A Spy Novel That Doesn’t Thrill

The spy novel has a unique literary character. Its first purpose, like that of all fiction, is to entertain. Yet by having as its subject the spy, the man who goes where others do not, it implicitly assumes a secondary responsibility: to inform. A good spy novel allows the reader to see the world from the perspective of the spy, to peek from the dark shadows and assess it in recognition of its full complexity.

Though the advertising for “Body of Lies,” the newest novel from Washington Post columnist David R. Ignatius ’72, calls it “one of the best post-9/11 spy thrillers yet,” do not be fooled. It might be a “spy novel” in name, but anyone looking for either entertainment or insight in this work will be disappointed. The book offers no new opinions or perspectives on the current Iraq War or, more generally, on the tense situation in the Middle East, and it fails to provide a modicum of enjoyment.

The work’s basic premise is very intriguing: the CIA will construct an identity for a corpse, a dead man who never actually existed, and pretend that he was in contact with the leader of Al-Qaeda, whom they hope to force out of hiding. However, most of the book languishes on the wholly uninteresting, poorly drawn relationship between the jaded protagonist, CIA operative Roger Ferris, and Alice Melville, a naïve charity worker who helps Palestinian refugees. What could be a thrilling story gets mired in the mundane details, particularly domestic spats between Roger and his wife Gretchen. While the tension begins to build at the end, the surprises that ensue seem to be almost gratuitous, for, by that point, the plot is so fatigued that even the jolt of energy cannot save it.

One would think that as a journalist, an observer, Ignatius would have come to understand his fellow human beings. Sadly, that is not the case. Ignatius gives us caricatures, not characters. Alice, the supposedly enlightened American liberal who is truly not enlightened at all, is almost unreadable. “He’s kind of quiet, but really sweet,” she says of a co-worker. “Has this cute mark on his forehead from praying so much.” Her words drip with this oblivious (and agonizing to read) condescension. Gretchen is almost comical in her one-dimensionality. All she wants is power and sex. (As Ignatius is fond of repeating, “Her appetite for sex was remarkable.”) She exists only to provide the steamy moments needed for the Hollywood adaptation the publishers are banking on.

Even without such distracting cardboard characters, the book would be weighed down by Ignatius’ inane language and the dialogue. His wordy and cringe-worthy sentences are burdened by odd uses of colloquialisms, and his dialogue seems to be little more than filler.

Still, even with a disappointing plot, terrible characters, and poor language, Ignatius’ book could have retained some value by delivering insight into the Arab world, into the world of the CIA, or into the Iraq War. And yet, inconceivable as it is, Ignatius neglects to weigh in on any of the issues of the post-9/11 world. All he offers are platitudes recycled from other works or the many pundits who crowd Fox and CNN.

Concerning the Iraq War, Ignatius insightfully recognizes that “Iraq is fucked up.” On the culture of trust in the Middle East, Ignatius repeats what has been documented (perhaps presumptuously) since the British imperialists: “Arabs helped you because they trusted you. They would do everything for a friend and nothing for a stranger, and less than nothing for someone who treated them with disrespect.” There is just no meaning to be found here—or at least nothing that cannot be found a million other places.

Perhaps there is a reason why the cover of “Body of Lies” reads in small font “A Novel.” The omission of “Spy” is telling. This is not a Spy Novel in the vein of Graham Greene and John Le Carré; it’s just a pedestrian novel that’s even less interesting than the hundreds of cookie cutter thrillers that crowd airport bookstores.