learn I have an opportunity for tonight. Swiss conventioneers with a common interest.”

“Just drugs?”

“Boys and girls, too.”

He sounds regretful. He knows my scruple, silly as it is. In the end, what difference who makes the money? The children are pincushions either way.

I stop on a knoll carpeted with flattened grass that shines like wet jade. Even in early May the wind blows chill over the Moscow River and bends the tops of the stately line of birches that march up the embankment toward the towering peaks of the university. Industrial haze blurs the cityscape. The spires of Stalin’s other Seven Sisters pierce the haze like upthrust stilettos. Gromov is manageable. I know I can dispatch him with relative ease. But he’s one of Maxim’s poodles, and as chieftain of the Azeri mafia, Maxim can crush my enterprises on a whim.

“Are you still there, Volk?”

I grit my teeth. “I’ll meet you at the National Club at ten to arrange the details.” My chest tightens, and suddenly I feel as if I can’t take in enough air.

“Well done.” He’s reenergized, doubtless calculating his twenty percent cut.

I end the call, limp to the Mercedes favoring my newly throbbing stump, and crank the shiny black car into heavy traffic, already ruing my decision. The cell buzzes again.

“Go.”

“Volk?”

“Who wants to know?”

“It’s Arkady.”

Several years have passed since I last heard from Arkady Borodenkov—one of my companions in a foster care facility and, later, at a rehabilitation center for boys situated on the Baltic shore. A childhood friend in places where friends were scarce. And last I heard, an Ecstasy distributor and part-time fence in St. Petersburg. Slightly built, with blond hair worn long, too weak for anything except the fringes.

“What’s up?” I say.

“I got a weird one for you. A score that needs muscle and hustle. But mostly it needs brains. I thought of you.”

I cut through traffic and outraged pedestrians on Kremlevskaya Street, make an illegal U-turn and then a hard right and rattle over unevenly laid bricks on the edge of Red Square. St. Basil’s Cathedral looms on the left, its colorful domes like ice-cream swirls. The bright colors and the crowds lined up around the cathedral seem to be mocking decades of Soviet religious oppression.

“Keep going.”

“I’m not even sure how to describe it.”

I’m in no mood for stalling, not while the scum of the deal I just made with Nigel still coats the inside of my mouth. “Spit it out.”

“What do you know about art, Volk?”

Copyright © 2007 by Brent Ghelfi. All rights reserved.

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Interviews & Essays

A Message from the Author

My first two novels are thrillers set in modern-day Russia -- a country where history, culture, wealth, lifestyle, and religion collide like atoms in the particle accelerator of politics -- an ideal place for fiction.

What other powerful country has undergone so much change in so little time? Perestroika failed to revive the staggering economy. The Wall crumbled. The deadening blanket of the Soviet state was ripped away, and the ruble plunged. Communism metamorphosed into -- what? -- a mercurial cocktail of gunpoint capitalism ruled by KGB shadow-warriors, former Party apparatchiks and ex-military thugs; Russia and all her bountiful resources suddenly up for grabs in a cage fight. Yeltsin turned the tank turrets on Parliament, then (had he never read Tolstoy's Hadji Murád?) blazed to war in Chechnya. And now a former secret policeman rules the Kremlin.

Some say that Russia is ready for primetime. Membership in the G8 and, soon, the WTO, along with rising GDP and incomes -- what's not to like? The perception of crime, chaos, and corruption is a cyber-illusion created by YouTube and its Internet ilk. Two decades on the crack pipe of economic transformation are over; the Russian patient is healed. Or so the argument goes.

Others say the country suffers the worst of both worlds: steroid-pumped capitalism sucked through the filter of a police state.

But can we write about that?

The opposition media is vanishing. Kremlin-owned businesses buy news outlets like trinkets, paying a "free market price" in a market as free as a camp ringed by concertina wire and guard towers. And journalists keep dying. Since Putin took office: thirteen murders, three trials, zero convictions. One chilling example is Anna Politkovskaya, the most outspoken critic of "Putin's Russia," murdered in the elevator of her Moscow apartment block on Putin's fifty-fourth birthday.

Consider the price of dissent: a cup of tea in a London hotel that coiled like a hot snake down a dissident's throat and caught fire in his belly. Recall Alexander Litvenenko on his deathbed, burning alive on the inside from Polonium 210 that left a radioactive trail -- from hotels, restaurants, and planes -- back to Moscow.

Many Russians believe that Putin, like Stalin, straddles the ocean and fills the sky. Most like the way he projects power. Sure a few of Putin's enemies end up dead, exiled, or rotting in Siberian prisons, but the Russian president is a maestro with the geopolitical lever of energy. Is the European Union getting uppity? Close the gas pipes. Reopen them once the point has been made, like Master-Blaster: "Who runs Bartertown?"

All of which deadens criticism. To say the least, a journalist casting a critical eye toward the Kremlin must have great courage. But surely a novelist has nothing to fear. Journalists are targeted because they reach for the truth, but fiction is fiction, right?

Russian icons are not intended to depict the "real" world. They're meant to do more. The lines of the icon converge on a point in front of the picture, so the devout become a part of it, physically as well as spiritually-just as the words that make up a story project images, ideas, and emotions into the mind of the reader. Some novels, like the icons, are even more powerful than the "real" thing. Think of Solzhenitsyn's One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich, Pasternak's Doctor Zhivago, or any of Dostoevsky's four great novels.

So perhaps it's best to write about "the Kremlin," a monolithic place or thing. Kremlin, Inc., not Putin, Inc. Use surrogates -- ministers, generals, operatives, oligarchs -- rather than real people.

Or don't portray politics at all. Ethnic, religious, and cultural fissures have been widened into great divides by money, the new Russian orthodoxy. Choose one or meld them all together into an epic. Replace Tolstoy's peasants and nobles with Wal-Mart shopping wage slaves, conscripted soldiers, gap-toothed babushkas and -- uh-oh, there they are again, the new nobles: ministers, generals, operatives, oligarchs. Back to where we started, because everything in Russia is politics.

The thing to do is to explore this strange new world. Pick a thread in the Russian tapestry. Pull it. Follow the story, for in Russia the story is liable to take you anywhere. Brent Ghelfi

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Sort by: Showing all of 4 Customer Reviews
  • Posted December 9, 2008

    more from this reviewer

    Great Thriller

    Alekei 'Volk' Volkovoy lost a leg during the Chechnya hostilities. Still in spite of his combat injuries, the Russian works two jobs with lethal efficiency. He is a formidable criminal not to mess with who makes large sums of money in all of the major illegal activities he is also a covert military operative comfortable with assassination.---------------- In St. Petersburg¿s renowned Hermitage Museum, Volk¿s two vocations merge when he learns of an unknown Da Vinci masterpiece hidden underneath the work of some minor leaguer, Pierre Mignard. He recruits the beautiful cold blooded killer Valya to help him steal the Leda and the Swan. Together they begin the quest to purloin the Da Vinci even as another team member makes the mistake of double crossing these two effective killers.---------------- VOLK¿S GAME is a delightful over the top antihero thriller that satirizes the James Bond tales using stereotypes to lampoon 007 and other super agents of a like ilk. The story line starts at hyperspeed and keeps accelerating until the final bloody confrontation. Volk is a fascinating lead character who is not admirable yet readers will enjoy his escapades especially when he goes on an avenging rampage. Not for everyone, fans who enjoy the antics of a kick butt macho rogue, perhaps thug might better describe him, will want to tour Russia¿s underbelly with Volk as a guide to the seamier side of life.----------- Harriet Klausner

    2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted March 26, 2011

    gritty thriller

    an excellent potrayal of russian underworld. volks sense of chechnian conflict and the the way politics is played in russia makes it even more interestimg. this novel can be compared to robert ludlums novels and is similar to David ignatius 'Body of lies'. I cant wait to read the next series of this novel.

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    Posted April 1, 2011

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    Posted January 13, 2009

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