I'm on record as being officially grumpy when publishers and public see fictional characters and settings as somehow independent of their creators. You know the sort of thing I mean - Eoin Colfer being retained to knock out a new Hitch Hiker novel, the children of famous writers writing 'official sequels', based on a conversation they vaguely recall having 35 years ago. And so in order to maintain my integrity I suppose I should dislike this book, what's effectively a James Bond novel not written by Ian Fleming.
Bond is somehow different, though, isn't he? As a character he has burst free of his original context and loomed large in the popular consciousness for half a century (mainly due to the movies), and other people have been writing 'new' Bond novels since the Sixties. Some of these have been pretty distinguished writers (Kingsley Amis, Sebastian Faulks, Charlie Higson), some haven't. Jeffery Deaver is publishing a new one this summer.
This odd independence of Bond from Fleming is sort-of acknowledged in Pearson's book, which purports to be... well, the narrator of the book is a fictionalised version of Pearson, who wrote a well-received of biography of Ian Fleming. In the novel, he receives some odd correspondence suggesting Fleming knew a real man named James Bond - a man of whom there is no official record.
His investigation is pulled up sharply by MI6, but then the service relents and admits that Bond is real, and the books (excepting Moonraker, for reasons anyone who's read it will appreciate) are fictionalised versions of actual events. He is invited to visit Jamaica, where Bond is currently on a sabbatical, in order to collaborate on his memoirs.
The rest of the book is an account of Bond's life from his birth in 1920 through to the early Sixties, when Fleming died - although the very first of the non-Fleming Bond novels, Amis's Colonel Sun, is mentioned in passing. The events of the books are not gone into in detail, and this is largely an exercise in filling in the gaps between them.
Prior to this is a lengthy account of Bond's youth and career before the early Fifties, which is in many ways the most interesting part of the book (needless to say, Charlie Higson's Young Bond books do not adhere to this). I should say that this book is almost completely concerned with the literary Bond, not the big-screen version (Bond is aghast when Sean Connery starts appearing as him in cinemas), a harder, crueller, more complex character by far. I would recommend the books to anyone who enjoyed the films, and I suspect fans of the Fleming books will respond to this one in one of two ways.
Some people will probably find it a rather superfluous exercise in I-dotting and T-crossing. What's the point of trying to give a credible background to, and explain the psychology of, someone who's famously a bit of a cipher anyway? I can kind of see where this criticism is coming from.
On the other hand, Sherlockians have been doing roughly similar things for ages and no-one seems to complain about it. As a game, it's quite good fun, even if the central conceit of the novel never quite convinces. One of the things about Bond as a character is that the nature of the stories dictates that we're never going to learn that much about him as a person. The chance to do so is the appeal of a book like this (it may also explain the success of the last movie version of Casino Royale, but that's another topic).
Pearson does a good job of reanimating Fleming's Bond and explaining quite why he's as messed up as he is, and he inventively sustains his narrative. Not all of it quite rings true to Fleming, however - which Pearson would doubtless explain by saying that he's sticking closer to the truth than Fleming did in his account of Bond's career. And it sort of fizzles out - there's no actual climax, but then, as we all know, Bond is immortal and his life story can never end.
My understanding is that, when the book was written in the early Seventies, Pearson was in the frame to become the official chronicler of Bond's adventures, and this book was intended to lead in to that. Of course, it didn't happen (John Gardner eventually took the role in the early Eighties), and on the strength of this book I don't think we missed much - the novel concludes with Bond off to do battle with irradiated mutant man-eating rats, something I couldn't even imagine the people at Eon thinking a good idea for a Bond plot.
The rest of Pearson's book remains a fun and comprehensive pastiche of Fleming's style - on this occasion, suggesting that the author didn't create his greatest character is, in a strange way, a definite compliment. Still, probably really only one for fans of the Fleming novels.