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Executive Times |
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2008 Book Reviews |
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The Ghost
War by Alex Berenson |
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Rating: |
*** |
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(Recommended) |
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Click
on title or picture to buy from amazon.com |
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Power In
his second novel, The Ghost
War, Alex Berenson reprises the CIA hero, John Wells, whom he created in
his debut novel, The
Faithful Spy. Having saved Times Square, Wells finds himself at a desk
job, and when an opportunity to return to the field arises, Wells jumps at
the chance. Along the way, his character develops further, Berenson continues
to expand his skills in the spy novel genre, and readers have the opportunity
to join in a fast-paced, quick-thinking, riff on power. Here’s an excerpt,
about some of Wells’ behavior as he adjusts to his post-heroic existence, from the
beginning of Chapter 2, pp. 12-14: Drink
this and you’ll grow wings on your feet. John
Wells wound down the throttle with his gloved right hand. Beneath him the
engine groaned and the tachometer rolled toward 8,000 rpm and the big black
bike jumped forward. Wells leaned close to the bike's angular gas tank to
lower his profile against the wind. Still he had to fight to keep upright.
The Honda was a meaty motorcycle, heavier and wider than a true racing bike. Wells
lifted his head and peeked at the speedometer. Ninety. He'd imagined faster.
Beside him the highway was a blur, the trees beside the road blending into a
single leafy cipher. He was halfway between Washington and Baltimore, hardly
a rural oasis, but at 3:00 A.M. even the interstate
was empty. At this speed the road's curves disappeared in the dark.
Interstates were built for bad drivers, Wells knew, grandmothers heading to
the mall, truckers high on meth and anxious to get home. They were built with
soft curves to forgive mistakes. Even
so, Wells was pushing the limits of this highway. Anything could take him
out. A raccoon prospecting for garbage. A car changing lanes and forgetting
to signal. A broken bottle blowing out his front tire, sending him over the handlebars and into eternity. A
stupid, pointless way to go. Yet here he was in the dark, as he'd been the
week before, and the week before that, on the nights when midnight and 1:00 A.M. came and went and
sleep remained foreign territory. Here the rich, smooth pavement soothed him. The
speed made his mind vanish, leaving him with snatches of half-remembered
songs, some old, some new. The words blended into a strange poetry he could
never remember when the rides were done. Wells relaxed the throttle and the tach and the
speedometer dropped in unison. At seventy-five the wind dropped slightly and
the Springsteen in his head faded. From his earlier rides he knew he was approaching
the sweet spot. He slowed to sixty as the road lifted him gently over a low
hill. The trees disappeared. To his right, a shopping center parking lot
glowed under oversized lights. Behind a blue dumpster, two police cars
nuzzled beside each other, windows down, the cops inside telling each other
stories to make the night pass. Just a few hours to go. It was close to 5:00
A.M., and the sun would be up soon enough. Wells thought of Exley, alone now
in their bed, wondering when he'd be back, and in how many pieces. Jennifer Exley, his girlfriend. His boss at the
Central Intelligence Agency, where he worked as a—as a what? Hard to say.
Last year he and Exley had stopped a terrorist attack that would have dwarfed
September 11. Now he was back in Washington, and—how to put this politely?—at
loose ends. Comma bin Laden wasn't happy with him, that much was certain. In
an hourlong communiqu~ that even Wells hadn't bothered to sit through, bin
Laden had promised eternal glory to anyone who killed him. "Allah will
smile on the martyr who sends this infidel to hell. . . ." Yadda yadda
yadda. But as a practical matter, Qaeda couldn't touch him, at least in the
United States. So Wells was waiting for a new mission. In truth, though, he
couldn't imagine what that might be. He wasn't built for desk work. Meanwhile, he burned his days with three-hour-long
workouts, and his nights with these joyless joyrides. Exley hated them, and a
week earlier, Wells had promised her they would end. He'd thought he was
telling the truth. But this morning he hadn't been able to
stop himself. Exley hadn't argued when he rolled out of bed and pulled on his
jeans and grabbed his helmet. No, Exley hadn't argued, hadn't said a word,
and Wells supposed he loved her for her silence. But
not enough to stay. Now
Wells flexed his shoulders and stared down the perfect three-lane void ahead.
This time when he twisted the throttle he didn't hesitate but instead pulled
back as far as he could. The bike surged, and suddenly Wells heard Just don't play with me 'cause
you're playing with fire... Not
the confident strut of Mick Jagger but the bleak, reedy tones of Johnny
Thunder. The
engine roared and the speedometer needle jumped from fifty-five to
eighty-five and kept going. When it topped one hundred, Wells flattened
himself on the gas tank and hung on. For dear life, he thought. Though anyone
watching might wonder exactly what those words meant to him. And then
everything faded but the wind and the road, the bike jolting off every
crease, its wheels caressing the highway, and Springsteen's unmistakable
voice in his ears: Drink this and you'll grow wings
on your feet. Wells
glimpsed the speedometer, its white needle past 120, its tip quivering. It
maxed out at 125, with the tach in the red zone at 9,000 revolutions per
minute. He had never pushed the bike so far. He laid off the throttle and
watched himself come back to earth. A
few seconds later, he heard the siren screaming. The lights pulsed red-blue-red-blue
in his mirrors, half a mile behind but gaining fast. He
flexed his hand around the throttle. Part of him wanted to wind it down and
take off again. He doubted the trooper could match his speed. He could
probably get to the next exit and disappear. The Ghost
War provides fine entertainment and plenty of distraction for readers who
enjoy a spy novel and some plausible scenarios from the emerging world stage.
Steve
Hopkins, April 21, 2008 |
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The recommendation rating for
this book appeared in the May 2008 issue of Executive Times URL for this review: http://www.hopkinsandcompany.com/Books/The Ghost War.htm For Reprint Permission, Contact: Hopkins & Company, LLC • E-mail: books@hopkinsandcompany.com |
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