Alan Furst remembers exactly when he first looked on evil. In Russia, in 1983. A visiting journalist, he saw it reflected in the tired eyes of a middle-aged woman on a Moscow bus; in the frightened obedience of a man when a Soviet policeman shook his finger at the man; in a jab in the back when he offended a Yalta ferry purser. Says Furst, who talks with the same cinematic vigor that fills his six fine spy novels: "I thought, I'll pay him back when I get to the typewriter."
The evil that Furst, 60, writes about so passionately is...
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