Deeply committed French writer and reporter-at-large Olivier Weber began his journalistic career in the United States, subsequently becoming a war correspondent in Africa, Asia, and the Middle East for The Sunday Times, The Guardian, Liberation, and Le Point. He is a travelling Ambassador of France in charge of exposing human trafficking and has received numerous awards for his books and reports.
They include the Joseph Kessel Prize, the Albert Londres Prize, the Adventure Prize, and the Amerigo Vespucci Prize. Weber has spent time with members of fifteen different guerilla movements, defended resistance in South Soudan, and taken part in boat people rescues missions in the China Sea. He supported
supported the Afghan mujahideen during the war against the Soviet army and again during the fight against the Taliban, thus spending time with Commander Massoud.
Weber’s books include Le Barbaresque (The Barbary Corsair), J’aurai de l’or(Cursed for Gold)—adapted for film as La Fièvre de l’or (Gold Fever)—Le Faucon afghan (The Afghan Falcon), and La Mort blanche (White Death). His books and essays have been translated into a dozen languages.

The novel

The Weeping Lizard

OLIVIER WEBER Sofitel Santa Clara Carthagène

At the beginning, there was the bottle. As a rule, it often ended like this, with a glass or more to wet the whistle, but this time it was from the start, from the very beginning. The sea was shaken-up, the waves a bit rebellious and the Cartagenan shore was charged with sea spray which whipped the rare onlooker as the sun literally fell from a well dug in the dark tropical clouds. I had decided, come hell or high water, or above all high winds, to go have a look at the small spit of land beyond the Spanish castle. The ramparts are eternal crossing points. The doors opening onto the sea give you the hope of distant horizons. The lovers are not wrong there, swallowed up between the walls as much as to hide as to dream of the open sea. And there, followed by Katarina in worn-out leather sandals, in front of a little gatehouse of rounded…

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Afoot Along the Danube

OLIVIER WEBER Sofitel Budapest Chain Bridge

Never trust a genuinely fake café. Although Aristide had been in Budapest only four days, it felt like much longer. He was not one to make contact easily with other people, recoiling as he did before social niceties and declining the few invitations that had arrived at the hotel where he was staying, near the Chain Bridge. All the same, Aristide considered himself to be “average,’’ which is to say just like everyone else, which is to say unlike anyone else, and he had chosen Budapest, a city in Mitteleuropa, in hopes of coming up with a milieu all his own. In fact, if he so abhorred social obligations, it was because he had so often been submitted to and concocted them himself. At 35, he was a bachelor and occasional art dealer who endlessly hesitated between donning the attire of a private detective, that of a traveling salesman or that of a well-heeled peddler of paintings, and he believed…

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