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 swagger 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.’
‘It seems that Arno sold Herr Lauber some shares in a publishing company not long after Hitler came to power, and your husband promised he would return them as soon as the war was over.’
‘Well, of course I would be only too happy to do so,’ the old woman said, shivering again. ‘But sadly I am not in possession of any shares. Perhaps Klaus made a will...’
‘Unfortunately not, Mrs. Lauber,’ Armstrong said. ‘Or if he did, we haven’t been able to find it.’
‘How unlike Klaus,’ she said. ‘He was always so meticulous. But then, perhaps it has disappeared somewhere in the Russian zone. You can’t trust the Russians you know,’ she whispered.
Armstrong nodded his agreement. ‘That doesn’t present a problem,’ he said, taking her hand again. ‘I am in possession of a document which invests me with the authority to ensure that Arno Schultz, if he is still alive and we can find him, will receive the shares he’s entitled to.’
Mrs. Lauber smiled. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘It’s a great relief to know that the matter is in the hands of a British officer.’
Armstrong opened his briefcase and removed the contract. Turning to the last of its four pages, he indicated two penciled crosses, and handed Mrs. Lauber his pen. She placed her spidery signature between the crosses, without having made any attempt to read a single clause or paragraph of the contract. As soon as the ink was dry, Armstrong placed the document back in his Gladstone bag and clipped it shut. He smiled across at Mrs. Lauber.
‘I must return to Berlin now,’ he said, rising from his chair, ‘where I shall make every effort to locate Herr Schultz.’
‘Thank you,’ said Mrs. Lauber, who slowly rose to her feet and led him back down the passage to the front door. ‘Goodbye,’ she said, as he stepped out onto the landing, ‘it was most kind of you to come all this way on my behalf.’ She smiled weakly and closed the door without another word.
‘Well?’ said Tulpanov when Armstrong rejoined him in the back of the car.
‘She signed the agreement.’
‘I thought she might,’ said Tulpanov. The car swung round in a circle and began its journey back to Berlin.
‘So what happens next?’ asked Armstrong.
‘Now you have spun the coin,’ said the KGB major. ‘You have won the toss, and decided to bat. Though I must say that what you’ve just done to Mrs. Lauber could hardly be described as cricket.’
Armstrong looked quizzically at him.
‘Even I thought you’d give her the 40,000 marks,’ said Tulpanov. ‘But no doubt you plan to give Arno—’ he paused ‘—the chess set.’
The following morning, Captain Richard Armstrong registered his ownership of Der Telegraf with the British Control Commission. Although one of the officials raised an eyebrow, and he was kept waiting for over an hour by another, eventually the duty clerk stamped the document authorizing the transaction, and confirmed that Captain Armstrong was now the sole owner of the paper.