An Officer And A Spy Part 11

"Perhaps. I'd like to check."

Boisdeffre seems surprised by my keenness to depart, even mildly offended: an invitation to join him on one of these leisurely tours of inspection to our finer gastronomic regions is regarded as a mark of favour. "As you wish," he says, dismissing me with a flourish of his napkin. "Keep me informed."

By early afternoon I am back in the Ministry of War, sitting in Foucault's office, listening to his report. Our military attache in Berlin is a competent, straightforward professional, hardened by years of dealing with liars and fantasists. His hair is iron-grey, thick, cut short; it fits him like a helmet. He says, "I was wondering when General Boisdeffre would get around to responding to my letter." Wearily he retrieves a file from his drawer and opens it. "You remember our agent in the Tiergarten, Richard Cuers?"

The Tiergarten is the district in Berlin where German army intelligence has its headquarters.

"Yes, of course. He was working for German intelligence in Paris until we turned him. Sandherr briefed me about him when I took over."

"Well, he's been dismissed."

"That's a pity. When did this happen?"

"Three weeks ago. Did you ever meet Cuers?"

I shake my head.

"He's a nervy fellow at the best of times, but when he came to tell me what had happened, he was in a truly terrible state. He's scared the German General Staff are going to arrest him for treason. He thinks his friend Lajoux in Brussels ratted him out for money, which may well be true. In any case, he wants to make sure we'll protect him. Otherwise, he says, he'll have no choice except to go to Hauptmann Dame-that's his section chief-and sing his heart out about us."

"Does he know much?"

"A little."

"So he's trying to blackmail us?"

"I don't think so. Not really. He just wants rea.s.surance."

"Then let's give it to him. Rea.s.surance doesn't cost a sou-he can have all the rea.s.surance he wants. Tell him he can be certain nothing will leak about him from our end."

"I told him he had nothing to worry about. But it's rather more complicated than that." Foucault sighs and rubs his forehead: I realise he is under some strain. "He wants to hear it man to man-a personal meeting with someone from the section itself."

"But that's just an unnecessary risk for both of us. What if he's followed?"

"I made exactly that point. He was quite insistent. That was when I began to realise there was more to it than he was telling me. So I fetched out a bottle of absinthe-he likes absinthe because he says it reminds him of a French girl he was once in love with-and gradually I got him to tell me the whole story."

"Which is what?"

"He's scared and wants to meet someone from the section because he says the Germans have a spy in the French army we don't know about."

Here it is. I try to put on a show of nonchalance. "Does this spy have a name?"

"No. The best he can offer are some details that he's picked up here and there." Foucault checks the file. "This agent is said to be at the level of a battalion commander. He's between forty and fifty years old. He's been pa.s.sing information to Schwartzkoppen for roughly two years, mostly about artillery, and most of it not of high quality-he recently handed over details of a gunnery course at Chlons, for example. The intelligence has gone right up the chain of command to von Schlieffen* himself, who apparently doesn't like the smell of it-thinks the source could be a hoaxer, or an agent provocateur-and has told Schwartzkoppen to have nothing more to do with him." He looks up from the file. "I put all this in my letter to General Boisdeffre. Does it ring any bells for you?"

I pretend to think. "Not immediately." In truth, it is all I can do not to leap from my chair. "Is that all there is?"

Foucault laughs. "Do you mean: was there a second bottle?" He closes the file and returns it to his drawer. "Yes, there was. In fact I ended up having to clean him up and put him to bed. See how I suffer for my country!"

I join in the laughter. "I'll arrange a medal."

Foucault's smile dies away. "The truth is, Colonel Picquart, our friend Cuers is a neurotic, and like most neurotics he is a fantasist. So let's be clear: when I pa.s.s on to you what he tells me, I'm not endorsing it, you understand? There are some agents I might vouch for; Cuers isn't one of them. That's why I haven't put the rest of his story in writing."

"I know entirely what you mean." I wonder what is coming next. "I shall treat everything you tell me in an appropriate spirit of scepticism."

"Good." Foucault pauses. He frowns at his desk and then looks at me-a very straight, level gaze, soldier to soldier. "Here it is then: Cuers says German intelligence is still very angry about the Dreyfus business."

"You mean about the fact that we caught him?"

"No. About the fact that they'd never even heard of him-or so Cuers says."

I hold the colonel's gaze. His eyes are dark, and unwavering. "Then presumably," I reply carefully, "they're still covering up for him."

"What? Even in private?" Foucault winces and shakes his head. "No. I accept in public one has to go on denying these things for ever-that's the diplomatic game. But why carry on denying it behind closed doors to one another, year after year?"

"Perhaps no one in Berlin wants to admit to running Dreyfus-given how badly it ended?"

"We both know that's not how these things work, though, don't we? According to Cuers, the Kaiser personally demanded the truth from Schlieffen: 'Did the Imperial army ever employ this Jew, yes or no?' Schlieffen in turn asked the question of Dame, who swore he knew nothing of any Jewish spy. On Schlieffen's orders, Dame recalled Schwartzkoppen to Berlin for consultation-Cuers saw him in the Tiergarten with his own eyes-and Schwartzkoppen insisted that the first time he ever heard the name Dreyfus was when he opened his newspaper after the spy had been arrested. Cuers told me Dame has since made discreet inquiries of every other friendly European intelligence agency, to see if any of them had ever employed Dreyfus. Again: nothing."

"And they feel angry about this?"

"Yes, of course-you know how touchy our ponderous Prussian neighbours are about being taken for fools. They think the whole thing is some sophisticated French trick designed to make them look bad in the eyes of the world."

"But that's absurd!"

"No doubt. But it's what they believe-or so Cuers says."

Without realising it, I have been gripping my armrests like a man in a dentist's chair. I make a conscious effort to relax. I cross my legs, adjust the crease of my trousers, affect a coolness I don't feel, and which I'm sure doesn't fool Foucault-a professional connoisseur of dissembling-for a second.

"It seems to me," I say after a long pause, "that we should approach this business one step at a time, and the first step should be to take Cuers up on his suggestion of a meeting and debrief him thoroughly."

"I agree with that."

"And in the meantime we should keep it to ourselves."

"I agree with that even more."

"How soon can you return to Berlin?"

"Tomorrow morning."

"Might I suggest that you contact Cuers and tell him we want to talk, as early as possible?"

"I'll do it the moment I get back."

"The question is: where can we meet him? It can't really be on German soil."

"Absolutely not-too risky." Foucault thinks it over. "What about Switzerland?"

"That would be safe enough. Basel perhaps? It's full of visitors at this time of year. He could pretend to be on a walking holiday; we could meet him there."

"I'll put it to him and let you know. You'll pay his expenses? Sorry to bring it up, but I know it'll be the first question he asks."

I smile. "Ah, the people with whom we work! Of course we will."

I stand and salute. Foucault does the same. Then we shake hands. No further words are exchanged; none is needed-we both understand the potentially staggering import of what we have just discussed.

So I have found one spy, at least. On that score any vestige of doubt is gone. Major Charles Ferdinand Walsin Esterhazy-"Count Esterhazy," as he likes to style himself-walks the streets of Rouen and Paris, gambles, drinks champagne in nightclubs, f.u.c.ks most nights with Four-Fingered Marguerite in an apartment near Montmartre, and funds his squalid lifestyle by trying to sell his country's secrets to a foreign power with all the dignity of a door-to-door pedlar.

Yes, Esterhazy is a simple matter: an open-and-shut case, in point of fact if not in law. But Dreyfus? My G.o.d, that is a much bigger question-that is a nightmare, actually-and as I walk back from the ministry to the Statistical Section, my mind begins to race with the implications, so much so that I have to make another deliberate effort to calm down. I issue orders to myself: Take it one step at a time, Picquart! Approach the matter dispa.s.sionately, Picquart! Avoid a rush to judgement! Confide in n.o.body until there is hard evidence!

Still, when I reach the front door, I cast a wistful look down the rue de l'Universite towards the apartment of Louis Leblois-what wouldn't I give for a chance to talk it over with him ...

When I get upstairs to my office, I find a message waiting for me from Desvernine asking if he can see me tonight: same time, same place. Thanks to my travels with Boisdeffre, it is ten days since I last met him, and by the time I arrive at the cafe of the gare Saint-Lazare, a quarter of an hour late, he is already sitting waiting with a gla.s.s of beer set up for me and, unprecedentedly, one for himself.

"This is a first," I say, as we touch gla.s.ses. "Do we have something to celebrate?"

"Perhaps." Desvernine wipes the foam from his moustache, reaches into his inside pocket, places a photograph upside down on the table and slides it across to me. I pick it up and turn it over. No magnifying gla.s.s is needed this time. It is as sharp as a studio portrait: Esterhazy in a grey bowler coming out of the German emba.s.sy gates. I can even make out a half-smile on his face. He must have paused to enjoy the warmth of the sun.

"So he's been back," I say. "That's significant."

"No, Colonel, what's significant is what's in his hand."

I look at the image again. "His hand is empty."

Desvernine slides over another facedown photograph and sits back to enjoy his beer while he watches my reaction. This picture shows a figure in three-quarters profile, in blurry motion, turning from the street to enter the emba.s.sy. In his right hand he carries something white: an envelope, perhaps, or a package. I lay the photographs side by side. It is the grey bowler that gives him away: that and the height and the build.

"How long between the two?"

"Twelve minutes."

"He's careless."

"Careless? He's shameless is what he is. You want to be careful of this one, Colonel. I've come across his type before." He taps the face with an oily thumbnail. "There's nothing he isn't capable of."

Two nights later, I receive a cipher telegram from Colonel Foucault in Berlin: Cuers is willing to meet our representatives in Basel on Thursday, 6 August.

My first instinct is to go myself. I even consult the railway timetable. But then I pause to weigh the risks. Basel straddles the German border: I have visited it a couple of times on my way to the Wagner festival in Bayreuth. The population speaks German; the buildings are Gothic, half-timbered, shuttered: it feels exactly like a city in the Reich; I shall be surrounded by unfriendly faces. And I have to a.s.sume that after more than a year in post, there is a chance that Berlin has now discovered my ident.i.ty as Sandherr's successor. I am not afraid for my personal safety, but I can't afford to be self-indulgent: there is too much at stake. If I were to be spotted, the consequences for the rendezvous could be disastrous.

Accordingly, on the morning of Monday, 3 August, three days before the scheduled meeting, I invite Major Henry and Captain Lauth to come into my office. They arrive together, as usual. I sit at the head of the conference table, Henry to my left and Lauth to my right. I have the Benefactor file in front of me. Henry looks at it suspiciously.

"Gentlemen," I begin, opening the file, "I feel this is an appropriate time for me to brief you on an intelligence operation that has been running now for several months and which has finally started to bear fruit."

I take them through it stage by stage, starting with a recap of what they already know. I produce the pet.i.t bleu addressed to Esterhazy and the draft letter from Schwartzkoppen complaining that he is not getting value for money from "the house of R." I remind them of my visit to Rouen and of my conversation with my friend Major Cure. "After that," I say, "I took the decision to commission a thorough investigation." I read out Desvernine's reports on Esterhazy: his debts, his gambling, his four-fingered mistress and the rest. They listen in a silence that becomes increasingly tense. When I describe how we have taken the apartment opposite the German Emba.s.sy, I notice how they briefly glance at each other in surprise. Then, with a conjuror's flourish, I pull out the photographs of Esterhazy's two visits.

Henry puts on his spectacles and scrutinises them for a while. "Does General Gonse know about this?"

"He knows about the surveillance operation, yes."

"But not specifically about Esterhazy?"

"Not yet. I wanted to wait until we had enough evidence to pick him up."

"I understand." Henry pa.s.ses the photographs over to Lauth and removes his spectacles. He sucks on one of the stems in the manner of a scholar appraising a colleague's research. "This is very interesting, Colonel, although of course we're not there yet. It's impressive circ.u.mstantial detail, no question of that. But show all this to Esterhazy and he'll simply say he was dropping off a visa application. And we can't prove otherwise."

"I agree. But in the last few days there's been a significant new development, which is why I want to widen the scope of the operation." I pause. This is the decisive moment. A few words from me now and everything will be different. Henry taps his gla.s.ses against his teeth, waiting. "We have a source with information from inside German military intelligence. He says they've been running an agent in France for several years. This agent holds the rank of major. He's between forty and fifty years old. He's been on the gunnery course at Chlons."

Lauth says, "That must be Esterhazy!"

"I don't think there can be much doubt. Our source is offering to meet us in Basel on Thursday to tell us all he knows."

Henry emits a low whistle of surprise, and for the first time I see in his expression a trace of something like respect. It makes me want to go even further, to confide everything ("And you know what else? He also claims Dreyfus was never a German spy!"), but I don't want to venture that far yet. Take it one step at a time, Picquart!

Henry says, "Who is this source?"

"Richard Cuers-do you remember, the Germans used him here a few years ago? He's been employed by Hauptmann Dame in Berlin. Now Dame has let him go, probably because he suspects him, and he's come running to us."

"Do we trust him?"

"Do we trust anybody? But I don't see why he should lie, do you? At the very least, we should find out what he has to say." I turn to Lauth. "Captain, I'd like you to take charge of his debriefing."

"Of course, Colonel." Lauth bows quickly in his Teutonic manner. If he were standing up, I think, he would click his heels.

Henry says, "Why my good friend Lauth here, might I ask?"

"Because he's known about the case since we retrieved the pet.i.t bleu, but above all because he speaks German."

Henry objects: "If Cuers worked here, he must have decent French. Why don't I go? I'm more experienced in dealing with these rogues."

"Yes, but I think he'll talk more freely in his native language. Is that all right with you, Lauth?" Lauth's German is perfect, almost accentless.

"Yes." He glances at Henry for approval. "Yes, I'm sure I can handle it."

"Good. You'll need at least one man as backup, possibly two, just to make sure Cuers comes on his own and this isn't all a trap. I'm proposing to a.s.sign Louis Tomps to the mission. He knows Cuers from Paris days." Tomps is another of the Srete officers, like Guenee and Desvernine, who does work for the section: a competent, reliable fellow who also has the advantage of speaking good German; I've used him before. "We'll discuss the operational details later. Thank you, gentlemen."

Lauth jumps up. "Thank you, Colonel!"

Henry stays seated for a moment or two, contemplating the table, then pushes back his chair and rises heavily to his feet. He tugs his tunic down over his commodious belly. "Yes, thank you, Colonel." There is a wistful look in his eyes: I can tell he's still not reconciled to being excluded from the Basel meeting, but can't come up with a way to convince me to let him go. "Interesting," he repeats, "very interesting. I must say, though, if I were you-if you'll allow me to make a suggestion-I'd tell General Gonse what's going on. It's a serious matter-a French officer meeting a German spy on foreign soil to discuss a traitor in our own ranks. You wouldn't want him finding out from someone else."

After he's gone, I wonder if that was a threat. If so, then in the chess game of military bureaucracy, I have the perfect countermove. I walk over to the ministry, climb the stairs to the office of the Chief of the General Staff, and ask for an appointment to see General Boisdeffre.

Queen takes bishop!

Unfortunately, his orderly officer tells me that the general has gone straight from Burgundy to Vichy.

I send Boisdeffre a telegram asking to speak to him urgently.

The following morning-the Tuesday-I receive a weary reply: My dear Colonel Picquart, Is it really as pressing a matter as all that? I am on vacation taking the waters, and then going home to Normandy for my annual leave. What is this about?

I respond in guarded terms that it concerns a matter similar to that of 1894-meaning the Dreyfus affair.