The dust jacket of Robert Harris' "The Ghost" trumpets the book's opening line, and with good reason:

"The moment I heard how McAra died, I should have walked away. I can see that now."

		"THE GHOST" By Robert Harris Simon & Schuster ($26)

The game is already afoot, in other words. From the first paragraph, Harris' novel tugs the reader on through a thriller blessedly short on shoot-'em-up and long on character nuance, dead-on media satire and the damned-either-way consequences of wielding power in the murky wake of 9/11.

We never do learn the name of the title character and narrator, whose trade is ghostwriting memoirs. His anonymous but lucrative work includes "autobiographies" of 1970s rock star Christy Costello and of a TV magician -- the latter book titled, "I Came, I Sawed, I Conquered."

But when he is asked to finish the late McAra's work on the memoirs of Adam Lang, a once-adored British prime minister forced to resign due to his support of the U.S. war on terror, he needs more than facile turns of phrase to survive.

The ghostwriter flies to the luxurious compound of a publisher on Martha's Vineyard, where Lang is sequestered with his smart, prickly wife and his almost-as-smart, loyal spokeswoman/mistress.

They are girding themselves to deal with an emerging scandal about allegations that Lang approved the illegal handover of four terror suspects in Pakistan for torture by the CIA in Eastern Europe.

The writer begins recording interviews with the ex-P.M. while the scandal worsens. He also can't help but be curious about his predecessor, who washed up on a nearby beach three weeks earlier in what has been judged an accident or a suicide.

The virtues of the novel include a shaded and balanced portrayal of the characters (with the exception of a villainous CIA undercover officer). Lang comes across as brilliant, charismatic and wanting to do good but succumbing to mundane mistakes and delusions. And the ghostwriter charms the reader with his low expectations of a fat advance and expensive single-malt in return for a peerless hack-job.

One can't help but think Harris is jesting at himself, a consummate pro of the slick beach read. But here he imbues what could have been a formulaic thriller with propulsive dialog, the gloomy presence of the Vineyard in winter, and a deft stirring of a cauldron of contemporary woes.

The plot occasionally stumbles like it has been fed too much single malt. For instance, why does the writer, who is not the bravest of men, persist in hunting down the truth when he must know it could get him killed?

And Harris seems to enjoy his clever metaphors and similes so much that he can't resist serving them up at regular intervals, like afternoon tea.

But caught up in the sophisticated excitement of "The Ghost," I confess I didn't much care.