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  “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.”

  “Three hundred and fifty thousand? And they want more? Why?”

  “Der Berliner hasn’t been on the streets for the last two days. Julius Hahn rang this morning to tell me that for the past forty-eight hours his electricity has been cut off.”

  “What extraordinary bad luck,” said Armstrong, trying to look sympathetic.

  “And to make matters worse,” added Arno, “he’s also lost his usual supply of paper from the Russian sector. He wanted to know if we’d been having the same problems.”

  “What did you tell him?” asked Armstrong.

  “That we haven’t had any trouble since you took over,” Arno replied. Armstrong smiled and rose from his chair.

  “If they’re off the streets again tomorrow,” said Arno as Armstrong began walking toward the door, “we’ll have to print at least 400,000 copies.”

  Armstrong closed the door behind him and repeated, “What extraordinary bad luck.”

  16.

  Sydney Morning Herald

  30 January 1957

  DANE’S CONTROVERSIAL DESIGN WINS OPERA HOUSE CONTEST

  “But I’ve hardly seen you since we announced our engagement,” Susan said.

  “I’m trying to bring out one newspaper in Adelaide and another in Sydney,” said Keith, turning over to face her. “It’s just not possible to be in two places at once.”

  “It’s never possible for you to be in one place at once nowadays,” said Susan. “And if you get your hands on that Sunday paper in Perth, as I keep reading you’re trying to, I won’t even see you at the weekends.”

  Keith realized that this wasn’t the time to tell her that he had already closed the deal with the owner of the Perth Sunday Monitor. He slipped out of bed without making any comment.

  “And where are you off to now?” she asked as he disappeared into the bathroom.

  “I’ve got a breakfast meeting in the city,” shouted Keith from behind a closed door.

  “On a Sunday morning?”

  “It was the only day he could see me. The man’s flown down from Brisbane specially.”

  “But we’re meant to be spending the day sailing. Or had you forgotten that as well?”

  “Of course I hadn’t forgotten,” said Keith as he came out of the bathroom. “That’s exactly why I agreed to a breakfast meeting. I’ll be home long before you’re ready to leave.”

  “Like you were last Sunday?”

  “That was different,” said Keith. “The Perth Monitor is a Sunday paper, and if I’m buying it, how can I find out what it’s like except by being there on the one day it comes out?”

  “So you have bought it?” said Susan.

  Keith pulled on his trousers, then turned to face her sheepishly. “Yes, subject to legal agreement. But it’s got a first class management team, so there should be no reason for me to have to go to Perth that often.”

  “And the editorial staff?” asked Susan as Keith slipped on a sports jacket. “If this one follows the same pattern as every other paper you’ve taken over, you’ll be living on top of them for the first six months.”

  “No, it won’t be that bad,” said Keith. “I promise you. Just be sure you’re ready to leave the moment I get back.” He leaned down and kissed her on the cheek. “I shouldn’t be more than an hour, two at the most.” He closed the bedroom door before she had a chance to comment.

  As Townsend climbed into the front of the car, his driver turned on the ignition.

  “Tell me, Sam, does your wife give you a hard time about the hours you have to work for me?”

  “Hard to tell, sir. Lately she’s stopped talking to me altogether.”

  “How long have you been married?”

  “Eleven years.”

  He decided against asking Sam any further questions about matrimony. As the car sped toward the city, he tried to dismiss Susan from his thoughts and to concentrate on the meeting he was about to have with Alan Rutledge. He had never met the man before, but everyone in the newspaper world knew of Rutledge’s reputation as an award-winning journalist and a man who could drink anyone under the table. If Townsend’s latest idea was to have any chance of succeeding, he needed someone of Rutledge’s ability to get it off the ground.

  Sam turned off Elizabeth Street and swept up to the entrance of the Town House Hotel. Townsend smiled when he saw the Sunday Chronicle on top of the news stand, and remembered its leader that morning. Once again the paper had told its readers that the time had come for Mr. Menzies to step down and make way for a younger man more in tune with the aspirations of modern Australians.

  As the car drew in to the curb Townsend said, “I should be about an hour, two at the most.” Sam smiled to himself as his boss jumped out of the car, pushed his way through the swing doors and disappeared.

  Townsend walked quickly through the foyer and on into the breakfast room. He glanced around and spotted Alan Rutledge sitting on his own in a wi