An Officer and a Spy

breaking the cipher, the text of the message was not as he wished. You can read it yourself.’
    Bazeries shows me the telegram. The solution is written out neatly under the numerals of the encoded text: If Captain Dreyfus has had no dealings with you it would be appropriate to instruct the ambassador to publish an official denial in order to avoid comments by the press.
    I read it through twice to make sure I understand the implications. ‘And so what this suggests is that Panizzardi was actually in the dark about Dreyfus – the direct opposite of what Colonel Sandherr believed?’
    ‘Exactly! Sandherr wouldn’t accept it, though. He insisted we must have got a word wrong somewhere. He took it to the highest levels. He even arranged for one of his agents to feed Panizzardi some fresh information about an unrelated matter, so that he would be obliged to send a second cipher message to Rome incorporating certain technical terms. When we broke that as well, we demonstrated beyond doubt that this was the correct decryption. Nine days this whole procedure took us, from beginning to end. So please, Colonel – don’t let us go over it again.’
    I perform the calculation in my head. Nine days from 2 November takes us to 11 November. The court martial began on 19 December. Which means that for over a month before Dreyfus even stood trial, the Statistical Section were aware that the phrase ‘that lowlife D’ could not possibly refer to Dreyfus, because they knew Panizzardi had never even heard of him – unless he was lying to his superiors, and why would he do that?
    ‘And there is no doubt, is there,’ I ask, ‘that at the end of the whole process you provided the correct version to the Ministry of War?’
    ‘No doubt at all. I gave it to Billecocq to hand-deliver.’
    ‘Can you remember who you gave it to?’ I ask Billecocq.
    ‘Yes, Colonel, I remember it very well, because I gave it to the minister himself. I gave it to General Mercier.’
    When I get back to the Statistical Section, I can smell cigarette smoke emanating from my office, and when I open the door, I find General Gonse sitting at my desk. Henry is resting his ample backside against my table.
    Gonse says cheerfully, ‘You’ve been out a long time.’
    ‘I didn’t know we had an appointment.’
    ‘We didn’t. I just thought I’d drop by.’
    ‘You’ve never done that before.’
    ‘Haven’t I? Perhaps I should have done it more often. What a separate little operation you have running over here.’ He holds out his hand. ‘I’ll take that secret file on Dreyfus, if I may.’
    ‘Of course. Might I ask why?’
    ‘Not really.’
    I’d like to argue. I glance at Henry. He raises his eyebrows slightly.
    You have to give them what they want, Colonel – they’re the chiefs .
    Slowly I bend to unlock my safe, searching my brain for some excuse not to comply. I take out the file marked ‘D’. Reluctantly I hand it over to Gonse. He opens the flap and quickly thumbs through the contents.
    I ask pointedly, ‘Is it all there?’
    ‘It had better be!’ Gonse smiles at me – a purely mechanical adjustment of his lower face, devoid of all humour. ‘Now then, we need to make a few administrative changes, in view of your imminent departure on your tour of inspection. Henceforth, Major Henry will bring all the Agent Auguste material direct to me.’
    ‘But that’s our most important source!’
    ‘Yes, so it’s only right that it comes to me, as head of the intelligence department. Is that all right with you, Henry?’
    ‘Whatever you wish, General.’
    ‘Am I being dismissed?’
    ‘Of course not, my dear Picquart! This is simply a reshuffle of responsibilities to improve our efficiency. Everything else remains with you. So that’s settled then.’ Gonse stands and stubs out his cigarette. ‘We’ll talk soon, Colonel.’ He clasps the Dreyfus file to his chest with crossed arms. ‘I’ll look after our precious baby very well, don’t you worry.’
    After he has gone, Henry looks at me. He shrugs apologetically. ‘You should have taken my advice,’ he says.
    I have heard it claimed by those who have attended the public executions in the rue de la Roquette that the heads of the condemned men after they have been guillotined still show signs of life. Their cheeks twitch. Their eyes blink. Their lips move.
    I wonder: do these severed heads also briefly share the illusion that they are alive? Do they see people staring down at them