An Officer and a Spy

by Robert Harris

  ‘It is somewhat daunting. May I ask where the order came from?’

  ‘Yes, I dare say you can – it was from General Billot himself.’ Leclerc sees my grim expression; it only increases his amusement. ‘I think perhaps you must have slept with his wife after all!’ And then when I still don’t smile, he becomes serious. ‘Look, don’t worry about it, my dear fellow. Obviously it’s a mistake. I’ve already sent him a telegram reminding him that this was the very spot where Morès was ambushed barely a year ago.’

  ‘And has he responded?’

  ‘Not yet, no.’

  ‘General, I don’t think this is a mistake.’ He looks at me and cocks his head, puzzled. I continue, ‘When I was in Paris, I had command of the secret intelligence section of the General Staff. In that capacity I made certain discoveries that revealed there was a traitor in the army, and that it was he who had committed the crimes for which Captain Dreyfus was condemned.’

  ‘Did you, by God?’

  ‘I brought this to the attention of my superiors, including General Billot, with a recommendation that we should arrest the real spy. They refused.’

  ‘Even though you had proof?’

  ‘It would have meant admitting that Dreyfus was innocent. And that would have exposed – well, let us say certain irregularities in the way his case was handled.’

  Leclerc holds up his finger to stop me. ‘Hold on. I’m a slow fellow – too many years in the sun. Let me be clear about this. Are you suggesting that the minister wants to send you on this hazardous mission because he hopes to get rid of you?’

  In reply I hand him La Dépêche tunisienne. Leclerc stares at the paper for a long time. Eventually he says, ‘You are the person who supplied Monsieur Scheurer-Kestner with his information, I take it?’

  I reply with the formula agreed with Louis. ‘I have not given him any facts myself, General.’

  ‘And presumably this was why you were so keen to go to Paris in the summer?’

  Again I seek refuge in evasion. ‘I am profoundly sorry if I’ve caused you embarrassment. I was being threatened with disciplinary action if I dared to protest at my treatment. I felt I had to go back to Paris to talk to my lawyer.’

  ‘This is completely unacceptable behaviour, Colonel.’

  ‘I understand, General, and I apologise. I didn’t know what else I could do.’

  ‘No, not your behaviour – Billot’s behaviour is unacceptable. And these people have the nerve to feel superior to the Africans!’ He gives me back my newspaper. ‘Unfortunately I can’t countermand a direct order from the head of the army, but I can obstruct it. Go back to Sousse and pretend to get yourself ready to go south. In the meantime I’ll see what I can do. In any case, if what you say about Billot is true, he may not be minister for very much longer.’

  The next day, a Sunday, the orderly who runs the Sousse Military Club brings in the newspapers soon after eleven. The rest of the garrison is at church. I have the place to myself. I order a cognac, pick up one of the club’s two copies of La Dépêche tunisienne and retreat with it to my customary window seat.

  DREYFUS CASE. Paris, 8h 35m. Newspapers maintain their belief that M. Scheurer-Kestner was hoodwinked by the family of the former captain Dreyfus, but they are now calling for a prompt and full investigation. An editor of Figaro interviewed M. Scheurer-Kestner, who repeated his conviction that Dreyfus is innocent. But he said he would not reveal anything until he had laid the case before the competent ministers. Le Figaro says M. Scheurer-Kestner will see the President and the Ministers of War and Justice.

  It’s a nightmare to sit here idly not knowing what is going on. I resolve to send a telegram to Louis. I finish my cognac and walk as far as the new post office building beside the harbour. Then my nerve fails me and I linger for ten minutes smoking a cigarette in the Bar de la Poste, watching a dozen of my fellow expatriates play boules in the dusty square. The truth is that any message I send or receive is certain to be intercepted, just as any code I might invent would not fool the experts for more than a few minutes.

  On Tuesday, the actual Paris newspapers that were published the previous Friday finally arrive in Sousse. They carry the first stories of Scheurer-Kestner’s intervention in the Dreyfus affair. Le Figaro, Le Matin, La Libre Parole, Le Petit Parisien and the rest are passed around the club and provoke outrage among my fellow officers. From my window seat I hear them talking. ‘Do you think this fellow Scheurer-Kestner is also a Jew?’ ‘Well, with a name like that, if he’s not a Jew he must be a German . . .’ ‘It’s a contemptible slur on the army – let’s hope someone seeks satisfaction . . .’ ‘Yes, say what you like about Morès but he would have known how to deal with the scoundrel . . .’ ‘What do you think of it all, Colonel, if you don’t mind us asking?’

  I am so unused to being addressed in the club, it takes me a moment to realise they are talking to me. I put down my novel and turn round in my chair. Half a dozen tanned and moustached faces are looking at me. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘What do I think about . . .?’

  ‘This canard that Dreyfus might have been innocent?’

  ‘Oh, that? That’s a bad business, don’t you think? A very bad business.’ This gnomic utterance seems to satisfy them and I return to my book.

  Wednesday is quiet. Then on Thursday La Dépêche reports new developments:

  DREYFUS CASE. Paris, 8h 25m. The Dreyfus affair appears to be entering a decisive phase. M. Scheurer-Kestner attended the Ministry of War yesterday to convey to General Billot the information concerning Captain Dreyfus which he had in his possession. The meeting was long and kept very secret . . . 9h 10m. Le Figaro announces that M. Scheurer-Kestner saw the Prime Minister, M. Méline, yesterday on the subject of the Dreyfus affair.

  I lie awake that night with my door locked and my revolver under my pillow, listening to the pre-dawn call to prayer from the nearby minaret. I entertain myself by picturing the crisis meetings in Billot’s office: the minister raging, Gonse nervously spilling cigarette ash down his tunic, Boisdeffre frozen, Henry drunk; I think of Gribelin scuttling back and forth between his files in an effort to fish up new scraps of evidence against Dreyfus, and Lauth steaming open my letters and trying to decipher the hidden code by which I am somehow controlling events. I exult in this imagined confounding of my enemies.

  And then my enemies begin returning fire.

  The opening shot is a telegram. Jemel brings it to my office first thing. It was dispatched from the Bourse post office in Paris the previous day: We have proof that the bleu was forged by Georges. Blanche.

  Blanche?

  It is like a threat whispered by a stranger in a crowd who has melted away before one has time to look round. I am conscious of Jemel studying my reaction. The thing is meaningless and yet sinister, especially the use of Blanche’s name. ‘I can’t make sense of this,’ I tell him. ‘Perhaps it’s been garbled in transmission. Would you mind going back to the telegraph office and asking them to repeat it?’

  He returns later in the morning. ‘There is no doubt, Colonel,’ he says. ‘They checked in Paris: the text is accurate. Also, this has just arrived for you, redirected from Tunis.’ He gives me a letter. On the envelope, which is marked ‘urgent’, my name is misspelt ‘Piquart’. I vaguely recognise the handwriting. Here it comes: the second shot.

  ‘Thank you, Jemel.’

  I wait until he has gone before I open it.

  Colonel,

  I have received an anonymous letter informing me that you have organised an abominable plot to substitute me for Dreyfus. The letter alleges, among other things, that you have bribed junior officers to obtain samples of my handwriting; I know this to be true. It is also alleged that you took from the Ministry of War documents entrusted to you in good faith in order to compose a secret dossier which you have passed to friends of the traitor. This I also know to be true, as I have today been given a document from this file.

  Despite the evidence I still hesitate to believe that a senior
officer in the French army could be party to such a monstrous conspiracy against one of his comrades.

  It is unthinkable that you will not provide me with a frank and clear explanation.

  Esterhazy

  A letter of complaint from the traitor, in the same hand in which he wrote the bordereau – one almost has to admire the impudence of the fellow! And then the questions start to assail me. How does he know my name? Or that I am in Tunis? Or that I have obtained samples of his handwriting? Presumably from the author of this alleged ‘anonymous letter’. And who could be the author of such a letter? Henry? Is this where the logic of the General Staff’s position has led them – actually to helping the guilty man evade justice as the only means of keeping the innocent man imprisoned? I fetch out the telegram. We have proof that the bleu was forged by Georges. Blanche. What are they up to?

  The next day Jemel brings me another telegram, another menacing riddle: Stop the Demigod. Everything is discovered. Extremely serious matter. Speranza. This message was sent from the rue la Fayette post office in Paris, and actually on the same day as the Blanche telegram, but it has taken an extra twenty-four hours to reach me because, like Esterhazy’s letter, it was wrongly addressed to me in Tunis.

  I have never met anyone called Speranza – I know it only as the Italian word for ‘hope’ – but ‘the Demigod’ is Blanche’s nickname for our mutual friend and fellow Wagnerian Captain William Lallemand. And the only person connected to the Statistical Section who is likely to know that obscure fact from our circle is Blanche’s former lover, du Paty.

  Du Paty. Yes – of course – the moment the name comes into my mind it is obvious: du Paty has been drafted in to help devise this sinister production; his decayed Gothic style, part Dumas, part Fleurs du Mal, is inimitable. But whereas a year or two ago I would have laughed off any threat from so ludicrous a figure, now I know differently. Now I have seen what he is capable of. And that is when I realise I am being fitted for the same convict’s outfit as Dreyfus.

  The echo of the next detonation, on Wednesday 17 November, is sufficient to shake even the sleepy palms of the Sousse Military Club:

  DREYFUS’S BROTHER NAMES ‘THE REAL TRAITOR’. Paris, 2h. Here is the text of the letter which the brother of Dreyfus has sent to the Minister of War: ‘Monsieur le Minister, The only basis for the accusation against my brother is an unsigned, undated letter establishing that confidential documents were delivered to an agent of a foreign power. I have the honour to inform you that the author of that document is M. le comte Walsin Esterhazy, an infantry major suspended from active service since last spring for reasons of temporary ill health. The handwriting of Major Esterhazy is identical with that of this document. I cannot doubt, Minister, that once you know the perpetrator of the treason for which my brother has been convicted you will act swiftly to see that justice is done. With the deepest respect, Mathieu Dreyfus.’

  I read it after lunch and then retreat to the window, where I pretend to be immersed in my novel. Behind me the Dépêche is passed from hand to hand. ‘Well,’ says one officer, ‘there you go – that’s the Jews for you – they stick together and they don’t let up.’ Another says, ‘I must say, I feel sorry for this fellow Esterhazy.’ Then a third, the captain who lusted after Savignaud, chimes in: ‘You see here it says that Esterhazy has written to General Billot? “I have read in this morning’s papers the infamous accusation brought against me. I ask you to order an inquiry, and I am ready to reply to all the charges.”’ ‘Good for him,’ rejoins the first, ‘but what chance does he stand against all that Jewish gold?’ The captain: ‘That’s true enough – perhaps we should raise a subscription for poor old Esterhazy? Put me down for twenty francs.’

  The following day I go for a long ride along the coast to clear my head. Far out to sea, immense clouds are rolling north, trailing funeral draperies of rain. It is the start of the wettest season. I spur my mount and gallop towards the thousand-year-old watchtower of the Ribat in Monastir, a distance of perhaps fifteen kilometres. As I come closer, it stands out pale against the darkening sea. I consider riding into the little fishing port. But the sky is now as black as squid’s ink, and sure enough, as I turn for home the cloud overhead splits like a slashed sac and a drenching cold rain begins to fall.

  When I reach the base I go straight to my quarters to change. The door, which I had made sure to lock, is open and I enter to find Jemel standing guiltily in the middle of my sitting room. A few seconds earlier and I would have caught him mid search, but now I look around and can see nothing out of place.

  I say curtly, ‘Fetch me some water; I need a bath.’

  ‘Yes, Colonel.’

  By the time I reach the Military Club I am too late for lunch, and I can tell from the instant I enter that something momentous has happened. Conversations cease as I walk towards my normal place. Several of the older officers quickly finish their drinks and leave. Today’s Dépêche has been placed carefully, pointedly, on my armchair, folded to a story on the front page.

  ESTERHAZY ACCUSES COLONEL PICQUART. Paris, 10h 35m. In an interview in Le Matin, Esterhazy says: ‘Everything that has happened is the responsibility of Colonel Picquart. He is a friend of the Dreyfus family. He opened an investigation against me fifteen months ago when he was in the Ministry of War. He wanted to destroy me. M. Scheurer-Kestner has been given all his information by Picquart’s lawyer, Maître Leblois, who went to the colonel’s office and was shown secret files. The colonel’s behaviour was considered so appalling by his superiors he was sent in disgrace to Tunisia.’

  I have never before had my name printed in a newspaper. I picture all the people I know, my friends and family in France, coming upon it unawares. What will they think? I am supposed to be a spy, a man in the shadows. Now a searchlight has picked me out.

  And there is more:

  CHEZ MAÎTRE LEBLOIS. According to Le Matin: ‘At midnight, after our interview with Major Esterhazy, we go to the door of Maître Leblois, advocate of the court of appeal – 96, rue de l’Université – but the door is closed. We ring again. The door doesn’t open. But from the interior comes a voice: “Who’s there? What do you want?” We explain the reason for our visit: that Major Esterhazy has formally alleged that he, Maître Leblois, provided the dossier to M. Scheurer-Kestner based on documents furnished by Colonel Picquart. The voice becomes more menacing: “What can I tell you? I am bound by a professional vow of silence. I have nothing to say, absolutely nothing. But I recommend you do not name Colonel Picquart. Now, good night and don’t come back!”’

  By the time I finish reading and look round, the clubroom is empty.

  That evening I receive another telegram: I find it pushed under my door. But this one is quite unambiguous: Evacuate your quarters in Sousse immediately on assumption you will not be returning and report to me at General Headquarters. Signed Leclerc.

  In Tunis I am given a small room on the second floor of the main barracks. I lie on the bed and listen to the symphony of male institutional life – the shouts and sudden bursts of whistling, the clanging of doors and heavy footsteps. I think about Pauline. She has gone very quiet over the last few weeks. I wonder what she will have made of the references to me in the press – that I am in the pay of the Jews; that I was shipped off to Tunisia ‘in disgrace’. I write her a letter.

  Tunis

  20 November 1897

  Ma chérie,

  What with all my comings and goings between Sousse and here, I receive mail very irregularly. Perhaps there are other causes for this. Anyway, it’s boring and sad not to hear from you. Don’t be afraid to write to me even if it’s only two words. I’m fine, but I have to make sure your life is not compromised. Poor little girl – here I am for the first time with my life laid out in the papers! I have the disadvantage that I am attacked without having the right or the will to defend myself through the same medium. Finally all this will end. I shall write no more now, but I hold you in my heart with all my love.

&
nbsp; I set down my pen and read the letter through. It seems to me very stilted. But then how inhibiting it is to know that one’s love letters will by steamed open and read by men in offices, and copied and placed on file.

  PS I am very calm and will not be hurt. You see that grave circumstances cannot scare me. The only thing that concerns me is your emotion while reading this.

  I don’t sign it or write her name on the envelope, and I pay a soldier a franc to post it for me.

  Leclerc receives me in his office at the end of the day. His garden is in darkness. He looks weary. He has a stack of telegrams on one side of his desk and a pile of newspapers on the other. He invites me to sit. ‘I have a list of questions I have been instructed to ask you, Colonel, sent to me by the Minister of War. Such as: have you ever given any secret information to a person or persons outside the army?’

  ‘No, General.’

  He makes a note.

  ‘Have you ever forged or otherwise altered any confidential documents?’

  ‘No, General.’

  ‘Have you ever asked a subordinate, or subordinates, to forge or alter confidential documents?’

  ‘No, General.’

  ‘Have you ever allowed a woman access to secret documents?’

  ‘A woman?’

  ‘Yes. Apparently this Major Esterhazy has claimed he was passed secret information by an unknown woman wearing a veil.’

  A veiled lady! Another du Paty touch . . .

  ‘No, General, I have not shown documents to a woman, veiled or unveiled.’

  ‘Good. I shall telegraph Paris accordingly. In the meantime I am to inform you that the Minister of War has ordered an internal inquiry into this whole affair, under General de Pellieux, Military Commander of the Département of the Seine. You are instructed to return to France to give evidence. An official from the Colonial Ministry will escort you.’ He closes the file. ‘And that, I think, concludes our business together, Colonel.’