New James Bond book 'Carte Blanche' unveiled in London

[JAMESHOT]

The new James Bond novel was launched in London on Wednesday with a fast car, a leather-clad Bond girl and royal marines descending from the roof on wires. The book, "Carte Blanche", by American thriller writer Jeffery Deaver, was unveiled at St Pancras International station, the departure point for cross-Channel rail services


Fittingly for the launch of the new authorized James Bond novel "Carte Blanche," there was a luxury car, champagne on tap, crack British troops abseiling from the rafters and a long-legged girl on a vintage motorbike.

The promotion of crime writer Jeffery Deaver's book about 007 and his latest escapades, which hits shelves on Thursday, was more like Hollywood than the usually more low-key world of publishing.

But Bond is still a potential money spinner in book form as well as on the big screen, explaining the high-profile event at London's refurbished, vaulted St. Pancras train station and its swanky champagne bar, billed as the longest in Europe.

Deaver, best known for his Kathryn Dance and Lincoln Rhyme books, arrived at the bar in a modern Bentley.

He was led in by stunt rider and model Chesca Miles, who appeared as a Bond girl on a motorbike riding a vintage BSA, and was handed a copy of the new book by a member of the Royal Marine Commando display team who had abseiled from the roof.

Deaver has said all along that he had the "chameleon"-like qualities needed to get into the mind of a quintessentially English character, although plenty of research did help.

"I became a Brit for about the eight months it took me to write the book," he told Reuters at the launch. "I did have to learn, for instance, that when we say 'pissed' over here (in Britain) it means drunk, it doesn't mean angry."

SET IN PRESENT DAY

Deaver believed his previous novels had plenty in common with a good Bond story by the character's creator Ian Fleming, but that Carte Blanche did present an extra challenge.

"I know what my fans want, the millions of Jeffery Deaver fans around the world," he said.

"They want a book that is essentially a roller coaster, moves very quickly, lots of twists and turns, big surprise ending. Well, that's what Carte Blanche is going to be.

"But I had the extra question -- what do Ian Fleming fans want? So I went back and for six, seven months, researched everything that Fleming had written.

"I of course re-read all the James Bond novels and I think I had a very good sense of how to bring his character into my story."

British publisher Hodder & Stoughton was keen to keep the story under wraps before publication on Thursday. Carte Blanche is set in the present day, and partly in Serbia and Dubai.

"For my readers I think there's an immediacy to books set in the present day," the author explained. "I want a book to be the most intense emotional experience it can be.

"If you go back to a period piece we don't really get the sweaty palms, we don't sit on the edge of our seats quite so much as if what Bond is solving today could be a problem, a terror, a threat that we all face every day."

But he added that the immediacy did not mean he tried to convey any political point of view about real-life events.

"In Carte Blanche we certainly do touch on real life events to some extent, but Ernest Hemingway once said if you want to send a message go to Western Union, don't put it in your novel."

Deaver was first identified as a potential Bond author when he won the 2004 Crime Writers' Association Ian Fleming Steel Dagger Award for "Garden of Beasts" and spoke at the ceremony of his indebtedness to Fleming and Bond.

Deaver has previously written 28 novels and sold over 20 million books worldwide. He continues a long tradition of post-Fleming Bond novels authorized by Fleming's estate that have included Kingsley Amis, John Gardner and Raymond Benson.

More than 100 million Bond books have been sold in total.


Carte Blanche Excerpts
You can read the first two chapter excerts of Carte Blanche here>>>>>>http://www.jefferydeaver.com/Novels_...t/excerpt.html

[JAMESHOT]

London Newspapers The Guardian and The Telegraph review the newest
James Bond Novel 'Carte Blanche'

Carte Blanche by Jeffery Deaver – reviewCheck out apps and Oakleys with Jeffery Deaver's nu-Bond
http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2011...-deaver-review

What kind of sunglasses would James Bond wear today? Such is one of the important branding questions addressed by this literary reboot, which is "© Ian Fleming Publications Limited", though composed by a writer of serial-killer thrillers. Bond in 2011 still drives a Bentley, wears a Rolex, and waves a Walther, but his shades are hip and technical: he sports Oakleys.

This new Bond is "a man of serious face", which probably does not mean that he has a really massive face and needs oversized Oakleys. Bond is in his 30s, a former navy officer who saw frontline action in Afghanistan and was then recruited – not to MI6, but to a black-ops outfit called the "Overseas Development Group". Bond is still run by M and furnished with gadgets by "Q Branch". (Bond's mobile phone, in an excitingly modern way, has lots of espionage "apps".)


The plot sees Bond running around Serbia, London and Cape Town, trying to prevent an explosion going off somewhere and killing people. He investigates a rum villain called Severan Hydt, who has long, "yellowing" fingernails and an obsession with corpses and decay. Hydt runs an international waste-disposal company: in his crazy headquarters complex, he delivers an interminable speech to Bond about, appropriately enough, rubbish. Even the "deafening" noise of his machines doesn't diminish his lust for exposition: "'Recycling's a curious business,' Hydt yelled."

Hydt's main enforcer is a taciturn Irishman named Niall Dunne, who at one point "stood still as a Japanese fighting fish". (You know, one of those fish that stand very still, on their little fishy legs?) Other henchmen are made the more threatening by the scary versatility of their eye muscles: "The assailant glanced up and, scowling, stared at the intruder."

Bond is a more sensitive fellow than he used to be, even when he is being pursued by enemies: "Bond saw no reason to kill the young man so he shot him near the elbow." Fleming's hero in Casino Royale considers women fit to be "softly wooed or brutally ravaged", but nu-Bond declines to go to bed with a hot colleague (owner of an "insulated leather jumpsuit"), because she's on the rebound. Understandably, he is less able to resist the cratylically named food-aid entrepreneur Felicity Willing. "Her face was intense, striking. Expertly made up, it exuded a feline quality." She had, I am guessing, drawn cat's whiskers on her cheeks with eyeliner.

Our modern-day Bond is healthier, too: a "former smoker" (no more Balkan Sobranies, alas) who still likes the odd cocktail but also spends "at least an hour a day exercising and running". This helps him in the novel's action scenes – a train derailment, a building being demolished, a gun battle in an exotic garden – where he sprints about a lot and does things, in a fascinatingly inert action-movie shorthand: "Bond ran to the warehouse and used a lock pick to open a side door." In one scene, an ally is tied to a conveyor belt trundling towards the gnashing jaws of a garbage compactor, very much as Adam West's Batman always was. The total lack of suspense is palpable, despite the staccato paragraphing. Still, the last 80 or so pages of Carte Blanche do sputter into a kind of mindlessly diverting life. For example, Bond does something satisfyingly clever with a door.

Fleming's Bond was not much of a comedian, and Deaver's isn't either. The difference is that he tries to be. "Upscale pubs were more 'ghastly' than 'gastro', he'd once quipped." Perhaps it's the nicotine withdrawal. Bond does have a usefully named secretary to whom he can say "Good morning, Goodnight", but the best comic effects derive from the style's fanatical commitment to elegant variation. When Bond thoughtfully studies a bullet, subsequent reference to the bullet cannot call it a bullet again; it must be "the solid piece of ammunition". If Bond "whisks" a woman's dress off, subsequent reference to the dress cannot call it a dress again; it must be "the insubstantial blue cloth". And if Bond scrambles some eggs, subsequent reference to the eggs cannot call them eggs again; they must be "steaming curds". That image is a poetic, almost alchemical transformation, and in a way Deaver has accomplished the same feat with his novel as a whole: taking the nutritious egg of the Bond mythos and turning it into one giant steaming curd.


Carte Blanche, the new James Bond novel by Jeffrey Deaver, review

Jeremy Jehu reviews Jeffrey Deaver's 'Carte Blanche' the first James Bond novel to be written by an American author.

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/h...er-review.html

It was a bold move to invite Jeffrey Deaver to write another James Bond novel after he declared his childhood love of Fleming. There have been other Fleming impersonators, including Kingsley Amis and Sebastian Faulks, but the author of The Bone Collector is the biggest international name to take the job. He is also one of the world’s smoothest, most devious, thriller writers – a far better craftsman than Fleming, in fact.

So could he assume Fleming’s identity rather than write another Jeffery Deaver novel only with a hero called Bond? And could he, for that matter, resist thriller publishing’s current obsession with relentless action inspired by the success of the Bourne movie franchise – and indeed Quantum Of Solace?

The answers are emphatically “Yes”. He simply knocks five decades off the ages of 007’s old posse and presents them as they were introduced in the 1950s, their distinctive characters pleasingly intact.

Rebooted here as an Afghanistan veteran, Bond is more love-lorn metrosexual than opportunist seducer but he sports a Rolex, dresses flashily and drives a Bentley Continental GT – a footballer’s car but faithful to Fleming’s 007 whose Continental was pimped beyond recognition

Hopelessly addicted to his Q Branch smartphone (an “iQPhone”), this “rebooted” James Bond can barely cross a room without banging off an update to his “followers.” But for the Official Secrets Act, he’d be 007:Licensed To Tweet.

Yet Ian Fleming purists who agonise over each new incarnation of Bond can shake a celebratory martini and light up a Morland’s if they dare (Deaver’s Bond doesn’t: he can still drink his bodyweight, but the ciggies are history). The iQPhone’s starring role is one of mercifully few concessions to the book’s contemporary setting.

Deaver preserves his book’s timeless feel by largely ignoring modern geopolitics and pitting Bond against a traditionally barking villain, a necrophiliac billionaire with a silly name. The action trots the globe with the grubby intimacy – “it’s Cape Town, but it’s a rubbish tip in Cape Town” – of the books, not the films.

Deaver adds a series of twists that reveal a Bond with more Sherlockian intelligence than Fleming’s. But it’s his everlasting mobile battery rather than his brains that will leave many readers most envious.

Rating: * * * *

[JAMESHOT]

We meet 007 after an aborted mission in Serbia, where he was bested by a sinister Irishman…

After three and a half hours’ sleep James Bond was woken at seven a.m. in his Chelsea flat by the electronic tone of his mobile phone’s alarm clock. His eyes focused on the white ceiling of the small bedroom. He blinked twice and, ignoring the pain in his shoulder, head and knees, rolled out of the double bed, prodded by the urge to get on the trail of the Irishman and Noah.

His clothes from the mission to Novi Sad lay on the hardwood floor. He tossed the tactical outfit into a training kitbag, gathered up the rest of his clothes and dropped them into the laundry bin, a courtesy to May, his treasure of a Scottish housekeeper who came three times a week to sort out his domestic life. He would not think of having her pick up his clutter.

Naked, Bond walked into the bathroom, turned on the shower as hot as he could stand it and scrubbed himself hard with unscented soap. Then he turned the temperature down, stood under freezing water until he could tolerate that no longer, stepped out and dried himself. He examined his wounds from last night: two large aubergine-coloured bruises on his leg, some scrapes and the slice on his shoulder from the grenade shrapnel.

Nothing serious.

He shaved with a heavy, double-bladed safety razor, its handle of light buffalo horn. He used this fine accessory not because it was greener to the environment than the plastic disposables that most men employed but simply because it gave a better shave — and required some skill to wield; James Bond found comfort even in small challenges.

By seven fifteen he was dressed: a navy-blue Canali suit, a white sea island shirt and a burgundy Grenadine tie, the latter items from Turnbull & Asser. He donned black shoes, slip-ons; he never wore laces, except for combat footwear or when tradecraft required him to send silent messages to a fellow agent via prearranged loopings.

Onto his wrist he slipped his steel Rolex Oyster Perpetual, the 34mm model, the date window its only complication; Bond did not need to know the phases of the moon or the exact moment of high tide at Southampton. And he suspected very few people did.

Most days he had breakfast — his favourite meal of the day — at a small hotel nearby in Pont Street. Occasionally he cooked for himself one of the few things he was capable of whipping up in the kitchen: three eggs softly scrambled with Irish butter. The steaming curds were accompanied by bacon and crisp wholemeal toast, with more Irish butter and marmalade.

Today, though, the urgency of Incident Twenty was in full bloom so there was no time for food. Instead he brewed a cup of fiercely strong Jamaica Blue Mountain coffee, which he drank from a china mug as he listened to Radio 4 to learn whether or not the train incident and subsequent deaths had made the international news. They had not.

His wallet and cash were in his pocket, his car key, too. He grabbed the plastic carrier bag of the items he had collected in Serbia and the locked steel box that contained his weapon and ammunition, which he could not carry legally within the UK.

He hurried down the stairs of his flat — formerly two spacious stables.

He unlocked the door and stepped into the garage. The cramped space was large enough, just, for the two cars that were inside, plus a few extra tyres and tools. He climbed into the newer of the vehicles, the latest model Bentley Continental GT, its exterior the company’s distinctive granite grey, with supple black hide inside.

The turbo W12 engine murmured to life. Tapping the downshift paddle into first gear, he eased into the road, leaving behind his other vehicle, less powerful and more temperamental but just as elegant: a 1960s E-type Jaguar, which had been his father’s.

Driving north, Bond manoeuvred through the traffic, with tens of thousands of others who were similarly making their way to offices throughout London at the start of yet another week — although, of course, in Bond’s case this mundane image belied the truth.

Exactly the same could be said for his employer itself.

Three years ago, James Bond had been sitting at a grey desk in the monolithic grey Ministry of Defence building in Whitehall, the sky outside not grey at all but the blue of a Highland loch on a bright summer’s day. After leaving the Royal Naval Reserve, he had had no desire for a job managing accounts at Saatchi & Saatchi or reviewing balance sheets for NatWest and had telephoned a former Fettes fencing teammate, who had suggested he try Defence Intelligence.

After a stint at DI, writing analyses that were described as both blunt and valuable, he had wondered to his supervisor if there might be a chance to see a little more action.

Not long after that conversation, he had received a mysterious missive, handwritten, not an email, requesting his presence for lunch in Pall Mall, at the Travellers Club.

On the day in question, Bond had been led into the dining room and seated in a corner opposite a solid man in his mid-sixties, identified only as the ‘Admiral’. He wore a grey suit that perfectly matched his eyes. His face was jowled and his head crowned with a sparse constellation of birthmarks, evident through the thinning, swept-back brown and grey hair. The Admiral had looked steadily at Bond without challenge or disdain or excessive analysis. Bond had no trouble in returning the gaze — a man who has killed in battle and nearly died himself is not cowed by anyone’s stare. He realised, however, that he had absolutely no idea what was going on in the man’s mind. They did not shake hands.

Menus descended. Bond ordered halibut on the bone, steamed, with Hollandaise, boiled potatoes and grilled asparagus. The Admiral selected the grilled kidney and bacon, then asked Bond, ‘Wine?’

‘Yes, please.’

‘You choose.’

‘Burgundy, I should think,’ Bond said. ‘Côte de Beaune? Or a Chablis?’

‘The Alex Gambal Puligny, perhaps?’ the waiter suggested.

‘Perfect.’

The bottle arrived a moment later. The waiter smoothly displayed the label and poured a little into Bond’s glass. The wine was the colour of pale butter, earthy and excellent, and exactly the right temperature, not too chilled. Bond sipped, nodded his approval and the glasses were half filled.

When the waiter had departed, the older man said gruffly, ‘You’re a veteran and so am I. Neither of us has any interest in small-talk. I’ve asked you here to discuss a career opportunity.’

‘I thought as much, sir.’ Bond hadn’t intended to add the final word, but it had been impossible not to do so. ‘You may be familiar with the rule at the Travellers about not exposing business documents. Afraid we’ll have to break it.’ The older man withdrew from his breast pocket an envelope. He handed it over. ‘This is similar to the Official Secrets Act declaration.’

‘I’ve signed one—’

‘Of course you have — for Defence Intelligence,’ the man said briskly, revealing his impatience at stating the obvious. ‘This has a few more teeth. Read it.’

Bond did so. More teeth indeed, to put it mildly.

The Admiral said, ‘If you’re not interested in signing we’ll finish our lunch and discuss the recent election or trout fishing in the north or how those damn Kiwis beat us again last week and get back to our offices.’ He lifted a bushy eyebrow.

Bond hesitated only a moment, then scrawled his name across the line and handed it back. The document vanished.

A sip of wine. The Admiral asked, ‘Have you heard of the Special Operations Executive?’

[bond 007]

I can't wait to read it! I don't know if it'll be published here in Mexico, so maybe I'll have to wait until august to buy it in London :P

[JAMESHOT]

Originally Posted by bond 007

I can't wait to read it! I don't know if it'll be published here in Mexico, so maybe I'll have to wait until august to buy it in London :P

You should be able to get it now Bond 007 if you order it . You going to London in August ?

[JAMESHOT]

E-BOOK EDITION of Carte Blanche opens with Adobe Digital Editions desktop ebook software available for Windows and Mac, and supports EPUB and PDF formats. http://www.adobe.com/products/digitaleditions/


Torrent at >>>>>
http://thepiratebay.org/torrent/6452...Jeffery_Deaver

I didnt read till now but am planning to buy it on online.................

[Gale Weathers]

James Bond with an iPhone with espionage apps? Something uncool about this concept.

[faolennart]

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[Gale Weathers]

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[safetymanager]

I was waiting for the new one and that a lot i got it . Thanks for sharing it with us. as well as could i know when the movie would be come into theater .

[ladyshelby]

I just picked up Carte Blanche at the goodwill for $2.50! I haven't started it yet... Has anybody actually read it?

[JAMESHOT]

Originally Posted by ladyshelby

I just picked up Carte Blanche at the goodwill for $2.50! I haven't started it yet... Has anybody actually read it?

Goodwill for $2.50 .......... What a deal I have it on a PDF download and read it back when it came out . Wasn't that impressed with the plot but some elements of the book may be featured somewhat in Skyfall if the control of information from the novel and the opening train sequence figures in, One of the character names does also, Severine although it's a girl and the main Villian of Carte Blanche was named Severan Hydt what a coincendence somewhat....It may have some elements from the book.

[ladyshelby]

Interesting... I'll read it pretty soon.

[JAMESHOT]

Originally Posted by ladyshelby

Interesting... I'll read it pretty soon.

The first chapter is a train sequence with Bond,
Hey please read it to us all while we are online........