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  • Written by Dan Fesperman
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  • Written by Dan Fesperman
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Written by Dan FespermanAuthor Alerts:  Random House will alert you to new works by Dan Fesperman

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On Sale: December 18, 2007
Pages: 336 | ISBN: 978-0-307-42956-8
Published by : Vintage Knopf
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Synopsis|Excerpt

Synopsis

In a riveting tale of intrigue and betrayal, a journalist and his aide infiltrate Afghanistan on the eve of the American invasion.  Skelly, a jaded war correspondent, is looking for one last scoop.  Najeeb, his translator and guide, is an educated young man from the Pakistani-Afghani border with a secret past, a history with the Pakistani secret police, and his own motives for this risky adventure. Together they join a Warlord’s caravan as he seeks to start an uprising that will liberate the country from the Taliban. Along the way, they stumble onto what they think might just be the story of a lifetime. What they find is a shady world of hidden agendas, shifting allegiances, and sudden betrayals--a world where one wrong move would get them both killed and the only hope for survival lies in their loyalty to each other.

Excerpt

The sun does not rise in Peshawar.

It seeps--an egg-white smear that brightens the eastern horizon behind a veil of smoke, exhaust and dust. The smoke rises from burning wood, cow patties and old tires, meager flames of commerce for kebab shops and bakers, metalsmiths and brick kilns. The worst of the exhaust sputters from buzzing blue swarms of motor rickshaws, three-wheeled terrors that careen between horse carts and overloaded buses.

But it was the dust that Najeeb Azam knew best. Like him, it had swirled down from the arid lands of the Khyber and never settled, prowling restlessly in the streets and bazaars as if awaiting a fresh breeze to carry it to some farther, better destination.

In the morning it coated his pillow, a faint powder flecked with soot. In the evening he wiped it from his face and coughed cinders into a handkerchief, never quite able to flush it from either pores or lungs. Wherever he traveled it went along for the ride, a parasite, a little gift from his adopted home. He was respectful of its mysterious cloaking powers, because things had a way of disappearing in Peshawar--people, ideas, entire political movements. They would be loud and noticeable one day, only to vanish without a trace the next, and with each new day someone or something else always seemed to have gone missing.

A Peshawar dawn nonetheless had its charms, and Najeeb liked to rise early to savor them. So, on a warm morning in mid-October he stood in the darkness of his small kitchen a half hour before sunrise, brewing tea while listening to Mansour's horse cart leaving for the bazaar. He knew without looking that the old man stood like a charioteer on a narrow wooden flatbed, reins in hand, pomegranates and tomatoes piled behind him, the baggy folds of his shalwar kameez flowing ghostlike in the pale light. The lonely clip-clop was soothing, yet also a sort of warning, like the ticking of a bomb. It was part of Peshawar's daily countdown to chaos. Soon enough the narrow streets would explode with vehicles, animals and people, beggars and merchants elbow to elbow as both cried out for rupees.

The loudspeaker of a nearby mosque crackled to life. Najeeb strolled to the living room, setting his teacup on a shelf and kneeling, lowering his forehead to the rug in prayer. This, too, was a ritual of tranquillity, yet it never seemed quite peaceful enough here.

In the tribal lands of his boyhood the muezzin's cry had been a solitary call, haunting and lovely. He used to pretend the message was for him alone, and to Najeeb there was still no grander expression of power than the words Allahu akbar, "God is great," when carried on a morning breeze across empty countryside. But in Peshawar there were more muezzins than he could count, and their calls became an unruly conversation--one voice trumping another in a war above the rooftops. Cats yowling over turf. Or perhaps Najeeb was turning into an infidel, a worldly backslider. A Kafir, as his father's Pashtun tribesmen would have said. Life never seemed half so holy now as it once had, and in a country where not only a man's calling but also his marriage was generally set in stone by age eighteen, Najeeb was still a work in progress at twenty-seven.

As a boy he'd roamed a wonderland of extremes, a rural princeling at play among bearded, turbaned men with rifles slung on their backs, all of whom owed their allegiance to his father. After breakfast he might sprint barefoot through the dew of waist-high poppies, dodging marauding boys from the village with slingshots round their necks. As the sun climbed higher he sought the refuge of high defiles to watch smuggler parades of camels and horses, teatime caravans swaying and clanking through the passes. Then, off to bed on the verandah of his father's hujera, the men's guest house, where he gazed up at stars so icy bright that it seemed they might pierce his skull. Pleasantly weary, he stretched out on a rope bed, eavesdropping on his father's guests and supplicants --smoky, piratical gatherings in the hujera's great room, with hubble-bubble hookahs and high-caliber bandoleers, lulling him to sleep with the streamside murmur of their mutter and growl, and the whine and hum of their radio, beaming news from the great beyond. Occasionally a burst of laughter or an angry shout shouldered into his dreams, but by morning there were only him and the muezzin beneath another clear sky.

Yet that world also had its special cloaking magic. It was a place where he learned quickly to conceal his thoughts and dreams, and from his earliest years Najeeb's elders taught him to hold in his emotions, sheathing them like a weapon.

At the age of eighteen he abruptly left that world behind, dispatched across the seas to a university in the United States. It was his father's idea, a vain stab at worldliness to impress a few haughty ministers in the government corridors of Islamabad. Najeeb went reluctantly, and for months he held himself sternly under wraps, bookish and brooding through a North Carolina winter amid airless dreams of home.

Then came the spring, and Najeeb emerged timidly from underground, sampling the bounty of bright new places that began to make home seem small, plain and crude. There were supermarkets as big as his village, libraries the size of canyons, lush trees alive with blossoms and songbirds. Then there were the women, practically naked compared to the ones he'd grown up with. They were a temptation, he knew, yet there was a holiness about them, too--as if heaven and hell had been rolled into one amazing creation of bare arms, exposed legs and lustrous heads of hair, their animated faces open to the world and all its possibilities. They soon became responsible for an altogether new kind of training in Najeeb's life. Tell us your feelings, they demanded. Share your thoughts. Having been exposed to Shakespeare in the same heady spring, Najeeb found himself torn in ways he had never anticipated. To feel or not to feel, that was the question.

And now, years after his homecoming, he was not only restless but trapped--banished from tribal lands by his father, barred from America by consular officials.

His father's action had followed a betrayal that Najeeb no longer cared to revisit. The consular ban was of a more recent vintage. The United States had decided the previous month that it no longer wanted his company, after his two worlds had collided in ways previously unimaginable in the burning skies of lower Manhattan.

So he soldiered on in Peshawar, feeling as if he'd snagged a little of himself in each place he'd departed. And as each morning's peace dissolved he often found himself brooding over what was missing, sometimes believing that he, too, was disappearing into the Peshawar haze, as indistinct as the horizon. In a country where most people defined themselves by family or faith, Najeeb found himself resorting to a more American approach, seeking identity from his various occupations. For the moment, then, he was a translator and guide, a painter of birds, an unemployed computer engineer, and, most recently, a journalist of sorts, reporting for a rambling English daily called the Frontier Report.

The few people in Peshawar who knew Najeeb well could have added further labels--disowned son, enthusiastic fornicator, occasional imbiber of forbidden beverage, habitual consorter with foreigners--tireless seeker of any path, in other words, that might lead beyond Pakistan. And at this precarious moment in the city's history, when choosing sides was the order of the day, Najeeb remained dangerously neutral.

One thing no one ever called him was lazy, and today's schedule was particularly industrious. First on the agenda: a ride on his motor scooter to the humble offices of the Frontier Report, where, as always, there would be plenty to write about. His daily task was to fashion a digest of news briefs from the tribal hinterlands of the North-West Frontier Province. It always made for strange reading--rustic feuds and oddball robberies, villages convulsed over the tiniest of matters. Perhaps someday he would collect them in a volume of curios for his friends in the United States, a Pakistani gothic that would finally help them understand what made this place tick.

The most important business of the day was scheduled for late afternoon, when Najeeb would meet yet another foreign journalist who wanted to hire him for guiding and interpreting. A fixer, the job was called, and today's client was American.

With most of the journalists so far the routine had been pretty standard. They spent their first few days doing interviews in the streets, liking the lilt of the word "bazaar" in their copy and enjoying the way every merchant invited them inside for tea. Najeeb translated while fending off hordes of curious barefoot boys and legless beggars.

If there happened to be a demonstration that day, they covered it, taking care to stay upwind from the tear gas. Then came the obligatory visit to a madrassah, one of the religious schools that supplied the Taliban with so many foot soldiers. Black-haired boys kneeling in straight lines on scrubbed marble floors, heads bobbing as they recited the Koran. Then perhaps a chant or two of "Death to America," before collecting quotes from the resident Holy Scholar.

Najeeb and his clients always shared an awkward laugh in the taxi afterward, the reporter never quite sure where Najeeb stood on these matters, and Najeeb never eager to say, not when every cabbie was a potential informant.

Then, unless there was some new wave of refugees to badger, Najeeb would escort his client east, three hours down the bouncing highway to the calm green sterility of Islamabad, to seek out bureaucrats and diplomats who might grant travel papers for the Afghan border--because Afghanistan was the ultimate goal of every client, even if the border had been closed for weeks and would likely stay that way awhile longer.

If it ever opened, Najeeb would probably cross it as well. Not that he enjoyed gunfire. But at a pay rate of a hundred fifty dollars a day he couldn't afford to say no, because the one thing that might yet get him out of this place was cash.

Yet even as his supply of cash reached three thousand dollars and counting, the American embassy grew ever more remote. A hasty security cordon that had gone into place after September 11 had crept ever farther down the surrounding boulevards. Now, a mere five weeks later, you couldn't get within blocks of the place, and for the moment a visa was out of the question. Not only had most of the embassy staff left the country, but there was now a waiting list, a clerk told him by telephone. It might take weeks, even months. Meanwhile, reports filtered back from the United States of young Pakistani men disappearing into jails by the hundreds, gone without a word of explanation. So Najeeb bided his time and stacked his crisp fifties and hundreds, stockpiling ammunition for a battle that might never come.

Such was the drift of Najeeb's thinking that morning when, still on his knees, he was startled by a whisking sound from over by the door. Had he completed his prayers? He wasn't sure. The loudspeakers of the mosques were silent. A rickshaw whined past outside, scouting for the day's first fare. He checked his watch--still time for another cup of tea--but his eyes were drawn to a spinning white object on the floor tiles. It was an envelope, just coming to rest. Someone had shoved it beneath the door. He listened for departing footsteps, but there was only the clopping of another horse, so he rose stiffly and crossed the room, throwing open the door in expectation of discovering the crouching messenger, caught in the act.

But there was no one. Nothing. And the stairwell was silent. It was as if the envelope had fallen from the sky with the first shaft of sunlight. Shutting the door, he picked it up. Whoever had sealed the cream-colored envelope had done so without a single smudge, meaning he was either clean or careful.

Najeeb tore it open at the top and pulled out a folded sheet of paper of the same creamy complexion. There was no letterhead or official markings, only a handwritten message in black ink, neat and cramped, giving the impression of someone not accustomed to writing. At the top were the numbers "24:30," and the writing below was in Arabic. It was a passage from the Koran. With no one there to watch, Najeeb allowed himself an irreverent smile. No doubt he was about to receive a scolding from a neighbor, some lesson in morals from a well-meaning meddler.

"Enjoin believing men to turn their eyes away from temptation and to restrain their carnal desires," the first line said. "This will make their lives purer."

His smile widened. Someone must have seen Daliya exiting a few nights ago, and it probably wasn't the first time. The memory brightened his mood. Whereas he thought of himself as wispy and insubstantial, she was full and complicated, a soul worth clinging to. He continued reading.

"Enjoin believing women to turn their eyes away from temptation and to preserve their chastity; not to display their adornments."

Oh, but such adornments. If this writer only knew. Another set of numbers followed, 24:39, meaning the writer had skipped ahead. The next passage took his smile away.

"As for the unbelievers, their works are like a mirage in a desert. The thirsty traveler thinks it is water, but when he comes near he finds that it is nothing. He finds God there, who pays him back in full. Swift is God's reckoning."

Najeeb wondered angrily what sort of "reckoning" the writer had in mind. Did God's self-appointed scold also intend to be His avenger? He crumpled the page, then reconsidered, smoothing it out and reaching for a pen. This demanded a reply. He pulled his own copy of the Koran from between English editions of Philip Roth and Paul Auster, thumbing the pages. Where was that verse that had recently caught his eye? There. Just as he remembered. He'd be quoting it out of context, of course. In fact, he was likely misinterpreting it altogether, a thought that returned his smile with a gleam of mischief.

"2:79," he wrote. Then he scribbled in rusty Arabic: "Woe betide those that write the scriptures with their own hands and then declare: 'This is from God,' in order to gain some paltry end."

He stuffed the page into the messenger's own envelope and resealed it with tape, then wrote on the outside in Urdu, "A reply to this morning's visitor to apartment 12." After a second cup of tea he grabbed his satchel and the keys to his scooter, taking care to lock the door before rushing down the stairwell. He posted the envelope by the mailboxes at the entrance, wondering how long it would be before someone took the bait. For a moment he had misgivings--why stir the pot?--and his stomach rumbled, as queasy as if he'd just eaten too much chapal kebab. He'd have to remind Daliya to take more care in her comings and goings. The city grew more dangerous and irrational by the day.

"Meddlesome fanatics," Najeeb muttered on his way into the streets. "They'll be the death of us all."


From the Hardcover edition.
Dan Fesperman|Author Q&A

About Dan Fesperman

Dan Fesperman - The Warlord's Son

Photo © Lloyd Fox

Dan Fesperman’s travels as a writer have taken him to thirty countries and three war zones. Lie in the Dark won the Crime Writers’ Association of Britain’s John Creasey Memorial Dagger Award for best first crime novel, The Small Boat of Great Sorrows won their Ian Fleming Steel Dagger Award for best thriller, and The Prisoner of Guantánamo won the Dashiell Hammett Award from the International Association of Crime Writers. He lives in Baltimore.
 
www.danfesperman.com

Author Q&A

A Conversation with

DAN FESPERMAN


Q: What made you want to set a novel in Afghanistan?

A: Afghanistan is one of the great, exotic theaters of the current rising struggle between East and West, which is shaping up as a sort of new Cold War. That, plus it has always been a prime setting for intrigue throughout history. Empires always end up meddling there, and almost always end up blundering or miscalculating, usually by underestimating the locals. There is something both current and timeless about that. So when I got the chance to travel there a few years ago–during the same period in which the book is set, in fact–I knew I had to use the setting. The atmospherics were just too wonderful to pass up.

Q: What exactly is a Warlord in the context of this book?

A: He is a tribal chieftain, a man on the make with turf to protect, interests to look out for, and well-armed rivals to deal with. Outside powers have always tried to put such people to work for them in Afghanistan and along the North-West frontier, but somehow, as in the case of Najeeb’s dad, the warlords always seem to get the better of the relationship. They get what they need, whether its weapons or money or a certain sort of leverage, and in exchange the donor often gets an unreliable ally, depending on his mood of the moment. If you look at Afghanistan now, and also the adjacent tribal areas of Pakistan, they are still largely run by networks of warlords. They tend to view Hamid Karzai as the mayor of Kabul, whose more grandiose title of president is tolerated as long as he doesn’t interfere too greatly in their affairs.

Q: Throughout the novel, Skelly puts himself in unbelievably dangerous situations for the sake of the “story.”  I’m sure  you’ve known many journalists like this, or may even recognize this trait in yourself.  How would you explain it?

A: The funny thing is that, except for the firefight, neither Skelly nor most any journalist who has covered war and upheaval abroad would necessarily argue that Skelly is much of a risk taker. It’s not so much that you get enured to the dangers as much as you realize, once you’re on the scene, that no place is as dangerous as it seems from afar. Even in the midst of war zones there are sanctuaries, pockets of relative tranquility. The trick is in learning how to move back in forth between the hot and cold zones without taking too much risk. Of course, some of this attitude, whether from me or from Skelly, is convenient self-delusion. We tell ourselves we know what we’re doing, and that’s fine until circumstances veer out of control. Then you find yourself huddling in the rocks and dodging fire, and wondering if any story could possibly be worth all this.

Q: The title character, Najeeb, is a journalist in Pakistan as well as a translator and guide who went to University in the U.S.  He is an intriguing mix of the traditional views he was raised with and the modern ideas he’s been exposed to in the States.  How prevalent are people like Najeeb in the Middle East?

A: More prevalent than you might think. Throughout the Middle East, and very much so over in Pakistan, you’re always running into people who have relatives in America or Great Britain. In more educated circles it’s even more frequent. But, to give you one example from some other travels, once in a benighted rural corner of the Balkans I was subjected to a half-hour political lecture by a nationalistic young thug who couldn’t have seemed more out of touch with the modern world of the West. Of course, he then informed me that he had three uncles in California. Episodes like that happen in the Middle East was well. Plus, there’s a lot of exposure to our culture through portals like the Internet, or films and television. What makes Najeeb exceptional is that he’s from the Tribal Areas, which have remained relatively isolated. But there have been cases of suddenly wealthy chieftains who, either to make a point or to impress their rivals, have sent their sons abroad for university educations, just in the way Najeeb got his college degree.

Q: There is a lot of curiosity about the Muslim culture.  Were you trying to present a specific image in your writing of this novel? If so, how do you think readers will react to your portrayal of that culture?

A: Not so much a specific image of Muslim culture, because that would be about as difficult as trying to nail down the Christian culture within the framework of a single character. I was trying to present a slice of it, with someone who, while devout, isn’t particularly slavish in his devotion. He does some of the little things wrong–doesn’t always wash up before prayers, for example, or carries his teacup around, sipping at it just before unrolling his prayer rug. But not every Muslim, even among the devout, always follows every rule or restriction to the letter. I think a lot of Americans share Skelly’s misconception -- thinking that any Muslim who’s a true believer must be at least a borderline fanatic. But Skelly’s lack of understanding also has to do with the uneasy relationship between the sacred and the secular, a point of friction just as likely to be found between, say, evangelical Christians and some of their secular neighbors, as between Muslims and Christians. Whenever any of these sides drift apart and stop talking to each other, whether its within the same town or across national borders, the misconceptions and conflicts only worsen.

Q: At one point in the story, Skelly, the American war correspondent, looks around at a blood-thirsty crowd and recognizes it as a scene that he has seen in many places, including America.  How distant would you say America is from the violence that occurs in other places?

A: Every culture in the world is just one good shove away from the precipice of barbarism. The easy example is the Germans under Hitler, or more recently the people who’d lived side by side for 50 years in Tito’s Yugoslavia. They spent all that time modernizing and saying the right things, yet the seed was always there for their own destruction once they got that push from the politicians and the fear-mongers. Remove the established order from any place for an appreciable time and the mob will always assert itself, generally with ugly results. Give them a rope and you’ve got a lynching. Give them machetes and you have Rwanda. Give them 20-plus years to go after each other and you’ve got Afghanistan, with everything ruined and broken. The pity of it is that the number of people who would opt for reason, or for peaceful resolution, almost always outnumbers the rabble rousers and hotheads. Yet somehow the latter bunch always seems to prevail the moment you’ve removed the controls.

Q: Najeeb, Skelly’s translator, commits what is seen in his culture as an unforgivable sin–betraying his family.  Do you believe that there are any unforgivable acts when it comes to family?

A: It depends on the family, really. A few friends of mine have been disowned by their parents for marrying out of their faith–and these aren’t Muslims I’m talking about. A little tolerance can go a long way in holding a family together through thick and thin. The irony is that a tolerant upbringing is also less likely to produce the sort of offspring who might do something unforgivable. Then again, you look at someone like John Walker Lindh, the “American Taliban,” a sort of lost soul who had been encouraged by his parents from an early age to sample other cultures, then took it to unthinkable extremes. He fell about as far away from their way of life as you can imagine, yet by all accounts his parents have been very forgiving, and would welcome him home in a second. So, even in a culture as rigid as Najeeb’s, it is often a very personal standard as to what a family will and won’t forgive.

Q: Bin Laden appears throughout the novel, almost as a ghostly figure overlooking certain events but never directly taking part.  What is the implication of this?

A: I wanted to have him hovering in the periphery as a threatening, influential and even ghostly presence. Because let’s face it, without him there would have been no American adventure in Afghanistan, and no hordes of Skellys rushing over there to cover it with Najeebs in tow. Yet I very much did not want this book to devolve into a “Bin Laden novel.” Of course, that made it tricky for me in the one scene in which the man himself appears to have a cameo. Which is why I chose to have Skelly come to this encounter feverish, and somewhat addle-brained. Does Skelly really see him? The evidence seems to strongly indicate that he does, but we’ll never know for sure. Or, at least, no one but I will know. Hey, we have to keep some secrets from our readers!

Q: Najeeb points out that as a journalist, Skelly is much like a walking ATM.  In your experience, how are journalists viewed in countries where they are reporting from?

A: I can only speak for how American journalists are viewed abroad, because I think the experience varies by nationality. And for Americans the experience has become increasingly trying and hazardous. Even fifteen years ago a journalist might not have been identified so heavily with his home country, except in the Middle East, where there long been stong feelings among Arabs that U.S. coverage is slanted against them. But nowadays, particularly if it’s in a part of the world where the American military is present, journalists will often have to endure political lectures, or long lists of grievances, before getting to the meat of their interview. Most alarmingly, there is a growing sense in some extremist quarters that one can send a more emphatic message by killing the messenger than by speaking with him, and that’s very dangerous ground. As for the aspect of being a walking ATM, this happens in any country where chaos reigns and economic order has vanished. Arriving journalists will literally be the richest folks in town. Frankly it’s a wonder (not to mention a tribute to the people in these places) that more of us haven’t been robbed and killed simply because we’re such easy and lucrative targets.

Q: This is your third novel.  What advantages have you found in writing fiction as opposed to journalistic writing?

A: The answer I always fall back on whenever this kind of question comes up is a quotation, source unknown, that I heard long ago from a colleague. “Journalism is truth with a small t. Fiction is truth with a capital T.” Apart from the obvious stylistic freedom which fiction allows, it also unchains you from your notebook. You’re not having to constantly get all of the little facts straight, as long as the greater truths are intact. You’re out to capture a sense of place, of character, of culture, and of conflict. You’re in search of the universals, yet also of the particulars that set yours apart. And while the best journalism also seeks the answers to some of those bigger questions, in fiction you have the wonderful convenience of shaping the characters in all the smaller ways that makes them a better fit.

Q: What’s next for you?

A: I recently started work on a novel set at Guantanamo, circa summer 2003. The main character is an FBI interrogator. And if you think of Aghanistan and the Balkans as exotic locales, well, none have anything on Camp Delta–a prison camp shut away from the world on a forbidden corner of Castro‘s Cuba. In other words, a world within a world within a world, with the largest of those worlds being an island nation isolated from its nearest neighbor. I visited Guantansmo and Camp Delta last summer, and the setting just knocked me over with all its exotic and bizarre touches, as well as with its overwhelming sense of claustrophobia and besiegement. It’s perfect for the sort of books I like to write.


From the Hardcover edition.

Praise

Praise

"Mesmerizing. . . . Visceral. . . . Keeps the reader's attention until the stunning climax." --The Denver Post"A terrific novel of intrigue, duplicity and death in the shadow of the Khyber Pass. . . . Fesperman is that rare journalist who is also a gifted novelist." --The Washington Post“A thrilling odyssey into Afghanistan during the waning days of Taliban rule . . . a kind of post-modern Heart of Darkness.” --Seattle Post-Intelligencer“Compulsively readable. . . . Fesperman [is a] writer to watch.” --The Seattle Times"A novel ripped from the headlines. . . . Better than any news dispatch and . . . far more entertaining. . . . Fesperman amazes [with his] searing insights into human nature." --The Baltimore Sun“A first-rate geopolitical yarn. . . . Fesperman combines his strong eye for detail with bleak film-noir cynicism, managing to make plot twists that could have felt contrived seem depressingly believable.” --Entertainment Weekly“A convincing, accurate thriller. . . . This book is worth reading if only for the passage where the hero, Skelly, glimpses Osama bin Laden at a public hanging; the scene both convinces and frightens.” --The Economist"Thoroughly gripping, intelligent and wholly believable. . . . There will be other novels written about the last days of the Taliban . . . but few will match the verisimilitude, drama and compelling characters found in The Warlord's Son. . . . The conclusion . . . has the impact of a stun gun." --Flint Journal“Fesperman’s experience as a war correspondent, together with his powers of description and characterization, produce an utterly compelling thriller and quite simply the best I’ve read all year.” --[writer TK], Sunday Telegraph"Enlightening and entertaining. . . . A riveting and sometimes frightening read. . . . Fesperman sheds light on the tribal culture in such a way that a murky idea momentarily crystallizes into a vivid picture." --The Charlotte Observer"[Fesperman] exhibits a keen eye for the landscape's details...he excels at drawing characters." --Pittsburgh Tribune-Review"[This] veteran reporter. . . . depicts politics, geography and the tradecraft of reporters, smugglers, warriors and spies with rare insight." --San Jose Mercury News"The Warlord's Son is a story of humanity, of how primal instincts come to the forefront in dangerous situations. But it's also about friendship and loyalty and redemption, either achieved or disappointed. . . . One of the must-read novels of the year." --January Magazine

  • The Warlord's Son by Dan Fesperman
  • September 20, 2005
  • Fiction - Literary
  • Vintage
  • $16.95
  • 9781400030484

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