A Review of The Day of the Jackal by Frederick Forsyth
Frederick Forsyth’s The Day of the Jackal is, quite simply, a masterclass in thriller writing. The moment you plunge into its pages, it grips you with the force of a vice, and you find yourself unable to wrestle free. I picked it up on a whim and didn’t put it down until the last word. The story’s unrelenting pace, meticulous detail, and fascinating characters are nothing short of arresting. This is not just a story about an assassination attempt—it’s a labyrinthine game of cat and mouse where you, the reader, stand in the middle, witnessing every move unfold.
At the center of it all is the Jackal, a nameless assassin who is hired for one of the most audacious missions ever—a plot to kill French President Charles de Gaulle in the 1960s. Forsyth spends so much time building the Jackal’s character that, against all logic and sense of morality, you almost root for him. His precision, his work ethic, his meticulous planning—they almost seduce you into admiration. There’s something magnetic about someone so fully committed to their craft. Even though he’s a cold-blooded killer who dispatches anyone hindering his progress without hesitation or remorse, you become engrossed by his journey. By the climax, when his plan falls just short, you can’t help but experience a pang of disappointment over his failure. It’s not because you want de Gaulle to die—you know from history that he won’t—but because the Jackal almost gets there. It’s like watching someone painstakingly construct a house of cards, only for it to tumble at the very last moment. Shocking in its precision, heartbreaking in its inevitability.
The following day the body of a man was buried in an unmarked grave at a suburban cemetery in Paris. The death certificate showed the body to be that of an unnamed foreign tourist, killed on Sunday August 25th, 1963, in a hit-and-run accident on the motorway outside the city. Present was a priest, a policeman, a registrar and two grave-diggers. Nobody present showed any interest as the plain deal coffin was lowered into the grave, except the single other person who attended. When it was all over he turned round, declined to give his name, and walked back down the cemetery path, a solitary little figure, to return home to his wife and children.
But Forsyth never lets you forget: the Jackal is a killer. He is not a hero. His cold pragmatism ensures that, admirable planning and determination aside, you do not shed a tear for him. His death feels earned, even if it holds a strange kind of tragedy.
On the other side of this battle is the methodical, brilliant police commissioner, Claude Lebel (his name would be stamped in my memory even if Forsyth hadn’t repeated it several times). Lebel isn’t flashy. He is no super-detective full of intrigue or grand monologues. His brilliance lies in his persistence and in his system. Forsyth shows us everything Lebel does, and, importantly, why he does it. It reminded me of watching Columbo—where you know the killer from the start and the joy comes from witnessing how the detective puts together the pieces to catch them. Here, too, you, the reader, know all the facts. You know who the killer is, what his plans are, and the immense scope of his operation. The thrill is watching Lebel narrow in on him through tireless, methodical police work. If anything, it increases the tension. You know where the Jackal is headed and why his plan is so dangerous, but you also know Lebel is closing in… bit by bit, detail by detail.
The stakes are heightened because of who the target is: Charles de Gaulle. A historical figure who, in this novel, comes across as vain, arrogant, and maddeningly stubborn. You don’t see much of de Gaulle himself—he exists more as a looming symbol than as a fully explored character. Yet, his arrogance is unmistakable. He demands that his image be protected at all costs. His staff—the real unsung heroes here—burn the candle at both ends, devising every possible measure to protect him, but de Gaulle refuses to change his routines or break from tradition.
‘For my part,’ said the Minister, ‘I can report on my conversation with President de Gaulle. He has refused point blank to change an item of his itinerary for the future to shield himself from this killer. Frankly, it was to be expected.
He comes across as the embodiment of France, and his staff protects him because, to them, he isn’t merely a man—he is France itself. I couldn’t help but think back to his iconic declaration: “You cannot arrest Sartre—Sartre is France.” In Forsyth’s world, de Gaulle unknowingly embodies the same sentiment about himself. He has become untouchable, a symbol as much as a man.
Forsyth does not delve too deeply into de Gaulle’s betrayal of his soldiers—those who served him in French colonies, drenched in the blood of colonial fighting, only to feel abandoned when de Gaulle changed France’s colonial policies. This betrayal is an undercurrent throughout the story, setting the stage for the assassination attempt, and it makes you wonder: was this a calculated political move by de Gaulle, or was he simply moving with the winds of necessity? The novel doesn’t attempt to answer this, but it lingers in the back of your mind as the events unfold.
They spent Francois’ leave together, she meeting him every evening after work in the salon to which she had gone in January 1960 from the training school. He told her of the betrayal of the French Army, of the Paris Government’s secret negotiations with the imprisoned Ahmed Ben Bella, leader of the FLN, and of the pending handover of Algeria to the melons.
And yet, for all the Jackal’s meticulous planning, the universe has other ideas. Despite his flawless forgery, his ability to assume different identities, and his near-obsessive precision, he fails. He learned French well enough to pass as a native, carried forged documents, and even acquired military medals to perfect his cover. He fooled everyone he came across. But because he was not truly French, he could not internalize certain cultural nuances—like the possibility that de Gaulle might bend to kiss someone. That single, human moment undoes everything.
A split second later he was staring down into the station forecourt as if he could not believe his eyes. Before the bullet had passed out of the end of the barrel, the President of France had snapped his head forward without warning. As the assassin watched in disbelief, he solemnly planted a kiss on each cheek of the man in front of him. As he himself was a foot taller, he had had to bend forward and down to give the traditional kiss of congratulation that is habitual among the French and certain other nations, but which baffles Anglo-Saxons.
It was later established the bullet had passed a fraction of an inch behind the moving head. Whether the President heard the whipcrack from the sound barrier, travelling on a narrow line down the flight path of the bullet, is not known. He gave no sign of it. The Minister and the official heard nothing: neither did those fifty metres away.
It drives home a painful truth: no matter how perfectly you plan, no matter how fine-tuned every detail is, life is unpredictable. The Jackal’s failure is not because of his lack of skill but because of chance. His plan was human, but the universe—it had other ideas.
Forsyth’s writing is nothing short of extraordinary. His research is meticulous to the point of obsession, and it gives the story an air of realism that very few thrillers achieve. It’s said that the method of obtaining a fake passport described in this book was shockingly accurate in the real world—Forsyth masterfully weaves fact and fiction into a seamless narrative. You feel immersed in his world because it’s so grounded in truth, even as it builds to wild heights. His prose is sharp, economical, and unrelenting, and he knows how to hold you on the edge of your seat.
Even now, thinking back to the novel, the tension lingers. The Jackal remains an unforgettable character—a man of ambition, precision, and ruthlessness. Lebel will always represent the triumph of method over chaos. And de Gaulle… well, he emerges as the symbol of a nation, flaws and all.
If you’re looking for a thriller that respects your intelligence and keeps you riveted from start to finish, The Day of the Jackal is the book for you. Forsyth doesn’t just write a story—he builds a world, one where every detail feels alive and frighteningly plausible. Everything about this book works, and it’s no wonder that Forsyth is rightly regarded as a master of his craft.