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.
“But the truth is, Lubji—or would you prefer me to call you John? Or Dick?—that I certainly know more about you than your secretary, your wife and your mother put together.”
Armstrong still didn’t speak. He put down his fork and left the caviar untouched in front of him.
“You see, Lubji, you and I are two of a kind, which is why I feel confident we can be of great assistance to each other.”
“I’m not sure I understand you,” said Armstrong, looking directly across at him.
“Well, for example, I can tell you exactly where you will find Mrs. Klaus Lauber, and that she doesn’t even know that her husband was the owner of Der Telegraf.”
Armstrong took a sip of vodka. He was relieved that his hand didn’t shake, even if his heart was beating at twice its normal rate.
Tulpanov picked up the thick brown envelope by his side, opened it and removed a document. He slid it across the table. “And there’s no reason to let her know, if we’re able to come to an agreement.”
Armstrong unfolded the heavy parchment and read the first paragraph of Major Klaus Otto Lauber’s will, while Tulpanov allowed the steward to serve him a second plate of caviar.
“But it says here…” said Armstrong, as he turned the third page.
The smile reappeared on Tulpanov’s face. “Ah, I see you have come to the paragraph which confirms that Arno Schultz has been left all the shares in Der Telegraf.”
Armstrong looked up and stared at the major, but said nothing.
“That of course is relevant only so long as the will is still in existence,” said Tulpanov. “If this document were never to see the light of day, the shares would go automatically to Mrs. Lauber, in which case I can see no reason…”
“What do you expect of me in return?” asked Armstrong.
The major didn’t reply immediately, as if he were considering the question. “Oh, a little information now and then, perhaps. After all, Lubji, if I made it possible for you to own your first newspaper before you were twenty-five, I would surely be entitled to expect a little something in return.”
“I don’t quite understand,” said Armstrong.
“I think you understand only too well,” said Tulpanov with a smile, “but let me spell it out for you.”
Armstrong picked up his fork and experienced his first taste of caviar as the major continued.
“Let us start by acknowledging the simple fact, Lubji, that you are not even a British citizen. You just landed there by chance. And although they may have welcomed you into their army—” he paused to take a sip of vodka “—I feel sure you’ve already worked out that that doesn’t mean they’ve welcomed you into their hearts. The time has therefore come for you to decide which team you are playing for.”
Armstrong took a second mouthful of caviar He liked it.
“I think you would find that membership of our team would not be too demanding, and I am sure that we could, from time to time, help each other advance in what the British still insist on calling ‘the great game’.”
Armstrong scooped up the last mouthful of caviar, and hoped he would be offered more.
“Why don’t you think it over, Lubji?” Tulpanov said as he leaned across the table, retrieved the will and placed it back in the envelope.
Armstrong said nothing as he stared down at his empty plate.
“In the meantime,” said the KGB major, “let me give you a little piece of information to take back to your friends in the security service.” He removed a sheet of paper from his inside pocket and pushed it across the table. Armstrong read it, and was pleased to find he could still think in Russian.
“To be fair, Lubji, you should know that your people are already in possession of this document, but they will still be pleased to have its contents confirmed. You see, the one thing all secret service operatives have in common is a love of paperwork. It’s how they are able to prove that their job is necessary.”
“How did I get my hands on this?” asked Armstrong, holding up the sheet of paper.
“I fear I have a temporary secretary today, who will keep leaving her desk unattended.”
Dick smiled as he folded up the sheet of paper and slipped it into his inside pocket.
“By the way, Lubji, those fellows back in your security service are not quite as dumb as you may think. Take my advice: be wary of them. If you decide to join the game, you will in the end have to be disloyal to one side or the other, and if they ever find out you are double-crossing them, they will dispose of you without the slightest remorse.”
Armstrong could now hear his heart thumping away.
“As I have already explained,” continued the major, “there’s no need for you to make an immediate decision.” He tapped the brown envelope. “I can easily wait for a few more days before I inform Mr. Schultz of his good fortune.”
* * *
“I’ve some good news for you, Dick,” said Colonel Oakshott when Armstrong reported to HQ the following morning. “Your demob papers have been processed at last, and I can see no reason why you shouldn’t be back in England within a month.”
The colonel was surprised that Armstrong’s reaction was so muted, but he assumed he must have other things on his mind. “Not that Fors
dyke will be pleased to learn you’re leaving us so soon after your triumph with Major Tulpanov.”
“Perhaps I shouldn’t rush back quite so quickly,” said Armstrong, “now that I have a chance to build up a relationship with the KGB.”
“That’s damned patriotic of you, old chap,” said the colonel. “Shall we just leave it that I won’t hurry the process along until you tip me the wink?” Armstrong’s English was as fluent as that of most officers in the British Army, but Oakshott was still able to add the occasional new expression to his vocabulary.
Charlotte continued to press him on when they might hope to leave Berlin, and that evening she explained why it was suddenly so important. When he heard the news, Dick realized that he could not prevaricate much longer. He didn’t go out that night, but sat in the kitchen with Charlotte, telling her all about his plans once they had set up home in England.
The next morning he found an excuse to visit the Russian sector, and following a long briefing from Forsdyke, he arrived outside Tulpanov’s office a few minutes before lunch.
“How are you, Lubji?” asked the KGB man as he rose from behind his desk. Armstrong nodded curtly. “And more importantly, my friend, have you come to a decision as to which side you are going to open the batting for?”
Armstrong looked puzzled.
“To appreciate the English,” said Tulpanov, “you must first understand the game of cricket, which cannot commence until after the toss of a coin. Can you imagine anything more stupid than giving the other side a chance? But have you tossed the coin yet, Lubji, I keep asking myself. And if so, have you decided whether to bat or bowl?”
“I want to meet Mrs. Lauber before I make a final decision,” said Dick.
The major walked around the room, his lips pursed, as if he were giving serious thought to Armstrong’s request.
“There is an old English saying, Lubji. Where there’s a will…”
Armstrong looked puzzled.
“Another thing you must understand about the English is that their puns are dreadful. But for all their sense of what they call fair play, they are deadly when it comes to defending their position. Now, if you wish to visit Mrs. Lauber, it will be necessary for us to make a journey to Dresden.”
“Dresden?”
“Yes. Mrs. Lauber is safely ensconced deep in the Russian zone. That can only be to your advantage. But I don’t think we should visit her for a few days.”
“Why not?” asked Armstrong.
“You still have so much to learn about the British, Lubji. You must not imagine that conquering their language is the same as knowing how their minds work. The English love routine. You return tomorrow and they will become suspicious. You return some time next week and they won’t give it a second thought.”
“So what do I tell them when I report back?”
“You say I was cagey, and that you’re ‘still testing the water’.” Tulpanov smiled again. “But you can tell them that I asked you about a man called Arbuthnot, Piers Arbuthnot, and whether it’s true that he’s about to take up a post in Berlin. You told me that you’d never heard of him, but that you would try to find out.”
Armstrong returned to the British sector later that afternoon and reported most of the conversation to Forsdyke. He expected to be told who Arbuthnot was and when he would be arriving in Berlin, but all Forsdyke said was, “He’s just trying you out for size. He knows exactly who Arbuthnot is and when he’s taking up his post. How soon can you find a convincing excuse to visit the Russian sector again?”
“Next Wednesday or Thursday I’ve got my usual monthly meeting with the Russians on paper supplies.”
“Right, if you just happen to drop in and see Tulpanov, tell him you couldn’t get a word out of me on Arbuthnot.”
“But won’t that make him suspicious?”
“No, he would be more suspicious if you were able to tell him anything about that particular man.”
* * *
Over breakfast the following morning, Charlotte and Dick had another row about when he expected to return to Britain.
“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.”
Armstrong nodded.
“Did my husband leave any other message for me?”
“Yes. He told me that his final wish was that you should also return Arno’s shares to him.”
“What shares did he mean?” she asked, sounding anxious for the first time. “They didn’t mention any shares when they came to visit me.”