The Fourth Estate (30 page)

I don’t quite
understand,” said Armstrong.

I think you
understand only too well,” said Tulpanov with a smile, “but let me spell it out
for you.”

Armstrong picked
tip his fork and experienced his first taste of caviar as the major continued.

“Let its start
by acknowledging the simple fact, Lubji, that you are not even a British
citizen. You just landed there by chance. And although they may have welcomed
you into their arnry-” he paused to take a sip of vodka “-I feel sure you’ve
already worked out that that doesn’t mean they’ve welcomed you into their
hearts. The time has therefore come for You to decide which team you are
playing for.”

Armstrong took a
second mouthful of caviar. He liked it.

I think you
would find that membership of our team would not be too demanding, and I am
sure that we could, front time to time, help each other advance in what the
British still insist on calling ‘the great game’.”

Armstrong
scooped up the last mouthful of caviar, and hoped he would be offered more.

“Why don’t you
think it over, Lubji?” Tulpanov said as he leaned across the table, retrieved
the will and placed it back in the envelope.

Armstrong said
nothing as he stared down at his empty plate.

“in the
meantime,” said the KGB major, “let me give you a little piece of information
to take back to your friends in the security service.” He removed a sheet of
paper from his inside pocket and pushed it across the table. Armstrong read it,
and was pleased to find he could still think in Russian.

“To be fair,
Lubji, YOU should know that your people are already in possession of this
document, but they will still be pleased to have its contents confirmed. You
see, the one thing all secret service operatives have in common is a love of
paperwork. It’s how they are able to prove that their job is necessary.”

“How did I get
my hands on this?” asked Armstrong, holding up the sheet of paper.

“I fear I have a
temporary secretary today, who will keep leaving her desk unattended.”

Dick smiled as he
folded up the sheet of paper and slipped it into his inside pocket.

“By the way,
Lubji, those fellows back in your security service are not quite as dumb as you
may think. Take my advice: be wary of them. If you decide to join the game, you
will in the end have to be disloyal to one side or the other, and if they ever
find out you are double-crossing them, they will dispose of you without the
slightest remorse.

Armstrong could
now hear his heart thumping away.

“As I have
already explained,” continued the major, there’s no need for you to make an
immediate decision.” He tapped the brown envelope. “I can easily wait for a few
more days before I inform Mr. Schultz of his good fortune.”

“I’ve some good
news for you, Dick,” said Colonel Oakshott when Armstrong reported to HQ the
following morning. “Your demob papers have been processed at last, and I can
see no reason why you shouldn’t be back in England within a month.”

The colonel was
surprised that Armstrong’s reaction was so muted, but lie assumed he must have
other things on his mind. “Not that Forsdyke will be pleased to learn you’re
leaving us so soon after your triumph with Major Tulpanov.”

“Perhaps I
shouldn’t rush back quite so quickly,” said Armstrong, “now that I have a
chance to build up a relationship with the KGB.”

“That’s damned
patriotic of you, old chap,” said the colonel. “Shall we just leave it that I
won’t hurry the process along until you tip me the wink?” Armstrong’s English
was as fluent as that of most officers in the British Army, but Oakshott was
still able to add the occasional new expression to his vocabulary.

Charlotte
continued to press him on when they might hope to leave Berlin, and that
evening she explained why it was suddenly so important. When he heard the news,
Dick realized that he could not prevaricate much longer.

He didn’t go out
that night, but sat in the kitchen with Charlotte, telling her all about his
plans once they had set up home in England.

The next morning
he found an excuse to visit the Russian sector, and following a long briefing
from Forsdyke, he arrived outside Tulpanov’s office a few minutes before lunch.

“How are you,
Lubji?” asked the KGB man as he rose from behind his desk.

Armstrong nodded
curtly. “And more importantly, my friend, have you come to a decision as to
which side you are going to open the batting for?”

Armstrong looked
puzzled.

“Fo appreciate
the English,” said Tulpanov, “you must first understand the game of cricket,
which cannot commence until after the toss of a coin. Can you imagine anything
more stupid than giving the other side a chance? But have you tossed the coin
yet, Lubji, I keep asking myself. And if so, have you decided whether to bat or
bowl?”

I want to meet
Mrs. Lauber before I make a final decision,” said Dick.

The major walked
around the room, his lips pursed, as if he were giving serious thought to
Armstrong , s request.

‘There is an old
English saying, Lubji. Where there’s a will...”

Armstrong looked
puzzled.

“Another thing
you must understand about the English is that their puns are dreadful. But for
all their sense of what they call fair play, they are deadly when it comes to
defending their position. Now, if you wish to visit Mrs. Lauber, it will be
necessary for us to make a journey to Dresden.”

“Dresden?”

“Yes. Mrs. Lauber
is safely ensconced deep in the Russian zone. That can only be to your
advantage. But I don’t think we should visit her for a few days.”

“Why not?” asked
Armstrong.

“You still have
so much to learn about the British, Lubji. You must not imagine that conquering
their language is the same as knowing how their minds work. The English love
routine. You return tomorrow and they will become suspicious. You return some
time next week and they won’t give it a second thought.”

“So what do I
tell them when I report back?”

“You say I was
cagey, and that you’re ‘still testing the water’.” Tulpanov smiled again. “But
you can tell them that I asked you about a man called Arbuthnot, Piers
Arbuthnot, and whether it’s true that he’s about to take up a post in Berlin.
You told me that you’d never heard of him, but that you would try to find out.”

Armstrong
returned to the British sector later that afternoon and reported most of the
conversation to Forsdyke. He expected to be told who Arbuthnot was and when he
would be arriving in Berlin, but all Forsdyke said was, “He’s just trying you
out for size. He knows exactly who Arbuthnot is and when he’s taking up his
post. How soon can you find a convincing excuse to visit the Russian sector
again?”

“Next Wednesday
or Thursday I’ve got my usual monthly meeting with the Russians on paper
supplies.”

“Right, if you
just happen to drop in and see Tulpanov, tell him you couldn’t get a word out
of me on Arbuthnot.”

“But won’t that
make him suspicious?”

“No, he would be
more suspicious if you were able to tell him anything about that particular
man.”

Over breakfast
the following morning, Charlotte and Dick had another row about when he
expected to return to Britain, “How many new excuses can you come up with to
keep putting it off?” she asked.

Dick made no
attempt to answer. Without giving her a second look he picked up his swagger
stick and peaked hat, and stormed out of the apartment.

Private Benson
drove him straight to the office, and
 
once he was at his desk he immediately buzzed Sally. She came through
with a pile of mail for signing and greeted him with a smile. When she left an
hour later, she looked drained. She warned everyone to keep out of the
captain’s way for the rest of the day because he was in a foul mood. His mood
hadn’t improved by Wednesday, and on Thursday the whole team was relieved to
learn that he would be spending most of the day out of the office.

Benson drove him
into the Russian sectora few minutes before ten. Armstrong stepped out of the
jeep, carrying his Gladstone bag, and told his driver to return to the British
sector. He walked through the great archway off Leninplatz that led to
Tulpanov’s office, and was surprised to find the major’s secretary waiting for
him in the outer courtyard.

Without a word
she guided him across the cobbled yard to a large black Mercedes. She held open
the door and he slid onto the back seat beside Tulpanov. The engine was already
running, and without waiting for instructions the driver drove out into the
square and began following the signs for the autobahn.

The major showed
no surprise when Armstrong reported the conversation he’d had with Forsdyke,
and his failure to find out anything about Arbuthnot.

“They don’t
trust you yet, Lubji,” said Tulpanov. “You see, you’re not one of them. Perhaps
you never will be.” Armstrong pouted and turned to look out of the window.

One they had
reached the outskirts of Berlin, they headed south toward Dresden. After a few
minutes, Tulpanov bent down and handed Armstrong a small, battered suitcase
stamped with the initials “K.L.”

“What’s this?”
he asked.

“All the good
major’s worldly possessions,” Tulpanov replied. “Or at least, all the ones his
widow can expect to inherit.” He passed Armstrong a thick brown envelope.

“And this? More
worldly goods?”

“No. That’s the
40,000 marks Lauber paid Schultz for his original shares in
Der Telegraf
. You see, whenever the
British are involved, I do try to stick to the rules. ‘Play up, play up and
play the game,”‘ said Tulpanov. He paused. “I believe you are in possession of
the only other document that is required.”

Armstrong
nodded, and placed the thick envelope in his Gladstone bag. He gazed back out
of the window and watched the passing countryside, horrified at how little
rebuilding had been carried out since the war had ended. He tried to
concentrate on how he would handle Mrs. Lauber, and didn’t speak again until
they reached the outskirts of Dresden.

“Does the driver
know where to go?” asked Armstrong as they passed a 40-kilometer speed warning.

“Oh yes,” said
Tulpanov. “You’re not the first person he’s taken to visit this particular old
lady. He has ‘the knowledge.’”

Armstrong looked
puzzled.

“When you settle
down in London, Lubji, someone will explain that one to you.”

A few minutes
later they came to a halt outside a drab concrete block of flats in the center
of a park which looked as if it had been bombed the previous day.

“It’s number
sixty-three,” said Tulpanov. “I’m afraid there’s no lift so you’ll have to do a
little climbing, my dear Lubji. But then, that’s something you’re rather good
at.”

Armstrong
stepped out of the car, carrying his Gladstone bag and the major’s battered
suitcase. He made his way down a weed-infested path to the entrance of the
prewar ten-story block. He began to climb the concrete staircase, relieved that
Mrs. Lauber didn’t live on the top floor. When he reached the sixth floor, he
continued around a narrow, exposed walkway until he reached a door with “63”
daubed in red on the wall next to it.

He tapped his
swagger stick on the glass, and the door was opened a few moments later by an
old woman who showed no surprise at finding a British officer standing on her
doorstep. She led him down a mean, unlit corridor to a tiny, cold room
overlooking an identical ten-story block. Armstrong took the seat opposite her
next to a two-bar electric heateri only one of the bars was glowing.

He shivered as
he watched the old woman shrink into her chair and pull a threadbare shawl
around her shoulders.

I visited your
husband in Wales just before he died,” he began. “He asked me to give you
this.” He passed over the battered suitcase.

Mrs. Lauber
complimented him on his German, then opened the suitcase.

Armstrong watched
as she removed a framed picture of her husband and herself on their wedding
day, followed by a photograph of a young man he assumed was their son. From the
sad look on her face, Armstrong felt he must also have lost his life in the
war. There followed several items, including a book of verse by Rainer Maria
Rilke and an old wooden chess set.

When she had
finally removed her husband’s three medals, she looked up and asked hopefully,
“Did he leave you any message for me?”

“Only that he
missed you- And he asked if you would give the chess set to Arno.”

“Arno Schultz,”
she said. “I doubt if he’s still alive.” She paused. “You see, the poor man was
Jewish. We lost contact with him during the war.”

‘Then I will
make it my responsibility to try and find out if he survived,” said Armstrong.
He leaned forward and took her hand “You are kind,” she said, clinging on to
him with her bony fingers. It was some time before she released his hand. She
then picked up the chess set and passed it over to him. 1 do hope he’s still
alive,” she said. “Arno was such a good man.”