Review: Carte Blanche, by Jeffrey Deaver

Well, dear readers, no self-respecting sybarite could ignore the publishing of a new James Bond novel, Jeffrey Deaver's Carte Blanche, published here in the UK on 25 May but as yet, I believe, awaiting release in the US. I confess - no, that has a hint of apology - I aver that I am a great Bond fan, and the Fleming books are among my favourite novels. I also enjoyed the John Gardner continuation books, though I haven't read the later Raymond Benson stories. So, what of the new addition to the canon?

First, the Fleming estate deserves credit for its courage. A much more comprehensive 'reboot' than the recent films has taken place with Bond explicitly now of the current times, a veteran of RNR service in Iraq and Afghanistan (his service there is not detailed, but one suspects it was more high-octane than mentoring and training, or logistics). The original Bond, though his age was something of a moveable feast, was of an explicit generation, having served in the Second World War, and the new Bond is no exception. The other brave move was to bring in American crime novelist Jeffrey Deaver, a man with an already-established authorial voice. Both decisions were firm departures from the very fine Sebastian Faulks-penned novel Devil May Care. Faulks's book was set in the 1960s, and was written "as" Ian Fleming, Faulks being an accomplished literary pastiche writer. He was brilliantly successful; the book really could have been written by Fleming, and there were some lovely touches to it. Deaver's book is a different proposition.

The plot, while a little convoluted, is gripping, and sufficiently unpredictable to keep even the casual reader interested. Deaver presents a credible Bond, successful and effective but with an undertone of sourness, and his depiction of the world of espionage is convincing, though the inter-service rivalries are sometimes overdone. Our hero has been shifted from the Secret Intelligence Service (SIS, or, colloquially but incorrectly, MI6) to a shady organisation known as the Overseas Development Group or ODG, a latter-day SOE designed, as M tells Bond, to "protect the Realm... by any means necessary". It is heartening to see reinvented old friends like M, Bill Tanner and Mary Goodnight, and Deaver portrays Bond's organisation without too many knowing winks at his reinvention.

This being a Bond novel, of course, we have exotic locations: the Balkans, South Africa and, er, a disused military hospital in Cambridgeshire. Two outta three ain't bad. Deaver is very good on South Africa in particular, with some fascinating descriptions of the Rainbow Nation, in its glory and its squalor. We also have a host of beautiful and glamorous women, from Ophelia Maidenstone, ODG's SIS liaison officer, through the South African police captain Bheka Jordaan to Bon's only conquest of the novel, a dynamic anti-hunger campaigner Felicity Willing (the only rather awkward nudge-nudge, wink-wink name in the book). We also have a marvellous Bond villain, the sinister Severan Hydt, who is fascinated by death and decay. Hydt is a slightly outlandish character, but we expect that of a Bond villain, and if he is a man who probably doesn't exist, he is not a man who couldn't.

And, of course, we have brand names. Fleming was a great exponent of product placement before the term was invented, but for him it had a purpose. He was writing in the 1950s, when austerity was still the order of the day, at least in the UK, and the high-quality products James Bond used were a window into a life of unattainable but attractive glamour for his readers. Deaver picks up the baton; Bond drives a grey Bentley Continental GT, drinks Crown Royal whisky (with which he invents a new cocktail, a nice echo of Casino Royale, where it all began) and Dom Perignon, tells the time with a Rolex Oyster Perpetual and clothes himself in Canali and Turnbull and Asser. Deaver has thought a great deal about Bond and Fleming, and acknowledges that Bond used not necessarily the flashiest or most expensive brands, but the best. It is woven through the novel without becoming intrusive.

So is it a good book? Yes. It is a well-paced and intricately-plotted thriller, as one would expect from an author of Deaver's calibre, and it updates Bond convincingly. There are one or two slips which demonstrate Deaver's unfamiliarity with writing in a British voice; no-one from Belfast could be described as having a "mid-Ulster" accent, and the idea that the Travellers' Club can always be relied on for excellent food and first-class service will be a surprise to its members. But these are tiny stumbles, and Deaver will iron out any wrinkles in time.

I was disappointed when Sebastian Faulks was not commissioned to write another Bond novel, and very sceptical at the notion of a 'reboot'. But Deaver pulls it off. Carte Blanche is a good thriller, a good Bond book and a good read. Buy it, and enjoy it.

[NB - Titus points out that I mislabelled Crown Royal as a "bourbon". Mea culpa, I was distracted for a moment. It is, of course, a blended Canadian whisky.]