Robert Harris - An Officer and a Spy

‘He’s an emblem of their shame. But what can they do?’

‘I’m not sure. But they’ll do something, we may count on that.’ Boisdeffre stares over the traffic in the rue Rabelais and falls silent for a few moments. His profile in the odiferous sunlight is immensely distinguished, carved in flesh by centuries of breeding. I am reminded of the effigy of a long-suffering Norman knight, kneeling in some Bayeux chapel. He says thoughtfully, ‘What Dreyfus said to that young captain, about not having a motive for treason — I think we ought to be ready with an answer to that. I’d like you to keep the case active. Investigate the family — “feed the file”, as your predecessor used to say. See if you can find a little more evidence about motives that we can hold in reserve in case we need it.’

‘Yes, of course, General.’ I add it to the list in my notebook, just beneath ‘Russian anarchists’: ‘Dreyfus: motive?’

The rillettes de canard arrive and the conversation moves on to the current German naval review at Kiel.

That afternoon I extract the agents’ letters from the safe in my new office, stuff them into my briefcase and set off to visit Colonel Sandherr. His address, given to me by Gribelin, is only a ten-minute walk away, across the river in the rue Léonce Reynaud. His wife answers the door. When I tell her I’m her husband’s successor, she draws back her head like a snake about to strike: ‘You have his position, monsieur, what more do you want from him?’

‘If it’s inconvenient, madame, I can come back another time.’

‘Oh, can you? How kind! But why would it be convenient for him to see you at any time?’

‘It’s all right, my dear.’ From somewhere behind her comes Sandherr’s weary voice. ‘Picquart is an Alsace man. Let him in.’

‘You,’ she mutters bitterly, still staring at me although she is addressing her husband, ‘you’re too good to these people!’ Nevertheless, she stands aside to let me pass.

Sandherr calls out, ‘I’m in the bedroom, Picquart, come through,’ and I follow the direction of his voice into a heavily shaded room that smells of disinfectant. He is propped up in bed in a nightshirt. He switches on a lamp. As he turns his unshaven face towards me, I see it is covered in sores, some still raw and weeping, others pitted and dry. I had heard there had been a sharp deterioration in his condition; I had no idea it was as bad as this. He warns: ‘I’d stay there if I were you.’

‘Excuse me for this intrusion, Colonel,’ I say, trying not to allow my distaste to show, ‘but I rather need your help.’ I hoist the briefcase to show him.

‘I thought you might.’ He points a wavering finger at my case. ‘It’s all in there, is it? Let me see.’

I take out the letters and approach the bed. ‘I assume they’re from agents.’ I place them on his blanket, just within his reach, and step back. ‘But I don’t know who they are, or who to trust.’

‘My watchword is: don’t trust anyone, then you won’t be disappointed.’ He turns to stretch for his spectacles on the nightstand and I see how the sores that swirl under the stubble of his jaw and throat run in a livid track across the side of his neck. He puts on the glasses and squints at one of the letters. ‘Sit down. Pull up that chair. Do you have a pencil? You will need to write this down.’

For the next two hours, with barely a pause for breath, Sandherr takes me on a guided tour through his secret world: this man works in a laundry supplying the German garrison in Metz; that man has a position in the railway company on the eastern frontier; she is the mistress of a German officer in Mulhouse; he is a petty criminal in Lorraine who will burgle houses to order; he is a drunk; he is a homosexual; she is a patriot who keeps house for the military governor and who lost her nephew in ’70; trust this one and that one; take no notice of him or her; he needs three hundred francs immediately; he should be dispensed with altogether. . I take it down at dictation speed until we have worked through all the letters. He gives me a list of other agents and their code names from memory, and tells me to ask Gribelin for their addresses. He starts to tire.

‘Would you like me to leave?’ I ask.

‘In a minute.’ He gestures feebly. ‘In the chiffonier over there are a couple of things you ought to have.’ He watches as I kneel to open it. I take out a metal cash box, very heavy, and also a large envelope. ‘Open them,’ he says. The cash box is unlocked. Inside is a small fortune in gold coins and banknotes: mostly French francs, but also German marks and English pounds. He says, ‘There should be about forty-eight thousand francs’ worth. When you run short, speak to Boisdeffre. Monsieur Paléologue of the Foreign Ministry is also under instructions to contribute. Use it for agents, special payments. Be sure to keep plenty by you. Put the box in your bag.’

I do as he tells me, and then I open the envelope. It contains about a hundred sheets of paper: lists of names and addresses, neatly handwritten, arranged by département .

Sandherr says, ‘It needs to be kept updated.’

‘What is it?’

‘My life’s work.’ He emits a dry laugh, which degenerates into a cough.

I turn the pages. There must be two or three thousand people listed. ‘Who are they all?’

‘Suspected traitors, to be arrested immediately in the event of war. The regional police are only allowed to know the names in their respective areas. There is one other master copy apart from that one, which the minister keeps. There’s also a longer list that Gribelin has.’

‘Longer?’

‘It contains one hundred thousand names.’

‘What a list!’ I exclaim. ‘It must be as thick as a bible! Who are they?’

‘Aliens, to be interned if hostilities break out. And that doesn’t include the Jews.’

‘You think if there’s a war the Jews should be interned?’

‘At the very least they should be obliged to register, and placed under curfew and travel restrictions.’ Shakily, Sandherr removes his spectacles and places them on the nightstand. He lies back on the pillow and closes his eyes. ‘My wife is very loyal to me, as you saw — more loyal than most wives would be in these circumstances. She thinks it’s a disgrace I’ve been placed on the retired list. But I tell her I’m happy to fade into the background. When I look around Paris and see the number of foreigners everywhere, and consider the degeneracy of every moral and artistic standard, I realise I no longer know my own city. This is why we lost in ’70 — the nation is no longer pure.’

I begin gathering up the letters and packing them into my briefcase. This sort of talk always bores me: old men complaining that the world is going to the dogs. It’s so banal. I am anxious to get away from this oppressive presence. But there is one other thing I need to ask. ‘You mention the Jews,’ I say. ‘General Boisdeffre is worried about a potential revival of interest in the Dreyfus case.’

‘General Boisdeffre,’ says Sandherr, as if stating a scientific fact, ‘is an old woman.’

‘He’s concerned at the lack of an obvious motive. .’

‘Motive?’ mutters Sandherr. His head starts shaking on the pillow, whether in disbelief or from the effects of his condition I cannot tell. ‘What is he prattling on about? Motive? Dreyfus is a Jew, more German than French! Most of his family live in Germany! All his income was derived from Germany. How much more motive does the general require?’

‘Nevertheless, he’d like me to “feed the file”. Those were his words.’

‘The Dreyfus file is fat enough. Seven judges saw it and unanimously declared him guilty. Talk to Henry about it if you have any trouble.’