'Bin Laden? A fucking charlatan... Strip away all the mythologising and hocus-pocus and what have you got? Patty Hearst with a beard. Bored rich kid playing at soldiers. He's in the huff with his family, for Christ's sake--the psychology's pitifully mundane. If he'd been born into a semi in Surbiton he'd have painted his bedroom black, got himself a Nine Inch Nails T-shirt and hung around swingparks drinking cider from plastic bottles.'
I don't usually read crime/terrorism thrillers, but I've read every one of Brookmyre's books so far; they're astute observational comedy/satire, and entertaining as all fuck when he goes into full-on rant mode.