It would be hard to recall a spy thriller with more spies and less visceral involvement than this one by Jack Higgins, who seems to either be phoning it in or pandering to a pre-teen reader. His framework is a bunch of cold-blooded killers and the agents who pursue them. No time for anything personal to muck up the action and certainly no sexual dynamics between the participants. Anything of an emotional nature is a too hot oven to touch.

The tale starts with a an assassination attempt on the American president that's thwarted by intel from British Intelligence, agent Sean Dillon, an ex-IRA enforcer in the forefront, and by his counterpart on the American side, Blake Johnson whose role in the drama is soon put aside.

Identified as the mid-level perpetrators of the plan are Russians Yuri Ashimov and beautifully deadly Greta Novikova. In a shootout, she saves Dillon and gets nothing more in return than a verbal thank you for her treason.

Back at home, the fearsome Dillon works under General Charles Ferguson and alongside another gorgeous lady of the clandestine arts, Hannah Bernstein. This, too, is a strictly hands off relationship, with Higgins keeping his men's thoughts away from anything so impure as physical contact, let alone a romantic alliance.

The male action in a case of international intrigue and one-upmanship remains untarnished by love, lust or romance, which are way too yucky. That's all right, but we adults who might like to spend time with people we can relate to are given no inside view of what drives these agents who are operating on counterspy auto-pilot. Even once we get a handle on who the lead characters are in the bewildering introductions of team players, we are not given personal reasons why they put their lives on the line for their country. My best bet is that the sole motivation behind the action is to fill the pages of this year's Higgins ouvre.

It's shadowy, diffused and, ultimately, as gripping as lettuce. If you love Higgins, get it; otherwise leave it on the shelf.