An Officer And A Spy Part 26

It is Friday, 29 October 1897, and I have checked those stale newspapers every day since my return from Paris, without once coming across the word "Dreyfus." I am beginning to worry that something may have happened to Louis.

In time-honoured fashion, at about three o'clock, through the high gla.s.s-panelled door comes a young orderly carrying the afternoon's post. It is no longer Savignaud-he has gone, arrested for immoral conduct with a local olive oil trader, sentenced to nine days' detention and shipped off to G.o.d knows where. His replacement is an Arab, Jemel, and if he is a spy, as I a.s.sume he must be, he is too good for me to catch him out; in consequence, I rather miss Savignaud and his familiar, clumsy ways.

Jemel glides to a stop alongside my chair and salutes. "You have a telegram, Colonel."

It is from army headquarters in Tunis: The Ministry of War today orders Colonel Picquart to proceed immediately to El-Ouatia to investigate and if possible verify reports of hostile Bedouin cavalry ma.s.sing in the vicinity of Tripoli. Please report to me to discuss the implications of your mission before your departure. Cordially yours, Leclerc.

Jemel says, "Will there be a reply, Colonel?"

For a moment I am too surprised to speak. I read the telegram again, just to make sure I am not hallucinating.

"Yes," I say eventually. "Will you please telegraph General Leclerc and tell him that I shall report to him tomorrow?"

"Of course, Colonel."

After Jemel has shimmied off into the afternoon heat, I study the telegram again. El-Ouatia?

The following morning I catch the train to Tunis. In my briefcase I have a file: "Intelligence report on the a.s.sa.s.sination of the marquis de Mores." I know it well: I wrote it-one of the few real accomplishments of my time in Africa.

Mores, a fanatical anti-Semite and the most celebrated duellist of the day, came to Tunisia two years ago with a madcap plan to lead an Arab revolt against the British Empire, starting with a trek across the Tunisian Sahara-an area beyond law and civilisation, where Bedouin caravans still occasionally pa.s.s trailing columns of Negro slaves chained at the neck. Nevertheless, ignoring all warnings, he set off with a party of thirty, following the coast before heading south from Gabes into the desert.

Riding a camel, escorted by six Tuareg whom he saw as the nucleus of his private army, Mores struck camp on the morning of 8 June last year. He was a mile ahead of the rest of his followers when Bedouin fighters began to appear all around him. At that instant his escort fell upon him and attempted to seize his Winchester rifle and revolver. Mores shot two of his a.s.sailants dead with his revolver, mortally wounded a third and then ran forty metres to a nearby tree, shooting two more of the pursuing Tuareg. Dropping to his knees, he reloaded and awaited rescue from the remainder of his expedition. But they, too frightened or treacherous to move, had halted a kilometre away. The heat of the day grew fierce. One Tuareg went forward to pretend to parley with the marquis; in reality he wanted to find out how many bullets he had left. Desperate, Mores seized him round the throat as a hostage. Soon afterwards the man broke free, whereupon Mores shot him dead. But the distraction had lasted long enough for his a.s.sa.s.sins to get closer. The marquis was. .h.i.t by a rifle bullet in the back of the neck. His money belt was cut open and a hundred and eighty gold pieces were stolen. His corpse was stripped and mutilated.

The Second Department wanted to know if the British secret service had organised the murder. I was able to a.s.sure them that was not the case. Instead, the real lesson of the episode was clear: to venture so far south with anything less than a full infantry brigade plus cavalry and artillery would be suicidal. The name of the place where Mores died was El-Ouatia.

The train pulls into Tunis in the middle of the afternoon. As usual I have to push through the crowd on the platform to reach the taxi rank; as usual there is a boy beside it selling La Depche tunisienne. I give him five centimes and settle back in the cab, and suddenly I catch my breath, for there it is-the explanation for my suicidal mission-in the middle of the front page. I should have guessed it: DREYFUS CASE. Paris, 8h 35m. Vice President of the Senate M. Scheurer-Kestner last night created a sensation by informing L'Agence Nationale: "I am firmly convinced of Captain Dreyfus's innocence and I will do everything to prove it, not only by obtaining a verdict of acquittal at the revision of his trial, but by doing him full justice and rehabilitating him completely." 10h 15m. Le Matin reports further comments of M. Scheurer-Kestner: "What methods will I use to reveal the truth? And at what time will I use them? For now that remains my secret. I have not pa.s.sed the file which is in my possession to anyone, not even, as has been suggested, the President of the Republic."

A single paragraph, that is all. Last night created a sensation ... It is like catching the faint shock wave of some immense but distant explosion. As the taxi clip-clops along the avenue de France I stare out at the facades of the official buildings and the apartment blocks gleaming white and ochre in the afternoon sun, and I am amazed that they look so normal. I cannot absorb what has happened. I feel a great sense of dislocation from my surroundings, as if I am in a dream.

At army headquarters, Leclerc's aide-de-camp comes to fetch me. I follow him down a wide corridor past an office where a sergeant sits bent over a typewriter, picking out the letters with excruciating slowness. Leclerc himself appears equally oblivious to the enormity of what has occurred in Paris. Evidently he doesn't read La Depche-or if he does, he hasn't a.s.sociated the story with me. But then why should he?

He greets me cheerfully. I hand him my report on the murder of Mores. He glances through it quickly, eyebrows raised. "Well don't worry, Picquart," he says, handing it back to me, "I'll make sure you have a perfectly decent funeral. You can choose the hymns before you go."

"Thank you, General. I appreciate that."

He goes over to the map of the French protectorate hanging on his office wall. "It's a h.e.l.l of a trek, I must say. Don't they keep any charts these days in Paris?" He traces the route from Tunis in the north due south, past Sousse, Sfax and Gabes, all the way down into the vast desert area towards Tripoli, where the map is blank of roads or settlements. "That must be eight hundred kilometres. And at the end of it: a whole region swarming with hostile Bedouin."

"It is somewhat daunting. May I ask where the order came from?"

"Yes, I dare say you can-it was from General Billot himself." Leclerc sees my grim expression; it only increases his amus.e.m.e.nt. "I think perhaps you must have slept with his wife after all!" And then when I still don't smile, he becomes serious. "Look, don't worry about it, my dear fellow. Obviously it's a mistake. I've already sent him a telegram reminding him that this was the very spot where Mores was ambushed barely a year ago."

"And has he responded?"

"Not yet, no."

"General, I don't think this is a mistake." He looks at me and c.o.c.ks his head, puzzled. I continue, "When I was in Paris, I had command of the secret intelligence section of the General Staff. In that capacity I made certain discoveries that revealed there was a traitor in the army, and that it was he who had committed the crimes for which Captain Dreyfus was condemned."

"Did you, by G.o.d?"

"I brought this to the attention of my superiors, including General Billot, with a recommendation that we should arrest the real spy. They refused."

"Even though you had proof?"

"It would have meant admitting that Dreyfus was innocent. And that would have exposed-well, let us say certain irregularities in the way his case was handled."

Leclerc holds up his finger to stop me. "Hold on. I'm a slow fellow-too many years in the sun. Let me be clear about this. Are you suggesting that the minister wants to send you on this hazardous mission because he hopes to get rid of you?"

In reply I hand him La Depche tunisienne. Leclerc stares at the paper for a long time. Eventually he says, "You are the person who supplied Monsieur Scheurer-Kestner with his information, I take it?"

I reply with the formula agreed with Louis. "I have not given him any facts myself, General."

"And presumably this was why you were so keen to go to Paris in the summer?"

Again I seek refuge in evasion. "I am profoundly sorry if I've caused you embarra.s.sment. I was being threatened with disciplinary action if I dared to protest at my treatment. I felt I had to go back to Paris to talk to my lawyer."

"This is completely unacceptable behaviour, Colonel."

"I understand, General, and I apologise. I didn't know what else I could do."

"No, not your behaviour-Billot's behaviour is unacceptable. And these people have the nerve to feel superior to the Africans!" He gives me back my newspaper. "Unfortunately I can't countermand a direct order from the head of the army, but I can obstruct it. Go back to Sousse and pretend to get yourself ready to go south. In the meantime I'll see what I can do. In 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 Depche 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 Pet.i.t Parisien and the rest are pa.s.sed 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 Mores 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 Depche 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. Meline, 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 predawn 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 sc.r.a.ps 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 back to the telegraph office and asking them to repeat it?"

He returns later in the morning. "There is no doubt, Colonel," he says. "They checked in Paris: the text is accurate. Also, this has just arrived for you, redirected from Tunis." He gives me a letter. On the envelope, which is marked "urgent," my name is misspelt "Piquart." I vaguely recognise the handwriting. Here it comes: the second shot.

"Thank you, Jemel."

I wait until he has gone before I open it.

Colonel, I have received an anonymous letter informing me that you have organised an abominable plot to subst.i.tute me for Dreyfus. The letter alleges, among other things, that you have bribed junior officers to obtain samples of my handwriting; I know this to be true. It is also alleged that you took from the Ministry of War doc.u.ments entrusted to you in good faith in order to compose a secret dossier which you have pa.s.sed to friends of the traitor. This I also know to be true, as I have today been given a doc.u.ment from this file.

Despite the evidence I still hesitate to believe that a senior officer in the French army could be party to such a monstrous conspiracy against one of his comrades.

It is unthinkable that you will not provide me with a frank and clear explanation.

Esterhazy A letter of complaint from the traitor, in the same hand in which he wrote the bordereau-one almost has to admire the impudence of the fellow! And then the questions start to a.s.sail me. How does he know my name? Or that I am in Tunis? Or that I have obtained samples of his handwriting? Presumably from the author of this alleged "anonymous letter." And who could be the author of such a letter? Henry? Is this where the logic of the General Staff's position has led them-actually to helping the guilty man evade justice as the only means of keeping the innocent man imprisoned? I fetch out the telegram. We have proof that the bleu was forged by Georges. Blanche. What are they up to?

The next day Jemel brings me another telegram, another menacing riddle: Stop the DemiG.o.d. Everything is discovered. Extremely serious matter. Speranza. This message was sent from the rue la Fayette post office in Paris, and actually on the same day as the Blanche telegram, but it has taken an extra twenty-four hours to reach me because, like Esterhazy's letter, it was wrongly addressed to me in Tunis.

I have never met anyone called Speranza-I know it only as the Italian word for "hope"-but "the DemiG.o.d" is Blanche's nickname for our mutual friend and fellow Wagnerian Captain William Lallemand. And the only person connected to the Statistical Section who is likely to know that obscure fact from our circle is Blanche's former lover, du Paty.

Du Paty. Yes-of course-the moment the name comes into my mind it is obvious: du Paty has been drafted in to help devise this sinister production; his decayed Gothic style, part Dumas, part Fleurs du Mal, is inimitable. But whereas a year or two ago I would have laughed off any threat from so ludicrous a figure, now I know differently. Now I have seen what he is capable of. And that is when I realise I am being fitted for the same convict's outfit as Dreyfus.

-- The echo of the next detonation, on Wednesday, 17 November, is sufficient to shake even the sleepy palms of the Sousse Military Club: DREYFUS'S BROTHER NAMES "THE REAL TRAITOR." Paris, 2h. Here is the text of the letter which the brother of Dreyfus has sent to the Minister of War: "Monsieur le Minister, The only basis for the accusation against my brother is an unsigned, undated letter establishing that confidential doc.u.ments were delivered to an agent of a foreign power. I have the honour to inform you that the author of that doc.u.ment is M. le comte Walsin Esterhazy, an infantry major suspended from active service since last spring for reasons of temporary ill health. The handwriting of Major Esterhazy is identical with that of this doc.u.ment. I cannot doubt, Minister, that once you know the perpetrator of the treason for which my brother has been convicted you will act swiftly to see that justice is done. With the deepest respect, Mathieu Dreyfus."

I read it after lunch and then retreat to the window, where I pretend to be immersed in my novel. Behind me the Depche is pa.s.sed from hand to hand. "Well," says one officer, "there you go-that's the Jews for you-they stick together and they don't let up." Another says, "I must say, I feel sorry for this fellow Esterhazy." Then a third, the captain who l.u.s.ted after Savignaud, chimes in: "You see here it says that Esterhazy has written to General Billot? 'I have read in this morning's papers the infamous accusation brought against me. I ask you to order an inquiry, and I am ready to reply to all the charges.' " "Good for him," rejoins the first, "but what chance does he stand against all that Jewish gold?" The captain: "That's true enough-perhaps we should raise a subscription for poor old Esterhazy? Put me down for twenty francs."

The following day I go for a long ride along the coast to clear my head. Far out to sea, immense clouds are rolling north, trailing funeral draperies of rain. It is the start of the wettest season. I spur my mount and gallop towards the thousand-year-old watchtower of the Ribat in Monastir, a distance of perhaps fifteen kilometres. As I come closer, it stands out pale against the darkening sea. I consider riding into the little fishing port. But the sky is now as black as squid's ink, and sure enough, as I turn for home the cloud overhead splits like a slashed sac and a drenching cold rain begins to fall.

When I reach the base I go straight to my quarters to change. The door, which I had made sure to lock, is open and I enter to find Jemel standing guiltily in the middle of my sitting room. A few seconds earlier and I would have caught him mid-search, but now I look around and can see nothing out of place.

I say curtly, "Fetch me some water; I need a bath."

"Yes, Colonel."

By the time I reach the Military Club I am too late for lunch, and I can tell from the instant I enter that something momentous has happened. Conversations cease as I walk towards my normal place. Several of the older officers quickly finish their drinks and leave. Today's Depche has been placed carefully, pointedly, on my armchair, folded to a story on the front page.

ESTERHAZY ACCUSES COLONEL PICQUART. Paris, 10h 35m. In an interview in Le Matin, Esterhazy says: "Everything that has happened is the responsibility of Colonel Picquart. He is a friend of the Dreyfus family. He opened an investigation against me fifteen months ago when he was in the Ministry of War. He wanted to destroy me. M. Scheurer-Kestner has been given all his information by Picquart's lawyer, Matre Leblois, who went to the colonel's office and was shown secret files. The colonel's behaviour was considered so appalling by his superiors he was sent in disgrace to Tunisia."

I have never before had my name printed in a newspaper. I picture all the people I know, my friends and family in France, coming upon it unawares. What will they think? I am supposed to be a spy, a man in the shadows. Now a searchlight has picked me out.

And there is more: CHEZ MATRE LEBLOIS. According to Le Matin: "At midnight, after our interview with Major Esterhazy, we go to the door of Matre Leblois, advocate of the court of appeal-96, rue de l'Universite-but the door is closed. We ring again. The door doesn't open. But from the interior comes a voice: 'Who's there? What do you want?' We explain the reason for our visit: that Major Esterhazy has formally alleged that he, Matre Leblois, provided the dossier to M. Scheurer-Kestner based on doc.u.ments furnished by Colonel Picquart. The voice becomes more menacing: 'What can I tell you? I am bound by a professional vow of silence. I have nothing to say, absolutely nothing. But I recommend you do not name Colonel Picquart. Now, good night and don't come back!' "

By the time I finish reading and look round, the clubroom is empty.

That evening I receive another telegram: I find it pushed under my door. But this one is quite unambiguous: Evacuate your quarters in Sousse immediately on a.s.sumption you will not be returning and report to me at General Headquarters. Signed Leclerc.

In Tunis I am given a small room on the second floor of the main barracks. I lie on the bed and listen to the symphony of male inst.i.tutional life-the shouts and sudden bursts of whistling, the clanging of doors and heavy footsteps. I think about Pauline. She has gone very quiet over the last few weeks. I wonder what she will have made of the references to me in the press-that I am in the pay of the Jews; that I was shipped off to Tunisia "in disgrace." I write her a letter.

Tunis 20 November 1897 Ma cherie, What with all my comings and goings between Sousse and here, I receive mail very irregularly. Perhaps there are other causes for this. Anyway, it's boring and sad not to hear from you. Don't be afraid to write to me even if it's only two words. I'm fine, but I have to make sure your life is not compromised. Poor little girl-here I am for the first time with my life laid out in the papers! I have the disadvantage that I am attacked without having the right or the will to defend myself through the same medium. Finally all this will end. I shall write no more now, but I hold you in my heart with all my love.

I set down my pen and read the letter through. It seems to me very stilted. But then how inhibiting it is to know that one's love letters will by steamed open and read by men in offices, and copied and placed on file.

PS I am very calm and will not be hurt. You see that grave circ.u.mstances cannot scare me. The only thing that concerns me is your emotion while reading this.

I don't sign it or write her name on the envelope, and I pay a soldier a franc to post it for me.

Leclerc receives me in his office at the end of the day. His garden is in darkness. He looks weary. He has a stack of telegrams on one side of his desk and a pile of newspapers on the other. He invites me to sit. "I have a list of questions I have been instructed to ask you, Colonel, sent to me by the Minister of War. Such as: have you ever given any secret information to a person or persons outside the army?"

"No, General."

He makes a note.

"Have you ever forged or otherwise altered any confidential doc.u.ments?"

"No, General."

"Have you ever asked a subordinate, or subordinates, to forge or alter confidential doc.u.ments?"

"No, General."

"Have you ever allowed a woman access to secret doc.u.ments?"

"A woman?"

"Yes. Apparently this Major Esterhazy has claimed he was pa.s.sed secret information by an unknown woman wearing a veil."

A veiled lady! Another du Paty touch ...

"No, General, I have not shown doc.u.ments to a woman, veiled or unveiled."

"Good. I shall telegraph Paris accordingly. In the meantime I am to inform you that the Minister of War has ordered an internal inquiry into this whole affair, under General de Pellieux, Military Commander of the Departement of the Seine. You are instructed to return to France to give evidence. An official from the Colonial Ministry will escort you." He closes the file. "And that, I think, concludes our business together, Colonel."

He stands. I follow suit.

He says, "I wouldn't describe it as having been a pleasure exactly to have you under my command, but it has certainly been interesting." We shake hands. He puts his arm around my shoulders and escorts me to the door. He smells strongly of eau de cologne. "I was talking to Colonel Dubuch the other night. He says this Esterhazy character is a thoroughly bad lot. He was out here in '82 and was charged with embezzlement in Sfax. There was a board of inquiry, but somehow he got off."

"It doesn't surprise me, General."

"You must be up against some pretty desperate opposition, Picquart, if they're willing to tie themselves to a character like that. May I give you some advice?"

"Please."

"Don't stand too close to the railings on the ship back to France."

18.

The pa.s.sage across the Mediterranean in November is much rougher than in June. One moment the porthole shows grey sky, the next grey waves. My Russian books slide off my little table and splay out on the floor. As before, I keep mostly to my cabin. Occasionally I am visited by my escort, Monsieur Perier of the Colonial Ministry, but he is very green and prefers to keep to his own quarters. On my rare excursions above decks I follow Leclerc's advice and keep well away from the edge. I enjoy the lash of the sea across my face, the smell of the coal smoke mingled with the salt spray. Occasionally I am aware of some of the other pa.s.sengers staring at me, but I am not sure whether they are police agents, or have merely heard that a person whose name is in the news is aboard.