Devil May Care (James Bond 007 Series)

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"Devil May Care is a continuation of the James Bond legacy - a new chapter in the life of the most iconic spy of literature and film, written to celebrate the centenary of Ian Fleming's birth on May 28, 1908." "An Algerian drug runner is savagely executed in the desolate outskirts of Paris. This seemingly isolated event leads to the recall of Agent 007 from his sabbatical in Rome and his return to the world of intrigue and danger where he is most at home. The head of MI6, M, assigns him to shadow the mysterious Dr. Julius Gomer, a power-crazed
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Devil May Care (James Bond 007 Series)

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"Devil May Care is a continuation of the James Bond legacy - a new chapter in the life of the most iconic spy of literature and film, written to celebrate the centenary of Ian Fleming's birth on May 28, 1908." "An Algerian drug runner is savagely executed in the desolate outskirts of Paris. This seemingly isolated event leads to the recall of Agent 007 from his sabbatical in Rome and his return to the world of intrigue and danger where he is most at home. The head of MI6, M, assigns him to shadow the mysterious Dr. Julius Gomer, a power-crazed pharmaceutical magnate, whose wealth is exceeded only by his greed. Gomer has lately taken a disquieting interest in opiate derivatives, both legal and illegal, and this urgently bears looking into." Bond finds a willing accomplice in the shape of a glamorous Parisian named Scarlett Papava. He will need her help in a life-and-death struggle with his most dangerous adversary yet, as a chain of events threatens to lead to global catastrophe. A British airliner goes missing over Iraq. The thunder of a coming war echoes in the Middle East. And a tide of lethal narcotics threatens to engulf a Great Britain in the throes of the social upheavals of the late sixties.
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  • Sebastian Faulks
    Sebastian Faulks  

Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly

With a delivery as cool and dry as a vodka martini, Tristan Layton brings numerous international locals and characters to life in Faulks' homage to Ian Fleming's greatest creation, James Bond. It's 1967 and agent 007 is on a forced rest leave, but it isn't long before a new threat to the British Empire and the world has M dragging him back into action. Evil genius Dr. Julius Gorner is out to destroy Britain by flooding England with heroin. He also has an even more diabolical plan waiting in the wings. Faulks follows Fleming's traditional framework, but it's Layton's performance that keeps the rather slow storyline moving. His reading nicely enhances Faulks's prose and his proper English intonation provides the perfect stage from which his rich, multi-accented characters can project. It is a smooth, easy performance that elevates the material. A Doubleday hardcover (reviewed online). (June)

Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.
From the Publisher
“A near-effortless read, and considerable fun.” Entertainment Weekly

“Vintage Bond, in a very real sense. . . . A ripping yarn.” The Times (UK)

“An almost faultless replica of Fleming’s Bond. . . . With an unnervingly accurate ear for Fleming’ s bracing dialogue and taut, energetic prose, Faulks has given Bond fans a hugely enjoyable entertainment, expertly paced and cleverly imagined. . . . First class.” The Spectator (UK)

“A smart and enjoyable act of literary resurrection.” The Guardian

“Faulks has absolutely sterling job.... The pages turn over increasingly quickly. He evokes scenes with deft skill: recreates a time and a world with great brio, and manages it with the block script of Fleming’s journalistic nature.”
The Observer (UK)

“Superbly crafted.... The depth of Faulks’s research is staggering and relentlessly played back as the precisely judged chapters ease you along.” Sunday Express (UK)

The Barnes & Noble Review
Were I, James Parker, to be approached by the estate of Ian Fleming and offered terms for the production of a new James Bond novel, one thing alone would be nonnegotiable. Money, dates, even storylines would be up for discussion, but on this single point no threat or incentive could move me: the book would have to be called The Black Daffodil.

Readers with a background in Flemingiana are already nodding sagely: they know what I’m talking about. They know that The Black Daffodil was the title of a slim volume of poems that Fleming published in 1928, as a very young man. He published it privately, and then -- equally privately -- he burned every single copy. His biographer Andrew Lycett speculates that it contained "romantic verse." Whatever kind of verse it was, Fleming never wrote any more of it: his poetic ambition seems to have breathed its last on that drastic little bonfire. Is it too fanciful to imagine that certain other of his finer feelings also may have also gone up in smoke? That the philistine within him triumphed that day? And that, in the bitter ashes of The Black Daffodil, there stirred the cindery beginnings of his great revenge on literature -- the lethal, black-haired nullity, 007 himself? I don’t think it is.

In any event, a second Black Daffodil is not imminent, because instead of asking me to write the new Bond novel, the Fleming estate asked Sebastian Faulks, and he’s called it Devil May Care. Faulks, an Englishman, is the bestselling author of Birdsong and Charlotte Gray, and while one doubts that he wrote his Bond book in strict accordance with the Fleming method -- on a gold-plated typewriter between boozy dips in the Caribbean -- he does a very handy impression of the Fleming style.

There was a knock at the door. Bond checked himself in the bathroom mirror. The comma of black hair, dampened by the shower, hung over his forehead. The scar on his cheek was less distinct than usual, thanks to the tanning effect of the Persian sun. His eyes were bloodshot from the salt water but retained, despite the spidery red traces, their cold, slightly cruel, sense of purpose.

A slash of hair, a scar -- the description of Bond is calligraphic: strokes upon the void. (That "comma of black hair," of course, is the Master’s own touch, repeated so often in the Bond novels that it acquires the intensity of a Homeric epithet.) As Kingsley Amis, who wrote his own Bond novel under the name Robert Markham, observed, Bond is "a depressive and a solitary." Unadorned, but faithful also to the characteristic obsessions with technology, gastronomy, pitiless lovemaking, and branded goods, Faulks’s Fleming-prose captures this emptiness perfectly. Devil May Care is set in swinging 1967, and as the action begins we find Bond enduring a strange epoch of self-doubt, lounging around Rome and wondering if he should pack it all in. M has sent him on a recuperative sabbatical, and for weeks he’s been going to bed "no later than ten o’clock with only a paperback book and a powerful barbiturate for company." But international espionage abhors a vacuum, and within a few pages 007 has been summoned back to London. "The party’s over," snaps M. Somewhere between Paris and Tehran, something nasty is brewing; informants are having their tongues pulled out; sinister shipments are on the move. To be precise, there is a new archenemy in town.

On the spectrum of Bond villainy, Dr Julius Gorner, it must be said, is at the low-voltage end of things. He has an excellent henchman (the grisly Chagrin, relieved of human sympathies by a botched brain operation) and an excellent deformity (a monkey hand or main de singe, complete with hairy wrist and non-opposable thumb.) And his vendetta against the British Empire is a nice touch -- at one point he instructs Chagrin to do to Bond "what the British did to the Kikuyu in the Mau-mau rebellion." Personally, though, despite his great "arrogance" and oft-mentioned "purity of purpose", he lacks fire. And he’s no visionary. Compared with the galactic hubris of Moonraker's Hugo Drax, for example, who wanted to restart the human race, Gorner’s evil master plan seems rather chaste: he intends merely to flood the United Kingdom with cheap heroin while jump-starting a nuclear war.

Also rather chaste in Devil May Care is Bond himself. Naturally, there is the usual lecherous banter with Moneypenny, and the woman of the hour -- Scarlett Papava, a well-travelled investment banker with notable legs -- does a lot of undressing at gunpoint (as does Bond, oddly). But consummation is long deferred, and there are no random conquests to keep us ticking over: Bond’s attention is focused monogamously, even piously, on Scarlett. "She pushed a strand of black hair behind her ear. Did she know that he was watching? Why else reveal the perfect pink shape of her ear, so delicate and exactly formed that it was all he could do not to lean across and kiss it?" One imagines the fastidious Faulks holding his nose with one hand as he types those lines with the other. Still, he’s getting the job done: such sentimentality is the flip side of the Fleming style, part of the dissociation that enables him to be so thrillingly cruel.

I’m spoiling nothing, I hope, when I tell you that Bond saves the day -- a world in which Bond did not save the day would not be our world. But the real victor here is Sebastian Faulks: moving with sinuous urgency from set piece to set piece, handling cliché like a favorite sidearm, his Fleming-prose threads its way sure-footedly between homage and pastiche. Let’s be open to the possibility that it might be -- to lift a line from U2 -- even better than the real thing. --IJames Parker

James Parker is the author of Turned On: A Biography of Henry Rollins (Cooper Square Press). He is a staff writer for the Boston Phoenix.

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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780307387875
  • Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
  • Publication date: 5/19/2009
  • Edition description: Reprint
  • Pages: 304
  • Sales rank: 345,341
  • Product dimensions: 5.10 (w) x 7.90 (h) x 0.90 (d)

Meet the Author

SEBASTIAN FAULKS worked as a journalist for fourteen years before taking up writing full-time in 1991. In 1995 he was voted Author of the Year by the British Book Awards for Birdsong. He is also the author of Human Traces, On Green Dolphin Street, Charlotte Gray, The Fatal Englishman, The Girl at the Lion d'Or, Engleby, and the James Bond novel Devil May Care. He lives in London with his wife and three children.

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Read an Excerpt

Devil May Care
By Sebastian Faulks
Doubleday Copyright © 2008 Sebastian Faulks
All right reserved.

ISBN: 9780385524285


It was a wet evening in Paris. On the slate roofs of the big boulevards and on the small mansards of the Latin quarter, the rain kept up a ceaseless patter. Outside the Crillon and the George V, the doormen were whistling taxis out of the darkness, then running with umbrellas to hold over the fur-clad guests as they climbed in. The huge open space of the place de la Concorde was glimmering black and silver in the downpour.

In Sarcelles, on the far northern outskirts of the city, Yusuf Hashim was sheltered by the walkway above him. This was not the gracious arch of the Pont Neuf where lovers huddled to keep dry, but a long cantilevered piece of concrete from which cheap doors with many bolts opened into grimy three-room appartements. It overlooked a busy section of the noisy N1 and was attached to an eighteen-storey tower block. Christened L'Arc en Ciel, the Rainbow, by its architect, the block was viewed, even in this infamous district, with apprehension.

After six years of fighting the French in Algeria, Yusuf Hashim had finally cut and run. He had fled to Paris and found a place in L'Arc en Ciel, where he was joined in due course by his three brothers. People said that only those born in the forbidding tower could walk its airborne streets without glancing round, but Hashim feared nobody. He had been fifteen years old when, working for the Algerian nationalist movement, the FLN, he took hisfirst life in a fire-bomb attack on a post office. No one he had ever met, in North Africa or in Paris, placed much value on a single life. The race was to the strong, and time had proved Hashim as strong as any.

He stepped out into the rain, looking rapidly back and forth beneath the sodium light. His face was a greyish brown, pocked and wary, with a large, curved nose jutting out between black brows. He tapped the back pocket of his blue ouvrier's trousers, where, wrapped in a polythene bag, he carried twenty-five thousand new francs. It was the largest amount he had ever had to deal with, and even a man of his experience was right to be apprehensive.

Ducking into the shadows, he glanced down for the fifth or sixth time at his watch. He never knew who he was looking out for because it was never the same man twice. That was part of the excellence of the scheme: the cut-out at each end, the endless supply of new runners. Hashim tried to keep it equally secure when he shipped the goods on. He insisted on different locations and asked for fresh contacts, but it wasn't always possible. Precautions cost money, and although Hashim's buyers were desperate, they knew the street value of what they dealt in. No one in the chain made enough money to be able to act in absolute safety: no one, that is, except some ultimate, all-powerful controller thousands of miles away from the stench of the stairwell where Hashim was now standing.

Sticking a soft blue pack of Gauloises to his mouth, he wrapped his lips round a single cigarette and drew it out. As he fired his cheap disposable lighter, a voice spoke in the darkness. Hashim leaped back into the shadow, angry with himself that he'd allowed someone to observe him. His hand went to the side pocket of his trousers, where it felt the outline of the knife that had been his constant companion since his childhood in the slums of Algiers.

A short figure in an army greatcoat came into the sodium light. The hat he wore looked like an old kepi of the Foreign Legion, and water ran from its peak. Hashim couldn't see the face. The man spoke in English, softly, in a rasping voice. "In Flanders fields," he said, "the poppies blow."
Hashim repeated the syllables he had learned by sound alone, with no idea of what they meant: "Betveen de crosses, row on row."

"Combien?" Even that one word showed that the dealer was not French.

"Vingt-cinq mille."

The runner laid down a brown canvas bag on the bottom step of the stairs and stood back. He had both hands in the pockets of his coat, and Hashim had no doubt that one would be clasping a gun. From the back pocket of his blue trousers, Hashim took out the polythene-wrapped money, then stepped back. This was how it was always done: no touching, and a safe distance maintained. The man bent down and took the money. He didn't pause to count it, merely inclined his head as he stowed the package inside his coat. Then he in turn stood back and waited for Hashim to move.

Hashim bent down to the step and lifted the bag. The weight felt good, heavier than he had known before, but not so heavy as to make him suspect it was bulked out with sand. He shook it up and down once and felt the contents move soundlessly, with the satisfying heft of packed dry powder. The business was concluded, and he waited for the other man to move off. That was the routine: it was safer if the supplier didn't see which way the receiver even started his onward journey, because in ignorance was security.

Reluctant to move first, Hashim faced the other man. He suddenly became aware of the noise around them—the roar of the traffic, the sound of rain dripping from the walkway on to the ground.

Something wasn't right. Hashim began to move along the wall, furtive, like a lizard, edging towards the freedom of the night. In two strides the man was on him, his arm across Hashim's throat. Then the unpainted wall smashed into his face, flattening the curved nose into a formless pulp. Hashim felt himself thrown face down on the concrete floor, and heard the click of a safety catch being released as a gun barrel pressed behind his ear. With his free hand, and with practised dexterity, the man pulled Hashim's arms behind his back and handcuffed them together. Police, thought Hashim. But how could they…

Next, he was on his back, and the man dragged him to the foot of the stairwell, where he propped him up. From his coat pocket, he drew out a wooden wedge, about four inches at its deepest. He smacked it into Hashim's mouth with the heel of his hand, then hammered it home with the stock of his gun, to the sound of breaking teeth. From his coat pocket, he took out a large pair of pliers.

He leaned over Hashim, and his yellowish face became momentarily visible. "This," he said, in his bad French, "is what we do to people who talk."

He thrust the pliers into Hashim's mouth, and clamped them on his tongue.


René Mathis was having dinner with his mistress in a small restaurant near the place de Vosges. The net curtains on their brass rail obscured the lower half of the view from the window, but through the upper light Mathis could see a corner of the square with its red brick above the colonnades, and the rain still running from the eaves.

It was Friday, and he was following a much-loved routine. After leaving work at the Deuxième, he took the Metro to St. Paul and made for his mistress's small apartment in the Marais. He walked past the kosher butchers and the bookshops with their scriptures and seven-branched candelabra, till he came to a battered blue porte-cochère where, after instinctively checking that he had not been followed, he tugged the ancient bell-pull.

How easy it was for a secret agent to be a successful adulterer, he reflected happily as he glanced up and down the street. He heard footsteps on the other side of the door. Madame Bouin, the stocky concierge, opened up and let him in. Behind her thick glasses, her eyes gave their usual mixed signal of conspiracy and distaste. It was time he gave her another box of those violet-scented chocolates, thought Mathis, as he crossed the courtyard and climbed to Sylvie's door.

Sylvie took his wet coat and shook it out. She had prepared, as usual, a bottle of Ricard, two glasses, a carafe of water and a plate of small toasts from a packet spread with tinned foie gras. First, they made love in her bedroom, a hot bower of floral curtains, floral cushion-covers and flower prints on the walls. Sylvie was a good-looking widow in her forties, with dyed blond hair, who had kept her figure well. In the bedroom, she was skilful and accommodating, a real poule de luxe, as Mathis sometimes affectionately called her. Next—following the bathroom, a change of clothes for her and the apéritif for him—it was out to dinner.

It always amused Mathis that so soon after the abandon of the bedroom, Sylvie liked a proper conversation, about her family in Clermont-Ferrand, her sons and daughter, or about President de Gaulle, whom she idolized. Dinner was almost over, and Sylvie was finishing a fruity clafoutis, when Pierre, the slim head waiter, came regretfully to the table.

"Monsieur, I'm sorry to disturb you. The telephone."

Mathis always left numbers at his office, but people knew that Friday nights were, if possible, sacrosanct. He wiped his mouth and apologized to Sylvie, then crossed the crowded restaurant to the wooden bar and the little lobby beyond, next to the door marked WC. The phone was off the hook.

"Yes." His eyes travelled up and down over the printed notice concerning public drunkenness. Répression de l'Ivresse Publique. Protection des Mineurs.

No names were exchanged in the course of the conversation, but Mathis recognized the voice as that of the deputy section head.

"A killing in the banlieue," he said.

"What are the police for?" said Mathis.

"I know. But there are some…worrying aspects."

"Are the police there?"

"Yes. They're concerned. There's been a spate of these killings."

"I know."

"You're going to have to take a look."


"Yes. I'm sending a car."

"Tell the driver to come to the St. Paul Métro."

Oh, well, thought Mathis, as he gathered his damp raincoat and hat from the hook, it could have been worse. The call could have come two hours earlier.


A black Citroen DS21 was waiting on the rue de Rivoli beside the entrance to the station with its engine running. The drivers never switched off because they didn't want to wait while the hydraulic suspension pumped the car up again from cold. Mathis sank into the deeply sprung back seat as the driver engaged the column shift and moved off with an unrepentant squeal.

Mathis lit an American cigarette and watched the shop fronts of the big boulevards go by, the Galéries Lafayette, the Monoprix and the other characterless giants that occupied the bland Haussmann thoroughfares. After the Gare du Nord, the driver switched into smaller streets as they climbed through Pigalle. Here were the yellow and scarlet awnings of Indo-Chinese restaurants, the single lights of second-hand furniture shops or the occasional red bulb of an hôtel de passe with a plump and bare-legged poule standing beneath an umbrella on the corner.

Beyond the canals and criss-cross traffic systems of the old city boundaries, they went through the Porte de Clignancourt and St. Denis on to an elevated stretch of road that nosed between the upper floors of the tower blocks. It was here that Paris shunted off those for whom there was no house in the City of Light, only an airless room in the looming cities of dark.

The driver swung off the N1 down a smaller road and, after two or three minutes' intricate pathfinding, pulled up alongside the Arc en Ciel.

"Stop," said Mathis. "Look over there."

The Citroën's directional headlights, turned by the steering-wheel, picked out the foot of a stairwell, where a single uniformed policeman stood guard.

Mathis looked about the desolate estate. Stuck to the walls at what appeared to be random intervals were "artistic" wooden shapes, like something from a Cubist painting. They had perhaps been meant to give the buildings colour and character, like the rainbow they were named after. Almost all had now been pulled down or defaced, and those that were left made the facades look grotesque, like an old crone with badly rouged lips.

Mathis walked across and showed the policeman a card. "Where's the body?"

"In the morgue, Monsieur."

"Do we know who he was?"

The policeman took out his notebook.

"Yusuf Hashim. Thirty-seven. Metis, pied-noir—I don't know."


"No, Monsieur. But that doesn't mean anything. Not many people here have records--even though most of them are criminals. We seldom come to these places."

"You mean they're self-policing."

"It's a ghetto."

"How did he die?"

"He was shot at close range."

"I'm going to look up there."

"Very well, Monsieur." The policeman lifted the rope used to close off the stairwell.

Mathis had to hold his breath as he climbed the pungent steps. He went along the walkway, noting the chains and padlocks with which the residents had tried to reinforce their flimsy front doors. From behind one or two came the sounds of radio and television, or of voices raised. In addition to the foul stairway smell there was the occasional whiff of couscous or merguez.

What a hell this was, thought Mathis, the life of the métis, the half-caste or the pied-noir, the French of Algerian birth. They were like animals, not fenced in but fenced out of the city. It wasn't his job to set right the inequalities of the world. It was his business to see if this Hashim was anything more than a cheap one-shot killing and, if so, what it might have to do with the Deuxième.

The head of his section would require a written report, so he had better at least get a feel for the Arc en Ciel and what went on there. Back in the office, he would look up the files on similar killings, check with Immigration and see if there was a pattern, or a reason for disquiet. An entire section of the Deuxieme was devoted to the fallout of the French colonial wars. The eight-year struggle for Algerian independence had brutally divided not only Algeria but France itself and caused one political upheaval after another, finding a resolution only with the astonishing return to power of the wartime leader, General de Gaulle. Mathis smiled for a moment as he thought of Sylvie's reverent look when she mentioned the great man's name. And at the same time, even more shaming in an international sense, had been the defeat of the French army in Indo-China—or what now called itself Vietnam. The humiliation of the battle of Dien Bien Phu had burned itself into the soul of France, leaving a scar that had been hastily covered over.

The only consolation, thought Mathis, was that the Americans now seemed hell-bent on meeting the same catastrophe. For him and his colleagues, however, Algeria and Indo-China had meant uncountable thousands of immigrants, embittered, violent and excluded, many of them criminals and some of them committed enemies of the Republic.


Excerpted from Devil May Care by Sebastian Faulks Copyright © 2008 by Sebastian Faulks. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
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Interviews & Essays

Sebastian Faulks on Writing DEVIL MAY CARE

I was surprised but flattered to be asked by Ian Fleming Publications if I would write a one-off Bond book for the Ian Fleming centenary.

I told them that I hadn’t read the books since the age of 13, but if when I reread them, I still enjoyed them, and could see how I might be able to do something in the same vein, then I would be happy to consider it.

After almost five years researching Victorian psychology for my novel Human Traces, there was something attractive about a jeu d’esprit which, if I followed Fleming’s own prescription, I could write in about six weeks.

On re-reading, I was surprised by how well the books stood up. I put this down to three things: the sense of jeopardy Fleming creates about his solitary hero; a certain playfulness in the narrative details; and a crisp, journalistic style that hasn’t dated.

I tried to isolate the essential and most enjoyable aspects of the books. Then I took that pattern and added characters and a story of my own with as much speed and as many twists as I thought the reader could bear.

I developed a prose that is about 80 percent Fleming. I didn’t go the final distance for fear of straying into pastiche, but I strictly observed his rules of chapter and sentence construction.

My novel is meant to stand in the line of Fleming’s own books, where the story is everything.

In his house in Jamaica, Ian Fleming used to write a thousand words in the morning, then go snorkeling, have a cocktail, lunch on the terrace, more diving, another thousand words in late afternoon, then more Martinis and glamorous women. In my house in London, I followed this routine exactly, apart from the cocktails, the lunch and the snorkeling.

I found writing this light-hearted book more thrilling than I had expected. I hope people will enjoy reading it and that Ian Fleming would consider it to be in the cavalier spirit of his own novels and therefore an acceptable addition to the line.

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Customer Reviews

Average Rating 3.5
( 74 )
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See All Sort by: Showing 1 – 20 of 74 Customer Reviews
  • Anonymous

    Posted February 3, 2012


    A great book if you are into the 007 stories

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Posted December 31, 2010

    more from this reviewer

    Mr Faulks Hits All the Right Marks!

    I've read a few of the Ian Flemming novels and fially decided to pick up this book since the original James Bond novels were not available. Overall I enjoyed the book. It did remind me of the Ian Flemming style and had all the elements of a Bond novel: egotistical bad guy, quirky henchman, beautiful babe, thrills and spills, exotic locations, techno gadgets (mostly by the bad guys) and a double cross here and there. Some folks have their complaints (i.e. Bond playing tennis, M asking for chocolates, etc). But to me that is nicpicking. Bond is Bond whatever he does he always does very well. I was quickly drawn into the whole spy adventure and thoroughly enjoyed it. If you are looking to get inot Bond again, don't miss the opportunity to read "Devil May Care"

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted October 19, 2009

    ....writing as Ian Flemming...

    Might be a ok book to read while traveling.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted July 25, 2008

    Couldn't Wait to Put It Down!

    A travel guide with no plot. Sebastian really 'Faulks' up the Bond legacy.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted July 29, 2013


    Tell Fin to ignore the ugly girl that keeps getting in the way.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted July 29, 2013

    Sits up im going to rape a girl

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  • Anonymous

    Posted June 8, 2013


    Exactly. sleepover. P.s. if chu get yourself killed imma gonna march over there and kill chu a second time! Luz chu babe tells me all about it! Climb walmart for meh get kick outta the zoo

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  • Posted April 21, 2013

    Good Bond novel

    For those that love James Bond novels this is very well written and worth reading.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted December 11, 2012

    My mom and i LOVE the james bond books and movies!

    At the end of all the james bond movies james always has sex

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  • Anonymous

    Posted July 17, 2012

    Fun journey ...

    A short read but caprivating and layered richly with lots of trademark Bond sophistication.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted April 14, 2012

    Very exciting

    I enjoyed this book very much, and was happy to see Felix and Mathis again. Felix had a very trying time here. I felt bad for James when M wanted him to meet the new 009.

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  • Posted September 27, 2011

    Read only if you're a Bond fanatic.

    Not up to the usual standards of most Bond novels. Too predictable.

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted December 26, 2010


    a little too modern for a james bond book, read thr sample to see what i mean, some people will like it but i didnt.

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  • Posted July 4, 2010

    more from this reviewer

    A Time Before Islamic Terrorism

    This was definitely an enjoyable read. It gave me the flavor of the original Ian Fleming series but with the style of author Faulks. There also seemed to be a hint of more of James Bond's psychology being presented but never too much. This reminds an action story and a fairly good one at that. We are taken back to a time in the early 1960's when the CIA and the British secret service are not all that trusting of each other. This is the bothersome early years of the Vietnam War in which America fights on alone with no allies. And the demon heroin and drug addiction is being used to wreck the moral and physical strength of a nation by a crazed sociopath. It is a time before 911 and Bin Laden. More a time of torturers who learned their bloody trade in the years of War War II and the post-colonial collapse of England and France.
    There are fast cars and chases with interesting twists and turns in the plot that make this smooth sailing. The plot locations are excellent and the food and drink and other references are fun and send one to your foreign language dictionary. Don't forget the wild machines (really tame and realistic) and the final scenes of fighting and mayhem which always were first-rate in the James Bond books. I think you will find this story up to that standard. Give it a whirl and hope for more books in the series. Give the younger readers a taste of what we enjoyed in our youth before the fantastic excesses of the Bond movie industry.

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  • Posted May 10, 2010

    more from this reviewer

    Not quite Ian, but tolerable.

    I will admit it; I am a fan of Ian Fleming. I have all of his 007 novels and prefer them to any of the movies (the newer Casino Royale is the exception). This book is not up to the Fleming novels, for the improbable reason that it is too Ian Fleming. I think that he should include more of his own talent and it wouldn't seem quite as flat. I have the same comment for those who write Sherlock Holmes stories like AC Doyle (Laurie King is a great example of someone who doesn't attempt to write in the original style, but still writes great novels). However, this book is an order of magnitude better than some of the movie novelizations I've seen.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted September 3, 2009

    I Also Recommend:

    Not For The Fleming Purist

    May 28th, 2008 would have been Ian Fleming's 100th birthday. To celebrate, Ian Fleming Productions released a brand new James Bond novel, Devil May Care. Since Fleming's passing in 1964 several authors have carried the torch, keeping the world's most celebrated spy alive and in print. The latest penman comes in the form of Sebastian Faulks (Charlotte Gray, The Fatal Englishman). Interestingly enough the book is advertised as Sebastian Faulks writing as Ian Fleming.
    Unlike the James Bond novels of the 80's written by John Gardner or of the 90's written by Raymond Benson, Devil May Care picks up where Ian Fleming left off, the 1960's during the height of the cold war. We find agent 007 on a three month ordered sabbatical to recoup after the events chronicled in 'The Man With The Golden Gun' (best cronicled by Kingsley Amis in 'Colonel Sun'. Upon completion of the three months James Bond is to make a decision on his future as a British spy. He doesn't get much of a chance to make a decision when his superior M orders him back to duty to shadow a Dr. Julius Gorner, a lord in the pharmaceutical field. Gorner's opiate derivatives have become popular in the British culture and the government believes that it is only the front to a scheme that could lead to global catastrophe.
    Faulks delivers Bond with his usual creature comforts, lethal weaponry, gorgeous women, and destruction at a maximum level. The action heats up quickly in Devil May Care when an English aircraft goes missing over Iraq. These events and others lead 007 to battle for his life against a greed driven maniac who will push James Bond to his limits.
    Devil May Care will satisfy spy novel aficionados with its suspense and hard boiled espionage. While the story is engaging, Faulks is often guilty of trying too hard to emulate the writing style of Ian Fleming. The, more than often, references to famous Bond villains and previous adventures come across forced and somewhat stale, while persistently reminding us that we are in the 1960's with references to The Beatles and The Rolling Stones. Also Faulks fails to capture the descriptive prowess of Fleming that made many of the character in the world of James Bond larger than life.
    Devil May Care is a good addition to the James Bond canon. Sebastian Faulks is no Ian Fleming.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted July 9, 2009

    Great Cover and Very Exciting Novel, I highly recommend it!

    The reason why I love the cover is because Dominika van Santen, former Top Model of the World is on it, she is absolutely beautiful and amazing and the photographer and designer did a great job as well. The book and the story is also excellent and I highly recommend it! Two Thumbs Up!!!! Now I see why it is a "New York Times Bestseller".

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  • Anonymous

    Posted July 9, 2009

    Love the Cover as well as the book

    The reason why I love the cover is because Dominika van Santen, former Top Model of the World is on it, she is absolutely beautiful and amazing and the photographer and designer did a great job as well. The book and the story is also excellent and I highly recommend it! Two Thumbs Up!!!! Now I see why it is a New York Times Bestseller.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted January 15, 2009

    Devil May Care

    It is impossible to recapture the true Fleming style; Sebastian Faulks no more writes as Fleming as Raymond Benson does (or John Gardner). That really isn't much of a criticism, given Fleming's well-deserved reputation. Unfortunately, Faulks leaves out the Fleming style altogether, giving us a semi-chaste Bond who drinks and eats more than he seduces, whines more than he shoots, and just plain lacks the elegant savagery we associate with the world's most famous spy (a post-heroic Bond is not a very engaging chap). The plot is loosely constructed and makes little sense, and both the villain (Dr. Julius Gorner) and the henchman (Chagrin) are shallow, derivative creations. Bond girl (Scarlett Papava?? Ugh.) gets too much attention for what emerges as a rather obvious reason. A drawn out conclusion and weak "twist" finally put the book to bed, something you will be ready to do the moment you pick it up.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted September 29, 2008

    You love the movies? Better love the books.

    Being an avid lover of the movies (Connery, Brosnan, Craig only), well, it wont help you in the books. It may have inspired you to pick this particular book up - it did for me, though my only other reading experience was with Casino Royale. But, to be honest, you need more than just a Bond movie fanaticism. You need first to have read at least one of the original Fleming books, or understand that the Bond from the movies is not the Bond from the books. The fundamentals are there - he enjoys fine foods and an almost insatiable appetite for spirits. He enjoys women, gentlemen's sports, games of chance, and can be a cold, detached, and relentless conspirator and killer. There are gadgets, but of the dreadfully realistic variety - hidden knives, listening and tracking devices, modified cameras, and all of them not straining the suspension of disbelief. He has his enemies, they have their henchmen, though their methods and ambitions tend to be less extravagant than their movie counterparts. It is the attention to the book Bond that help Mr. Faulks succeed brilliantly in this latest adventure. While he clearly abides by Fleming's format, down to the smallest details, he demonstrates that he has more than an imitator's understanding. He earns the right to portray Bond on the page, helping the character retain his cool, his charm, and his passion (whether he's wooing or killing), and avoids making him just a two dimensional representation of movie Bond. The story is richly detailed if a trifle slow in spots. It can be a bit predictable, but only in the way that every Bond fan knows there's going to be a fierce chase, a beautiful woman, a battle of wills, a capture, horrible torture, daring escape, and the final showdown in which our hero wins victorious, if at great expense. One aspect of the novel which felt a trifle cliche even in the Bond universe were the deformity of the villains, Dr. Gorner and the appropriately named Chagrin. The former has an afflicted, monkey-like left hand, and the latter is a messy psychopath and brain surgery experiment. Even these can be forgiven since, if I may wax philosophical, Bond villains represent the external monstrosity where Bond himself represents the monster within. In all it was a fast, exciting read, filled with characters you know and love, whether from previous books or the movie series. Truly a worthwhile purchase.

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