An Officer and a Spy

‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I didn’t mean to disturb you. I’ll come back when you’re ready.’

‘No, no.’ Embarrassed, Lauth scrambles to his feet. ‘Pardon me, Colonel, it’s just so infernally hot, and I’ve been indoors all day. .’

‘Don’t worry, my dear Lauth, I know precisely how you feel. This really is no life for a soldier, to be trapped in an office day after day. Sit, please. I insist. Do you mind if I join you?’ And without waiting for a reply I pull up a chair on the other side of his desk. ‘I wonder: could you do something for me?’ I push the two letters towards him. ‘I’d like to have these both photographed, but with the signature and the name of the addressee blocked out.’

Lauth examines the letters then glances at me in shock. ‘Esterhazy!’

‘Yes, it seems our minor spy has ambitions to become a major one. But thank goodness,’ I can’t resist adding, ‘we had our eye on him, otherwise who knows what damage he might have done.’

‘Indeed.’ Lauth gives a reluctant nod and shifts in his seat uncomfortably. ‘Might I ask, Colonel, why you need photographs of the letters?’

‘Just photograph them, if you don’t mind, Captain.’ I stand and smile at him. ‘Shall we say four prints of each by first thing tomorrow? And just for once let’s try to keep this strictly between ourselves.’

Upstairs, Gribelin has only recently returned from his annual leave — not that you would think it to look at him. His face is pallid; his eyes, beneath a green celluloid eyeshade, carry dark pouches of exhaustion. His only concession to the summer heat is shirtsleeves rolled back to his bony elbows, exposing arms as thin and white as tubers. He is bent over a file as I enter, and quickly closes it. He takes off his eyeshade.

‘I didn’t hear you coming up the stairs, Colonel.’

I hand him the photograph of the bordereau. ‘I think you should be in charge of this.’

He blinks at it in surprise. ‘Where did you find it?’

‘Colonel Sandherr had it in his safe.’

‘Ah yes, well, he was very proud of it.’ Gribelin holds the photograph at arm’s length to admire it. His tongue moistens his top lip as if he’s studying a pornographic print. ‘He told me he would have had it framed, and hung it on his wall, if regulations had allowed.’

‘A hunting trophy?’

‘Exactly.’

Gribelin unlocks the bottom left-hand drawer of his desk and fishes out his immense bunch of keys. He carries the bordereau across to a heavy old fireproof filing cabinet, which he opens. I look around. I hardly ever venture up here. Two large tables are pushed together in the centre of the room. Laid out across the scuffed brown leather surfaces are half a dozen stacks of files, a blotting pad, a strong electric lamp, a rack of rubber stamps, a brass inkstand, a hole-puncher and a row of pens — all precisely aligned. Around the walls are the locked cabinets and safes that contain the section’s secrets. There is a map of France, showing the départements. The three windows are narrow, barred and dusty, their sills encrusted with the excrement of the pigeons I can hear cooing on the roof.

‘I wonder,’ I say casually, ‘do you keep the original bordereau up here?’

Gribelin does not turn round. ‘I do.’

‘I’d like to see it.’

He glances over his shoulder at me. ‘Why?’

I shrug. ‘I’m interested.’

There is nothing he can do. He unlocks another drawer in the cabinet and retrieves one of his ubiquitous manila files. He opens it, and with some reverence retrieves from it the bordereau. It is not at all what I expected. It weighs almost nothing. The paper is flimsy onion-skin, semi-transparent, written on both sides, so that the ink from one bleeds through and shows on the other. The most substantial thing about it is the adhesive tape holding together the six torn pieces.

I say, ‘You’d never guess it looked like this from the photograph.’

‘No, it was quite a process.’ Gribelin’s normally astringent tone is softened by a touch of professional pride. ‘We had to photograph both sides and then retouch them, and then stick them together and finally re-photograph the whole image. So it came out looking like a continuous sheet of writing.’

‘How many prints did you make?’

‘Twelve. It was necessary to disguise its original state so that we could circulate it around the ministry.’

‘Yes, of course. I remember.’ I turn the bordereau back and forth, marvelling once again at Lauth’s skill. ‘I remember it very well.’

It was the first week of October 1894 when word began to spread that there might be a traitor in the Ministry. All four chiefs of department were required to check the handwriting of every officer in their section, to see if anyone’s matched the photograph. They were sworn to secrecy, allowed only to tell their deputies. Colonel Boucher devolved the job to me.