The Fourth Estate

“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 sector a 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 swag

ger 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 heater; 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. “I do hope he’s still alive,” she said. “Arno was such a good man.”