This is a Stone Barrington novel, and appears to have received critical acclaim, largely reinforcing my long-held view that the more complimentary the quotes on the cover, the worse the book inside. In fact, it's not actually that bad, though quite why the author insists on giving some of the principal characters bizarre names - one of the female leads is a woman called Arrington, for example - is something of a mystery.
The dialogue, on the whole, is somewhat clumsy, characters making speeches rather than conversation, but my biggest problem was Stone Barrington himself, who ambles through the book, leaping into bed with any available woman - including the most elusive of Hollywood film stars - despite having just got married and leaving his new wife, for whom he's taken an apparently instant and irrational dislike, almost literally at the altar. And, of course, he's an enviable sexual athlete, making love half a dozen times or more in a single night.
There are minor plot inconsistencies, like Barrington knowing something despite the fact that the only person who could have told him was already dead, and sometimes acts in unusual ways, immediately broadcasting to all and sundry information given to him in the strictest confidence.
I think the biggest problem with this book is that Barrington isn't really much of a hero. Things happen around him, but he doesn't do a lot to make them happen. I also got a bit tired of what might be termed the 'James Bond syndrome', Barrington living on an almost exclusive diet of lobster and expensive wine, flying everywhere in private jets, driving around in a Bentley, and being instantly recognised by almost everyone. This aspect did nothing to counter the book's inherently unrealistic flavour.