Irving Wallace was a brilliant and prolific writer. His early and mid career books were all great. The Man, The Seven Minutes, The Plot and The Second Lady were all favorites. But then he started to slip. The books toward the end of his career became much weaker. Of all of his "later years" books that I have read this was the worst. If his name had not been on the cover I would NEVER have guessed him as the writer. Characters are weak, the plot is very weak. I've kept all my other copies of his books, but I do not need to keep this one.