Take a plot that would stretch credulity in a cartoon strip. Then sketch out a dozen cardboard characters and devise a web of tortuous past relationships between them (start simply with being secret lovers, move on to long lost parents or bastard offspring and season with some double dealing and former treachery). Now add a schoolboy's knowledge of the secret world (sprinkle some gratuitous technical details here and there to show you've done some research) and throw in dialogue driven by cliches as dissonnant and frequent as forks in a tumble drier. Set the whole in equal parts in perfidious drizzly Albion and passionate sun-basted Greece and chuck in some topical references. Oh, and don't forget to structure the thing in pretentiously short chapters, some only as long as a paragraph. (it spins the length of the book out and makes it easier to turn into a film should you be lucky enough to sell it to Hollywood). And Eureka! There you have a thriller that is so formulaic and poorly written that the publishers' PR puff-writer on the back cover can't even get the title right - there the book is entitled "Stealing Greece" which we must presume was an earlier sound bite for this oily stew. If you're fog bound at Carlisle railway station and there's nothing else available, these warmed-up leftovers will pass the time: if it's beautifully written, tense, atmospheric and intelligent thrillers you're after, read Alan Furst.