“I phoned you at home yesterday and asked Charlotte to tell you that Major Forsdyke expects to see you in his office at nine this morning.”
“Damn the woman,” said Armstrong, heading back past Sally and toward the front door. “What else have I got on today?” he shouted on the move.
“The diary is fairly clear,” she replied, chasing after him, “except for a dinner this evening in honor of Field Marshal Auchinleck. Charlotte’s been invited too. You have to be in the officers’ mess at seven for seven-thirty. All the top brass is going to be on parade.”
As Armstrong reached the front door he said, “Don’t expect me back much before lunch.”
Benson hastily stubbed out the cigarette he had just lit and said, “Where to this time, sir?” as Armstrong jumped in beside him.
“Major Forsdyke’s office, and I need to be there by nine o’clock.”
“But, sir…” began Benson as he pressed the starter, and decided against telling the captain that even Nuvolari would be hard-pressed to get to the other side of the sector in seventeen minutes.
Armstrong was dropped outside Forsdyke’s office with sixty seconds to spare. Benson was only relieved that they hadn’t been stopped by the military police.
“Good morning, Armstrong,” said Forsdyke as Dick entered his office. He waited for him to salute, but he didn’t. “Something urgent has come up. We need you to deliver a package to your friend Major Tulpanov.”
“He’s not my friend,” Armstrong replied curtly.
“No need to be so sensitive, old fellow,” said Forsdyke. “You should know by now that you can’t afford to be when you work for me.”
“I don’t work for you,” barked Armstrong.
Forsdyke looked up at the man standing on the other side of his desk. His eyes narrowed and his lips tightened in a straight line. “I am aware of the influence you have in the British sector, Captain Armstrong, but I would remind you that however powerful you imagine you are, I still outrank you. And perhaps more importantly, I have absolutely no interest in appearing on the front page of your frightful little rag. So can we stop fussing about your over-inflated ego, and get on with the job in hand.”
A long silence followed. “You wanted me to make a delivery,” Armstrong eventually managed.
“Yes, I do,” the major replied. He pulled open a drawer in his desk, took out a package the size of a shoebox and handed it across to Armstrong. “Please see that Major Tulpanov gets this as soon as possible.”
Armstrong took the package, placed it under his left arm, saluted in an exaggerated manner, and marched out of the major’s office.
“The Russian sector,” he barked as he climbed back into the jeep.
“Yes, sir,” said Benson, pleased that on this occasion he had at least had time to have a couple of drags on his cigarette. A few minutes after they had crossed into the Russian sector, Armstrong ordered him to pull in to the curb.
“Wait here, and don’t move until I return,” he said as he stepped out of the jeep and made off in the direction of Leninplatz.
“Excuse me, sir,” said Benson, jumping out of the jeep and running after him.
Armstrong swung round and glared at his driver. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Won’t you be needing this, sir?” he asked, holding out the brown paper parcel.
Armstrong grabbed the package and walked away without saying another word. Benson wondered if his boss was visiting a mistress, although the cathedral clock had only just struck ten.
When Armstrong reached Leninplatz a few minutes later, his temper had hardly cooled. He
charged straight into the building and up the stairs, through the room where the secretary sat and on toward Tulpanov’s office.
“Excuse me, sir,” said the secretary, shooting out of her chair. But it was too late. Armstrong had reached the door of Tulpanov’s office long before she could catch up with him. He pushed it open and strode in.
He stopped in his tracks the moment he saw who Tulpanov was speaking to. “I’m sorry, sir,” he stammered, and quickly turned to leave, nearly knocking over the advancing secretary.
“No, Lubji, please don’t go,” said Tulpanov. “Won’t you join us?”
Armstrong swung back, came to attention and gave a crisp salute. He felt his face going redder and redder. “Marshal,” the KGB man said, “I don’t think you’ve met Captain Armstrong, who’s in charge of public relations for the British sector.”
Armstrong shook hands with the officer commanding the Russian sector and apologized once again for interrupting him, but this time in Russian. “I am delighted to meet you,” said Marshal Zhukov in his own tongue. “If I’m not mistaken, I believe I shall be joining you for dinner tonight.”