The Fear Artist by Timothy Hallinan

Published by Soho Crime on July 17, 2012

Philip “Poke” Rafferty is an American travel writer who now resides in Bangkok with his Thai wife and adopted Thai daughter.  Poke is leaving a paint store -- he plans to paint his home while his wife and daughter are out of town -- when he collides with a running man.  A couple of gunshots later, the running man is dead in Poke’s arms, a laundry ticket is in Poke’s pocket, and the Thai version of Homeland Security is interrogating Poke about the man’s last words.  It doesn’t take long for Poke’s status to change from witness to suspect.  As Poke tries to avoid arrest (or worse), he conducts his own investigation within Bangkok’s shadowy world of former spies and current criminals.

Apart from Poke’s half-sister Ming Li (who shows up in Bangkok to lend Poke an assist) and Vladimir, a morbidly philosophical Russian, the novel’s most significant player is an unhappy spook named Murphy, a former operative in the CIA’s Phoenix Program during the Vietnam War.  Murphy is training his creepy young daughter, Treasure, to be a spy -- or a psychopath.  While Treasure is an interesting character who makes a less than convincing contribution to the plot, Ming Li enlivens the story with an irreverent teenage perspective.  Vladimir provides the novel’s comic relief, as does (in a small role) the despondent boyfriend of Poke’s goth daughter.  Each character has a quirky, believable personality.

This is Timothy Hallinan's fifth Poke Rafferty thriller.  When Hallinan introduces a character from an earlier novel, he includes a quick summary of the character’s relationship to Poke.  For that reason, it isn’t necessary to read the earlier novels before reading this one, but the several backstories are a bit distracting and might even be annoying to fans of the series who are familiar with all the characters.

The tightly constructed plot -- part mystery, part spy story -- is suspenseful and (if you forgive the coincidence of the running man giving the laundry ticket to Poke in his dying moments) credible, a rare combination in thrillerworld.  Unfortunately, to the extent that the story turns into “Phoenix Program participant needs to cover up atrocities in Vietnam so they won’t ruin his current career,” it is far from original.  The Thai angle gives it a fresh twist and figuring out the multiple betrayals is a challenge.  Betrayal is a constant theme to which even Poke is not immune.  Circumstances require Poke to betray a friend’s trust, a guilt-inducing event that creates sympathy for his character.

Although Hallinan is a skillful writer, particularly adept at pulling a reader’s emotional strings, he tells the story in the present tense, a technique that is mildly annoying.  The text is infused with a political point of view that disapproves of the bullying American tendency to act as a global police force (at least when it serves American interests).  Readers who believe that the victims of collateral damage are people, not collateral, will likely appreciate Hallinan’s viewpoint, but more hawkish readers might be put off by the novel’s politics.  In any event, The Fear Artist is far from a political diatribe.  It is first and foremost an entertaining, fast-moving tale of crime and deception in an exotic locale.

RECOMMENDED

Year Zero by Rob Reid

Published by Del Rey on July 10, 2012

The alien members of the Refined League share a superior aesthetic sense, at least when it comes to art, architecture, fashion, interior design, and stained glass -- everything, in fact, except music, the one realm in which humans rule.  Aliens who have unwittingly pirated Earth’s music have discovered (as have myriad American college students) that the Copyright Damages Improvement Act is “the most cynical, predatory, lopsided, and shamelessly money-grubbing copyright law” ever devised in the history of the universe.  They owe the music industry pretty much the net worth of every planet.  Unfortunately, the aliens’ solution to the problem is even more draconian than the law itself.  It’s up to a young copyright lawyer to save the world.

Making fun of lawyers is easy, particularly the self-serving lawyers who think you should pay a royalty every time you hum the theme from Welcome Back, Kotter.  As suggested in Year Zero, the scorched earth approach to music piracy benefits law firms while harming everyone else on the planet, including musicians.  The music industry and its pet politicians are equally tempting targets, as are reality tv shows, trendy Manhattan restaurants, and celebrities (or wannabes) who indulge the desire to live life publicly via Twitter and other social media organisms.  Rob Reid skewers them all.

The bottom line is that Year Zero is funny, although quite a few of its laughs derive from silliness.  The aliens have access to superheavy metals and, music lovers that they are, have given them names like metallicam.  The atmosphere of a planet is identical in composition to Drakkar Noir.  One alien species resembles a vacuum cleaner.  And so on.  The narrative also takes well-aimed shots at Microsoft (Reid is clearly a Mac user).

The text is riddled with footnotes.  Most of them are amusing but the more informative notes reveal hard truths about the music industry and its suicidal, thought-deprived executive decision-makers.  Reid’s incisive and insightful takes on music piracy are a must-read for anyone with an interest in the subject.

Year Zero has a definite political point of view.  Rabid fans of Orrin Hatch are unlikely to enjoy the novel.  Highly placed music industry executives and partners in law firms specializing in intellectual property are equally unlikely to enjoy its stinging criticism (associates in those firms, on the other hand, will probably get a kick out of its accurate depiction of young lawyers as fodder that fuels the money machine).  Readers who don’t make their living extorting ridiculous sums of money from college kids who download songs illegally are likely to appreciate the novel’s humor.  The story provokes more chuckles than belly laughs, but as light comedy, Year Zero worked for me.

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The Tango Briefing by Adam Hall

First published in 1973

The Tango Briefing is the fith in a series of spy novels featuring a British agent named Quiller written by Elleston Trevor using the pen name Adam Hall.  A recon flight returns pictures of something in the Algerian desert that might be an airplane. Because its suspected cargo would be dangerous in the wrong hands, Quiller is dispatched to "take a close look at the bloody thing." And bloody is just what he gets, as one would expect from a Quiller novel. He also battles dehydration, exhaustion, and the constant threat of death as he shakes off surveillance, dodges bullets, and parachutes into the desert where vultures are hoping to have him for lunch.

Quiller is a fun character. Of all the fictional spies, Quiller is probably the least likable -- and that's what makes him so easy to like. He's testy, quarrelsome, disgruntled, a loner who loathes everyone, particularly his bosses. Most of the time he behaves like a jerk, but he gets the job done. Quiller survives by relying upon his intellect, a sharp mind that is constantly at war with his instinct and the demands/fears of a body he refers to as "the organism." If often seems as if Quiller wishes he weren't burdened with frail limbs and human emotions, that he would be happier as an analytical robot.

I love the refined-but-tough first-person prose Adam Hall uses to narrate Quiller's story. His surging sentences are perfectly timed, reflecting the anxiety and restlessness of a spy waiting for the action to start. And once it starts, it's unrelenting. Action scenes are intense, particularly those that take place in the desert. They left me feeling parched. The Quiller novels aren't in the same class as the best spy fiction, but they're smart, gripping, and thoroughly entertaining. The Tango Briefing is one of the better ones.

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Infrared by Nancy Huston

 

Published by Grove Press/Black Cat on July 3, 2012

Infrared is a contemplation of love, sex, family, and survival, but it is fundamentally a gradually developing snapshot of Rena Greenblatt. Over the course of a weeklong vacation in Tuscany with her father (Simon) and her father's wife (Ingrid), Rena comes into focus. Nancy Huston builds Rena's life by layering opinions upon memories until she becomes whole, as crisp and detailed as the photographs she takes. Rena is an introspective snob, a sensitive woman tormented by guilt, a free-thinking photographer who captures the heat of sex using infrared film. Her running commentary -- thoughts often triggered by her observation of art and architecture -- touches upon religion, genitalia, male sexual performance, prostitution, pornography, photography, beauty (which she feels compelled to "smother with erudition"), motherhood, sodomy, and the geographical history of sexual violence. Rena's opinions as much as her memories give breadth and depth to her character.

Rena's memories are far from pleasant. She has a complicated relationship with her father (a former disciple of Timothy Leary). Rena's mother (a feminist lawyer) died under circumstances that still cause Rena grief. Rena's brother abused her during her childhood. Rena tells us that infrared film captures warmth, the ingredient missing from her childhood. At the age of 45, Rena has had a multicultural assortment of husbands and lovers. She also has a long-standng internal voice, an alter-ego named Subra, with whom she is in constant conversation.

By using infrared film, Rena believes she is capturing an invisible world, "the hidden face of reality." It falls to Ingrid to remind Rena that her photography reveals only half the truth. Ingrid argues that Rena deliberately omits the pleasant, not just from her photography but from her life. While Rena's erotic memories and fantasies -- never far removed from her thoughts -- might fairly be regarded as agreeable (some of them, at least), Ingrid has a point. Perhaps with good reason, Rena is not a particularly happy person, and it isn't clear that she ever will be.

Huston has a gift for crafting unexpected sentences. There is, in fact, nothing predictable about Infrared. The novel's exploration of sexuality and "the theatre of masculinity" is fascinating, but even more absorbing is Huston's construction of Rena. Layered in memories, shrouded in opinions, the "hidden face" of Rena's reality is starkly revealed in all of its brutal complexity.

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Advent by James Treadwell

Published by Atria on July 3, 2012 

I'm not usually a fan of novels that feature witches and mermaids -- they just aren't my thing -- but I picked up Advent because it purported to have literary merit.  The plot creatively joins two legendary figures -- the prophetess Cassandra of Greek mythology and the 16th century Faust -- and brings them both into the present, threatening the modern age of reason with a return of dark magic and evil spirits.  In the end, despite James Treadwell's graceful writing style, I just didn't care.

Young Gavin Stokes has an imaginary friend named Miss Grey.  To Gavin, Miss Grey is far from imaginary -- she is annoyingly real and has gotten him kicked out of school.  When Gavin's parents send him off to spend some time with his aunt, Gwen Clifton, Gavin encounters Gwen's neighbor, the eccentric Hester Lightfoot, on the train.  Arriving at his destination, Aunt Gwen is nowhere to be found, but Gavin meets a thirteen-year-old named Marina who, like Gavin, sees people who aren't really there.  It turns out that Heather has the same gift.  Marina's friend from across the river, Horace Jia, has seen the missing Gwen but he's not about to tell any adults where she is.  Trouble begins when Marina and Gavin go searching for Gwen and find something that's not quite the Gwen of Gavin's fond memories.

Meanwhile, in 1537, the world's greatest magus, Johannes Faust, acting on a whim, asks his spirit servant to show him the most beautiful woman of all time.  To his surprise, it is another woman, Cassandra, standing behind Helen of Troy, who captures his attention.  Cassandra gives Faust a gift that turns out to be a curse.

The cast having been assembled, Gavin has a series of frightening supernatural encounters before he partially comes of age (he only vaguely understands his linkage to another legendary figure with a similar name) and confronts Faust, who is now in a 20th century guise.  The transition between the two stories takes place in an oddly expository chapter positioned midway through the novel.

The novel's structure is strange.  Faust's story alternates with Gavin's.  That's not a problem, but Faust's story begins at the end and works it way back to the beginning for reasons that are unclear.  I'm not bothered by nonlinear structures if they serve a purpose but I'm not sure that this one does.  After the stories join they often seem muddled.

Treadwell's writing style is exceptional.  His evocative prose brings the night alive, creates a strong sense of place, and is generally a joy to read.  The characters in Advent (as you might expect from people who are touched by the supernatural) are quirky and eccentric and often a bit rattled, characteristics that make them interesting even if they never seem fully developed.

Given the skill with which the story is told, why am I not a fan of Advent?  Ultimately, Advent left me unmoved.  Faust's story is tragic by nature yet I felt no compassion for the unfortunate character.  Gavin and Marina undergo harrowing experiences yet I did not share their terror.  In short, I felt no connection to the story or its characters.  The novel did not absorb me, did not trigger my willingness to suspend disbelief.  The ending struck me as silly.  Perhaps diehard fans of the genre will appreciate this novel more than I did, but readers who don't make a point of seeking out supernatural fiction will probably not want to pick up Advent.

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