Since Stieg Larsson’s popularity exploded, we’ve seen quite a lot of mysteries and thrillers from the Nordic regions of Europe. And by a lot, I mean, a lot. Every once in a while, an outlier comes along – and Alexander Söderberg’s The Andalucian Friend is the latest to distinguish itself.
However, Stieg this is not. While this has a similarly huge and complex plot, The Andalucian Friend has a lighter touch, separating it from the rest of the Nordic Noir pack. The first of a trilogy, this one will keep you reading late into the night, and looking forward to the second installment.
When Sophie Brinkmann – nurse, widow, single mother – meets Hector Guzman, her life is uneventful. She quickly learns, though, that his smooth façade masks something much more sinister.
Guzman is the head of a powerful international crime ring, and his interests are under siege by a ruthless German syndicate. The conflict quickly escalates to become a deadly turf war between the rival organizations that includes an itinerant arms dealer, a deeply disturbed detective, a vicious hit man, and a wily police chief. Sophie, too, is unwittingly caught in the middle. She must summon everything within her to navigate this intricate web of moral ambiguity and gamesmanship.
Sophie Brinkmann is no Lisbeth Salander, but you’ll find this cast of characters equally compelling. The Brinkmann Trilogy will appeal to fans of the Milennium Trilogy – but while Söderberg’s work is equally action packed, it’s also a lot more fun.
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The Fiction blog is pleased to share an excerpt from the novel’s opening.
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Prologue
She kept looking between the rearview mirror and the road ahead. She couldn’t see the motorcycle, not just then. It had been there a moment before, looming up behind her, then it disappeared. She pulled into the inside lane of the highway, trying to seek cover from the cars behind her.
They had been shot at from the left; the sound came out from nowhere — rattling in quick succession. The clatter inside the car sounded like someone was hitting the bodywork with a heavy chain. At the same time she heard a yell, but she couldn’t tell if it had come from her or the man beside her. She glanced quickly at him. He was different now: his nerves and fear were shining through, showing themselves as anger. That much was clear from his face: furrowed brow, staring eyes, every now and then a twitch in one of them. He pressed one of the speed-dial numbers on his cell phone again — he had done this once already since the shots were fired — he waited, staring intently ahead of him, no answer this time either, he hung up.
The motorbike was heading toward them at high speed, he yelled at her to drive faster. She realized that speed wasn’t going to save them and neither would his yelling. She felt the metallic taste of fear in her mouth as a white noise buzzed feverishly in her head. Her panic had crossed a boundary, she was no longer trembling, she just felt a terrible weight in her arms, as if driving the car were somehow heavy. And like an invincible enemy, the motorbike was suddenly alongside them. She glanced to the left and saw the snub-nosed weapon in the gunman’s hand again as he raised it toward her. She ducked instinctively as the gun spewed out bullets: hard cracking sounds echoed as the shots hit the bodywork, the crash as the side window shattered, throwing a cascade of glass over her. She was slumped down with her head to one side, foot hard on the accelerator. The car was driving itself, she had no idea what was happening ahead of them. She had time to notice that the glove compartment by his knees was open, that there were several magazines in there, that he was holding a pistol in his hand. Then a loud bang, metal against metal. A loud scraping sound from the right as the car slid into the barrier along the side of the highway. There was a shrieking, scraping sound, the car was juddering, and there was a smell of burning.
She sat up, turned the wheel, and straightened the car, and pulled out into traffic again. A quick look over her shoulder; the motor bike was off to the side behind her. He swore loudly and leaned across her, firing the gun through her window, three shots in quick succession. The explosions from the gun echoed improbably inside the car, the motorbike braked and disappeared.
“Here it comes again,” she said.
He tried to open his own window but the collision with the barrier had buckled the door and the window was stuck. He leaned back toward her, took aim with his right foot, and kicked at the window. Most of the glass fell out. He cleared the rest with the barrel of the gun, then leaned out and shot at the motorbike, which pulled back once more. She realized how hopeless their situation was. The motorbike was in control.
“Say something!” She uttered the command in a loud voice, both hands on the wheel, eyes on the road, speed unchanged.
At first he didn’t answer; he seemed to be thinking, then he turned toward her.
“Sorry, Sophie.”
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Thanks to Random House of Canada for sharing this excerpt. This excerpt has been edited for length.
Excerpted from The Andalucian Friend by Alexander Söderberg.
Copyright © 2013 by Alexander Söderberg.
Excerpted by permission of Knopf Canada, a division of Random House of Canada Limited.
All rights reserved.