Robert Harris: An Officer and a Spy

‘No, Minister.’ Boisdeffre also rises to shake my hand. ‘Thank you, Picquart. Most illuminating. One might almost have been there oneself. How are your Russian studies, by the way?’

‘I doubt I’ll ever be able to speak the language, General, but I can read Tolstoy now — with a dictionary, of course.’

‘Excellent. There are great things happening between France and Russia. A good knowledge of Russian will be very useful to a rising officer.’

I am at the door and about to open it, feeling suitably warmed by all this flattery, when Mercier suddenly asks: ‘Tell me, was my name mentioned at all?’

‘I’m sorry?’ I’m not sure what he means. ‘Mentioned in what sense?’

‘During the ceremony this morning.’

‘I don’t think so. .’

‘It doesn’t matter at all.’ Mercier makes a dismissive gesture. ‘I just wondered if there was any kind of demonstration in the crowd. .’

‘No, none that I saw.’

‘Good. I didn’t expect there would be.’

I close the door softly behind me.

Stepping back out into the windy canyon of the rue Saint-Dominique, I clutch my cap to my head and walk the one hundred metres to the War Ministry next door. There is nobody about. Clearly my brother officers have better things to do on a Saturday than attend to the bureaucracy of the French army. Sensible fellows! I shall write up my official report, clear my desk, and try to put Dreyfus out of my mind. I trot up the stairs and along the corridor to my office.

Since Napoleon’s time, the War Ministry has been divided into four departments. The First deals with administration; the Second, intelligence; the Third, operations and training; and the Fourth, transport. I work in the Third, under the command of Colonel Boucher, who — also being a sensible fellow — is nowhere to be seen this winter’s morning. As his deputy, I have a small office to myself, a monk’s bare cell, with a window looking out on to a dreary courtyard. Two chairs, a desk and a filing cabinet are the extent of my furniture. The heating is not working. The air is so cold I can see my breath. I sit, still wearing my overcoat, and contemplate the drift of paperwork that has accumulated over the past few days. With a groan, I reach for one of the dossiers.

It must be a couple of hours later, early in the afternoon, when I hear heavy footsteps approaching along the deserted corridor. Whoever it is walks past my office, stops, and then comes back and stands outside my door. The wood is thin enough for me to hear their heavy breathing. I stand, cross quietly to the door, listen, and then fling it open to discover the Chief of the Second Department — that is, the head of all military intelligence — staring me in the face. I am not sure which of us is the more flustered.

‘General Gonse,’ I say, saluting. ‘I had no idea it was you.’

Gonse is famous for his fourteen-hour days. I might have guessed that if anyone else was likely to be in the building, it would be him. His enemies say it is the only way he can keep on top of his job.

‘That’s quite all right, Major Picquart. This place is a warren. May I?’ He waddles into my office on his short legs, puffing on a cigarette. ‘Sorry to interrupt you, but I just had a message from Colonel Guérin at the place Vendôme. He says that Dreyfus confessed at the parade this morning. Did you know that?’

I gape at him like a fool. ‘No, General, I did not.’

‘Apparently, in the half-hour before the ceremony this morning, he told the captain who was guarding him that he did pass documents to the Germans.’ Gonse shrugs. ‘I thought you ought to know, as you were supposed to be keeping an eye on it all for the minister.’

‘But I’ve already given him my report. .’ I am aghast. This is the sort of incompetence that can wreck a man’s career. Ever since October, despite the overwhelming evidence against him, Dreyfus has refused to admit his guilt. And now I’m being told that finally he has confessed, practically under my nose, and I missed it! ‘I had better go and get to the bottom of this.’

‘I suggest you do. And when you have, come back and report to me.’

Once again I hurry out into the chilly grey half-light. I take a cab from the rank on the corner of the boulevard Saint-Germain, and when we reach the École Militaire I ask the driver to wait while I run inside. The silence of the vast empty parade ground mocks me. The only sign of life is the workmen clearing the litter from the place de Fontenoy. I return to the cab and ask to be driven as fast as possible to the headquarters of the military governor of Paris in the place Vendôme, where I wait in the lobby of that gloomy and dilapidated building for Colonel Guérin. He takes his time, and when he does appear he has the air of a man who has been interrupted in the middle of a good lunch to which he is anxious to return.

‘I’ve already explained all this to General Gonse.’

‘I’m sorry, Colonel. Would you mind explaining it to me?’

He sighs. ‘Captain Lebrun-Renault was detailed to keep an eye on Dreyfus in the guardroom until the ceremony started. He handed him over to the escort, and just as the degradation started he came over to where a group of us were standing and said something like “Well I’ll be damned, the scum just admitted everything.”’

I take out my notebook. ‘What did the captain say Dreyfus had told him?’

‘I don’t recall his actual words. The essence of it was that he’d handed over secrets to the Germans, but they weren’t very important, that the minister knew all about them, and that in a few years’ time the whole story would come out. Something like that. You need to talk to Lebrun-Renault.’

‘I do. Where can I find him?’

‘I’ve no idea. He’s off duty.’

‘Is he still in Paris?’

‘My dear Major, how would I know that?’

‘I don’t quite understand,’ I say. ‘Why would Dreyfus suddenly admit his guilt to a total stranger, at such a moment and with nothing to gain by it, after denying everything for three months?’

‘I can’t help you there.’ The colonel looks over his shoulder in the direction of his lunch.

‘And if he’d just confessed to Captain Lebrun-Renault, why did he then go out and repeatedly shout his innocence into a hostile crowd of tens of thousands?’

The colonel squares his shoulders. ‘Are you calling one of my officers a liar?’

‘Thank you, Colonel.’ I put away my notebook.

When I get back to the ministry, I go straight to Gonse’s office. He is labouring over a stack of files. He swings his boots up on to the desk and tilts back in his chair as he listens to my report. He says, ‘So you don’t think there’s anything in it?’

‘No, I do not. Not now I’ve heard the details. It’s much more likely this dim captain of the Guard got the wrong end of the stick. Either that or he embellished a tale to make himself look important to his comrades. Of course I am assuming,’ I add, ‘that Dreyfus wasn’t a double agent planted on the Germans.’

Gonse laughs and lights another cigarette. ‘If only!’

‘What would you like me to do, General?’

‘I don’t see there’s anything much you can do.’

I hesitate. ‘There is one way of getting a definite answer, of course.’

‘What’s that?’

‘We could ask Dreyfus.’

Gonse shakes his head. ‘Absolutely not. He’s now beyond communication. Besides, he’ll soon be shipped out of Paris.’ He lifts his feet from the desk and sets them on the floor. He pulls the stack of files towards him. Cigarette ash spills down the front of his tunic. ‘Just leave it with me. I’ll go and explain everything to the Chief of Staff and the minister.’ He opens a dossier and starts to scan it. He doesn’t look up. ‘Thank you, Major Picquart. You are dismissed.’