An Officer and a Spy

Finally — satisfied presumably that he must have made a mistake in locking up — he goes back into the archive and closes the door. I wait another ten minutes. Then I take off my shoes and creep past his lair in my stockinged feet.

On my walk back to my apartment I stop in the middle of the bridge and drop the roll of lock-picking tools into the Seine.

Over the next few days the Tsar tours Notre-Dame, names a new bridge after his father, banquets in Versailles.

While he goes about his business, I go about mine.

I walk over the road to see Colonel Foucault, who has come back from the Berlin embassy to witness the Imperial visit. We exchange a few pleasantries and then I ask him, ‘Did you ever hear anything from Richard Cuers after that meeting we arranged in Basel?’

‘Yes, he came and complained about it bitterly. I gather you fellows decided to give him some rough treatment. Who on earth did you send?’

‘My deputy, Major Henry; another of my officers, Captain Lauth; and a couple of policemen. Why? What did Cuers say?’

‘He said he’d made the journey in good faith, to reveal what he knew about the German agent in France, but when he got to Switzerland he felt he was treated as if he was a liar and a fantasist. There was one French officer in particular — fat, red-faced — who merely bullied him: interrupted him all the time; made it clear he didn’t believe a word of what he was saying. That was a deliberate tactic, I assume?’

‘Not that I’m aware of; not at all.’

Foucault looks at me in consternation. ‘Well, whether it was intentional or not, you won’t be hearing from Cuers again.’

I go to see Tomps at the headquarters of the Sûreté. I tell him, ‘It’s about your trip to Basel.’ Immediately he looks anxious. He doesn’t want to land anyone in any trouble. But it’s clear the episode has been preying on his mind.

‘I won’t quote you,’ I promise him. ‘Just tell me what happened.’

He doesn’t take much prompting. He seems to be relieved to get it off his chest.

‘Well, Colonel,’ he says, ‘you remember our original plan? It worked to the letter. I followed Cuers from the German railway station to the cathedral, saw him make contact with my colleague Vuillecard then followed the pair of them to the Schweizerhof, where Major Henry and Captain Lauth were ready for him upstairs. After that I went back to the bar at the station to wait. I guess it must have been about three hours later that Henry suddenly came in and ordered a drink. I asked him how it was going and he said, “I’ve had enough of this bastard” — you know how he talks — “there’s nothing we can learn from him, I’ll bet a month’s salary on it.” I said, “Well, what are you doing back here so early?” And he said, “Oh, I played Mr Big, pretended to get angry and finally walked out of there. I left him with Lauth: let the young fellow have a try!” Obviously I was disappointed with the sound of how this was going, so I said, “You know I’m an old acquaintance of Cuers? You know he likes a lot of absinthe? He really loves a drink. That might have been a better approach. If Captain Lauth can’t get anywhere, do you want me to have a try?”’

‘And what did Major Henry say to that?’

Tomps continues his passable impersonation of Henry. ‘“No,” he says, “it’s not worth the trouble. Forget it.” Then at six, when Captain Lauth had finished his session and turned up at the station, I asked Henry again: “Listen, I know Cuers well. Why don’t you let me take him out for a drink?” But he just repeated what he’d said before: “No, it’s useless. We’re wasting our time here.” So we caught the night train to Paris and that was that.’

Back in my office, I open a file on Henry. That Henry is the man who framed Dreyfus I have no doubt.

Code-breaking isn’t the province of the Statistical Section, or even the Ministry of War. It is run out of the Foreign Ministry by a seven-man team whose presiding genius is Major Étienne Bazeries. The major is famous in the newspapers for having broken the Great Cipher of Louis XIV and revealed the identity of the Man in the Iron Mask. He conforms to every cliché of the eccentric prodigy — unkempt, abrupt, forgetful — and is not an easy man to get to see. Twice I visit the quai d’Orsay on the pretext of other business and try to find him, only to be told by his staff that no one knows where he is. It is not until the end of the month that I track him to his office. He is in his shirtsleeves, bent over his desk with a screwdriver and a cylindrical enciphering device which lies all around him in pieces. In theory I am his superior officer, but Bazeries doesn’t salute or even stand; he has never believed in rank, just as he doesn’t believe in haircuts or shaving or even, to judge by the atmosphere in his office, washing.

‘The Dreyfus affair,’ I say to him. ‘The telegram from the Italian military attaché, Major Panizzardi, sent to the General Staff in Rome on the second of November 1894.’

He squints up at me through greasy spectacles. ‘What about it?’

‘You broke it?’