Armstrong ordered a Coca-Cola and took a seat in the corner of the bar. He was relieved that no one recognized him or made any attempt to join him. After a third Coke, he checked that the $410 was in place. It was going to be a long night.
* * *
“Where the hell is he?” demanded Forsdyke.
“Captain Armstrong had to go over to the American sector just before lunch, sir,” said Sally. “Something urgent came up following his meeting with Colonel Oakshott. But before he left, he did ask me to make an appointment if you called.”
“That was most thoughtful of him,” said Forsdyke sarcastically. “Something urgent has come up in the British sector, and I’d be obliged if Captain Armstrong would report to my office at nine o’clock tomorrow morning.”
“I’ll see that he gets your message just as soon as he returns, Major Forsdyke,” said Sally. She would have tried to contact Dick immediately, but she had absolutely no idea where he was.
* * *
“Five card stud as usual?” said Max, pushing a bottle of beer and an opener across the green baize table.
“Suits me,” said Armstrong as he began to shuffle the deck.
“I have a feeling about tonight, old buddy,” said Max, removing his jacket and hanging it on the arm of his chair. “I hope you’ve got a lot of money to burn.” He poured his beer slowly into a glass.
“Enough,” said Armstrong. He only sipped at his beer, aware that he would need to remain stone cold sober for several hours. When he had finished shuffling, Max cut the deck and lit a cigarette.
By the end of the first hour, Armstrong was $70 ahead, and the word “lucky” kept floating across from the other side of the table. He began the second hour with a cushion of nearly $500. “You’ve been on a lucky run so far,” said Max, flicking the top off his fourth bottle of beer. “But the night is far from over.”
Armstrong smiled and nodded, as he tossed another card across to his opponent and dealt himself a second one. He checked his cards: the four and nine of spades. He placed $5 on the table and dealt two more cards.
Max countered the bid with $5 of his own, and turned the corner of his card to see what Dick had dealt him. He tried not to smile, and placed another $5 on top of Armstrong’s stake.
Armstrong dealt himself a fifth card, and studied his hand for some time before placing a $10 bill in the kitty. Max didn’t hesitate to remove $10 from a wad in an inside pocket and drop it on the pile of notes in the center of the table. He licked his lips and said, “See you, old buddy.”
Armstrong turned his cards over to reveal a pair of fours. Max’s smile became even broader as he produced a pair of tens. “You can’t bluff me,” said the American, and clawed the money back to his side of the table.
By the end of the second hour Max was slightly ahead. “I did warn you that it was going to be a long night,” he said. He had dispensed with the glass some time ago, and was now drinking straight from the bottle.
It was during the third hour, after Max had won three hands in a row, that Dick brought the name of Julius Hahn into the conversation. “Claims he knows you.”
“Yeah, sure does,” said Max. “He’s responsible for bringing out the paper in this sector. Not that I ever read it.”
“He seems pretty successful,” said Armstrong, dealing another hand.
“Certainly is. But only thanks to me.” Armstrong placed $10 in the center of the table, despite having nothing more than ace high. Max immediately dropped $10 on top of his, and demanded another card.
“What do you mean ‘because of you’?” Armstrong asked, placing $20 on the growing pile.
Max hesitated, checked his cards, looked at the pile and said, “Was that $20 you just put in?” Armstrong nodded, and the American extracted $20 from the pocket of his jacket.
“He couldn’t even wipe his ass in the morning if I didn’t hand him the paper,” said Max, studying his hand intently. “I issue his monthly permit. I control his paper supply. I decide how much electricity he gets. I decide when it will be turned on and off. As you and Arno Schultz know only too well.”
Max looked up, and was surprised to see Armstrong removing a stack of notes from his wallet. “You’re bluffing, kid,” said Max. “I can smell it.” He hesitated. “How much did you put up that time?”
“Fifty dollars,” said Armstrong casually.
Max dug into his jacket pocket and extracted two tens and six fives, placing them gingerly on the table. “So let’s see what you’ve come up with this time,” he said apprehensively.
Armstrong revealed a pair of sevens. Max immediately burst out laughing, and flicked over three jacks.
“I knew it. You’re full of shit.” He took another swig from his bottle. As he started dealing the next hand the smile never left his face. “I’m not sure which one would be easier to polish off, you or Hahn,” he said, beginning to slur his words.
“Are you sure that’s not the drink talking?” said Dick, studying his hand with little interest.
“You’ll see who’s doing the talking,” replied Max. “Within an hour I’ll have wiped you out.”
“I wasn’t referring to me,” said Armstrong, dropping another $5 into the center of the table. “I was talking about Hahn.”
There was a long pause while Max took another swig from the bottle. He then studied his cards before putting them face down on the table. Armstrong drew another card and deposited $10 with the bank. Max demanded a further card, and when he saw it he began licking his lips. He returned to his wad and extracted a further $10.
“Let’s see what you’ve got this time, old buddy,” Max said, confident he must win with two pairs, aces and jacks.
Armstrong turned over three fives. Max scowled as he watched his winnings return across the table. “Would you be willing to put real money in place of that big mouth of yours?” he asked.
“I just have,” said Dick, pocketing the money.
“No, I meant when it comes to Hahn.”
Dick said nothing.
“You’re full of chickenshit,” said Max, after Dick had remained silent for some time.
Dick placed the deck back on the table, looked across at his opponent and said coolly, “I’ll bet you a thousand dollars you can’t put Hahn out of business.”
Max put down his bottle and stared across the table as if he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. “How long will you give me?”
“Six weeks.”
“No, that’s not long enough. Don’t forget I have to make it look as if it’s nothing to do with me. I’ll need at least six months.”
“I haven’t got six months,” said Armstrong. “I could always close down Der Telegraf in six weeks if you want to reverse the bet.”
“But Hahn’s running a far bigger operation than Arno Schultz,” said Max.
“I realize that. So I’ll give you three months.”
“Then I’d expect you to offer me odds.”
Once again, Armstrong pretended he needed time to consider the proposition. “Two to one,” he eventually said.
“Three to one and you’re on,” said Max.
“You’ve got a deal,” said Armstrong, and the two men leaned across the table and shook hands. The American captain then rose unsteadily from his chair, and walked over to a drawing of a scantily dressed woman adorning a calendar on the far wall. He lifted the pages until he reached October, removed a pen from his hip pocket, counted out loud and drew a large circle around the seventeenth. “That’ll be the day when I collect my thousand dollars,” he said.
“You haven’t a hope in hell,” said Armstrong. “I’ve met Hahn, and I can tell you he won’t be that easy to roll over.”
“Just watch me,” said Max as he returned to the table. “I’m going to do to Hahn exactly what the Germans failed to do.”
Max began to deal a new hand. For the next hour, Dick continued to win back most of what he had lost earlier in the evening. But when he left to return home just be
fore midnight, Max was still licking his lips.
* * *
When Dick came out of the bathroom the following morning he found Charlotte sitting up in bed wide awake.
“And what time did you get home last night?” she asked coldly, as he pulled open a drawer in search of a clean shirt.
“Twelve,” said Dick, “maybe one. I ate out so you didn’t have to worry about me.”
“I’d rather you came home at a civilized hour, and then perhaps we could eat one of the meals I prepare for you every night.”
“As I keep trying to tell you, everything I do is in your best interests.”
“I’m beginning to think you don’t know what is in my best interests,” said Charlotte.
Dick studied her reflection in the mirror, but said nothing.
“If you’re never going to make the effort to get us out of this hellhole, perhaps the time has come for me to go back to Lyon.”
“My demob papers should be through fairly soon,” Dick said as he checked his Windsor knot in the mirror. “Three months at the most, Colonel Oakshott assured me.”
“Three more months?” said Charlotte in disbelief.
“Something’s come up that could turn out to be very important for our future.”
“And as usual I suppose you can’t tell me what it is.”
“No. It’s top secret.”
“How very convenient,” said Charlotte. “Every time I want to discuss what’s happening in our life, all you say is ‘Something’s come up.’ And when I ask you for details, you always tell me it’s top secret.”
“That’s not fair,” said Dick. “It is top secret. And everything I am trying to achieve will in the end be for you and David.”
“How would you know? You’re never here when I put David to bed, and you’ve left for the office long before he wakes up in the morning. He sees so little of you nowadays that he’s not sure if it’s you or Private Benson who’s his father.”
“I have responsibilities,” said Dick, his voice rising.
“Yes,” said Charlotte. “Responsibilities to your family. And the most important one must surely be to get us out of this godforsaken city as soon as possible.”
Dick put on his khaki jacket and turned round to face her. “I’m still working on it. It’s not easy at the moment. You must try to understand.”
“I think I understand only too well, because it seems remarkably easy for a lot of other people I know. And as Der Telegraf keeps reminding us, trains are now leaving Berlin at least twice a day. Perhaps David and I should catch one.”
“What do you mean by that?” shouted Dick, advancing toward her.
“Quite simply that you might just come home one night and find you no longer have a wife and child.”
Dick took another step toward her and raised his fist, but she didn’t flinch. He stopped and stared down into her eyes.
“Going to treat me the same way you treat anyone below the rank of captain, are you?”
“I don’t know why I bother,” said Dick, lowering his fist. “You don’t give me any support when I most need it, and whenever I try to do something for you, you just complain all the time.” Charlotte didn’t blanch. “Go back to your family if you want to, you stupid bitch, but don’t think I’ll come running after you.” He stormed out of the bedroom, grabbed his peaked hat and swagger stick from the hall stand, ran down the stairs and strode out of the front door. Benson was sitting in the jeep, engine running, waiting to drive him to the office.
“And where the bloody hell do you imagine you’d end up if you left me?” Armstrong said as he climbed into the front seat.
“I beg your pardon, sir?” said Benson.
Armstrong turned to face his driver and said, “Are you married, Reg?”
“No, sir. Hitler saved me just in time.”
“Hitler?”
“Yes, sir, I was called up three days before the wedding.”
“Is she still waiting for you?”
“No, sir. She married my best mate.”
“Do you miss her?”
“No, but I miss him.”
Armstrong laughed as Benson drew up outside the office.
The first person he came across as he walked into the building was Sally. “Did you get my message?” she asked.
Armstrong stopped immediately. “What message?”
“I phoned you at home yesterday and asked Charlotte to tell you that Major Forsdyke expects to see you in his office at nine this morning.”
“Damn the woman,” said Armstrong, heading back past Sally and toward the front door. “What else have I got on today?” he shouted on the move.
“The diary is fairly clear,” she replied, chasing after him, “except for a dinner this evening in honor of Field Marshal Auchinleck. Charlotte’s been invited too. You have to be in the officers’ mess at seven for seven-thirty. All the top brass is going to be on parade.”
As Armstrong reached the front door he said, “Don’t expect me back much before lunch.”
Benson hastily stubbed out the cigarette he had just lit and said, “Where to this time, sir?” as Armstrong jumped in beside him.
“Major Forsdyke’s office, and I need to be there by nine o’clock.”
“But, sir…” began Benson as he pressed the starter, and decided against telling the captain that even Nuvolari would be hard-pressed to get to the other side of the sector in seventeen minutes.
Armstrong was dropped outside Forsdyke’s office with sixty seconds to spare. Benson was only relieved that they hadn’t been stopped by the military police.
“Good morning, Armstrong,” said Forsdyke as Dick entered his office. He waited for him to salute, but he didn’t. “Something urgent has come up. We need you to deliver a package to your friend Major Tulpanov.”
“He’s not my friend,” Armstrong replied curtly.
“No need to be so sensitive, old fellow,” said Forsdyke. “You should know by now that you can’t afford to be when you work for me.”
“I don’t work for you,” barked Armstrong.
Forsdyke looked up at the man standing on the other side of his desk. His eyes narrowed and his lips tightened in a straight line. “I am aware of the influence you have in the British sector, Captain Armstrong, but I would remind you that however powerful you imagine you are, I still outrank you. And perhaps more importantly, I have absolutely no interest in appearing on the front page of your frightful little rag. So can we stop fussing about your over-inflated ego, and get on with the job in hand.”
A long silence followed. “You wanted me to make a delivery,” Armstrong eventually managed.
“Yes, I do,” the major replied. He pulled open a drawer in his desk, took out a package the size of a shoebox and handed it across to Armstrong. “Please see that Major Tulpanov gets this as soon as possible.”
Armstrong took the package, placed it under his left arm, saluted in an exaggerated manner, and marched out of the major’s office.
“The Russian sector,” he barked as he climbed back into the jeep.
“Yes, sir,” said Benson, pleased that on this occasion he had at least had time to have a couple of drags on his cigarette. A few minutes after they had crossed into the Russian sector, Armstrong ordered him to pull in to the curb.
“Wait here, and don’t move until I return,” he said as he stepped out of the jeep and made off in the direction of Leninplatz.
“Excuse me, sir,” said Benson, jumping out of the jeep and running after him.
Armstrong swung round and glared at his driver. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Won’t you be needing this, sir?” he asked, holding out the brown paper parcel.
Armstrong grabbed the package and walked away without saying another word. Benson wondered if his boss was visiting a mistress, although the cathedral clock had only just struck ten.
When Armstrong reached Leninplatz a few minutes later, his temper had hardly cooled. He
charged straight into the building and up the stairs, through the room where the secretary sat and on toward Tulpanov’s office.
“Excuse me, sir,” said the secretary, shooting out of her chair. But it was too late. Armstrong had reached the door of Tulpanov’s office long before she could catch up with him. He pushed it open and strode in.
He stopped in his tracks the moment he saw who Tulpanov was speaking to. “I’m sorry, sir,” he stammered, and quickly turned to leave, nearly knocking over the advancing secretary.
“No, Lubji, please don’t go,” said Tulpanov. “Won’t you join us?”
Armstrong swung back, came to attention and gave a crisp salute. He felt his face going redder and redder. “Marshal,” the KGB man said, “I don’t think you’ve met Captain Armstrong, who’s in charge of public relations for the British sector.”
Armstrong shook hands with the officer commanding the Russian sector and apologized once again for interrupting him, but this time in Russian. “I am delighted to meet you,” said Marshal Zhukov in his own tongue. “If I’m not mistaken, I believe I shall be joining you for dinner tonight.”
Armstrong looked surprised. “I don’t think so, sir.”
“Oh, yes,” said Zhukov. “I checked the guest list only this morning. I have the pleasure of being seated next to your wife.”
There followed an uneasy silence in which Armstrong decided not to venture any more opinions. “Thank you for dropping by, sir,” said Tulpanov, breaking the silence. “And for clearing up that little misunderstanding.”
Major Tulpanov gave a half-hearted salute. Zhukov responded in kind, and left them without another word. When the door had closed behind him, Armstrong asked, “Do marshals usually visit majors in your army?”
“Only when the majors are in the KGB,” said Tulpanov with a smile. His eyes settled on the parcel. “I see you come bearing gifts.”
“I’ve no idea what it is,” said Armstrong, handing over the parcel. “All I know is that Forsdyke asked me to make sure it was delivered to you immediately.”
Tulpanov took the parcel and slowly undid the string, like a child unwrapping an unexpected Christmas present. Once he had removed the brown paper, he lifted the lid of the box to reveal a pair of brown Church’s brogues. He tried them on. “A perfect fit,” he said, looking down at the highly polished toecaps. “Forsdyke may well be what your friend Max would call an arrogant son of a bitch, but you can always rely on the English to supply one with the finer things in life.”
The Fourth Estate Page 25
