When I heard Paul Eddy’s debut novel was called Flint, I couldn’t help but think of the James Coburn spy spoof movies Our Man Flint and In Like Flint. But instead of a male James Bond character from the 1960s, this Flint is, well, a female James Bond character from modern day. The story opens with Grace Flint as a British undercover police officer in a sting that goes horribly wrong. We then pick up the story as Flint is working undercover for the Americans, seeking the man who got away from that sting one year earlier. Like several elements in the book, things aren’t explained right away. And, in this case, I can’t exactly remember why Flint came to the U.S. (Another pet peeve: A couple of times, I had to re-read several pages to figure out which character was which and figure out what happened.) In addition to Amsterdam and Paris, the book takes us to a fictitious Caribbean country, as well as Kyrenia, in Northern Cyprus as Flint tracks down leads and the story proceeds and concludes in true spy story style. While the locales may sound interesting, I just couldn’t always get a feel for them. Same with the Flint character and the massive amount of emotional baggage that she is carrying. (I found it odd that as a house guest, Grace had little to no female dialogue with her best friend, but had a massive amount of professional dialogue with her best friend’s husband, a French inspector that she was working with on the case.) Did I enjoy the book? For a first spy novel, it wasn’t bad. But several days after reading the book, I just can’t seem to recall much, and the only memorable thing may be that this book isn’t very memorable.