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Statistical Section.’
    I try to hide my dismay. Espionage is grubby work. Everything I have seen of the Dreyfus case has reinforced that view. It isn’t what I joined the army to do. ‘But surely,’ I object, ‘the section already has a very able commander in Colonel Sandherr?’
    ‘He is able. But Sandherr is a sick man, and between you and me he isn’t likely to recover. Also, he’s been in the post ten years; he needs a rest. Now, Picquart, forgive me, but I have to ask you this, given the nature of the secret information you’d be handling – there isn’t anything in your past or private life that could leave you open to blackmail, is there?’
    With gathering dismay I realise my fate has already been decided, perhaps the previous afternoon when Gonse met Mercier and Boisdeffre. ‘No,’ I say, ‘not that I’m aware of.’
    ‘You’re not married, I believe?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Any particular reason for that?’
    ‘I like my own company. And I can’t afford a wife.’
    ‘That’s all?’
    ‘That’s all.’
    ‘Any money worries?’
    ‘No money.’ I shrug. ‘No worries.’
    ‘Good.’ Gonse looks relieved. ‘Then it’s settled.’
    But still I struggle against my destiny. ‘You realise the existing staff won’t like an outsider coming in – what about Colonel Sandherr’s deputy?’
    ‘He’s retiring.’
    ‘Or Major Henry?’
    ‘Oh, Henry’s a good soldier. He’ll soon knuckle down and do what’s best for the section.’
    ‘Doesn’t he want the job himself?’
    ‘He does, but he lacks the education, and the social polish for such a senior position. His wife’s father keeps an inn, I believe.’
    ‘But I know nothing about spying—’
    ‘Come now, my dear Picquart!’ Gonse is starting to become irritated. ‘You have exactly the qualities for the post. Where’s the problem? It’s true the unit doesn’t exist officially. There’ll be no parades or stories in the newspapers. You won’t be able to tell anyone what you’re up to. But everyone who’s important will know exactly what you’re doing. You’ll have daily access to the minister. And of course you’ll be promoted to colonel.’ He gives me a shrewd look. ‘How old are you?’
    ‘Forty.’
    ‘Forty! There’s no one else in the entire army of that rank at your age. Think of it: you should make general long before you’re fifty! And after that . . . You could be Chief one day.’
    Gonse knows exactly how to play me. I am ambitious, though not consumed by it, I hope: I appreciate there are other things in life besides the army – still, I would like to ride my talents as far as they will take me. I calculate: a couple of years in a job I don’t much like, and at the end of them my prospects will be golden. My resistance falters. I surrender.
    ‘When might this happen?’
    ‘Not immediately. In a few months. I’d be grateful if you didn’t mention it to anyone.’
    I nod. ‘Of course, I shall do whatever the army wants me to do. I’m grateful for your faith in me. I’ll try to prove worthy of it.’
    ‘Good man! I’m sure you will. Now I insist you have that drink that’s still sitting next to you . . .’
    And so it is settled. We toast my future. We toast the army. And then Gonse shows me out. At the door, he puts his hand on my arm and squeezes it paternally. His breath is sweet with cognac and cigarette smoke. ‘I know you think spying isn’t proper soldiering, Georges, but it is. In the modern age, this is the front line. We have to fight the Germans every day. They’re stronger than we are in men and materiel – “three-to-two”, remember! – so we have to be sharper in intelligence.’ His grip on my arm tightens. ‘Exposing a traitor like Dreyfus is as vital to France as winning a battle in the field.’
    Outside it is starting to snow again. All along the avenue Victor Hugo countless thousands of snowflakes are caught in the glow of the gas lamps. A white carpet is being laid across