The Fourth Estate

by Jeffrey Archer

  “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.

  Charlotte tried to disguise her true feelings when she was told the news of her husband’s “coup.” She was certain it could only mean that their departure for England would be postponed yet again. But she was relieved when Dick agreed that she could return to Lyon to be with her parents for the birth of their firstborn, as she was determined that any child of hers would begin its life as a French citizen.

  Arno Schultz was surprised by Armstrong’s sudden renewed commitment to Der Telegraf. He started making contributions at the morning editorial conference, and even took to riding on the delivery vans on their midnight sojourns around the city. Arno assumed that his boss’s new enthusiasm was directly related to Charlotte’s absence in Lyon.

  Within a few weeks they were selling 300,000 copies of the paper a day for the first time, and Arno accepted that the pupil had become the master.

  A month later, Captain Armstrong took ten days’ compassionate leave so he could be in Lyon for the birth of his first child. He was delighted when Charlotte presented him with a boy, whom they christened David. As he sat on the bed holding the child in his arms, he promised Charlotte that it would not be long before they left for England, and the three of them would embark on a new life.

  He arrived back in Berlin a week later, resolved to tell Colonel Oakshott that the time had come for him to resign his commission and return to England.

  He would have done so if Arno Schultz hadn’t held a party to celebrate his sixtieth birthday.

  14.

  Adelaide Gazette

  13 March 1956

  MENZIES STAYS PUT

  The first time Townsend noticed her was on a flight up to Sydney. He was reading the Gazette: the lead story should have been relegated to page three and the headline was weak. The Gazette now had a monopoly in Adelaide, but the paper was becoming increasingly slack. He should have removed Frank Bailey from the editor’s chair after the merger, but he had to satisfy himself with getting rid of Sir Colin first. He frowned.

  “Would you like your coffee topped up, Mr. Townsend?” she asked. Townsend glanced up at the slim girl who was holding a coffee pot, and smiled. She must have been about twenty-five, with curly fair hair and blue eyes which made you go on staring at them.

  “Yes,” he replied, despite not wanting any more. She returned his smile—an air hostess’s smile, a smile that didn’t vary for the fat or the thin, the rich or the poor.

  Townsend put the Gazette to one side and tried to concentrate on the meeting that was about to take place. He had recently purchased, at a cost of half a million pounds, a small print group which specialized in giveaway papers distributed in the western suburbs of Sydney. The deal had done no more than give him a foothold in Australia’s largest city.

  It had been at the Newspapers and Publishers Annual Dinner at the Cook Hotel that a man of about twenty-seven or twenty-eight, five foot eight, square-jawed with bright red hair and the shoulders of a prop forward, came up to his table after the speeches were over and whispered in his ear, “I’ll see you in the men’s room.” Townsend wasn’t sure whether to laugh or just to ignore the man. But curiosity got the better of him, and a few minutes later he rose from his place and made his way through the tables to the men’s room. The man with the red hair was washing his hands in the corner basin. Townsend walked across, stood at the basin next to him and turned on the tap.

  “What hotel are you staying at?” he asked.

  “The Town House,” Keith replied.

  “And what’s your room number?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “I’ll find out. I’ll come to your room around midnight. That is, if you’re interested in getting your hands on the Sydney Chronicle.” The red-headed man turned off the tap, dried his hands and left.

  Townsend learned in the early hours of the morning that the man who had accosted him at the dinner was Bruce Kelly, the Chronicle’s deputy editor. He wasted no time in telling Townsend that Sir Somerset Kenwright was considering selling the paper, as he felt it no longer fitted in with the rest of his group.

  “Was there something wrong with your coffee?” she asked.

  Townsend looked up at her, and then down at his untouched coffee. “No, it was fine, thank you,” he said. “I’m just a little preoccupied at the moment.” She gave him that smile again, before removing the cup and continuing on to the row behind. Once again he tried to concentrate.

  When he had first discussed the idea with his mother, she had told him that it had been his father’s lifelong ambition to own the Chronicle, though her own feelings were ambivalent. The reason he was traveling to Sydney for the third time in as many weeks was for another meeting with Sir Somerset’s top management team, so he could go over the terms of a possible deal. And one of them still owed him a favor.

  Over the past few months Townsend’s lawyers had been working in tandem with Sir Somerset’s, and both sides now felt they were at last coming close to an agreement. “The old man thinks you’re the lesser of two evils,” K
elly had warned him. “He’s faced the fact that his son isn’t up to the job, but he doesn’t want the paper to fall into the hands of Wally Hacker, who he’s never liked, and certainly doesn’t trust. He’s not sure about you, although he has fond memories of your father.” Since Kelly had given him that piece of invaluable information, Townsend had mentioned his father whenever he and Sir Somerset met.

  When the plane taxied to a halt at Kingsford-Smith airport, Townsend unfastened his seatbelt, picked up his briefcase and began to walk toward the forward exit. “Have a good day, Mr. Townsend,” she said. “I do hope you’ll be flying Austair again.”

  “I will,” he promised. “In fact I’m coming back tonight.” Only an impatient line of passengers who were pressing forward stopped him from asking if she would be on that flight.

  When his taxi came to a halt in Pitt Street, Townsend checked his watch and found he still had a few minutes to spare. He paid the fare and darted through the traffic to the other side of the road. When he had reached the far pavement, he turned round and stared up at the building which housed the biggest-selling newspaper in Australia. He only wished his father was still alive to witness him closing the deal.

  He walked back across the road, entered the building and paced around the reception area until a well-dressed middle-aged woman appeared out of one of the lifts, walked over to him and said, “Sir Somerset is expecting you, Mr. Townsend.”

  When Townsend walked into the vast office overlooking the harbor, he was greeted by a man he had regarded with awe and admiration since his childhood. Sir Somerset shook him warmly by the hand. “Keith. Good to see you. I think you were at school with my chief executive, Duncan Alexander.” The two men shook hands, but said nothing. “But I don’t believe you’ve met the Chronicle’s editor, Nick Watson.”

  “No, I haven’t had that pleasure,” said Townsend, shaking Watson by the hand. “But of course I know of your reputation.”

  Sir Somerset waved them to seats around a large boardroom table, taking his place at the top. “You know, Keith,” began the old man, “I’m damn proud of this paper. Even Beaverbrook tried to buy it from me.”

  “Understandably,” said Townsend.

  “We’ve set a standard of journalism in this building that I like to think even your father would have been proud of.”

  “He always spoke of your papers with the greatest respect. Indeed, when it came to the Chronicle, I think the word ‘envy’ would be more appropriate.”

  Sir Somerset smiled. “It’s kind of you to say so, my boy.” He paused. “Well, it seems that during the past few weeks our teams have been able to agree most of the details. So, as long as you can match Wally Hacker’s offer of £1.9 million and—just as important to me—you agree to retain Nick as editor and Duncan as chief executive, I think we might have ourselves a deal.”

  “It would be foolish of me not to rely on their vast knowledge and expertise,” said Townsend. “They are two highly respected professionals, and I shall naturally be delighted to work with them. Though I feel I should let you know that it’s not my policy to interfere in the internal working of my papers, especially when it comes to the editorial content. That’s just not my style.”

  “I see that you’ve learned a great deal from your father,” said Sir Somerset. “Like him, and like you, I don’t involve myself in the day-to-day running of the paper. It always ends in tears.”

  Townsend nodded his agreement.

  “Well, I don’t think there’s much more for us to discuss at this stage, so I suggest we adjourn to the dining room and have some lunch.” The old man put his arm round Townsend’s shoulder and said, “I only wish your father were here to join us.”

  * * *

  The smile never left Townsend’s face on the journey back to the airport. If she were on the return flight, that would be a bonus. His smile became even wider as he fastened his seatbelt and began to rehearse what he would say to her.

  “I hope you had a worthwhile trip to Sydney, Mr. Townsend,” she said as she offered him an evening paper.

  “It couldn’t have turned out better,” he replied. “Perhaps you’d like to join me for dinner tonight and help me celebrate?”

  “That’s very kind of you, sir,” she said, emphasizing the word “sir,” “but I’m afraid it’s against company policy.”

  “Is it against company policy to know your name?”

  “No, sir,” she said. “It’s Susan.” She gave him that same smile, and moved on to the next row.

  The first thing he did when he got back to his flat was to make himself a sardine sandwich. He had only taken one bite when the phone rang. It was Clive Jervis, the senior partner at Jervis, Smith & Thomas. Clive was still anxious about some of the finer details of the contract, including compensation agreements and stock write-offs.

  No sooner had Townsend put the phone down than it rang again, and he took an even longer call from Trevor Meacham, his accountant, who still felt that £1.9 million was too high a price.

  “I don’t have a lot of choice,” Townsend told him. “Wally Hacker has already offered the same amount.”

  “Hacker is also capable of paying too much,” came back the reply. “I think we should still demand staged payments, based on this year’s circulation figures, and not aggregated over the past ten years.”

  “Why?” asked Townsend.

  “Because the Chronicle has been losing 2 to 3 percent of its readers year on year. Everything ought to be based on the latest figures available.”

  “I agree with you on that, but I don’t want it to be the reason I lose this deal.”

  “Neither do I,” said his accountant. “But I also don’t want you to end up bankrupt simply because you paid far too much for sentimental reasons. Every deal must stack up in its own right, and not be closed just to prove you’re as good as your father.”

  Neither man spoke for several moments.

  “You needn’t worry about that,” said Townsend eventually. “I already have plans to double the circulation of the Chronicle. In a year’s time £1.9 million will look cheap. And what’s more, my father would have backed me on this one.” He put the phone down before Trevor could say another word.

  The final call came from Bruce Kelly just after eleven, by which time Townsend was in his dressing-gown, and the half-eaten sardine sandwich was stale.

  “Sir Somerset is still nervous,” he warned him.

  “Why?” asked Townsend. “I felt today’s meeting couldn’t have gone better.”

  “The meeting wasn’t the problem. After you left, he had a call from Sir Colin Grant which lasted nearly an hour. And Duncan Alexander isn’t exactly your closest mate.”

  Townsend thumped his fist on the table. “Damn the man,” he said. “Now listen carefully, Bruce, and I’ll tell you exactly what line you should take. Whenever Sir Colin’s name comes up, remind Sir Somerset that as soon as he became chairman of the Messenger, it began losing sales every week. As for Alexander, you can leave him to me.”

  * * *

  Townsend was disappointed to find that on his next flight up to Sydney, Susan was nowhere to be seen. When a steward served him with coffee, he asked if she was working on another flight.

  “No, sir,” he replied. “Susan left the company at the end of last month.”

  “Do you know where she’s working now?”

  “I’ve no idea, sir,” he replied, before moving on to the next passenger.

  Townsend spent the morning being shown round the Chronicle’s offices by Duncan Alexander, who kept the conversation businesslike, making no attempt to be friendly. Townsend waited until they were alone in the lift before he turned to him and said, “You once told me many years ago, ‘We Alexanders have long memories. Call on me when you need me.’”

  “Yes, I did,” Duncan admitted.

  “Good, because the time has come for me to call in my marker.”

  “What do you expect from me?”

  “I want Sir
Somerset to be told what a good man I am.”

  The lift came to a halt, and the doors opened.

  “If I do that, will you guarantee I’ll keep my job?”

  “You have my word on it,” said Townsend as he stepped out into the corridor.

  After lunch, Sir Somerset—who seemed a little more restrained than when they had first met—accompanied Townsend around the editorial floor, where he was introduced to the journalists. All of them were relieved to find that the new proprietor just nodded and smiled at them, making himself agreeable to even the most junior staff. Everyone who came in contact with Townsend that day was pleasantly surprised, especially after what they had been told by reporters who had worked for him on the Gazette. Even Sir Somerset began to wonder if Sir Colin hadn’t exaggerated about Townsend’s behavior in the past.

  “Don’t forget what happened to the sales of the Messenger when Sir Colin took over as chairman,” Bruce Kelly whispered into several ears, including his editor’s, soon after Townsend had left.

  The staff on the Chronicle would not have given Townsend the benefit of the doubt if they had seen the notes he was compiling on the flight back to Adelaide. It was clear to him that if he hoped to double the paper’s profits, there was going to have to be some drastic surgery, with cuts from top to bottom.

  Townsend found himself looking up from time to time and thinking about Susan. When another steward offered him a copy of the evening paper, he asked if he had any idea where she was now working.

  “Do you mean Susan Glover?” he asked.

  “Blonde, curly hair, early twenties,” said Townsend.

  “Yes, that’s Susan. She left us when she was offered a job at Moore’s. Said she couldn’t take the irregular hours any longer, not to mention being treated like a bus conductor. I know just how she feels.”

  Townsend smiled. Moore’s had always been his mother’s favorite store in Adelaide. He was sure it wouldn’t take him long to discover which department Susan worked in.

  The following morning, after he had finished going through the mail with Bunty, he dialed Moore’s number the moment she had closed the door behind her.