By Jon Courtenay Grimwood
Half secret, half speculative fiction, and thoroughly unforgettable, Jon Courtenay Grimwood’s celebrated Arabesk sequence portrays the darkish, hard-boiled tale of a guy out to turn out his innocence in another international the place the proof aren’t continuously just like the reality . . . and homicide isn’t the worst that could ensue. It’s a twenty-first century hauntingly familiar—and but startlingly various from our personal. the following the USA brokered a deal that ended international warfare I, and the Ottoman Empire by no means collapsed. And lording it over all sits the complicated, seductive, and bloodthirsty North African city of El Iskandryia. nearly not anything is what it kind of feels to be in El Isk, and Ashraf Bey is not any exception. Neither the wealthy Ottoman aristocrat all people thinks he's, nor the minor road felony as soon as shipped off to felony while he fell foul of his chinese language Triad employers–the truth is that Raf has as little suggestion who he's as an individual else. With few clues and no cash, all Raf has is a surname hinting at noble background and an prepared marriage to a lady who hates him. yet not anything Ashraf al Mansur learns approximately himself is as unexpected—or as terrifying—as the brutal homicide he’s accused of committing. Now, as a hunted guy with the welfare of a precocious younger lady in his irresponsible arms, Raf needs to race after a killer via an unforgiving urban as international to him because the fact he will discover approximately himself.
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Additional resources for Pashazade
Hani nodded, eyes wide. ' 'Identity papers,' Felix said. His left hand kept the Colt pushed against Raf's skull while his right reached for the card Raf extracted from his inside jacket pocket. ' Definitely American, Raf decided, watching the fat man return his revolver to its hip holster. First language Brooklyn, second Arabic, third very bad French. Which was one better than him. 'Colonel Pashazade Ashraf al-Mansur . . Pashazade? ' Your dad. Now there was a concept with which to conjure. 'No,' said Raf, grabbing back his Third Circle laminate.
It can't have been Zara,' Madame Rahina said firmly. 'She stayed over with a friend in Abukir. ' Raf peeled off his glasses and dropped them in his pocket. 'Still. ' Zara shot him a look that mixed relief with outrage and her mother smirked. But it was Hamzah Effendi who spoke. 'Nasty stuff, food poisoning,' he said, looking at Zara. 'It's disgraceful,' said Lady Nafìsa firmly from her end of the table. 'Completely disgraceful that we let immigrants mutilate each other in the name of RenSchmiss.
Raf knew that from the way the Chief of Detectives suddenly straightened up, pausing mid-stride. One hand came up to smooth his hair, thick fingers once again slicking sweat across his scalp. 'Yes, sir. I'm glad your wife got home safely. " If the Minister noticed the criticism implicit in the fat man's words it didn't stop his list of questions. ' Ripping aside the tape that closed off the study door, Felix walked over to the dead woman's desk and half closed her paper, making sure the sticky pages didn't actually touch.