Not a bad book, not really bad at all, I wouldn't say that, but just disappointing because I’d expected so much more.
Quiller’s in Singapore this time, the book’s set there, but it’s not really set there, if you know what I mean, it’s just got a few mentions of food courts and cyclos and even one of Hall’s rare if unnecessary name-drops of Prime Minister Mahathir across the causeway in Malaysia (who was not only elected PM back in 1980 and so still in power when this was written, but then after 15 years out of power was just reelected in 2018 so that today he's the world’s oldest head of state); and sure he lists all the right streets during a car chase out to Changi, but hell you can get all that from a map and a newspaper can’t you, and so then except for those tidbits, those nuggets, this could be anywhere, Thailand, Philippines, Indonesia, hell even the Congo or Colombia for that matter, anywhere hot and rainy, and so I have to think Hall’s never really been there, never spent any serious time there, or he couldn’t help but include some of the real Singapore, with its laksa and chili crabs and kopi shops, with its Western tourists shopping for cameras on Orchard Road while both Russian and U.S. sailors on R&R shop for trannies on Bugis Street.
Because I know Singapore. Lived there full time from 2013-15, but was going in and out as far back as '80, back before things really took off, when you could still visit the crocodile farms and Tiger Balm Gardens, and when they still arrested you for chewing gum and cut your hair on arrival if it was too long.
Plot.
Don’t even ask me about plot. Something about a weapons deal that could spark World War III, but it’s all a MacGuffin, they’re always MacGuffins, which is a polite way of saying it doesn't matter much less make any sense, and besides nobody really cares about that, all that geopolitical bullshit, it’s just too big, it’s too remote, no sir, readers want the intimate details, the juicy stuff, the finger to the lips, the shuto to the neck, the knife to the heart, and so yes, we get that, we get some of that, but even more we get Quiller’s constant monologuing, both out loud and in his head; we get his noir self-analysis, we get his hard-boiled pessimism, but most of all we get his endless fucking run-on sentences, so that you hope that just once he could do something as simple as jump out of an airplane and hit the ground in less than four pages.
And then the title. Quiller’s Run.
What the fuck does that even mean? The whole story takes place in Southeast Asia, or “South-east Asia” as it was apparently spelled back then, unless that’s just a British thing like “colour” and “gaol,” but seriously, couldn’t you put a little more thought into something with just a hint of local color, or should I say "colour"? It was bad enough the last book was just called Quiller, already the 11th in the series mind you, not like Hall was just introducing the sonuvabitch, oh no, 11 and 12 are just Quiller and Quiller's Run, so that should probably tell you something right there.
And so I finish the book and write my review, and then turn my back and walk away.
But I’ll be back. I know I’ll be back.
Good or bad, win or lose, Quiller and I will meet again.
(In affectionate memory of Adam Hall, 1920-1995)