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Executive Times |
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2007 Book Reviews |
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The
Alexandria Link by Steve Berry |
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Rating: |
** |
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(Mildly Recommended) |
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Click on
title or picture to buy from amazon.com |
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Sham Steve Berry’s The
Alexandria Link appeals to the fans of the emerging Dan Brown genre of
historical fiction: a preposterous premise; historical references packed with
inaccuracies; secrets and plots by the powerful to keep knowledge from
others, etc. After about fifty pages, I realized one more aspect of this book
that made it burdensome to read: I could care less what happened to the
characters, even the protagonist’s son who was kidnapped. The characters were
so poorly developed that while I was willing to observe what happened to
them, I didn’t identify with any of them, and didn’t care what happened. That
makes The Alexandria Link perfect summer reading: you can park your mind in a
beach chair (or airplane seat) and allow a fast moving plot to carry you to
the next meal or dip in the water. Here’s an excerpt, all of chapter 3, pp.
16-19: Malone’s
building shook like an earthquake and swelled with a rush of heat that soared
up through the stairwell. He dove for Pam and together they slammed into a
threadbare rug that covered the plank floor. He shielded her as another
explosion rocked the foundation and more flames surged their way. He gazed
out the doorway. Fires
raged below. Smoke
billowed upward in an ever-darkening cloud. He came
to his feet and darted to the window. The two men were gone. Flames licked
the night. He realized what had happened. They’d torched the lower floors.
The idea wasn’t to kill them. “What’s
happening?” Pam screamed. He
ignored her and raised the window. Smoke was rapidly conquering the air
inside. “Come
on,” he said, and he hustled into the bedroom. He
reached beneath the bed and yanked out the rucksack he always kept ready,
even in retirement, just as he’d done for twelve years as a Magellan Billet
agent. Inside was his passport, a thousand euros, spare identification, a
change of clothes, and his Beretta with ammunition. His influential friend Henrik Thorvaldsen had only recently re-obtained the gun
from the Danish police—confiscated when Malone had become involved with the
Knights Templar a few months back. He
shouldered the bag and slipped his feet into a pair of running shoes. No time
to tie the laces. Smoke consumed the bedroom. He opened both windows, which
helped. “Stay
here,” he said. He held
his breath and trotted through the den to the stairwell. Four stories opened
up below. The ground floor housed his bookshop, the second and third floors
were for storage, the fourth held his apartment. The first and third floors
were ablaze. Heat scorched his face and forced him to retreat. Incendiary
grenades. Had to be. He rushed
back to the bedroom. “No way
out from the stairs. They made sure of that.” Pam was
huddled next to the window gulping air and coughing. He brushed past her and
poked his head out. His bedroom sat in a corner. The building next door,
which housed a jeweler and a clothing store, was a story lower, the roof flat
and lined with brick parapets that, he’d been told, dated from the
seventeenth century. He glanced up. Above the window ran an oversized cornice
that jutted outward and wrapped the front and side of his building. Someone
would surely have called the fire and rescue squads, but he wasn’t going to
wait around for a ladder. Pam
started coughing harder, and he was having trouble breathing himself He
turned her head. “Look up there,” he said, pointing at the cornice. “Grab
hold and move yourself to the side of the building. You can drop from there
onto the roof next door.” Her eyes
went wide. “Are you nuts? We’re four floors up.” “Pam,
this building could blow. There are natural gas lines. Those grenades were
designed to start a fire. They didn’t shoot one into this floor because they
want us to get out.” She
didn’t seem to register what he was saying. “We have
to leave before the police and fire rescue get here.” “They can
help.” “You want
to spend the next eight hours answering questions? We only have seventy-two.” She seemed to instantly comprehend his
logic and stared up at the cornice. “I can’t, Cotton.” For the first time her
voice carried no edge. “ He shouldered the rucksack and wiggled
himself out the window. He gripped the cornice, the coarse stone warm but thin enough that his fingers acquired a solid hold. He
dangled by his arms and worked his way, hand over hand, toward the corner. A
few more feet, around the corner, and he dropped to the flat roof next door. He hustled back to the front of the
building and peered upward. Pam was still in the window. “Come on, do it. Just like I did.” She hesitated. An explosion ripped through the third
floor. Glass from the windows showered Hojbro Plads. Flames raked the darkness. Pam recoiled back
inside. A mistake. A second later her head emerged and she hacked out violent
coughs. “You have to come now,” he yelled. She finally seemed to accept that there
was no choice. As he’d done, she curled herself out the window and grabbed
the cornice. Then she leveraged her body out and hung from her arms. He saw that her eyes were closed. “You
don’t have to look. Just move your hands, one at a time.” She did. Eight feet of cornice stretched between
where he stood and where she was struggling. But she was doing okay. One hand
over the other. Then he saw figures below. In the square. The two men were
back, this time with rifles. He whipped the rucksack around and
plunged a hand inside, finding his Beretta. He fired twice at the
figures fifty feet below The retorts banged off the buildings lining the
square in sharp echoes. “Why are you
shooting?” Pam asked. “Keep coming.” Another shot and the
men below scattered. Pam found the corner.
He gave her a quick glance. “Move around and pull yourself my way.” He searched the
darkness but did not see the gunmen. Pam was maneuvering, one hand clamped
onto the cornice, the other groping for a hold. Then she lost her grip. And fell. He reached out, gun still in his hand,
and managed to catch her. But they both crumpled to the roof She was
breathing hard. So was he. The cell phone rang. He crawled for the rucksack, found the
phone, and flipped it open. “Enjoy yourself?”
the same voice from before asked. “Any reason you had to blow up my
shop?” “You’re the one who said he wasn’t
leaving.” “I want to talk to “I make the rules. You’ve already used
up thirty-six minutes of your seventy-two hours. I’d get moving. Your son’s
life depends on it.” The line went silent. Sirens were approaching. He grabbed the
rucksack and sprang to his feet. “We have to go.” “Who was that?” “Our problem.” “Who was that?” A sudden fury enveloped him. “I have no
idea.” “What is it he wants?” “Something I
can’t give him.” “What do you mean you can’t? “Gee, Pam, I wouldn’t have known that
if you hadn’t pointed it out.” He turned to leave. She grabbed him.
“Where are we going?” “To get answers.” I think The
Alexandria Link is the second of a series. I skipped the earlier book, and
based on not caring about the characters, I’m likely to skip the second.
Unless, of course, I myself stuck at an airport with time to kill. I know
that a Steve Berry book will not require my mind to engage, so I might take
the plunge again. Steve Hopkins,
May 25, 2007 |
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The recommendation rating for
this book appeared in the June 2007
issue of Executive Times URL for this review: http://www.hopkinsandcompany.com/Books/The
Alexandria Link.htm For Reprint Permission,
Contact: Hopkins & Company, LLC • E-mail: books@hopkinsandcompany.com |
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