Trying an experiment with this one: listening to the abridged audio version of a book for the first time.

Since the Globe review of this one wasn’t exactly glowing, I don’t think I’ll be missing too much.

Just a short review, this book can be summed up by the following:

Ugh.

I wanted to like this book, I really did. I thought it would add a little depth to a show (Lost) that has sort of lost its way.

But, for whatever reason, they got stuck with, or picked, an author, writing as Gary Troup, who hates the mystery/thriller genre.
Actually, I wanted to verify that, and did a quick dig to find out who ghost wrote the book, and it turns out he is a mystery/thriller writer. Doh. Maybe he’s just not very good. Or was thinking about writing in another style too much. Needless to say, I won’t be picking up any Laurence Shames books anytime soon.

Maybe it’s because I was “reading” the audiobook on the way to work, maybe it’s because I took a peek at an Amazon review or two (which you shouldn’t, by the way, unless you want to be hit by a spoiler without warning). For whatever reason, I ripped through this book (handy, when you’re sitting in a little bit of traffic each day in and out of the office), laughing, sometimes snorting, sometimes slapping my head.

It was a good enough read. A pacey sort of thriller adventure story in which the characters are not incredibly likeable, nor do you really care, one way or another, what happens to the kids. The language… well, let’s just say the phrase, “Damn you, Yeats,” or “Damn you, insert name of damned here” is repeated far too often, even for a running gag, which I suspect, giving Thomas Greanias the benefit of the doubt, is what it is. The characters eat nails for breakfast, and a bullet wound, kick to the groin, drop down a pit to the very bowels of the Earth (warning: contents hot) is nothing to this international cast of glory hunters.

The audiobook was even more unsettling/annoying than I imagine the hard copy book would be, as the narrator does his best to do a female Australian accent on good old Sister Sergeti (she reads 189 languages, speaks 191, including three made up ones, arm wrestles crocodiles, is capable of withstanding the most brutal torture AND cryogenic freezing, oh, and is pretty and photogenic in her Armani suits on camera). It’s feckin’ awful. Conrad Yeats becomes “Cone-rad! Cone-rad!” Which would have been fine, if she said his name a normal number of times. However, in an unscientific measuring, she says the name Conrad Yeats approximately three MILLION times over the course of this book. It pisses you off, after a while. You notice yourself getting tense when she hasn’t said it in a while, because you know it’s coming up, and you know it’s going to hurt. She’ll probably say it in an urgent manner, which will only underscore how BAD the narrator’s accent is. Oh well.

The true downer on this book, for me, was the spoiler I caught on Amazon from a reviewer. For the first so long, it was a passable thriller. High on cardboard characters, high on exciting things happening. Antarctica, ice, frostbite, dogs, international intrigue. The Vatican. Cool. Check, check, and check. Double check.

But then.

And here comes the spoiler, from me (so look away, if you don’t want to see it):
SPOILER< SPOILER< SPOILERSPOILER< SPOILER< SPOILERSPOILER< SPOILER< SPOILERSPOILER< SPOILER< SPOILER

SPOILER< SPOILER< SPOILER

SPOILER

But no, Thomas Greanias was sitting at home, thinking, “We’re doing well. Looking good, Tom old boy. Let’s UP the stakes.” And he rolls up his sleeves, and types the following: Conrad is an Atlantean. He was found in an ice capsule by his adopted father, General Yeats, on the Antarctic Ice Shelf. Right on. What?

END SPOILER

END SPOILER END SPOILER END SPOILER END SPOILER

END SPOILER END SPOILER END SPOILER END SPOILER

So anyway, it’s a good enough read, I suppose. It will keep you entertained, though, once I hit the spoiler part I was listening to the book more to get it over with, already, than because I was thrilling with excitement about what was around the next corner. And the tie in at the very end, which was not in my spoiler, well… it seems just… weak. At the end.

I’d pick up a Matthew Reilly before I picked up this one, but if you’ve exhausted your normal pool of thriller writers, and don’t feel like re-reading a Clive Cussler, well, this one’s just about the same sort of thing.