The Fourth Estate (29 page)

1 assume his
wife does.”

“No, it’s more
likely to be Arno Schultz. In which case I’m wasting my time – so the sooner we
find out, the better.”

“But I wouldn’t
know where to begin.”

“Try the Ministry
of the Interior. Once Laubees body was returned to Germany, it became their
responsibility.”

Sally looked
doubtful.

“Use up every
favor we’re owed,” said Armstrong, “and promise anything in return, but find me
that will.” He turned to leave. “Right, I’m off to see Hallet.”

Armstrong left
without another word, and was driven to the British officers’ mess by Benson.
He took the stool at the corner of the bar and ordered a whiskey, checking his
watch every few minutes.

Stephen Hallet
strolled in a few moments after sixthirty had chimed on the grandfather clock
in the hall. When he saw Armstrong, he smiled broadly and joined him at the
bar.

“Dick. Thank you
so much for that case of the MoutonRothschild ‘29. It really is quite
excellent. I must confess I’m trying to ration it until my demob papers come
through.”

Armstrong
smiled. “Then we’ll just have to see if we can’t somehow arrange a more regular
supply. Why don’t you join me for dinner? Then we can find out why they’re
making such a fuss about the Chateau Beychevelle’33.”

Over a burnt
steak, Captain Hallet experienced the Beychevelle for the first time, while
Arrnstrong found out all he needed to know about probate, and why Lauber’s
shares would automatically go to Mrs. Lauber, as his next of kin, it no will
was discovered.

“But what if
she’s dead too?” asked Armstrong as the steward uncorked a second bottle.

“If she’s dead,
or can’t be traced-” Hallet sipped his refilled glass, and the smile returned
to his lips “ – -the original owner would have to wait five years. After that
he would probably be able to put in a claim for the shares.”

Because
Armstrong was unable to take notes, he found himself repeating questions to
make sure he had all the salient information committed to memory. This didn’t
seem to worry Hallet, who, Armstrong suspected, knew exactly what he was up to
but wasn’t going to ask too many questions as long as someone kept on filling
his glass. Once Armstrong was sure he fully understood the legal position, he
made some excuse about having promised his wife he wouldn’t be home late, and
left the lawyer with a half-full bottle.

After he left
the mess, Armstrong made no attempt to return home. He didn’t feel like
spending anotherevening explaining to Charlotte why it was taking so long for his
demob papers to be processed when several of their friends had already returned
to Blighty. Instead he ordered a tired-looking Benson to drive him to the
American sector.

His first call
was on Max Sackville, with whom he stopped to play a couple of hours of poker.
Armstrong lost a few dollars but gained some useful information about American
troop movements, which he knew Colonel Oakshott would be grateful to hear
about.

He left Max soon
after he had lost enough to ensure that he would be invited back again, and
strolled across the road and down an alley before dropping into his favorite
bar in the American sector. He joined a group of officers who were celebrating
their imminent return to the States. A few whiskies later he left the bar,
having added to his store of information.

But he would
happily have traded everything he’d picked up for one glance at Lauber’s will.
He didn’t notice a sober man, wearing civilian clothes, get up and follow him
out onto the street.

He was heading
back toward his jeep when a voice behind him said, “Lubji.”

Armstrong
stopped dead in his tracks, feeling slightly sick. He swung round to face a man
who must have been about his own age, though much shorter and stockier than he
was. He was dressed in a plain gray suit, white shirt and dark blue tie. In the
unlit street Armstrong couldn’t make out the man’s features.

“You must be a
Czech,” said Armstrong quietly.

“No, Lubji, I am
not.”

“Then you’re a
bloody German,” said Armstrong, clenching his fists and advancing toward him.

“Wrong again,”
said the man, not flinching.

“Then who the
hell are you?”

“Let’s just say
I’m a friend.”

“But I don’t
even know you,” said Armstrong. “Why don’t you stop playing games and tell me
what the hell you want.”

“Just to help
you,” said the man quietly.

“And how do you
propose doing that?” snarled Armstrong.

The man smiled.
“By producing the will you seem so determined to get your hands on.”

“The will?” said
Armstrong nervously.

“Ah, I see I have
finally touched what the British describe as a’raw nerve’.” Armstrong stared
down at the man as he placed a hand in his pocket and took out a card. “Why
don’t you visit me when you’re next in the Russian sector?” he said, handing
over his card.

In the dim
light, Armstrong couldn’t read the name on the card. When he looked up, the man
had disappeared into the night.

He walked on a
few paces until he came to a gas light, then looked down at the card again.

MAJOR S.
TULPANOV

Diplomatic
Attacbe Leninplatz, Russian sector When Armstrong saw Colonel Clakshott the
following morning, he reported everything that had happened in the American
sector the previous evening and handed over Major Tulpanov’s card. The only
thing he didn’t mention was that Tulpanov had addressed him as Lubji. Clakshott
jotted down some notes on the pad in front of him. “Don’t mention this to
anyone until I’ve made one or two inquiries,” he said.

Armstrong was
surprised to receive a call soon after he returned to his office: the colonel
wanted him to return to headquarters immediately. He was quickly driven back
across the sector by Benson. When he walked into Oakshott’s room for the second
time that morning, he found his commanding officer flanked by two men he had
never seen before, in civilian clothes.

They introduced
themselves as Captain Woodhouse and Major Forsdyke.

“it looks as if
you’ve hit the jackpot with this one, Dick,” said Clakshott, even before
Armstrong had sat down. “It seems your Major Tulpanov is with the KGB. In fact
we think he’s their number three in the Russian sector. He’s considered to be a
rising star. These two gentlemen,” he said, “are with the security service.
They would like you to take up Tulpanov’s suggestion of a visit, and report
back everything you can find out, right down to the brand of cigarettes he
smokes.”

1 could go
across this afternoon,” said Armstrong.

“No,” said
Forsdyke firmly. “That would be far too obvious. We would prefer you to wait a
week or two and make it look more like a routine visit. If you turn up too
quickly, he’s bound to become suspicious. It’s his job to be suspicious, of
course, but why make it easy for him? Report to my office on Franklinstrasse at
eight tomorrow morning, and I’ll see that you’re fully briefed.”

Armstrong spent
the next ten mornings being taken through routine procedures by the security
service. It quickly became clear that they didn’t consider him a natural
recruit. After all, his knowledge of England was confined to a transit camp in
Liverpool, a period as a private soldier in the Pioneer Corps, graduation to
the ranks of the North Staffordshire Regiment and a journey through the night
to Portsmouth, before being shipped to France. Most of the officers who briefed
him would have considered Eton, Trinity and the Guards a more natural
qualification for the career they had chosen. “God is not on our side with this
one,”

Forsdyke sighed
over lunch with his colleague. They hadn’t even considered inviting Armstrong
to join them.

Despite these
misgivings, ten days later Captain Armstrong visited the Russian sector on the
pretext of trying to find some spare parts for
Der Telegraf
s printing presses. Once he had confirmed that his
contact didn’t have the equipment he needed-as he knew only too well he
wouldn’t-he walked briskly over to Leninplatz and began to search for
TuIpanov’s office.

The entrance to
the vast gray building through an archway on the north side of the square was
not at all imposing, and the secretary who sat alone in a dingy outer office on
the third floor didn’t make Armstrong feel that her boss was a rising star. She
checked his card, and didn’t seem at all surprised that a captain in the
British Army would drop in without an appointment. She led Armstrong silently
down a long gray corridor, its peeling walls lined with photographs of Marx,
Engels, Lenin and Stalin, and stopped outside a door with no name on it. She
knocked, opened the door and stood aside to allow Captain Armstrong to enter
Tulpanov’s office.

Armstrong was
taken by surprise as he walked into a luxuriously appointed room, full of fine
paintings and antique furniture. He had once had to brief General Templer, the
military governor of the British sector, and his office was far less imposing.

Major Tulpanov
rose from behind his desk and walked across the carpeted room to greet his
guest. Armstrong couldn’t help noticing that the major’s uniform was far better
tailored than his.

“Welcome to my
humble abode, Captain Armstrong,” said the Russian officer.

“Isn’t that the
correct English expression?” He made no attempt to hide a smirk. “Your timing
is perfect. Would you care to join me for lunch?”

“Thank you,”
replied Armstrong in Russian. Tulpanov showed no surprise at the switch in
tongues, and led his guest through to a second room where a table had been set
for two. Armstrong couldn’t help wondering if the major hadn’t anticipated his
visit.

As Armstrong
took his place opposite Tulpanov, a steward appeared carrying two plates of
caviar, and a second followed with a bottle of vodka. If this was meant to put
him at his ease, it didn’t.

The major raised
his brimming glass high in the air and toasted “Our future prosperity.”

“Our future
prosperity,” repeated Armstrong as the major’s secretary entered the room. She
placed a thick brown envelope on the table by Tulpanov’s side.

“And when I
say’our’, I mean’our’,” said the major. He put his glass down, ignoring the
envelope.

Armstrong also
placed his drink back on the table, but said nothing in response. One of his
instructions from the security service briefings was to make no attempt to lead
the conversation.

“Now, Lubji,”
said Tulpanov, “I will not waste your time by lying about my role in the
Russian sector, not least because you have just spent the last ten days being
briefed on exactly why I’m stationed in Berlin and the role I play in this new
‘cold war’-isn’t that how your lot describe it?-and by now I suspect you know
more about me than my secretary does.” He smiled and spooned a large Jump of
caviar into his mouth. Armstrong toyed uncomfortably with his fork but made no
attempt to eat anything.

“But the truth
is, Lubji-or would you prefer me to call you John? Or Dick?-that I certainly
know more about you than your secretary, your wife and your mother put
together.”

Armstrong still didn’t
speak. He put down his fork and left the caviar untouched in front of him.

“You see, Lubji,
you and I are two of a kind, which is why I feel confident we can be of great
assistance to each other.”

“I’m not sure I
understand you,” said Armstrong, looking directly across at him.

“Well, for
example, I can tell you exactly where you will find Mrs. Klaus Lauber, and that
she doesn’t even know that her husband was the owner of
Der Telegraf
. “

Armstrong took a
sip of vodka. He was relieved that his hand didn’t shake, even if his heart was
beating at twice its normal rate.

Tulpanov picked
up the thick brown envelope by his side, opened it and removed a document. He
slid it across the table. “And there’s no reason to let her know, if we’re able
to come to an agreement.”

Armstrong
unfolded the heavy parchment and read the first paragraph of Major Klaus Otto
Lauber’s will, while Tulpanov allowed the steward to serve him a second plate
of caviar.

“But it says
here . said Armstrong, as he turned the third page.

The smile
reappeared on Tulpanov% face. “Ah, I see you have come to the paragraph which
confirms that Arno Schultz has been left all the shares in
Der Telegraf
. “

Armstrong looked
Lip and stared at the major, but said nothing.

“That of course
is relevant only so long as the will is still in existence,” said Tulpanov. “If
this document were never to see the light of day, the shares would go
automatically to Mrs. Lauber, in which case I can see no reason...

“What do you
expect of me in return?” asked Armstrong.

The major didn’t
reply immediately, as if he were considering the question.

“Oh, a little
information now and then, perhaps. After all, Lubji, if I made it possible for
you to own your first newspaper before you were twenty-five, I would surely be
entitled to expect a little something in return.”