The Fourth Estate

by Jeffrey Archer

  “It certainly would,” said Townsend. “And if you have any other bright ideas, Mel, don’t hesitate to share them with me. You’ll find my door is always open.”

  It was a change for Townsend to see someone leaving his office with a smile on their face. He checked his watch as Bunty walked in.

  “Time for you to be leaving for your lunch with the circulation manager of the Messenger.”

  “I wonder if I can afford it,” said Townsend, checking his watch.

  “Oh yes,” she said. “Your father always thought the Caxton Grill very reasonable. It’s Pilligrini’s he considered extravagant, and he only ever took your mother there.”

  “It’s not the price of the meal I’m worried about, Bunty. It’s how much he’ll demand if he agrees to leave the Messenger and join us.”

  * * *

  Townsend waited for a week before he called for Frank Bailey and told him that the small ads would no longer be appearing on the back page.

  “But the small ads have been on the back page for over seventy years,” was the editor’s first reaction.

  “If that’s true, I can’t think of a better argument for moving them,” said Townsend.

  “But our readers don’t like change.”

  “And the Messenger’s do?” said Townsend. “That’s one of the many reasons they’re selling far more copies than we are.”

  “Are you willing to sacrifice our long tradition simply to gain a few more readers?”

  “I can see you’ve got the message at last,” said Townsend, not blinking.

  “But your mother assured me that…”

  “My mother is not in charge of the day-to-day running of this paper. She gave me that responsibility.” He didn’t add, but only for ninety days.

  The editor held his breath for a moment before he said calmly, “Are you hoping I’ll resign?”

  “Certainly not,” said Townsend firmly. “But I am hoping you’ll help me run a profitable newspaper.”

  He was surprised by the editor’s next question.

  “Can you hold the decision off for another two weeks?”

  “Why?” asked Townsend.

  “Because my sports editor isn’t expected back from holiday until the end of the month.”

  “A sports editor who takes three weeks off in the middle of the cricket season probably wouldn’t even notice if his desk had been replaced when he came back,” snapped Townsend.

  The sports editor handed in his resignation on the day he returned, which deprived Townsend of the pleasure of sacking him. Within hours he had appointed the twenty-five-year-old cricket correspondent to take his place.

  Frank Bailey came charging up to Townsend’s room a few moments after he heard the news. “It’s the editor’s job to make appointments,” he began, even before he had closed the door to Townsend’s office, “not…”

  “Not any longer it isn’t,” said Townsend.

  The two men stared at each other for some time before Frank tried again. “In any case, he’s far too young to take on such a responsibility.”

  “He’s three years older than I am,” said Townsend.

  Frank bit his lip. “May I remind you,” he said, “that when you visited my office for the first time only four weeks ago, you assured me, and I quote, that ‘I don’t intend to be the sort of publisher who interferes with editorial decisions’?”

  Townsend looked up from his desk and reddened slightly.

  “I’m sorry, Frank,” he said. “I lied.”

  * * *

  Long before the ninety days were up, the gap between the circulations of the Messenger and the Gazette had begun to narrow, and Lady Townsend quite forgot she had ever put a time limit on whether they should accept the Messenger’s offer of £150,000.

  After looking over several apartments, Townsend eventually found one in an ideal location, and signed the lease within hours. That evening he explained to his mother over the phone that in future, because of the pressure of work, he wouldn’t be able to visit her in Toorak every weekend. She didn’t seem at all surprised.

  When Townsend attended his third board meeting, he demanded that the directors make him chief executive, so no one would be left in any doubt that he was not there simply as the son of his father. By a narrow vote they turned him down. When he rang his mother that night and asked why she thought they had done so, she told him that the majority had considered that the title of publisher was quite enough for anyone who had only just celebrated his twenty-third birthday.

  The new circulation manager reported—six months after he had left the Messenger to join the Gazette—that the gap between the two papers had closed to 32,000. Townsend was delighted by the news, and at the next board meeting he told the directors that the time had come for them to make a takeover bid for the Messenger. One or two of the older members only just managed to stop themselves laughing, but then Townsend presented them with the figures, produced something he called trend graphs, and was able to show that the bank had agreed to back him.

  Once he had persuaded the majority of his colleagues to go along with the bid, Townsend dictated a letter to Sir Colin, making him an offer of £750,000 for the Messenger. Although he received no official acknowledgment of the bid, Townsend’s lawyers informed him that Sir Colin had called an emergency board meeting, which would take place the following afternoon.

  The lights on the executive floor of the Messenger burned late into the night. Townsend, who had been refused entry to the building, paced up and down the pavement outside, waiting to learn the board’s decision. After two hours he grabbed a hamburger from a café in the next street, and when he returned to his beat he found the lights on the top floor were still burning. Had a passing policeman spotted him, he might have been arrested for loitering with intent.

  The lights on the executive floor were finally switched off just after one, and the directors of the Messenger began to stream out of the building. Townsend looked hopefully at each one of them, but they walked straight past him without giving him so much as a glance.

  Townsend hung around until he was certain that there was no one other than the cleaners left in the building. He then walked slowly back to the Gazette and watched the first edition come off the stone. He knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep that night, so he joined the early-morning vans and helped to deliver the first editions around the city. It gave him the chance to make sure the Gazette was put above the Messenger in the racks.

  * * *

  Two days later Bunty placed a letter in the priority file:

  Dear Mr. Townsend,

  I have received your letter of the twenty-sixth inst.

  In order not to waste any more of your time, let me make it clear the Messenger is not for sale, and never will be.

  Yours faithfully,

  Colin Grant

  Townsend smiled and dropped the letter in the wastepaper basket.

  * * *

  Over the next few months Townsend pushed his staff night and day in a relentless drive to overtake his rival. He always made it clear to every one of his team that no one’s job was safe—and that included the editor’s. Resignations from those who were unable to keep up with the pace of the changes at the Gazette were outnumbered by those who left the Messenger to join him once they realized it was going to be “a battle to the death”—a phrase Townsend used whenever he addressed the monthly staff meeting.

  A year after Townsend had returned from England, the two papers’ circulations were running neck and neck, and he felt the time had come for him to make another call to the chairman of the Messenger.

  When Sir Colin came on the line, Townsend didn’t bother with the normal courtesies. His opening gambit was, “If £750,000 isn’t enough, Sir Colin, what do you consider the paper’s actually worth?”

  “Far more than you can afford, young man. In any case,” he added, “as I’ve already explained, the Messenger’s not for sale.”

  “Well, not for another six months,�
�� said Townsend.

  “Not ever!” shouted Sir Colin down the line.

  “Then I’ll just have to run you off the streets,” said Townsend. “And then you’ll be only too happy to take £50,000 for whatever remains of the bits and pieces.” He paused. “Feel free to call me when you change your mind.”

  It was Sir Colin’s turn to slam the phone down.

  * * *

  On the day the Gazette outsold the Messenger for the first time, Townsend held a celebration party on the fourth floor, and announced the news in a banner headline above a picture of Sir Colin taken the previous year at his wife’s funeral. As each month passed, the gap between the two papers widened, and Townsend never missed an opportunity to inform his readers of the latest circulation figures. He was not surprised when Sir Colin rang and suggested that perhaps the time had come for them to meet.

  After weeks of negotiations, it was agreed that the two papers should merge, but not before Townsend had secured the only two concessions he really cared about. The new paper would be printed on his presses, and called the Gazette Messenger.

  When the newly-designated board met for the first time, Sir Colin was appointed chairman and Townsend chief executive.

  Within six months the word Messenger had disappeared from the masthead, and all major decisions were being taken without any pretense of consulting the board or its chairman. Few were shocked when Sir Colin offered his resignation, and no one was surprised when Townsend accepted it.

  When his mother asked what had caused Sir Colin to resign, Townsend replied that it had been by mutual agreement, because he felt the time had come to make way for a younger man. Lady Townsend wasn’t altogether convinced.

  THIRD EDITION

  Where There’s a Will …

  13.

  Der Telegraf

  31 August 1947

  BERLIN FOOD SHORTAGES TO CONTINUE

  “If Lauber made a will, I need to get my hands on it.”

  “Why is getting hold of this will so important?” asked Sally.

  “Because I want to know who inherits his shares in Der Telegraf.”

  “I assume his wife does.”

  “No, it’s more likely to be Arno Schultz. In which case I’m wasting my time—so the sooner we find out, the better.”

  “But I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

  “Try the Ministry of the Interior. Once Lauber’s body was returned to Germany, it became their responsibility.”

  Sally looked doubtful.

  “Use up every favor we’re owed,” said Armstrong, “and promise anything in return, but find me that will.” He turned to leave. “Right, I’m off to see Hallet.”

  Armstrong left without another word, and was driven to the British officers’ mess by Benson. He took the stool at the corner of the bar and ordered a whiskey, checking his watch every few minutes.

  Stephen Hallet strolled in a few moments after six-thirty had chimed on the grandfather clock in the hall. When he saw Armstrong, he smiled broadly and joined him at the bar.

  “Dick. Thank you so much for that case of the Mouton-Rothschild ’29. It really is quite excellent. I must confess I’m trying to ration it until my demob papers come through.”

  Armstrong smiled. “Then we’ll just have to see if we can’t somehow arrange a more regular supply. Why don’t you join me for dinner? Then we can find out why they’re making such a fuss about the Château Beychevelle ’33.”

  Over a burnt steak, Captain Hallet experienced the Beychevelle for the first time, while Armstrong found out all he needed to know about probate, and why Lauber’s shares would automatically go to Mrs. Lauber, as his next of kin, if no will was discovered.

  “But what if she’s dead too?” asked Armstrong as the steward uncorked a second bottle.

  “If she’s dead, or can’t be traced—” Hallet sipped his refilled glass, and the smile returned to his lips “—the original owner would have to wait five years. After that he would probably be able to put in a claim for the shares.”

  Because Armstrong was unable to take notes, he found himself repeating questions to make sure he had all the salient information committed to memory. This didn’t seem to worry Hallet, who, Armstrong suspected, knew exactly what he was up to but wasn’t going to ask too many questions as long as someone kept on filling his glass. Once Armstrong was sure he fully understood the legal position, he made some excuse about having promised his wife he wouldn’t be home late, and left the lawyer with a half-full bottle.

  After he left the mess, Armstrong made no attempt to return home. He didn’t feel like spending another evening explaining to Charlotte why it was taking so long for his demob papers to be processed when several of their friends had already returned to Blighty. Instead he ordered a tired-looking Benson to drive him to the American sector.

  His first call was on Max Sackville, with whom he stopped to play a couple of hours of poker. Armstrong lost a few dollars but gained some useful information about American troop movements, which he knew Colonel Oakshott would be grateful to hear about.

  He left Max soon after he had lost enough to ensure that he would be invited back again, and strolled across the road and down an alley before dropping into his favorite bar in the American sector. He joined a group of officers who were celebrating their imminent return to the States. A few whiskies later he left the bar, having added to his store of information. But he would happily have traded everything he’d picked up for one glance at Lauber’s will. He didn’t notice a sober man, wearing civilian clothes, get up and follow him out onto the street.

  He was heading back toward his jeep when a voice behind him said, “Lubji.”

  Armstrong stopped dead in his tracks, feeling slightly sick. He swung round to face a man who must have been about his own age, though much shorter and stockier than he was. He was dressed in a plain gray suit, white shirt and dark blue tie. In the unlit street Armstrong couldn’t make out the man’s features.

  “You must be a Czech,” said Armstrong quietly.

  “No, Lubji, I am not.”

  “Then you’re a bloody German,” said Armstrong, clenching his fists and advancing toward him.

  “Wrong again,” said the man, not flinching.

  “Then who the hell are you?”

  “Let’s just say I’m a friend.”

  “But I don’t even know you,” said Armstrong. “Why don’t you stop playing games and tell me what the hell you want.”

  “Just to help you,” said the man quietly.

  “And how do you propose doing that?” snarled Armstrong.

  The man smiled. “By producing the will you seem so determined to get your hands on.”

  “The will?” said Armstrong nervously.

  “Ah, I see I have finally touched what the British describe as a ‘raw nerve’.” Armstrong stared down at the man as he placed a hand in his pocket and took out a card. “Why don’t you visit me when you’re next in the Russian sector?” he said, handing over his card.

  In the dim light, Armstrong couldn’t read the name on the card. When he looked up, the man had disappeared into the night.

  He walked on a few paces until he came to a gas light, then looked down at the card again.

  MAJOR S. TULPANOV

  Diplomatic Attaché

  Leninplatz, Russian sector

  When Armstrong saw Colonel Oakshott the following morning, he reported everything that had happened in the American sector the previous evening and handed over Major Tulpanov’s card. The only thing he didn’t mention was that Tulpanov had addressed him as Lubji. Oakshott jotted down some notes on the pad in front of him. “Don’t mention this to anyone until I’ve made one or two inquiries,” he said.

  Armstrong was surprised to receive a call soon after he returned to his office: the colonel wanted him to return to headquarters immediately. He was quickly driven back across the sector by Benson. When he walked into Oakshott’s room for the second time that morning, he found his
commanding officer flanked by two men he had never seen before, in civilian clothes. They introduced themselves as Captain Woodhouse and Major Forsdyke.

  “It looks as if you’ve hit the jackpot with this one, Dick,” said Oakshott, even before Armstrong had sat down. “It seems your Major Tulpanov is with the KGB. In fact we think he’s their number three in the Russian sector. He’s considered to be a rising star. These two gentlemen,” he said, “are with the security service. They would like you to take up Tulpanov’s suggestion of a visit, and report back everything you can find out, right down to the brand of cigarettes he smokes.”

  “I could go across this afternoon,” said Armstrong.

  “No,” said Forsdyke firmly. “That would be far too obvious. We would prefer you to wait a week or two and make it look more like a routine visit. If you turn up too quickly, he’s bound to become suspicious. It’s his job to be suspicious, of course, but why make it easy for him? Report to my office on Franklinstrasse at eight tomorrow morning, and I’ll see that you’re fully briefed.”

  Armstrong spent the next ten mornings being taken through routine procedures by the security service. It quickly became clear that they didn’t consider him a natural recruit. After all, his knowledge of England was confined to a transit camp in Liverpool, a period as a private soldier in the Pioneer Corps, graduation to the ranks of the North Staffordshire Regiment and a journey through the night to Portsmouth, before being shipped to France. Most of the officers who briefed him would have considered Eton, Trinity and the Guards a more natural qualification for the career they had chosen. “God is not on our side with this one,” Forsdyke sighed over lunch with his colleague. They hadn’t even considered inviting Armstrong to join them.

  Despite these misgivings, ten days later Captain Armstrong visited the Russian sector on the pretext of trying to find some spare parts for Der Telegraf’s printing presses. Once he had confirmed that his contact didn’t have the equipment he needed—as he knew only too well he wouldn’t—he walked briskly over to Leninplatz and began to search for Tulpanov’s office.