Four books.
Each with a handsome, clever protagonist.
Each with a sinister baddie whose identity is known almost from the start.
Each with a beautiful and brainy female co-star who apparently has nice tits but doesn't drop her knickers until the end.
Each with fairly interesting but ultimately fucking useless pieces of information about which I along with many others will sit in pubs and debate about (until I become one of the Enlightened Ones, and then become the equivalent of a Dan Brown non-smoker, which is, of course, in many ways much worse).
Each with rather large clues as to what is going to happen much, much later on after many needless and frankly quite unbelieveable chapters (example: Angels and Demons, at CERN in Switzerland, watching people "sky-drive" in a vertical wind tunnel, being explained that a metre-or so of material is enough to bring a man down safely from the sky, then for a timely discovery of a piece of tarpaulin much, much later while hovering over the Vatican in a helicopter with a big bomb under your arse.)
Each a load of absolute bollocks until you start slagging off Christianity in general and Catholicism in particular (which is, in fact, fair enough).
And now four hundred million sweet, sweet dollars in your money barns.
Bastard.
