The Fourth Estate

by Jeffrey Archer

  Keith was on the phone in Butterfield’s office, arranging his flight to Melbourne, when a messenger handed him the telegram.

  11.

  The Times

  5 June 1945

  SETTING UP CONTROL OF GERMANY: PRELIMINARY MEETING OF ALLIED COMMANDERS

  When Captain Armstrong visited Der Telegraf for the first time, he was surprised to find how dingy the little basement offices were. He was greeted by a man who introduced himself as Arno Schultz, the editor of the paper.

  Schultz was about five foot three, with sullen gray eyes and short-cropped hair. He was dressed in a pre-war three-piece suit that must have been made for him when he was a stone heavier. His shirt was frayed at the collar and cuffs, and he wore a thin, shiny black tie.

  Armstrong smiled down at him. “You and I have something in common,” he said.

  Schultz shuffled nervously from foot to foot in the presence of this towering British officer. “And what is that?”

  “We’re both Jewish,” said Armstrong.

  “I would never have known,” said Schultz, sounding genuinely surprised.

  Armstrong couldn’t hide a smile of satisfaction. “Let me make it clear from the outset,” he said, “that I intend to give you every assistance to ensure that Der Telegraf is kept on the streets. I only have one long-term aim: to outsell Der Berliner.”

  Schultz looked doubtful. “They currently sell twice as many copies a day as we do. That was true even before the war. They have far better presses, more staff, and the advantage of being in the American sector. I don’t think it’s a realistic aim, Captain.”

  “Then we’ll just have to change all that, won’t we?” said Armstrong. “From now on you must look upon me as the proprietor of the newspaper, and I will leave you to get on with the editor’s job. Why don’t you start by telling me what your problems are?”

  “Where do I begin?” said Schultz, looking up at his new boss. “Our printing presses are out of date. Many of the parts are worn out, and there seems to be no way of getting replacements for them.”

  “Make a list of everything you need, and I’ll see that you get replacements.”

  Schultz looked unconvinced. He began cleaning his pebble glasses with a handkerchief he removed from his top pocket. “And then there’s a continual problem with the electricity. No sooner do I get the machinery to work than the supply is cut off, so at least twice a week we end up with no papers being printed at all.”

  “I’ll make sure that doesn’t happen again,” promised Armstrong, without any idea of how he would go about it. “What else?”

  “Security,” said Schultz. “The censor always checks every word of my copy, so the stories are inevitably two or three days out of date when they appear, and after he has put his blue pencil through the most interesting paragraphs there isn’t much left worth reading.”

  “Right,” said Armstrong. “From now on I’ll vet the stories. I’ll also have a word with the censor, so you won’t have any more of those problems in the future. Is that everything?”

  “No, Captain. My biggest problem comes when the electricity stays on all week.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Armstrong. “How can that be a problem?”

  “Because then I always run out of paper.”

  “What’s your current print run?”

  “One hundred, one hundred and twenty thousand copies a day at best.”

  “And Der Berliner?”

  “Somewhere around a quarter of a million copies.” Schultz paused. “Every day.”

  “I’ll make sure you’re supplied with enough paper to print a quarter of a million copies every day. Give me to the end of the month.”

  Schultz, normally a courteous man, didn’t even say thank you when Captain Armstrong left to return to his office. Despite the British officer’s self-confidence, he simply didn’t believe it was possible.

  Once he was back behind his desk, Armstrong asked Sally to type up a list of all the items Schultz had requested. When she had completed the task he checked the list, then asked her to make a dozen copies and to organize a meeting of the full team. An hour later they all squeezed into his office.

  Sally handed a copy of the list to each of them. Armstrong ran briefly through each item and ended by saying, “I want everything that’s on this list, and I want it pronto. When there’s a tick against every single item, you will all get three days’ leave. Until then you work every waking hour, including weekends. Do I make myself clear?”

  A few of them nodded, but no one spoke.

  * * *

  Nine days later Charlotte arrived in Berlin, and Armstrong sent Benson to the station to pick her up.

  “Where’s my husband?” she asked as her bags were put into the back of the jeep.

  “He had an important meeting that he couldn’t get out of, Mrs. Armstrong. He says he’ll join you later this evening.”

  When Dick returned to the flat that night, he found that Charlotte had finished unpacking and had prepared dinner for him. As he walked through the door she threw her arms around him.

  “It’s wonderful to have you in Berlin, darling,” he said. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be at the station to meet you.” He released her and looked into her eyes. “I’m doing the work of six men. I hope you understand.”

  “Of course I do,” said Charlotte. “I want to hear all about your new job over dinner.”

  Dick hardly stopped talking from the moment he sat down until they left the unwashed dishes on the table and went to bed. For the first time since he had arrived in Berlin he was late into the office the following morning.

  * * *

  It took Captain Armstrong’s barrow boys nineteen days to locate every item on the list, and Dick another eight to requisition them, using a powerful mix of charm, bullying and bribery. When an unopened crate of six new Remington typewriters appeared in the office with no requisition order, he simply told Lieutenant Wakeham to turn a blind eye.

  If ever Armstrong came up against an obstacle he simply mentioned the words “Colonel Oakshott” and “Control Commission.” This nearly always resulted in the reluctant official involved signing in triplicate for whatever was needed.

  When it came to the electricity supply, Peter Wakeham reported that because of overloading, one of the four sectors in the city had to be taken off the grid for at least three hours in every twelve. The grid, he added, was officially under the command of an American captain called Max Sackville, who said he hadn’t the time to see him.

  “Leave him to me,” said Armstrong.

  But Dick quickly found out that Sackville was unmoved by charm, bullying or bribery, partly because the Americans seemed to have a surplus of everything and always assumed the ultimate authority was theirs. What he did discover was that the captain had a weakness, which he indulged every Saturday evening. It took several hours of listening to how Sackville won his purple heart at Anzio before Dick was invited to join his poker school.

  For the next three weeks Dick made sure he lost around $50 every Saturday night which, under several different headings, he claimed back as expenses the following Monday morning. That way he ensured that the electricity supply in the British sector was never cut off between the hours of three and midnight, except on Saturdays, when no copies of Der Telegraf were being printed.

  Arno Schultz’s list of requests was completed in twenty-six days, by which time Der Telegraf was producing 140,000 copies a night. Lieutenant Wakeham had been put in charge of distribution, and the paper never failed to be on the streets by the early hours of the morning. When he was informed by Dick of Der Telegraf’s latest circulation figures, Colonel Oakshott was delighted with the results his protégé was achieving, and agreed that the team should be granted three days’ leave.

  No one was more delighted by this news than Charlotte. Since she had arrived in Berlin, Dick had rarely been home before midnight, and often left the house before she woke. But that Friday afternoon he turned up
outside their apartment behind the wheel of someone else’s Mercedes, and once she had loaded up the car with battered cases, they set off for Lyon to spend a long weekend with her family.

  It worried Charlotte that Dick seemed quite incapable of relaxing for more than a few minutes at a time, but she was grateful that there wasn’t a phone in the little house in Lyon. On the Saturday evening the whole family went to see David Niven in The Perfect Marriage. The next morning Dick started growing a moustache.

  * * *

  The moment Captain Armstrong returned to Berlin, he took the colonel’s advice and began building up useful contacts in each sector of the city—a task which was made easier when people learned he was in control of a newspaper which was read by a million people every day (his figures).

  Almost all the Germans he came across assumed, by the way he conducted himself, that he had to be a general; everyone else was left in no doubt that even if he wasn’t, he had the backing of the top brass. He made sure certain staff officers were mentioned regularly in Der Telegraf, and after that they rarely queried his requests, however outrageous. He also took advantage of the endless source of publicity provided by the paper to promote himself, and as he was able to write his own copy, he quickly became a celebrity in a city of anonymous uniforms.

  Three months after Armstrong met Arno Schultz for the first time, Der Telegraf was regularly coming out six days a week, and he was able to report to Colonel Oakshott that the circulation had passed 200,000 copies, and that at this rate it would not be long before they overtook Der Berliner. The colonel simply said, “You’re doing a first class job, Dick.” He wasn’t quite sure what Armstrong was actually doing, but he had noticed that the young captain’s expenses had crept up to over £20 a week.

  Although Dick reported the colonel’s praise to Charlotte, she could sense that he was already becoming bored with the job. Der Telegraf was selling almost as many copies as Der Berliner, and the senior officers in the three Western sectors were always happy to welcome Captain Armstrong to their messes. After all, you only had to whisper a story in his ear, and it would appear in print the following day. As a result, he always had a surplus of Cuban cigars, Charlotte and Sally were never short of nylons, Peter Wakeham could indulge in his favorite tipple of Gordon’s gin, and the barrow boys had enough vodka and cigarettes to run a black market on the side.

  But Dick was frustrated by the fact that he didn’t seem to be making any progress with his own career. Although promotion had been hinted at often enough, nothing seemed to happen in a city that was already far too full of majors and colonels, most of whom were simply sitting around on their backsides waiting to be sent home.

  Dick began discussing with Charlotte the possibility of returning to England, especially since Britain’s newly-elected Labor Prime Minister, Clement Attlee, had asked soldiers to come home as soon as possible because there was a surplus of jobs waiting for them. Despite their comfortable lifestyle in Berlin Charlotte seemed delighted by the idea, and encouraged Dick to think about requesting an early discharge. The next day he asked to see the colonel.

  “Are you sure that’s what you really want to do?” said Oakshott.

  “Yes, sir,” replied Dick. “Now that everything’s working smoothly, Schultz is quite capable of running the paper without me.”

  “Fair enough. I’ll try and speed the process up.”

  A few hours later Armstrong heard the name of Klaus Lauber for the first time, and slowed the process down.

  * * *

  When Armstrong visited the print works later that morning, Schultz informed him that for the first time they had sold more copies than Der Berliner, and that he felt perhaps they should start thinking about bringing out a Sunday paper.

  “I can’t see any reason why you shouldn’t,” said Dick, sounding a little bored.

  “I only wish we could charge the same price as we did before the war,” Schultz sighed. “With these sales figures we would be making a handsome profit. I know it must be hard for you to believe, Captain Armstrong, but in those days I was considered a prosperous and successful man.”

  “Perhaps you will be again,” said Armstrong. “And sooner than you think,” he added, looking out of the grimy window on to a pavement crowded with weary-looking people. He was about to tell Schultz that he intended to hand the whole operation over to him and return to England, when the German said, “I’m not sure that will be possible any longer.”

  “Why not?” asked Armstrong. “The paper belongs to you, and everybody knows that the restrictions on shareholding for German citizens are about to be lifted.”

  “That may well be the case, Captain Armstrong, but unfortunately I no longer own any shares in the company.”

  Armstrong paused, and began to choose his words carefully. “Really? What made you sell them?” he asked, still looking out of the window.

  “I didn’t sell them,” said Schultz. “I virtually gave them away.”

  “I’m not sure I understand,” said Armstrong, turning to face him.

  “It’s quite simple, really,” said Schultz. “Soon after Hitler came to power, he passed a law which disqualified Jews from owning newspapers. I was forced to dispose of my shares to a third party.”

  “So who owns Der Telegraf now?” asked Armstrong.

  “An old friend of mine called Klaus Lauber,” said Schultz. “He was a civil servant with the Ministry of Works. We met at a local chess club many years ago, and used to play every Tuesday and Friday—another thing they wouldn’t allow me to continue after Hitler came to power.”

  “But if Lauber is so close a friend, he must be in a position to sell the shares back to you.”

  “I suppose that’s still possible. After all, he only paid a nominal sum for them, on the understanding that he would return them to me once the war was over.”

  “And I’m sure he will keep his word,” said Armstrong. “Especially if he was such a close friend.”

  “I’m sure he would too, if we hadn’t lost touch during the war. I haven’t set eyes on him since December 1942. Like so many Germans, he’s become just another statistic.”

  “But you must know where he lived,” said Armstrong, tapping his swagger stick lightly on the side of his leg.

  “His family were moved out of Berlin soon after the bombing started, which was when I lost contact with him. Heaven knows where he is now,” he added with a sigh.

  Dick felt he had gleaned all the information he required. “So, what’s happening about that article on the opening of the new airport?” he asked, changing the subject.

  “We already have a photographer out at the site, and I thought I’d send a reporter to interview…” Schultz continued dutifully, but Armstrong’s mind was elsewhere. As soon as he was back at his desk he asked Sally to call the Allied Control Commission and find out who owned Der Telegraf.

  “I’ve always assumed it was Arno,” she said.

  “Me too,” said Armstrong, “but apparently not. He was forced to sell his shares to a Klaus Lauber soon after Hitler came to power. So I need to know: one, does Lauber still own the shares? Two, if he does, is he still alive? And three, if he’s still alive, where the hell is he? And Sally, don’t mention this to anyone. That includes Lieutenant Wakeham.”

  It took Sally three days to confirm that Major Klaus Otto Lauber was still registered with the Allied Control Commission as the legal owner of Der Telegraf.

  “But is he still alive?” asked Armstrong.

  “Very much so,” said Sally. “And what’s more, he’s holed up in Wales.”

  “In Wales?” echoed Armstrong. “How can that be?”

  “It seems that Major Lauber is presently being held in an internment camp just outside Bridgend, where he’s spent the last three years, since being captured while serving with Rommel’s Afrika Korps.”

  “What else have you been able to find out?” asked Armstrong.

  “That’s about it,” said Sally. “I fear the major d
id not have a good war.”

  “Well done, Sally. But I still want to know anything else you can find out about him. And I mean anything: date and place of birth, education, how long he was at the Ministry of Works, right up to the day he arrived in Bridgend. See that you use up every favor we’re owed, and pawn a few more if you need to. I’m off to see Oakshott. Anything else I should be worrying about?”

  “There’s a young journalist from the Oxford Mail hoping to see you. He’s been waiting for nearly an hour.”

  “Put him off until tomorrow.”

  “But he wrote to you asking for an appointment, and you agreed to see him.”

  “Put him off until tomorrow,” Armstrong repeated.

  Sally had come to know that tone of voice, and after getting rid of Mr. Townsend she dropped everything and set about researching the undistinguished career of Major Klaus Lauber.

  When Dick left the office, Private Benson drove him over to the commanding officer’s quarters on the other side of the sector.

  “You do come up with the strangest requests,” Colonel Oakshott said after he had outlined his idea.

  “I think you will find, sir, that in the long term this can only help cement better relations between the occupying forces and the citizens of Berlin.”

  “Well, Dick, I know you understand these things far better than I do, but in this case I can’t begin to guess how our masters will react.”

  “You might point out to them, sir, that if we can show the Germans that our prisoners of war—their husbands, sons and fathers—are receiving fair and decent treatment at the hands of the British, it could turn out to be a massive public relations coup for us, especially remembering the way the Nazis treated the Jews.”

  “I’ll do the best I can,” promised the colonel. “How many camps do you want to visit?”

  “I think just one to start with,” said Armstrong. “And perhaps two or three more at some time in the future, should my first sortie prove successful.” He smiled. “I hope that will give ‘our masters’ less reason to panic.”