The Fourth Estate

by Jeffrey Archer

  “I hadn’t forgotten,” said Townsend, as he took the seat behind his desk. “I just didn’t think…”

  “The rules of the company are quite clear on this matter,” said Bunty. “When a female employee reaches the age of sixty…”

  “You’re never sixty, Bunty!”

  “… she qualifies for retirement on the last Friday of that calendar month.”

  “Rules are there to be broken.”

  “Your father said that there should be no exceptions to that particular rule, and I agree with him.”

  “But I haven’t got the time to look for anyone else at the moment, Bunty. What with the takeover of the Chronicle and…”

  “I had anticipated that problem,” she said, not flinching, “and I have found the ideal replacement.”

  “But what are her qualifications?” demanded Townsend, ready to dismiss them immediately as inadequate.

  “She’s my niece,” came back the reply, “and more importantly, she comes from the Edinburgh side of the family.”

  Townsend couldn’t think of a suitable reply. “Well, you’d better make an appointment for her to see me.” He paused. “Some time next month.”

  “She is at this moment sitting in my office, and can see you right now,” said Bunty.

  “You know how busy I am,” said Townsend, looking down at the blank page in his diary. Bunty had obviously made certain he had no appointments that morning. She handed over the piece of paper she had been holding.

  He began studying Miss Younger’s curriculum vitae, searching for any excuse not to have to see her. When he reached the bottom of the page, he said reluctantly, “I’ll see her now.”

  When Heather Younger entered the room, Townsend stood and waited until she had taken the seat on the opposite side of the desk. Miss Younger was about five foot nine, and Townsend knew from her curriculum vitae that she was twenty-eight, though she looked considerably older. She was dressed in a green pullover and tweed skirt. Her brown stockings brought back memories for Townsend of ration books, and she wore a pair of shoes that his mother would have described as sensible.

  Her auburn hair was done up in a bun, with not a hair out of place. Townsend’s first impression was of being revisited by Miss Steadman, an illusion that was reinforced when Miss Younger began to answer his questions crisply and efficiently.

  The interview lasted for eleven minutes, and Miss Younger began work the following Monday.

  * * *

  Townsend had to wait another six weeks before the Chronicle was legally his. During that time he saw Susan almost every day. Whenever she asked him why he remained in Adelaide when he felt the Chronicle needed so much of his time and attention, he told her simply, “Until I own the paper I can’t do anything about it. And if they had any idea what I have in mind for them, they would tear up the contract long before the six weeks was up.”

  If it hadn’t been for Susan, those six weeks would have seemed interminable, even though she still regularly teased him about how rarely he was on time for a date. He finally solved the problem by suggesting, “Perhaps it would be easier if you moved in with me.”

  On the Sunday evening before Townsend was officially due to take over the Chronicle, he and Susan flew up to Sydney together. Townsend asked the taxi driver to stop outside the paper’s offices before going on to the hotel. He took Susan by the elbow and guided her across the road. Once they had reached the pavement on the far side, he turned to look up at the Chronicle building. “At midnight it belongs to me,” he said, with a passion she had never heard before.

  “I was rather hoping you’d belong to me at midnight,” she teased.

  When they arrived at the hotel, Susan was surprised to find Bruce Kelly waiting for them in the foyer. She was even more surprised when Keith asked him to join them for dinner.

  She found her attention drifting while Keith went over his plans for the future of the newspaper as if she wasn’t there. She was puzzled as to why the Chronicle’s editor hadn’t also been invited to join them. When Bruce eventually left, she and Keith took the lift to the top floor and disappeared into their separate rooms. Keith was sitting at the desk, going over some figures, when she slipped through the connecting door to join him.

  * * *

  The proprietor of the Chronicle rose at a few minutes before six the following morning, and had left the hotel long before Susan was awake. He walked to Pitt Street, stopping to check every news stand on the way. Not as bad as his first experience with the Gazette, he thought, as he arrived outside the Chronicle building, but it could still be a lot better.

  As he walked into the lobby, he told the security man on the front desk that he wanted to see the editor and the chief executive the moment they came in, and that he required a locksmith immediately. This time as he walked through the building no one asked who he was.

  Townsend sat in Sir Somerset’s chair for the first time and began reading the final edition of that morning’s Chronicle. He jotted down some notes, and when he had read the paper from cover to cover he rose from his chair and began to pace around the office, occasionally stopping to look out over Sydney Harbor. When the locksmith appeared a few minutes later, he told him exactly what needed to be done.

  “When?” asked the locksmith.

  “Now,” said Townsend. He returned to his desk, wondering which of the two men would arrive first. He had to wait another forty minutes before there was a knock on the door. Nick Watson, the editor of the Chronicle, walked in to find Townsend, head down, reading through a bulky file.

  “I’m so sorry, Keith,” he began. “I had no idea that you would be in so early on your first day.” Townsend looked up as Watson added, “Can we make this quick? I’m chairing morning conference at ten.”

  “You won’t be taking morning conference today,” said Townsend. “I’ve asked Bruce Kelly to.”

  “What? But I’m the editor,” said Nick.

  “Not any longer you aren’t,” said Townsend. “I’m promoting you.”

  “Promoting me?” said Nick.

  “Yes. You’ll be able to read the announcement in tomorrow’s paper. You’re to be the Chronicle’s first Editor Emeritus.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “‘E’ means ex, and ‘meritus’ means you deserve it.” Townsend paused as he watched the realization sink in. “Don’t worry, Nick. You’ve got a grand title and a year’s fully paid leave.”

  “But you told Sir Somerset, in my presence, that you were looking forward to working with me.”

  “I know I did, Nick,” he said, and reddened slightly. “I’m sorry, I…” He would have completed the sentence if there hadn’t been another knock at the door.

  Duncan Alexander walked in and said, “I apologize for bothering you, Keith, but someone’s changed the lock on my office door.”

  15.

  Evening Chronicle

  20 November 1947

  THIS HAPPY DAY RADIANT PRINCESS ELIZABETH WEDS HER SAILOR DUKE

  Charlotte decided that she wouldn’t attend Arno Schultz’s sixtieth birthday party because she didn’t feel confident enough yet to leave David with their German nanny. Since she had returned from Lyon, Dick had become more attentive, and sometimes he even got home in time to see their firstborn before he was put to bed.

  That evening Armstrong left the flat for Arno’s house just after seven. He assured Charlotte that he only intended to drop in and drink Arno’s health, and then return home. She smiled and promised his dinner would be ready by the time he came back.

  He hurried across the city in the hope that if he arrived before they sat down for dinner, he would be able to get away after just a quick drink. Then he might even have time to join Max Sackville for a couple of games of poker before going home.

  It was a few minutes before eight when Armstrong knocked on Arno’s front door. As soon as his host had escorted him into the packed drawing room, it became clear that they had all been waiting for him before sitting
down to dinner. He was introduced to Arno’s friends, who greeted him as if he was the guest of honor.

  Once Arno had placed a glass of white wine in his hand—from a bottle that Armstrong realized the moment he sipped it had not come from the French sector—he was led into the small dining room and placed next to a man who introduced himself as Julius Hahn, and who Arno described as “my oldest friend and greatest rival.”

  Armstrong had heard the name before, but couldn’t immediately place it. At first he ignored Hahn, and concentrated on the food that was set in front of him. He had started on his bowl of thin soup, uncertain which animal it had originated from, when Hahn began to question him about how things were back in London. It quickly became clear to Armstrong that this particular German had a far greater knowledge of the British capital than he did.

  “I do hope it won’t be too long before foreign travel restrictions are lifted,” said Hahn. “I desperately need to visit your country again.”

  “I can’t see the Allies agreeing to that for some time yet,” said Armstrong, as Mrs. Schultz replaced his empty soup bowl with a plate of rabbit pie.

  “That distresses me,” said Hahn. “I am finding it increasingly difficult to keep track of some of my business interests in London.” And then the name clicked, and for the first time Armstrong rested his knife and fork on the plate. Hahn was the proprietor of Der Berliner, the rival paper, published in the American sector. But what else did he own?

  “I’ve been wanting to meet you for some time,” said Armstrong. Hahn looked surprised, because up until that moment Captain Armstrong had shown no interest in him at all. “How many copies of Der Berliner are you printing?” Armstrong asked, already knowing, but wanting to keep Hahn talking before he asked the one question to which he really needed an answer.

  “Around 260,000 copies a day,” replied Hahn. “And our other daily in Frankfurt is, I’m happy to say, back to selling well over two hundred thousand.”

  “And how many papers do you have in all?” asked Armstrong casually, picking up his knife and fork again.

  “Just the two. It used to be seventeen before the war, as well as several specialist scientific magazines. But I can’t hope to return to those sorts of numbers again until all the restrictions are lifted.”

  “But I thought Jews—and I am a Jew myself—” once again Hahn looked surprised “—weren’t allowed to own newspapers before the war.”

  “That’s true, Captain Armstrong. But I sold all my shares in the company to my partner, who was not Jewish, and he returned them to me at the price he had paid for them within days of the war ending.”

  “And the magazines?” asked Armstrong, picking at his rabbit pie. “Could they make a profit during these hard times?”

  “Oh, yes. Indeed, in the long run they may well prove to be a more reliable source of income than the newspapers. Before the war, my company had the lion’s share of Germany’s scientific publications. But from the moment Hitler marched into Poland, we were forbidden to publish anything that might prove useful to enemies of the Third Reich. I am presently sitting on eight years of unpublished research, including most of the scientific papers produced in Germany during the war. The publishing world would pay handsomely for such material if only I could find an outlet for it.”

  “What’s stopping you from publishing it now?” asked Armstrong.

  “The London publishing house which had an arrangement with me is no longer willing to distribute my work.”

  The lightbulb hanging from the ceiling was suddenly switched off, and a small cake boasting a single candle was placed in the center of the table.

  “And why is that?” asked Armstrong, determined not to let the conversation be interrupted, as Arno Schultz blew out his candle to a round of applause.

  “Sadly, because the only son of the chairman was killed on the beaches of Dunkirk,” said Hahn, as the largest slice of cake was placed on Armstrong’s plate. “I have written to him often to express my condolences, but he simply doesn’t reply.”

  “There are other publishing houses in England,” said Armstrong, picking up the cake and stuffing it into his mouth.

  “Yes, but my contract doesn’t allow me to approach anyone else at the present time. I only have to wait a few more months now. I’ve already decided which London publishing house would best represent my interests.”

  “Have you?” said Armstrong, wiping the crumbs off his mouth.

  “If you could find the time, Captain Armstrong,” the German publisher said, “I would consider it an honor to show you round my presses.”

  “My schedule is fairly hectic at the moment.”

  “Of course,” said Hahn. “I quite understand.”

  “But perhaps when I’m next visiting the American sector I could drop by.”

  “Please do,” said Hahn.

  Once dinner was over, Armstrong thanked his host for a memorable evening, and timed his departure so that he left at the same time as Julius Hahn.

  “I hope we will meet again soon,” said Hahn as they stepped out onto the pavement.

  “I’m sure we will,” said Armstrong, shaking hands with Arno Schultz’s closest friend.

  When Dick arrived back at the apartment a few minutes before midnight, Charlotte was already asleep. He undressed, threw on a dressing-gown and crept upstairs to David’s room. He stood by the side of the cot for some time, staring down at his son.

  “I shall build you an empire,” he whispered, “which one day you will be proud to take over.”

  * * *

  The next morning, Armstrong reported to Colonel Oakshott that he had attended Arno Schultz’s sixtieth birthday party, but not that he had met Julius Hahn. The only piece of news Oakshott had for Dick was that Major Forsdyke had phoned to say he wanted him to make another trip to the Russian sector. Armstrong promised he would contact Forsdyke, but didn’t add that he planned to visit the American sector first.

  “By the way, Dick,” said the colonel. “I never did see your article about the way we’re treating the Germans in our internment camps.”

  “No, sir. I’m sorry to say that the bloody Krauts just wouldn’t cooperate. I’m afraid it all turned out to be a bit of a waste of time.”

  “I’m not that surprised,” said Oakshott. “I did warn you…”

  “And you have been proved right, sir.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it, though,” replied the colonel, “because I still believe it’s important to build bridges with these people and to regain their confidence.”

  “I couldn’t agree with you more, sir,” said Armstrong. “And I can assure you that I’m trying to play my part.”

  “I know you are, Dick. How’s Der Telegraf faring in these difficult times?”

  “Never better,” he replied. “Starting next month we’ll have a Sunday edition on the streets, and the daily is still breaking records.”

  “That’s tremendous news,” said the colonel. “By the way, I’ve just been told that the Duke of Gloucester may be making an official visit to Berlin next month. Could make a good story.”

  “Would you like to see it on the front page of Der Telegraf?” Armstrong asked.

  “Not until I get the all-clear from Security. Then you can have—what do you call it?—an exclusive.”

  “How exciting,” said Armstrong, remembering the colonel’s penchant for visiting dignitaries, especially members of the royal family. He rose to leave.

  “Don’t forget to report to Forsdyke,” were the colonel’s final words before Armstrong saluted and was driven back to his office.

  Armstrong had more pressing considerations on his mind than a major from the security service. As soon as he had cleared the mail from his desk, he warned Sally that he intended to spend the rest of the day in the American sector. “If Forsdyke calls,” he said, “make an appointment for me to see him some time tomorrow.”

  As Private Benson drove him across the city toward the American sector, Armstrong went
through the sequence of events that would be necessary if everything were to appear unplanned. He told Benson to stop off at Holt & Co, where he withdrew £100 from his account, almost clearing his entire balance. He left a token sum, as it was still a court-martial offense for a British officer to have an overdraft.

  Once he had crossed into the American sector, Benson drew up outside another bank, where Armstrong exchanged the sterling for $410, which he hoped would be a large enough stake to ensure that Max Sackville would fall in with his plans. The two of them had a leisurely lunch in the American mess, and Armstrong agreed to join the captain later that evening for their usual game of poker. When he jumped back into his jeep, he ordered Benson to drive him to the offices of Der Berliner.

  Julius Hahn was surprised to see Captain Armstrong so soon after their first meeting, but he immediately dropped what he was doing to show his distinguished visitor round the plant. It took Armstrong only a few minutes to realize the size of the empire Hahn controlled, even if he did keep repeating in a self-deprecating way, “It’s nothing like the old days.”

  By the time Armstrong had completed his tour, including the twenty-one presses in the basement, he was aware of just how insignificant Der Telegraf was by comparison with Hahn’s outfit, especially when his host mentioned that he had seven other printing presses of roughly the same size in other parts of Germany, including one in the Russian sector of Berlin.

  When Armstrong finally left the building a few minutes after five, he thanked Julius, as he had started to call him, and said, “We must meet again soon, my friend. Perhaps you’d care to join me for lunch some time?”

  “That’s most kind of you,” said Hahn. “But as I’m sure you know, Captain Armstrong, I’m not allowed to visit the British sector.”

  “Then I will simply have to come to you,” said Armstrong with a smile.

  Hahn accompanied his visitor to the door and shook him warmly by the hand. Armstrong crossed the road and walked down one of the side streets, ignoring his driver. He stopped when he came to a bar called Joe’s, and wondered what it had been known as before the war. He stepped inside as Benson brought the jeep to a halt a few yards further down the road.