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  “Do you have anywhere in particular in mind?” asked the colonel.

  “Intelligence informs me that the ideal camp for such an exercise is probably the one a few miles outside Bridgend.”

  * * *

  It took the colonel a little longer to get Captain Armstrong’s request granted than it did Sally to discover all there was to know about Klaus Lauber. Dick read through her notes again and again, searching for an angle.

  Lauber had been born in Dresden in 1896. He served in the first war, rising to the rank of captain. After the Armistice he had joined the Ministry of Works in Berlin. Although only on the reserve list, he had been called up in December 1942, and given the rank of major. He was shipped out to North Africa and put in charge of a unit which built bridges and, soon afterward, of one that was ordered to destroy them. He had been captured in March 1943 during the battle of El-Agheila, was shipped to Britain, and was presently held in an internment camp just outside Bridgend. In Lauber’s file at the War Office in Whitehall there was no mention of his owning any shares in Der Telegraf.

  When Armstrong had finished reading the notes yet again, he asked Sally a question. She quickly checked in the Berlin Officers’ Handbook and gave him three names.

  “Any of them serving with the King’s Own or the North Staffs?” asked Armstrong.

  “No,” replied Sally, “but one is with the Royal Rifle Brigade, who use the same messing facilities as we do.”

  “Good,” said Dick. “Then he’s our man.”

  “By the way,” said Sally, “what shall I do about the young journalist from the Oxford Mail?”

  Dick paused. “Tell him I had to visit the American sector, and that I’ll try and catch up with him some time tomorrow.”

  It was unusual for Armstrong to dine in the British officers’ mess, because with his influence and freedom to roam the city he was always welcome in any dining hall in Berlin. In any case, every officer knew that when it came to eating, you always tried to find some excuse to be in the French sector. However, on that particular Tuesday evening Captain Armstrong arrived at the mess a few minutes after six, and asked the corporal serving behind the bar if he knew a Captain Stephen Hallet.

  “Oh yes, sir,” the corporal replied. “Captain Hallet usually comes in around six-thirty. I think you’ll find he works in the Legal Department,” he added, telling Armstrong something he already knew.

  Armstrong remained at the bar, sipping a whiskey and glancing up at the entrance as each new officer came in. He would then look inquiringly toward the corporal, who shook his head each time, until a thin, prematurely balding man who would have made even the smallest uniform look baggy headed toward the bar. He ordered a Tom Collins, and the barman gave Armstrong a quick nod. Armstrong moved across to take the stool beside him.

  He introduced himself, and quickly learned that Hallet couldn’t wait to be demobbed and get back to Lincoln’s Inn Fields to continue his career as a solicitor.

  “I’ll see if I can help speed the process up,” said Armstrong, knowing full well that when it came to that department he had absolutely no influence at all.

  “That’s very decent of you, old chap,” replied Hallet. “Don’t hesitate to let me know if there’s anything I can do for you in return.”

  “Shall we grab a bite?” suggested Armstrong, slipping off his stool and guiding the lawyer toward a quiet table for two in the corner.

  After they had ordered from the set menu and Armstrong had asked the corporal for a bottle of wine from his private rack, he guided his companion onto a subject on which he did need some advice.

  “I understand only too well the problems some of these Germans are facing,” said Armstrong, as he filled his companion’s glass, “being Jewish myself.”

  “You do surprise me,” said Hallet. “But then, Captain Armstrong,” he added as he sipped the wine, “you are obviously a man who’s full of surprises.”

  Armstrong looked at his companion carefully, but couldn’t detect any signs of irony. “You may be able to assist me with an interesting case that’s recently landed on my desk,” he ventured.

  “I’ll be delighted to help if I possibly can,” said Hallet.

  “That’s good of you,” said Armstrong, not touching his glass. “I was wondering what rights a German Jew has if he sold his shares in a company to a non-Jew before the war. Can he claim them back now the war is over?”

  The lawyer paused for a moment, and this time he did look a little puzzled. “Only if the person who purchased the shares is decent enough to sell them to him. Otherwise there’s absolutely nothing they can do about it. The Nuremberg Laws of 1935, if I remember correctly.”

  “That doesn’t seem fair,” was all Armstrong said.

  “No,” came back the reply, as the lawyer took another sip from his glass of wine. “It isn’t. But that was the law at the time, and the way things are set up now, there is no civil authority to override it. I must say, this claret is really quite excellent. However did you manage to lay your hands on it?”

  “A good friend of mine in the French sector seems to have an endless supply. If you like, I could send you over a dozen bottles.”

  * * *

  The following morning, Colonel Oakshott received authority to allow Captain Armstrong to visit an internment camp in Britain at any time during the next month. “But they have restricted you to Bridgend,” he added.

  “I quite understand,” said Armstrong.

  “And they have also made it clear,” continued the colonel, reading from a memo pad on the desk in front of him, “that you cannot interview more than three prisoners, and that none of them may be above the rank of colonel—strict orders from Security.”

  “I’m sure I can manage despite those limitations,” said Armstrong.

  “Let’s hope this all proves worthwhile, Dick. I still have my doubts, you know.”

  “I hope to prove you wrong, sir.”

  Once Armstrong had returned to his office, he asked Sally to sort out his travel arrangements.

  “When do you want to go?” she asked.

  “Tomorrow,” he replied.

  “Silly question,” she said.

  Sally got him on a flight to London the next day, after a general had canceled at the last moment. She also arranged for him to be met by a car and driver who would take him straight to Wales.

  “But captains aren’t entitled to a car and driver,” he said when Sally handed over his travel documents.

  “They are if the brigadier wants his daughter’s photo on the front page of Der Telegraf when she visits Berlin next month.”

  “Why should he want that?” said Armstrong.

  “My bet is that he can’t get her married off in England,” said Sally. “And as I’ve discovered, anything in a skirt is jumped on over here.”

  Armstrong laughed. “If I were paying you, Sally, you’d get a rise. Meanwhile, keep me informed on anything else you find out about Lauber, and again, I mean anything.”

  Over dinner that night, Dick told Charlotte that one of the reasons he was going to Britain was to see if he could find a job once his demob paper had been processed. Although she forced a smile, lately she wasn’t always sure that he was telling her the whole story. If she ever pressed him, he invariably hid behind the words “top secret,” and tapped his nose with his forefinger, just the way he had seen Colonel Oakshott do.

  * * *

  Private Benson dropped him at the airport the following morning. A voice came over the Tannoy in the departure lounge and announced: “Would Captain Armstrong please report to the nearest military phone before he boards the plane.” Armstrong would have taken the call, if his plane hadn’t already been taxiing down the runway.

  When he landed in London three hours later, Armstrong marched across the tarmac toward a corporal leaning against a shiny black Austin and holding a placard with the name “Captain Armstrong” printed on it. The corporal sprang to attention and saluted the moment he spo