An Officer and a Spy (18 page)

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, fucks 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 God, 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 dispassionately, Picquart! Avoid a rush to judgement! Confide in nobody until there is hard evidence!

Still, when I reach the front door, I cast a wistful look down the rue de l’Université 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 café of the gare Saint-Lazare, a quarter of an hour late, he is already sitting waiting with a glass of beer set up for me and, unprecedentedly, one for himself.

“This is a first,” I say, as we touch glasses. “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 glass is needed this time. It is as sharp as a studio portrait: Esterhazy in a grey bowler coming out of the German embassy 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 embassy. 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 assume that after more than a year in post, there is a chance that Berlin has now discovered my identity 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
petit 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 Curé. “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 Embassy, 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 passes 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 circumstantial 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 glasses 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 Châlons.”

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
petit 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 assign Louis Tomps to the mission. He knows Cuers from Paris days.” Tomps is another of the Sûreté officers, like Guénée 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.

Within an hour I have an answer:
Very well, if you insist. My train arrives tomorrow, Wednesday, 5 August, 18:15 hours gare de Lyon. Meet me. Boisdeffre
.

Henry does not give up easily, however.

On the same day that I receive Boisdeffre’s summons to see him, I hold a final meeting in my office with Lauth and Tomps to discuss the arrangements for the Basel interview. The plan is straightforward. The two men—plus Inspector Vuillecard, police commissioner in Vassy, whom Tomps has chosen as his assistant—will catch the sleeper train tomorrow night from the gare de l’Est, arriving in Basel at six o’clock on Thursday morning. All three will be armed. In Basel, they will split up. Lauth will go directly to a private room in the Schweizerhof hotel, which is right next to the station, and wait. Tomps will go to the city’s other main railway terminus, the Badischer Bahnhof, on the opposite side of the Rhine, where the German trains arrive. Meanwhile Vuillecard will position himself in Munsterplatz, in front of the cathedral, which is where the initial rendezvous is to take place at nine o’clock. Tomps, who knows Cuers by sight, will watch as Cuers comes through passport control from the Berlin train to make sure he is not being followed, and will then tail him all the way to Munsterplatz, where Vuillecard will be holding a white handkerchief as a signal. Cuers will approach the inspector and say, in French, “Are you Monsieur Lescure?” (Lescure was the name of the doorkeeper in the rue Saint-Dominique for many years), to which Vuillecard will reply, “No, but I am supposed to take you to him,” whereupon Vuillecard will conduct the German agent to his meeting with Lauth in the hotel.