The guy who put this book on the table is the screenwriter behind movies like Jurassic Park and Spider-Man. What does that mean? Clearly, that Cold Storage feels like a movie.
A B-movie.
A low-budget B-movie set in a few locations.
But hey, wait a minute!
It’s one of the good ones. Okay, the basic premise of Cold Storage is entirely clichéd: a new, aggressive fungus starts spreading in an abandoned military storage facility. The smooth-talking underdog with a good heart, his dream girl, and the slightly over-the-hill, retired problem-solver take up the fight against it.
David Koepp’s main antagonist is a mushroom – and no joke!
In The Forbidden Door the fourth book in the series, Jane Hawk continues her battle against a conspiracy at the highest levels of American political and economic life. Our favorite vigilante starts from the unenviable position of being the USA’s number one public enemy. And she’s pretty exhausted.
The same can be said for the initial chapters of Dean Koontz’s book: the writing is undeniably sloppy. The text is dripping with pathos from the very first scene, overflowing with exaggerated positive descriptions of the protagonists.
Then, interestingly, the situation suddenly normalizes, and these anomalies mostly disappear. How did that happen? Who’s ever heard of a book’s beginning being thrown together? Whatever.
Dean Koontz Is Still Aiming for the Nobel Prize in Literature
In The Fox, retired thriller writer Frederick Forsyth brings back a retired intelligence operative for one last mission. The WORLD’S BEST HACKER, a British lad with Asperger’s syndrome, manages to breach the super-secret database of the American intelligence. (Not good news, by any means.) Now, if you think it’s all about hacking from here on out, you’d be mistaken; the world’s best hacker doesn’t utter a single word throughout the entire book. And the recalled spy? Well, he’s precisely 70 years old.
The book’s larger-than-average font size also raises suspicions, as it’s usually not a sign of a meticulously detailed story.
All the main characters are miserable Brits! (Alright, this doesn’t really matter.)
The thriller writer comes out of retirement
But let’s see what’s on the other side of the scale! On the other side sits Frederick Forsyth himself, one of the world’s greatest espionage writers. Undoubtedly. Starting with “The Day of the Jackal,” I’ve been reading his books for about thirty years, and he has never disappointed me. Ahem, until now.
My role model (see Die Trying), Major Jack Reacher, makes his first appearance in One Shot on page 42. How is that possible? I have no idea. Moreover, I thought I had already read this book before. But no, I missed this volume, and that’s great news because in this early installment, the Major is at his best. And of course, so is Lee Child. And naturally, this is the book that was adapted into the cool movie Jack Reacher (IMDb: Jack Reacher) where Tom Cruise does everything to RISE to the role.)
Child’s book is thrilling from the first page.
How can you tell? Well, despite our beloved hero’s late appearance, you find Lee Child’s story unputdownably exciting from the very first page.
Then Reacher barges in and once again sticks his nose into something he shouldn’t. And once again, he’s nosy, impertinent, and unshakeable… And once again, it turns out that things that seem entirely obvious aren’t so obvious after all.
How does Jack Reacher do it? Using the good old Sherlock Holmes method. Things that would mean nothing to you, spark something different in his mind. Things you would immediately declare as black, he flips around and proves to be white.
Can a spy novel series still hold up when it’s on its 18th installment? That’s the question. I jumped into Daniel Silva’s series around the 7th book mark, and even though critics often label the series as formulaic, there’s something about it that keeps you turning the pages. Once you get past the first 100 pages of any book, you find yourself hooked. And as you get accustomed to the rhythm, a few books down the line, you don’t even need those 100 pages anymore. It’s as if the author becomes more adept at captivating you right from the start. (Even though the basic structure of the stories remains pretty much the same from installment to installment. Quite intriguing, isn’t it?)
Now, The Other Woman is the first book where this formula doesn’t quite click. Obviously, you can’t always pit your protagonist against Arab terrorists who want to blow up this or that capital city; a bit of variety is necessary from time to time. However, the pursuit of a Russian mole within British intelligence seems rather lackluster compared to the series’ earlier, far more significant events. Not to mention that the involvement of the Israeli intelligence agency, and our protagonist, Gabriel Allon, feels somewhat forced in this case, as if the Israelis are being nudged into an unpleasant, stinky mess, saying: “Here you go, guys, it’s our mess, but you clean it up!”
Is it all bad? No, not entirely. The Other Woman feels more like reading a crime novel than a spy thriller. It’s a crime novel that’s occasionally quite thrilling. Even the legendary Kim Philby (that jerk) makes an appearance, much to the delight of long-time spy fiction enthusiasts.
So, there’s no major issue with having a slightly subdued, slower-paced episode with less action mixed into the series.
The story of the Libyan terrorist and the Corey couple continues. And even if you missed the previous book by Nelson DeMille, like I did, you won’t feel lost because everything is well explained. The problem, however, is that the beginning of The Lion is mostly from the perspective of the scumbag Asad Khalil, who is an even more fanatical terrorist than the usual breed, and cares about nothing but killing. Seriously. Nothing else.
By about a third of the way through The Lion, you start getting fed up with Khalil indiscriminately slaughtering his remaining enemies from the previous book, as well as his own associates to prevent them from identifying him. This excessive caution is SOMEWHAT contradicted by the fact that the mischievous Khalil calls the police for fun to taunt them. Plus, the police already have a ton of files on him.
On top of that, Khalil even takes on a job from Al Qaeda, although he leaves it for last, after dealing with his personal matters. Sure. („Never mind, Khalil”, his comrades at Al Qaeda might say, „take care of your business, it’s no issue if they start a nationwide manhunt against you, 6-star wanted level. No problemo, we can always detonate our bomb later!” – And these poor Al Qaeda guys don’t even realize Khalil has this aversion to witnesses. Thanks a lot for that kind of help!)
Yes, I know, don’t even say it, you’re among those discerning, cultured consumers of spy novels who could vomit at the mere mention of Le Carré’s oeuvre. Like the author of these lines, who intentionally avoided reading Le Carré for 15 years to spare himself… he had had enough of the baroque over-craftiness, the snobbish, pinkie-finger-raised delicacies, or simply the plain, dull boredom (The Tailor of Panama, uh?) that the author tried to cram into his books under the guise of literature. Brrr.
So, what now? The years just passed like minutes, and suddenly you stumble upon The Night Manager, which you can’t give a rating lower than 8.5. What’s this, did the guy learn to write in his old age? Yes. No, because you realize that The Night Manager was created in 1993, so you’re utterly lost.
Anyway, let’s leave that. So, The Little Drummer Girl. There’s this Arab dude in this book who blows up EVERYONE in Europe. I mean everyone, nobody’s safe, especially if they’re Jewish. So, the other Jews in Israel declare a fatwa on him, which means he’s done for. Yeah, but he’s not done for, not yet, because they can’t find him anywhere, he’s always hiding from them. He only shows up when he feels like blowing things up. What a scumbag! So what should they do? They decide to get him a girl!
There you go, you can describe the essence of The Little Drummer Girl this easily, without any unnecessary frills or embarrassing efforts. And what’s in this book? Well, unnecessary frills. It’s full of them! Overwriting, meandering, and insider know-it-all-ness.
“Of the kidnapping, little need he said.”
– this shameless author lies to your face, then there are seven (IN SMALL PRINT) pages about kidnapping. He’s deliberately messing with you, I tell ya!
Because of this, you squirm uncomfortably while reading, especially at the beginning… then slowly but surely, bugger it, you get used to this sarcastic, entertaining cynicism. And you start to like it in “The Little Drummer Girl.”
True, the story eerily resembles Daniel Silva’s Gabriel Allon novels (or rather that one resemble this, whoops, see: The Other Woman by Daniel Silva), with the difference that his books are not cursed with such verbosity. However, it’s now clear that they all came straight out of Le Carré’s cloak.
Perhaps this is the first spy novel I’ve read that is not unequivocally biased towards the Israelis. Silva would personally slap all the Palestinians if he could. A significant part of Le Carré’s book deals with the situation of Palestinian refugees in Lebanon. Then you look it up and realize, by Jehoshaphat!, this book is from 1983; nearly 40 years have passed, and the situation of the Palestinians is still more or less the same. And you also realize that maybe, Le Carré writes better books as you read them backwards in time. Because “The Little Drummer Girl,” for example, has aged incredibly well, it could easily deny thirty years from its current age. Perhaps even more.
Of course, you know who’s going to fall in love with whom, and you suspect what the poor response will be – if everyone survives. The Israeli intelligence chiefs are clueless idiots (this, perhaps, is the only not too believable moment in the book).
However, you watch with envy as Joseph meticulously (and patiently, like a spider) strings Charlie along (she’s the girl they intend for the Arab guy. But they really just want to screw him over. Yeah, only the Arab guy.)
Just the recruitment alone takes half a book. From then on, everything gets more exciting. And against Charlie, the author dares to depict her as a light-hearted, back-and-forth romping alley cat – while, listen!, he manages to make you genuinely like her. How on earth does he pull that off?!
If you’re looking for action, The Little Drummer Girl is not your book. But if you enjoy leisurely planning, intricate maneuvers, and a series of intrigues, then you’ll have a great time with this sparklingly intelligent, cheekily chattering classic spy novel.
8.5/10
The Little Drummer Girl by John le Carré 560 pages, Paperback Published in 2018 by Penguin Books Canada
Would you dare not to pick up a book endorsed by Chuck Norris on the cover? Obviously not, especially if Jack Carr’s “The Terminal List” promises to be an excellent action thriller.
A full SEAL unit led by Major Reece is blown up in Afghanistan. If that weren’t bad enough, Reece finds himself entangled with NCIS, who turn out to be a bunch of fools. (Hey, isn’t that what we learned from the TV series!) Reece is then whisked back to the USA, where another pech hits him: his family is slaughtered. There’s a smell of a nose-tickling conspiracy here! Blood is demanded!!!
And then what happens? NOTHING. Although Jack Carr relentlessly drills into Reece and into you that the Major must seek revenge, instead of opting for a more civic approach like filing a police report, still NOTHING happens.
You’re just plunged into a long and monotonous buildup, during which you realize that the main character of “The Terminal List” is sorely lacking in charisma, just a template of a thick-necked, tough, and kind-hearted American patriot (God, country, family!). His wife is GOOD and BEAUTIFUL too! (I admit, from this point on, I myself fondly reminisce about the idyllic family life of Reece and set it as a shining example for us, especially when the fucking Screaming and Yelling starts here at home.)
The evil conspirators turn out to be very evil. Moreover, they’re idiots like hell because they turn SEALs into guinea pigs for their conspiracy, who are known to be the elite commandos of the US Navy. Instead of, say, trying with Mexican immigrants, where it might not even be noticed if a dozen of them blow up.
When the Major finally takes action… Ta-da-dam… the novel remains just as sluggish. There’s no one among the adversaries who could match Reece’s weight class, except maybe Holden, but the author doesn’t even exploit him. Although you would rightfully expect Reece, driven by righteous vengeance, to occasionally whack the bad guys with a club before GENTLY sending them off to a better place, the confrontations in “The Terminal List” lack any tension. Nobody is chasing Reece at all, so he just strolls forward and neatly shoots everyone down one by one.
The author perhaps attempts to offset the naive perspective of his somewhat clumsy and drawn-out work by sporadically interjecting rather simplistic right-wing propaganda into the narrative (Similar to the wise, thoughtful, and far-sighted President Trump, he probably watched Fox News too much as well.) The essence of which: no matter how many filthy scumbags his bad luck throws his way, by some strange coincidence, they always seem to turn out to be filthy Democrats.
The STUPIDEST SENTENCE IN THE BOOK is uttered in the context of the over-idealized, perfect American family, concerning the Major’s declining mother:
„…to put her in a place that would take good care of her, and she had quickly become a staff favorite.”
Ah, of course, she must have won the esteemed title of “Demented of the Month” in a row…
Overall, except for a few more exciting scenes, “The Terminal List” is like a simple „Shopping List”: 2 kilos of potatoes, a liter of cooking oil, four pieces of bratwursts, etc., which Major Reece ticks off happily after putting them in his basket. (But it would be better if good old Chuck didn’t hear about my opinion!)
6.7/10
The Terminal List (Terminal List #1) by Jack Carr 407 pages, Hardcover Published in 2018 by Atria/Emily Bestler Books
If your brain fried from the overthought metaphors in Dean Koontz’s previous series (see The Whispering Room) then I have both good and bad news for you about The Crooked Staircase.
But before we dive in, let’s have a good example:
You look out the window, and a gentle breeze stirs your pathetic peach tree outside. In the book, it would go something like this:
“For a moment, it seemed as though the wildest typhoon, the Divine Wind itself, swept through in front of your window’s time-frozen glass, and with an irresistible force of a prehistoric giant, tore and tugged at the stubborn, robust roots of the furrowed, oxygen-breathing creature, that clinging tenaciously to existence, perhaps reaching down to the burning center of the Earth.”
Sounds good, right? Yep. (Actually, not really.) Twice a page? Not so much anymore.
The bad news is that the author’s beloved heartstring-pulling metaphors still plague The Crooked Staircase. The good news is that their quantity has become more tolerable, thus presumably reducing the harmful effects on your mind. Hooray!
There’s more good news: The Crooked Staircase, as a thriller, is just as gripping as its predecessors, and the author piles on even more excitement for this installment. Teetering on the edge of believability though, the continuous action, cat-and-mouse chase, and thrill of the hunt are all captivating. Moreover, beyond the usual recipe (where Jane, in their own home, stalks and dispatches one scumbag after another, then starts the whole process over with someone new), two new threads emerge to avoid the allure of repetition.
One of these new paths in The Crooked Staircase follows Jane’s friends, Gavin and Jessie, which not only brings refreshing diversity but also creates tension beyond Jane’s basic storyline: after all, you know Jane is indestructible, but worrying about her friends becomes serious business, especially since they have the little boy. (And it would be such a shame for that adorable young lad.)
Two new characters also enter the scene whose fates are cause for concern: Sanjay and Tanuja. It’s not entirely clear why they’re here, as they never intersect with Jane or her friends, making their inclusion somewhat baffling. Although the quantity of pages doesn’t particularly require it, it’s hard not to think that they’re just present to fill space – even if these two characters are well-crafted, along with their clever improvisations and desperate escapes, which only add to the tension. Unfortunately the outcome of their plight becomes increasingly ominous along the way.
Mr. Koontz wisely discovered while writing the third installment of the Jane Hawk series that if all the villains are evil, cookie-cutter sociopaths or remotely controlled broccoli brains, whose resistance Jane can overcome within moments, it becomes boring after a while. So, he singled out two miserable blockhead from the wild bunch and began to flesh them out with their own chapters.
This creates a puzzling situation: “Bob and Bobek” are two unscrupulous bastards, but as you get to know them better, you somewhat develop a liking for these two dirty rascals. Or you just get used to them, I don’t know, as they amusingly annoy each other. (And less amusingly, murder innocent people.) May they step on a Lego in the dark!
The consistently high quality of The Crooked Staircase easily surpasses the previous two installments of the series. However, it also becomes apparent that after Koontz uncle hastily got rid of the main financial and IT geniuses of the conspiracy, he struggles to create another believable main antagonist for us.
8,3/10
The Crooked Staircase (Jane Hawk #3) by Dean Koontz 491 pages, Hardcover Published in 2018 by Bantam
Ellroy was 10 years old when his mother was brutally raped and murdered; the perpetrator never came to light, and Ellroy could never recover from this trauma. Written from the perspective of a serial killer, “Killer on the Road” predates Ellroy’s truly great works (hello, “L. A. Confidential”) and Martin Plunkett’s early years bear a striking resemblance to the author’s own biography, from petty theft to serial breaking and entering. And as it’s well known, Ellroy didn’t have to venture far for a little panty sniffing – at least not once he had pinched said underwear from the neighbor’s place.
Ellroy’s trademark, the endlessly stripped-down, short sentences forming a monumental mass of text, doesn’t appear in this early book (1986); quite the opposite: the book’s style is incredibly loose, saturated with self-irony and cynicism, and it does read quite well. At least for a while. Plunkett, the protagonist of “Killer on the Road,” a brilliant and lonely outsider, is initially quite likable, although his many fantasies and dreams – as tends to be the case with others’ – are rather tiresome.
And although you know Martin is as mad as a hornet, you’re still rooting for him and hoping against hope that he’ll eventually turn things around, because someone as smart as him couldn’t possibly go down the wrong path. And those few sexual aberrations, my dear God, honestly, who doesn’t have them? You clap with joy when he meets a gorgeous and mischievous girl who seems to be just right for him. She’ll take care of him, you think, and from then on, everything will be fine. The sick motherfraker instead kills the woman without hesitation!
