Devil May Care (Limited Edition)

Devil May Care (Limited Edition)

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by Sebastian Faulks
     
 

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200 copies sold out in 2 hours Only 100 copies left, available only in USA at RandomHouse.com

It is with the greatest delight that we present the Bentley Special Series edition of Devil May Care. The ultimate in luxury editions — this beautifully crafted book represents a unique alliance between two of the world’s most iconic

Overview

200 copies sold out in 2 hours Only 100 copies left, available only in USA at RandomHouse.com

It is with the greatest delight that we present the Bentley Special Series edition of Devil May Care. The ultimate in luxury editions — this beautifully crafted book represents a unique alliance between two of the world’s most iconic brands: James Bond and Bentley Motors.

Cars and James Bond have always had a special association — our favourite spy is suitably famed for his fast cars and even faster driving. Whether it’s in pursuit of an arch-nemesis or a beautiful woman, Bond is always at home behind the wheel of a luxury sports car. Contrary to popular belief however, Bond’s preference has historically been firmly with Bentley Motors.

In the course of the fourteen original Bond novels, Fleming wrote of Bond owning three Bentleys — the last of which was a Bentley R-type, which Bond lovingly referred to as ‘the locomotive’. These were Bond’s personal cars — the cars that Fleming thought most epitomized the discernment and style of his hero. In Devil May Care, written by Sebastian Faulks to celebrate the centenary of Ian Fleming’s birth, it is fitting that Bond is found once again in the driving seat of his favorite motor — the Bentley.

To mark this momentous occasion, the publishers approached the famous Crewe firm to produce a Bentley edition of the book. This beautifully crafted luxury edition is the result. Bringing together the design and materials that epitomise the quality and craftsmanship of Bentley Motors, this is the perfect celebration of the centenary of Ian Fleming’s birth. Only 300 copies of the Special Series edition will be produced worldwide, with only 100 available in the US, costing $1500 each.

A HISTORY OF BOND AND BENTLEY

In Casino Royale — we first hear of Bond’s fascination with Bentleys — he drives:

‘One of the last of the 4 —-litre Bentleys with the supercharger by Amherst Villiers, he had bought it almost new in 1933 and had kept it in careful storage through the war. It was still serviced every year and, in London, a former Bentley mechanic, who worked in a garage near Bond’s Chelsea flat, tended it with jealous care. Bond drove it hard and well and with an almost sensual pleasure. It was a battleship-grey convertible coupé, which really did convert, and it was capable of touring at ninety with thirty miles an hour in reserve.’

Bond writes off his first Bentley in Moonraker — after which he takes delivery of a Mark VI.

‘The 1953 Mark VI, had an open touring body. It was battleship grey like the old 4 ½ litre that had gone to its grave in a Maidstone garage, and the dark blue leather upholstery gave a luxurious hiss as he climbed awkwardly in beside the test driver.’

The Mark VI however is quickly surpassed by Bond’s third and final Bentley — the Continental, which Fleming describes as “the most selfish car in England.” This is the car that Bond drives in Thunderball and subsequently in On Her Majesty’s Secret Service.

‘It was a MK (V) I Continental Bentley that some rich idiot had married to a telegraph pole on the Great West Road. Bond had bought the bits for £1,500 and Rolls had straightened the bend in the chassis and fitted new clockwork - the Mark VI engine with 9.5 compression.’

This is the car that most seems to have captured Fleming’s imagination — he researched the specification carefully, going into meticulous detail as to the car’s modifications. Writing to his friend Whitney Straight he states:

‘In connection with James Bond's new car, I would like it to be a cross between a Continental Bentley and a Ford Thunderbird - i.e. a smallish cockpit with a long bonnet line and a large boot behind.’

He is thought to have based the car on a custom modified Bentley Continental designed by French coachbuilder Henri Chapron (http://www.continental.org.uk/index.htm?http://www.continental.org.uk/bond.htm). Fleming goes on to describe the novel in greater detail in the novels:

‘Bond had gone to Mulliners with £3,000 which was half his total capital, and they had sawn off the old cramped sports saloon body and had fitted a trim, rather square convertible two-seater affair, power-operated, with only two large armed bucket seats in black leather. The rest of the blunt end was all knife-edged rather ugly, trunk…’

Bond clearly shares Fleming’s passion for this particular car, so much so that he names it ‘the locomotive’… It’s his personal car (the Aston Martin was the ‘pool car’ of the service) and as such his real automotive passion stays with the Bentley.

‘The car was painted in rough, not gloss, battleship grey and the upholstery was black morocco… She went like a bird and a bomb and Bond loved her more than all the women at present in his life rolled, if that were feasible, together.’

And so — in Devil May Care Sebastian Faulks once more treats us to Bond happily behind the wheel of ‘the locomotive’ — you’ll have to wait until May 28th to read more.

THE DESIGN STORY

The publishers approached Bentley soon after they signed Sebastian Faulks to write the new James Bond novel. We had, from the very beginning, wanted to produce a special edition — and Bentley was the first and immediate choice. And so they went to Crewe, to Bentley HQ, to meet their design team.

Dirk van Braekel is Chief Designer at Bentley. He studied at the Royal College of Art, one of the first schools to specialize in car design. He then joined Volkswagen unit Audi in 1984, and was drafted in to head up Bentley’s design team when the VW group acquired the company in 1998. There, he created the groundbreaking design for the Bentley Continental GT, launched in 2004 and one of the most successful sports coupes of our times.

Under Dirk’s guidance, the Bentley Design team have produced the phenomenal design for the Special Series edition.

“What struck me with the Bond story is that throughout the novels there has always been the connection to Bentley which unfortunately has never really surfaced in the films, so unless you are an absolute Bond fan, hardly anybody knows this. Now we were offered an opportunity to get that link a bit more in the open.”

Fresh recruit to the team, Kate Whatmore, was instrumental in conceiving the wonderful combination of design elements which reflect the craftsmanship of Bentley and the Bentley of Bond’s era.

“As well as the time in which the story is set, the treatment for the design that Kate came up with captures in a subtle way the values that Bentley brand stands for: the leatherwork and bright metal parts; even the layout and the typefaces find their inspiration from the older car handbooks together with some references to what confidential and personal documents looked like in those days.”

The end result speaks for itself.

THE SPECIAL SERIES EDITION

The Special Series edition takes it’s inspiration from the original hard-cover cloth casing used by Jonathan Cape publishers when they first published Fleming’s books back in the 1950s and 60s. This is combined with the slick and stylish designs of the 1950’s and 60’s Bentley owner’s manuals and handbooks. The result is a beautiful and striking edition which immediately captures the suave sophistication of the James Bond novels.

Bound in Bodoniana style cases finished in ‘Burnt Oak’ leather — sourced from the Pasubia tannery, which provides the hides for Bentley. The leather casing is then stitched in the iconic Bentley diamond pattern, as found on the radiator grille and the upholstery of modern Bentleys. The stitching is hand applied by the same craftsmen who produce the Vatican’s leather-bound volumes. The Bentley ‘Flying B’ — the radiator cap of the Bentleys of Bond’s time — adorns the front cover and spine.

The inside of the casing is trimmed in deep red ‘Hotspur’ leather — with the striking fluting used on 50’s and 60’s Bentley interior upholstery. Inside the front cover, each edition is individually identified by its unique edition number on a black lacquer machined steel engine plate (as found on every Bentley engine).

The book is printed by Graphicom in Italy — who have used a Munken Print Cream 150gsm paper stock — the highest grade of paper appropriate for such an edition. The typography reflects exactly the styling of the Bentley owner’s manuals.

Each book block is then die-cut with a car-shaped silhouette. Then the piéce-de-resistance — into this die-cut hole is inserted a cast and polished 1:43 scale model of the modified R-type which Fleming is thought to have had Bond driving — the Locomotive. The model has been crafted by hand by Bentley’s current design team, and reflects all the details Fleming includes in his novels. Compulsion Gallery have produced just 300 of these models — each one is individually numbered to match each Special Series book.

Finally — each book is protected by a custom-made plexiglass slip-case, which itself will be sealed in protective and numbered wrapping to ensure that this exclusive luxury edition reaches you in perfect condition.

Editorial Reviews

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.

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.

Product Details

ISBN-13:
9780385528672
Publisher:
Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Publication date:
06/02/2008
Series:
James Bond 007 Series
Pages:
416
Product dimensions:
12.00(w) x 17.50(h) x 6.25(d)

Read an Excerpt

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

ISBN: 9780385524285


1. THE WATCHER WATCHED


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."

"Now?"

"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."

"Record?"

"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.

Continues...


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.

Meet the Author

Sebastian Faulks's seven previous novels include the international bestseller Birdsong (1993), Charlotte Gray (2000), and most recently Engelby (2007). He lives in London, is married and has two sons and a daughter.

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Devil May Care (James Bond 007 Series) 3.5 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 68 reviews.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
A great book if you are into the 007 stories
7th_Trump More than 1 year ago
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"
slatsdawson More than 1 year ago
Might be a ok book to read while traveling.
Guest More than 1 year ago
A travel guide with no plot. Sebastian really 'Faulks' up the Bond legacy.
Je58 More than 1 year ago
For those that love James Bond novels this is very well written and worth reading.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
At the end of all the james bond movies james always has sex
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Anonymous More than 1 year ago
A short read but caprivating and layered richly with lots of trademark Bond sophistication.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
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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