Robert Harris - An Officer and a Spy

The bordereau , in facsimile, is a column of thirty narrow lines of handwriting — undated, unaddressed, unsigned:

I am forwarding to you, sir, several interesting items of information. .

A note on the hydraulic brake of the 120 and how that part performed

A note on covering troops (several modifications will be introduced by the new plan)

A note on the change to artillery formations

A note concerning Madagascar

The draft Field Artillery Firing Manual (14 March 1894)

The last paragraph explains that the Ministry of War will not permit individual officers to keep possession of the Field Artillery Firing Manual for very long, therefore if you would like to take from it what interests you and afterwards leave it at my disposal, I will collect it. Otherwise I can copy it verbatim and send you the copy. I am off to manoeuvres.

The leading handwriting expert in Paris swore that this was written by Dreyfus. I carry the photograph over to my desk and place it between the two letters from Esterhazy. I stoop for a closer look.

The writing is identical.

For several minutes I sit motionless, holding the photograph. I might be made of marble, a sculpture by Rodin: The Reader . What really freezes me, even more than the matching handwriting, is the content — the obsession with artillery, the offer to have a manual copied out verbatim, the obsequious salesman’s tone — it is Esterhazy to the life. Briefly, just as I did when the petit bleu came in, I consider marching over to the minister’s office and laying the evidence in front of him. But again I know that would be folly. My four golden principles are more important now than ever: take it one step at a time; approach the matter dispassionately; avoid a rush to judgement; confide in nobody until there is hard evidence.

I pick up the two letters, straighten my tunic and walk along the corridor to Lauth’s office. For a moment I hesitate outside his door, then I knock and go straight in.

The captain of dragoons is leaning back in his chair, long legs outstretched, eyes closed. There is something quite angelic about that blond head in repose. No doubt he is a success with women, although he has a young wife, I believe; I wonder if he has affairs. I am on the point of leaving when suddenly he opens his blue eyes and sees me. And in that unguarded instant something flickers in them that is beyond surprise: it is alarm.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I didn’t mean to disturb you. I’ll come back when you’re ready.’

‘No, no.’ Embarrassed, Lauth scrambles to his feet. ‘Pardon me, Colonel, it’s just so infernally hot, and I’ve been indoors all day. .’

‘Don’t worry, my dear Lauth, I know precisely how you feel. This really is no life for a soldier, to be trapped in an office day after day. Sit, please. I insist. Do you mind if I join you?’ And without waiting for a reply I pull up a chair on the other side of his desk. ‘I wonder: could you do something for me?’ I push the two letters towards him. ‘I’d like to have these both photographed, but with the signature and the name of the addressee blocked out.’

Lauth examines the letters then glances at me in shock. ‘Esterhazy!’

‘Yes, it seems our minor spy has ambitions to become a major one. But thank goodness,’ I can’t resist adding, ‘we had our eye on him, otherwise who knows what damage he might have done.’

‘Indeed.’ Lauth gives a reluctant nod and shifts in his seat uncomfortably. ‘Might I ask, Colonel, why you need photographs of the letters?’

‘Just photograph them, if you don’t mind, Captain.’ I stand and smile at him. ‘Shall we say four prints of each by first thing tomorrow? And just for once let’s try to keep this strictly between ourselves.’

Upstairs, Gribelin has only recently returned from his annual leave — not that you would think it to look at him. His face is pallid; his eyes, beneath a green celluloid eyeshade, carry dark pouches of exhaustion. His only concession to the summer heat is shirtsleeves rolled back to his bony elbows, exposing arms as thin and white as tubers. He is bent over a file as I enter, and quickly closes it. He takes off his eyeshade.

‘I didn’t hear you coming up the stairs, Colonel.’

I hand him the photograph of the bordereau . ‘I think you should be in charge of this.’

He blinks at it in surprise. ‘Where did you find it?’

‘Colonel Sandherr had it in his safe.’

‘Ah yes, well, he was very proud of it.’ Gribelin holds the photograph at arm’s length to admire it. His tongue moistens his top lip as if he’s studying a pornographic print. ‘He told me he would have had it framed, and hung it on his wall, if regulations had allowed.’

‘A hunting trophy?’

‘Exactly.’

Gribelin unlocks the bottom left-hand drawer of his desk and fishes out his immense bunch of keys. He carries the bordereau across to a heavy old fireproof filing cabinet, which he opens. I look around. I hardly ever venture up here. Two large tables are pushed together in the centre of the room. Laid out across the scuffed brown leather surfaces are half a dozen stacks of files, a blotting pad, a strong electric lamp, a rack of rubber stamps, a brass inkstand, a hole-puncher and a row of pens — all precisely aligned. Around the walls are the locked cabinets and safes that contain the section’s secrets. There is a map of France, showing the départements . The three windows are narrow, barred and dusty, their sills encrusted with the excrement of the pigeons I can hear cooing on the roof.

‘I wonder,’ I say casually, ‘do you keep the original bordereau up here?’

Gribelin does not turn round. ‘I do.’

‘I’d like to see it.’

He glances over his shoulder at me. ‘Why?’

I shrug. ‘I’m interested.’

There is nothing he can do. He unlocks another drawer in the cabinet and retrieves one of his ubiquitous manila files. He opens it, and with some reverence retrieves from it the bordereau . It is not at all what I expected. It weighs almost nothing. The paper is flimsy onion-skin, semi-transparent, written on both sides, so that the ink from one bleeds through and shows on the other. The most substantial thing about it is the adhesive tape holding together the six torn pieces.

I say, ‘You’d never guess it looked like this from the photograph.’

‘No, it was quite a process.’ Gribelin’s normally astringent tone is softened by a touch of professional pride. ‘We had to photograph both sides and then retouch them, and then stick them together and finally re-photograph the whole image. So it came out looking like a continuous sheet of writing.’

‘How many prints did you make?’

‘Twelve. It was necessary to disguise its original state so that we could circulate it around the ministry.’

‘Yes, of course. I remember.’ I turn the bordereau back and forth, marvelling once again at Lauth’s skill. ‘I remember it very well.’

It was the first week of October 1894 when word began to spread that there might be a traitor in the Ministry. All four chiefs of department were required to check the handwriting of every officer in their section, to see if anyone’s matched the photograph. They were sworn to secrecy, allowed only to tell their deputies. Colonel Boucher devolved the job to me.

Despite the restricted circle, it was inevitable that news would leak, and soon a miasma of unease infiltrated the rue Saint-Dominique. The problem lay in that five-point list of the documents betrayed, which set us all chasing our own tails. A ‘note on the hydraulic brake of the 120’ and the ‘draft Field Artillery Firing Manual’ suggested the spy must be in the artillery. But the ‘new plan’ mentioned in point two was the very phrase we used in the Third Department for the revised mobilisation schedule. Of course, the ‘new plan’ was also being studied by the railway timetable experts in the Fourth, so the spy could work there perhaps. But then the ‘note on the change to artillery formations’ was most likely to have come from the First. Whereas the plan to occupy Madagascar had been worked on by the intelligence officers in the Second. .