The Fourth Estate

Armstrong looked surprised. “I don’t think so, sir.”

“Oh, yes,” said Zhukov. “I checked the guest list only this morning. I have the pleasure of being seated next to your wife.”

There followed an uneasy silence in which Armstrong decided not to venture any more opinions. “Thank you for dropping by, sir,” said Tulpanov, breaking the silence. “And for clearing up that little misunderstanding.”

Major Tulpanov gave a half-hearted salute. Zhukov responded in kind, and left them without another word. When the door had closed behind him, Armstrong asked, “Do marshals usually visit majors in your army?”

“Only when the majors are in the KGB,” said Tulpanov with a smile. His eyes settled on the parcel. “I see you come bearing gifts.”

“I’ve no idea what it is,” said Armstrong, handing over the parcel. “All I know is that Forsdyke asked me to make sure it was delivered to you immediately.”

Tulpanov took the parcel and slowly undid the string, like a child unwrapping an unexpected Christmas present. Once he had removed the brown paper, he lifted the lid of the box to reveal a pair of brown Church’s brogues. He tried them on. “A perfect fit,” he said, looking down at the highly polished toecaps. “Forsdyke may well be what your friend Max would call an arrogant son of a bitch, but you can always rely on the English to supply one with the finer things in life.”

“So, am I nothing more than a messenger boy?” asked Armstrong.

“In our service, Lubji, I can assure you there is no higher calling.”

“I told Forsdyke, and I’ll tell you…” began Armstrong, his voice rising. But he stopped in mid-sentence.

“I can see,” said the KGB major, “that—to use another English expression—you got out of the wrong side of the bed this morning.”

Armstrong stood before him, almost shaking with anger.

“No, no, do go on, Lubji. Please tell me what you said to Forsdyke.”

“Nothing,” said Armstrong. “I said nothing.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” said the major. “Because you must understand that I am the only person to whom you can afford to tell anything.”

“What makes you so sure of that?” said Armstrong.

“Because, Lubji, like Faust, you have signed a contract with the devil.” He paused. “And perhaps also because I already know about your little plot to destabilize—a uniquely British word, that admirably expresses your intentions—Mr. Julius Hahn.”

Armstrong looked as if he was about to protest. The major raised an eyebrow, but Armstrong said nothing.

“You should have let me in on your little secret from the start, Lubji,” Tulpanov continued. “Then we could have played our part. We would have stopped the flow of electricity, not to mention the supply of paper to Hahn’s plant in the Russian sector. But then, you were probably unaware that he prints all his magazines in a building a mere stone’s throw from where we are now standing. If you had only confided in us, we could have lengthened the odds on Captain Sackville collecting his thousand dollars … quite considerably.”

Armstrong still said nothing.

“But perhaps that is exactly what you had planned. Three to one is good odds, Lubji, just as long as I am one of the three.”

“But how did you…”

“Once again you have underestimated us, Lubji. But be assured, we still have your best interests at heart.” Tulpanov began walking toward the door. “And do tell Major Forsdyke, when you next see him, a perfect fit.”

It was clear that he had no intention of inviting him to lunch on this occasion. Armstrong saluted, left Tulpanov’s office and returned sulkily to his jeep.

“Der Tekgraf,” he said quietly to Benson.

They were held up for only a few minutes at the checkpoint before being allowed to enter the British sector. As Armstrong walked into the print room of Der Telegraf, he was surprised to find the presses running flat out. He headed straight over to Arno, who was overseeing the bundling of each new stack of papers.

“Why are we still printing?” Armstrong shouted, trying to make himself heard above the noise of the presses. Arno pointed in the direction of his office, and neither of them spoke again until he had closed the door behind them.

“Haven’t you heard?” Arno asked, waving Armstrong into his chair.

“Heard what?”

“We sold 350,000 copies of the paper last night, and they still want more.”