Rogue Male

What a strange and perfect little thriller. Published on the eve of war in 1939 and opening with the near-assassination of an unnamed European dictator, it remains as riveting as ever, with an airtight lone-wolf plot and a gallant and ingenious hero whose very British upper lip is so stiff he makes Fleming's James Bond look like a silly, posturing fop. And yes, as I always say when recommending it, he spends lots of the book in a hole in the ground. It's fantastic.