Bloody Genius by John Sandford

Published by G.P. Putnam's Sons on October 1, 2019

Virgil Flowers novels tend to be a bit lighter than their companion Lucas Davenport novels, but neither series is crushingly heavy. Bloody Genius, like all of John Sanford’s novels, tells a fun story featuring likeable characters who trade barbs while laboring to solve a crime. Apart from following a successful formula, Bloody Genius offers one of the most engaging mysteries that Sanford has created. For that reason, I would rank it as one of the best of Sanford’s Virgil Flowers novels.

A professor sneaks a woman into a library at midnight, where he comes upon someone in his cubicle. The professor is clobbered on the head with his own laptop and the woman, who sees little and avoids being seen, decides that discretion is the better part of being a witness. For much of the novel, the police do not know who she is and are not even certain that anyone was in the library except the professor and his killer.

Since the professor has powerful friends with political connections, Virgil Flowers is dispatched to Minneapolis to assist the local homicide detectives, who have nothing. Flowers is careful not to step on the toes of the lead investigator, Margaret Trane. She overcomes her initial animosity toward Flowers, in part because Flowers is charming and funny and in part because he clearly isn’t trying to steal her thunder.

The reader knows more about the murder than the police, although the reader doesn’t know why the professor was killed or the identity of either the killer or the disappearing woman. Forearmed with that knowledge, the reader can enjoy Flowers’ investigatory missteps as he pursues theories that ultimately don’t fit how the murder occurred. The suicide (or murder) of another character and a mugging that might have been an attempted murder may or may not be related.

With all of those plot threads, the reader is never quite sure whether each new fact is a red herring or a clue. Did the murder have something to do with an academic dustup between the professor, who considered himself to be a real scientist, and members of the Cultural Affairs department, who the professor derided as useless? Did the cocaine in the professor’s desk tie into a motivation for murder? Why is a recorded conversation about a mysterious “experiment” hidden on a country-western CD in the professor’s sound system? Did the killing have anything to do with a malpractice lawsuit against the professor? Do seemingly unrelated crimes, including the theft of rare maps, furnish clues to the murder?

Sandford spins the plot elements with the skill of a master juggler. The eventual solution to the professor’s murder is clever. The crime is also one that an astute reader with esoteric knowledge that I lack might be able to solve. On top of a winning plot, Sandford ends the novel with a nice action scene and packs the story with his usual irreverent and profanity-laden dialog. I loved all of it, although readers who can’t abide the F-word (or the word pussy when it isn’t followed by the word cat), will want to steer clear of Bloody Genius. In my view, the naughty words just add to the fun.

RECOMMENDED

Country by Michael Hughes

Published in the UK in 2018; published digitally by HarperCollins on Oct. 1, 2019

Country offers different perspectives on the Troubles, as seen by key characters on both sides of the border between Ireland and Northern Ireland. It is 1994 and the generation of men who signed up to fight for a united Ireland are sick of the conflict. The IRA is splintering. Peace might finally be at hand — a ceasefire is imminent — but a determined group of Republicans want to continue the fight. Country tells the story of a small group of Provisional IRA fighters as they battle British soldiers, Protestant loyalists, informers, and each other.

A dispute between Pig (the group’s leader) and Achill (its feared sniper) concerning the ownership of the teenage girls who warm their beds at night endangers the group’s goal of unsettling the peace talks between the British and the IRA. The story then follows Nellie as she is enticed by the British to become an informer. She is dating (and eventually weds for the sake of appearances) a member of the IRA named Brian Campbell, but she spends their brief marriage scheming a way to get out of Ireland and begin a better life.

The story follows Pig’s brother Dog before it focuses on Henry Morrow, a captain in the SAS who is tasked with contacting the fighters to get a sense of their willingness to support peace negotiations. The spotlight then shifts to Pig, who feels betrayed by IRA leadership. He feel the tide turning. Locals welcome the ceasefire, yearn for an end to checkpoints. Pig won’t stand to see his years of struggle come to nothing.

The story develops the backgrounds of the IRA fighters — the hardcore few who are determined to thwart peace — in unflattering detail. If they were not killing on behalf of the IRA, they would be finding some other way to channel the violence that has been bred in their bones. One wishes he lived in the age of Braveheart so he could hack the British into pieces with his sword. Others don’t enjoy killing but are so caught up in the cause that they have lost all perspective. They kill their own for the smallest reasons — repairing cars for the police becomes a capital crime. These men have legitimate grievances, but the novel suggests that it should have been clear by 1994 that violence was only delaying the objectives they hoped to achieve.

In one of the strongest scenes, men discuss the pride that drives them. Pride in being Irish, pride in being hard men. Yet Achill knows that the English are proud to be English. Having been humiliated by Pig, Achill is too proud to continue the fight under Pig’s command. Pride causes men to fight and it causes them to stop fighting.

There are times when characters from both sides acknowledge that Catholic or Protestant, Irish or British, they are all members of the human race. They bond over football and ancestry and beer. A man who meets with Henry has grudging admiration for the soldier, while Henry feels the same. On occasion, men on both sides will decide not to kill, but when they believe that killing is necessary, no amount of admiration for the opponent will stop them, regardless of which side of the conflict they support. Violence blinds them to the possibility of no violence.

Country tells a fascinating story, but it has a couple of weaknesses. The IRA members love to give speeches to each other, and then praise each other for “a good spake, not a word out of place,” as if they were all students of rhetorical criticism. And while that may accurately reflect the Irish gift of gab, the endless speechifying becomes tedious at points. At the same time, I gather the novel is supposed to evoke Homer’s Iliad, so the dialog is likely meant to serve that purpose.

I also wonder whether the portrayal of the IRA members as hooligans who quarrel about their collections of 14-year-old girls might reflect the bias of an author who grew up in Northern Ireland. Still, while the IRA members are stereotypes of evil, Hughes does make a point of humanizing them, acknowledging that there is some justice in their cause, if not in their use of violence to thwart peace.

In the end, I tend to soak up the lyrical prose of nearly all Irish writers, and Country is no exception. The prose makes the novel compelling, speechifying notwithstanding, and a steady stream of tension and tragedy add substance to Hughes’ style.

RECOMMENDED

The Tourist by Olen Steinhauer

First published in 2010; reissued by Minotaur Books on November 7, 2019

The Tourist was first published in 2010. I try to read as many reputably published spy novels as I can find, but 2010 was a bad year in my reading life. Several years later, I read and enjoyed a more recent novel by Olen Steinhauer, but I didn’t make it back to the trilogy that began with The Tourist. Fortunately, Minotaur is reissuing trade paperback editions of the Tourist novels and has made them available for review, presumably to promote the publication of a fourth Tourist novel next year. I am grateful for the opportunity to catch up on some spy novels that I didn’t know I’d missed.

Charles Alexander is an American spy. More specifically, he is a Tourist, a CIA agent who travels abroad and makes deadly mischief (as opposed to the Travel Agents who stay in America to facilitate the Tourists). His real name is not Charles Alexander, but he’s used that name for two years.

Taking a break from pondering suicide, Charles goes to Slovenia in search of a station chief who disappeared with a pile of money. The chief was supposed to give the pile to an informant in exchange for the location of a Bosnian war criminal whose capture would put a feather in the American cap. Charles’ contact, who works for the chief, is Angela Yates. Charles quickly finds evidence suggesting that the station chief, despite his long and loyal service, is both a thief and a murderer. After tracking the station chief to Venice, events take a wrong and violent turn, convincing Charles it is time to change his life.

Six years later, Charles is Milo Weaver, a man with a wife and daughter. He has promised to stay home as much as he can. Milo has been tracking an assassin known as The Tiger, who crossed his path in Venice. An encounter with The Tiger takes a strange turn that causes Milo to be suspected of a crime.

Soon after that meeting, Milo travels to Paris to set up Angela Yates, who might or might not be passing secrets to the Chinese. The plot threads involving Yates, the Chinese, the Tiger, and the Tiger’s client quickly entangle. After some nicely written action scenes, Milo finds discovers that lies he told about his past are disrupting his career and marriage. If help is to arrive, it will come from an unexpected source. By the end of the novel, Milo is something of a mess.

Despite being the opening novel of a trilogy, the story is self-contained. The Tourist combines thoughtful character development with a credible, intriguing plot. The novel moves briskly, not because it is action-filled (although it has some adrenalin-boosting scenes), but because the story and characters are so interesting that the reader is motivated to learn what happens next. In fact, The Tourist motivated me to move on to the second novel of the trilogy, which I will do with pleasure.

RECOMMENDED

Hollow Kingdom by Kira Jane Buxton

Published by Grand Central Publishing on August 6, 2019

Hollow Kingdom is a funny, engaging look at animals, from the sarcastic (a crow) to the sweet (a bloodhound), who decide to help each other out after a zombie apocalypse. Humans aren’t necessarily zombies in the traditional sense, but they are drooling blood and behaving even more irrationally than usual. The behavior seems to be a side effect of living in the digital age, but since the story isn’t meant to be taken seriously, the absence of a credible explanation is unimportant. This is a story about compassionate animals, not stupid humans.

The main character, a crow named Shit Turd (S.T. for short), lives with Big Jim and a bloodhound named Dennis in Seattle. S.T. is concerned when Big Jim’s eyeball falls out and is even more concerned when Big Jim stops eating and starts walking endless laps in the basement, tracing his bloody finger against the wall. S.T. takes it upon himself to grab Dennis’ leash in his beak and lead the dog to safety — if safety can be found in an unsafe world — as he begins his search for Onida, a mollusk who has all the answers.

Collateral characters include a toy poodle named Winnie (the Poodle). She has been spoiled by her wealthy owner (the Walker) and, although Winnie is not a good dog and has often yearned to escape, she feels guilty when the Walker leaves the house and fails to return. After that, she just feels hungry. Back in Seattle, Genghis Cat has noticed the absence of cars and cheese while his Mediocre Servants spend all their time, yes, poking their bloody fingers against the walls. Genghis Cat has an attitude. Of course he does, he’s a cat. Other animals large and small play cameo roles.

I love the descriptive language that the animals use to describe other animals. To a bird, bear cubs are “fuzzy death potatoes.” To any predator, sparrows are “airborne pizza rolls.” From a Scottish cow’s perspective, a donkey is a “scabby wee fart lozenge.” Penguins are “shit-beaked Spam-gremlins,” although S.T. comes to appreciate them.

S.T. is saddened by the apparent end of the world, particularly by the thought that there will be no more Cheetos (his favorite food) or hot dog eating contests on ESPN. Civilization at its finest, all lost! Yet he embarks on a mission to free all the domestic pets who are locked inside their homes with no sane human to feed them. This turns out to be a difficult mission, in part because birds cannot open doors, in part because all the zoo animals have been set free and are making life difficult for everyone. The story gives S.T. a chance to learn the true nature of other animals and, more importantly, to discover some truths about himself.

The story is whacky and fun, but not all of it works. S.T.’s search for mystical entities distracts from the plot rather than contributing to it. Still, the clever prose and the amusing message — that animals are better than humans, if only because they stick together and realize the importance of not ruining the world — makes me give Hollow Kingdom a wildly grinning emoji. Of course, it doesn’t hurt that Dennis turns out to be the kind of endearing hero that dog lovers can’t help but appreciate.

RECOMMENDED

The World That We Knew by Alice Hoffman

Published by Simon & Schuster on September 24, 2019

This is only the second Alice Hoffman novel that I have read and I now realize that I am not her target audience. I am sure that audience will appreciate The World that We Knew more than I did. The novel is grounded in the superstition of religion, set in a world that humans share with unseen angels, where to speak the secret names of God causes lips to burn. Stories that depend on religious mythology might be more meaningful to readers who embrace religion than to readers who view mythology in fiction as a subset of fantasy. With few exceptions, I prefer the kind of fantasy that builds a separate world, one that stands apart from reality. The World that We Knew is an uncomfortable mix of the real and the supernatural. I suppose the book might be seen as magical realism, blending reality and fantasy to invite the reader to find beauty in the midst of ugliness, but if the beauty isn’t real, the invitation only emphasizes the ugly horror of reality.

In 1941, after killing a German soldier to save her daughter Lea from rape, Hanni Kohn decides to send Lea away from the growing threat to Berlin’s Jewish population. An elderly neighbor advises Hanni to visit a rabbi and ask him to make a golem to protect her daughter. The rabbi’s wife will not allow Hanni to speak to the rabbi, but the rabbi’s daughter knows the secret to golem creation and is willing to be bribed.

The golem is fashioned as a woman and given the name Ana. She is grateful to her maker for the chance to be in the world, but her devotion is to Lea. Tradition requires a golem to be destroyed before it becomes too powerful, but Ana loves being alive and at a later point in the story, contemplates running away. The prevailing belief is that Ana has no soul since she was not made by God. Killing a self-aware being who is otherwise indistinguishable from a human is not supposed to be morally troubling, at least to people who believe that the soul has an independent, God-made existence. I give credit to Hoffman for exploring that question (as science fiction writers have long done, and in greater depth), asking whether every living thing might have a soul. A character who considers dogs and doves simplistically concludes that “if you could love someone, you possessed a soul.” I would have been happy to see the philosophical golem behave selfishly by yielding to her instinct for self-preservation (selfishness, Hoffman tells us, is the first human trait a golem acquires), but like every other character in the novel, the golem’s actions are predictable.

Ana and Lea depart on a train, watching other Jewish women meet the Angel of Death as they try to escape from Germany. The story branches out at that point to follow both Lea, who is sheltered by various people in France in between hair-raising escapes, and the rabbi’s daughter Ettie, who abandons Orthodox teachings and adopts a new persona in a French village with the laudable but improbable goal of joining the Resistance and exacting revenge against the Nazis.

Lea and Ana crash the home of Lea’s distant cousin just as their maid, Marianne Félix, abandons the family in the belief that they do not “understand their slow disenfranchisement and the erosion of their rights.” Marianne returns to her family in the countryside near Lyon and eventually helps the Resistance. Hers is another branch of the story, joined with the story of a resistance fighter named Victor. A final branch is a love story involving Ana and Victor’s brother Julien, who find an unlikely way to tell each other to stay alive even after they are separated.

Holocaust stories are important, but they have often been told. Except for the addition of a golem and other elements of magic, and apart from Hoffman’s graceful prose, this one does little to distinguish itself from similar stories. In fact, the Holocaust is largely relegated to the background.  I understand that writers rely on the supernatural to illuminate the natural world (even when the world becomes as unnatural as it did during the Second World War), but I can’t say that I am a fan of that device here. The golem, the glowing angels that occasionally surround her, and the birds that do her bidding transform a story of gritty realism into a tale that might be found in a comic book.

The relationship between Lea and her mother-surrogate golem struck me as hokey, although other readers might find it touching. The two love stories, one tragic and the other not, are predictable. Ettie’s storyline is both predictable and too improbable to accept, even in a story that includes a golem who speaks birdsong. The novel’s final chapters rely on a string of coincidences to bring characters together. In the end, the novel isn’t even true to the mythology upon which it builds. Hoffman changes the nature of the golem to make a point about what it means to be human, but I don’t know that it makes sense to both accept and reject a myth.

The Angel of Death, the golem, the ability to foretell the future, chatting with birds, fortuitous coincidences, all in jarring contrast with the harsh reality of the Holocaust, didn’t juxtapose well for me. Layer that with trite pop song pronouncements about the power of love, and it was all just too much. Hoffman’s prose is beautiful, to be sure, and the story will certainly appeal to fans of romance fiction who have the ability to suspend their disbelief that a magical world could coexist with the greatest evil of the twentieth century, but I’m not that reader. I therefore recommend the novel only to fans of romance fiction and magic, and only then because of the strength of the prose.

RECOMMENDED WITH RESERVATIONS