The Fourth Estate Read online

  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