In this final book of the [Jerusalem Quartet] Whittemore follows the career of one Yossi, an Iraqi born Jew who becomes a deep agent for the Mossad in Syria, the Runner, who poses and then, in some way, becomes a Syrian and for decades successfully transfers information that, among others, enables the successful fight for the Golan Heights and some shifting of the borders to the west. In the end he works for the Syrians as well and the stress overwhelms him but it is hardly surprising. The man who is his 'handler', Tajar, the first head of the Mossad (I have no idea of any of the historical accuracy of any of this but I suspect names are changed and the essence is true) is a very minor person in the previous novel as is 'Bell' who in the previous book was the head of 'The Monastery' a British undercover organization in Egypt. Whittemore was undoubtedly an agent himself for the US, deeply knowledgeable about all things Middle Eastern. His description of the implosion of Lebanon is masterful. I grew up reading endlessly about the chaos there and it was helpful to read about how it came about in this more intimate way. I think, having read all four books, Whittemore is attempting to show how generation after generation the same theme, with variations, plays out between Arabs, Jews, and Christians, nothing resolved, nothing changes (as in improves). There are merely periods of quiet punctuated by extreme violence and reshufflings. A few die in the crossfire, a few survive to sit on the sidelines watching history repeat itself very much like water, always different, always the same. Any person interested in the Middle East will find the Quartet worthwhile reading. ****1/2 ( )

“But for Tajar this chance glimpse at the incomprehensible counterorder of the universe was truly startling, far more so than any random clash of chaos could have been behind the tangle of wild rosebushes in his walled compound, where a huge ancient cactus guarded the gate with a thousand sharp swords.”

This is the last book by this author that I will ever read. This is the last book that the author had written. The final segment in The Jerusalem Quartet, 𝘑𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘩𝘰 𝘔𝘰𝘴𝘢𝘪𝘤, is a stand-alone work. All four of the books are. Each one a masterpiece. Each one a separate sliver of glass in the mosaic that Whittemore arranged to convey or encapsulate or merely grapple with understanding the greater picture of existence. Pieces shattered from Southeast Asia and the Middle East and the American Southwest and North Africa all reassembled in some semblance of a reality that could seem too poetic if it weren’t so painfully authentic. The soul is racked. The heart is pummeled with rifle butts. The skin is abuzz with the fire and sandy winds from a world in which we humans had sprung, from which we evolved, from which we developed ever-greater technology to bomb us Earth-birthed humans back into dust. The brain is left to pick up the pieces.

And so, there’s a mosaic.

It’s beautiful. It’s horrifying. It makes me feel less than what I am. It makes me want to pedal my arms through those whipping winds to discover the source of it all—whether there was an ultimate meaning or not. For that mosaic cobbled together in the desert, burnt into the sand, blown by ghost caravans, kissed by djinn, trampled by angels holding aloft burning swords, is as honest and scintillating a tableau of human history I’ve ever read.

And it’s the last book.

Only five novels, and what an impact. I doubt the impression could ever be worn from my mind, no matter how excoriating the scirocco.

What beauty. What horror. What friendship. What life. What a grand gulp of air at the finish, staring up into the unblinking sun.

I’ll never get to read any more of Whittemore. What a shame. But, then again, what a shame to have never read him at all. His influence will run the length of the rest of my life—whether writing or simply staring at the writing in the short grass. Maybe looking for meaning. Maybe just wanting to feel the warmth and immediacy of it all. Ever and always returning to that mosaic in appreciation and awe.

I could weep if there were any moisture in the wilderness. I could sing if it weren’t so dry. I could smile and count grains of sand. I could write.

I shall write.

Thank you for your tireless vision. Thank you for your undying voice in the dunes. ( )

Het Jeruzalemkwartet behoort tot het meest monumentale dat ooit op het lezerspubliek is losgelaten. Het is geschiedenis verpakt in een spionageroman, heeft een ongekende rijkheid aan personages en verschuift in de loop van het kwartet van extravagant naar ingetogen. Het vraagt aandacht en ietwat van uithoudingsvermogen, maar de beloning volgt. Jericho mozaïek is een meer dan waardige afsluiter van een memorabel kwartet.
Volledige bespreking via http://wraakvandedodo.blogspot.be/2012/09/edward-whittemore-jericho-mozaiek.html ( )

Ah yes, thought bell, races & wars and caravans of believers and seas, with their armies of chance and their games of skill... all come to meet in a orange grove at the crossroads of Jericho

Inspired by true events, this centres on the one Mossad agent who gives up everything to spend his years buried deep within Syria. A pivotal role in the taking of Golan heights and the birth of Israel as we know it today. Although being Edward Whittemore it is also much more than that, the theme of threes continues with each religion represented in the beautiful town of Jericho where old men (a Moslem, Jew and Christian of course!) meet daily for board games and chat. Life flows around them and characters touch, fleetingly but with great impact.

Less dark than the last but with the current future hanging over the scene we know there no happy ending. Still it’s bitter-sweet and cleverly mixes an overarching tense espionage plot with a feel of purely reminiscing of a past eventful life, of what will be will be. Its tone very much showing this is the last book in series. The characters are of course full and many and varied, the plot has more focus then before and passed fast so this feels the shortest one of series even though it’s not.

One word that sums it up is satisfying, a good end to an astounding series. It could easily be read alone and enjoyed but would lose that peaceful finality. More accessible than the others so recommended to lovers of historical fiction, those interested in middle east history. For those seeking chaos try the 2nd book. ( )