With his third novel, David McCloskey has established himself as one of the leading spy novelists now in the game. After seven years with the CIA, followed by a stint as a consultant at McKinsey, McCloskey has become a full-time writer. His first novel, Damascus Station, appeared in 2021, followed by Moscow X in 2023. Both were very good, though Moscow X suffered from bad timing (Putin’s invasion of Ukraine). The Seventh Floor is his best to date, and, like its predecessors, it features CIA wildcard Artemis Aphrodite Procter, who played a part in McCloskey’s first two books and is on center stage in this one.
Reviewing Damascus Station, I described Procter (then the station chief there, since posted back to Langley) as “such an insanely juicy character, she just might get McCloskey a movie deal.” That hasn’t happened yet, so far as I know, but I’ll be surprised if it doesn’t eventually. In fact, from the many new spy novels I’ve read in the last quarter-century, she is easily among the most memorable figures, endowed by McCloskey with Dickensian gusto.
In The Seventh Floor (the title refers to the executive level of the CIA headquarters building), Procter is in serious trouble; someone is framing her to take the fall as the agency conducts a high-level mole-hunt. The only way she can defend herself is to find the real traitor; Sam Joseph, who worked with Procter at Damascus Station and who was the first to tell her about the threat of the mole, joins her in the pursuit. She has to reckon with Moscow’s minions, the actual traitor or traitors within the agency, and with people who simply want her out—people she’s rubbed the wrong way over the years. That’s a daunting task in itself; it becomes even more so when the agency “defrocks” her.
If you are a regular reader not only of spy fiction but of historical studies of spies and nonfictional accounts of spycraft, the ever-evolving technology of espionage, and more, you know that truth is stranger than fiction. What seems implausible to a reader may actually be realistic, and vice versa. Then there are the human elements that spy fiction shares with fiction in general: the ability to make characters real, dialogue that doesn’t draw attention to itself, the knack to paint setting and background with details that feel authentic. McCloskey excels at all of these. His characters, good and bad and muddled, are neither larger nor smaller than life. That’s a significant achievement for any novelist, but especially so for a writer of spy fiction, where the stakes are so high.
I know people—smart people, in many ways more “worldly-wise” than I am—who scoff at spy fiction as “unrealistic.” Given the moment we’re living through, that strikes me as laughable. Others, fans of “literary fiction,” deprecate the genre as “formulaic.” That’s even funnier. Of course there are plenty of Lego-like bits in The Seventh Floor. The same is true of Sally Rooney’s fiction (at least, the little of it I’ve read).
There are light touches here to please aficionados of the genre:
According to the CIA profile Dr. B had passed along, the Americans believed Rem [an experienced Russian agent] to be a chess champion. The document stated that he’d been fond of the game since youth, and assessed that he brought hard-won lessons in strategic thinking, patience, and tactics to the recruitment of spies. The faulty analysis amused and flattered Rem. It was not so terrible for the opposition to paint you as a modern-day Karla, cunning and competent, always one step ahead. He rearranged his donut pillow; hemorrhoids had been flaring up as of late, an awful distraction from his arthritic knees and hips.
Here again, McCloskey excels at the mixture of realism and make-believe to be found in different flavors and proportions in all the great writers of spy fiction, from John Buchan and E. Phillips Oppenheim to Eric Ambler, from Ian Fleming to John le Carré and Len Deighton. Rem, it turns out, “did not play much chess”; the CIA profile is sheer fantasy. In fact, in the course of the novel, many assumptions (on all “sides”) turn out to be mistaken. There’s a vein of such fallibility—not overdone, just a seasoning—running through the book, a welcome alternative to spy-fictions that feature all-knowing antagonists.
But the reader certainly rejoices when Procter triumphs over her foes (not least in the agency itself) and gets her man, delivering justice in person and leaving readers hoping that we won’t have to wait too long for her next appearance.
The Seventh Floor: A Novel
by David McCloskey
W.W. Norton, 400 pp., $29.99
John Wilson writes about books for First Things, Prufrock News, National Review, the American Conservative, and other outlets.
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