Alan Furst's Classic Spy Novels

by Alan Furst

  “What is engaging [in The World at Night] is the idea of the unintentional secret agent, the amateur who has read Eric Ambler. . . . Casson is mystified and terrified as he is slowly sucked into the vortex. Occupied Paris is . . . skillfully reconstructed by Alan Furst, a writer of talent.”—Richard Bernstein, The New York Times

  “[The World at Night] earns a comparison with the serious entertainments of Graham Greene and John le Carré. . . . [G]ripping, beautifully detailed . . . [A]n absorbing glimpse into the moral maze of espionage.”—Richard Eder, Los Angeles Times

  “[The World at Night] is the world of Eric Ambler, the pioneering British author of classic World War II espionage fiction. . . . The novel is full of keen dialogue and witty commentary. . . . [T]hrilling.”—Herbert Mitgang, Chicago Tribune

  “Alan Furst . . . has evoked [Paris] so vividly we can smell and taste the city and find our way around like natives. . . . Furst has written an elegant, suspenseful, and—there’s no other word for it—professional novel. Flaubert would have liked it. Balzac would have approved.”—Anthony Brandt, Men’s Journal

  “A wonderfully evocative portrait of wartime Paris and the moral maze of resistance that builds to a brilliant climax.”—Phillip Knightly, The Mail on Sunday (London)

  “First-rate reading—vivid, compelling, and rich with authentic detail about clandestine battles and battlegrounds. No one evokes World War II behind the lines better than Alan Furst does.”—Geoffrey C. Ward

  “[Furst’s] depictions of wartime Europe have the richness and complexity of the fiction of John le Carré and Somerset Maugham. . . . With the authority of solid research and a true fascination for his material, Mr. Furst makes idealism, heroism, and sacrifice believable and real.”—David Walton, The Dallas Morning News

  “Furst’s scrupulous attention to spycraft and period detail . . . evokes the mood of conquered cities like Warsaw, Paris, and Barcelona. . . . Language this lovely vaults the categories we lazily constrain literature with.”—Maureen Corrigan, Fresh Air

  “Some books you read. Others you live. They seep into your dreams and haunt your waking hours until eventually they seem the stuff of memory and experience. Such are the novels of Alan Furst, who uses the shadowy world of espionage to illuminate history and politics with a gripping immediacy.”—Nancy Pate, The Orlando Sentinel

  “Imagine discovering an unscreened espionage thriller from the late 1930s, a classic black-and-white movie that captures the murky allegiances and moral ambiguities of Europe on the brink of war. . . . Nothing can be like watching Casablanca for the first time, but Furst comes closer than anyone has in years.”—Walter Shapiro, Time

  “Furst has somehow discovered the perfect venue for uniting the European literary tragedy with the Anglo-American spy thriller. Nobody does it better.”—Kirkus Reviews

  THE 16TH ARRONDISSEMENT

  10 May, 1940.

  Long before dawn, Wehrmacht commando units came out of the forest on the Belgian border, overran the frontier posts, and killed the customs officers. Glider troops set the forts ablaze, black smoke rolling over the canals and the spring fields. On some roads the bridges were down, but German combat engineers brought up pontoon spans, and by first light the tanks and armored cars were moving again. Heading southwest, to force the river Meuse, to conquer France.

  In Paris, the film producer Jean Casson was asleep. His assistant, Gabriella Vico, tried to wake him up by touching his cheek. They’d shared a bottle of champagne, made love all night, then fallen dead asleep just before dawn. “Are you awake?” she whispered.

  “No,” he said.

  “The radio.” She put a hand on his arm in a way that meant there was something wrong.

  What? The radio broken? Would she wake him up for that? It had been left on all night, now it buzzed, overheated. He could just barely hear the voice of the announcer. No, not an announcer. Perhaps an engineer—somebody who happened to be at the station when news came in was reading it as best he could:

  “The attack . . . from the Ardennes forest . . .”

  A long silence.

  “Into the Netherlands. And Belgium. By columns that reached back a hundred miles into Germany.”

  More silence. Casson could hear the teletype clattering away in the studio. He leaned close to the radio. The man reading the news tried to clear his throat discreetly. A paper rattled.

  “Ah . . . the Foreign Ministry states the following . . .”

  The teleprinter stopped. A moment of dead air. Then it started up again.

  “It is the position of the government that this aggression is an intolerable violation of Belgian neutrality.”

  Gabriella and Casson stared at each other. They were hardly more than strangers. This was an office romance, something that had simmered and simmered, and then, one night. But the coming of war turned out to be, somehow, intimate, like Christmas, and that was a surprise to both of them. Casson could see how pale she was. Would she cry? He really didn’t know very much about her. Young, and slim, and Italian—well, Milanese. Long hair, long legs. What was she—twenty-six? Twenty-seven? He’d always thought that she fitted into her life like a cat, never off balance. Now she’d been caught out—here it was war, and she was smelly and sticky, still half-drunk, with breath like a dragon.

  “Okay?” He used le slang Américain.

  She nodded that she was.

  He put a hand on her cheek. “You’re like ice,” he said.

  “I’m scared.”

  He went looking for a cigarette, probing an empty packet of Gitanes on the night table. “I have some,” she said, glad for something to do. She rolled off the bed and went into the living room. Merde, Casson said to himself. War was the last thing he needed. Hitler had taken Austria, Czechoslovakia, then Poland. France had declared war, but it meant nothing. Germany and France couldn’t fight again, they’d just done that—ten million dead, not much else accomplished. It was simply not, everybody agreed, logique.

  Gabriella returned, lit a cigarette and handed it to him. “May I take a bath?” she asked.

  “Of course. There are towels—”

  “I know.”

  Casson found his watch on the night table. 5:22. Water splashed into the bathtub. The tenant on the floor below was a baroness—she didn’t like noise. Well, too bad. She already hated him anyhow.

  He got out of bed, walked to the glass door that opened on the little balcony. He pushed the drape aside; you could see the Eiffel Tower across the river. The rue Chardin was quiet—the 16th Arrondissement was always quiet, and Passy, its heart and soul, quieter still. One or two lights on, people didn’t know yet. So beautiful, his street. Trees in clouds of white blossom, dawn shadow playing on the stone buildings, a lovely gloom. He’d shot a scene from No Way Out here. The hero knows the cops are onto him, but he leaves his hideout anyhow, to see his rich girlfriend one last time.

  The telephone rang; two brief whirring jingles. Paused a few seconds. Rang again. Jesus, the baroness. Gingerly, Casson picked up the receiver.

  “Yes?”

  “Have you heard?”

  It was his wife. They had been separated for years, living their own lives in their own apartments. But they remained married, and shared a set of old friends.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “I’m not disturbing you, am I?”

  “No, Marie-Claire. I was up.”

  “Well, what shall we do?”

  Fight, he thought. Support the troops, hold rallies, you had to—

  “About tonight, I mean.”

  Now he understood. They were giving a dinner party at her apartment. “Well, I don’t see how, I mean, it’s war.”

  “Bruno says we must go on. We must not give in to Hitler.”

  Bruno was Marie-Claire’s boyfriend. He owned an agency that sold British motorcars, had his hair cut twice a week, and spent a fortune on silk dressing gowns.

  “He’s not wrong,” Casson said.

  “And the cake
has been ordered.” The twentieth wedding anniversary of the Langlades—a cake from Ponthieu.

  “All right. Let’s go ahead. Really, what else is there to do?”

  “Are you going to the office?”

  “Of course.”

  “Can you telephone later on?”

  “I will.”

  He hung up. The door to the bathroom was half-open, the water had stopped. Casson paused at the threshold.

  “You can come in,” Gabriella said.

  Her skin was flushed from the heat of the bath, wet strands of hair curled at the back of her neck, her breasts and shoulders were shiny with soapsuds. “They are going to arrest me,” she said, as though it were hard for her to believe.

  “Why would they do that?”

  She shrugged. “I am Italian. An Italian citizen.”

  Enemy alien. It was absurd, he wanted to laugh, but then he didn’t. Mussolini was Hitler’s ally, a treaty had been signed in 1939. The Pact of Steel, no less. But it was only ridiculous until police came to the door. Gabriella looked up at him, biting her lip. “Now look,” he said. “It’s too early for tears. This is Paris—there’s always somebody you can talk to, always special arrangements. Nothing’s final here.”

  Gabriella nodded gratefully, she wanted to believe he was right.

  Casson caught a glimpse of himself in the steamy mirror. Dark—like a suntan that never really went away—naked, lean, with a line of hair up the center and shoulders a little heavier than his suits suggested. Not so bad—for forty-two. Still, if he were going to be authoritative, he’d better get dressed.

  He stood in front of his closet, gazed pensively at a row of suits. In the distance, a two-note siren, high/low. Police or ambulance, and coming nearer. Casson went to the balcony and looked out. An ambulance, rolling to a stop just up the block. Two women ran into the street, one clutching a robe against her chest, the other in the black dress of a concierge. Frantically, they urged the men from the ambulance into the building.

  Casson went back to the closet. On the radio, the premier of France, Paul Reynaud, was reading a statement: “The French army has drawn its sword; France is gathering herself.”

  A little after ten, Casson left for the office. In the streets of Passy, the war had not yet been acknowledged—life went on as always; très snob, the women in gloves, the men’s chins held at a certain angle. Casson wore a dark suit, sober and strong, and a red-and-blue tie with a white shirt—the colors of France. But the blue was teal, the red faded, and the shirt a color the clerk had called “linen”. He stopped at a newspaper kiosk for Le Temps, but it was not to be. A huge crowd was clamoring for papers, he would have to wait.

  The day was fine, cool and sunny, and he liked to walk to his office, just off the Champs-Elysées on the rue Marbeuf. Like it or not, his usual cabdriver was not at his customary spot on the place Iéna so it was walk or take the Métro, and this was no morning to be underground. Somewhere along the way, he would stop for a coffee.

  He was, to all appearances, a typical Parisian male on his way to the office. Dark hair, dark eyes—France a Latin country after all—some concealed softness in the face, but then, before you could think about that, a small scar beneath one eye, the proud battle trophy of soccer played with working-class kids when he was young, in fact the most violent moment he’d ever experienced.

  In real life, anyhow. Last Train to Athens had a murder in an alley in the Balkans, pretty nasty by the time they’d got it cut. Emil Cravec! What a ferocious mug on him—where the hell was he, anyhow? No Way Out was tame by comparison, except for the ending. Michel Faynberg had directed for him, and Michel had never really left the Sorbonne. He’d had the hero clubbed to death at the base of a statue of Blind Justice—what a load of horseshit! No Way to Make Money the exhibitor Benouchian called it. Yet, in all fairness, that hadn’t really turned out to be true. The students went.

  He liked Night Run best of all, he loved that movie. It was better than The Devil’s Bridge, which had got him the little house in Deauville. He’d almost directed Night Run, stood with old Marchand all day long, watched rushes with him every night. Marchand was a legend in the industry, and the great thing about stature, Casson had discovered, was that egoism was no longer the issue—now and then, anyhow. Even a producer, despised moneyman, might have an idea that was worth something. Marchand had been in his seventies by then, was never going to get the acclaim he deserved. White hair, white beard, eyes like a falcon. “Tiens, Casson,” he’d said. “You really want it right.”

  It was, too. The smoke that billowed from the locomotive, the little cello figure, the village scenes they shot around Auxerre—every frame was right. A small story: beginning, middle, end. And Marchand had found him Citrine. She’d had other names then, what she’d come north with, from Marseilles. But that was eleven years ago, 1929, and she’d been eighteen. Or so she said.

  Casson strode along, through the open-air market on the place Rochambeau. The fish stall had a neat pile of fresh-caught rouget on chipped ice. Gray and red, with the eye still clear. A goat was tied to the back of a wagon and a young girl was milking it into a customer’s pail. The market café had tables and chairs out on the sidewalk, the smell of coffee drawing Casson to the zinc bar. He stood between a secretary and a man with red hands and a white apron. Unwrapped the sugar cube and set it on the spoon and watched the walls crystalize and tumble slowly down as the coffee rose up through it. He brought the cup to his lips: hot, black, strong, burnt. Casson allowed himself a very private little sigh of gratitude. To be alive was enough.

  Ah, a band.

  Casson stopped to watch. A unit of mounted Gardes Republicains in hussars’ uniforms, chin straps tight beneath the lower lip. On command they rode into formation, three lines of ten, horses’ hooves clopping on the cobbled street. Then played, with cornets and drums, a spirited march. In the crowd, a veteran of the 1914 war, the tiny band of the Croix de Guerre in his lapel, stood at rigid attention, white hair blowing in the breeze from the river, left sleeve pinned to the shoulder of his jacket.

  Now the band played the “Marseillaise,” and Casson held his hand over his heart. War with Germany, he thought, it doesn’t stop. They’d lost in 1870, won—barely—in 1918, and now they had to do it again. A nightmare: an enemy attacks, you beat him, still he attacks. You surrender, still he attacks. Casson’s stomach twisted, he wanted to cry, or to fight, it was the same feeling.

  28, rue Marbeuf.

  Turn-of-the-century building, slate gray, its entry flanked by a wholesale butcher shop and a men’s haberdashery. Marbeuf was an ancient street, crowded and commercial, and it was perfect for Casson. While the big production studios were out at Joinville and Billancourt, the offices of the film industry were sprinkled through the neighborhood in just such buildings. Not on the Champs-Elysées, but not far from it either. Honking trucks and taxis, men carrying bloody beef haunches on their shoulders, fashion models in pillbox hats.

  To get to Casson’s office you went to the second courtyard and took the east entry. Then climbed a marble staircase or rode a groaning cage elevator an inch at a time to the fourth floor. At the end of a long hall of black-and-white tile: a sugar importer, a press agent, and a pebbled glass door that said Productions Casson.

  He was also PJC, CasFilm, and assorted others his diabolical lawyers thought up on occasions when they felt the need to send him a bill. Nonetheless, the world believed, at least some of the time. Witness: when he opened the door, eight heads turned on swivels. It brought to mind the favorite saying of an old friend: “One is what one has the nerve to pretend to be.”

  As he went from appointment to appointment that morning, he began to get an idea of what the war might mean to him personally. For one thing, everybody wanted to be paid. Now. Not that he blamed them, but by 11:30 he had to duck out to Crédit Lyonnais to restock the checking account from reserves.

  When he returned, the scenic designer Harry Fleischer sat across the desk and bit
his nails while Gabriella prepared a check: 20,000 francs he was owed, and 20,000 more he was borrowing. “I can’t believe this is happening,” he said gloomily. “My wife is home, selling the furniture.”

  “I wish I knew what to say.”

  Fleischer made a gesture with his hand that meant just because I am this person. He was heavy, face all jowls and cheeks, with a hook nose, and gray hair spreading back in waves from a receding hairline. “I ran from Berlin in 1933, but I thought: so, I have to live in Paris, the whole world should be tortured like this.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Hollywood.” Fleischer shook his head in disbelief at what life did. “Of course I could say ‘Hollywood!’ I know plenty of people who’d see it that way. But I’m fifty-six years old, and what I’ll be is one more refugee. Arthur Brenner has been trying to get me to come to MGM for years. Well, now he’ll get. I don’t want to leave, we made a life here. But if these momsers do here what they did in Poland . . .”

  There was a big, dirty window behind Casson’s chair, open a few inches. Outside was the sound of life in the Paris streets. Casson and Fleischer looked at each other—that couldn’t end, could it?

  “What about you?” Fleischer said.

  “I don’t know. Like last time—the thing will settle into a deadlock, the Americans will show up.” He shrugged.

  Gabriella knocked twice, then brought in Fleischer’s check. Casson signed it. “I appreciate the loan,” Fleischer said, “It’s just to get settled in California. What is it in dollars, four thousand?”

  “About that.” Casson blew on the ink. “I don’t want you to think about it. I’m not in a hurry. The best would be: we give Adolf a boot in the ass, you come back here, and we’ll call this the first payment on a new project.”

  Casson handed the check to Fleischer, who looked at it, then put it in the inside pocket of his jacket. He stood and extended a hand. “Jean-Claude,” he said. That was Casson’s affectionate nickname, in fact his first and middle names.