With the greatest respect and understanding the enormous effort expended by Mr Altman to assemble his first thriller I must disagree with other effusive, barely literate reviews and state, sadly, this derivative book is a load of nonsense. Maybe, maybe accompanied by a bottle of scotch and orange scented happy baccy an occasional reader could find humour (as, say, Ben Macintyre achieves) or authenticity (John Le Carre) but here there is no finneessee (sic), just a pedestrian tumult of cliches I thought must have been translated by someone with an abridged English as a second language dictionary from Swahili.
Sorry. If I mistakenly took this tome to a desert island I’d swim out to beg a passing shark to serrate me. Sir, don’t give up your day job.