Midnight in Europe: A Novel

by Alan Furst

  “Make sense?” Morand said.

  “It does. Vadik has found what we’re looking for. If we want to wire back, can you do that?”

  “Whenever you like. The reception of the telegram will cost you a service fee, three thousand francs.”

  “Very well, I just happen to have the cash.”

  “Money on hand,” Morand said. “Always a good idea.”

  In Odessa, Vadik’s people began to shadow the armoury. At a late-night restaurant across from the entry gate, a man in workman’s clothes took a window seat for three nights in a row. Drunks staggered past the gate at midnight. A woman in a kerchief sold meat pies from a wicker basket. They were interested in the quality of the armoury’s security and the news was not good. There were eight guards, sailors with rifles, who arrived at eight in the evening to relieve the day shift. The sailors showed up for guard duty, on time and apparently sober, and did not sneak away for a nap, and the officer who supervised the guards was young and brisk and seemed to take his job seriously. In a tenement room, Vadik met with one of his lieutenants and said, “We can’t do it by force, there would be a bloodbath.”

  “No, we can’t. They would send Chekists down here from Moscow, hundreds of them, and some of us wouldn’t get away.”

  One of Vadik’s people entered the armoury, dressed as a sailor, with the crowd that arrived in the morning. He found the aisle where the 76mm ammunition was stored and began to count the crates. The shells weighed twelve pounds apiece and were packed twenty to a crate, to be managed by two loaders—which meant twenty-five hundred crates. But all he could find were one thousand nine hundred and thirty crates, which reduced the anti-aircraft ammunition to thirty-eight thousand six hundred shells. This he reported to Vadik, who went off to see his friend at SovExportBuro and sent a telegram revising the order and the price.

  Meanwhile, the woman who had played the part of Inspector Kostova, in fact Vadik’s sister-in-law, was hard at work on the forms she’d stolen. This was not easy; the language used on the forms was strange and stilted, created by bureaucratic gods in a distant heaven. A form requesting a resupply of pencils asked for all sorts of information, that is, if a hand-managed writing tool—lead even was a pencil. Still, what else could it be? But an hour at the task taught her to deal with the language, and it was then she came upon E-781 L2. Authorization for Emergency Distribution of Inventory. Three pages of it. Asking, again, for unimaginable volumes of detail. She walked over to Vadik’s tenement-room office and showed him the form.

  “Is this of use?”

  “What is it?”

  When she told him, he was delighted.

  “Will it work?”

  “Normally, it wouldn’t. There isn’t a naval officer in the world who would act on such a request without at least a telephone call. You can’t just send weapons out into the night. However …”

  “Yes?”

  “This is the Soviet Union, and here it may not be smart to ask questions, here it is smart to obey a directive while finding a way to protect yourself. And, in our case, we know who we are dealing with, and that will make a difference. Maybe.”

  “And, dear Vadik, if maybe not?”

  Vadik shrugged. “Run like hell. I know all about that.”

  Working with Morand, Vadik arranged for a telephone call to the detective’s office and spoke with de Lyon. “We may have found a way,” Vadik said, “it depends on the individual approving the paperwork.”

  “Some money, perhaps.”

  “In this case, no. But we will use another approach. Do you have transport?”

  “We’re working on it. Any idea of the date?”

  “Not yet. Could be a week from now, maybe ten days.”

  When de Lyon hung up the telephone he remembered Professor Z and the particular way he’d said the word diversion.

  Ferrar had met, through involvement in a legal matter, one of the more respected shipping brokers in Paris. Dupre’s office was close to the heart of the financial district, up past the Bibliothèque Nationale and near the Bourse, in a genteel, elegant building served by a very slow elevator with a cage for a door. Dupre was a dignified old gentleman, courtly, often amused. Leaning against the walls of his office were large squares of green felt tacked to thin boards where Dupre, by means of notations on slips of paper pinned to the felt, and a telex machine in the corner, kept track of much of the world’s merchant shipping. As Dupre would explain, the liners, which ran on schedule between two ports, kept their cargo and location up to date, not so much the tramp freighters—sometimes they reported, sometimes not.

  Dupre had a vast, antique desk with a ship in a bottle set on a wooden trestle. “Have you been working hard?” he asked Ferrar. His smile indicated that he knew the answer.

  “Yes, it’s the war.”

  “Here as well, and curses on the man who invented the torpedo. What can I do for you, Monsieur Ferrar?”

  “I’m here to find a ship.”

  “Plenty still afloat. I would 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 for two months. And, if we started a fight over that, it would take weeks. We want to ship as soon as possible.”

  Dupre found a clean sheet of paper and uncapped his fountain pen. “From where to where, Monsieur Ferrar?”

  “From port of Odessa to port of Valencia.”

  “I see. And the cargo?”

  “Anti-aircraft ammunition in wooden crates.”

  “You’ll pay a price for that, Monsieur Ferrar; hazardous cargo. You’re buying from the USSR?”

  “No one else will sell us ammunition,” Ferrar said. Which was true, but not the answer to Dupre’s question.

  “What’s the tonnage?”

  “Two hundred and thirty tons, more or less.”

  Dupre stood, and began to walk around the room, peering at his paper slips. “We should be able to find something, there are always merchant vessels working on the Black Sea. And just about every port is two days from Odessa, even for the older ships that do ten knots an hour.”

  As Dupre moved to a different board, the telex machine printed out a new length of tape. “Let’s try your allies first; South American countries, and Mexico, they carry tons of oranges and bananas up to Odessa—you don’t want to get between a Russian and a banana. Aah, here’s what you need.”

  He unpinned a slip of paper and returned to his desk. “The Santa Cruz, out of Tampico, Mexico, thirty-two hundred tons, built in 1909. She’s at the dock in Constanta, Roumania, waiting for a tramping contract. Shall I get you a price?”

  “That’s the usual thing to do, but we’ll pay whatever they ask.”

  “Then I’ll wire. Santa Cruz is owned by the Compañía Aguilar, in Tampico—you’ll have to pay in advance of course; ammunition, submarines, time of war.”

  When Ferrar returned to the office, Jeannette told him that Barabee wanted to see him right away. Then she gave him a certain look, a warning. As Ferrar sat down, Barabee stood up and closed his door. He wasted no time and said, “My contact at the Sûreté called this morning.”

  “Now what?”

  “It seems they have an interest in the marquesa, he didn’t say why. So I told him that I don’t know much about the case but that you were representing her. He asked that you call him at his office—you don’t mind, do you?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Do we have anything to worry about?”

  “I don’t think so, but I’ll let you know after I speak with him.”
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  “By the way, he’s the one who helped you out with the Poles, so you should do the best you can.”

  “I will,” Ferrar said.

  Barabee gave him a telephone number and the name of a colonel.

  Ferrar took the information back to his office. Barabee had been brusque, not his usual style, but Ferrar couldn’t blame him. Calls from French security officials could be handled, but Barabee clearly didn’t like dealing with them. Ferrar dialed the number, which was a direct line to the colonel’s office.

  “Monsieur Ferrar? Thank you for calling. I should say first of all that this is something of a sensitive matter, so your discretion would be appreciated.”

  “I ought to inform Mr. Barabee if it concerns the law firm.”

  “Very well, but nobody else.”

  “No, only Mr. Barabee.”

  “This matter concerns a marquesa, Marquesa Maria Cristina with plenty of title after that, Bourbon, Braganza, and so forth. Husband’s title, I believe.”

  “That’s my understanding.”

  “Well, she came to see us. Talked to a junior officer, who sent her on to a senior officer, who sent her on to me. So, the nature of your relationship, please.”

  “The marquesa was a Coudert client—she was seeking to recover a debt owed to her deceased husband’s estate. Then, we became friends, if you understand what I mean.”

  “Intimate friends.”

  “Yes.”

  “We had a long and serious discussion with the marquesa, and in the course of that discussion she told us she was a Coudert client, so I telephoned Mr. Barabee, and he suggested I speak with you. Now, the marquesa came to see us with the intention of freeing herself from a connection with the Spanish Nationalist secret service, she had some harebrained scheme involving a faked automobile accident. Did you know she was a spy?”

  “Not at first. When I figured it out I ended the relationship.”

  “You didn’t tell her anything, did you? I mean, perhaps by accident?”

  “I did not. She tried, I’ll say that for her, and she’s a very seductive woman …”

  “Indeed.”

  “… and I liked her, but, beyond that …”

  “I understand your feelings for her. She sat in my office, well dressed, very prim and proper, but you could feel the heat from across the room. Technically, she committed a crime on French soil, although not against France. Still, I was obliged to arrest her.”

  “I regret you had to do that.”

  “Don’t feel too bad. She is comfortable, not in a prison, and in the end it all turned out for the best.”

  “It did?” How could it?

  “Well, the more I spoke with her, the more I felt she might be someone who could help us, and she agreed she was willing to do that. Our work here is comprehensive, as I like to put it, national borders don’t mean all that much in this office but, as you would imagine, we are especially concerned with Germany and Italy. I believe this influenced her decision.”

  “Did she tell you about her sister, who is held in Burgos?”

  “Be patient with me, Monsieur Ferrar, I’m getting there. Yes, she did tell us about her sister, so we had to do something about that. Here at the Sûreté we find it’s best, often, to work in the upper regions of the various services we deal with, so I made a telephone call to my counterpart at the SIM, the Nationalist secret service, and we worked out a deal. The marquesa will no longer be controlled by the SIM, and her sister will be freed. In return, we agreed that nothing of this affair would appear in the press.”

  “Please don’t think I’m being flippant, Colonel, but you should have been a lawyer.”

  “Oh but I am a lawyer, monsieur, or rather I was.”

  “Did you tell your counterpart that the marquesa will now work for you?”

  “I didn’t need to tell him that. He knew. European nobility is of particular interest to us, all of us. They ruled every country in Europe for generations and they are still influential—politicians cannot resist them, especially if they look anything like the marquesa.”

  “Truthfully, I am more than glad that you were able to save her.”

  “We do what we can. I wonder, now that the marquesa is no longer a threat to you, perhaps you would like to resume the affair.”

  “No. Not after what happened, I couldn’t.”

  “Monsieur Ferrar, I will remind you once again to keep this matter secret, and then I will say good afternoon.”

  What, Ferrar wondered, was that certain note in the colonel’s voice when he asked about resuming the affair? Did his interest in the marquesa extend beyond a professional concern? No, impossible! Really? Why?

  In Odessa, the Cheka came for Malkin at two in the morning. There were three of them; they told his wife to go into the bedroom and shut the door, then waited while he dressed. At least, Malkin thought, they had not arrested her, which was common practice. When he was done, they took him out to their car—the black, boxy Emka, manufactured for the NKVD and driven exclusively by them. Malkin, rigid with fear, knew his future; he would be taken off to a basement in an NKVD prison and interrogated. Reaching the Emka, he was shoved into the backseat and one of the Chekists, who wore eyeglasses and a hat, sat next to him. He was, Malkin sensed, one of those Bolshevik operatives who truly believed; relentless, merciless.

  But then, Malkin did not go to the room in the basement.

  The Emka stayed where it was, while the Chekist sitting next to him said, “Comrade Malkin, you are in grave difficulties. You are, the inspection committee has determined, guilty of the crime of wrecking. For that you get twenty years in a Siberian gold mine. Not a good place, Comrade Malkin, a place from which very few return.”

  The Chekist waited for a response, but Malkin could only nod.

  “A sorry fate, comrade. But then, there might be a way out for you.”

  Malkin stared at him—had he heard correctly? “A way out?”

  “You are a very lucky fellow, because just at this moment you are in a position to help us and, if you do that properly, your crime will be forgotten.”

  “What can I do?”

  “We have under way a very important and very secret operation, I can’t tell you what we are doing, but I can tell you how you might play a part in our efforts. Are you familiar with the form E-781 L2?”

  “No, what is it for?”

  “It’s called Authorization for Emergency Distribution of Inventory. Have you ever used 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.

  “A verbal instruction from the NKVD, and a signed copy of the form I mentioned.”

  “Of course I will do as you wish, comrade officer, but can you tell me how it would work?”

  “As usual. You will direct your workers to transfer the ammunition to the dock, where it will be loaded into the hold of a ship. Basically what you do every day.”

  “Yes, but …”

  “Very well, you refuse. Mischka, we’re on our way.” The driver started the car and began to pull away from the curb.

  “Wait!” The car jerked to a halt as the driver hit the brakes. “Of course I will do what you ask—if it’s for the good of the nation, I’ll do anything you say, anything at all.”

  “Ah, a wise choice.”

  “When will this happen, comrade officer?”

  “In two or three days, whenever our ship gets here. It is our own ship, by the way, used by our service. It is not a naval vessel.”

  “All right, two or three days, yes, just tell me when.”


  “We will. Meanwhile, you can never speak of this because, if you do, we’ll be back and then you won’t be such a lucky fellow.”

  “And, later on, if a senior officer should question my actions?”

  “You will show him the form. But it won’t come to that, the navy knows better than to question our operations. You will simply request that a replacement stock of ammunition be provided. And you will be a free man.”

  “Thank you, comrade officer.” Malkin glanced out the window and saw the silhouette of his wife as she watched from the darkened bedroom.

  “We will contact you,” the Chekist said. “And now, comrade, go home.”

  In Spain, where the river Ebro provided a line of defense for the gathering of the Republic’s forces, the Army of the Ebro prepared to cross the river and attack Nationalist positions on the other side. The new army had been made up of the Republic’s last reserves, thus the conscription of sixteen-year-olds and middle-aged men with families had been ordered, to be supplemented by Nationalist prisoners of war and technicians of the Republic’s hydroelectric plants, now behind enemy lines. Altogether, some eighty thousand men, supported by one hundred and fifty field guns—some of them manufactured in the nineteenth century—and twenty-six anti-aircraft cannon.

  The crossing of a river by combat assault troops under fire was complex and difficult, so for a week the soldiers trained, using ravines and rivers along the coast in an attempt to keep the operation unobserved. Much of the training involved practice in the use of pontoon bridges, some of which had been fabricated in Barcelona, while others were purchased in France by the Republic’s arms-buying agency in Paris. In addition, the Army of the Ebro would employ rafts, and small boats that each carried eight men.

  But the formation of the new army and its training was no secret. German reconnaissance aircraft, unopposed by the Republic’s dwindling air force, observed the preparations, and Nationalist spies confirmed the observation reports. Franco and his generals knew what was coming but, at first, could not believe the Republic would attempt such a foolhardy operation. Did the Republic’s military leadership not understand what dive bombers would do to an army trying to cross a broad river without air cover? Perhaps they chose not to understand: a battlefield victory was now the only thing that would save the Republic, so it had to be tried.