A variety of authors have written 007 novels since the death of Bond's creator, Ian Fleming -- and the results have been mixed, to say the least. As 'Robert Markham', Kingsley Amis penned the very first post-Fleming Bond, and this attempt by a novelist better known for his 'literary' work was judged a success. Now, after a decade of less successful entries by such writers as John Gardener, we have another serious writer, Sebastian Faulks (author of such acclaimed novels as Birdsong), taking up the challenge.

Devil May Care has already collected a jaw-dropping amount of publicity, with even the Royal Navy helping to put the book firmly at the top of the best-seller charts (Bond is, of course, a naval commander), and few books have had such wind under their sails (the relaunch of the movie franchise with the re-make of Casino Royale and Daniel Craig's second Bond film, Quantum of Solace, is all part of the ever-accelerating momentum). Of course, this also gives the book farther to fall if it misses the mark.

Faulks' author credit on the book ('Sebastian Faulks writing as Ian Fleming') is both revealing and encouraging - the author has reportedly said that he undertook the task with total seriousness, and he has tried to work within the parameters of the Ian Fleming formula (Faulks re-read all the extant Bond novels and stories) rather than the more glossy film incarnation. Among several very canny moves by the author is his decision to keep his 007 in the 1960s rather than catapulting him into the 21st century (as other ersatz Fleming novels - and, of course, the films -- have done. So how successful are the results?

Fleming aficionados can relax - this is a sterling job of recreation, and a novel that functions with total authority in its own right. The evocation of time and place (or places, notably Paris and the Middle East) is impeccable, as are the plotting and detail (as colourful and violent as anything in Fleming); there is a satisfyingly unpleasant larger-than-life villain, Julius Gorner, with a grotesque deformity of the kind Fleming often gave such characters (the chapter 'The monkey's hand' gives this away) and grandiose, evil ambitions. Best of all, this is Ian Fleming's James Bond - not a superman -- worried about his health and his physical powers (which he fears may be on the wane). Delicious stuff in fact. Now... can Faulks be persuaded to write another such novel? --Barry Forshaw.

2008-07-18 Good evening, Mr Faulks

The name's Faulks, Sebastian Faulks. I have just written an awfully exciting James Bond book under the name of Ian Fleming. All my friends who write reviews in the London papers tell me it is fabulous darling and -

Insert the gag, Oddjob. Permit me to disagree, Mr Faulks. What you have achieved in this book Devil May Care is a no-pace, no-action, no-rhythm clunker. It seems to me that this is not so much a book as a cheque, which is to say a document of small intrinsic interest guaranteeing that you will collect a great deal of money. Not so, Mr Faulks? I have a memory of Ian Fleming. I must tell you, Mr Faulks, that next to him you are a wet and a weed.

When Fleming wrote a thriller he knew what he was talking about. He spent a fair amount of WWII in a camouflaged hole in the ground, waiting to give the Germans a hard time should they and their tanks arrive in Kent. In the post-war years he was a dedicated consumer of wine, women and cigs, passing his time in Jamaica and the casinos of Europe. His literary method involved lying in the bath smoking the Morlands with the triple gold band through a holder, dictating his deathless prose to a stenographer called Wednesday, or maybe Vespa.

And unlike your little exercise in pastiche, Mr Faulks, Fleming's books were serious. Casino Royale hit the world like a seven-litre Bentley in the solar plexus. It contained no exploding cigarette lighters or laser guided hatbands. Its tough, bleak existentialism might have come from the pen of Graham Greene, if Graham Greene had decided to write a Cold War thriller.

It is true that as Fleming wrote more Bond books, they became more far-fetched. In the splendid times when Stalin ruled the free world, we at Smersh frowned on golden guns and moon-rockets, and suspected organizations like Spectre of bourgeois deviationism. The films? Nothing to do with Fleming. Comics, made by silly Americans called after a green vegetable admired by few. No, I will not speak of the films.

Now, then. Let us speak of death, Mr Faulks. The death of Fleming led to various sequels, commissioned by publishers wishing to keep the torrent of Bond money flowing. And eventually to you, Mr Faulks.

Frankly, Mr Faulks, you have done a rotten job. Fleming's Bond plays Baccarat. Your Bond plays tennis. Fleming's Bond thinks like a citizen of the Empire. Your Bond thinks like a citizen of north London. Thanks to Fleming's Bond, I currently reside under a landslide on Crab Key. Even by my standards, Mr Faulks, your horizons seem limited.

So we have organized something special for you, Mr Faulks. As you whimper in your restraints you will no doubt be wondering whether it will be the shark pool or the laser beam up the jacksy. Well, Mr Faulks, it will be neither. And there will be no escape in the nick of time. I am sorry, Mr Faulks? Your fate? Ah, yes. For Ian Fleming, the world's bookshelves. For you, Mr Faulks, the wastepaper basket.

Ahahahaahahahahaha.

Ernst Stavro No Goldfinger (Dr)