An Officer and a Spy

by Robert Harris

  ‘I’ll challenge him on those three points.’ Labori is making rapid notes. ‘But we’re not saying that he knew all along that Dreyfus was innocent?’

  ‘Not at the very beginning. But when Dreyfus refused to confess, and they realised that the only thing they had against him was the handwriting of the bordereau – that was when they started to panic, in my view, and to fabricate the evidence.’

  ‘And you think Mercier knew of this?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Because at the beginning of November, the Foreign Ministry broke an Italian cipher telegram that showed that Panizzardi had never even heard of Dreyfus.’

  Labori, still writing, raises his eyebrows. ‘And this was shown to Mercier?’

  ‘Yes. The decrypt was handed to him personally.’

  Labori stops writing and sits back in his chair, tapping his pencil against his notebook. ‘So he must have been aware more than a month before the court martial that the “lowlife D” letter couldn’t refer to Dreyfus?’ I nod. ‘Yet he went ahead anyway and showed it to the judges, along with a commentary pointing out its importance in proving Dreyfus’s guilt?’

  ‘And he was still maintaining the same position yesterday. The man is quite shameless.’

  ‘So what did the Statistical Section do with the Italian telegram? Presumably they simply ignored it?’

  ‘No, worse: they destroyed the original War Ministry copy and substituted a false version which implied the opposite – that Panizzardi knew all about Dreyfus.’

  ‘And Mercier is ultimately responsible for this?’

  ‘That is my belief, after months of thinking about it. There are plenty of others with dirty hands – Sandherr, Gonse, Henry – but Mercier was the driving force. He was the one who should have halted the proceedings against Dreyfus the moment he saw that telegram. But he knew it would do him terrible damage politically, whereas if he brought off a successful prosecution he might just ride it all the way to the Élysée. It was a stupid delusion, but then he’s fundamentally a dim man.’

  Labori resumes writing. ‘And what about this other document from the secret file he quoted yesterday – the report by the Sûreté officer, Guénée – can I tackle him on that?’

  ‘It was falsified, without a doubt. Guénée claimed to have been told by the Spanish military attaché, the marquis de Val Carlos, that the Germans had a spy in the intelligence section. Henry swore Val Carlos told him the same story three months later and he used it against Dreyfus at the original court martial. But look at the language: it’s all wrong. I raised it with Guénée soon after I discovered it. I never saw a man look so shifty.’

  ‘Should we summon Val Carlos as a witness? Ask him to confirm if he ever said it?’

  ‘You could try, although I’m sure he’d plead diplomatic immunity. Why don’t you call Guénée?’

  ‘Guénée died five weeks ago.’

  I look at him in surprise. ‘Died of what?’

  ‘Of “cerebral congestion”, according to the medical certificate, whatever that may be.’ Labori shakes his large head. ‘Sandherr, Henry, Lemercier-Picard and Guénée – that secret file turned out to be a blood pact.’

  I rise at five on Monday morning, shave and dress carefully. My gun lies on the night stand beside my bed. I pick it up, weigh it in my hand, ponder it, then put it away in the chest of drawers.

  A gentle knock at my door; Edmond’s voice: ‘Georges, are you ready?’

  As well as lunch and dinner, Edmond and I have also taken to having breakfast at Les Trois Marches. We eat omelettes and baguettes in the small parlour. Across the road, the shutters of Mercier’s house remain tightly shut. A gendarme wanders up and down outside it, yawning.

  At a quarter to six, we begin to descend the hill. The sky is filled with rain clouds for the first time; their greyness matches the stone buildings of the quiet town; the air is cooler, glassy. Shortly before we reach the canal there comes from behind us a shout of ‘Good morning, gentlemen!’ and I turn and see Labori hurrying to catch us up. He is wearing a dark suit and a straw boater and swinging a large black briefcase.

  ‘We shall have some amusement today, I think.’

  He seems in an excellent mood, like a sportsman eager to get into the arena. He joins us and walks between us, I to his right and Edmond to his left, along the wide dirt path beside the canal. He asks me some last-minute detail about Mercier – ‘Was Boisdeffre present in the room when the Minister ordered Sandherr to disperse the secret file?’ – and I am on the point of replying when I hear a noise at our backs. I suspect an eavesdropper and half turn.

  Someone is there all right – a big, youngish fellow, red hair, black jacket, white cap – with a revolver pointing from his hand. There is a tremendous bang that sends the ducks scattering across the water, crying in alarm. Labori says in mystification, ‘Oh, oh, oh . . .’ and drops to one knee, as if winded. I put out my hand as he topples forward on to his face, his briefcase still in his hand.

  My first instinct is to kneel and try to support him. He sounds more puzzled than in pain: ‘Oh, oh . . .’ There is a hole in his jacket almost in the dead centre of his back. I look round to see the assassin about a hundred metres away, running away along the side of the canal. A different instinct – a soldier’s instinct – kicks in.

  I say to Edmond, ‘Stay here.’

  I set off in pursuit of the gunman. After a few seconds I am aware of Edmond running behind me. He shouts, ‘Georges, be careful!’

  I yell over my shoulder, ‘Go back to Labori!’ and lengthen my stride, pumping my arms.

  Edmond runs for a little longer then gives up the chase. I put my head down, forcing myself to go faster. I am gaining on my quarry. Exactly what I will do if I get my hands on him, given that he presumably has five bullets left and I am unarmed, I am not sure: I will deal with that situation when it arises. In the meantime, there are bargemen up ahead and I shout out to them to grab the assassin. They look to see what is happening, drop their ropes and block his path.

  I am close now – twenty metres perhaps – close enough to see him point his gun at them and hear him scream, ‘Get out of my way! I’ve just killed Dreyfus!’

  Whether it’s the gun or the boast, it does the trick. They stand aside and he runs on, and when I race past them, I have to hurdle a foot that is stuck out to trip me over.

  Abruptly the houses and the factories fall away and we are into open Breton country. Beyond the canal to my right I can see the railway line and a train steaming into the station; to my left are fields with cows and distant woodland. The gunman suddenly leaves the towpath, darts off to the left and heads towards the trees. A year ago I would have caught him. But all those months in prison have done for me. I am out of breath, have cramp, my heart feels strange. I leap a ditch and land badly, and by the time I reach the edge of the wood he has had plenty of time to conceal himself. I find a stout stick and crash around in the undergrowth for half an hour, slashing at the ferns, startling pheasants, conscious all the while that I might be in his sights, until at last the silence of the trees defeats me and I make my way, limping, back to the canal.

  I have to walk back more than three kilometres and so I miss the immediate aftermath of the shooting. Edmond describes it all for me later: how, when he returned to Labori, the great advocate had somehow managed to drag his body on top of his briefcase in order to deter various individuals who had recognised him and were trying to steal his notes; how Marguerite Labori had rushed to the scene wearing a black and white summer dress, and had cradled her husband in her lap, trying to keep him cool with the aid of a small Japanese fan; how he had lain on his side with his arm around her, talking calmly, but scarcely shedding blood – an ominous sign as it often suggests the bleeding is internal; how a shutter had been fetched and four soldiers had heaved Labori on to it and carried the giant with difficulty back to his lodgings; how the doctor had examined him and announced that the bullet was lod
ged between the fifth and sixth ribs, millimetres from his spine, and the situation was grave – the patient was unable to move his leg; how Labori’s fellow advocate, Demange, had hurried over from the courtroom along with his assistants to find out what was happening; how Labori had grasped his colleague’s hand and said, ‘Old chap, I’m going to die perhaps, but Dreyfus is safe’; and how everyone had remarked on the way that Dreyfus in court had received the news of his lawyer’s shooting without the slightest change in his facial expression.

  By the time I get back, which must be nearly an hour after the attack, the scene of the assault is oddly deserted, as if nothing has happened. At Labori’s lodgings his landlady tells me he has been taken to the house of Victor Basch, a Dreyfusard professor at the local university, who lives in the rue d’Antrain, the same street as Les Trois Marches. I walk up the hill to find a group of journalists in the road outside and a pair of gendarmes guarding the door. Inside, Labori has been laid out, unconscious by now, on a mattress in a downstairs room, and Marguerite is beside him, holding his hand. His face is deathly white. The doctor has summoned a surgeon, who has not yet arrived; his own interim opinion is that it is too dangerous to operate and that the bullet is best left where it is: the next twenty-four hours will be crucial in showing the extent of the damage.

  There is a police inspector in the front parlour, questioning Edmond. I give him my description of the attacker, the chase and the location of the wood into which he ran. ‘Cesson Forest,’ says the inspector. ‘I’ll have it searched,’ and he goes out into the hall to speak to one of his men.

  While he is out of the room, Edmond says, ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Disgusted at my physical fitness; otherwise fine.’ I pound the arm of my chair in frustration. ‘If only I had been carrying my gun – I’d have brought him down easily.’

  ‘Was it Labori he was after, or you?’

  I hadn’t thought of that. ‘Oh, Labori – I’m sure of it. They must have been desperate to stop him cross-examining Mercier. We’ll need to find a replacement for him when the trial resumes.’

  Edmond looks stricken. ‘My God, didn’t you hear? Jouaust would only agree to an adjournment of forty-five minutes. Demange has had to go back to examine Mercier.’

  ‘But Demange isn’t prepared! He doesn’t know the questions to ask!’

  It is a disaster. I hurry out of the house, past the journalists, down the slope towards the lycée. It is starting to rain. Huge, warm drops explode on the street stones, filling the air with a fragrance of moist dust. Several of the reporters set off after me. They trot alongside asking questions and somehow managing to write down my answers.

  ‘So the assassin is still at large?’

  ‘As far as I know.’

  ‘Do you think he’ll be caught?’

  ‘He could be – whether he will be is another question.’

  ‘Do you think the army is behind it?’

  ‘I hope not.’

  ‘You don’t rule it out?’

  ‘Let me put it this way: I think it curious that in a town filled with five thousand police and soldiers, an assassin is able to gun down Dreyfus’s advocate and melt away without apparent difficulty.’

  That is what they want to hear. At the entrance to the lycée they peel away and run off in the direction of the Bourse de Commerce to telegraph their stories.

  Inside, Mercier is on the stand and I realise within a minute of taking my seat that Demange is making heavy work of questioning him. Demange is a decent, civilised man of nearly sixty with bloodhound eyes, who has faithfully represented his client for almost half a decade. But he isn’t prepared for this session, and even if he were, he lacks Labori’s forensic menace. He is, to put it bluntly, a windbag. His habit is to preface every question with a speech, giving Mercier plenty of time to think of his answer. Mercier brushes him aside with ease. Asked about the falsified Panizzardi telegram in the Ministry of War archive, he denies all knowledge of it; asked why he didn’t place the telegram in the secret dossier and show it to the judges, he says it is because the Foreign Ministry wouldn’t have liked it. After a few more minutes of this he is allowed to step down. As he walks back up the aisle, his glance flickers in my direction. He stops and bends down to speak to me, holds out his hand. He knows the entire courtroom is watching us. He says, with great solicitation, loud enough for half the audience to hear, ‘Monsieur Picquart, this is the most appalling news. How is Maître Labori’s condition?’

  ‘The bullet is still inside him, General. We will know better tomorrow.’

  ‘It is a profoundly shocking incident. Will you be sure to give Madame Labori my best wishes for her husband’s recovery?’

  ‘Certainly, General.’

  His strange sea-green eyes hold mine, and for a fractional instant I glimpse the shadow, like a fin in the water, of his dull malevolence, and then he nods and moves away.

  The following day is the Feast of the Assumption, a public holiday, and the court does not sit. Labori survives the night. His fever diminishes. There are hopes of a recovery. On Wednesday, Demange rises in court and pleads for an adjournment of two weeks, until either Labori is well enough to resume work or a new advocate can be fully briefed: Albert Clemenceau has agreed to take on the case. Jouaust turns the request down flat: the circumstances are unfortunate but the defence will have to get by as best it can.

  The first part of the morning’s session is devoted to the details of Dreyfus’s confinement on Devil’s Island, and as the terrible harshness of the regime is described, even the prosecution witnesses – even Boisdeffre, even Gonse – have the decency to look embarrassed at the catalogue of torments inflicted in the name of justice. But when, at the end, Jouaust asks the accused if he has any comment to make, Dreyfus merely responds stiffy, ‘I am here to defend my honour and that of my children. I shall say nothing of the tortures I have been made to undergo.’ He prefers the army’s hatred to its pity. What seems to be coldness, I realise, is partly a determination not to be a victim; I respect him for it.

  On Thursday, I am called to give evidence.

  I walk to the front of the court, and climb the two steps to the raised platform, conscious of the silence that has fallen behind me in the crowded court. I feel no nervousness, just a desire to get it done. Before me is a railing with a shelf, on which witnesses can place their notes or military caps; beyond that the stage and the row of judges – two colonels, three majors and two captains – and to my left, sitting barely two metres away, Dreyfus. How curious it is to stand there close enough to shake his hand, and yet not to be able to speak to him! I try to forget his presence as I stare firmly ahead and swear to tell the complete truth.

  Jouaust begins, ‘Did you know the accused before the events for which he is charged?’

  ‘Yes, Colonel.’

  ‘How did you know him?’

  ‘I was a professor at the École Supérieure de Guerre when Dreyfus was a pupil.’

  ‘Your relations went no further than that?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘You were not his mentor, or his ally?’

  ‘No, Colonel.’

  ‘You were not in his service, nor he in yours?’

  ‘No, Colonel.’

  Jouaust makes a note.

  Only now do I risk a brief sidelong glance at Dreyfus. He has been so long at the centre of my existence, has changed my destiny so utterly, has grown so large in my imagination, that I suppose it would be impossible for the man to be the equal of all he represents. Even so, it is strange to contemplate this quiet stranger who, if I had to guess, I would say was a retired minor official from the Colonial Service, blinking at me through his pince-nez as if we have just happened to find ourselves in the same railway compartment on a very long journey.

  I am recalled to the present by Jouaust’s dry voice saying, ‘Describe the events as you know them . . .’ and I look away.

  My evidence takes up the whole of the day’s session, and most o
f the next. There is no point in my describing it again – petit bleu, Esterhazy, bordereau . . . I deliver it, once more, as if it were a lecture, which in a sense it is. I am the founder of the school of Dreyfus studies: its leading scholar, its star professor – there is nothing I can be asked about my specialist field that I do not know: every letter and telegram, every personality, every forgery, every lie. Occasionally, officers of the General Staff rise like sweaty students to challenge me on specific points; I flatten them with ease. From time to time as I speak, I scan the furrowed faces of the judges in the same way that I used once to survey those of my pupils, and wonder how much of this is sinking in.

  When at last Jouaust tells me to stand down and I turn and walk back to my seat, it seems to me – I may be mistaken – that Dreyfus gives me the briefest of nods and a half-smile of thanks.

  Labori’s recovery continues, and in the middle of the following week, with the bullet still lodged in the muscles of his shoulder, he returns to court. He enters accompanied by Marguerite to loud applause. He acknowledges his reception with a wave and walks to his place, where he has been provided with a large and comfortable armchair. The only obvious sign of his injury, apart from his damp and chalky pallor, is the stiffness of his left arm, which he can hardly move. Dreyfus stands as he passes and warmly shakes his good hand.

  Privately, I am not convinced that he is as fit to return to his duties as he insists he is. Gunshot injuries are something I know about. They take longer to get over than one imagines. Labori should have had an operation to have the bullet removed, in my opinion – but that would have taken him out of the trial altogether. He is in a lot of pain and isn’t sleeping. And there is also a mental trauma he is refusing to acknowledge. I can see it when he goes out into the street – the way he slightly recoils every time a stranger approaches with his hand extended, or flinches when he hears hurrying footsteps behind him. Professionally it expresses itself in a certain irritability and shortness of temper, particularly with the president of the court, whom Labori delights in goading: