I found this book in a second hand bookshop in Stamford this and was drawn to it because it had Malta in the title (I swear it didn’t have anything to do with the sexy lady on the cover). I flicked through the book to check if the book was actually set in Malta or if it just alluded to this mythical island.
To my joy, a large part of this book is set in Malta — the island where I lived for 4 years myself. As a treat to myself I decided to buy the book and to indulge in a bit of melancholia.
The book starts in Libya, where the special CIA agent Sam Durell is trying to track down the Maltese Maiden (the daughter of his general). The general has recently gone missing, together with some state secrets, so he must be found. The first step is to find his secret daughter.
Sam Durell is being introduced to us in a classic secret agent from the 60’s/70/s type of way. It was so cliché that I couldn’t stop loving it:
He spoke a dozen language fluently, a score of dialects, knew international law, geopolitics, economics, history. He could kill with his hands in several different, silent ways and had done so out of necessity, with no regrets. He was a lonely man. He preferred it that way.
In Libya we are also introduced to Durell’s team and his opponents (the Russians and the Chinese secret agents). The classic enemies of the Cold War time in which the story was written. The Russians drink a lot of vodka and the asian counterparts wear ‘red Chinese robe, embroidered with heart gold thread in dragon forms and tiny figures of Mandarin gentlemen and ladies of another epoch in Chinese Empire history.’
The story is the archetype of a spy story. I’ve never read any book from this genre before, but know I feel like I’ve read them all.
What do you think of the cliché of the enemy that they were forced to work together with that one time? It’s there:
- “I’ll see the prisoners first. They’re all secure?”“Charley tried them up in circus knots. I hear we caught a big one.” Keefe licked his lips. His green eyes were speculative. “A Colonel Skoll. An old buddy of yours?” “Hardly a buddy.” “You and Skoll, in Morocco, worked together, didn’t you?”
- “Boom, boom, Amerikanski,” one of them said. “You are a dead man.” “Colonel Skoll.” “I told you , old friend, we would meet again.” ‘And I told you, the last time in Japan, that we are not friends.”
The classic trope of helpless women that need to be saved and a spy that cannot love longterm because it would put her in danger.
“She’s here. Somewhere nearby. I can feel it in my bones. I don’t want you in this, Dee.” “Are you talking about Madame Hung?” He nodded. “If I’d known she was involved in the job, I’d never have let you come here.” “I’ve never seen you so worried about anyone, Sam.” “I’m afraid of Madame Hung.” ‘Because of me, you mean.” “Yes.”
I thoroughly enjoyed reading this book, because it was so stereotypically a spy-novel. It’s an easy read, with adventure, action, guns, and suggestions to sex. The settings are exotic and outlandish, I can see how it would’ve been popular in the 60s and 70s. A true form of escapism.
I love the descriptions of Malta the most. You can tell that the author spend a lot of time on his descriptions of Malta. I’m almost certain that he must’ve visited, because he mentioned the two crucial things that people will mention after visiting that you won’t find in any brochure: 1) lack of trees, 2) shitty roads.
- He backed quickly, drover over the bumpy open area toward the stand of first, practically the only wooded area on all of Malta.
- A dark sedan came from the left, moving fast, and shot past their little Fiat, roaring ahead along the wide — and only good — road the Gozitans could boast of.
Apart from that he goes into quite a lot of detail with his descriptions and backgrounds. He lets his protagonist lecture his colleagues on Maltese history. This makes it feel as if the protagonist is a tour guide, more than a spy. I tried to find out if the author had visited Malta on a holiday prior to writing this book, but I didn’t manage to find anything about that. I did find out that the author has a degree in history, which might explain why he enjoyed adding the historic background information about Malta into the book.
All in all a really fun book to read — not despite the cliché and overused tropes, but because of it!
More from the ‘men writing women’ section:
- She stood very still. Her hand holding the Beretta did not tremble. She was competent, he thought. She had probably enjoyed the best of Italian and Libyan life; she could probably swim and sail and fly a plane and skin dive and drive racing cars — and make love like a cat.
- She pushed back the hood of her barracon. Under the Libyan robe, she wore a modern blouse and brief skirt. She had good breasts, good legs, a narrow waist. Her face was mall, even elfin, and her eye were enormous, wide and black, with tension moving in their depths.
- She slide up behind him on the bed and put her arms around him. He felt her warm, dark-copper hair against his shoulders, smelled her perfume, sensed the silken-smooth roundness of her breasts against his back. Deirdre was the most beautiful woman in the world for him, the most desirable, the most important.”
- Deirdre drew him back on the bed again. “Make love to me, Sam. Please. Now.” He shivered suddenly. “You’re cold, Sam.” ‘No.” “Let me warm you. You’re tired and cold.” He was thinking of Madame Hung, but he let her draw him back to the bed again. The moonlight touched her smooth, exquisite body. Her eyes were luminous. She smiled and touched him. “Sam?” “Yes,” he said.
- He closed his eyes. Rhythm moved in soft flesh over and against him. His hands were numb above his head, and when he tried to draw them down, he couldn’t move them. He tried to jerk them free, and then realised he was strapped and padlocked, spread-eagled on a bed. The win d was open and the cool wind smelled of the Mediterranean. He heard the sound of small waves splashing on rock. He was utterly naked.
Men writing women, but with a touch of orientalist:
- She was beautiful in her red Chinese robe, embroidered with heart gold thread in dragon forms and tiny figures of Mandarin gentlemen and ladies of another epoch in Chinese Empire history. The high collar did not detract from her long throat. Her black hair was carefully coiffed, coiled high upon her fine head, accenting the odd pallor of her oval face, which had been made up with powder until her features looked like a mask, serene, smiling, confident, but hardly mobile. It was impossible to guess her age. And yet, Durell though, nothing could hide the vicious cruelty that emanated from her like a tangible aura. Her smile was a careful gesture, a practiced movement without meaning or depth.