My review of "Carte Blanche", the new Bond novel, was carried on Jul 24 in the Deccan Herald.

Carte Blanche, Jeffery Deaver, Hodder & Stoughton, 2011, Rs.499

Orbis­ Non Sufficit – The World Is Not Enough. At least for Double Oh Seven on celluloid when he’s doing all those things other boring spies don’t do. And without getting his gabardines soiled.  The twenty two films released so far have fans worldwide wanting just one thing more; the twenty third.

As for James Bond between the covers he always plays catch-up to his on-screen doppelganger. The buzz surrounding the making and release of the next Bond movie isn’t quite there when it comes to the written word, perhaps because nobody has thought of issuing press communiqués announcing the galley proofs. So the good man on the Clapham omnibus was ruffled mildly to see Royal Naval Marine Commandos, presumably on shore leave, rappelling down the tower of St. Pancras International to hand over the first copies of the latest Bond novel to author Jeffery Deaver, who was waiting patiently below in a red Bentley Continental GT with a Bond girl in black leathers at his side. It must have been a nice change for Deaver after all those gruesome, bone collecting, Lincoln Rhyme books.

For two months every year, Fleming vacationed at ‘Goldeneye’, his estate in Jamaica and used the time to write twelve James Bond novels during the years 1953 and 1964, beginning with Casino Royale. Possible sources of inspiration for the dashing spy are many, but it is generally agreed that Fleming borrowed considerably from his own persona to craft the character. Like Fleming, Bond rose to the rank of Commander in the Royal Navy, loved fast cars, exotic locations and women, and above all, was a spy.   

After Fleming died in 1964 “of living too much” as he commented on his lifestyle, his literary executors had Kingsely Amis (writing under the pseudonym ‘Robert Markham’), John Gardner, Raymond Benson and Sebastian Faulks write Bond novels. Deaver, the second American Bond author after Benson, joins them as bearer of the Fleming torch (cigarette lighter would do nicely but the new Bond does not smoke).  

In Carte Blanche, Deaver gives James an anti-aging reboot that keeps him in his thirties and simultaneously gives him a contemporary past. So our master spy is now a veteran of the Afghan war who lives in a flat in Chelsea. Officially, he is a security and integrity analyst with the Overseas Development Group charged with assessing business risks. M continues to be his boss and is male.

In his choice of wardrobe and accoutrements, James judiciously mixes the venerable with the chic. So we have Canali suits comfortably coexisting with the wares of Turnbull & Asser. Though he has his father’s E-Type Jaguar, he prefers a new granite grey Bentley Continental GT. Technologically, James is minimalist. He does not run around with too many groovy gadgets, relying on some nice tech services supplied by Q, his Indian gizmo wiz.

Befitting our times, the evils James has to contend with are not so much persons as scams. One of them is a waste disposal scam presided by Severan Hydt, he of the long, yellowing finger-nails and decay-fetish, who leaves no one in doubt from the start that unlike his rubbish he must be disposed of sans recycling. James follows Hydt and his operations across Serbia, the UK, the Emirates and South Africa.

Our latest Bond lady combines brains and beauty with a good scam; she almost had to, with a name like Felicity Willing.  Not as subtle as Honey Rider and Kissy Suzuki, but still. Deaver is the quintessential Brit writer manqué, hoping to sound authentic by employing the idioms of old Blighty and references to cricket, curry and Bollywood. All of which make his book a bit like a curate’s egg.