I’ve been following, and enjoying, Blake Banner’s Harry Bauer series of action thrillers. The Silent Blade is the sixth in the series. It delivers all the action you could ask for, though it’s probably best not to think about it too much.
Harry Bauer is a covert operative for a shadowy private organization called Cobra. His particular passion is wiping out drug lords. In the last book he got rid of two at once, and now he’s on the run in Trinidad, cut off from his employers, trying to figure out a way to get back to New York without alerting either the law or the cartels.
Then he meets a beautiful woman who works for the CIA, who first helps him and then turns him over to her bosses for “enhanced interrogation.” They want to recruit him, they explain, but first they need to know who he’s been working for. He finally escapes from them and runs to the leader of a Colombian cartel, offering (he claims) to be their source inside the CIA when he goes to work for them. Here he meets another beautiful woman, and fireworks (of a couple kinds) follow.
The action is hot and heavy, the sex pretty much the same (though not too explicit). But I can’t resist noting that the plot doesn’t make a lot of sense. Harry has reached a stage where he seems to just jump into deadly situations without a plan for survival. Are we supposed to think he’s a master strategist, or does he just have a death wish? I have a suspicion we’re not supposed to think that far.
Good of its kind. Cautions for language, violence, and adult situations.
The sixth volume in the late Jack Lynch’s 1980s detective series starring Pete Bragg is Truth or Die. I like Pete Bragg more and more because a) he’s pre-Woke, and b) he seems to be smoking less pot these days.
Pete’s relationship with his girlfriend, the artist Allison, is developing well, in spite of her reservations about his career as a private eye. He’s keeping a promise to her as Truth or Die begins, spending a weekend with her at the Monterey Jazz Festival. It’s a little awkward, though, when one of the people they run into is Jo Sommers, a beautiful woman Pete used to flirt with in his bartending days. Jo seems to be a compulsive flirt, and Pete can’t deny the attraction, even though she’s married to a prominent local psychologist.
Then the psychologist turns up dead, smothered with a pillow in his den. Jo is arrested for the murder, and appeals to Jack to clear her. Allison gives him limited permission. Pete’s not sure Jo didn’t actually kill her husband, but he soon uncovers evidence leading to old military secrets, secret tapes, and blackmail. Then Allison is endangered, and we get to see Pete in full Lone Ranger mode.
Lots of fun. Not much to object to except for extramarital sex, which seems almost chaste these days. I enjoyed Truth or Die.
Occasionally I run across a book that reminds me what non-Christians must experience when they attempt to read a conventional Christian Booksellers’ Association novel. That was my response, at least, to The Detective Wakes, by Jim McGhee. It’s the start of a series, but I’m not taking it further. I did, however, finish it. I wanted to know whether it would surprise me. No such luck.
Barney Mains is an Edinburgh police detective with a moribund career. He isn’t sure why he’s never gotten on with the department. Then (for some reason) he’s assigned to nursemaid a young female detective, Ffiona (two f’s) McLusky, whose star is rising in the department. Their assignment is assumed to be routine – go to the French Riviera to check on an expatriate Scot – Dot-com billionaire Shona Gladstone, who has been reported missing by her assistant. Everyone assumes the woman has just taken an impromptu holiday. But soon they know it’s kidnapping, and the race begins to figure out why she was taken, and to get her back.
The plot sketch above is in fact misleading. This is actually a political drama, about a plan by young international billionaires to change the world through getting all the governments to adopt social democracy – guaranteed minimum income, wealth tax, green policies – to save civilization in the wake of the Covid epidemic. There are few nuances here – the good guys wear white hats, the bad guys are either corrupt or fascists. No real consideration is given to the possibility that the plan might be counterproductive, as so many socialist schemes have proven in the past. The good guys don’t always use legal means, but hey, everything’s cool when you’re fighting fascism, right?
There were moments of comedy, but they were mostly unintentional – as when the author assures us that the media are almost totally controlled by the right wing.
Have there already been 18 Inspector Skelgill books, set in English Cumbria? I must be enjoying them, because I keep coming back. Inspector Daniel Skelgill is definitely an example of the “curmudgeonly detective” trope, but he manages to remain a sympathetic character. In some ways he seems barely human – especially in relation to women, he seems entirely impassive. Some fun is had with that character trait in this book, Murder Unsolved.
Skelgill’s parents came from rather different families. He seems to favor his father’s side, hard-working, disciplined, stoic. But he’s a Graham on his mother’s side, and they are a different matter. The Grahams are a marginal clan in Cumbria (I remember them being mentioned in accounts of the days of the Border Reivers). They party hard and are inclined to cut corners with the law. But Skelgill has recently had some positive contact with some of his Graham cousins, and one of them, a young woman, asks for his help.
She has a friend, Jade, a beautiful young woman whose old boyfriend, Dale Spooner, a petty criminal, is serving time for a murder three years ago. Two local gangsters were found dead in a burned-out car, and forensic evidence put Dale at the scene. But Jade says Dale has an alibi, which he won’t talk about.
Skeptical at first, Skelgill and his team, DS Jones (female) and DS Leyton (male) look into the evidence (off the record) and find that the case was very shoddily investigated. The case was covered by a team led by Inspector Smart, a smarmy and sly detective none of them respect. They soon realize that a lot of criminal activity has been going on in this apparently quiet country area, and there are people with much greater motives for the murders than Dale Spooner had. And those people will not hesitate to eliminate nosey coppers.
Murder Unsolved was as enjoyable as the previous books in the series. One of the great strengths of author Bruce Beckham’s writing is his wonderful descriptions of the fell country. My only disappointment was that he confused “flout” with “flaunt” on two occasions.
The Skelgill books contain no profanity; sometimes the author openly explains that he’s employed a circumlocution.
Inspector John Shadow of York, hero of H. L. Marsay’s police procedural series, is annoyed by many things. Crowds for one, which is unfortunate for a man living in a tourist city. Festivals. Geese. Modern music. Social interactions. At the beginning of A Ghostly Shadow, he’s annoyed, as Guy Fawke’s Day approaches, by the costumed tour guides leading “ghost walks” through the city. York is renowned for several ghosts, most prominently Guy Fawkes of the Gunpowder Plot and Dick Turpin the highwayman. Currently, a couple new guides from Oxford have established themselves in the city and are dressing as Fawkes and Turpin, taking business away from local ghost impersonators. Also, somebody has been stealing tour brochures from kiosks.
Then the new Dick Turpin is found hanging from a tree, near the very spot where the original Dick swung for his crimes. Shadow’s team must investigate the murder, under pressure from the city, as usual, to wrap things up before it affects business. Inspector Shadow’s attitude is not improved when he sprains his ankle and has to depend on other people’s help.
I suspect my affection for this series springs from my identification with Shadow himself, as a fellow misanthrope (though I think he’s ruder than I am, yet people seem to like him for some reason I can’t divine). But the writing isn’t top drawer (author Marsay is prone to clichés like “pale and drawn”). Nevertheless, the book was fun to read, and there wasn’t much to offend me. Recommended for light reading.
Harriet wished she knew more about times and tides. If Robert Templeton [her fictional detective] had happened, in the course of his brilliant career, to investigate a sea-mystery, she would, of course, have had to look up information on this point. But she always avoided sea-and-shore problems, just precisely on account of the labour involved.
The eighth Lord Peter Wimsey novel by Dorothy L. Sayers is Have His Carcase (a joke on “Habeus Corpus”). In this book, Lord Peter once again joins forces with Harriet Vane, mystery novelist, the woman he loves. Who continues to steadfastly refuse his marriage proposals.
Harriet is having trouble with her latest novel, and so has repaired to a (fictional) resort town on the southwest coast of England to concentrate. One day she takes a walk on a coastal road to clear her head, and stops for a picnic lunch on a beach below some cliffs. There she spies a human form lying immobile on top of a flat rock. Approaching to investigate, she finds a man dead, his throat cut, the blood still flowing freely. Knowing that the tide is coming in soon, she takes photos to document the body’s condition. By the time she makes it to the nearest town and gets the police to investigate, the body has washed away, not to be found for some days.
Harriet is a savvy businesswoman, and does not hesitate to tell the press about her discovery. She also starts asking questions about the victim. He was a “dancing partner” (gigolo) at one of the local hotels, and had recently become engaged to a very rich older woman. Which makes the woman’s son an obvious suspect in the murder, but he has a pretty good alibi.
Lord Peter soon shows up to help her investigate (the police don’t mind, of course, thanks to his reputation and political connections). Those police are inclined to dismiss the death as suicide, but Peter and Harriet find that theory improbable for several reasons. What they finally discover will be very strange indeed.
I hadn’t read Have His Carcase for nearly fifty years, and I liked it quite a lot, but not as much as I liked it the first time. I’d forgotten about the long section devoted to breaking a cipher (only interesting if you want to work it out on paper with the sleuths, which doesn’t appeal to me). And the final conclusion of the book was more ambivalent than I remembered. Nevertheless, Dorothy Sayers’ narrative skills are very strongly on display here, and there are some great scenes. The final twist is brilliant (in my opinion). And she includes a delicious, Dickensian policeman’s name in this book, too – Inspector Umpelty. You can’t hate a book with an Inspector Umpelty in it.
One of my daughters has become interested in select manga and anime, and she’s gotten me reading a series of superhero fantasy called My Hero Academia. It may be the number one manga series currently being published. The next book to be released in English is Vol 30, so it’s got legs. Having read the first 10 volumes, each collecting six issues, I’ll vouch for it. It’s top-notch. Author Kohei Horikoshi said he had hoped to get through 10 volumes, and there he was at #10 running serious, long-term story arcs and fans eating it up.
In this world, almost everyone has extraordinary abilities, special powers, or, as Horikoshi calls it, quirks: creating specific elements (I wonder if anyone can brew coffee or tea out of thin air), strength, speed, talking to animals. One of the top 5 heroes can manipulate any organic fiber at will, so garden-variety burglars could find their clothes suddenly binding them to the spot. Of course, most people don’t have superhero-level quirks and others have demented skills that perhaps encourage them to pursue the darkness. The greatest super, the symbol of peace in the world, is called All Might. He beats down bad guys with a smile.
The focus of the story is on Izuku Midoriya, a fifteen-year-old boy who had aspired to be a hero ever since he could think straight. He longed to be a force for good in the world, but he had no quirk. In the first book, Midoriya’s friend, who is something of a jerk and has a powerful quirk, is attacked by a rampaging monster. While everyone else stands by debating how to engage, Midoriya rushes in with little more than a drive to save his friend. This act of heroism provokes All Might to bequeath his power to this boy, and consequently enabling him to try out for admittance to U.A. High school. He has to pass the entrance exam and practical trials, which he does more by strength of character than body.
Horikoshi knows how to write this type of fantasy. His characters are individuals with faceted strengths and weaknesses. They compete with and against each other as students do, trying to gain first place recognition in various areas, and since these are supers-in-training, their competitions involve giant robots, saving mock hostages, and how did those villains get in here?
Horikoshi respects his characters, giving them space to stand out as the story permits, and his main character, Midoriya, has such a natural hero’s heart, he uses him to provoke the others in moving ways. I got teary eyed during the sporting event in which the students of two classes paired up to defeat each other. Midoriya couldn’t just try to outsmart his opponent, a kid named Todoroki who has a difficult relationship with his father. Midoriya kept counseling him during their match, encouraging him to find his own spark and not define himself by his father. The moment Todoroki is pushed over the edge, saved from himself as one of the onlookers put it, is marvelous.
There are a few drawbacks, such as off-color jokes and a couple minor characters, but so far, the writing and artwork have been strong. It’s admirable work.
“In the flaming aurora borealis, the spirit of space hovers over the frozen waters. The soul bows down before the majesty of night and death.”
The great ordeal is over. I have finished reading Fridtjof Nansen’s Farthest North (okay, I skipped the final chapter, where Captain Otto Sverdrup finishes the ship Fram’s voyage, after Nansen and his companion have left on their own trek, kind of equivalent to an untethered space walk. Enough is enough). Although the book was interesting and vivid, the sheer length of the thing – along with the pain and discomfort involved in much of the adventure – made it feel as I’d been on the expedition myself. And I’m no outdoorsman.
I’ve been aboard Nansen’s ship Fram. They keep it in a museum in Oslo, near the Viking Ship Museum. So sturdy is the old tub that they permit tourists to clamber aboard and poke around in the cabins (I call it a “tub” advisedly, for reasons I’ll explain). I was looking around yesterday for a picture of me on board, to post here, but I don’t seem to have had one taken. I’d just seen the Viking ships for the first time, and that was about all I could think about.
Nansen was a young, innovative scientist and explorer, a 19th Century rationalist. He was the arctic explorer who figured out that large, ship-borne expeditions weren’t the way to approach the North Pole. Dog teams and sleds, those were his idea (or so I understand). But his initial theory was that a current carries polar ice westward from north of Siberia, and that that current would carry a ship to the North Pole, if the ship was built properly. Fram was not built for its sailing qualities (which were poor) but for its smooth, round hull shape. He calculated that a properly constructed ship (if heavily braced within) would not be crushed by the pack ice but lifted by it. This idea proved correct. The Fram was essentially a manned buoy. It worked so well that it also served several later expeditions, including Roald Amundsen’s. Nansen’s account of the year he spent in the ice on the ship makes it sound positively “koselig” (as the Norwegians say). They seldom needed to use the stoves, and the men fretted about gaining weight.
The part of the theory that involved drifting to the Pole worked out less well. They got up to 85⁰ north latitude, but then realized they wouldn’t get any further that way. So Nansen, along with his companion Hjalmar Johansen, set off with dog sleds and skis. What followed was harrowing. The ice and snow of the ice cap proved to be extremely rugged and difficult to cross, and in time, somewhere above 86⁰ N., they gave it up. They had at least traveled further north than any human beings ever had, and that record stood a while.
Their retreat was even worse than the push north. As their supplies dwindled, they began (as planned) to kill their dogs one by one to feed to the other dogs. They often came to open water hard to cross, and faced attack from walruses and polar bears (though they got their own back, eating both whenever they could kill them). Finally the dogs and the ice pack both gave out and they took to their kayaks. They spent a miserable winter in a stone-built hut, huddled in a double sleeping bag, trying to hibernate. And at last, in the third year, they encountered an English expedition in Frans Josef Land and got passage home, national heroes.
The sheer endurance of these explorers is almost incomprehensible to a couch potato like me. Good planning prevented their suffering much from malnutrition, but they nearly worked themselves to death, shivered through storms, got dunked in subzero sea water, went months without seeing the sun, and were never entirely sure where they were. (Oddly, they gained weight, even on the final retreat, probably because of their idle winter in the hut.) The achievement is nearly unbelievable.
Readers of tender heart should be warned – many animals were harmed in the making of this story. Generally animals are killed for food (though not always), but Nansen tends to describe them in anthropomorphic terms, which makes one pity them. He seems to feel badly about it himself.
If you’re interested in arctic adventure, Farthest North is a compelling story. For this reader it was too long, but that’s just me. It’s a mark of the book’s inherent interest and good writing (decent translation, too) that I read it through pretty much to the end.
One odd point – Nansen keeps talking about “snow-shoes.” Eventually one figures out he means skis. The translator didn’t use that word because skis weren’t familiar to English speakers at that point in history.
I’ve been following, and generally enjoying, David J. Gatward’s Inspector Grimm mystery series, about a war-scarred police detective in rural Yorkshire. But I have to say I found Cold Sanctuary, the eighth volume, something of a disappointment.
The book opens in a memorable and – I must say – heartbreaking manner. On a beautiful morning, Bill Dinsdale, a Yorkshire farmer, bids goodbye to his loving wife and sets out to do one of his favorite jobs, baling hay. But we are warned from the start that this is the last day of his life. The dramatic tension builds to a shocking murder scene.
When Inspector Grimm comes to investigate with his team, they are quickly convinced that what looks like an accident is murder. In a particularly cruel form. Who would want to do this to Bill, a cheerful and popular member of the community? Could the murderer possibly be Bill’s son, who recently fought with him and is acting suspiciously? Or the mysterious person who’s been sending him threatening notes?
There were two elements of Cold Sanctuary that displeased me. One was a scene where Grimm makes an arrest, rather callously, which is treated as important – and yet turns out to be a mistake. A mistake for which Grimm does not apologize. Nor does he seem much concerned about the distress he caused.
The other element was the final solution. The puzzle all through the book was “Why would anyone kill Bill Dinsdale?” The problem is treated as mysterious and baffling. But it didn’t baffle me at all. It was plain as a pikestaff, based on the evidence. Not only was it obvious, it was actually a common trope. We’ve all seen it a hundred times before in novels, TV shows, and movies.
There’s the lesbian cop married to an Anglican woman priest, too. But when a novelist only inflicts lesbians on you these days, it’s a mercy.
I’m not sure if I’ll continue with the Inspector Grimm books or not. I came away kind of annoyed this time.
Had I opened Kawabata’s novel, Thousand Cranes, with the knowledge that the Japanese use a thousand cranes as a symbol for happiness or good fortune, I would have seen a moment sooner the disaster that was coming.
Kikuji Minari is a wealthy young man who lost both his parents four years ago. He responds to an invitation to attend a tea ceremony, something his father did for many years, because the invitation suggests he will be introduced to a woman. He notices her on his way in; she has a pink kerchief with a thousand cranes pattern on it. Plus, she’s attractive, graceful, and is willing to marry him with as little investment as a couple meetings. Smart money says he should receive her and make a good life with her.
But, no, he dwells on sordid details of two other women with whom his father had committed adultery years ago. Like an idiot.
Perhaps the natural outrage one feels as Kikuji indulges himself here and refuses someone there is what drives this story. He loves the wrong person effortlessly and constantly returns to the ugly when he has opportunity to hope. His father’s sins have bound him, and he doesn’t see it.
How much does the guilt of our parents’ sins define us? If it’s entirely their own, we can put it behind us when they pass away. If it clings to us and becomes part of our own guilt, what can we do to be free of it? Kawabata asks these questions but gives no answer to them in this work, no answer except perhaps the ruin Kikuji makes of his own life.
