Yet another Bob Lee Swagger novel from Stephen Hunter, and let me tell you, this one’s a dandy. I, Sniper ought to please most any fan, unless he’s a liberal. (I suppose there could be liberal Hunter fans.)

The last couple of Sniper books seemed to be attempts to mix things up a little. The 47th Samurai, a tour de force of pure storytelling in the teeth of probability, took Bob Lee completely out of the shooting world, and into the world of the sword. Still perhaps my favorite in the series, it’s nevertheless a jog down a side road.

Night of Thunder was fun, but lightweight.

I, Sniper is plain, unadulterated Bob Lee Swagger, a mainline fix of pure sharpshooting goodness. It’s mainly about snipers, and even the non-sniping story line concerns shooting. Guns are central at every point, and Bob Lee shows the virtues of the wise old warrior—he may be a fraction of a second slower than the youngsters, but he’s three moves ahead of them at almost every point. Continue reading I, Sniper, by Stephen Hunter →

I’d read one of the late Stuart M. Kaminsky’s Inspector Porfiry Rostnikov mysteries before, and liked it less than his other work. But in the wake of my enjoyment of James Church’s North Korean police procedurals, I decided to try another Rostnikov book, Red Chameleon. And indeed I enjoyed it more than I expected, though I don’t think this particular series will ever be my favorite section of Kaminsky’s oeuvre. That’s not a criticism of the writing. I just prefer the more positive tone of his American stories.

Chief Inspector Porfiry Rostnikov is a fire plug of a man. With one leg crippled during the Battle of Moscow in World War II, he compensates by lifting weights, and is immensely strong. He is also honest and compassionate, and thus doomed to eternal frustration in the Moscow police system.

Unlike James Church’s Inspector O, Rostnikov is not mortally committed to the Fatherland. In fact, in the previous book he made an attempt to blackmail his superiors into allowing him, and his son and Jewish wife, to emigrate to America (he loves American mystery novels, especially Ed McBain).

That effort failed, and now he’s been shunted off to obscure duties and “unimportant” cases, such as the murder of an old Jewish man in his bathtub. But then one of his superiors’ automobile is stolen, and Rostnikov is called up to the first team again, because the man really wants his car back.

Questions are asked, inquiries made. Cases intertwine. Facts are learned.

But the big lies must remain in place. For the “good” of all, and for safety’s sake.

Though not the most enjoyable of Kaminsky’s books (in my opinion), the Inspector Rostnikov books are probably his most literary. Kaminsky excels at sketching interesting, layered characters. One of the most interesting is, oddly, the one with the least personality, Inspector Emil Karpo. A man with no sense of humor at all (perhaps he has Asperger’s), unquestioningly devoted to the Revolution, Karpo could easily be made into a caricature and a figure of fun. Instead, Kaminsky presents him as a man whose concentration makes him a very good detective indeed, within his limitations. Rostnikov is wise enough to take advantage of his strengths and forgive his blind spots.

Red Chameleon is not a cheerful book, but it’s a very good one, in the Russian tradition, from an always reliable author. Recommended.

I’d fallen behind in my Stephen Hunter reading the last year or so. I get most of my books from a used book store, and they never seem to have any Hunter in stock. But I recently got a chance to order his two most recent paperbacks, and Night of Thunder is the first in line.

Night of Thunder is about NASCAR, the races, the business, and the culture. It exhibits many of the qualities of NASCAR itself—lots of action, lots of color, plenty of thrills, and very little substance. In other words, Night of Thunder is an entertainment, the most purely cotton candy, Coors-in-a-cooler, hoo-rah spectacle of any of Hunter’s novels. That sounds like a put-down, but it all depends on what you’re looking for. Nobody delivers more entertainment per consumer dollar than Stephen Hunter, and you’ll have fun with this book. But I don’t think you’ll remember it long. Continue reading Night of Thunder, by Stephen Hunter →

I’d never heard of author James Church (a pseudonym for a former western intelligence officer) before someone lent me A Corpse in the Koryo. It’s carefully written, in a restrained, picturesque style that seems (to me, as an ignorant westerner) evocative of Asian thinking. And it delivers all the grim tragedy one expects, in a story set in North Korea.

Inspector O, a police detective in Pyongyang, is a loose cannon in the honored tradition of fictional cops. Of course, a loose cannon in North Korea enjoys a lot less scope than one in, say, Los Angeles. He expresses his individuality through small acts of rebellion, like “forgetting” to wear the uniform badge that bears the portrait of the Dear Leader, and pursuing the solitary (hence suspect) hobby of woodworking, when he can get his hands on wood and supplies.

He’s lucky, too. He’s the grandson of a national hero, and a government minister who was his grandfather’s friend gives him a certain level of protection.

Still, Inspector O is under constant suspicion. But then, everyone is under constant suspicion.

The story, presented as a debriefing given to a British agent, begins with Inspector O sitting on a hill overlooking a highway, with a camera, waiting for a particular car to pass by. He’s supposed to take a picture of the car, but when he tries, the battery in his camera is dead (par for the course). Shortly after returning to his office, he is told that a little boy has been killed near the site where he had been watching. Then he attends a tense meeting with several police and intelligence officers, and is ordered to go to another city for a while and lay low. However, when he gets there, there are messages and clues, and mysterious meetings.

And so it goes. Nothing is what it seems in O’s world, and anyone not known to be a friend is probably an enemy. No one speaks directly. Messages are conveyed by nuances and things left unsaid. The mystery is convoluted, and the normal difficulties of police work are exacerbated by the difficulty of getting things as simple as aspirin, a meal, or notebooks (to say nothing of information).

But for all the subtleties of Korean society, death is brutal, bloody, and unsparing.

A Corpse In the Koryo is an excellent mystery for grown-ups not afraid of sorrow and futility, and anyone interested in a glimpse into the world’s most closed and secretive society. It’s not an easy read, as the reader needs to pay close attention both to spoken words and silences. Recommended.