Not everything improved when the Berlin Wall came down and the Evil Empire came apart. The spy novel, that colorful literary genre that reported the relentless struggle between Good and Evil, appeared to be doomed.

There was a time, in the first Golden Age of espionage fiction, when the enemy of freedom was Nazi Germany. The great Eric Ambler helped to create the modern spy story with his tales of somewhat ordinary Englishman who got caught up with Nazi secret agents and their plans to take over the world (more or less), usually starting with England.

After fascism was largely quashed as a worldwide threat, the new terror to democratic societies was quickly perceived to be the Soviet Union, and the second Golden Age was born. Notable authors of this period included Graham Greene and John le Carre – who, admittedly, often portrayed the enemies of Great Britain and the United States somewhat sympathetically – as well as John Gardner, Charles McCarry, and Len Deighton.

But after Ronald Reagan tore down the Iron Curtain (and please don’t try to say it was all a coincidence), there was only one world power left, and the authors of spy stories couldn’t quite figure out what to do.

Greene died. Deighton wrote about Central America and Los Angeles and saw his career screech to a halt. Gardner devoted his time to continuing the James Bond series (actually writing more books about that superhero than his creator, Ian Fleming). Mr. McCarry wrote political books. Mr. le Carre, after such literary high spots as “The Spy Who Came in from the Cold” and “Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy,” produced such wan epics as “The Night Manager” and “Single and Single.”

Today there is a new threat to peace and stability in the world, but the threat of terrorism is so dispersed, so damned ethereal, that one can’t really imagine espionage fiction gaining much traction in that netherworld. There’s no country, really, no political philosophy, no government, for a spy to infiltrate or oppose. Yes, there are thrillers, novels of action, and these will undoubtedly continue for some time to come, but it’s difficult to get too enthusiastic about a secret agent achieving something that essentially can be only defensive.

Preventing a terrorist action is vital in real life, but where is the literary satisfaction of equals engaged in a chess match? We stop them from blowing up the Empire State Building and … then what? Then we track down another bunch of 20-somethings in their smelly caves while they moronically dream of 72 virgins in heaven.

Happily, over time, the spy novel has been making a comeback, frequently by setting the story in the past. No one pulls this off better than Alan Furst. Since he discovered his metier, beginning with such instant classics as “Night Soldiers,” “Dark Star,” and “The Polish Officer,” he has reminded his fans of Ambler and of “Casablanca.” In his works World War II, exotic settings, constant danger, double-crosses, and intrigue mesh to produce a body of work seldom matched in this challenging (both for the writer and the reader) genre.

The most recent book, “Dark Voyage” (Random House, 256 pages, $24.95), is a little different from his previous World War II narratives. Its main protagonist is a ship, which is a little more difficult to identify with than some of the characters who populated his earlier works. While the captain of that ship, Eric DeHaan, is a modest Dutch officer who is intelligent and courageous, he is also sensitive enough to get himself in trouble. He may be heroic, but we never quite get inside his skin.

Other characters, too, come and go without particular distinction, and bit players slip from the memory as soon as their usefulness is ended. Wim Terhhouven, owner of the shipping line for which DeHaan works, crucially lets his captain know that his ship, merely a freighter, is about to play an important role in the war. But he makes no further appearances. A young woman we expect to be a pivotal figure, Juffrouw Wilhelm, disappears early; she then pops up briefly later, but mainly because she’s needed to move the plot along.

But – and I can’t stress this enough – it is impossible to stop turning the pages, and the last quarter of the book is white knuckles all the way. Reading about this humble, rusty old ship and its struggles and near-misses with Nazi adversaries is as compelling as looking through the model’s window across the courtyard when she forgets to pull down the shade.

And, oh, can Alan Furst write! Here he is with one of the residents of Tangier speaking of the difficulties of foreign interference: “Spanish armies French legions, German agents, British diplomats – since the turn of the century fighting us and each other. And then, at last, that special curse all its own, French bureaucrats, so in love with power they made rules for snake charmers.”

And the captain who, in an optimistic moment, tells the local, who hopes the British will help them (in Tangier) if they help Britain win the war: “Nobody can see the future, but promises are sometimes kept, even by governments.”

Well, I can’t see the future, either. But I promise you that, after you have read your first Furst novel, you’ll enjoy it and look for more.