I like Horowitz, but this is no.3 of a series of post Ian Fleming James Bond novels.
The last Ian Fleming I read must have been about 50 years ago in prep school. Interestingly in his acknowledgements he refers to being ‘stuck in a foul boarding school back in the 1960’s, James Bond was my one constant pleasure’. We must be of a similar age - I remember being teased as a bookworm, reading these in the school breaks and not being outside with the lads.
Despite this, I found the book hard work – Bond is a characterless machine, and I don’t remember him drinking a dry martini, although he does get and fuck the girl. Some echoes of John le Carré, which are acknowledged. But really of little interest.
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