If you love "literary thrillers," avoid this book; it is neither thrilling nor literary. It is, rather, contrived, sententious, and obvious. Yes, it's set in Paris and there are some passages in which the city comes alive, but the sound of the plot clanking in the background obscures those moments. Mooney seems to believe that a glaze of faux-philosophy (incomprehensible at times) will hide all of this, like sauce on a bad piece of meat. He is wrong.If you do like literary thrillers set in places like Paris, and with a touch of intrigue and espionage thrown in, try Alan Furst for starters.
