Midnight In Europe
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Let Alan Furst take you on a journey through the cobbled streets and smoky salons of pre-war Europe as the continent stands on the brink.
and father, his pious sister Caridad, the spinster cousin who’d been taken in years ago and had been part of the family ever since, and his grandmother, Abuela. She was seventy-seven, stood straight as a rod, wore her ample white hair twisted into a braid, then wound into a bun, and had Ferrar’s very own deep green eyes. As they drank a glass of sherry before dinner, Abuela came over and sat next to him on the couch. “So, Cristián, dear one, what happens with you these days?” “Life goes on,
but all the Russian gangs are like that, it’s another world.” “So, a gang in Kiev, one of them called Bratya, now vanished. Do I have that right?” Videau thought it over, then said, “It wasn’t easy, talking to this guy. He spoke some French, a little English, but what I understood was that they weren’t from Kiev, that’s just where they’d hidden the tires, they were from someplace else.” “Where, Albert? Can you remember?” “Not Moscow. Maybe … Odessa? You know, Stavros, I think that’s right.
weekend. The sea was too cold for swimming but they waded together, or sloshed through ankle-deep water and held hands on long walks. She was restless at night, tossed and turned, had bad dreams, and mumbled in her sleep. He never asked his question, but then he didn’t need to. He knew. Knew what she was doing but didn’t do very well. They had the grand lunch on Sunday, the classic veal with cream and mushrooms, then drove back to Paris. By preference, Max de Lyon did not have an address. He
imagine you are representing a client.” “The client is the Spanish Republic.” Eyes to heaven, Dupre said, “Something tells me to put my fingers in my ears.” “I wouldn’t blame you, Monsieur Dupre.” “You will have to find a way to deal with the non-intervention pact, but some of the tramp freighters will carry anything, if somebody fiddles with the shipping manifest. Of course I can’t recommend that. Why not a Spanish ship?” “We inquired at the office of the naval attaché—no shipping available
it?” “Never.” “It allows you, as the acting director of the Red Star Armoury, to ship ammunition if there is an unexpected crisis. No written orders are required, and no signatures needed other than your own.” Malkin swallowed. This was worse than wrecking—there had to be an order from the office of the navy, at least a telephone call from a senior official, he couldn’t do this on his own. When the shipment was discovered he would be shot. “Where is my authority to do such a thing?” he said.