Equally enjoyable is the pleasure, borrowed from John le Carré, of watching the games of vastly intelligent and dead-hearted men as they play with the lives of the less guileful. Combining those two is quite the juggling act. Sentence by sentence, the book blends the leanness of a taut thriller with the marbled fatness of Elizabethan prose. That conjurer’s panache of a reveal is achieved through cleverly withheld information, alluring blind alleys and pungent red herrings. Despite this narrowness of vision, the book is a delightfully rich fruitcake and an old-fashioned pleasure to read its plot is an intricate set of intersecting mechanisms and locks and keys, which, when they finally all fall into place, provide the reader with the gawping satisfaction of having been well and truly fooled. It is possible to comprehend his despair at being lost in the rugged wilds of the northeast, but it seems rum that a mind as fine as Ezzedine’s can take no pleasure in the London theater of his day, the wit of its court or its fledgling struggles toward the scientific mentality. His principal character is so full of yearning for his lost Constantinople, and so committed to reminding us of the relative backwardness of the British Isles, that one begins to question his lack of intellectual curiosity. Phillips is at pains to remind us of the superiority of Asia, sometimes to a fault.
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