Daniel Silva discusses how art, real-world events inspired his new book "Ransom"
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Author Daniel Silva's bestselling streak continues with his latest book "Ransom," the 26th thriller in his series featuring master art restorer and master spy Gabriel Allon. "Ransom" debuted as an instant No. 1 New York Times bestseller. Silva talked to Mary Calvi about his inspirations and surprising work habits. You can listen to the entire conversation on the Club Calvi Podcast.
"Like all of my books, it's part fiction, but it's inspired by real-world events," Silva said. "I was watching these drone incidents in Europe and reading about the secret war that Russia was waging against Western European countries that support Ukraine. I wanted to write about it, but I wanted to write about it in an interesting and entertaining way, and the result of that is 'Ransom.'"
Mary remarked that after previous Silva novels, readers thought Gabriel Allon had retired from the spy business, but it seems to keep pulling him back in.
"He comes in through a side door," Silva answered. "One of my favorite sayings is that 'no good deed goes unpunished.' Gabriel lives in Venice, but he has a beautiful summer cottage on the Cornish coast of England. He settles down for what he believes is going to be a nice, quiet summer, but he agrees to attend a fundraiser for the National Gallery. Not only attend, but to be the guest of honor at this event. And lo and behold, a few days later, the host of the evening, a billionaire property tycoon named Edward Knight, shows up at Gabriel's door and informs him that his wife has gone missing, his beautiful young wife, and asks Gabriel to find her. She disappeared while on holiday with some friends in Ibiza. One thing leads to another, as it often does in a Gabriel Allon book, and he finds himself once again working with his old friends at the British Secret Service."
Mary said that Alice, the socialite wife of the British Billionaire, has her own secrets.
"She does," Silva agreed. "She has a very dangerous secret, and it has to do with who her husband is in business with. I will leave it at that."
Mary asked Silva about the intensive research he does for his Gabriel Allon books.
"I'm never happier than when I have a book in my hand," Silva said. "I don't mind all the research. I love it."
Mary said that she heard that Silva's writing process includes a pencil, paper and lying on the floor.
Silva showed Mary the pad on which he's writing his new book. "A yellow legal pad inside a lovely leather folio cover," Silva said. He pointed out the spot on the floor where he works.
Silva said he started his next book the day after he finished "Ransom." You can read an excerpt from "Ransom" and get the book below.
Club Calvi books may contain adult themes.
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"Ransom" by Daniel Silva
From the publisher: Alice Winter, one of Britain's most dazzling socialites, seemingly has the perfect life—a lavish home in posh Knightsbridge, a grand estate in Devon, millions of followers on social media who eagerly await her next post. But when she disappears without a trace while on holiday with three old friends from Cambridge, her desperate husband, the real estate baron Edward Knight, turns to none other than Gabriel Allon to find her.
He soon discovers that Alice Winter is not the woman she appears to be, that she has a reckless side, that she has secrets. But Edward Knight has a secret too, a secret so dangerous that Gabriel will have no choice but to return to the life he thought he had left behind. An old enemy lurks there, waiting for him to make one misstep, waiting for the perfect moment to exact vengeance.
Daniel Silva lives in Florida.
"Ransom" by Daniel Silva (Thriftbooks) $24
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Excerpt: "Ransom" by Daniel Silva
IBIZA
Most years it was Phoebe Chadwick who got the ball rolling, usually in late January, when the weather was at its gloomi est and the streetlamp outside the window of her Bloomsbury office burned for days on end without a break. Phoebe was a senior project coordinator for a respected but perpetually underfunded interna tional relief organization. Her work, while rewarding, left her forever short of financial resources herself. Her three closest friends all had piles of money. Sophie Maxwell worked for a Magic Circle law firm, and Ella Burns did something dubious in the City. Beautiful Alice Winter got her money the old-fashioned way. Alice had married it.
It was not the way they had planned it when they were at Cam bridge. Back then, when they were afire with youthful zeal, they swore they would avoid the trappings of wealth and material comfort. They were going to put their costly educations to good use, help others, make a difference. Only Phoebe, after earning a prestigious first in global economics, had lived up to her word. Sophie had planned to be a human rights lawyer but ended up looking after the interests of corporations instead, including Ella's appalling bank. And Alice? She was going to be a crusading journalist, perhaps write a novel or two, but all that changed when she met Edward. Now she was a boldface name in Tatler. The it girl.
They had taken another vow before leaving Cambridge, that every summer they would spend a week together somewhere delightful with no spouses or offspring or significant others present, just the four of them. That promise they had somehow managed to keep, though it was Phoebe who inevitably saw to the planning. She shouldered this burden with the blessing of the others. If she could organize an airlift of food and medicine into Darfur, they reckoned, she could arrange something as ordinary as a weeklong stay in the South of France.
They had holidayed there twice, first in Saint-Tropez, then, two summers later, in the Luberon, in the same yellow villa where they had filmed that movie. They had done Venice and Tuscany, of course, and no fewer than three Greek islands. Looking for a change of pace, they had spent a week cycling across Switzerland, a dreadful mistake. Patagonia had been spectacular but exhausting, the yoga retreat in the Himalayas an unmitigated disaster. So disastrous, in fact, that Phoebe feared the trip might be their last. This year had to be perfect; otherwise they might drift apart. Alice was already floating away, held aloft by Edward's billions. Text messages went unanswered for days, phone calls went straight to voicemail. Even Ella, who was closest to Alice, sometimes had trouble reaching her. Phoebe had all but given up trying.
Her work intruded—an outbreak of severe famine in the Central African Republic—and it was officially spring before she had a spare moment to think about the trip. After considering and rejecting sev eral options, she settled on Iceland. Yes, it was cold there in June, but there were glaciers and volcanoes to explore, and the spa at the Blue Lagoon was to die for, or so Phoebe had been reliably informed. She made preliminary inquiries, drafted a proposed itinerary, and forwarded it to the others in a group text. Sophie was game, but Ella groaned. The ever-delinquent Alice waited ten long days before responding. She did so with a call to Phoebe's mobile. Her voice sounded postcoital.
"Sorry, darling Phoebe, but I'm afraid dreary Iceland simply won't do. We're going somewhere very warm and obscenely glamorous. But don't worry, I'll take care of everything."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, Pheebs, that this year's trip is on me."
"I can't possibly allow you to pay for my holiday."
"Trust me, I'm not."
Alice refused to divulge their destination or offer any description beyond her original very warm and obscenely glamorous. Phoebe packed accordingly and, as instructed, presented herself at the Lon don City Airport Jet Center at 4:00 p.m. on the second Friday of June. Accompanied by Sophie and Ella, she boarded a waiting Bombardier Challenger 605. Alice was seated in the passenger cabin, one golden leg crossed suggestively over the other. She looked as though she were returning from a holiday rather than embarking on one.
"Where are you taking us?" asked Phoebe as she accepted a glass of champagne from the cabin attendant.
"Definitely not Iceland," replied Alice. "Good heavens, Pheebs! What on earth were you thinking?"
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Their destination turned out to be a Bond-villain fortress of glass and stone perched atop a cliff on the northern coast of Ibiza. There were six bedrooms, three adjoining sitting rooms, a media room, a game room, a hotel-style fitness center and spa, and a staff of four, including a chef from one of the hottest restaurants in Paris. At the base of the cliff, reached by a treacherous footpath, was a rocky cove with water the color of lapis lazuli. Evidently the cove had a name— Cala something or other. When spoken by Alice it sounded like the most exotic place in the world.
Their schedule, to the extent they had one, revolved around the consumption of food and alcohol. Lunches were lengthy wine-soaked affairs served on the shaded terrace. They passed the late afternoons poolside or dozing in their rooms—Phoebe's was the size of her flat in Notting Hill—and at half past nine each evening they drove to dinner in an open-top Mercedes Cabriolet. Alice always paid the bill with that flashy black credit card of hers. Then she would drag them to a nightclub for a few hours of ear-shattering music and dancing. Inevitably they would run into a member of her crowd from Lon don. She posted selfies on her many social media feeds. Her legion of followers swooned with envy.
By Tuesday morning Phoebe needed a vacation from her vacation— and perhaps from Alice as well. She slept late, then logged on to the villa's Wi-Fi network and returned a few emails. It was approaching one in the afternoon by the time she went in search of the others. Sophie and Ella were waging war on the red clay tennis court. Alice was stretched topless on the sunbaked tiles at the edge of the pool, one foot dangling in the water, so beautiful she scarcely looked real.
Phoebe sat down on a chaise longue and drew a book from her bag. Alice stirred, took note of Phoebe's presence, and closed her eyes again.
"What are you looking at?" she asked.
"Your breasts, if you must know."
"Lovely, aren't they?"
"Scrumptious."
"They can be yours for twenty-five thousand quid."
"I dare you to post a photo of them online."
"Tempting, but Edward might not approve." Alice turned onto her stomach as though suddenly self-conscious and raised a hand to her brow. "What are you reading?"
Phoebe showed her the cover. It was an old P. D. James mystery.
"The killer is Julius Court," said Alice. "Apparently he was in business with some rather awful people from Marseilles. Heroin, I believe. He leaps to his death from the cliff near Toynton Grange after shooting Dalgliesh in the shoulder."
Phoebe set aside the book with a sigh. "When are you going to write yours?"
"My novel? I haven't a spare minute," replied Alice without a trace of irony. "Besides, what would I write about?"
"A girl named Alice Winter."
"Who would want to read a book about me?"
"Everyone, I imagine."
She rolled those liquid blue eyes of hers. "It can be a crashing bore, you know."
"The Royal Enclosure at Ascot?"
"All of it, Pheebs. It's the same bloody crowd night after night with a slightly different seating arrangement. Your life is far more interest ing than mine." Lowering her voice, she added, "All you need now is a husband."
"Are we going to have this conversation again?"
"You'll be forty soon."
"I realize that." Phoebe was the oldest of the foursome and thus would be the first to cross the dreaded threshold. She was also the only one yet to wed. Sophie and Ella were married to equally successful men and both had the requisite two children, though Ella was carrying on a torrid affair with a man from a rival bank. Alice had Edward, of course, but they were childless. At moments like this, Phoebe thought it was for the best. Alice would make a terrible mother.
"Are you still seeing what's-his-name?" she asked drowsily.
"Jean-Marc?" He was a doctor from Médecins Sans Frontières whom Phoebe had met in Sierra Leone. For two years they had been involved in an on-again, off-again relationship. Phoebe informed Al ice that she and Jean-Marc were currently off-again.
"Perhaps I can introduce you to someone."
"I doubt any of your posh friends would have much interest in someone like me."
"It wouldn't hurt if you occasionally tried to enjoy yourself." Alice trailed a fingertip over the surface of the pool. "Incredible, isn't it?"
"This house?"
"It's a finca, Pheebs."
"It must have cost a fortune."
"Must've," agreed Alice, and rolled onto her back. Phoebe read her P. D. James novel for a few minutes more but soon lost interest. Alice had spoiled the ending.
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Phoebe had read not long ago that "The Second Coming" was the twentieth century's most frequently quoted poem, especially the bit about things falling apart. Yeats had been writing about a world in crisis, an approaching age of disorder, but Phoebe thought his prophetic words could be applied to long-standing friendships as well. Eventually the center cannot hold. Sooner or later some revelation is at hand. For Phoebe it occurred that evening when she attempted to pay the check at a pricey beachside restaurant on the eastern side of the island. Alice, who had drunk more wine than usual, placed her black credit card on the tray with a crooked smirk and said, "Don't be ridiculous, Pheebs." Then she extended an arm and snapped a selfie. The flash of the phone's camera was like a lightning strike.
Ordinarily Phoebe overlooked Alice's childish social media habit, but not tonight. She too had drunk an extra glass of albariño with dinner. The time had come for an intervention.
"Must you always do that?" she asked.
"You wouldn't understand, Pheebs."
"Who would?"
"It's about personal branding."
"Sounds painful."
Alice's gaze was as pitiless as the sun. "F*** you, Pheebs."
Things went from bad to worse later that evening at a nightclub appropriately called Precipice. Phoebe declared it atrocious, and Alice predictably took offense. What followed was their worst quarrel since the night Phoebe had nearly pushed Alice off the Magdalen Bridge. The row intensified during the drive back to the villa and concluded with slammed bedroom doors and a final exchange of vulgarities. Sophie the lawyer attempted to negotiate a settlement, but Ella, perhaps sensing a break was inevitable, kept to a safe distance. Phoebe had no doubt that Ella had already chosen sides. Morning brought a brief truce, but only because Alice left the villa to do a bit of sightseeing, or so she said. It was early evening when she finally returned. She brushed past Phoebe as though she were invisi ble and went to her room to dress for dinner. Sophie engaged in a few minutes of shuttle diplomacy to determine whether a rapprochement was possible, but Alice made it clear she had no interest in making peace. Phoebe defused the situation by announcing that she would be dining alone at the villa. The chef made her coq au vin, which she consumed while reading the rest of her novel. The perfect evening was spoiled by the photograph that appeared on Alice's Instagram account shortly before midnight. The caption might have read F***you, Pheebs.
The thought of spending another three days trapped in a villa with a resentful Alice held little appeal. One of them had to go. Because Alice had insisted on paying for everything, Phoebe was the logical choice. She spent a final night in her luxurious room, and in the morning, while the others were still sleeping, she took a taxi to the airport. Her flight to London departed at midday. As the plane gained altitude over the northern coast of the island, she spotted golden Alice lying on the tiny beach of Cala something or other. Then the plane plunged into a cloud and Alice was gone.
Excerpted from RANSOM by Daniel Silva. Copyright © 2026 by Daniel Silva. Reprinted with permission from Harper, and imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.