by John Preston
This announcement caused considerable surprise – MTV in particular was widely reckoned to be a business whose profits were about to go through the roof. As for Maxwell’s share in De La Rue, he sold it at a £50,000,000 loss. However, nothing he did made any difference: the sale failed to raise anything like the £600,000,000 he’d been hoping for. Meanwhile the shares continued to fall.
By November 1990, MCC’s total debt had risen to 2.4 billion pounds.
The more desperate Maxwell’s finances became, the more he tried to throw himself about on the international stage, as if this might take his mind off all his difficulties. A few weeks before, he had asked Mrs Thatcher for an urgent appointment: ‘He says that he has important information for you on Gorbachev,’ the Prime Minister’s Private Secretary, Charles Powell, wrote in a memo.
Mrs Thatcher agreed to squeeze him in the following afternoon. When they met, Maxwell told her that Gorbachev’s plan to reform the USSR’s political and economic systems – perestroika – was in grave danger. Unless the Soviets received 20 billion dollars to buy food and consumer goods, it wasn’t only perestroika that might collapse, but the whole Soviet Union. In return for the 20 billion dollars, Gorbachev could supply the UK with chemicals, fertilizers and coal.
Was Mrs Thatcher willing to help? If so, Maxwell was prepared to try to broker a deal.
While she may have valued him as an intermediary, on this occasion Mrs Thatcher decided to keep her distance. Perhaps she had no desire to help out, or perhaps she felt that in presenting himself as the potential saviour of the entire Soviet Union, Maxwell was going too far, even for him. Rather than deal directly with his proposal, she passed it on to her Secretary of State for Trade and Industry, Nicholas Ridley.
As far as Ridley was concerned, it was an offer he could happily refuse. A fortnight later, his Private Secretary wrote to Powell: ‘Dear Charles, My Secretary of State was interested, but far from persuaded by the points that Mr Maxwell made to the Prime Minister.’
However, Maxwell had better luck with the Israeli Prime Minister, Yitzhak Shamir. In November 1990, Shamir asked him to pass on a letter to Gorbachev in which he expressed his hope that diplomatic relations between the two countries might be restored – enabling flights from Russia to Israel to start up again ‘with no restrictions on Jewish emigrants flying on them’.
Maxwell promised to pass the letter on, but when he got to Moscow he realized he’d left it behind in London. One of the Filipina maids was detailed to rummage through the drawers of his bedside table. Eventually she found the letter, which was then dictated to Maxwell’s secretary in Moscow. Eight months later, a flight packed with Jewish emigrants left Moscow bound for Tel Aviv.
Despite the setback with Mrs Thatcher, Gorbachev and Maxwell continued to enjoy close relations – relations that were about to be enshrined in the Gorbachev–Maxwell Institute of Technology. Having spent so long trying to bring the institute to Minneapolis, Governor Perpich was understandably keen to get everything moving.
After much discussion, it had been decided that the name ‘The Gorbachev–Maxwell Institute for Technology’ didn’t adequately reflect what was described as the ‘thrust’ and ‘synergies’ of the enterprise. In future it would be known as ‘The Gorbachev– Maxwell Institute for Technological Change’. By October 1990, Perpich was close to raising the $50,000,000 he had promised back in June. All that remained was for Maxwell to contribute his $50,000,000 and then the ‘great human endeavour’ could get underway. But when the Governor tried to get in touch with him, he found that Maxwell was peculiarly elusive. His calls were never put through, his letters went unanswered. Mikhail Gorbachev seemed just as puzzled as Perpich by Maxwell’s behaviour.
It would take a while longer before the truth finally dawned on them: the money was never coming. Maxwell had reneged on the deal. Quite possibly he’d never had any intention of donating $50,000,000; instead he was milking his pledge for as much publicity as he could – just as he had done with the 1986 Commonwealth Games. But even if he had originally planned to hand over the money, those days were long gone. While the world may indeed have been on the brink of its greatest leap forward since the invention of the wheel, the Gorbachev–Maxwell Institute for Technological Change wouldn’t be playing any part in it.
28.
Légumes du Maurier
Midway through the negotiations to buy the New York Daily News, in March 1991, Maxwell suddenly announced that he was flying back to London. He had an important function to attend, he told union representatives: a dinner to celebrate his wife Betty’s seventieth birthday.
The dinner was a typically lavish affair – the final bill was estimated to be around £250,000. One hundred and fifty guests had been invited to the Orchid Room at the Dorchester Hotel. They included assorted peers and business leaders, as well as the Soviet ambassador to Czechoslovakia. The menu had been chosen to reflect different aspects of the Maxwells’ life together. The main course was Lamb Meynard – Meynard had been Betty’s maiden name – which came accompanied by Légumes du Maurier – du Maurier being the name Maxwell was going under when they first met.
Beside each place setting was a Birthday Book which had been specially compiled by the Maxwells’ twin daughters, Isabel and Christine. In the preface Maxwell himself paid a warm if somewhat stiff tribute to his wife. ‘You have been an outstanding mother to all our children,’ he wrote, before switching to Betty’s native French: ‘Nous avons eu neuf enfants ensemble et j’ai une femme que j’aime tendrement’ – we have had nine children together and I have a wife who I love dearly.
The book included photographs from their family album – Maxwell in Berlin; Maxwell being presented with his Military Cross by Field-Marshal Montgomery; Maxwell with Barry the German shepherd; Maxwell and Betty on their wedding day, as well as photos of the two of them alongside some familiar faces: Prince Charles, Nelson and Winnie Mandela, Ronald and Nancy Reagan, Mrs Thatcher and the President of Israel, Chaim Herzog.
There were also tributes from more than 200 friends. The former Prime Minister, Harold Wilson, and his wife, Mary, wrote that ‘Elisabeth is a delightful person – talented and capable, yet modest about all her achievements; so supportive of Robert, yet maintaining her own work in different directions. We are devoted to her.’
The broadcaster David Frost described how Betty had always endeavoured to ‘make a difference’, while the property developer Gerald Ronson noted that in the years he and his wife, Gail, had known the Maxwells, ‘life has had its ups as well as its downs’. At the time, Ronson’s own life was going through one of its down phases: he’d just been released from Ford open prison after serving six months of a one-year sentence for conspiracy, false accounting and theft. Nine years later, the European Court of Human Rights ruled that his conviction had been unfair. For her part, Eleanor Berry thanked Betty for all the support she had given her – including ‘helping me with my thesis on the Marquis de Sade’.
Amid all the eulogies, only one sounded a less than laudatory note. The journalist William Davis, Editor of Punch magazine, wrote, ‘As we all know, Bob can be a bit of a monster. He often alienates people who thought they were close to him . . . Betty usually manages to smooth ruffled feathers with a kindly phone call or a charming letter. I have, more than once, decided to forgive him for some particular example of outrageous behaviour after her diplomatic intervention. He never knew about it, or if he did he probably took it for granted.’
Two months earlier, Betty had made a last attempt at a reconciliation, writing Maxwell an eighteen-page letter. Rather than send the letter – she suspected he would never bother to open it – she went to his office and asked him to read it aloud in front of her. Grudgingly, Maxwell did so, making annotations in the margins as he went along. In essence, she was proposing that they should try again. Maxwell agreed with some of her practical suggestions, but carefully steered clear of any emotional issues. When he had finished reading, he told her that he couldn’t
spare her any more time; he had important business to attend to.
The next time she saw him was the night of her birthday party. The 150 guests who turned up that evening had no inkling that anything was amiss. They had come, principally, to celebrate Betty’s birthday, but also to mark what appeared to be a long and happy marriage. However, it can’t have been long before it became plain to the most unobservant guest that something odd was going on. For a start, Maxwell was late – so late there was some discussion about starting the meal without him.
When he did finally arrive, he gave Betty a peck on the cheek, but otherwise ignored her. Unusually for him, he hardly ate anything and kept glancing at his watch. Then, when the guests were still halfway through their desserts, he suddenly rose to his feet. Caught by surprise, several diners carried on talking. It took a few moments for the room to fall silent. By then Maxwell had already begun his speech. While his timing may have been a little off, there was nothing particularly unusual about this. It was what he said – or didn’t say – that took everyone by surprise.
Barely mentioning Betty, Maxwell chose instead to tell the guests how his plans to buy the New York Daily News were going. Negotiations were proving tougher than expected, he said, but he was cautiously optimistic of a positive outcome. Although the guests listened politely, this was not what they had come to hear. Finishing as abruptly as he had started, Maxwell looked at his watch again before announcing that he had to be going – ‘I’ve got to leave for New York now.’
Amid a ripple of puzzled murmurs, he headed for the exit, leaving Betty to listen to the toasts and cut her birthday cake on her own. As she recalled in typically stoic fashion: ‘I was embarrassed by his perfunctory appearance, but I was surrounded by all those dearest to me who helped me forget my sadness.’
Outside on Park Lane, Maxwell’s claret-coloured Rolls-Royce was waiting to take him to Battersea Heliport. From there his helicopter would fly to Farnborough airport to catch the Gulfstream back to New York. Maxwell reckoned he had just enough time to make it before the heliport closed at ten o’clock. But, instead of his usual chauffeur, there was a man behind the wheel he had never seen before. This put him in an even fouler mood.
The moment Maxwell was in the car, he began bellowing orders, telling the chauffeur to weave in and out of the traffic, ignore the speed limit and drive straight through red lights. When the man protested that he’d risk losing his licence, Maxwell’s patience snapped. Telling him to pull over, he half dragged the man out of the car, then managed to squeeze behind the wheel himself. Standing on the pavement with his cap in his hand, the chauffeur watched in astonishment as Maxwell sped off into the night.
Back in the USA, Maxwell had another important social event to attend. Just as he’d predicted, his purchase of the New York Daily News had been finalized shortly after he returned to New York. Nine days later the annual Gridiron Dinner was being held in Washington. With the President as the Guest of Honor, the Gridiron Dinner was one of the most coveted invitations in the Washington social calendar. Its guests are made up of the cream of the nation’s journalists and media proprietors. While the mood is traditionally light-hearted – the President is expected to crack jokes at his own expense – the trappings are anything but informal. Women wear ballgowns and men white tie and tails, along with any medals they might have been awarded.
An invitation to the dinner would be the official anointing of Maxwell’s new ranking among the elite. However, there was a problem: the guest list had already been finalized. After frantic lobbying by the paper’s Publisher, Jim Hoge, last-minute invitations were secured for Maxwell, along with senior members of his staff, including Richard Stott.
The day before the dinner took place, they all flew down to Washington and checked into the Capital Hilton Hotel. But then came another problem: it turned out that Maxwell had left his tail-coat, trousers and medals behind in London. Given his size, no tailor was likely to be able to run up a replacement before the dinner started twenty-four hours later. Besides, Maxwell was adamant that he wanted to wear his medals.
He therefore decided to send his general factotum, a man called Bob Cole, back to London on Concorde to pick up his outfit, then come straight back – a round trip that would cost in excess of £8000. But with three hours to go before guests were due to arrive, there was still no sign of Cole.
Maxwell was growing testy. What was going on? It turned out the return flight had been delayed due to fog and nobody could be sure when Cole would arrive.
By now Richard Stott had problems of his own: he realized he had no black socks to go with his dress trousers. All the shops were shut so he went in search of Maxwell’s butler, Josef Perera.
‘“Josef,” I said, “I need a pair of black socks.”
‘“But Mr Stott,”’ Josef told him, ‘“I only have the pair I’m wearing.”’
‘“I’ll swop you,”’ Stott said, and handed over a blue pair of his own, dark enough for Maxwell not to notice. ‘The deal was done.’
With only an hour to go before the dinner was due to start, an exhausted Bob Cole finally appeared with Maxwell’s outfit. Fifteen minutes later Stott went to Maxwell’s suite for a pre-dinner drink only to be met by Cole running down the corridor in tears. ‘“He definitely told me white tie and tails,” he wailed. “But when I get here, he shouts and screams at me saying, You’ve brought the wrong fucking suit, you idiot – it’s dinner jacket. Go and get me one. But where do I get a dinner jacket his size at this time of night?”’
Stott reassured Cole that he had brought the right outfit; Maxwell had just made a mistake. That appeared to be the end of the matter, except it wasn’t – not quite. When Maxwell put on his white tie and tails, complete with his extensive array of medals, he realized that he too didn’t have any black socks.
‘That fucker Cole didn’t bring any,’ he complained.
‘Oh you’ve got to wear black socks, Bob,’ Stott told him. ‘It’s part of the uniform.’
Maxwell looked at Stott and asked him where he’d got his socks from.
‘Your butler,’ Stott said. ‘It was his only pair.’
At this point Josef, who was pouring the drinks, hitched up his trouser leg to show Maxwell that he was now wearing Stott’s blue ones. Maxwell looked from Stott to Josef and back again.
‘He’s my fucking butler,’ he said. ‘I should have those socks.’
But Stott refused to budge. ‘Well, I’m not taking them off, Bob. I’ve done a deal and Josef has got my socks.’
An impasse threatened. It was finally resolved by Maxwell pulling out his wallet and giving Josef a $100 bill. ‘Josef went off in search of the most expensive pair of socks in newspaper history, leaving one Capital Hotel waiter very happy, even if he did have cold feet for the rest of the night.’
However thrilled Maxwell was to attend the Gridiron Dinner, he was over the moon when he learned that Jim Hoge had fixed up a small lunch party the next day at a friend’s house in Georgetown. Once again, the President, George Bush Snr, would be attending, along with the two men who had masterminded the recent victory in the Gulf War: Colin Powell, Commander of the US Army, and General ‘Stormin’ Norman Schwarzkopf, leader of the coalition forces.
This time Hoge had gone one better – he’d arranged for Maxwell to sit next to the President. Beaming with pleasure, Maxwell took his seat at the table. But the lunch failed to go as well as Hoge had hoped. As he soon realized, the reserved, patrician Bush and the extravagantly egocentric Maxwell did not make a natural pairing. ‘At the start of the meal, Bush talked to Bob for about three minutes,’ Hoge remembers. ‘That was fine, but then Bob went off and talked non-stop at the President for what seemed like a very long time.’
Although he was sitting at the other end of the table and couldn’t hear what Maxwell was saying, Hoge could see it was impossible for Bush to get a word in edgeways. ‘After a while he gave up and just sat there nodding. Then, the moment Bob paused for breath, the Preside
nt stood up saying that he had to be somewhere else.’ As he was escorted back to his motorcade, a dazed-looking Bush was seen mouthing to an aide, ‘Who Was That Guy?’
29.
Selling the Crown Jewels
As Betty Maxwell knew only too well, the bond that existed between her husband and Pergamon Press was as strong as – perhaps stronger than – anything else in his life. It was as if their fates were fused together; when Pergamon was doing well, Maxwell’s spirits rose; when it was doing badly, they sank back down again.
At the end of March 1991, Maxwell asked Anna Moon, the General Manager of Pergamon’s Publishing Services, to come up to London to see him. ‘I had no idea what he wanted. When I walked into his office, he just looked at me and said, “I’m selling Pergamon tomorrow.”’
Moon was so stunned it took her a few moments to recover.
‘I said, “Why didn’t you tell me before?” After all, I’d worked for the company for more than twenty years. But Maxwell just said, very brusquely, “You didn’t need to know.”’
However dismissive he may have been, Moon was in no doubt what this meant: ‘He was essentially selling the crown jewels.’ As well as making Maxwell’s initial fortune, Pergamon had transformed scientific research and earned him the admiration of people that he himself admired.
His children were equally astonished. All of them, with the exception of Isabel, who became a documentary film maker, had worked for their father at some stage: Christine was now running Pergamon’s editorial operations on the US West Coast, while Ghislaine had been in charge of Maxwell’s corporate gift business.
Twenty-two years earlier, the previous sale of Pergamon had brought Maxwell to the edge of ruin. Now the stakes were far higher. ‘For me, it was an extraordinary development,’ Ian Maxwell recalls. ‘That was when it dawned on me that nothing was sacred any more.’ Nor was Ian in any doubt about what an emotional wrench this was for his father. ‘I remember Kevin did the actual deal because Dad couldn’t bring himself to do it.’ Christine was equally shocked. ‘It killed us, frankly. We were all very upset. Very sad.’