The Fourth Estate (25 page)

“So who owns
Der Telegraf
now?” asked Armstrong.

“An old friend
of mine called Klaus Lauber,” said Schultz. “He was a civil servant with the Ministry
of Works. We met at a local chess club many years ago, and used to play every
Tuesday and Friday-another thing they wouldn’t allow me to continue after
Hitler came to power.

“But if Lauber
is so close a friend, he must be in a position to sell the shares back to you.”

“I suppose
that’s still possible. After all, he only paid a nominal sum for them, on the
understanding that he would return them to me once the war was over.”

“And I’m sure he
will keep his word,” said Armstrong. “Especially if he was such a close
friend.”

“I’m sure he
would too, if we hadn’t lost touch during the war. I haven’t set eyes on him
since December 1942. Like so many Germans, he’s become just another statistic.”

“But you must
know where he lived,” said Armstrong, tapping his swagger stick lightly on the
side of his leg.

“His family were
moved out of Berlin soon after the bombing started, which was when I lost
contact with him. Heaven knows where he is now,” he added with a sigh.

Dick felt he had
gleaned all the information he required. “So, what’s happening about that
article on the opening of the new airport?” he asked, changing the subject.

“We already have
a photographer out at the site, and I thought I’d send a reporter to
interview...” Schultz continued dutifully, but Armstrong’s mind was elsewhere.
As soon as he was back at his desk he asked Sally to call the Allied Control
Commission and find out who owned
Der
Telegraf
.

“I’ve always
assumed it was Arno,” she said.

“Me too,” said
Armstrong, “but apparently not. He was forced to sell his shares to a Klaus
Lauber soon after Hitler came to power. So I need to know: one, does Lauber
still own the shares? Two, if he does, is he still alive? And three, if he’s
still alive, where the hell is he? And Sally, don’t mention this to anyone.
That includes Lieutenant Wakeham.”

It took Sally
three days to confirm that Major Klaus Otto Lauber was still registered with
the Allied Control Commission as the legal owner of
Der Telegraf
.

“But is he still
alive?” asked Armstrong.

“Very much so,”
said Sally “And what’s more, he’s holed up in Wales.”

“in Wales?”
echoed Armstrong. “How can that be?”

“it seems that
Major Lauber is presently being held in an internment camp just outside
Bridgend, where he’s spent the last three years, since being captured while
serving with Rommel’s Afrika Korps.”

“What else have
you been able to find out?” asked Armstrong.

‘That’s about
it,” said Sally. “I fear the major did not have a good war.”

“Well done,
Sally. But I still want to know anything else you can find out about him. And I
mean anything: date and place of birth, education, how long he was at the
Ministry of Works, right up to the day he arrived in Bridgend. See that you use
up every favor we’re owed, and pawn a few more if you need to. I’m off to see
Oakshott. Anything else I should be worrying about?”

‘There’s a young
journalist from the Oxford Mail hoping to see you. He’s been waiting for nearly
an hour.”

“Put him off
until tomorrow.”

“But he wrote to
you asking for an appointment, and you agreed to see him.”

“Put him off
until tomorrow,” Armstrong repeated.

Sally had come
to know that tone of voice, and after getting rid of Mr. Townsend she dropped
everything and set about researching the undistinguished career of Major Klaus
Lauber.

When Dick left
the office, Private Benson drove him over to the commanding officer’s quarters
on the other side of the sector.

“You do come up
with the strangest requests,” Colonel Oakshott said after he had outlined his
idea.

I think you will
find, sir, that in the long term this can only help cement better relations
between the occupying forces and the citizens of Berlin.”

“Well, Dick, I
know you understand these things far better than I do, but in this case I can’t
begin to guess how our masters will react.”

“You might point
out to them, sir, that if we can show the Germans that our prisoners of
war-their husbands, sons and fathers-are receiving fair and decent treatment at
the hands of the British, it could turn out to be a massive public relations
coup for us, especially remembering the way the Nazis treated the Jews.”

“I’ll do the
best I can,” promised the colonel. “How many camps do you want to visit?”

“I think just
one to start with,” said Armstrong. “And perhaps two or three more at some time
in the future, should my first sortie prove successful.” He smiled. “I hope
that will give’our masters’less reason to panic.”

“Do you have
anywhere in particular in mind?” asked the colonel.

“Intelligence
informs me that the ideal camp for such an exercise is probably the one a few
miles outside Bridgend.”

It took the
colonel a little longer to get Captain Armstrong’s request granted than it did
Sally to discover all there was to know about Klaus Lauber. Dick read through
her notes again and again, searching for an angle.

Lauber had been
born in Dresden in 1896. He served in the first war, rising to the rank of
captain. After the Armistice he had joined the Ministry of Works in Berlin.
Although only on the reserve list, he had been called up in December 1942, and
given the rank of major. He was shipped out to North Africa and put in charge
of a unit which built bridges and, soon afterward, of one that was ordered to
destroy them. He had been captured in March 1943 during the battle of
EI-Agheila, was shipped to Britain, and was presently held in an internment
camp just outside Bridgend. In Laubees file at the War Office in Whitehall
there was no mention of his owning any shares in
Der Telegraf
.

When Armstrong
had finished reading the notes yet again, he asked Sally a question. She
quickly checked in the Berlin Officers’ Handbook and gave him three names.

“Any of them
serving with the King’s Own or the North Staffs?” asked Armstrong.

“No,” replied
Sally, “but one is with the Royal Rifle Brigade, who use the same messing facilities
as we do.”

“Good,” said
Dick. “Then he’s our man.”

“By the way,”
said Sally, “what shall I do about the young journalist from the Oxford Maib”

Dick paused.
‘Tell him I had to visit the American sector, and that I’ll try and catch up
with him some time tomorrow.

It was unusual
for Armstrong to dine in the British officers’ mess, because with his influence
and freedom to roam the city he was always welcome in any dining hall in
Berlin. In any case, every officer knew that when it came to eating, you always
tried to find some excuse to be in the French sector. However, on that
particular Tuesday evening Captain Armstrong arrived at the mess a few minutes
after six, and asked the corporal serving behind the bar if he knew a Captain
Stephen Hallet.

“Oh yes, sir,”
the corporal replied. “Captain Hallet usually comes in around six-thirty. I
think you’ll find he works in the Legal Department,” he added, telling
Armstrong something he already knew.

Armstrong
remained at the bar, sipping a whiskey and glancing up at the entrance as each
new officer came in. He would then look inquiringly toward the corporal, who
shook his head each time, until a thin, prematurely balding man who would have
made even the smallest uniform look baggy headed toward the bar. He ordered a
Tom Collins, and the barman gave Armstrong a quick nod. Armstrong moved across
to take the stool beside him.

He introduced
himself, and quickly learned that Hallet couldn’t wait to be demobbed and get
back to Lincoln’s Inn Fields to continue his career as a solicitor.

“I’ll see if I
can help speed the process up,” said Armstrong, knowing full well that when it
came to that department he had absolutely no influence at all.

“That’s very
decent of you, old chap,” replied Hallet. “Don’t hesitate to let me know if
there’s anything I can do for you in return.”

“Shall we grab a
bite?” suggested Armstrong, slipping off his stool and guiding the lawyer
toward a quiet table for two in the corner.

After they had
ordered from the set menu and Armstrong had asked the corporal for a bottle of
wine from his private rack, he guided his companion onto a subject on which he
did need some advice.

“I understand
only too well the problems some of these Germans are facing,” said Armstrong,
as he filled his companion’s glass, “being Jewish myself.”

“You do surprise
me,” said Hallet. “But then, Captain Armstrong,” he added as he sipped the
wine, “you are obviously a man who’s full of surprises.

Armstrong looked
at his companion carefully, but couldn’t detect any signs of irony. “You may be
able to assist me with an interesting case that’s recently landed on my desk,”
he ventured.

“I’ll be
delighted to help if I possibly can,” said Hallet.

‘That’s good of
you,” said Armstrong, not touching his glass. “I was wondering what rights a German
Jew has if he sold his shares in a company to a non-Jew before the war. Can he
claim them back now the war is over?”

The lawyer
paused for a moment, and this time he did look a little puzzled.

“Only if the
person who purchased the shares is decent enough to sell them to him. Otherwise
there’s absolutely nothing they can do about it. The Nuremberg Laws of 1935, if
I remember correctly.”

“Mat doesn’t
seem fair,” was all Armstrong said.

“No,” came back the
reply, as the lawyer took another sip from his glass of wine. “it isn’t. But
that was the law at the time, and the way things are set up now, there is no
civil authority to override it. I must say, this claret is really quite
excellent. However did you manage to lay your hands on it?”

“A good friend
of mine in the French sector seems to have an endless supply. If you like, I
could send you over a dozen bottles.”

The following
morning, Colonel Oakshott received authority to allow Captain Armstrong to visit
an internment carnp in Britain at any time during the next month. “But thev
have restricted you to Bridgend,” he added.

“I quite
understand,” said Armstrong.

“And they have
also made it clear,” continued the colonel, reading from a memo pad on the desk
in front of him, “that you cannot interview more than three prisoners, and that
none of them may be above the rank of colonel-strict orders from Security.”

“I’m sure I can
manage despite those limitations,” said Armstrong.

“Let’s hope this
all proves worthwhile, Dick. I still have my doubts, you know.”

“I hope to prove
you wrong, sir.”

Once Armstrong
had returned to his office, he asked Sally to sort out his travel arrangements.

“When do you
want to go?” she asked.

“Fornorrow,” he
replied.

“Silly
question,” she said.

Sally got him on
a flight to London the next day, after a general had canceled at the last
moment, She also arranged for him to be met by a car and driver who would take
him straight to Wales.

“But captains
aren’t entitled to a car and driver,” he said when Sallv handed over his travel
documents.

“They are if the
brigadier wants his daughter’s photo on the front page of
Der Telegraf
when she visits Berlin next month.”

“Why should he
want that?” said Armstrong.

“My bet is that
he can’t get her married off in England,” said Sally. “And as I’ve discovered,
anything in a skirt is jumped on over here.”

Armstrong
laughed. “If I were paying you, Sally, you’d get a rise.

Meanwhile, keep
me informed on anything else you find out about Lauber, and again, I mean
anything.”

Over dinner that
night, Dick told Charlotte that one of the reasons he was going to Britain was
to see if he could find a job once his demob paper had been processed. Although
she forced a smile, lately she wasn’t always sure that he was telling her the
whole story. If she ever pressed him, he invariably hid behind the words “top
secret,” and tapped his nose with his forefinger, just the way he had seen
Colonel Oakshott do.

Private Benson
dropped him at the airport the following morning. A voice came over the Tannoy
in the departure lounge and announced: “Would Captain Armstrong please report
to the nearest military phone before he boards the plane.” Armstrong would have
taken the call, if his plane hadn’t already been taxiing down the runway.

When he landed
in London three hours later, Armstrong marched across the tarmac toward a
corporal leaning against a shiny black Austin and holding a placard with the
name “Captain Armstrong” printed on it. The corporal sprang to attention and
saluted the moment he spotted the officer advancing toward him.