The cover wife

Dan Fesperman, 1955-

Book - 2021

"From the author of Safe Houses--An electrifying new novel about a CIA agent and a young Moroccan ex-pat who becomes ensnared in the world of radical Islam. When CIA agent Claire Saylor is told that she'll be going undercover to pose as the dowdy wife of a stuffy academic who has posited a controversial new interpretation of the Quran's promise to martyrs she assumes the job is a punishment for past unorthodox behavior. But when she discovers her team leader is Paul Bridger, another maverick within the agency, she realizes that the mission may be more interesting than meets the eye--and not just for professional reasons. At the same time, in Hamburg, Mahmoud, a recent Moroccan émigré, begins to fall under the sway of a grou...p of radicals at his local Mosque. As his commitment to his new friends deepens, he finds himself torn between his obligations to them and the feelings he's developing towards a beautiful westernized Muslim woman. Their lives will intertwine, as Claire learns the truth about the mission in Hamburg, and Mahmoud's relationship with the radicals pulls him into dangerous waters. And they will both realize--but will it be too late?--that the consequences of their actions could well determine the very future of the United States"--

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Subjects
Genres
Suspense fiction
Mystery fiction
Thrillers (Fiction)
Detective and mystery fiction
Published
New York : Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Penguin Random House, LLC 2021
Language
English
Main Author
Dan Fesperman, 1955- (author)
Edition
First edition
Item Description
"A novel"--Cover.
Physical Description
321 pages ; 25 cm
ISBN
9780525657835
9781984899156
Contents unavailable.
Review by Booklist Review

Set in 1999 in Hamburg, Germany, Fesperman's latest finds CIA agent Claire Saylor posing as the wife of a professor whose new book posits an incendiary interpretation of the Qur'an--the Muslim holy book, he argues, actually says that, upon arriving in heaven, martyrs will receive 72 raisins, not virgins. Riding shotgun with a crackpot prof on a book tour isn't Claire's idea of a plum assignment, so when her former lover, Paul Bridger, reveals that he has another task in mind for her, she's all in. A little-known group of jihadists appears to be planning something big, and a new recruit, Mahmoud, who has a secret of his own, could be the weak link. Jumping between Mahmoud's story--he's torn between his devotion to the cause and his attraction to a Westernized Muslim woman--and the internecine rivalries plaguing the FBI and CIA, Fesperman teases out the details of the jihadists' plan (something about American airliners and "flight school"). We know enough to know what's coming, but Fesperman uses that excruciating dramatic irony superbly, showing once more, as le Carré did, that spies are often their own worst enemies.

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.
Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

Set in 1999, this gripping if uneven spy thriller from Fesperman (Safe Houses) fictionalizes the story of the terrorist cell in Hamburg, Germany, responsible for the 9/11 attacks. CIA agent Claire Saylor goes undercover, posing as the wife of an academic with an explosive new interpretation of the Koran launching a book at an event in Hamburg. But Saylor's real job is to understand what the terrorist cell is up to--and she soon discovers other American agents are focused on the same group of Islamists. A parallel plot focused on Mahmoud Yassin, an Arab youth who becomes radicalized and joins the cell, raises the tension. Identities and motives are tantalizingly muddled, and Fesperman, a fine stylist, does a good job portraying the elusive, frustrating nature of espionage, but Saylor, more pawn than leader, doesn't seem to be the narrative's obvious fulcrum, and the suspense is undercut by the knowledge that the Hamburg cell succeeded in its mission. With the 20th anniversary of 9/11 looming, this solid effort is worth a look. Agent: Ann Rittenberg, Ann Rittenberg Literary. (July)

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved
Review by Library Journal Review

Last seen in Safe Houses, CIA agent Claire Saylor here takes center stage while posing as the wife of an academic with an unsettling new interpretation of the Quran's promise to martyrs. Soon, she's crossed paths in Hamburg with young Moroccan émigré Mahmoud, who's drawn both to radicals at his local mosque and to a Westernized Muslim woman. From Hammett winner Fesperman, claimant to CWA John Creasey and Ian Fleming Steel daggers.

(c) Copyright Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Review by Kirkus Book Review

In late 1999, Paris-based CIA agent Claire Saylor goes to Hamburg to help penetrate an Al-Qaida group whose members include future 9/11 conspirators. Claire, whose defiance of her superiors has made her something of a black sheep at the agency, is handled by Paul Bridger, with whom she had a brief affair during a botched mission in Berlin a decade ago. Her unpromising assignment is to pose as the wife of an American language scholar whose inflammatory new book asserts a key section of the Quran has been misinterpreted--that 72 white raisins, not 72 virgins, await jihadi martyrs. The dumpy professor believes his European book tour is being sponsored by a prestigious think tank and that Claire is there for his security, but the trip has been arranged by the CIA in hopes that his physical presence will draw radicals into the open. At the same time, young Moroccan émigré Mahmoud Yassin is busy ingratiating himself with radicals from a local mosque. Their leader, known as Amir, is Mohamed Atta. He says he has big plans for Mahmoud. But first the new recruit must prove his mettle by getting rid of Esma, the alluring, Westernized woman who threatens to interfere with plans to send her husband on a suicide mission. Instantly smitten with her, the skittish Mahmoud is caught between a rock and a tantalizing soft place. In withholding key details from the reader early on, Fesperman is cheating a bit. But his follow-up to the exceptional Safe Houses (2018) is a breezy, thoughtful thriller that avoids high drama in favor of quick and ultimately unsettling shots to the system. An absorbing tale of terrorism with a tantalizing what if at its core. Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

1 The rain clouds parted an hour before sunset, and the hiker's shadow finally rejoined him on the mountain trail, his only companion all day. Or so he hoped. Ascending to a granite outcrop with a sweeping view, he paused to look back at the way he'd come: lacy spring foliage and a meadow in bloom, with the trail stitched through it like a dirty suture. Not a soul on it. The air was golden with pollen, and he considered digging into his pack for an allergy pill before remembering he'd already taken one. He cleared his throat, spit, and immediately regretted it. He rubbed the spot with the toe of his boot, only to make a bigger mess. Sighing, he checked his watch and set off. Still lurking to his rear was the unseen presence that had haunted him since dawn. All in his head, perhaps, but the reports from the briefing had been sobering enough: two men, well trained and unaccounted for, meaning they might be anywhere. He imagined them back there now, moving briskly just beyond the nearest ridge. He picked up the pace. A mile later, reaching the level grade of a narrow ridge, he eased into a long and limber stride. Better. His scuffed old boots were a comfort, a reminder of past hikes among friends. Their voices returned to him in the murmur of the leaves, the creak of swaying limbs--­distant echoes of dewy mornings and twilight encampments, those long-­ago weekends when they would cook up a hearty fireside meal and scrub their mess kits in the gravel of a stream. A tin cup of whiskey to pass around the campfire, everyone carried off to slumber on a tide of laughter and familiar old tales. Caught up in his memories, he imagined himself later that night, rubbing his hands for warmth as he brewed coffee on a tidy blaze. Or, no, because that would be like lighting a beacon in the night. So instead he would boil water on his tiny stove, eat one of those dehydrated meals from a pouch. He would turn in early, listening carefully from his tent to the noises of the night. Sleep as well as he could, and then rise before dawn. An old song came to mind, so he whistled a bar just to hear the sound of something human, his footsteps keeping rhythm as the trail steepened. The last notes drifted up into the trees and he fell silent, conserving his breath for the climb. He recalled a boyhood tale of a cavalry scout trying to outrun the Comanches, in which days had turned to weeks. He had packed enough food for five nights, but what if he needed to re­supply? From above came the grumble of a single-­engine plane, which stopped him in his tracks. He remained still for a full minute, watching as it passed low enough for him to read the tail number. No one had mentioned this possibility, although he supposed it was within their capabilities. Various weapons had been discussed, of course. But this? Yet here he was, cowering beneath the leaves. Sunlight glinted off the fuselage as the plane moved toward the horizon. He exhaled and reached for his water bottle. Yet again he gazed back at the way he'd come. The trail was still empty, so he allowed himself a moment to enjoy the view. There was much to admire--­low sunlight sparkled in the wet branches like diamonds, or the twinkle of a vast city in a valley, stirring to life at dusk. The forest smelled as fresh as a mown pasture, and birdsong was everywhere, the final chorus before nightfall. Such beauty. And for the first time all week, he took hope. Smiling, he drew a deep breath of the clean mountain air and resumed walking. He had covered fourteen miles today, a tiring distance at his age, but "a good tired," as his wife liked to say, the kind that settled your mind for a deep and healing sleep. So, after another mile, he decided to leave the trail to scout for a campsite. The good omens multiplied. He quickly found a level patch of downy grass beneath a spreading beech, where a pale band of fallen leaves pointed like an arrow to the optimum spot. It was like an illustration for a fairy tale, a place of enchantment. He heaved off his pack, set it down by a big log, and unzipped the top. Fresh, cooling air rushed up the back of his shirt, and the crinkly tent released old, familiar smells as he flattened it on the grass. The rituals of making camp were a comfort, and it felt as if the forest had enveloped him in its arms. Nature, so often harsh, was for the moment his cloak of invisibility. This was his home ground, not theirs, and that counted for plenty. Yet as he slid the tent poles into their sleeves he noticed that the birds were no longer singing. Were they done for the day, or had something put them on notice? The wind shifted, and for a fleeting moment he thought he detected a whiff of something human--­sweat, soap, the smell of exertion. Or maybe it was his own scent, coming back to him on the turning breeze. The hairs on his arms stood on end. A twig snapped to his rear, and he nearly lost balance as he wheeled awkwardly and rose from his crouch. Looking left, then right, then over his shoulder toward the trail, he saw only the brown expanse of the forest floor, leaves and limbs, the white flash of a squirrel's belly as it leaped from tree to tree. But the odd smell lingered, unmistakable now, and he remained still. To his rear, the thump of a footfall. He spun as a metallic click sounded from the edge of the clearing, and he saw a man dressed in black just as the bolt from a crossbow struck him below the breastbone and plunged into his heart. Crying out in agony, he slumped to his knees and collapsed sideways. Blood pooled brightly on the deflating tent, and his eyes rolled back in his head. He gasped for breath, but no air would come. The birds held their silence. The only sound now was of footsteps approaching steadily across the leaves. They halted, a moment of peace interrupted by the click of a camera--­twice, as if to make sure. Then, two more steps, followed by a grunt of effort, and the slurping, ripping sound of the bolt being pulled from muscle and flesh. Unable to move or speak, he groaned a final time. His last thought was of disappointment in himself for having mistaken beauty for hope. The woods had failed him, and he had failed himself. The footsteps receded. The birds again took up their song, sounding the all-­clear from the trees. Excerpted from The Cover Wife: A Novel by Dan Fesperman All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.