The Fourth Estate

“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 Attaché

Leninplatz, Russian sector

When Armstrong saw Colonel Oakshott 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. Oakshott 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 Oakshott, 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.”

“I 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 Tulpanov’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 lump of caviar into his mouth. Armstrong toyed uncomfortably with his fork but made no attempt to eat anything.