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Summary
Summary
From the master of the novel of international intrigue comes a riveting new book as timely and unsettling as tomorrow's headlines.
It is summer 1999 in Russia, a country on the threshold of anarchy. An interim president sits powerless in Moscow as his nation is wracked by famine and inflation, crime and corruption, and seething hordes of the unemployed roam the streets.
For the West, Russia is a basket case. But for Igor Komarov, one-time army sergeant who has risen to leadership of the right-wing UPF party, the chaos is made to order. As he waits in the wings for the presidential election of January 2000, his striking voice rings out over the airwaves offering the roiling masses hope at last--not only for law, order, and prosperity, but for restoring the lost greatness of their land.
Who is this man with the golden tongue who is so quickly becoming the promise of a Russia reborn? A document stolen from party headquarters and smuggled to Washington and London sends nightmare chills through those who remember the past, for this Black Manifesto is pure Mein Kampf in a country with frightening parallels to the Germany of the Weimar Republic.
Officially the West can do nothing, but in secret a group of elder statesmen sends the only person who can expose the truth about Komarov into the heart of the inferno. Jason Monk, ex-CIA and the best damn agent-runner we ever had, had sworn he would never return to Moscow, but one name changes his mind. Colonel Anatoli Grishin, the KGB officer who tortured and murdered four of Monk's agents after they had been betrayed by Aldrich Ames, is now Komarov's head of security.
Monk has a dual mission: to stop Komarov, whatever ittakes, and to prepare the way for an icon worthy of the Russian people. But he has a personal mission as well: to settle the final score with Grishin. To do this he must stay alive--and the forces allied against him are ruthless, the time frighteningly short.... From the Paperback edition.
Author Notes
Frederick Forsyth was born in Ashford, England on August 25, 1938. At age seventeen, he decided he was ready to start experiencing life for himself, so he left school and traveled to Spain. While there he briefly attended the University of Granada before returning to England and joining the Royal Air Force. He served with the RAF from 1956 to 1958, earning his wings when he was just nineteen years old.
He left the RAF to become a reporter for the Eastern Daily Press, Reuters News Agency, and the British Broadcasting Corporation (BBC). While with the BBC, he was sent to Nigeria to cover an uprising in the Biafra region. As he learned more about the conflict, he became sympathetic to the rebel cause. He was pulled from Nigeria and reassigned to London when he reported this viewpoint. Furious, he resigned and returned to Nigeria as a freelance reporter, eventually writing The Biafra Story and later, Emeka, a biography of the rebel leader Chukwuemeka Odumegwu-Ojukwu.
Upon his return to England in 1970, Forsyth began writing fiction. His first novel, The Day of the Jackal, won an Edgar Allan Poe award from the Mystery Writers of America. His other works include The Odessa File, The Dogs of War, The Fourth Protocol, Devil's Alternative, The Negotiator, The Deceiver, The Fist of God, Icon, The Veteran, Avenger, The Afghan, The Cobra and The Fox.
(Bowker Author Biography)
Reviews (5)
Publisher's Weekly Review
While for sheer reading excitement Forsyth has yet to top his fiction debut, Day of the Jackal, published a quarter century ago, his later novels (The Fist of God, etc.) display a mature mastery of storytelling melded with a deep knowledge of realpolitik. Here, contemporary Russian crypto-fascists prove every bit as villainous as their Communist predecessors whom Forsyth portrayed in The Fourth Protocol and The Deceiver. It's 1999, and ultra-nationalist Igor Komarov's victory in the upcoming Russian presidential election seems assured. But within Komarov's party headquarters, an elderly janitor accidentally discovers Komarov's secret plans for Russia, laid out in a document that comes to be known as the Black Manifestoa blueprint for a return to dictatorship, military expansionism and genocidal ethnic cleansing. The manifesto soon comes to the attention of British intelligence, but both they and the CIA are restrained by their governments from taking official action. So with the backing of an organization of international VIPs, former British Secret Service chief Sir Nigel Irvine mounts his own covert operation to subvert Komarov. Ex-CIA operative Jason Monk, who once ran highly placed agents in the Soviet Union, will be Irvine's point man. As usual, Forsyth interweaves speculation with historical fact, stitching his plot pieces with a cogent analysis of both Russian politics and the world of espionageparticularly the legacy of the real-life Aldrich Ames, a Soviet mole who tunneled deep into the CIA. Shifting back and forth in time and space among a large cast of characters, Forsyth expertly builds suspense toward a climactic New Year's Eve skirmish in Moscow. It's another strong performance by a writer who knows exactly what he's about, and who here catalyzes narrative with another memorable protagonist, the stealthy and daring Monk. Major ad/promo; BOMC main selection. (Oct.) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved
Booklist Review
Eyeing the 2000 election, superpatriot Igor Komarov vows to restore prosperity and national greatness to Russia, a platform sure to elevate him to the presidency. He unwisely commits his secret genocidal political desires to paper, and the document reaches British intelligence. Is the Black Manifesto genuine, and if so, how will Hitler the Second be thwarted? Meanwhile, Komarov's ruthless minion Grishin attempts to retrieve the manifesto, springing a two-pronged plot that proves Forsyth remains a premier crafter of the international cloak-and-dagger thriller. The stop-Komarov conspiracy emanates from retired British Secret Intelligence Service chief Sir Nigel Irvine, stepping in for a timorous government wanting no part of dirty work. Irvine taps ex-CIA folks also out to pasture, and one Jason Monk emerges to infiltrate Moscow and start rumors about the manifesto's existence in an attempt to provoke Komarov. Gaining audiences by deception, Monk shows the document to the Chechens, the Orthodox Patriarch, and a Jewish business leader, all of whom would be consigned to a new gulag should Komarov win. Ensnaring readers in a taut web of disguises and disinformation, Forsyth subtly conceals the truth and the existence of a double agent until the very end, proving that the skillful author still has some satisfying tricks up his sleeve. Sure to be popular. (Reviewed Sept. 1, 1996)055309128XGilbert Taylor
School Library Journal Review
YAThis complex spy novel opens in the summer of 1999 in a Russia on the brink of economic and political ruin as its elected President dies. Information leaks to the West indicating that his probable successor, Komarov, is a bigot who makes Hitler seem tame. Alternating sections take readers back to 1983 to give necessary background and introduce the hero, Jason Monk, before resuming the primary plot. Monk works for the CIA and has been hired to stop the election of Komarov. Many of his efforts are hampered by Aldrich Ames, a Russian spy who worked in the CIA and eliminated those who might have helped Monk in 1999. The use of actual political leaders and spies makes for an engaging blend of truth and fiction. In spite of the novel's length, Forsyth is adept at reviewing both past events and identifying characters within the plot while providing a good description of the problems of contemporary Russia. Even though readers know that Monk will be successful, the epilogue holds final, creative surprises. An intriguing story of espionage.Claudia Moore, W. T. Woodson High School, Fairfax, VA (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Kirkus Review
An American spy who has come in from the cold helps save turn- of-the-century Russia from its own worst self in an absorbingly resonant thriller from Forsyth (The Fist of God, 1994, etc.), who once again proves himself a master of the game of blending historical fact with fictive fancy. During the hard winter of 1999, Russia (whose economy has been crippled by corruption, organized crime, and inflation) reaches the brink of collapse when its president suddenly dies in office. A new chief executive must be chosen within 90 days, and the world's smart money is on Igor Komarov, the charismatic chairman of a right-wing political party known as the Union of Patriotic Forces (UPF). Something more than a reactionary nationalist, Komarov has unwisely committed his fascist and racist philosophy to paper. A copy of this appalling document (known as the Black Manifesto) falls into the hands of British intelligence and comes to the attention of Sir Nigel Irvine, retired head of the SIS. Since neither London nor Washington will take action, the knight-errant secures help from a sub-rosa group of elder statesmen to frustrate the would-be dictator's terrifying aspirations. His main man in this venture is Jason Monk, a former CIA officer, who had quit the agency after his Moscow operatives were betrayed by Aldrich Ames. Infiltrated into Moscow, Monk (who speaks Russian like a native) plays the centerpiece role in a dramatic scheme to discredit Komarov and rescue Russia from anarchy by establishing a constitutional monarchy with a Romanov heir on the throne. With assistance from a Chechen Mafia chieftain whose life he once saved, the elusive operative enlists the aid of bankers, upright police commanders, journalists, TV executives, the military, and other oddly coupled allies, including the Orthodox Church's patriarch, in halting the UPF's electoral juggernaut. His efforts are successful enough for the desperate Komarov to attempt a New Year's Day coup. Fine page-turning fare from a consummate pro.
Library Journal Review
It is 1999, and Russia is wracked by inflation, corruption, and widespread unemployment. An interim president sits powerless in the Kremlin awaiting a January election. The assumed new leader is Komarov, who mesmerizes the country with his compelling speeches of a Russia reborn. Suddenly, a secret document penned by Komarov turns up at the U.S. Embassy. "The Black Manifesto" outlines his true plans for a "purified" nation and a return to the terror and ruthlessness of communism. A group of political and economic elder statesmen convene and persuade Jason Monk, a retired CIA spy, to infiltrate the Kremlin and stop Komarov. As compelling and suspenseful as the author's The Day of the Jackal (1971), this novel is Forsyth at his best as he takes Jason Monk through the seething underworld of Moscow with the Kremlin's finest in hot pursuit. [Previewed in Prepub Alert, LJ 7/96.]Susan Clifford, Palos Verdes Lib. Dist., Rolling Hills Estates, Cal. (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Excerpts
Excerpts
It was just before noon on the same day, July 16, that Igor Komarov, sitting in his office on the first floor of the dacha off Kiselny Boulevard, contacted his chief personal assistant by intercom. "The document I lent you yesterday, you have had a chance to read it?" he asked. "I have indeed, Mr. President. Quite brilliant, if I may say so," Akopov replied. All of Komarov's staff referred to him as Mr. President, meaning president of the executive committee of the Union of Patriotic Forces. They were in any case convinced that within twelve months he would still be Mr. President but for a different reason. "Thank you," said Komarov. "Then please return it to me." The intercom went dead. Akopov rose and went to his wall safe. He knew the combination by heart and spun the central dial the required six times. When the door swung open he looked inside for the black-bound file. It was not there. Puzzled, he emptied the safe, paper by paper and file by file. A cold fear, part panic and part disbelief, gripped him. Taking a hold on himself, he began again. The files on the carpet around his knees were sorted out and examined, sheet by sheet and one by one. No black file. A light sweat beaded his forehead. He had worked contentedly in the office all morning, convinced that before leaving the previous evening he had put every confidential document safely away. He always did; he was a creature of habit. After the safe, he began on the drawers of his desk. Nothing. He searched the floor under the desk, then every cupboard and closet. Just before one he knocked on Igor Komarov's door, was admitted, and confessed he could not find it. The man who most of the world presumed would be the next president of Russia was a highly complex personality who, behind his public persona, preferred to keep much of himself intensely private. He could not have been a greater contrast to his predecessor, the ousted Zhirinovsky, whom he now openly referred to as a buffoon. Komarov was of medium height and build, clean-shaven, with neatly trimmed iron-gray hair. Among his two most evident fetishes were an absorption with personal cleanliness and a deep dislike of physical contact. Unlike most Russian politicians, with their back-slapping, vodka-toasting, arms-around-the-shoulders bonhomie, Komarov insisted on formal dress and manner of speech in his personal entourage. He rarely if ever donned the uniform of the Black Guard and was usually to be found in a double-breasted gray suit with collar and tie. After years in politics none but a very few could claim to be on close personal terms with him, and no one dared pretend to be an intimate. Nikita Ivanovich Akopov had been his confidential private secretary for a decade but the relationship was still one of master and slavishly devoted servant. Unlike Yeltsin, who had raised staff members to the rank of drinking and tennis-playing buddies, Komarov would, so far as was known, only permit one man to refer to him by first name and patronymic. That was his Head of Security, Colonel Anatoli Grishin. But like all successful politicians, Komarov could play the chameleon when he had to. To the media, on the rare occasions when he deigned to meet them personally, he could become the grave statesman. Before his own rallies, he became transformed in a manner that never ceased to evoke Akopov's utter admiration. On the podium the precise former engineer vanished as if he had never been. In his place appeared the orator, a pillar of passion, a sorcerer of words, a man of all the people enunciating their hopes, fears, and desires, their rage and their bigotry, with unerring accuracy. To them and only them would he play the figure of geniality with the common touch. Beneath both personae there was a third, the one that frightened Akopov. Even the rumor of the existence of the third man beneath the veneer was enough to keep those around him--staff, colleagues, and guards--in a permanent state of the deference he demanded. Only twice in ten years had Nikita Akopov seen the demonic rage inside the man well up and spew out of control. On another dozen occasions he had seen the struggle to control that rage, and witnessed the effort succeed. On the two occasions when the control had failed, Akopov had seen the man who dominated, fascinated, and controlled him, the man he followed and worshipped, turn into a screaming, raging demon. He had hurled telephones, vases, and ink-stands at the trembling servant who had offended him, reducing one senior Black Guard officer to a blubbering wreck. He had used language more foul than Akopov had ever heard, broken furniture, and once had to be restrained as he belabored a victim with a heavy ebony ruler lest he actually kill the man. Akopov knew the sign that one of these rages in the president of the UPF was coming to the surface. Komarov's face went deathly pale, his manner became even more formal and courteous, and two bright red spots burned high on each cheekbone. "Are you saying you have lost it, Nikita Ivanovich?" "Not lost, Mr. President. Apparently mislaid." "That document is of a more confidential nature than anything you have ever handled. You have read it. You can understand why." "I do indeed, Mr. President." "There are only three copies in existence, Nikita. Two are in my own safe. No more than a tiny group of those closest to me will ever be allowed to see it. I even wrote it and typed it myself. I, Igor Komarov, actually typed all the pages myself rather than entrust it to a secretary. It is that confidential." "Very wise, Mr. President." "And because I count . . . counted you as one of that tiny group, I permitted you to see it. Now you tell me it is lost." "Mislaid, temporarily mislaid, I assure you, Mr. President." Komarov was staring at him with those mesmeric eyes that could charm skeptics into collaboration or terrify backsliders. On each cheekbone the red spot burned bright in the pale face. "When did you last see it?" "Last night, Mr. President. I stayed late in order to read it in privacy. I left at eight o'clock." Komarov nodded. The night-duty guards' register would confirm or deny that. "You took it with you. Despite my orders, you permitted the file to leave the building." "No, Mr. President, I swear it. I locked it in the safe. I would never leave a confidential document lying around, or take it with me." "It is not in the safe now?" Akopov swallowed, but he had no saliva. "How many times have you been to the safe before my call?" "None, Mr. President. When you called, that was the first time I went to the safe." "It was locked?" "Yes, as usual." "It had been broken into?" "Apparently not, Mr. President." "You have searched the room?" "From top to bottom and end to end. I cannot understand it." Komarov thought for several minutes. Behind his blank face he felt a rising panic. Finally he called the security office on the ground floor. "Seal the building. No one enters, no one leaves. Contact Colonel Grishin. Tell him to report to my office. Immediately. Wherever he is, whatever he is doing, I want him here within the hour." He lifted his forefinger from the intercom and gazed at his white-faced and trembling assistant. "Return to your office. Communicate with nobody. Wait there until further notice." Excerpted from Icon by Frederick Forsyth. Copyright (c) 1996 by Frederick Forsyth. Excerpted by permission of Bantam Books, a division of the Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher. From the Paperback edition. Excerpted from Icon by Frederick Forsyth 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.
