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.