riting what passes for spy fiction today is not that difficult. It usually entails an over-the-top plot, two-dimensional characters, requisite gizmos and gadgets, a dash of tradecraft, and plenty of explosions and gunfights. The CIA is either all powerful or a corrupt bureaucracy, or some combination of both. It is far more escapist fantasy than espionage reality. Some years ago, I had the privilege of working and traveling with a former senior executive of the CIA. On landing the long-retired officer handed me a copy of Vince Flynn’s “American Assassin,” lamenting that he wished the Agency was as efficient as the characters in that book were.
These “spy fiction” novels are okay. Some are good. Most are forgettable. What makes a great spy novel stand out is, ironically, less about the tradecraft and far more about the human elements of human intelligence. It is the characters and their relationships. It is the subtle art of manipulation that underpins the dynamic between an officer and an agent. Great spy fiction seizes upon the quiet moments, allowing the characters to live and breathe, to pour forth their hopes and fears, their motivations, and hesitations. It is George Smiley sitting with Connie Sachs and a cup of tea in Oxford in John le Carré’s “Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy” as the latter reminisces both about the Circus, but also her suspicions of the Soviet mole at the heart of British intelligence.
Alma Katsu and I.S. Berry, two former CIA officers, clearly know the intelligence game from the inside and, as such, have penned truly superb spy novels. Katsu’s “Red London” and Berry’s “The Peacock and the Sparrow” (copies of which were kindly provided by the authors) should both be next to your passport as your jet off on summer holiday, and without spoilers, I’ll tell you why.
Most of what passes for spy fiction today sees action as the story. Far too many authors inflict pages upon pages of literary violence on their readers that mangle the characters (and the English language) and only marginally advances the story. There are whole sections of these books that one could thumb through to see who lives and who dies, and not miss anything of substance.
For Katsu and Berry, even the espionage tradecraft is a means to an end, not the end itself. Their officers run their surveillance detection routes and are concerned about counter-surveillance and bugs. This is, however, just part of life (and death) for the officers. It is second nature to maintain their covers—challenging to be sure, but akin to the second nature of getting morning coffee for the average commuter.
Both Katsu and Berry have action set pieces, but they are not the story. Instead, Katsu and Berry focus on the core aspect of human intelligence—the humans themselves. This is a breath of fresh air. So much of what constitutes spy fiction is really just potboiler thrillers that may or may not wear a dinner jacket. The characters are spies in name only, resembling ‘80s action heroes more than George Smiley.
Yet it is that human touch that makes spy fiction so enjoyable. It is the conversations between the characters, the care and feeding of a handler for her agent, what is both said and unsaid, that truly defines good spy fiction. It is how the officers identify potential agents, explore their strengths and weaknesses, and leverage those first for the approach and then the development of a relationship, all with the goal of recruitment. Great handlers can be whatever their agent needs them to be—coach, mentor, parent, friend—all within boundaries, of course.
Katsu’s officer, Lyndsay Duncan (who readers first met in “Red Widow”), becomes a confidante and friend, a replacement sister of sorts for recruitment target who fell out with hers, but happens to be in a loveless marriage with a Russian oligarch. Berry’s lead spy, Shane Collins, is a grizzled coach, offering inducements and firm encouragement, while threatening to withhold what his agent needs most to get him to act. Both are richly crafted and deeply human characters. They have their own strengths and weaknesses, hopes and fears, and beliefs and doubts.
The best spy fiction is grounded in the real world, not the perverted action fantasy world that characterizes many best sellers. For Katsu’s Duncan, she is drafted into an operation targeting a Russian oligarch who may or may not be at odds with a successor to Russia’s president, Vladimir Putin. Seeking to get inside the oligarch’s orbit, Duncan befriends his long-suffering English wife, hoping to use her loveless marriage as a vehicle for recruitment.
Berry’s protagonist, Collins, is a middle-aged GS-15 (a U.S. government pay grade) officer who is on his way out, disaffected with his job, divorced from his wife, and estranged from his son, but who finds new life and purpose (and unexpected love) in a post-Arab Spring Bahrain. Managed by a too young and impetuous chief of station, and driven by a headquarters in Langley, Virginia, that is fixated on Iran, Collins’ cynicism is starkly juxtaposed with his true believer of an agent, a revolutionary who aims to bring down the royal family.
Great literary espionage deftly pens the “wilderness of mirrors:” the ever-shifting reflections of loyalties, the intrigues of plots and subplots. Katus’s “Red Widow” dangles several narrative threads that one hopes she stitches together in subsequent novels: a Russian intelligence officer recruited to bring down his boss and suspicions about an American officer arrested overseas, but now returned home. Berry’s Collins finds himself right in the middle of this wilderness—stalled career frustration colliding with bureaucratic politics. Who is running whom is a question that lingers in the background.
Real world espionage is as much about the place as it is the officers and handlers. Indeed, the locale is critical. It can offer safe haven and refuge in which to conduct an agent meeting or from which to surreptitiously surveil an adversary. It is a place to conceal dead-drop messages or conduct brush-pass handoffs. It is a living and breathing space with its own ebbs and flows that dictate pace and movement. A good officer can read these flows and use them to her advantage or see disruptions in the normal pattern and avoid danger. It is never static and is just as vital to the success of an operation as the quality of the handler and their agent.
Good spy fiction is also about place. Yes, Ian Fleming used exotic locales to provide a measure of escapist convenience for James Bond, but it is more than that. Setting the scene properly is vital. It draws the reader in, wrapping them into the environment in which the character lives and breathes. An author that gets it right can transport a reader to a place they have never been and may never visit, or it can remind a reader of a place they intimately know. Get it wrong and it is just as off-putting as a poorly drawn character that is more cliché than literary flesh and blood. Katsu and Berry each succeed on this front.
Katsu pens a portrait of London that is familiar, but at arms-reach. Few will ever know the gilded world of the Russian oligarchs about whom she writes, but almost anyone who has lived or visited London over the last two decades will recall a bit of this world even if only in passing. Walk up Old Bond Street on any given afternoon and you can see the Bentleys and Rolls-Royces idling outside the elite luxury brands picking up the latest shopping haul. Mind you, it is rare that their owners are in the store or the car, they’ve just dispatched their staff to pick up the purchases.
Berry crafts a literary version of Bahrain that is utterly sumptuous and delectable, offering a kaleidoscope of colors and smells. From the absurdly disconnected expatriate world of the diplomatic community to the Shia slums and the waterfront, each of Berry’s details pulls the reader further into the world she creates. Each page adds a little layer to this setting, each detail creates a more vibrant world in which her story unfolds. She carries this depth of detail to Cambodia as her story unfolds. It is unlikely that her readers will ever find themselves in the seedy back alleys of Phnom Penh, but they will certainly feel as though they have been after reading her final act.
Katsu and Berry have written exceptional stories that are not just good spy novels—which they of course are—but just good books period. The characters are richly written. The plots are grounded and believable. The relationships are deep, and the settings are richly crafted. Both show the power of pacing—Katsu’s moves along at a brisk and engaging pace, while Berry’s story slowly unfurls her plot before reaching its climax.
What’s more, as both female officers and authors, Katsu and Berry break through what is traditionally a male-dominated field and genre and do so with great success. Women in intelligence are all too often overlooked; their contributions underrecognized in an already secretive world. Yet their impact on American and allied security cannot be understated. From World War II officers like Virginia Hall to the codebreakers of Bletchley Park, to intelligence leaders like Dame Stella Rimington and Gina Haspel, the first female U.S. Director of Central Intelligence, the impact women had and have on espionage is immeasurable. In the world of spy fiction—save for Dame Stella—there are few high-profile women authors. Katsu and Berry both look set to change that, and the genre is much richer for it.
It should perhaps not come as a surprise that the best novels come from those who have lived the life of an intelligence officer. True spies are invariably good storytellers, for themselves and for their agents, and in this case, luckily enough, for the readers.
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Spy Fiction with a Professional Touch
Image by PublicDomainPictures from Pixabay
July 1, 2023
Most spy fiction is forgettable, relying on well-worn tropes and written by authors who have an at best passing understanding of espionage. Two new books, each by former CIA officers—Alma Katsu and I.S. Berry—buck the trend with real expertise alongside great storytelling, writes Joshua Huminski.
W
riting what passes for spy fiction today is not that difficult. It usually entails an over-the-top plot, two-dimensional characters, requisite gizmos and gadgets, a dash of tradecraft, and plenty of explosions and gunfights. The CIA is either all powerful or a corrupt bureaucracy, or some combination of both. It is far more escapist fantasy than espionage reality. Some years ago, I had the privilege of working and traveling with a former senior executive of the CIA. On landing the long-retired officer handed me a copy of Vince Flynn’s “American Assassin,” lamenting that he wished the Agency was as efficient as the characters in that book were.
These “spy fiction” novels are okay. Some are good. Most are forgettable. What makes a great spy novel stand out is, ironically, less about the tradecraft and far more about the human elements of human intelligence. It is the characters and their relationships. It is the subtle art of manipulation that underpins the dynamic between an officer and an agent. Great spy fiction seizes upon the quiet moments, allowing the characters to live and breathe, to pour forth their hopes and fears, their motivations, and hesitations. It is George Smiley sitting with Connie Sachs and a cup of tea in Oxford in John le Carré’s “Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy” as the latter reminisces both about the Circus, but also her suspicions of the Soviet mole at the heart of British intelligence.
Alma Katsu and I.S. Berry, two former CIA officers, clearly know the intelligence game from the inside and, as such, have penned truly superb spy novels. Katsu’s “Red London” and Berry’s “The Peacock and the Sparrow” (copies of which were kindly provided by the authors) should both be next to your passport as your jet off on summer holiday, and without spoilers, I’ll tell you why.
Most of what passes for spy fiction today sees action as the story. Far too many authors inflict pages upon pages of literary violence on their readers that mangle the characters (and the English language) and only marginally advances the story. There are whole sections of these books that one could thumb through to see who lives and who dies, and not miss anything of substance.
For Katsu and Berry, even the espionage tradecraft is a means to an end, not the end itself. Their officers run their surveillance detection routes and are concerned about counter-surveillance and bugs. This is, however, just part of life (and death) for the officers. It is second nature to maintain their covers—challenging to be sure, but akin to the second nature of getting morning coffee for the average commuter.
Both Katsu and Berry have action set pieces, but they are not the story. Instead, Katsu and Berry focus on the core aspect of human intelligence—the humans themselves. This is a breath of fresh air. So much of what constitutes spy fiction is really just potboiler thrillers that may or may not wear a dinner jacket. The characters are spies in name only, resembling ‘80s action heroes more than George Smiley.
Yet it is that human touch that makes spy fiction so enjoyable. It is the conversations between the characters, the care and feeding of a handler for her agent, what is both said and unsaid, that truly defines good spy fiction. It is how the officers identify potential agents, explore their strengths and weaknesses, and leverage those first for the approach and then the development of a relationship, all with the goal of recruitment. Great handlers can be whatever their agent needs them to be—coach, mentor, parent, friend—all within boundaries, of course.
Katsu’s officer, Lyndsay Duncan (who readers first met in “Red Widow”), becomes a confidante and friend, a replacement sister of sorts for recruitment target who fell out with hers, but happens to be in a loveless marriage with a Russian oligarch. Berry’s lead spy, Shane Collins, is a grizzled coach, offering inducements and firm encouragement, while threatening to withhold what his agent needs most to get him to act. Both are richly crafted and deeply human characters. They have their own strengths and weaknesses, hopes and fears, and beliefs and doubts.
The best spy fiction is grounded in the real world, not the perverted action fantasy world that characterizes many best sellers. For Katsu’s Duncan, she is drafted into an operation targeting a Russian oligarch who may or may not be at odds with a successor to Russia’s president, Vladimir Putin. Seeking to get inside the oligarch’s orbit, Duncan befriends his long-suffering English wife, hoping to use her loveless marriage as a vehicle for recruitment.
Berry’s protagonist, Collins, is a middle-aged GS-15 (a U.S. government pay grade) officer who is on his way out, disaffected with his job, divorced from his wife, and estranged from his son, but who finds new life and purpose (and unexpected love) in a post-Arab Spring Bahrain. Managed by a too young and impetuous chief of station, and driven by a headquarters in Langley, Virginia, that is fixated on Iran, Collins’ cynicism is starkly juxtaposed with his true believer of an agent, a revolutionary who aims to bring down the royal family.
Great literary espionage deftly pens the “wilderness of mirrors:” the ever-shifting reflections of loyalties, the intrigues of plots and subplots. Katus’s “Red Widow” dangles several narrative threads that one hopes she stitches together in subsequent novels: a Russian intelligence officer recruited to bring down his boss and suspicions about an American officer arrested overseas, but now returned home. Berry’s Collins finds himself right in the middle of this wilderness—stalled career frustration colliding with bureaucratic politics. Who is running whom is a question that lingers in the background.
Real world espionage is as much about the place as it is the officers and handlers. Indeed, the locale is critical. It can offer safe haven and refuge in which to conduct an agent meeting or from which to surreptitiously surveil an adversary. It is a place to conceal dead-drop messages or conduct brush-pass handoffs. It is a living and breathing space with its own ebbs and flows that dictate pace and movement. A good officer can read these flows and use them to her advantage or see disruptions in the normal pattern and avoid danger. It is never static and is just as vital to the success of an operation as the quality of the handler and their agent.
Good spy fiction is also about place. Yes, Ian Fleming used exotic locales to provide a measure of escapist convenience for James Bond, but it is more than that. Setting the scene properly is vital. It draws the reader in, wrapping them into the environment in which the character lives and breathes. An author that gets it right can transport a reader to a place they have never been and may never visit, or it can remind a reader of a place they intimately know. Get it wrong and it is just as off-putting as a poorly drawn character that is more cliché than literary flesh and blood. Katsu and Berry each succeed on this front.
Katsu pens a portrait of London that is familiar, but at arms-reach. Few will ever know the gilded world of the Russian oligarchs about whom she writes, but almost anyone who has lived or visited London over the last two decades will recall a bit of this world even if only in passing. Walk up Old Bond Street on any given afternoon and you can see the Bentleys and Rolls-Royces idling outside the elite luxury brands picking up the latest shopping haul. Mind you, it is rare that their owners are in the store or the car, they’ve just dispatched their staff to pick up the purchases.
Berry crafts a literary version of Bahrain that is utterly sumptuous and delectable, offering a kaleidoscope of colors and smells. From the absurdly disconnected expatriate world of the diplomatic community to the Shia slums and the waterfront, each of Berry’s details pulls the reader further into the world she creates. Each page adds a little layer to this setting, each detail creates a more vibrant world in which her story unfolds. She carries this depth of detail to Cambodia as her story unfolds. It is unlikely that her readers will ever find themselves in the seedy back alleys of Phnom Penh, but they will certainly feel as though they have been after reading her final act.
Katsu and Berry have written exceptional stories that are not just good spy novels—which they of course are—but just good books period. The characters are richly written. The plots are grounded and believable. The relationships are deep, and the settings are richly crafted. Both show the power of pacing—Katsu’s moves along at a brisk and engaging pace, while Berry’s story slowly unfurls her plot before reaching its climax.
What’s more, as both female officers and authors, Katsu and Berry break through what is traditionally a male-dominated field and genre and do so with great success. Women in intelligence are all too often overlooked; their contributions underrecognized in an already secretive world. Yet their impact on American and allied security cannot be understated. From World War II officers like Virginia Hall to the codebreakers of Bletchley Park, to intelligence leaders like Dame Stella Rimington and Gina Haspel, the first female U.S. Director of Central Intelligence, the impact women had and have on espionage is immeasurable. In the world of spy fiction—save for Dame Stella—there are few high-profile women authors. Katsu and Berry both look set to change that, and the genre is much richer for it.
It should perhaps not come as a surprise that the best novels come from those who have lived the life of an intelligence officer. True spies are invariably good storytellers, for themselves and for their agents, and in this case, luckily enough, for the readers.
