In our earlier review of Raymond Benson's "Zero Minus Ten" (HMSS Spring '97), we reported
that Mr. Benson has the tools and the talent to carry the James Bond saga well into the next
millennium. We are wildly happy to inform our readers that there is no "sophomore slump"
with his second original Bond novel.
"The Facts Of Death," which is certainly, but not rigidly, patterned after the Eon Films formula,
occupies itself with elements as diverse as biological warfare, Pythagorean theory, and the
crystallization of the enmity between Greece and Turkey in "the Cyprus Problem." The plot
is complicated; the reader has to pay attention; but Benson takes us through it all with a sure
hand. This is devilishly entertaining high adventure, and it is real James Bond stuff.
Disease, both of the body and of the spirit, thematically informs the story, as James Bond
hops from Greece to Texas to Cyprus to try to stop a madman from unleashing a deadly plague
upon mankind. People get sick and die in this book (even 007 is fighting a flu; and Felix Leiter,
though stalwart as ever, is physically deteriorating from the effects of his old injuries,) and
relationships get sick and die. The new M (who acquires a name in this book,) is engaged
in a love affair with a man of questionable repute, and Bond begins to push his relationship
with his secretary into dangerous and seemingly unhealthy areas.
"Sick" is also a good way to describe the novel's villain, a brilliant mathematician and disciple
of Pythagoras, who styles himself "The Monad" and heads up a cult-like criminal organization
called "The Decada." Konstantine Romanos is classic bit of Flemingesque villainry; he is rich,
brilliant, and seriously whacked in the head. A strong villain with a nasty plot is the the engine
that drives the machinery of a James Bond story; Romanos' plant to destabilize the Cyprus
situation with a germ warfare attack is a like a stoked V-8 with overhead cams.
Benson's descriptions of The Decada's machinations, as in the case of the Hong Kong Triads
in ZMT, is pure pulp music. The reader is reminded of Conan Doyle, Arthur Machen, and
H. Rider Haggard as much as of Ian Fleming. Though this may be conventional wisdom, it
can't be stressed strongly enough that the villains, their organizations, and their fiendish plots
are the magic that makes a 007 story special. Benson nails this crucial element with aplomb.
These are the coolest, nastiest, bad guys we've seen in a Bond story in decades.
 It may be Fleming's world, but
Benson is
the best
tour
guide we could
ask for
|
He also slam-dunk nails the characterization of James Bond. Much like when we read Fleming,
we get a complete yet shadowy picture of the man. We know his habits and his personality;
we vicariously enjoy the cocktails, cigarettes, fabulous meals, games of chance, and
ust-this-side-of indiscriminate sex. This, of course, is the public James Bond, known primarily
to millions of people as a screen adventure hero and Pop icon. In TFOD, we see Bond in three
dimensions; as a melancholy and perhaps even lonely man, albeit capable of feeling of
tenderness and affection. He has longings for his secretary that seem to be as much from the
heart as from the groin; he treats his boss M with a courtly respect and gentleness in her hour
of darkness; and is genuinely and demonstrably happy in the reunion with his old pal Felix
Leiter. All this aside, however, he also remains the extremely tough secret agent with a
license to kill. We don't get much of a physical description of him, so we can plug whatever
preconceptions we carry into our reading and still have the correct James Bond. A neat
literary trick.
More good stuff: Hera Volopolous is a hench(wo)man worthy of the classics in the series.
Beautiful, sexy, and a psycho on wheels; you will be in horrified suspense during the (now)
obligatory torture scene. Niki Marakos is a delicious Bond babe; a competent Greek Secret
Service agent not above several rolls in the hay with 007. Felix Leiter, reborn here at least in
demeanor, speech, and taste as more of a true Texan, makes his long overdue return to the
series. Welcomed back also is Sir James Molony, in a brief but funny scene in which he
dissects Bond's snobbish character. Admiral Sir Miles Messervy holds court at Quarterdeck,
and Major Boothroyd's Q Branch whips up a tasty Jaguar XK8 equipped with some extra-special
options. Even that "Scottish treasure" May gets a few well-placed "tsk"s in. As a bit of fun,
Benson, throughout the book, plays a little "spot the reference" game with the reader, referring
back to a number of 007's previous cases, and not always by name.
(And as a personal aside, we would be remiss not to mention the appearance of HMSS's own
Tom Zielinski in the novel as a fertility clinic doctor who incredulously reviews 007's history of
injuries, and our own "resident armourer" James McMahon listed in the acknowledgments page
(James previously put in an appearance in the TND novelization as the captain of HMS Bedford).
Our colleague and friend Panos Sambrakos serves gamely as a naïve but brave Greek Army
officer. Congratulations, guys; you are now a bit of 007 history.)
The narrative moves smoothly, there are wonderful history lessons detailing the long-standing
problems between the Greeks and the Turks, the plentiful action scenes are punchy and
exciting, the meals and drinks are tasty, the sex is lubricious, and the conflict between 007
and The Monad spirals into a slam-bang climax. It's important to note that TFOD, much like
ZMT, clearly establishes the James Bond story as being relevant in the post-Cold War world.
This hugely entertaining novel does not play to the lowest common denominator, a tack the
Eon Films series seems distressingly bent on as of late. Instead, we get realistic characters
with real issues in their lives, working to deal with these issues while otherwise kicking ass.
Behind all of the pyrotechnic fun, minor chords ring for various lost, ruined, and otherwise
wasted lives. We look forward to future interesting characters from the mind and pen of
Raymond Benson.
Lest we forget the architect of our dreams, there presides over the whole affair the spirit
of Ian Fleming, into whose invented world we are fortunately once again given passage. It
may be Fleming's world, but Benson is the best tour guide we could ask for. We think that
Benson knows a couple of back acres the Master forgot about; and that for now, while he
may only legally hold the deed, the title will also soon be his.
