Ian Fleming is probably not really meant to be a comedic author.
It's just that the whole thing is ridiculous, really. The suave man-about-town secret agent with the license to kill, who wants his martinis shaken, not stirred, who attracts beautiful women like bees to honey. He's a fantasy with little bearing on the business of spying; if you want a realistic spy novel, you'd be better served to pick up John le Carre. But no one really wants a realistic spy novel, and Elisha supposes he's among that number.
Especially since he's in Inkwell, wandering through the thriller section and paused at the Fs. He's read them all, of course, but he never keeps them around. So the question is:
Moonraker or From Russia With Love?