An Officer and a Spy

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!’
    ‘We both know, Minister, that you would be bored to death within five minutes, and complaining that we were ruining the country in your absence.’
    The massive shoulders shrug. ‘That’s true enough, I suppose. Someone sane must oversee this madhouse.’ He pivots on his heel and waddles across the carpet towards me: an alarming sight for those not used to it, like a charging bull walrus. ‘Well, well, what is it? You look very tense. Sit down, my boy. Do you want a drink?’
    ‘No, thank you.’ I occupy the same chair that I did when I described the degradation ceremony to Mercier and Boisdeffre. Billot settles himself opposite me and regards me with a piercing eye. The old buffer routine is all an act: he is as sharp and ambitious as a man of half his age. I open the Benefactor file. ‘I’m afraid we appear to have discovered a German spy operating in the army . . .’
    ‘Oh God!’
    Yet again I describe Esterhazy’s activities and the operation we have mounted to watch him. I give Billot a few more details than I did Boisdeffre; in particular I tell him about the debriefing mission that is under way in Basel. I show him the petit bleu and the surveillance photographs. But I don’t mention Dreyfus: I know that if I did, it would blot out everything else.
    Billot interjects a number of shrewd questions. How valuable is this material? Why didn’t Esterhazy’s commanding officer notice something strange about him? Are we sure he’s operating alone? He keeps returning to the image of Esterhazy emerging empty-handed from the embassy. At the end he says, ‘Perhaps we should try to do something clever with the scum? Rather than simply lock him up, couldn’t we use him to feed false information to Berlin?’
    ‘I’ve been thinking about that. The trouble is, the Germans are already suspicious of him. It’s unlikely they’d simply swallow whatever he told them without checking it for themselves. And of course—’
    Billot finishes my argument for me. ‘And of course, to get him to play along, we’d have to give him immunity from prosecution, whereas the only place for the likes of Esterhazy is behind bars. No, you’ve done well, Colonel.’ He shuts the file and hands it back to me. ‘Keep on with the investigation until we’ve nailed him once and for all.’
    ‘You’d be willing to take it all the way to a court martial?’
    ‘Absolutely! What’s the alternative? To allow him to retire on half-pay?’
    ‘General Boisdeffre would prefer it if there were no scandal . . .’
    ‘I’m sure he would. I don’t relish one myself. But if we allowed him to get away with it – that really would be a scandal!’
    I return to my office well satisfied. I have the approval of the two most powerful men in the army to continue my investigation. Effectively Gonse has been cut out of the chain of command. All I can do now is to wait for news from Basel.
    The day drags on with routine work. The drains stink more than usual in the heat. I find it hard to concentrate. At half past five, I ask Captain Junck to book a telephone call to the Schweizerhof hotel for seven o’clock. At the appointed time I stand by the receiver in the upstairs corridor, smoking a cigarette, and when the bell sounds I snatch the instrument from its cradle. I know the Schweizerhof: a big, modern place overlooking a city square crossed by tramlines. I give Lauth’s cover name to the front desk and ask to speak to him. There is a long wait while the undermanager goes off to check. When he returns, he announces that the gentleman has just checked out and has left no forwarding address. I hang up,