Eamonn Fitzgerald's Rainy Day

Thanks to some superb sleuthing by Mrs Rainy Day, what looks like the only copy of "The Last Supper" by Charles McCarry this side of the Atlantic was tracked down earlier this week and added to our library. And what a marvellous read it is. Although written in 1983 and long forgotten, the novel has been rescued from obscurity by Overlook Press, and following a glowing review in the New York Times by Jacob Heilbrunn, it has become the must-read within and without the intelligence community. A few exemplary excerpts:

When the protagonist, Paul Christopher, returns to Washington after a decade in a Chinese prison camp, he finds that the cult of "jogging" has taken over the capital. Christopher signs up, and here's how McCarry describes his observations of a believer:

"Stephanie ran with stiff concentration, striding over the brick sidewalks of Georgetown with her head thrown back and her dark ponytail bouncing. The back of her shirt was soaked with sweat and her legs shone with perspiration. She was not a natural athlete, but it was clear that she had studied the technique of running as she might have studied a foreign language. She earnestly applied the grammar and vocabulary of the sport, wearing the proper equipment, doing stretching exercises before she set out, placing her feet in just the right way, carrying her head and arms correctly, breathing deeply. But she didn't have the accent quite right. It was a charming weakness. She reminded Christopher of the earnest hikers in Rügen. There was something endearing about her solemnity."

One day, Christopher meets spymaster Wolkowicz in in the Hirshhorn Museum and Sculpture Garden. "They walked among the abstract sculpture, misshapen chunks of stone and metal, gouged by the chisel and burned by the torch. 'I don't know how anyone can like this shit,' Wolkowicz said. 'Look at it. Nothing's finished, for Christ's sake. What happened? Did all these sculptors die right after they started?' "

One final example. Following Wolkowicz's grilling by the "Outfit", as the American intelligence service is termed, he turns to his interrogators and declares: "The Russians are out to kill people like you. They'll use you, but you don't count. Look at the Brits. Philby, Burgess, MacLean, Blunt — all members of the bourgeoisie. Sacrificial lambs. The Russians didn't give a shit for them, they didn't give a shit for British intelligence. The Outfit was the target because America is the target."

Now that le Carré has lost his bearings, the time has come to give McCarry the respect he deserves. "The Last Supper" is a Cold War masterpiece and its heart is in the right place.