An Officer and a Spy

scientific fact, ‘is an old woman.’
    ‘He’s concerned at the lack of an obvious motive . . .’
    ‘Motive?’ mutters Sandherr. His head starts shaking on the pillow, whether in disbelief or from the effects of his condition I cannot tell. ‘What is he prattling on about? Motive? Dreyfus is a Jew, more German than French! Most of his family live in Germany! All his income was derived from Germany. How much more motive does the general require?’
    ‘Nevertheless, he’d like me to “feed the file”. Those were his words.’
    ‘The Dreyfus file is fat enough. Seven judges saw it and unanimously declared him guilty. Talk to Henry about it if you have any trouble.’
    And with that Sandherr draws the blankets around his shoulders and rolls on to his side with his back to me. I wait for a minute or so. Eventually I thank him for his help and say goodbye. But he if he hears me, he makes no answer.
    I stand on the pavement outside Sandherr’s apartment, mometarily dazzled by the daylight after the gloom of his sickroom. My briefcase stuffed with money and the names of traitors and spies feels heavy in my hand. As I cross the avenue du Trocadéro in search of a cab, I glance to my left to make sure I am not about to be run over, at which point I vaguely register an elegant apartment block with a double door, and the number 6 on a blue tile beside it. At first I think nothing of it, but then I come to a dead stop and look at it again: no. 6 avenue du Trocadéro . I recognise this address. I have seen it written down many times. This is where Dreyfus was living at the time of his arrest.
    I glance back to the rue Léonce Reynaud. It is, of course, a coincidence, but still a singular one: that Dreyfus should have lived so close to his nemesis they could practically have seen one another from their respective front doors; at the very least they must have passed in the street often, walking to and from the War Ministry at the same times every day. I step to the edge of the pavement, tilt my head back and shield my eyes to examine the grand apartment building. Each tall window has a wrought-iron balcony, wide enough to sit on, looking out across the Seine – a much more opulent property than the Sandherrs’, tucked away in its narrow cobbled street.
    My eye is caught by something at a first-floor window: the pale face of a young boy, like an invalid confined indoors, looking down at me; an adult comes to join him – a young woman with a face as white as his, framed by dark curls – his mother, perhaps. She stands behind him with her hands on his arms, and together they stare at me – a uniformed colonel watching them from the street – until she whispers in his ear and gently pulls him away, and they disappear.

4
    THE FOLLOWING MORNING I describe the strange apparition to Major Henry. He frowns.
    ‘The first-floor window of number six? That must have been Dreyfus’s wife, and his little boy – what is he called? – Pierre, that’s it. And there’s a girl, Jeanne. Madame Dreyfus keeps the kids at home all day, so they don’t pick up stories about their father. She’s told them he’s on a special mission abroad.’
    ‘And they believe her?’
    ‘Why wouldn’t they? They’re only tiny.’
    ‘How do you know all this?’
    ‘Oh, we still keep an eye on them, don’t worry.’
    ‘How close an eye?’
    ‘We have an agent on their domestic staff. We follow them. We intercept their mail.’
    ‘Even six months after Dreyfus was convicted?’
    ‘Colonel Sandherr had a theory that Dreyfus might turn out to be part of a spying syndicate. He thought that if we watched the family we might uncover leads to other traitors.’
    ‘But we haven’t?’
    ‘Not yet.’
    I lounge back in my chair and study Henry. He is friendly-looking, apparently out of condition but still, I would guess, underneath the layer of fat, physically strong: the sort of fellow who would be stood a lot of drinks in a bar, and would know how to tell a good story when he was in the mood. We are about as dissimilar as it is possible for two men to be. ‘Did you know,’ I ask, ‘that Colonel Sandherr’s apartment is only about a hundred metres from the Dreyfus place?’
    From time to time a sly look can come into Henry’s eyes. It is the only crack in his armour of bonhomie. He says, in an off-handed way, ‘Is it as close as that? I hadn’t realised.’
    ‘Yes. In fact it seems to me, looking at the location, they’re bound