This novel by H. Clark has in common with Venice sinking slowly into the mud. Unfortunately, there is not a sublime Palazzo Ducale, just a rickety shack whose infamous crooked walls are thin as cigarette paper and suggests the profound boredom moans escaping from the cells where frolic without any conviction many, bloodless and interchangeable protagonists of this story.
To the credit of the author: After brief preliminaries which is feared yet another attempt to plunder the very overrated Da Vinci Code, it is returned in a "whodunit" ordinary (and in this case, one might even say it Operating Lever to frankly sealed diesel). The object of the crime is an esoteric manuscript of Christ, but it might as well be the Castafiore Emerald, socks De Gaulle, or denture Léon Zitrone; it would make no difference, and indeed, the reader will largely buffered.
The fault, no doubt, at this writing a platitude to none, and do not seem attributable to an approximately correct translation (uncorrected proofs that I have read have their share of mistakes of all kinds, but Not surprisingly, and correctors, if they do not perish of boredom, should address it before the release in bookstores).
It is, literally, a soporific reading: we yawn at every turn, and we are surprised to read several times the same paragraph without having understood the meaning, even though the language level should approach that of CM2 . It takes sixty pages before reaching not too mix the brushes in this litany of potential culprits, and it seems almost impossible to feel any empathy for these characters, their motivations sentimental shabby, their greed for gain phoned or their laughable investigative talents. The author advances his plot to blow in petto reflections of each other, or dialogues, but all are absolutely appalling ridiculous (see citations beginning of the article, but it is the book that could be cited).
I threw in the towel page 311, and a quick look at the end of the book, seventy pages later, he confirmed the identity - transparent long - the culprit. So do not expect any surprises in this tasteless gruel: it's just soup to fill the coffers of the publisher.
