An Officer and a Spy by Robert Harris Read Free Book Online

terrain – nevertheless, it takes me a moment to realise that I am looking at the rear elevation of the hôtel de Brienne, the minister’s garden. It is odd to see it from this angle.
    ‘My God,’ I say, ‘if I had a telescope, I could practically see into the minister’s office!’
    ‘Do you want me to get you one?’
    ‘No.’ I look at Henry. I can’t make out whether he’s joking. I turn back to the window and try to open it. I hit the catch a couple of times with the heel of my hand, but it has rusted shut. Already I am starting to loathe this place. ‘All right,’ I say wiping the rust off my hand, ‘I’m clearly going to rely on you a great deal, Major, certainly for the first few months. This is all very new to me.’
    ‘Naturally, Colonel. First, permit me to give you your keys.’ He holds out five, on an iron ring attached to a light chain, which I could clip to my belt. ‘This is to the front door. This is to your office door. This is your safe. This: your desk.’
    ‘And this?’
    ‘That lets you into the garden of the hôtel de Brienne. When you need to see the minister, that’s the way you go. General Mercier presented the key to Colonel Sandherr.’
    ‘What’s wrong with the front door?’
    ‘This way’s quicker. And more private.’
    ‘Do we have a telephone?’
    ‘Yes, it’s outside Captain Valdant’s room.’
    ‘What about a secretary?’
    ‘Colonel Sandherr didn’t trust them. If you need a file, ask Gribelin. If you need help copying, you can use one of the captains. Valdant can type.’
    I feel as if I have wandered into some strange religious sect, with obscure private rituals. The Ministry of War is built on the site of an old nunnery, and the officers of the General Staff on the rue Saint-Dominique are nicknamed ‘the Dominicians’ because of their secret ways. But already I can see they have nothing on the Statistical Section.
    ‘You were going to tell me what Captain Lauth was working on just now.’
    ‘We have an agent inside the German Embassy. The agent supplies us regularly with documents that have been thrown away and are supposed to go to the embassy furnace to be burned with the trash. Instead they come to us. Mostly they’ve been torn up, so we have to piece them together. It’s a skilled job. Lauth is good at it.’
    ‘This was how you first got on to Dreyfus?’
    ‘It was.’
    ‘By sticking together a torn-up letter?’
    ‘Exactly.’
    ‘My God, from such small beginnings . . .! Who is this agent?’
    ‘We always use the code name “Auguste”. The product is referred to as “the usual route”.’
    I smile. ‘All right, let me put it another way: who is “Auguste”?’ Henry is reluctant to reply, but I am determined to press him: if I am ever to get a grip on this job, I must know how the service functions from top to bottom, and the sooner the better. ‘Come now, Major Henry, I am the head of this section. You will have to tell me.’
    Reluctantly he says, ‘A woman called Marie Bastian; one of the embassy cleaners. In particular she cleans the office of the German military attaché.’
    ‘How long has she been working for us?’
    ‘Five years. I’m her handler. I pay her two hundred francs a month.’ He cannot resist adding boastfully, ‘It’s the greatest bargain in Europe!’
    ‘How does she get the material to us?’
    ‘I meet her in a church near here, sometimes every week, sometimes two – in the evenings, when it’s quiet. Nobody sees us. I take the stuff straight home.’
    ‘You take it home?’ I can’t conceal my surprise. ‘Is that safe?’
    ‘Absolutely. There’s only my wife and me, and our baby lad. I sort through it there, take a quick look at whatever’s in French – I can’t understand German: Lauth handles the German stuff here.’
    ‘I see. Good.’ Although I nod in approval, this procedure strikes me as amateurish in the extreme. But I am not going to pick a fight on my first day. ‘I have a