The multi-million-selling Frederick Forsyth is back with a venegance! A heart stopping thriller of murder, mystery, intrigue, deception, and revenge.
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About the Author
Frederick Forsyth is the author of eleven bestselling novels, including The Day of the Jackal and The Dogs of War. He lives in Hertfordshire, England.
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By Frederick Forsyth
St. Martin's PressCopyright © 2003 Frederick Forsyth
All rights reserved.
He leaned into the gradient and once again fought the enemy of his own pain. It was a torture and a therapy. That was why he did it.
Those who know often say that of all the disciplines the triathlon is the most brutal and unforgiving. The decathlete has more skills to master, and putting the shot needs more brute strength; but for fearsome stamina and the capacity to meet the pain and beat it, there are few trials like the triathlon.
The runner had risen as always on training days well before dawn. He drove his pickup to a distant New Jersey lake, dropping off his racing bicycle on the way, chaining it to a tree for safety. At two minutes after five, he set the chronometer on his wrist, pulled the sleeve of the neoprene wetsuit down to cover it, and entered the icy water.
It was the Olympic triathlon that he practiced, with distances measured in metric lengths. A fifteen-hundred-meter swim — as near as dammit one mile — out of the water, strip fast to undershirt and shorts, mount the racing bike, then forty kilometers crouched over the handlebars, all of it at the sprint. He had long ago measured the mile along the lake from end to end and knew exactly which tree on the far bank marked the spot he had left the bike. He had marked out his forty kilometers along the country roads, always at that empty hour, and knew which tree was the point to abandon the bike and start the run. Ten kilometers was the run, and there was a farm gatepost that marked the two-clicks-to-go point. That morning he had just passed it. The last two kilometers were uphill, the final heartbreaker, the nomercy stretch.
The reason it hurt so much is that the muscles needed are all different. The powerful shoulders, chest, and arms of a swimmer are not normally needed by a speed cyclist or marathon man. They are just extra poundage that has to be carried.
The speed-blurred driving of the legs and hips of a cyclist are different from the tendons and sinews that give the runner the rhythm and cadence to eat up the miles underfoot. The repetitiveness of the rhythms of one exercise does not match those of the other. The triathlete needs them all, then tries to match the performances of three specialist athletes one after the other.
At age twenty-five it is a cruel event. At the age of fifty-one, it ought to be indictable under the Geneva Convention. The runner had passed his fifty-first the previous January. He dared a glance at his wrist and scowled. Not good; he was several minutes down on his best. He drove harder against his enemy.
The Olympians were looking at just under two hours; the New Jersey runner had clipped two hours twenty. He was almost at that time now, and he still had almost two kilometers to go.
The first houses of his hometown came into view around a curve in Highway 30. The old, prerevolution village of Pennington straddles Route 31, just off Interstate 95, running down from New York, through the state, and on to Philadelphia, Baltimore, then Washington.
There is not much to Pennington, one of a million neat, clean, tidy, neighborly small towns that make up the overlooked and underestimated heart of the United States. A single major crossroads at the center where West Delaware Avenue crosses Main Street, several well-attended churches of three denominations, a First National Bank, a handful of shops, and off-the-street residences scattered down the tree-clothed byroads.
The runner headed for the crossroads, half a kilometer to go. He was too early for a coffee at the Cup of Joe or breakfast at Vito's Pizza, but even had they been open he would not have stopped.
South of the junction he passed the Civil War vintage, white clapboard house with the shingle of Calvin Dexter, attorney-at-law, next to the door. It was his office, his shingle, and his law practice, save for the occasions when he took time off and went away to attend to his other practice. Clients and neighbors accepted that he took fishing vacations now and then, knowing nothing of the small apartment under another name in New York City.
He drove his aching legs that last five hundred yards to reach the turning into Chesapeake Drive at the south end of town. That was where he lived, and the corner marked the end of his self-imposed Calvary. He slowed, stopped, and hung his head, leaning against a tree, sucking in oxygen to heaving lungs. Two hours, thirty-six minutes. Far from his best. That there was probably no one within a hundred miles who, aged fifty-one, could come near it was not the point. The point, as he would never dare to explain to the neighbors who grinned and cheered him on, was to use the pain to combat the other pain, the always pain, the pain that never went away, the pain of lost child, lost love, lost everything.
The runner turned into his street and walked the last two hundred yards. Ahead of him he saw the paperboy hurl a heavy bundle onto his porch. The kid waved as he cycled past, and Cal Dexter waved back.
Later he would take his motor scooter and go retrieve his truck. With the scooter in the rear, he would drive home, picking up the racing bike along the road. First he needed a shower, some high-energy bars, and the contents of several oranges.
On the stoop he picked up the bundle of mail and newspapers, broke them open, and looked.
Calvin Dexter, the wiry, sandy-haired, friendly, smiling attorney of Pennington, New Jersey, had been born with close to nothing in terms of a worldly advantage.
He'd been created in a Newark slum, rife with roaches and rats, and came into the world in January 1950, the son of a construction worker and a waitress at the local diner. His parents, according to the morality of the age, had had no choice but to marry when a meeting in a neighborhood dance hall and a few drinks too many had led to things getting out of hand and his own conception.
His father was not a bad man, by his lights. After Pearl Harbor he had volunteered for the armed forces, but as a skilled construction worker he had been deemed more useful at home, where the war effort involved the creation of thousands of new factories, dockyards, and government offices.
He was a hard man, quick with his fists, the only law on many blue-collar jobs. But he tried to live by the straight and narrow, bringing his pay straight home unopened, trying to raise his toddler son to love Old Glory, the Constitution, and Joe DiMaggio.
But when the Korean War ended, the job opportunities gradually slipped away. Only the industrial blight remained, and the unions were in the grip of the Mob.
Calvin was five when his mother left. He was too young to understand why. He knew nothing of the loveless union his parents had had, accepting with the philosophical endurance of the very young that people always shouted and quarreled. He knew nothing of the traveling salesman who had promised her bright lights and better frocks. He was simply told she had "gone away."
He had accepted that his father was now home each evening, looking after him instead of having a few beers after work, staring glumly at a foggy television screen. It was not until his teens that he learned his mother, abandoned in her turn by the traveling salesman, had tried to return but been rebuffed by his angry and bitter father.
When Calvin was seven, his father hit upon an idea to solve the problem of a home and the need to search for work far and wide. They moved out of the walk-up tenement in Newark and acquired a secondhand trailer. This became his home for ten years.
Father and son moved from job to job, living in the trailer, the scruffy boy attending whichever local school would take him. It was the age of Elvis Presley, Del Shannon, Roy Orbison, the Beatles, over from a country Cal had barely heard of. It was the age of Kennedy, the Cold War, and Vietnam.
The jobs came and the jobs were completed. They moved through the northern cities of East Orange, Union, and Elizabeth; then on to work outside New Brunswick and Trenton. For a time they lived in the Pine Barrens while Dexter Senior was foreman on a small project. Then they headed south to Atlantic City. Between the ages of eight and sixteen, Cal attended nine schools in as many years. His formal education could fill an entire postage stamp.
But he became wise in other ways; streetwise, fightwise. Like his departed mother, he did not grow tall, topping out at five feet, eight inches. Nor was he heavy and muscular like his father, but his lean frame packed fearsome stamina and his fists a killer punch. Once he challenged the booth fighter in a fairground sideshow, knocked him flat, and took the twenty-dollar prize.
A man who smelt of cheap aftershave approached his father and suggested the boy attend his gym with a view to becoming a boxer, but they moved on to a new city and a new job.
There was no question of money for vacations, so when school was out, the kid just went to the construction site with his father. There he made coffee, ran errands, did odd jobs. One of the "errands" involved a man who told him there was a vacation job taking envelopes to various addresses across Atlantic City and saying nothing to anyone. So for the summer vacation of 1965, he became a bookie's runner.
Even from the bottom of the social pile, a smart kid can still look. Cal Dexter could sneak unpaying into the local movie house and marvel at the glamour of Hollywood, the huge rolling vistas of the Wild West, the shimmering glitz of the screen musicals, the crazy antics of the Martin and Lewis comedies.
He could see in the television ads perfect houses with stainless-steel kitchens and smiling families in which the parents seemed to love each other. He could look at the gleaming limousines and sports cars on the billboards above the highway.
He had nothing against the hard hats of the construction sites. The men were gruff and crude, but they were kind to him, or most of them were anyway. On-site he, too, wore a hard hat, and the general presumption was that once out of school he would follow his father in the building trades. But he had other ideas. Whatever life he had, he vowed, it would be far from the crash of the trip-hammer and the choking dust of cement mixers.
Then he realized that he had nothing to offer in exchange for that better, more moneyed, more comfortable life. He thought of the movies but assumed all actors were towering men, unaware that most were well under five feet nine. This thought only came to him because some barmaid said she thought he looked a bit like James Dean, but the building workers roared with laughter so he dropped the idea.
Sports and athletics could get a kid out of the street and on the road to fame and fortune, but he had been through all his schools so fast he had never had a chance to make any of the school teams.
Anything involving a formal education, let alone qualifications, was out of the question. That left other kinds of working-class employment — waiter, bellhop, grease monkey, delivery-van driver — the list was endless, but for all the prospects most of them offered, he might as well stay with construction. The sheer brutalism and danger of the work made it better paid than most.
Or there was crime. No one raised on the waterfronts or construction sites of New Jersey could possibly be unaware that organized crime, running with the gangs, could lead to a life of big apartments, fast cars, and easy women. The word was, it hardly ever led to jail. He was not Italian-American, which would preclude full membership in the Mob aristocracy, but there were others who had made good.
He quit school at seventeen and started the next day at his father's work site, a housing project outside Camden. A month later the driver/operator of the bulldozer fell ill. There was no substitute. It was a skilled job.
Cal looked at the interior of the cab. It made sense. "I could work this," he said.
The foreman was dubious. It would be against all the rules. Any inspector chancing along and his job would be history. On the other hand, the whole team was standing around needing mountains of earth shifted.
"There's an awful lot of levers in there."
"Trust me," said the kid.
It took about twenty minutes to work out which lever did what function. He began to shift dirt. It meant a bonus, but it was still not a career.
In January 1968, he turned eighteen, and the Vietcong launched the Tet Offensive. He was watching television in a bar in Camden. After the newscast came several commercials and then a brief recruitment film made by the army. It mentioned that, if you shaped up, the army would give you an education. The next day he walked into the U.S. Army office in Camden and said, "I want to join the army."
Back then every American youth would, failing some pretty unusual circumstances or voluntary exile, become liable for compulsory draft just after his eighteenth birthday. The desire of just about every teenager and twice that number of parents was to get out of it. The master sergeant behind the desk looked bemused.
"I'm volunteering," Cal said. That caught his attention.
The master sergeant drew a form toward him, keeping eye contact like a ferret that does not want the rabbit to get away. "Well, that's fine, kid. That's a very smart thing to do. Take a word of advice from an old sweat?"
"Make it three years instead of the required two. Good chance of better postings, better career choices." He leaned forward as one imparting a state secret. "With three years, you could even avoid going to Vietnam."
"But I want to go to Vietnam," said the kid in the soiled denims. The master sergeant thought this one over. "Right," he said very slowly. He might have said, "There's no accounting for taste." Instead he said, "Hold up your right hand ..."
Thirty-three years later, the former hard hat pushed four oranges through the juicer, rubbed the towel over his wet head again, and took the pile of papers with the juice through to the sitting room.
There was the local paper, another from Washington, and one from New York, and, in a wrapper, a technical magazine. It was this he went to first.
Vintage Airplane is not a big-circulation organ, and in Pennington it could only be obtained by mail order. It catered to those with a passion for classic and World War II airplanes. The runner flicked to the small want-ads section. He stopped, the juice halfway to his mouth, put down the glass, and read the item again. It said: "AVENGER. Wanted. Serious offer. No price ceiling. Please call."
There was no Pacific War Grumman Avenger torpedo dive-bomber out there to be bought. They were in museums. Someone had uncovered the contact code. There was a number. It had to be a cell phone. The date was May 13, 2001.CHAPTER 2
Ricky Colenso was not born to die at the age of twenty in a Bosnian cesspit. It should have never ended that way. He was born to get a college degree and live out his life in the States, with a wife and children and a decent chance at life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. It went wrong because he was too kindhearted.
Back in 1970, a young and brilliant mathematician called Adrian Colenso secured tenure as an associate professor of math at Georgetown University. He was twenty-five, remarkably young for the post.
Three years later, he gave a summer seminar in Toronto, Canada. Among those attending, even though she understood little of what he was saying, was a stunningly pretty student called Annie Edmond. She was smitten and arranged a blind date through close friends.
Professor Colenso had never heard of her father, which both puzzled and delighted her. She had already been urgently pursued by half a dozen fortune hunters. In the car back to the hotel, she discovered that apart from an amazing grasp of quantum calculus, he also kissed rather well.
A week later he flew back to Washington, D.C. Miss Edmond was not a young lady to be denied. She left her job, obtained a sinecure at the Canadian Consulate, rented an apartment just off Wisconsin Avenue, and arrived with ten suitcases. Two months later they married. The wedding was a blue-chip affair in Windsor, Ontario, and the couple honeymooned in Caneel Bay, in the U.S. Virgin Islands.
As a present, the bride's father bought the couple a large country house on Foxhall Road, off Nebraska Avenue, in one of the most rustic and therefore sought-after areas of the District. It was set in its own wooded two-acre plot, with pool and tennis court. The bride's allowance would cover its upkeep, and the groom's salary would just about do the rest. They settled down into loving domesticity.
Baby Richard Eric Steven was born in April 1975 and was soon nicknamed Ricky.
He grew up like millions of other American youngsters in a secure and loving parental home, doing all the things that boys do: spending time at summer camps, discovering and exploring the thrills of girls and sports cars, worrying over academic grades and looming examinations.
Excerpted from Avenger by Frederick Forsyth. Copyright © 2003 Frederick Forsyth. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
PROLOGUE - THE MURDER,
1 - THE HARDHAT,
2 - THE VICTIM,
3 - THE MAGNATE,
4 - THE SOLDIER,
5 - THE TUNNEL RAT,
6 - THE TRACKER,
7 - THE VOLUNTEER,
8 - THE LAWYER,
9 - THE REFUGEE,
10 - THE GEEK,
11 - THE KILLER,
12 - THE MONK,
13 - THE PIT,
14 - THE FATHER,
15 - THE SETTLEMENT,
16 - THE FILE,
17 - THE PHOTO,
18 - THE GULF,
19 - THE CONFRONTATION,
20 - THE JET,
21 - THE JESUIT,
22 - THE PENINSULA,
23 - THE VOICE,
24 - THE PLAN,
25 - THE JUNGLE,
26 - THE TRICK,
27 - THE VIGIL,
28 - THE VISITOR,
29 - THE TOUR,
30 - THE BLUFF,
31 - THE STING,
32 - THE RENDITION,
EPILOGUE - THE LOYALTY,
Also by Frederick Forsyth,
OUTSTANDING PRAISE FOR FREDERICK FORSYTH AND HIS NOVELS,
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
I have not read Forsyth for more than ten years and have missed his incredible detail with actual facts of war events. There is no humor, but this is a thrilling read. As usual the Muslims are at the center of nonsensical violence.
Avenger reflects upon Frederick Forsyth's experience in writing thrillers. An phenominal plot combined with outstanding charachters makes this one of Frederick Forysth's best. Calvin Dexter, Ex-Vietnam Special Forces is described with incredible detail as he sets out to find the vicious murderer Zoran Zilic. Avenger awsome read that will keep on the edge of your seat.
Forsyth has yet again picturized a character that will fit in both common and fictious world. Rise of Cal Dexter and how he avenges holds you till the finish. This fiction also has the usual unusual turns that all Forsyth's masterpiece provide at the finish. Details of the 'Nam war was knowledgable. The web was weaved with all surprises and turns and one has to resist not to turn pages without completing what is in it. So, avenge your thirst by reading this.
As a huge fan of Frederick Forsyth I'm very happy to say 'He's back' with a match for 'The Day of the Jackel'. I definitely lost some sleep because of this great book.
This is my first Frederick Forsyth book.I highly recommend it.
Even after all these years, I remember the thrills that Frederick Forsyth generated in my adolescent heart with his early works, such as 'Day of the Jackal' 'The Odessa File' and 'Dogs of War'. Not only were they well crafted novels of international intrigue with subtly communicated opinions on the machinations of the international military/industrial complex, they always contained a neat twist, with an often overlooked clue dropped almost offhanded early in the story which later is discovered to be critical to the plot's resolution. So I looked forward to this latest offering. Sadly, I was left unsatisfied; but more because of what I think is sloppy editing than the author's lack of skill. Cal Dexter (not 'Pete' as one well known and prolific reviewer has mistakenly written all over the net) is the kind of modern hero that we all can respect. The child of a broken marriage and a nomadic childhood with a blue collar father, he volunteers for the Army during the Viet Nam era, serving with distinction as a 'tunnel rat', one of an elite corps who braves the subterranean maze beneath the battlefields to find and eliminate Viet Cong fighters. He bonds with a better educated superior officer and through this relationship finds the drive to leave the service and work his way through law school. Although offered a lucrative position with a well established firm, he chooses instead to become a public defender, championing the rights of the unfortunate. From this point on, I am going to have to be a bit cryptic, since as any reader of Forsyth's work knows, enjoyment of his books depends on a reviewer being very discreet about how the plot twists, in order to avoid spoiling the surprise ending. In the case of 'Avenger', this is again essential. Suffice it to say that a series of personal tragedies compels Dexter to lead a double life. He leaves public service and sets up a low key private practice in a suburban town near New York City, but in secret becomes 'Avenger', a skilled bounty hunter dedicated to bringing killers and the like to face justice. It is as Avenger that he is contacted by a billionaire whose only grandson has been brutally murdered while serving as a relief worker in Yugoslavia. Unbeknownst to him, the murderer is protected by high level US government agents, who are planning to use this evil man to reach an even more important target, and are ready to sacrifice the life of our hero to achieve what they believe is a greater good. The plot is resolved with typical Forsyth cunning, and with a typical Forsyth 'twist' at the end. The problems with 'Avenger', that keep it from being one of Forsyth's better work, mostly concern sloppy editing. For example, at one point, a character converses with a Yugoslav in what the author specifically states is in English; but a few pages later, the same character is specifically described as not understanding English. This is the most obvious of the flaws; there are many others, as well as inexplicable style conventions, such as the use of 'f***' instead of the printing of the word. And according to some who know the areas of the world in which the novel is set, there are many errors when it comes to the geography. All in all, 'Avenger' is still above the crowd, as any Forsyth book would be expected to be. But the annoyances do take away from the enjoyment, and the 'twist' is not up to Forsyth's best. Those less critical will still have a good read, but for those of us who have looked forward to the return of Frederick Forsyth, it can only be wished that he had had an editor who was more dilligent.
In my opinion Frederick Forsyth is the supreme master of the political thriller.There is no other thriller writer who can weave the intricate plot and subtle details, which are the hallmarks of FF. I did not like THE PHANTOM OF MANHATTEN. He had strayed from his path in that book. AVENGER can be compared as one of his best books. It is as good as THE DAY OF THE JACKAL and THE NEGOTIATOR.
Damn and blast, I never thought he’d do it and certainly not this fast. I don’t know if this author can possibly top The Day of the Jackal, one of my favorite books of all time, but he can certainly turn out a tense and interesting thriller. I enjoyed this one quite a bit, reading it in only a few days. But, like another of his books which I read (The Afghan), this one also contains an incredibly convenient plot twist which pulled me out of the story a bit. I mean, come on, what are the chances of him running into that guy again? (you’ll see what I mean). Overall this is a fantastically put together story, spanning many decades and weaving in and out of a few main character’s lives. I found myself most captivated by the Vietnam era tunnel rat stories and then again at the end as our hero infiltrates a enemy base, even though they know he is coming and are still powerless to stop him. Great book, my second favorite of his, I hope to read some more.
By sprinkling in real people you begin to think it really happened and maybe something like it really did
Forsyth is the master of this genre. This is not his best book, and yet it stands heads and shoulders above most of the work written in this arena. Forsyth adds marvelous detail, it becomes almost a learning experience. That is what I enjoy about his work.
This guy keeps me up late at night. The story is based on Milosevic's Serbian thugism. The good guy wins.
"Hi!" She eats some more peanut butter.
* walks in*
"Sounds fun. When do we begin?" I wanted to see The Dark World for a while, but now I really want to see it. XD
Veteran voice performer Eric Conger gives satisfying and suitably suspenseful readings to the latest from a master of international suspense novels, Frederick Forsyth. Fans of The Day of the Jackal, The Odessa File, et al, will not be disappointed with Forsyth's fourteenth offering. Young Ricky Colenso goes to Bosnia as a relief worker. In only a matter of weeks he disappears, and is never seen again. He has been murdered. This is, of course, an irredeemable loss to his grandfather, an immensely wealthy but now grief stricken man. At the same time in New Jersey attorney Calvin Dexter lives and works. He leads a quiet rather predictable existence, a switch from his Viet Nam service. Dexter is also a man who feels compelled to right wrongs, thus he embarks on a worldwide chase to find the killer. Frederick Forsyth has served up another compelling thriller thick with murder, vengeance, foreign intrigue, and suspense. Eric Conger delivers it exceedingly well.