Le cercle rouge: édition intégrale (Polar & Policier étranger) (French Edition)

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Shanghai on the Métro

Hubert Arneke, Conny Nochet et quelques autres policiers. L'univers de Romain, ce sont les rues parisiennes. Pas question de jouer les indics pour autant, mais il n'est pas mauvais de garder de bonnes relations avec un flic. Romain les connaissaient assez bien tous les deux.

Toutefois, il ferait mieux de ne pas revenir dans certains endroits. BadLand — Albin Michel, mars Trop de morts au pays des merveilles — Rouergue Noir, Evangile pour les gueux — Viviane Hamy, janvier Ubac Rouergue Noir, janvier L'Aube noire, janvier Corrosion — Gallmeister, Ta fille morte — Ed. Les justiciers de Glasgow — Seuil, Mars Viens avec moi — Sonatine, janvier Ils savent tout de vous — Liana Levi, octobre Tant de chiens — Asphalte, novembre Ceci n'est pas une histoire d'amour — Rivages, juin Puis tous deux se cachent quelques minutes dans un local de service.

Parce que cette fois, il le fallait. Toutefois, l'attente de Sasha et d'Elias risque de se prolonger. Celebrated, notorious, unheard of secret operatives recorded their wartime adventures with a shameless reach for posterity or fortune. For really the first time the French wrote spy novels. Almost all were dreadful—and this assessment is charitable—yet the writers cranked them out for an eager and faithful market. Charles Lucieto wrote nearly a dozen episodes for his series, La guerre des cerveaux. Covers proclaimed sales as high as one hundred and twenty thousand, although these figures were about as credible as the stories within.

Translations of Fu Manchu novels appeared in the thirties. The French gobbled these up; printings of thirty-five thousand copies apiece almost always sold out by the end of the decade. Newspapers dredged up old spy stories or piled on new ones to promote sales. The publicity was scarcely necessary. The interwar years seemed to glide, with hardly a pause, from one spy sensation to the next: In the twenties, and especially in the thirties, the mysterious spy surfaced as a familiar figure. Secret agents invaded all kinds of literature.

They were in travel accounts. They were in playful novels, for example, Maurice Dekobra's immensely successful Madonna of the Sleeping Cars. Serious writers like Malraux wrote about spies. Why this was so and what it represents is largely the story this book has to tell. Certainly the place to begin is the political context or atmosphere of the times, for the era seemed to conspire in favor of the secret agent.

The defining attributes of these years—international insecurity, totalitarian politics, refugee floods, civil war, and political polarization—militated toward thinking about spies. The Russian revolution triggered a fetish with internationals, the image of a Europe of international camps that permeated and divided nations from within and whose operatives were identified as spies and saboteurs. There was, to be sure, a Red International, but also a White International, a Green International, a Fascist International, and even something called a Cagoule International, after the group of right-wing French extremists popularly known as the hooded ones or cagoulards.

In one author was writing of The International of Spies, Assassins, Cagoulards, and Provokers in the Service of Fascism , [3] a sign of how readily ideological politics induced sightings of enemy combines after the war. With the rise of fascism came an unrestrained disposition to believe in vast and powerful espionage organizations and a Europe swarming with larva-like goons in leather trench coats.

The basic text on German espionage in the thirties was a Communist refugee publication called The Brown Network. Caught on the wrong side in Spain, George Orwell discovered how easily in these years political differences translated into accusations of espionage. After , and certainly after , the word spy became all but an automatic indictment of someone on the other side. Refugees played no small role in the identification of secret agents with totalitarian threats. Refugees, first from bolshevism, then from fascism, imported stories of terror and conspiracy, while their own murky worlds of politics cum intrigue provided occasion for still more lurid narrations.

Consistently one will find, if one pages through the published accounts of spies and terrorists between the wars, that the source is a refugee. No Frenchman can imagine the power of this organism," a refugee tells a journalist with the first reports of Nazi terrorism in Europe. For fabricated accounts there are fabricated refugees, cicerones to unravel the mysteries that no one can solve. And fifth-column imagery, the most celebrated spy vision of the century, is, to a considerable extent, a refugee story.

Properly speaking the fifth-column image came out of the forties as much as the thirties. The term can be traced to when General Emilio Mola boasted that he had four columns marching on Madrid, but that the decisive blow would be dealt by a fifth from within.

But there was no rush to appropriate the phrase, and the few references that appeared over the rest of the decade were nearly always associated with Spain. The image never did infiltrate official language. I have located only a handful of references to "fifth column" in the archives, one in in regard to Spain, two others in May after the term was already becoming fashionable in the press. What turned the image into a commonplace was first the Nazi takeover in Norway and then the German victory in the west.

In the miserable days of spring , as the Germans marched or dropped from the air, the fifth column took on its familiar shape: German minorities and ideological fellow travelers forming secret armies from within; fifth-column parachutists descending in Dutch or French uniform, often with wireless sets, perhaps dressed as priests or in other civilian disguise; one hundred thousand Nazi soldiers, camouflaged in Holland, preparing "Hitler's hour"; Weygand secreting the army to his command in Syria—in short, German clandestine operations, systematically readied in advance and supported by treachery in high places, leading to defeat.

Today we know that there was little substance to these rumors, but for those who managed to get out of France it was a message of urgency they carried across the Atlantic, repeating and embellishing the stories until, together, the stories formed a mythology. The myth served many purposes. It provided the Left with a powerful hammer to beat against. At the most basic level it offered a means of exorcising shock, of explaining, as one person has written, the seemingly inexplicable. Then, after war's end, what had worked for national honor could also work for personal reputations, and by the tarnish here was especially thick.

So again one dipped into the fifth-column well. General Maurice Gamelin, who had lost the Battle of France, lowered the bucket several times, reeling up the discovery that German victory had been the result not only of everyone else's mistakes, but of fifth-column intrigues too. Few were willing to let the myth drop because it was such an easy way to write off the last five years. Yet etymologies do not tell us everything, and in this case they do not reveal much at all.

If the articulation of fifth-column imagery came only with the forties, the basic concept borrowed heavily from the twenties and thirties, leaning considerably on the refugee texts The Brown Network and its sequel, The Nazi Conspiracy in Spain. In fact nearly all the paraphernalia of the myth—card indexes, spy schools, terrorist camps, radio wars and clandestine radio transmissions—had worked their way into the official reports and printed literature of the interwar years.

Imagery of war was also a part of the background, explaining again why the secret agent preyed upon imaginations after In the interwar years thoughts about espionage were another means for thinking about war in the twentieth century. No one who has traveled in France and seen the war memorials in every town or village or has studied the interwar years and witnessed the forced memory of the war—the books and memoirs, the pilgrimages to Verdun, the monuments to everything imaginable even the carrier pigeons, "their wounded and their heroes," got a monument in [10] —can ignore the powerful hold the First World War held over French minds after This was a war that everyone would have preferred to forget, but it was also one that the French loved to recall, and in those memories spies played a not inconsiderable role.

Stories of famous spies and memoirs of secret agents formed part of the vast literature that issued from the war. Even more, when espionage writers told of "the secret war," "the white war" "the silent war," "the spy war," "an underground war without mercy," "a permanent war, underhanded, secret. The image captured the sense of war as a permanent condition of life in the twentieth century, an experience prolonged in people's minds no less than it was prolonged beyond armistices and treaties on different fronts by different means.

Despite official endings the war invaded people's lives, penetrated civilian society, finding the most visible embodiment of that sensation in the behind-the-lines figure of the spy. Lurking, like the Great War, the spy was a projection of the awareness that the presence of war would not go away. Indeed between the wars French absorption with spies paralleled more haunting ruminations on war in the future. Speculation about a next war invariably dwelt on the role of the bomber, a breakthrough weapon that could visit the horrors of war—conventional, gas, germ; all options were possible—upon civilian populations.

Unlike the last war, the next war would avoid stalemate because armies would possess the means for striking behind fronts and breaking both the capacity to supply and the will to persist. There is a rather large literature from the twenties and thirties on the more ghastly side to these visions. None of this speculation was very far removed from thinking about spies who operated behind lines in wartime to cripple civilian morale and the ability to fight.

In their modern guise as terrorists and subversives, spies provoked the same kinds of perceptions as those envisaged by the future-war writers: Consequently secret agents, like gas bombs and germ bombs, came to penetrate future-war writing. Florian-Parmentier's account of mass annihilation in included the landing of special detachments behind enemy lines, dressed in enemy uniforms and armed with machine guns. Their mission was to disorganize ser-. Elsewhere there were discussions of spies who pinpointed targets for bombers or who, as enemy pilots, traveled to Paris on one pretext or another to learn the best places to drop their fire bombs and gas the city's population.

A few thousand chemists, engineers, pilots, mechanics, filmmakers, and spies will do for a start" [14]. In turn spy novels and spy reportage were littered with material about biological and chemical warfare. War and Bacteria , a spy novel, related German plans to launch a first strike of microbes. Pierre Yrondy's From Cocaine. In the next war, Yrondy insisted in his preface, "the most important battles will be the work of various espionage agents.

They will be—and are already—charged With sowing death in the great centers and thus exterminating civilian populations. Commandant Georges Ladoux, who headed military counterintelligence during the First World War, introduced gas and germ warfare into a spy novel he wrote in the s. Perhaps what made the association instinctual, or irresistible, was the frequency with which the two paraded together in real life, surfacing with the Moscow purge trials, Cagoule revelations, and a host of sensational Parisian affairs. At base there remained the inevitable exchange: The presumption spread to government authorities who, responsible for forestalling covert action, took their charge seriously.

Much of the next chapter will examine their record. Still, an item scooped from the archives illustrates once more the close connections that were drawn between waging modern war and the role of secret agents, particularly because it returns us to the foundations of fifth-column thinking. Of all the permutations in military tactics after the First World War, none straddled better the parallel tracks to espionage and future war imagery than the formation of paratroop units. In the spring of ,. Few accounts from these days are complete without the familiar stories of parachute sightings of epidemic proportions or of near lynchings of French pilots who had parachuted from burning planes only to be mistaken for German agents.

Civilians readily connected expectations of how the next war would be fought with soldier-operatives who dropped from the sky, behind enemy lines, on missions of disruption and terror.

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The same connections were drawn by police and military men who throughout the thirties had observed developments in paratroop tactics, especially in the Soviet Union, the recognized pioneer in paratroop deployment. Later the focus would shift to Germany; one cannot help but notice how closely leadership in paratroop tactics conformed to French targeting of espionage threats. The reports from the thirties make for interesting reading with their communications about thousands of trained Soviet parachutists, the prospects for total surprise and disruption of mobilization, the debates on the effectiveness of large airborne units in the densely populated areas of Western Europe, and the damage that could be done by small detachments, scattered by parachute on assigned intelligence or sabotage missions.

Reports out of Poland following the Nazi invasion particularly command one's attention because they represent the official equivalent of the peasants with pitchforks who hunted for parachutists the following May. Their tales of German intelligence agents and sabotage teams dropping behind Polish lines, "setting machines on fire, sowing confusion in the rear, sabotaging telephone and railway lines, and then disappearing into the civilian population," and their conclusions that here were sabotage operations unprecedented in military history, "unquestionably play[ing] a leading role in the German offensive," preview almost to a word the fifth-column stories that would circulate with abandon in the years to come.


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What matters here is less the truth than the reaction to these exceptional findings, especially those of a later, longer report dating from March It had been drawn up not by French observers or agents but by the Polish high command, who then communicated it to the French government. Admittedly, Polish armed forces officers had been in a position to know about German subversion, yet they also had reasons to fob off their very real military collapse, and this.

As combat in the west drew near, the French were primed for a war of espionage and sabotage as well as a war of the continual front. So the secret agent was a constant if troubling companion to the French between the two wars. That case, whether one looks at political imagery or thoughts about war, can be made with little difficulty. Still, one needs to probe deeper to discover just what this represented historically. Consider, for example, two episodes, one from the s, the other from the late nineteenth century. The informant suggested these could be Nazi agents, paid by Hitler to spy on the French or to foment revolution.

The inevitable investigation followed, with the inevitable conclusion. The Germans were wealthy men with families or businesses in Germany. One is reminded of the Schreiber matter from the late s. Hermann Conrad Schreiber was a German national who had lived most of his life in France. In officials in the Ministry of Interior were trying to expel him. Their case against Schreiber was based upon accusations they had received from his neighbors. According to the townspeople of Villeneuve-la-Guyard, Schreiber had had too much good fortune recently to have come by it honestly.

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Almost inexplicably, and despite his natural sloth, he had built a prosperous trade in jewelry. His personal expenses were so exaggerated, his shop's range of wares so beyond the needs of his clients, that one could conclude only that the business was a pretext for Schreiber's residence in town.

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Moreover, Schreiber had acquired a horse and carriage and traveled on what he called commercial trips but what were obviously voyages of a more suspicious nature. He even went to Paris. Then he discontinued his trips, preferring to receive commercial travelers at home. The townspeople were certain these men were spies. The more the citizens of Villeneuve-la-Guyard thought about Schreiber, the more they dredged up suspicious memories of the man and his family. It was said that he had welcomed the German invasion of and had interpreted for the enemy.

He had raised his son to hate France and the boy had once declared in public that when the. It was a known fact that Schreiber's brothers and sisters lived across the border, and that one of the brothers was a German officer. The townspeople took their tale to the authorities who placed Schreiber on the "list of suspects B" and considered him a threat in the event of mobilization.

Now they were seeking to deport him, but the Ministry of Foreign Affairs was obstructing their efforts. The Interior Ministry wanted to know why. The Quai d'Orsay's response was scorching. The Ministry of Interior had no certain proof against Schreiber, only presumptions. Thus far this had not been done.

The charges against Schreiber rested on the fact that he had bought a horse and carriage and traveled without telling his neighbors where he was going and on the remarks of a child who had probably been sorely treated by the other children in town. Schreiber's neighbors said he had spied for the Germans in , but nineteen years earlier, when spies were seen everywhere, they had left him alone and had spread no such rumors. Schreiber had lived in France for forty years.

If he was going to be expelled, then one should have against him "not suspicions, but certitudes. The problem for the historian of the interwar years is that these kinds of resemblances turn up with an almost rhythmic frequency.

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There is a set of dossiers in the BB18 series in the archives of the Ministry of Justice reviewing the cases of individuals accused of espionage for foreign powers. Most are mundane affairs—individuals caught outside fortresses or near military installations. From the point of spy literature they do not make for particularly interesting reading, except for the fact that in bulk and detail the pre-World War I dossiers do not appear substantially different from those of the twenties or thirties.

Elsewhere certain motifs are repeated as if spy stories could not exist without them. Take for example the figure of the spy in priest's clothing. Rumors of parachuting priests and nuns in hobnailed boots were a familiar feature of fifth-column rumors sweeping over France in Even the authorities were on the lookout for secret agents disguised as priests. Throughout the heated days of April and May the Vatican took the precaution of notifying the French Foreign Office of the travels of.

German priests, so likely was it that any German passengers, including German missionaries, would be hauled off ships and interned as suspects. The Quai d'Orsay hastened to oblige the Holy See, but it was no less quick to request that names and destinations be submitted at least eight days before departure to run the necessary checks on the individuals in question. Some diplomats thought even this was too obliging. The minister plenipotentiary to Ecuador, Jean Dobler, worried himself into a dither over the pending arrival of the Reverend Father Fisher because Fisher was a secular ecclesiastic and no French missionary to the country was secular clergy.

Fisher, moreover, had requested this assignment and had been supported by the directors of Pio Latino College in Rome "who," Dobler added "are German Jesuits. But he did urge an immediate investigation of the man. One wonders, however, how far back the spy-priest image can be traced, especially in anticlerical France. It certainly did not originate in Paul and Suzanne Lanoir, precursors of interwar spy "experts," argued during the First World War that German agents were infiltrating French lines in clerical garb.

Colonel Walter Nicolai, who ran German intelligence during the First World War, described how his men had discovered a French officer dressed as a priest. Undoubtedly real-life clergy who served in Allied intelligence networks in occupied territory during the war conferred upon the image a certain verisimilitude. Yet even before the war Captain Raoult Rudeval had included priests' robes in his discussion of secret agent disguises.

One could be tempted to argue that fifth-column imagery was possible only after the experience of the twenties and thirties; yet this will not hold either. British invasion literature from the turn of the century, equally replete with visions of mass infiltration by spies and saboteurs, has been well documented. Germany had a comparable fright before the war and so did France, as we shall. Lights at night, wash hung out to dry, accents, any unusual behavior were cause for suspicion.

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The same stupidities of pervaded the earlier war. The Lanoirs, whose own con-. Their prey, so it turned out, were a policeman on a counterespionage mission and a representative of an Allied embassy, meeting in an upper-story room and failing to turn out their light immediately after the warning had sounded. Only the intervention of the concierge saved their lives. Every evening, near ten o'clock, the man takes to the nearby bushes and woods, returning to his house a half-hour later.

The amateur detectives of the village begin to suspect a spy in their midst. After all they are only six kilometers from the front and most evenings the old man disappears just when enemy planes pass overhead. They try to follow him, but never successfully, so they go to the authorities. The next night counterespionage agents are hidden along the old man's path. The woods are guarded:. Ten o'clock at night.

The dry rasping sound of leaves, then a human form stops near a thicket. An agent is nearby, well placed to see and hear what happens. After some fumbling about the belt, the man squats.

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One can guess what wafts the lookout's way. Without hurrying, the "suspect" straightens up, tidies up, and goes home. The performance is repeated over several consecutive nights. At mathematically the same hour, the old newsvendor returns to the woods to satisfy a natural need, without worrying about the planes and their bombs. Like spy-crazy letters and tips or alarms of spies in priest's clothing, the fifth-column scare often repeated what the French had experienced once before.

Not even the theme of espionage, war, and remembrance was without antecedents; indeed espionage literature before World War I was largely a variation on thinking about defeat a quarter century earlier. It will not do, then, to write about interwar espionage in isolation. One must turn back, first to the years before the war, then to the war experience itself, to consider what changed with the war and what did not, and how the milieu and literature of espionage between the two wars shared the distinctive features of their times.

Spies have probably existed at all times in all places. A recent book on espionage called it the second oldest profession, although many have wondered how it differs from the first. Spies appear in the Bible, and. Homer has told us of the Trojan horse. Walsingham, Mendoza, and Parma had their networks of informants. Richelieu used spies, as did Frederick the Great. Both the revolutionary governments and particularly Napoleon had their improvised contingents of agents. Later in the century, as the French reflected on their failures—the very lack of an intelligence system in the Franco-Prussian War—they liked to recall these earlier successes.

Throughout the nineteenth century the spy remained a dubious figure in France, but Napoleon's operative, Charles Schulmeister, was clearly an exception. Institutionalization of intelligence gathering and prolonged thinking about spies are, however, relatively new and have their roots in remembrance of and preparation for modern warfare. For the French as for the Germans that war came in , as did the impression that followed, and lasted, that mass armies fought modern wars, but perhaps secret agents won them. For forty years after the Franco-Prussian War German phantoms would populate French literature on espionage while counterespionage sleuths would stalk covert agents who never existed.

Two generations would repeat the weedy legends that flowered out of the ashes of defeat, particularly those told of William Stieber, Bismarck's master spy, who had paved the way for German invasion and flooded eastern France with thirty thousand secret agents. As time wore on there would be new versions or reports of German conspiracies, including accusations against Jews as German spies that reached a crescendo during the debates over Dreyfus, although the image of the Jewish German agent had predated the affair and would continue after the anti-Semitism of the Dreyfus years abated.

All of this in reaction to a German spy threat that was perceived to have made the difference in the Franco-Prussian War and to have remained a presence in the years that followed. The reality, as might be supposed, was considerably different. The Prussian army possessed no intelligence service at the time of the Austro-Prussian War and only sought to create one following the poor intelligence it obtained during that campaign.

By the Franco-Prussian War some progress had been made. A report from November Moreover valuable information arrived, as it had in , from Baron yon Schluga, a renegade Austrian officer living in Paris. Von Schluga, Agent 17, was transmitting first-rate intelligence out of Paris as late as One serious historian of espionage calls him the greatest spy in German history.

But even by the Nachtrichtendienst was but a jerry-built organization, a far cry from the puffery of the Stieber legend. The best source we have on German espionage before —an official study undertaken by Generalmajor Fritz Gempp in —concludes that German intelligence in was a small, primitive, poorly prepared operation that occasionally got lucky.

Stieber, who later received much attention, was only a police official, responsible for the security of Bismarck and the king and for counterespionage in the field. There is no reason to believe he made a serious contribution to spying on the French, let alone to German victory. Well after German intelligence remained a less than formidable force. Little money and apparently even less status were accorded the service, so that IIIb, as German intelligence came to be known, grew only slowly and rather painfully. Both Gempp and Nicolai have argued that German intelligence in these years was markedly inferior to that of its rivals, especially French espionage and counterespionage which were larger, better coordinated, and repeatedly successful in the operations they mounted against the German empire and her agents.

Sources from the French side do not confirm this picture, and Christopher Andrew's recent study of the British Secret Service has revealed how amateurish and embryonic British intelligence was down to , despite the assumption of the rest of the world that the English were congenital spy masters. There appears to be a pattern, repeated on all sides and throughout contemporary history, of ascribing to the other side the prowess one would like to claim for one's own.

Most likely Gempp and Nicolai were right only in their assessment of their own organizations and that all intelligence services shared in the inadequacies that characterized IIIb in the late nineteenth century. Later documentation does suggest that as the war approached, a serious effort was made to increase the operational strength and efficiency of German intelligence. When then Major Nicolai assumed command of IIIb in he found, in Gempp's words, "a well organized and well led team corresponding to modern requirements. The number of agents abroad substantially increased in the last years before the war.

A chart drawn up in spring of indicates preparation for wartime intelligence stations in thirty cities, including New York, Buenos Aires, and Tokyo, as well as major posts in Geneva, Copenhagen, Antwerp, and Basel. The real test came that summer, when the government and high command depended on intelligence reports to determine how far preparations for war were proceeding in France and Russia.

In general, the information was good. Still, it did not work all that well. Once war was declared and borders scaled, IIIb virtually lost contact with its agents in France. Information dribbled in from other sources, but not enough to prevent serious deficiencies in what was known about French troop deployment following mobilization.

Similar breakdowns occurred elsewhere. Despite the dispatch or recruitment of agents in Istanbul, Sofia, and Romania, and the arrangement for money drops, after war was declared information from the Balkans was embarrassingly thin. There had also been plans for sabotage. Projections called for the destruction of bridges in the east along the Russian army's line of advance. As of August , IIIb was still looking for agents to take on this assignment. In the west there were plans to disrupt French rail traffic, and here agents had been found.

But there is no evidence that these missions were undertaken, let alone accomplished. Such was the German record as we know it. Still the French remained haunted by visions of spies in these years, and what is necessary is to trace how widespread their spy mania could be between defeat in and the First World War, and the forms it could take, before then considering what lay behind it. There is no better place to begin than with the myth of William Stieber because the stories that grew up about this less than extraordinary man effectively captured and contributed to the speculation about espionage.

He was, in the literature of the nineteenth century, the premier master spy, the architect of victory in , and then again in He was said to be a man of a thousand faces who traveled with a suitcase stuffed with wigs, a supply of false beards, a pocketbook full of cash, and carte blanche from Bismarck.

On his own he scouted out the land, listened to the people, and then dotted the countryside with his agents, most notably in eastern France, which he. He was shrewd, devious, and ruthless, and because of him German armies overwhelmed their enemies with ease. The story, as we know, was a grand fabrication, but it circulated through France—probably well before the publication of Stieber's memoirs in the early s—and remained a staple of beliefs throughout the prewar period because like fifth-column mythology some seventy years later it offered a convenient means of writing off a humiliating defeat.

Self-anointed spy authorities like the Lanoirs picked the story up and retailed it as God's truth, [29] but more striking is how the legend, or some variation upon it, crept into more serious literature. Perhaps the most respected treatise on intelligence in the late nineteenth century, a two-volume methodical study by General Jules-Louis Lewal on the tactics of intelligence gathering in time of war, noted that German officers had "flooded" into eastern France before , traveling as tourists or as legitimate citizens.

Two doctoral theses written by military men echoed this theme. One spun out the whole story—the extraordinary Mr. Stieber; thirty thousand spies—citing the Lanoirs as his source. With the passage of time the myth was embellished and reformulated, especially by the Lanoirs who insisted that tens of thousands of German agents remained in France, observing, charting, living as honest citizens, and ready for the sabotage of French rail lines at the outbreak of war.

If all of the Lanoir writings were put together, they would probably run the gamut of indispensable motifs in the repertoire of spydom: A very similar picture appeared in the press, most frequently in the eighties and nineties, but with an edgy consistency that continued down to the war.

The Petit Parisien in recalled the army of German spies that had swarmed over France in The Aurore the following year wrote of the incalculable number of German spies in Paris. The Petit Journal a decade later described a massive and methodical German penetration of Belgium not unlike what a future generation would describe.

Their specifics can be readily discounted, but what matters is their number, and the way the stories of the spy peddlers received a public hearing. It cannot be said that the French were less concerned with German espionage before the war than they were after There were also some spy novels from these years, although not very many and even more forgettable than those written later.

Only one author—Captain Danrit—can be called in any way interesting. Shortly before the war, Danrit wrote a book which he called The Alert. It is about the mission of the French engineer, Patti Vigy, and his team of three saboteurs to blow up a railroad bridge in German-held Lorraine immediately upon the outbreak of war. Vigy is told that if he succeeds, he will stall the advance of two German army corps by at least several days and that German morale will suffer a stunning blow. The novel begins with German invasion imminent. For the mission to work, the team must proceed to the bridge immediately and await a prearranged signal that war has begun.

Le visage de sa fille. Et une immense douleur. Au plus profond de son bide.


Ce jeune Noir a commis des crimes violents, qu'il ne nie Au pays des barbares Plon, coll. Non par conviction, mais parce qu'il n' Les Mabille-Pons forment une famille nombreuse. Les doigts rouges Actes Noirs — Japonais. Au commissariat, la police suit deux principaux axes: Billie Dixon est une jeune femme brune venue du Texas. Le mauvais chemin Actes Noirs — Espagnol. Les ombres de Montelupo Agulo — Italien. S'y promener en cueillant. En Californie, non loin de San Francisco.

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