The Fourth Estate

by Jeffrey Archer

  “It may be Friday in New York,” replied Clive, “but I can assure you it’s Saturday here in Sydney. I’ll look forward to seeing you at the church in about an hour’s time.”

  “Oh my God,” cried Townsend. He dropped the phone, ran out of the customs hall without his luggage and emerged onto the pavement to find Sam standing by the car, looking slightly agitated. Townsend leapt into the front seat. “I thought it was Friday,” he said.

  “No, sir, I’m afraid it’s Saturday,” said Sam. “And you’re meant to be getting married in fifty-six minutes’ time.”

  “But that doesn’t even leave me enough time to go home and change.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Sam. “Heather’s put everything you’ll need on the back seat.”

  Keith turned round to find a pile of clothes, a pair of gold cufflinks and a red carnation all neatly laid out for him. He quickly removed his coat, and began undoing the buttons of his shirt.

  “Will we get there on time?” he asked.

  “We should make it to St. Peter’s with about five minutes to spare,” said Sam as Keith threw yesterday’s shirt onto the floor in the back of the car. He paused. “As long as the traffic keeps moving and the lights are all green.”

  “What else should I be worrying about?” Keith asked as he forced his right arm into the left sleeve of a starched shirt.

  “I think you’ll find that Heather and Bruce have thought of everything between them,” said Sam.

  Keith finally succeeded in putting his arm in the correct sleeve, then asked if Susan realized that he’d only just returned.

  “I don’t think so,” said Sam. “She’s spent the last few days at her sister’s place in Kogarah, and she’s being driven direct to the church from there. She did ring a couple of times this morning, but I told her you were in the shower.”

  “I could do with a shower.”

  “I would have had to phone her if you hadn’t been on that flight.”

  “That’s for sure, Sam. I suppose we’d better hope the bride will be the traditional few minutes late.” Keith leaned back and grabbed a pair of gray striped trousers with braces already attached, neither of which he had ever seen before.

  Sam tried to disguise a yawn.

  Keith turned to him. “Don’t tell me you’ve been waiting outside that airport for the past twenty-four hours?”

  “Thirty-six, sir. After all, you did say some time on Friday.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Keith. “Your wife must be livid with me.”

  “She won’t give a damn, sir.”

  “Why not?” asked Keith as the car careered round a sharp bend at fifty miles an hour and he tried to do up his fly buttons.

  “Because she left me last month, and has started divorce proceedings.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” said Keith quietly.

  “Don’t worry about it, sir. She never really came to terms with the sort of lifestyle a driver has to lead.”

  “So it was my fault?”

  “Certainly not,” said Sam. “She was even worse when I was driving the taxi. No, the truth is I enjoy this sort of work, but she just couldn’t cope with the hours.”

  “And it took you eleven years to discover that,” said Keith, leaning forward so that he could pull on his gray tailcoat.

  “I think we’ve both realized it for some time,” said Sam. “But in the end I couldn’t take any more of her grumbling about never being sure when I was going to be home.”

  “Never being sure when you were going to be home?” repeated Keith as they careered round another corner.

  “Yes. She couldn’t understand why I didn’t finish work by five every night, like any normal husband.”

  “I understand the problem only too well,” said Keith. “You’re not the only one who has to live with it.” Neither spoke for the rest of the journey, Sam concentrating on choosing the least congested lane, which would save him a few seconds, while Keith thought about Susan as he retied his tie for a third time.

  Keith was pinning the carnation to his lapel as the car swung into the road which led up to St. Peter’s Church. He could hear the bells pealing, and the first person he saw, standing in the middle of the road and peering in their direction, was an anxious-looking Bruce Kelly. A look of relief came over his face when he recognized the car.

  “Just as I promised, sir,” said Sam, as he changed down into third gear. “We’ve made it with five minutes to spare.”

  “Or with eleven years to regret,” said Keith quietly.

  “I beg your pardon, sir?” said Sam as he touched the brake, put the gear lever into second and began to slow down.

  “Nothing, Sam. It’s just that you’ve made me realize that this is one gamble I’m not willing to take.” He paused for a moment, and just before the car came to a halt, said firmly, “Don’t stop, Sam. Just keep on driving.”

  17.

  The Times

  24 March 1948

  WESTERN POWERS BOYCOTT BERLIN MEETINGS AFTER RUSSIAN WITHDRAWAL

  “It was extremely kind of you to come and see me at such short notice, Captain Armstrong.”

  “Not at all, Julius. In times of trouble we Jews must stick together.” Armstrong slapped the publisher on the shoulder. “Tell me, how can I help?”

  Julius Hahn rose from behind his desk, and paced round the room as he took Armstrong through the catalog of disasters that had befallen his company during the past two months. Armstrong listened attentively. Hahn returned to his seat and asked, “Do you think there is anything you can do?”

  “I’d like to, Julius. But as you understand better than most, the American and Russian sectors are a law unto themselves.”

  “I was afraid that would be your response,” said Hahn. “But I’ve often been told by Arno that your influence stretches far beyond the British sector. I wouldn’t have considered bothering you if my situation were not desperate.”

  “Desperate?” asked Armstrong.

  “I’m afraid that’s the only word to describe it,” said Hahn. “If the problem continues for another month, some of my oldest customers will lose confidence in my ability to deliver, and I may have to close down one, possibly two, of my plants.”

  “I had no idea it was that bad,” said Armstrong.

  “It’s worse. Although I can’t prove it, I have a feeling the man behind this is Captain Sackville—who you know I’ve never got on with.” Hahn paused. “Do you think it’s possible that he’s simply anti-Semitic?”

  “I wouldn’t have thought so,” said Armstrong. “But then, I don’t know him that well. I’ll see if I can use some of my contacts to find out if anything can be done to help you.”

  “That’s very thoughtful of you, Captain Armstrong. If you were able to help, I would be eternally grateful.”

  “I’m sure you would, Julius.”

  * * *

  Armstrong left Hahn’s office and ordered his driver to take him to the French sector, where he exchanged a dozen bottles of Johnnie Walker Black Label for a case of claret that even Field Marshal Auchinleck hadn’t sampled on his recent visit.

  On his way back to the British sector, Armstrong decided to drop in on Arno Schultz and find out if Hahn was telling him the whole story. When he walked into Der Telegraf’s office, he was surprised to find that Arno was not at his desk. His deputy, whose name Armstrong could never remember, explained that Mr. Schultz had been granted a twenty-four-hour permit to visit his brother in the Russian sector. Armstrong didn’t even realize that Arno had a brother. “And, Captain Armstrong,” said the deputy, “you’ll be pleased to know that we had to print 400,000 copies again last night.”

  Armstrong nodded and left, feeling confident that everything was falling into place. Hahn would have to agree to his terms within a month if he hoped to remain in business. He checked his watch and instructed Benson to drop by Captain Hallet’s office. When he arrived there he placed the dozen bottles of claret on Hallet’s desk before the captain h
ad a chance to say anything.

  “I don’t know how you do it,” said Hallet, opening his top drawer and taking out an official-looking document.

  “Each to his own,” said Armstrong, trying out a cliché he had heard Colonel Oakshott use the previous day.

  For the next hour Hallet took Armstrong clause by clause through a draft contract, until he was certain that he fully understood its implications, and also that it met his requirements.

  “And if Hahn agrees to sign this document,” said Armstrong when they had reached the final paragraph, “can I be certain that it will stand up in an English court of law?”

  “There’s no doubt about that,” said Stephen.

  “But what about Germany?”

  “The same applies. I can assure you, it’s absolutely watertight—although I’m still puzzled—” the lawyer hesitated for a moment “—as to why Hahn would part with such a large slice of his empire in exchange for Der Telegraf.”

  “Let’s just say that I’m also able to sort out one or two of his requirements,” said Armstrong, placing a hand on the case of claret.

  “Quite so,” said Hallet as he rose from his chair. “By the way, Dick, my demob papers have finally come through. I expect to be going home very soon.”

  “Congratulations, old chap,” said Armstrong. “That’s marvelous news.”

  “Yes, isn’t it? And of course, should you ever need a lawyer when you get back to England…”

  * * *

  When Armstrong returned to his office twenty minutes later, Sally warned him that there was a visitor in his room who claimed he was a close friend, although she had never seen him before.

  Armstrong opened the door to find Max Sackville pacing up and down. The first thing he said was, “The bet’s off, old buddy.”

  “What do you mean, ‘off’?” said Armstrong, slipping the contract into the top drawer of his desk and turning the key in the lock.

  “What I said—off. My papers have finally come through. They’re shipping me back to North Carolina at the end of the month. Isn’t that great news?”

  “It certainly is,” said Armstrong, “because with you out of the way, Hahn is bound to survive, and then nothing will stop me collecting my thousand dollars.”

  Sackville stared at him. “You wouldn’t hold an old buddy to a bet when the circumstances have changed, would you?”

  “I most certainly would, old buddy,” said Armstrong. “And what’s more, if you intend to welch, the whole American sector will know by this time tomorrow.” Armstrong sat at his desk and watched as beads of perspiration appeared on the American’s forehead. He waited for a few moments before saying, “Tell you what I’ll do, Max. I’ll settle for $750, but only if you pay up today.”

  It was almost a full minute before Max began to lick his lips. “Not a hope,” he said. “I can still bring Hahn down by the end of the month. I’ll just have to speed things up a little—old buddy.”

  He stormed out of the room, leaving Armstrong not altogether confident that Max could manage Hahn’s downfall on his own. Perhaps the time had come to give him a helping hand. He picked up the phone and told Sally he didn’t want to be disturbed for at least an hour.

  When he had finished typing the two articles with one finger, he checked them both carefully before making a few small emendations to the texts. He then slipped the first sheet of paper into an unmarked buff envelope and sealed it. The second sheet he folded and placed in the top pocket of his jacket. He picked up the phone and asked Sally to send in his driver. Benson listened carefully as the captain told him what he wanted him to do, making him repeat his orders so as to be certain that he hadn’t misunderstood anything—especially the part about changing into civilian clothes.

  “And you are never to discuss this conversation with anyone, Reg—and I mean anyone. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Benson. He took the envelope, saluted and left the room.

  Armstrong smiled, pressed the buzzer on his phone and asked Sally to bring in the post. He knew that the first edition of Der Telegraf would not be on sale at the station until shortly before midnight. No copies would reach the American or Russian sectors for at least an hour after that. It was vital that his timing should be perfect.

  He remained at his desk for the rest of the day, checking the latest distribution figures with Lieutenant Wakeham. He also called Colonel Oakshott and read over the proposed article to him. The colonel didn’t see why a single word should be changed, and agreed that the piece could be published on Der Telegraf’s front page the following morning.

  At six o’clock Private Benson, back in uniform, drove Armstrong to the flat, where he spent a relaxed evening with Charlotte. She seemed surprised and delighted that he was home so early. After he had put David to bed, they had supper together. He managed three helpings of his favorite stew, and Charlotte decided not to mention that she thought perhaps he was putting on a little weight.

  Shortly after eleven, Charlotte suggested it was time to go to bed. Dick agreed, but said, “I’ll just pop out and pick up the first edition of the paper. I’ll only be a few minutes.” He checked his watch. It was 11:50. He stepped out onto the pavement and walked slowly in the direction of the station, arriving a few minutes before the first edition of Der Telegraf was due to be dropped off.

  He checked his watch again: it was almost twelve. They must be running late. But perhaps that was just a consequence of Arno being in the Russian sector, visiting his brother. He had to wait only a few more minutes before the familiar red van swung round the corner and came to a halt by the entrance to the station. He slipped into the shadows behind a large column as a bundle of papers landed on the pavement with a thud, before the van sped off in the direction of the Russian sector.

  A man walked out of the station and bent down to untie the string as Armstrong ambled over and stood above him. When he looked up and saw who it was, he nodded in recognition and handed him the top copy.

  He quickly read through the front-page article to make sure they hadn’t changed a word. They hadn’t. Everything, including the headline, was exactly as he’d typed it out.

  DISTINGUISHED PUBLISHER FACES BANKRUPTCY

  Julius Hahn, the chairman of the famous publishing house that bears his name, was under increasing pressure last night to make a public statement concerning the company’s future.

  His flagship paper, Der Berliner, has not been seen on the streets of the capital for the past six days, and some of his magazines are reported to be several weeks behind schedule. One leading wholesaler said last night, “We can no longer rely on Hahn’s publications being available from one day to the next, and we are having to consider alternatives.”

  Herr Hahn, who spent the day with his lawyers and accountants, was not available for comment, but a spokesman for the company admitted that they would not meet their projected forecasts for the coming year. When contacted last night, Herr Hahn was unwilling to speak on the record about the company’s future.

  Armstrong smiled and checked his watch. The second edition would just about be coming off the presses, but would not yet be stacked and ready for the returning vans. He strode purposefully in the direction of Der Telegraf, arriving seventeen minutes later. He marched in and shouted at the top of his voice that he wanted to see whoever was in charge in Herr Schultz’s office immediately. A man whom Armstrong wouldn’t have recognized had he passed him in the street hurried in to join him.

  “Who’s responsible for this?” Armstrong shouted, throwing his copy of the first edition of the paper down on the desk.

  “You were, sir,” said the deputy editor, looking surprised.

  “What do you mean, I was?” said Armstrong. “I had nothing to do with it.”

  “But the article was sent to us directly from your office, sir.”

  “Not by me it wasn’t,” said Armstrong.

  “But the man said you had told him to deliver it personally.”

&nbs
p; “What man? Have you ever seen him before?” asked Armstrong.

  “No, sir, but he assured me that he had come straight from your office.”

  “How was he dressed?”

  The deputy editor remained silent for a few moments. “In a gray suit, if I remember, sir,” he eventually said.

  “But anyone who works for me would have been in uniform,” said Armstrong.

  “I know, sir, but…”

  “Did he give you his name? Did he show you any form of identification or proof of authority?”

  “No, sir, he didn’t. I just assumed…”

  “You ‘just assumed’? Why didn’t you pick up a phone and check that I had authorized the article?”

  “I didn’t realize…”

  “Good heavens, man. Once you’d read the piece, didn’t you consider editing it?”

  “No one edits your work, sir,” said the deputy editor. “It’s just put straight on the presses.”

  “You never even checked the contents?”

  “No, sir,” replied the deputy editor, his head now bowed low.

  “So there is no one else to blame?”

  “No, sir,” said the deputy editor, shaking.

  “Then you’re sacked,” shouted Armstrong, staring down at him. “I want you off the premises immediately. Immediately, do you understand?”

  The deputy editor looked as if he was about to protest, but Armstrong bellowed, “If your office hasn’t been cleared of all your possessions within fifteen minutes, I’ll call in the military police.”

  The deputy editor crept out of the room without uttering another word.

  Armstrong smiled, took off his jacket and hung it on the chair behind Arno’s desk. He checked his watch, and was confident that enough time had passed. He rolled up his sleeves, walked out of the office and pressed a red button on the wall. All the presses came to a grinding halt.

  Once he was certain he had everyone’s attention, he began barking out a series of orders. “Tell the drivers to get out there and bring me back every copy of the first edition they can lay their hands on.” The transport manager ran out into the yard, and Armstrong turned to the chief printer.