An Officer and a Spy (19 page)

“I want you to extract absolutely every last scrap of information
you can out of him,” I order Lauth, “however long it takes. Continue into the following day if necessary.”

“Yes, Colonel.”

“The main focus is Esterhazy, but don’t feel you have to confine yourself to him.”

“No, Colonel.”

“Whatever leads come up, however outlandish, follow them.”

“Of course, Colonel.”

At the end of the meeting we shake hands and I wish them luck. Tomps leaves but Lauth lingers. He says, “I want to make a request, Colonel, if I may?”

“Go ahead.”

“I think it would be useful to take Major Henry with me, as backup.”

At first I think he must be suffering from stage fright. “Come now, Captain Lauth! You don’t need any backup! You’re perfectly capable of handling Cuers on your own.”

But Lauth holds his ground. “I really feel the mission would benefit from Major Henry’s experience, Colonel. There are matters he knows about which I don’t. And he’s good with people. They let their guard down with him, whereas I tend to be rather … formal.”

“Has Major Henry asked you to say all this to me? Because I don’t take kindly to officers questioning my authority behind my back.”

“No, Colonel. Certainly not!” Lauth’s pale neck flushes candy pink. “It’s not for me to interfere in matters above my grade. But sometimes I sense that Major Henry needs to be made to feel … 
valued
—if I can put it that way.”

“And by not sending him to Basel I’ve hurt his feelings—is that what you’re trying to say?”

Lauth doesn’t reply. He hangs his head. As well he might, I think, for there is something preposterous about Henry’s desire to insinuate himself, like a nosy concierge, into every aspect of the section’s work. On the other hand, putting aside my irritation—
Approach the matter dispassionately, Picquart!
—I can see that there are certain potential advantages to me in letting Henry feel that he is an equal partner in the investigation into Esterhazy. The first rule of survival
in any bureaucracy is safety in numbers, and I have no desire to turn into a lone voice—on this issue especially. If it does transpire, God forbid, that we have to look again at the Dreyfus case, I will need to have Henry at my side.

I tap my foot in irritation. “Very well,” I say at length. “If you both feel strongly about it, then Major Henry can accompany you to the meeting.”

“Yes, Colonel. Thank you, Colonel.” Lauth is almost pathetic in his gratitude.

I jab my finger at him to emphasise the point. “But the interview with Cuers should be in German, you understand?”

This time Lauth really does click his heels. “It will be.”

At five o’clock the following afternoon, the Swiss expedition assembles in the lobby, kitted out in stout walking boots, high socks, sports jackets and knapsacks. The cover story is that they are four friends on a hiking holiday in the Baselbiet. Henry’s jacket is of an unfortunate broad-check design; his felt hat sprouts a feather. He is red-faced and grumpy in the heat. It makes one wonder why he has schemed so hard to join the party.

“My dear Major Henry,” I laugh, “this is taking disguise too far—you look like a Tyrolean innkeeper!” Tomps and Vuillecard and even Lauth all join in the amusement, but Henry remains sullen. He likes teasing others but can’t abide to be teased himself. I say to Lauth, “Send me a telegram from Basel to let me know how the meeting goes, and what time you’ll be back—in coded terms, of course. Good luck, gentlemen. I must say, I wouldn’t let you into my country dressed like that, but then I’m not Swiss!”

I walk with them out of the door and see them into their cab. I wait until the landau is out of sight before setting off on foot towards my own rendezvous. I have plenty of time, enough to make the most of this perfect late summer afternoon, and so I stroll along the embankment, past the big construction site on the quai d’Orsay, where a new railway terminus and grand hotel are rising beside the river. The first great international event of the twentieth century will be held here in Paris in less than four years’ time—the Universal Exhibition of 1900—and the giant skeleton of the building swarms with workers. There is a definite energy in the air; there is even, dare one say it, optimism—not a quality that has been in wide supply in France over the past couple of decades. I amble along the Left Bank
and on to the pont de Sully, where I stop and lean against the parapet, looking west along the Seine to Notre-Dame. I am still trying to work out how best to deal with the coming meeting.

Such are the vagaries of public life that General de Boisdeffre, firmly in Mercier’s shadow barely a year and a half ago, has now emerged as one of the most popular men in the country. Indeed, for the past three months it has scarcely been possible to open a newspaper without reading a story about him, whether as head of the French delegation at the coronation of the Tsar in Moscow, or relaying the President’s respects to the Tsarina while she vacationed on the Côte d’Azur, or watching the Grand Prix de Paris at Longchamps in the company of the Russian ambassador. Russia, Russia, Russia—that is all one hears, and Boisdeffre’s strategic alliance is considered the diplomatic triumph of the age, although privately I have reservations about fighting the Germans alongside an army of serfs.

Still, there is no denying Boisdeffre’s celebrity. His schedule has been printed in the newspapers, and when I arrive at the gare de Lyon, the first thing I encounter is a crowd of admirers waiting to catch a glimpse of their idol disembarking from the Vichy train. When at last it pulls into the platform, several dozen run along its entire length trying to spot him. Eventually he emerges and pauses in the doorway for the photographers. He is in civilian dress but unmistakable nonetheless, his tall and erect figure made even loftier by a beautiful silk top hat. He doffs it politely to the applauding throng, then descends to the platform, followed by Pauffin de Saint Morel and a couple of other orderlies. He progresses slowly towards the ticket barrier, like a great stately battleship passing in a naval review, raising his hat and smiling faintly at the cries of
“Vive Boisdeffre!”
and
“Vive l’armée!,”
until he sees me. His expression clouds briefly while he tries to remember why I am there, then he acknowledges my salute with a friendly nod. “Ride with me in my automobile, Picquart,” he says, “although I’m afraid I’m only going as far as the hôtel de Sens, so it will have to be brief.”

The automobile, a Panhard Levassor, has no roof. We sit up on the cushioned bench seat, the general and I, behind the driver, and trundle shakily over the cobblestones towards the rue de Lyon,
watched by a small group of passengers queuing for taxis, who recognise the Chief of the General Staff and break into cheers.

Boisdeffre says, “I think that’s enough for them, don’t you?” He takes off his hat and places it in his lap, and runs his hand through his thinning white hair. “So what is all this about another 1894?”

Although this is hardly the kind of interview I had rehearsed, there is at least no danger of our being overheard: he has to turn and shout his question into my ear and I respond in a similar way. “We believe we’ve found a traitor in the army, General, passing information to the Germans!”

“Not another! What sort of information?”

“So far it seems to be mainly about our artillery.”

“Important information?”

“Not particularly, but there might be other matters we don’t know about.”

“Who is he?”

“A so-called ‘Count Walsin Esterhazy,’ a major with the Seven-four.”

Boisdeffre makes a visible effort of memory, then shakes his head. “Not a name I would have forgotten if I’d met him. How did we get onto him?”

“The same way we did with Dreyfus, though our agent in the German Embassy.”

“My God, I only wish my wife could find a cleaner half as thorough as that woman!” He laughs at his own joke. He seems remarkably relaxed; perhaps it is the effects of his hydrotherapy. “What does General Gonse say?”

“I haven’t told him yet.”

“Why not?”

“I thought it best to talk to you first. With your permission, I’d like to brief the minister next. I hope to know more about Esterhazy in a day or two. Until then, I would prefer not to tell General Gonse.”

“As you wish.”

He pats his pockets until he finds his snuff box, and offers it to me. I refuse. He takes a couple of pinches. We round the place de la
Bastille. In a minute or two we’ll be at our destination and I need a decision.

“So do I have your permission,” I ask, “to notify the minister?”

“Yes, I think you should, don’t you? However, I would dearly love,” he adds, tapping my knee to emphasise each word, “to avoid another public scandal! One Dreyfus is quite enough for a generation. Let us try to deal with this case more discreetly.”

I am spared the need to reply by our arrival at the hôtel de Sens. For once, that gloomy medieval pile is a scene of activity. An official reception of some sort is in progress. People are arriving in evening dress. And there, waiting on the doorstep, smoking a cigarette, I see none other than Gonse. Our automobile pulls up a few metres away. Gonse drops his cigarette and heads towards us, just as the driver jumps out to lower the steps for Boisdeffre. Gonse halts and salutes—“Welcome back to Paris, General!”—then looks at me with undisguised suspicion. “And Colonel Picquart?” The statement is delivered as a question.

I say quickly, “General Boisdeffre was kind enough to give me a ride from the station.” It is neither a blatant lie nor the full truth, but hopefully it is enough to cover my exit. I salute and wish them a good evening. When I reach the street corner I risk a look back, but the two men have gone inside.

I don’t want to tell Gonse about Esterhazy yet, for three reasons: first, because I know that once that consummate old bureaucrat gets his hands on the case he will want to take control of it and information will start to leak; second, because I know how the army works and I wouldn’t put it past him to go behind my back to Henry; and third, and above all, because if I can armour myself with the prior backing of the Chief of the General Staff and the Minister of War, then Gonse will be unable to interfere and I shall be free to follow the trail wherever it leads me. I am not entirely without cunning: how else did I become the youngest colonel in the French army?

Accordingly, on Thursday morning, at the same time as the team in Basel should be making its first contact with the double agent, Cuers, I take the Benefactor file and my private key—the token of
my privileged access—and let myself through the wooden door into the garden of the hôtel de Brienne. The grounds, which appeared so magical to me under snow on the day of Dreyfus’s degradation, have a different kind of charm in August. The foliage on the big trees is so thick that the ministry might not exist; the distant sounds of Paris are as drowsy as the drone of bees; the only other person around is an elderly gardener watering a flower bed. As I cross the scorched brown turf I promise myself that if I am ever minister, I shall move my desk out here in the summer, and run the army from under a tree, as Caesar did in Gaul.

I reach the edge of the lawn, cross the gravel, and trot up the shallow pale stone steps that lead to the glass doors of the minister’s residence. I let myself in and ascend the same marble staircase that I climbed at the beginning of my story, pass the same suits of armour and the bombastic painting of Napoleon. I put my head around the door of the minister’s private office and ask one of his orderlies, Captain Robert Calmon-Maison, if it would be convenient for me to have a word with the minister. Calmon-Maison knows better than to ask what it is about, for I am the keeper of his master’s secrets. He goes off to check and returns to tell me that I can be seen immediately.

How quickly one accommodates to power! Not many months ago, I would have been awed at finding myself in the minister’s inner sanctum; now it is just a place of work, and the minister himself merely another soldier-bureaucrat passing through the revolving door of government. The present occupant, Jean-Baptiste Billot, is nudging seventy, and is on his second stint in the office, having held it fourteen years before. He is married to a wealthy and sophisticated woman and his politics are left-radical, yet he looks like an idiot general out of a comic opera—all barrel chest and bristling white moustaches and outraged bulging eyes: naturally, the cartoonists adore him. There’s one other detail about him I know, and is of interest: he dislikes his predecessor, General Mercier, and has done ever since the grand army manoeuvres of 1893, when the younger man commanded the opposing corps and defeated him—a humiliation he has never forgiven.

As I enter, he is standing at the window with his broad back to
the room. Without turning round he says, “When I watched you coming across that lawn just now, Picquart, I thought to myself: well, here he comes, that bright young colonel with another damn problem! And then I asked myself: why do I need such tribulations at my age? I should be at my country place on a day like this, playing with my grandchildren, not wasting it by talking to you!”