An Officer and a Spy

any case, if what you say about Billot is true, he may not be minister for very much longer.’
    The next day, a Sunday, the orderly who runs the Sousse Military Club brings in the newspapers soon after eleven. The rest of the garrison is at church. I have the place to myself. I order a cognac, pick up one of the club’s two copies of La Dépêche tunisienne and retreat with it to my customary window seat.
DREYFUS CASE. Paris, 8h 35m. Newspapers maintain their belief that M. Scheurer-Kestner was hoodwinked by the family of the former captain Dreyfus, but they are now calling for a prompt and full investigation. An editor of Figaro interviewed M. Scheurer-Kestner, who repeated his conviction that Dreyfus is innocent. But he said he would not reveal anything until he had laid the case before the competent ministers. Le Figaro says M. Scheurer-Kestner will see the President and the Ministers of War and Justice.
    It’s a nightmare to sit here idly not knowing what is going on. I resolve to send a telegram to Louis. I finish my cognac and walk as far as the new post office building beside the harbour. Then my nerve fails me and I linger for ten minutes smoking a cigarette in the Bar de la Poste, watching a dozen of my fellow expatriates play boules in the dusty square. The truth is that any message I send or receive is certain to be intercepted, just as any code I might invent would not fool the experts for more than a few minutes.
    On Tuesday, the actual Paris newspapers that were published the previous Friday finally arrive in Sousse. They carry the first stories of Scheurer-Kestner’s intervention in the Dreyfus affair. Le Figaro , Le Matin , La Libre Parole , Le Petit Parisien and the rest are passed around the club and provoke outrage among my fellow officers. From my window seat I hear them talking. ‘Do you think this fellow Scheurer-Kestner is also a Jew?’ ‘Well, with a name like that, if he’s not a Jew he must be a German . . .’ ‘It’s a contemptible slur on the army – let’s hope someone seeks satisfaction . . .’ ‘Yes, say what you like about Morès but he would have known how to deal with the scoundrel . . .’ ‘What do you think of it all, Colonel, if you don’t mind us asking?’
    I am so unused to being addressed in the club, it takes me a moment to realise they are talking to me. I put down my novel and turn round in my chair. Half a dozen tanned and moustached faces are looking at me. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘What do I think about . . .?’
    ‘This canard that Dreyfus might have been innocent?’
    ‘Oh, that? That’s a bad business, don’t you think? A very bad business.’ This gnomic utterance seems to satisfy them and I return to my book.
    Wednesday is quiet. Then on Thursday La Dépêche reports new developments:
DREYFUS CASE. Paris, 8h 25m. The Dreyfus affair appears to be entering a decisive phase. M. Scheurer-Kestner attended the Ministry of War yesterday to convey to General Billot the information concerning Captain Dreyfus which he had in his possession. The meeting was long and kept very secret . . . 9h 10m. Le Figaro announces that M. Scheurer-Kestner saw the Prime Minister, M. Méline, yesterday on the subject of the Dreyfus affair.
    I lie awake that night with my door locked and my revolver under my pillow, listening to the pre-dawn call to prayer from the nearby minaret. I entertain myself by picturing the crisis meetings in Billot’s office: the minister raging, Gonse nervously spilling cigarette ash down his tunic, Boisdeffre frozen, Henry drunk; I think of Gribelin scuttling back and forth between his files in an effort to fish up new scraps of evidence against Dreyfus, and Lauth steaming open my letters and trying to decipher the hidden code by which I am somehow controlling events. I exult in this imagined confounding of my enemies.
    And then my enemies begin returning fire.
    The opening shot is a telegram. Jemel brings it to my office first thing. It was dispatched from the Bourse post office in Paris the previous day: We have proof that the bleu was forged by Georges. Blanche.
    Blanche?
    It is like a threat whispered by a stranger in a crowd who has melted away before one has time to look round. I am conscious of Jemel studying my reaction. The thing is meaningless and yet sinister, especially the use of Blanche’s name. ‘I can’t make sense of this,’ I tell him. ‘Perhaps it’s been garbled in transmission. Would you mind going