It is a book by Frederick Forsyth, but it is no ‘The Day of the Jackal’. Some parts are lecturing, some parts feel more like a summary rather than fiction, and other parts are so testostorone drenched that it feels like I’m reading a script of a Jason Stratham or Sylvester Stalone movie.

That said, the story is clever and compact, and it doesn’t unravel at the end; actually it becomes better. I’d file this as a relaxing holiday book.