Queen of the desert.(Florence of Arabia)(Book Review)

Florence Of Arabia, by Christopher Buckley (Random House, 272 pp., $24.95)

ALL it takes for evil to prevail, warned Burke, is "for enough good men to do nothing." True; but that doesn't mean that the good men cannot occasionally relax with a good laugh or two. It might even help them, especially in a situation of the kind the West faces today: a war with an ideology so dedicated to the destruction of happiness that, in the shape of the Taliban, it made laughing too loud in public a crime. (For women, anyway.)

In Florence of Arabia, his dark, disturbing, and very funny new satire, Christopher Buckley highlights the cruelty of radical Islamism and the contradictions of America's response to it. He does this against a backdrop not of history at its grimmest or journalism at its most intense, but of jokes, mockery, bouts of wordplay (a State Department bureaucrat is a "desk-limpet," an Arab potentate has lips that are "oyster-moist from a lifetime's contact with the greatest delicacies the world [has] to offer"), and puns that teeter on the edge of catastrophe: The repressive Arab kingdom that is--along, naturally, with France--the main villain of this book goes by the name of Wasabia.

Wasabia is a sand-swept nightmare marked by oil wealth, joylessness, corruption, and ritualized cruelty, a tyranny where "offenses that in other religions would earn you a lecture from the rabbi, five Hail Marys from a priest, and, for Episcopalians, a plastic pink flamingo on your front lawn" are punished by "beheading, amputation, flogging, blinding, and having your tongue cut out ... A Google search using the key phrases 'Wasabia' and 'La Dolce Vita' results in no matches." Well, Prince Bandar, does that remind you of anywhere?

Gallows humor? Certainly. But insofar as the jihadists--with their car bombs, suicide bombs, and dreams of dirty bombs and worse--wish to shove you and me into mass graves at the earliest possible moment, a touch of Tyburn does not seem amiss. Of course, there are people who will find some of what Buckley has to say distinctly, you know, insensitive. The caliphs of multiculturalism will twitch a little, and this is not a book that will find many fans in Foggy Bottom ("the State Department's reflexive response to any American in extremis overseas is to hand them a pamphlet--along with a list of incompetent local lawyers--and say, 'We told you so'").

But satire should not make comfortable reading for the subscribers to any orthodoxy. Running through this book is the clear implication that the American approach to the Middle East has not worked out quite as well as might have been hoped. And what, exactly, is the role played in Buckley's drama by the Waldorf Group, an investment company (named, hmmm, after a New York hotel) that has danced a little too long, a little too closely, and a little too profitably with the despots of Wasabia?

But about Buckley's heroine Florence, at least, there are no doubts. Forced out of the State Department for her unwanted imagination and initiative, she now has a new assignment: using covert funds to set up a TV station ...