Robert Harris - An Officer and a Spy

So we have reached the dark heart of the matter at last. Suddenly the room seems even quieter than before. He stares at me quite frankly. I take a moment before replying.

‘That is an abominable suggestion, General. You cannot expect me to carry this secret with me to my grave.’

‘Most certainly I can, and I do! Taking secrets to the grave is the essence of our profession.’

Another silence, and then I try again. ‘All I ask is that the whole case be thoroughly investigated-’

‘ All you ask!’ Gonse finally erupts. ‘ All! I like that! I don’t understand you, Picquart! So what are you saying? That the entire army — the entire nation come to that! — is supposed to revolve around your tender conscience? You have a pretty good conceit of yourself, I must say!’ His neck is fat and flushed bright pink, like some unspeakable pneumatic rubber tube. It bulges against the collar of his tunic. He is terrified, I realise. Abruptly his manner becomes businesslike. ‘Where is the secret file now?’

‘In my safe.’

‘And you haven’t discussed its contents with anyone else?’

‘Of course not.’

‘You have made no copies?’

‘No.’

‘And you are not the source of these leaks to the newspapers?’

‘If I were, I would hardly admit it, would I?’ I can no longer keep the contempt out of my voice. ‘But for what it’s worth, the answer is no.’

‘Don’t be insolent!’ Gonse stands. I follow suit. ‘This is an army, Colonel, not a society for debating ethics. The Minister of War gives orders to the Chief of Staff, the Chief of Staff gives orders to me, and I give orders to you. I now order you formally, and for the final time, not to investigate anything connected with the Dreyfus case, and not to disclose anything about it to anyone who isn’t authorised to receive such information. Heaven help you if you disobey. Understand?’

I cannot even bring myself to reply to him. I salute, turn on my heel, and walk out of the room.

When I get back to the office, Capiaux tells me Desvernine is in the waiting room with the forger, Lemercier-Picard. After my encounter with Gonse, interviewing such a creature is the last thing I feel like doing, but I don’t want to send him away.

The moment I enter, I recognise him as another of that little group, along with Guénée, who were playing cards and smoking pipes on my first morning. Moisés Lehmann suits him better as a name than Lemercier-Picard. He is small and Jewish-looking, plump with charm and confidence, smelling of eau de cologne and eager to impress me with his skill. He persuades me to write out three or four sentences in my own handwriting — ‘Go on, Colonel: what harm can it do, eh?’ — and then after a couple of practice attempts he produces a passable copy. ‘The trick is speed,’ he explains. ‘One must capture the essence of the line and inhabit its character and then write naturally. You have a very artistic hand, Colonel: very secretive, very introspective if I may say so.’

‘That’s enough, Moisés,’ says Desvernine, pretending to cuff his ear. ‘The colonel has no time for your nonsense. You can get out of here now. Wait for me in the lobby.’

The forger grins at me. ‘A pleasure to meet you, Colonel.’

‘It’s mutual. And I’d like my sheet of handwriting back, if you please.’

‘Oh yes,’ he says, pulling it out of his pocket. ‘I almost forgot.’

After he’s gone, Desvernine says, ‘I thought you ought to know that Esterhazy seems to have done a runner. He and his wife have moved out of the apartment in the rue de la Bienfaisance — and left in a hurry, by the look of it.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I’ve been inside. Don’t worry — I didn’t have to do anything illegal. It’s up for rent. I pretended I was looking for a place. They’ve taken away most of their furniture, just left a few bits of rubbish. He burned a lot of paper in the hearth. I found this.’

It is a visiting card, singed at the edges:

Édouard Drumont

Editor

La Libre Parole

I turn it back and forth. ‘So Esterhazy’s a contributor to that anti-Jewish rag?’

‘Apparently. Or perhaps he just gives them information — plenty in the army do. The thing is, Colonel — he’s gone to ground. He’s not in Paris. He’s not even in Rouen any more. He’s moved out to the Ardennes.’

‘Do you think he knows we’re on to him?’

‘I’m not sure. But I don’t like the smell of it. I think if we’re going to lay our trap we need to do it quickly.’

‘Have we done anything about those speaking-tubes yet?’

‘They came out yesterday.’

‘Good. And how soon before the flues can be bricked up again?’

‘We have a man going in tonight.’

‘All right. Leave it with me.’

Billot is my only hope now. Billot: the old lizard, the old survivor, the two times Minister of War — surely he will realise not just the immorality but the political insanity of the General Staff’s policy?

He is due to return from the manoeuvres in the south-west on Friday. That morning Le Figaro publishes on its front page the text of a petition sent by Lucie Dreyfus to the Chamber of Deputies, pointing out that the government hasn’t denied the stories about the secret file:

And so it must be true that a French officer has been convicted by a court martial on a charge produced by the prosecution without his knowledge, which therefore neither he nor his counsel was able to discuss.

It is the denial of all justice.

I have been the victim of the most cruel martyrdom for almost two years — like the man in whose innocence I have absolute faith. I have remained silent despite the odious and absurd slanders propagated amongst the public and the press.

Today it is my duty to break that silence, and without comment or recriminations I address myself to you, gentlemen, the only power to whom I can have recourse — and I demand justice.

In the narrow, gloomy passages and stairwells of the Statistical Section there is silence. My officers shut themselves away in their rooms. Hourly I expect to be summoned over the road by Gonse for an explanation of this latest bombshell, but the telephone never rings. From my office I keep half an eye on the back of the hôtel de Brienne. Finally, just after three o’clock, I glimpse uniformed orderlies with dispatch cases passing behind its tall windows. The minister must be back. The topography works in my favour: Gonse, sitting in the rue Saint-Dominique, will not yet know he has returned. I go down into the rue de l’Université, cross the street and take out my key to let myself into the minister’s garden.

And then something odd happens. My key does not fit. I try it three or four times, dully refusing to believe it won’t work. But the shape of the lock is entirely different to what it used to be. Eventually I give up and walk the long way round, via the place du Palais Bourbon, like any ordinary mortal.

‘Colonel Picquart to see the Minister of War. .’

The sentry lets me through the gate but the captain of the Republican Guard in the downstairs lobby asks me to wait. After a few minutes, Captain Calmon-Maison comes downstairs.

I hold up my key to show him. ‘It doesn’t work any more.’ I try to make a joke of it. ‘Like Adam, I appear to have been expelled from the garden for an excess of curiosity.’

Calmon-Maison’s face is deadpan. ‘I’m sorry, Colonel. We have to change the locks occasionally — security, you understand.’

‘You don’t have to explain, Captain. But I still need to brief the minister.’

‘Unfortunately, he’s only just returned from Châteauneuf. He has a lot to do, and he’s really rather exhausted. Could you possibly come back on Monday?’ At least he has the grace to look embarrassed as he says this.