The Fourth Estate

“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 d

id 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?”