Midnight in Europe



Paris, 1938. As the shadow of war darkens Europe, democratic forces on the Continent struggle against fascism and communism, while in Spain the war has already begun. Alan Furst, whom Vince Flynn has called “the most talented espionage novelist of our generation,” now gives us a taut, suspenseful, romantic, and richly rendered novel of spies and secret operatives in Paris and New ...

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Midnight in Europe: A Novel

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Paris, 1938. As the shadow of war darkens Europe, democratic forces on the Continent struggle against fascism and communism, while in Spain the war has already begun. Alan Furst, whom Vince Flynn has called “the most talented espionage novelist of our generation,” now gives us a taut, suspenseful, romantic, and richly rendered novel of spies and secret operatives in Paris and New York, in Warsaw and Odessa, on the eve of World War II.
Cristián Ferrar, a brilliant and handsome Spanish émigré, is a lawyer in the Paris office of a prestigious international law firm. Ferrar is approached by the embassy of the Spanish Republic and asked to help a clandestine agency trying desperately to supply weapons to the Republic’s beleaguered army—an effort that puts his life at risk in the battle against fascism.
Joining Ferrar in this mission is a group of unlikely men and women: idealists and gangsters, arms traders and aristocrats and spies. From shady Paris nightclubs to white-shoe New York law firms, from brothels in Istanbul to the dockyards of Poland, Ferrar and his allies battle the secret agents of Hitler and Franco. And what allies they are: there’s Max de Lyon, a former arms merchant now hunted by the Gestapo; the Marquesa Maria Cristina, a beautiful aristocrat with a taste for danger; and the Macedonian Stavros, who grew up “fighting Bulgarian bandits. After that, being a gangster was easy.” Then there is Eileen Moore, the American woman Ferrar could never forget.
In Midnight in Europe, Alan Furst paints a spellbinding portrait of a continent marching into a nightmare—and the heroes and heroines who fought back against the darkness.

Praise for Alan Furst and Midnight in Europe
“Furst never stops astounding me.”—Tom Hanks
“Furst is the best in the business.”—Vince Flynn
“Elegant, gripping . . . [Furst] remains at the top of his game.”—The New York Times
“Suspenseful and sophisticated . . . No espionage author, it seems, is better at summoning the shifting moods and emotional atmosphere of Europe before the start of World War II than Alan Furst.”—The Wall Street Journal
“Endlessly compelling . . . Furst delivers an observant, sexy, and thrilling tale set in the outskirts of World War II. In Furst’s hands, Paris once again comes alive with intrigue.”—Erik Larson
“Too much fun to put down . . . [Furst is] a master of the atmospheric thriller.”—The Boston Globe

From the Hardcover edition.

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Editorial Reviews

From Barnes & Noble

The Spanish civil war, the so-called "dress rehearsal for World War II," serves as the gripping subject of the latest work of Alan Furst, the author Vince Flynn called "the most talented espionage novelist of our generation." As the midnight of global war approaches, secret operatives and self-motivated anti-fascists search for ways to aid the Republic's faltering army. The task is daunting: With foreign agents nearly everywhere, Spanish émigré Cristián Ferrar and this ragtag team of allies must thrust into danger to pursue even modest goals. A taut, well-plotted spy novel by an author who continues to win new readers.

From the Publisher
Praise for Midnight in Europe
“Elegant, gripping . . . [Furst] remains at the top of his game.”—The New York Times
“Suspenseful and sophisticated . . . No espionage author, it seems, is better at summoning the shifting moods and emotional atmosphere of Europe before the start of World War II than Alan Furst.”—The Wall Street Journal
“Endlessly compelling . . . Furst delivers an observant, sexy, and thrilling tale set in the outskirts of World War II. In Furst’s hands, Paris once again comes alive with intrigue.”—Erik Larson
“Too much fun to put down . . . [Furst is] a master of the atmospheric thriller.”—The Boston Globe

Praise for Alan Furst
“Furst never stops astounding me.”—Tom Hanks

“Furst is the best in the business—the most talented espionage novelist of our generation.”—Vince Flynn
“Page after page is dazzling.”—James Patterson
“Furst writes profoundly realistic books. The brilliant historical flourishes seem to create—or re-create—a world . . . a heartbreaking sense of the vast Homeric epic that was World War II and the smallness of almost every life that was caught up in it.”—The New York Times Book Review
“Though set in a specific place and time, Furst’s books are like Chopin’s nocturnes: timeless, transcendent, universal. One does not so much read them as fall under their spell.”—Los Angeles Times
“Alan Furst’s novels swing a beam into the shadows at the edges of the great events leading to World War II. Readers come knowing he’ll deliver effortless narrative.”—USA Today
“Mesmerizing . . . Mr. Furst is a master at conjuring European scenes and moods during World War II and the fraught years that preceded it.”—The Wall Street Journal
“Alan Furst again shows why he is a grandmaster of the historical espionage genre. . . . It doesn’t get more action-packed and grippingly atmospheric than this.”—The Boston Globe

From the Hardcover edition.

The New York Times Book Review - Charles Finch
…the success of Furst's work depends more on atmosphere than plot. He has mastered a tone of oblique uneasiness, of misdirection, that inflects even Ferrar's minor interactions with misgiving. This style of intentional ambiguity…is so effective in spy fiction because it simulates for the reader the disintegration of the characters' own certainties…As could almost go without saying, given its author, the book is witty and sage from line to line, full of artfully handled historical research.
The New York Times - Janet Maslin
The title of Alan Furst's latest World War II novel…could apply to any of them. But don't be fooled by its generic sound: Mr. Furst, who has by now approached that era and the dread preceding it from so many different cultural and geographical perspectives, remains at the top of his game. This is another fine addition to his elegant, gripping, interwoven set of novels that will someday form a kaleidoscopic map of European powers forced into desperate alliances as they fight for their lives…Mr. Furst tells galloping good stories, and Midnight in Europe is one of them.
Publishers Weekly
After a slow start, this spy thriller set in 1938 from Edgar finalist Furst (Mission to Paris) settles into a lazy pace, as it charts the attempts of two part-time arms dealers, Chistián Ferrar and Max de Lyon, to serve the Spanish Republic and its beleaguered army while most of the continent has its eye on Berlin. Every clandestine mission they undertake—a prolonged quest for cannons in Poland, a nifty operation to trick Russia out of field guns and antiaircraft weaponry in Odessa—is fraught with struggle, and the pro-Franco Nazi spy apparatus always seems one step ahead. A revolving cast of secondary characters leads several plotlines that peter out, heavy on atmosphere, light on action. As usual, Furst manages to capture the fragile, itinerant nature of European life during the interwar period, dropping in hints of the horror to come, but this is one of his less memorable efforts. Agent: Amanda Urban, ICM. (June)
Library Journal
In Furst's latest suavely detached historical spy thriller, Cristián Ferrar is a Spanish emigré living in Paris. It's 1938, and the Spanish Civil War is raging while the Nazis are taking over Germany. Having fled Spain years earlier with his family at age 12, Ferrar has adapted well to France and is now a successful lawyer at a French law firm. He agrees, however, to do what he can to help the Spanish Republic after he's asked to assist with buying arms for the war effort. His first foray into weapon dealing takes him to Berlin, where Nazi rule has gotten uncomfortably dangerous. Some quick thinking and inspired negotiating free his compatriot from imprisonment and gain them a source for weapons. This takes Ferrar and company next to Poland, where they have to recover a hijacked train full of weapons. VERDICT Despite an intriguing and several escapades fraught with danger, there is little here of the suspense one expects from a spy thriller, leaving the reader a bit underwhelmed. Strictly for Furst fans.—Melissa DeWild, Kent District Lib., Comstock Park, MI
Kirkus Reviews
Another tense drama of pre-World War II Europe from a master of the period.December 1937. Attorney Cristián Ferrar is a Spaniard working in Paris and New York. Civil war rages in his native country, and he fears deeply that Francisco Franco's fascists—the Nationalists—will win. On the other side are the Republicans, who are communists and other loyalists supported by Stalin's Soviet Union. It is in many ways a proxy war between Hitler and Stalin and a precursor to world war. Spies are everywhere, perhaps even in the hero's bed. "For the secret services of Germany, Italy and the USSR, the civil war was a spymaster's dream," Furst writes. He portrays Europe with masterful foreboding, a mood that paints the continent in shades of gray. On both sides, people disappear at the slightest suspicion of treason. Ferrar wants to help the Republicans before all is lost, but how? Messerschmidts supplied by Hitler continually divebomb and slaughter the Republican troops. Almost no country wants to help them—not the United States, not Britain, not France. Italy, of course, is under fascist control. What about the Soviet Union? Can Ferrar and his friend de Lyon buy anti-aircraft munitions from the Soviets? No, not officially. Stalin knows he will eventually need them. But perhaps with the right connections, Ferrar can relieve an Odessa warehouse of the needed materiel and sail it successfully to Valencia. It is an act of bravery and desperation that even with the best outcome won't tip the balance, but Ferrar doesn't know that. As usual, Furst manages to hold the reader's rapt attention without blood-and-guts action.Furst owns the dark blanket that covers Europe between the two world wars. His latest is a satisfying, thought-provoking read.
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780812981834
  • Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
  • Publication date: 3/17/2015
  • Pages: 272
  • Sales rank: 109,182
  • Product dimensions: 5.15 (w) x 7.93 (h) x 0.56 (d)

Meet the Author

Alan Furst
Alan Furst is widely recognized as the master of the historical spy novel. Now translated into eighteen languages, he is the author of Night Soldiers, Dark Star, The Polish Officer, The World at Night, Red Gold, Kingdom of Shadows, Blood of Victory, Dark Voyage, The Foreign Correspondent, The Spies of Warsaw, Spies of the Balkans, Mission to Paris, and Midnight in Europe. Born in New York, he lived for many years in Paris, and now lives on Long Island.

From the Hardcover edition.


Alan Furst may have the narrowest purview in literature. His books – which he calls historical espionage novels -- are all set in Europe between 1933 and 1945, and all are stories of World War II intrigue.

But that brief eight-year period in history has given Furst a rich amount of source material; although he had published a handful of earlier novels (now out of print, some of them fetch hundreds of dollars) Furst hit his stride with 1988’s Night Soldiers , his first book to concentrate on the decade that would forever change the world. Furst had found his niche. As Salon rhapsodized in a 2001 review, "...to talk about one of his books is to talk about them all. He is writing one large book in which each new entry adds a piece to the mosaic of Europe in the years leading up to the war, as created by a partisan of the senses."

Furst's books are grounded in their author’s extensive research of the period, and are written in an almost newsy prose broken occasionally by beautiful, lyrical passages describing, say, a Paris morning in the 1940s, or night at the Czechoslavakian-Hungarian border. History buffs will find much to love here; while the books are fiction, some of the details are factual. In Night Soldiers, for example, immigrants arriving at Ellis Island exchanged their clothing for new outfits; in reality, the American government often bought clothing from immigrants to use as costumes for its spies.

And while Furst’s novels are entertaining and, often, elegant, they are not easy reads: the books traverse through a wide swath of Europe (an important character itself in Furst’s fiction), and characters duck behind corners and sometimes stumble into the continent’s more remote regions (while not partying in Paris, that is). Though his male protagonists manage to find and sometimes lose lovers, Furst’s books are primarily concerned with the moral slipperiness involved in fighting off Hitler's advance, where even the best intentions could produce regrettable results.

Furst's books have grown leaner and tauter over the years, the result of a conscious effort "to say more by saying less." Notwithstanding this paring back, or perhaps because of it, the praise for his books only seems to multiply, and Furst’s writing has lost none of its veracity or suspense. Furst, who many critics consider literature’s best-kept secret, may not be a household name yet, but with such buzz, his low profile won’t last much longer.

Good To Know

Night Soldiers originated from a piece Furst wrote for Esquire in 1983. He was also a reporter for the International Herald Tribune and wrote a biography of cookie entrepeneur Debbie Fields.

Furst wrote in a 2002 essay, "For me, Anthony Powell is a religion. I read A Dance to the Music of Time every few years."

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    1. Hometown:
      Sag Harbor, New York
    1. Education:
      B.A., Oberlin College

Read an Excerpt

On a soft, winter evening in Manhattan, the fifteenth of December, 1937, it started to snow; big flakes spun lazily in the sky, danced in the lights of the office buildings, then melted as they hit the pavement. At Saks Fifth Avenue the window displays were lush and glittering—­tinsel, toy trains, sugary frost dusted on the glass—­and a crowd had gathered at the main entrance, drawn by a group of carolers dressed for a Dickens Christmas in long mufflers, top hats, and bonnets. Here then, for as long as it lasted, was a romantic New York, the New York in a song on the radio.

Cristián Ferrar, a Spanish émigré who lived in Paris, took a moment to enjoy the spectacle, then hurried across the avenue as the traffic light turned red and began to work his way through the crowd. In a buckled briefcase carried under his arm, he had that morning’s New York Times. The international news was as usual: marches, riots, assassinations, street brawls, arson; political warfare was tearing Europe apart. Real war was coming, this was merely the overture. In Spain, political warfare had flared into civil war, and, the Times reported, the Army of the Republic had attacked General Franco’s fascist forces at the Aragonese town of Teruel. And, you only had to turn the page, there was more: Hitler’s Nazi Germany had issued new restrictions on the Jews, while here was a photograph of Benito Mussolini, shown by his personal railcar as he gave the stiff-armed fascist salute, and there a photograph of Marshal Stalin, reviewing a parade of tank columns.

Cristián Ferrar would force himself to read it, would ask himself, Is there anything to be done? Is it hopeless? So it seemed. Elsewhere in the newspaper, the democratic opposition to the dictators tried not to show fear, but it was in their every word, the nervous dithering of the losing side. As Franco and his generals attacked the elected Republic, the others joined in, troops and warplanes provided by Germany and Italy, and with every victory they boasted and bragged and strutted: It’s our turn, get out of our way.

Or else.

He’d had a long, long day. A lawyer with the Coudert Frères law firm in Paris—­“coo-­DARE,” he would remind his American clients—­he’d spent hours at the Coudert Brothers home office at 2 Rector Street. There’d been files to read, meetings to attend, and confidential discussions with the partners, as they worked on matters that involved both the Paris and the New York offices, whose wealthy clientele had worldwide business interests and, sometimes, eccentric lives. Coudert had, early in the century, famously untangled the byzantine affairs of the son of Jacques Lebaudy. Lebaudy père had earned millions of dollars, becoming known as “the Sugar King of France,” but the son was another story. On receipt of his father’s fortune he’d gone thoroughly mad and led a private army to North Africa and there declared himself “Emperor of the Sahara.” In time, the French Foreign Legion had sent the emperor packing and he’d wound up living on Long Island, where his wife shot and killed him.

But the difficulties of the Lebaudy case were minor compared to what Coudert had faced that day: the legal hell created by the Spanish Civil War, now in its seventeenth month; individuals and corporations cut off from their money, families in hiding because they were trapped on the wrong side—­whatever side that was—burnt homes, burnt factories, burnt records, with no means of proving anything to insurance companies, or banks, or government bureaucracies. The Coudert lawyers in Paris and New York did the best they could, but sometimes there was little to be done. “We regret your misfortune, monsieur, but the oil tanker has apparently vanished.”

Ferrar had left the Coudert office at five-­thirty and headed uptown to his hotel, the Gotham, then, as a favor to a friend at the Spanish embassy in Paris, he’d walked over to the Spanish Republic’s arms-­buying office at 515 Madison Avenue. Here he’d picked up two manila envelopes he would take back to Paris—­the days when you could trust the mail were long gone. He went next to Saks, meaning to buy Christmas presents—­a hammered-­silver bracelet and a cashmere sweater—­for a woman friend he was to meet at seven. This love affair had gone on for more than two years as, every three months or so, he flew to Lisbon, where one could take the Pan Am flying boat to New York.

Actually, Ferrar was not precisely a Spaniard. He’d been born in Barcelona and so thought of himself as Catalan, from Catalonia, in ancient times a principality that included the French province of Roussillon. A Castilian from Madrid might well have recognized Ferrar’s origin: his skin at the pale edge of dark, a gentle hawkish slope to the nose, and the deep green eyes common to the Catalan, with thick, black hair combed straight back from a high forehead and cut in the European style; noticeably long, and low on the neck. In June he’d turned forty, rode horseback in the Bois de Boulogne twice a week, and stayed lean and tight with just that exercise. Heading toward the entrance to Saks, he wore a kind of lawyer’s battle dress: good, sober suit beneath a tan, delicately soiled raincoat, fedora hat slightly tilted over the left eye, maroon muffler, and brown leather gloves. With the briefcase under his arm, Ferrar looked like what he was, a lawyer, a hardworking paladin ready to defend you against Uncle Henry’s raid on your trusts.

As he reached the entry to the department store, Ferrar saw once again a thin little fellow who wore gold-­rimmed spectacles, hands in the pockets of a blue overcoat, shoulders slumped as from fatigue or sorrow, who had followed him all day. This time he was leaning against the door of a taxi while the driver read a newspaper by the light of a streetlamp. The man in the blue overcoat had been with Ferrar at every stop, waiting outside at each location but not at all secretive, as though someone wanted Ferrar to know he was being watched.

Now who would that be?

There were many possibilities. For the secret services of Germany, Italy, and the USSR, the civil war in Spain was a spymaster’s dream, and attacks were organized against targets everywhere in Europe: politicians of the left, diplomats, intellectuals, journalists, idealists—­all much-­favored prey of the clandestine forces, be they fascist or communist. At embassies, social salons, grand hotels, and nightclubs, the predators worked day and night. As for the man who followed him, Ferrar suspected he might be a local communist in service to the NKVD, since the USSR—­the Republic’s crucial, almost its only, ally—­famously spied on its enemies, its friends, and everybody else. Or could the man be working for Franco’s secret police?

Ferrar was determined not to brood about it, he could think of nothing to do in response, and he was not someone easily intimidated. He dismissed the man’s presence with an unvoiced sigh, pulled the massive door open, and entered the store. Barely audible above the din of the shopping crowd, yet another band of carolers was singing “joyful and tri-­umm-­phant.” Momentarily adrift in an aromatic maze of perfume and cosmetics counters, Ferrar searched for the jewelry department. The man in the blue overcoat waited outside.

p. j. delaney it said on the window. Then, below that, bar & grill.

The very perfection of what the gossip columnists would call “the local saloon.” It had been there forever, on East Thirty-­Seventh Street in Murray Hill, a neighborhood of rooming houses and small hotels, a low rung on the middle-­class ladder where office workers, salesclerks, and people who did God-­only-­knew-­what lived in genteel poverty. But their lives were their own. The neighborhood had, for no particular reason, a seductive air of privacy about it. You could do what you liked, nobody cared.

Delaney’s, as it was known, was down four steps from the sidewalk, open the door and the atmosphere came rolling out at you; decades of spilled beer and cigarette smoke. Cristián Ferrar sat in a booth by the wall; a stout wooden table—­its edges scarred by cigarette burns—­was flanked by benches attached to high backs, the tops handsomely scrolled. He had his New York Times spread out before him, ashtray to one side, whiskey and soda on the other.

Ferrar tried to read the newspaper, then folded it up and put it back in his briefcase—­at least for the moment he would spare himself the smoke and fume of Europe on fire. He was in Delaney’s to meet his lover, Eileen Moore, so turned his thoughts to the pleasures they would share. As he thought of her, his eyes wandered up to the window and the sidewalk outside where, since the bar was below street level, he could see only the lower halves of people walking by. Could he identify Eileen before she entered the bar? In his imagination he could see her strong legs in black cotton stockings, but she might be wearing something else. Outside it was still snowing, a little girl paused, then bent over to peer through the window until her mother towed her away.

Ferrar had a sip of his drink; then, when he put the glass down, there she was. “Hello, Cristián,” she said, hands in the pockets of her wool coat. He stood, his smile radiant, and they embraced—­a light, public embrace which lingered for the extra second that separates friendship from intimacy. Then he helped her off with her coat, finding ways to touch her as he did so, and hung it on a brass hook fixed to the side of the booth. She sat, slid next to the wall, he settled beside her, she rested a hand on his knee, there were droplets of melted snow in her hair.

“It’s been too long,” he said.

“It has.”

“We’ll make up for that,” he said.

Her hand tightened on his knee. Their eyes met, followed by a pair of knowing smiles. Grins, almost.

She had auburn hair, parted in the middle and falling in wings to her shoulders—­easy to brush into place, cheap to maintain—­and a pale, redhead’s complexion with a spray of freckles barely visible across the bridge of her nose: an Irish girl, raised in the Bronx, now, in her early thirties, living a Manhattan life. She wouldn’t be called pretty, but her face was animated and alive and good to look at. She wore a gray wool sweater that buttoned up the front, little gold earrings, no makeup, French perfume he’d bought her in August, black skirt, and the black cotton stockings with a seam up the back.

“Seeing you made me forget,” she said. “I meant to say buenas noches. Did I get that right?”

“You did,” he said. Then, “The old greeting—­they don’t say that these days.”

By this she was startled. “And why not?”

“It would mean that you were of the upper classes and someone would arrest you. Now they say Salut, or Salut camarada. You know, ‘comrade.’ ”

“I’m not much of a comrade,” she said. “I marched, back in November, and we have a Help Spain coin jar at work, that’s about as far as I go with the politics.” At work meant, he knew, at the Public Library, where she shelved books at night. By day she wrote novels—­cheap paperbacks with lurid covers.

“Have you eaten?” he asked.

“No, I’m not all that hungry. What’s on the blackboard?”

“ ‘Chicken à la king,’ it said. Which is . . . ?”

“Pieces of chicken in a cream sauce on toast. If the cook is feeling his oats there might be a pea or two in there.”

“And what king ate this?”

Her laugh was loud and harsh. “You,” she said.

“Let me get you a drink.”

“What’ve you got there?”

“Whiskey and soda.”

“Rye whiskey, in here. Yes, I’ll have that.”

He went to the bar and returned with the drink. Eileen took a pack of Chesterfields from her purse, smacked it twice on the table to firm up the tobacco at the smoker’s end, then peeled back the foil. Ferrar drew a Gitane from his packet and lit both their cigarettes. She raised her glass and said, “Salut, comrade,” then added, “and mud in your eye” and drank off a generous sip.

“In my eye?” He was being droll, which she really liked. And it sounded good in his accent—­vaguely foreign, with a British lilt, because he’d learned his English in Paris, where the teachers were British expatriates.

“Are you still living at the same place?” Ferrar said.

She nodded. “The good old Iroquois Hotel. A room and a hotplate, bathroom down the hall.”

And a bed, he thought. A fond memory, that narrow bed with a lumpy mattress and iron rails at head and foot. Not much of a bed, but wonderful things happened there. With Eileen Moore he shared two great passions; they loved to laugh, and they loved sex—­the more they excited each other, the more excited they became. Attraction was always mysterious, he believed—­he didn’t really know what drew her to him—­but for himself he knew very well indeed. Yes, he had a fierce appetite for her small, curved shape, for her round bottom in motion, but beyond that he was wildly provoked by her redhead’s coloring: her white body, the faded pink of her nether parts. He believed, deep down where his desire lived, that redheads had thinner skin, so that a single stroke went a long way. In Ferrar’s imagination, amid the crowd in the noisy bar, he recalled how, when he first touched her nipples, her chin lifted and her face became taut and concentrated. Stop it, he told himself—­it was too soon to leave. He finished his drink and went off to get two more.

Waiting at the bar, Ferrar remembered the first time he’d seen her. She’d been working as a clerk in a warehouse near the Hudson River, there’d been a sudden fire, two of the workers had been injured and were carried out as the building burned to a shell. The owner, a German Jew who’d fled to Paris, had filed a claim with his insurance company, the company stated that the fire was arson and refused to pay, the owner retained Coudert and sued. When Ferrar, in New York for meetings, had deposed some of the workers, Eileen Moore sat across from him at a desk while a secretary recorded the deposition in shorthand. She did not record, but may have noticed, that attraction between Eileen Moore and Ferrar was instantaneous and powerful. Three months later—­the insurance company had settled—­he was back in the city; he called her, they met at Delaney’s, they went to her room.

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