William Peter Blatty
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William Peter Blatty has thrilled generations of readers with his iconic mega-bestseller The Exorcist. Now Blatty gives us Dimiter, a riveting story of murder, revenge, and suspense. Laced with themes of faith and love, sin and forgiveness, vengeance and compassion, it is a novel in the grand tradition of Morris West’s The Devil’s Advocate and the Catholic novels of Graham Greene.
Dimiter opens in the world’s most oppressive and isolated totalitarian state: Albania in the 1970s. A prisoner suspected of being an enemy agent is held by state security. An unsettling presence, though subjected to unimaginable torture he maintains an eerie silence. He escapes---and on the way to freedom, completes a mysterious mission. The prisoner is Dimiter, the American “agent from Hell.”
The scene shifts to Jerusalem, focusing on Hadassah Hospital and a cast of engaging, colorful characters: the brooding Christian Arab police detective, Peter Meral; Dr. Moses Mayo, a troubled but humorous neurologist; Samia, an attractive, sharp-tongued nurse; and assorted American and Israeli functionaries and hospital staff. All become enmeshed in a series of baffling, inexplicable deaths, until events explode in a surprising climax.
Told with unrelenting pace, Dimiter’s compelling, page-turning narrative is haunted by the search for faith and the truths of the human condition. Dimiter is William Peter Blatty's first full novel since the 1983 publication of Legion.
their identity cards. But when the oldster stood up I saw his blindness and I told him, “Never mind, grandfather. Sit.” The other fellow dug for his card in his pocket, and then he handed it over and I checked it. It said that his name was Selca Decani and that he was a seller of feta cheese from Theti. But I think he was more than that. Q. How? A. I don’t know. I can’t explain it. Q. I am handing you the Prisoner’s identity card. Did you scrutinize it carefully? A. Well, no. I mean, he
birthday at a time when they lived in the country’s north, Meral thought to surprise him, the story is told, and had parked his jeep out of sight behind a hill and then hurried toward his house with a blaze of bright sunflowers clutched in front of him—they were the little boy’s favorite flower—and a stuffed toy dinosaur tucked behind his back. The little boy, who had spied him through a kitchen window, raced out of their house with a radiant smile, his slender bare arms outstretched to greet
absolutely sure. MERAL: About what? ZUI: Well, your report about the body in the Tomb has raised an issue that you couldn’t have been expected to be aware of, so they’d just like you to lay it all out again for us again. As you talk, something new might occur to you that you might have overlooked in your report, or that you just didn’t think was relevant but which could be explosively so to us. So alright, now, that’s clear? MERAL: Yes, it’s clear. But can you tell me what you mean by that
it. They could ruin your careers. They’re addictive.” ”Thanks for the coffee.” That night, Zui went home to the small apartment, close to the shore in Tel Aviv, where he lived with two young children and a wife with some renown in the city for having cheated death at Auschwitz when the guard in charge of admitting a line of doomed prisoners into a gas chamber studied her face and then said to the guards who had brought her, “No, no, take her away from here! Take her! She looks just like my
wondered. He lifted it out and sat again on the edge of his bed as the muted strains of a violin concerto started up in the room of some nun down the hall. Meral stared at his find, a sheaf of unmailed, handwritten letters held together by a band of purple ribbon. All of them began with the words, “Dearest Jean.” CHAPTER 30 He moved slowly and soundlessly as a specter through a series of vaulted, shadowy avenues flanked by arched portals and massive pillars until at last he stopped at