The Fourth Estate

by Jeffrey Archer

  He replaced the phone and went over to the woman at the reception desk to explain how the account would be settled, just as the young man in the open-necked shirt began dialing an overseas number, despite the fact that he knew he would be waking his boss.

  Townsend sat up in bed and listened carefully. “Why would Armstrong pay a million francs for a Fabergé egg?” he asked.

  “I can’t work that out either,” said the young man. “Hang on, he’s just going upstairs with the girl. I’d better stick with him. I’ll ring back as soon as I find out what he’s up to.”

  Over lunch in the hotel dining room, Armstrong appeared so preoccupied that Sharon thought it sensible to say nothing unless he started a conversation. It was obvious that the egg had not been purchased for her. When he had put down his empty coffee cup, he asked her to go back to their room and finish packing, as he wanted to leave for the airport in an hour. “I have one more meeting to attend,” he said, “but it shouldn’t take too long.”

  When he kissed her on the cheek at the entrance to the hotel, the young man in the open-necked shirt knew which of them he would have preferred to follow.

  “See you in about an hour,” he overheard his quarry say. Then Armstrong turned and almost ran down the wide staircase to the ballroom where the auction had taken place. He went straight to the woman seated behind the long table, checking purchase slips.

  “Ah, Mr. Armstrong, how nice to see you again,” she said, giving him a million-franc smile. “Your funds have been cleared by swift telegraphic transfer. If you would be kind enough to join my colleague in the inner office,” she said, indicating a door behind her, “you will be able to collect your lot.”

  “Thank you,” said Armstrong, as she passed over his receipt for the masterpiece. He turned round, nearly bumping into a young man standing directly behind him, walked into the back office and presented his receipt to a man in a black tailcoat who was standing behind the counter.

  The official checked the little slip carefully, took a close look at Mr. Armstrong, smiled and instructed the security guard to fetch Lot Forty-three, the Imperial Anniversary Egg of 1910. When the guard returned with the egg he was with the auctioneer, who gave the ornate piece one last longing look before holding it up for his customer to inspect. “Quite magnificent, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Quite magnificent,” repeated Armstrong, grabbing the egg as if it were a rugby ball coming out of a loose scrum. He turned to leave without uttering another word, so didn’t hear the auctioneer whisper to his assistant, “Strange that none of us has ever come across Mr. Armstrong before.”

  The doorman of the Hôtel de Bergues touched his cap as Armstrong slid into the back of a taxi, clinging on to the egg with both hands. He instructed the driver to take him to the Banque de Genève just as another empty taxi drew up behind them. The young man hailed it.

  When Armstrong walked into the bank, which he had never entered before, he was greeted by a tall, thin, anonymous-looking man in morning dress, who wouldn’t have looked out of place proposing a toast to the bride at a society wedding in Hampshire. The man bowed low to indicate that he had been waiting for him. He did not ask Mr. Armstrong if he would like him to carry the egg.

  “Will you please follow me, sir?” he said in English, leading Armstrong across the marble floor to a waiting lift. How did he know who he was? Armstrong wondered. They stepped into the lift and the doors closed. Neither spoke as they traveled slowly up to the top floor. The doors parted and the tailcoated man preceded him down a wide, thickly-carpeted corridor until he reached the last door. He gave a discreet knock, opened the door and announced, “Mr. Armstrong.”

  A man in a pinstripe suit, stiff collar and silver-gray tie stepped forward and introduced himself as Pierre de Montiaque, the bank’s chief executive. He turned and faced another man seated on the far side of the boardroom table, then indicated that his visitor should take the vacant chair opposite him. Armstrong placed the Fabergé egg in the center of the table, and Alexander Sherwood rose from his place, leaned across and shook him warmly by the hand.

  “Good to see you again,” he said.

  “And you,” replied Armstrong, smiling. He took his seat and looked across at the man with whom he had closed the deal in Paris.

  Sherwood picked up the Imperial Anniversary Egg of 1910 and studied it closely. A smile appeared on his face. “It will be the pride of my collection, and there should never be any reason for my brother or sister-in-law to become suspicious.” He smiled again and nodded in the direction of the banker, who opened a drawer and extracted a document, which he passed across to Armstrong.

  Dick studied the agreement that Stephen Hallet had drawn up for him before he’d flown to Paris the previous week. Once he had checked that no alterations had been made, he signed at the bottom of the fifth page and then pushed the document across the table. Sherwood showed no interest in checking the contents, but simply turned to the last page and penned his signature next to that of Richard Armstrong.

  “Can I therefore confirm that both sides are in agreement?” said the banker. “I am currently holding $20 million on deposit, and only await Mr. Armstrong’s instructions to transfer it to Mr. Sherwood’s account.”

  Armstrong nodded. Twenty million dollars was the sum Alexander and Margaret Sherwood had agreed should be paid for Alexander’s third share in the Globe, with an understanding that she would then part with her third for exactly the same amount. What Margaret Sherwood didn’t know was that Alexander had demanded a little reward for setting up the deal: a Fabergé egg, which would not appear as part of the formal contract.

  Armstrong might have paid a million more francs than was stated in the contract, but he was now in possession of 33.3 percent of a national newspaper which had once boasted the largest circulation in the world.

  “Then our business is concluded,” said de Montiaque, rising from his place at the head of the table.

  “Not quite,” said Sherwood, who remained seated. The chief executive resumed his place uneasily. Armstrong shuffled in his place. He could feel the sweat under his collar.

  “As Mr. Armstrong has been so co-operative,” said Sherwood, “I consider it only fair that I should repay him in kind.” From the expression on their faces, it was obvious that neither Armstrong nor de Montiaque was prepared for this intervention. Alexander Sherwood then proceeded to reveal a piece of information concerning his father’s will, which brought a smile to Richard Armstrong’s lips.

  When he left the bank a few minutes later to return to Le Richemond, he believed his million francs had been well spent.

  * * *

  Townsend didn’t comment when he was woken from a deep sleep for the second time that night. He listened intently and whispered his responses for fear of disturbing Kate. When he eventually put the phone down, he was unable to get back to sleep. Why would Armstrong have paid a million francs for a Fabergé egg, delivered it to a Swiss bank, and left less than an hour later, empty-handed?

  The clock by his bed reminded him that it was only 3:30 A.M. He lay watching as Kate slept soundly. His mind drifted from her to Susan; then back to Kate, and how different she was; to his mother, and whether she would ever understand him; and then inevitably back to Armstrong, and how he could find out what he was up to.

  When he finally rose later that morning, Townsend was no nearer to solving the little conundrum. He would have remained in the dark if a few days later he had not accepted a reverse-charge call from a woman in London.

  24.

  Daily Telegraph

  6 February 1967

  KOSYGIN SEES WILSON IN LONDON TODAY

  Armstrong was furious when he returned to the flat and found the note from Sharon. It simply said that she didn’t want to see him again until he had come to a decision.

  He sank onto the sofa and read her words a second time. He dialed her number; he was certain she was there, but there was no answer. He left it to ring for over a minute before he
replaced the handset.

  He couldn’t recall a happier time in his life, and Sharon’s note brought home to him how much she was now a part of it. He had even started having his hair dyed and his hands manicured, so she wouldn’t be constantly reminded of the difference in their ages. After several sleepless nights and unacknowledged deliveries of flowers, and dozens of unanswered telephone calls, he realized that the only way he was going to get her back was to fall in with her wishes. He had been trying to convince himself for some time that she was not altogether serious about the whole idea, but it was now clear that those were the only terms on which she would agree to lead a double life. He decided that he would deal with the problem on Friday.

  That morning he arrived unusually late at the office, and immediately asked Sally to get his wife on the phone. Once she had put Charlotte through, she began to prepare the papers for the trip to New York and his meeting with Margaret Sherwood. She was aware that Dick had been on edge all week—at one point he had swept a tray of coffee cups off his desk onto the floor. No one seemed to know what was causing the problem. Benson thought it must be woman trouble; Sally suspected that after getting his hands on 33.3 percent of the Globe, he was becoming increasingly frustrated at having to wait for Margaret Sherwood to return from her annual cruise before he could take advantage of the information he had recently been given by Alexander Sherwood.

  “Every day gives Townsend more time to find out what I’m up to,” he muttered irritably.

  His mood had caused Sally to postpone their annual discussion about her pay rise, which always made him lose his temper. But she had already started to put off paying certain bills that were long overdue, and she knew she was going to have to face up to him soon, however foul his mood.

  Armstrong put the phone down on his wife, and asked Sally to come back in. She had already sorted through the morning post, dealt with all the routine letters, drafted provisional replies to the remainder, and put them all in a folder for his consideration. The majority only required his signature. But before she had even closed the door, he began dictating furiously. As the words came tumbling out, she automatically corrected his grammar, and realized that in some cases she would later have to temper his words.

  As soon as he had finished dictating, he stormed out of the office for a lunch appointment, without giving her the chance to say anything. She decided that she would have to raise the subject of her salary as soon as he returned. After all, why should her holiday be postponed simply because of her boss’s refusal to consider other people’s lives?

  By the time Armstrong came back from lunch, Sally had typed up all his dictation and had the letters in a second folder on his desk awaiting signature. She couldn’t help noticing that, unusually, there was a smell of whiskey on his breath; but she realized she couldn’t put it off any longer.

  The first question he asked as she stood in front of his desk was, “Who in hell’s name arranged for me to have lunch with the minister of telecommunications?”

  “It was at your specific request,” said Sally.

  “It most certainly was not,” said Dick. “On the contrary, I distinctly remember telling you that I never wanted to see the prat again.” His voice rose with every word. “He’s basically unemployable, like half this bloody government.”

  Sally clenched her hand. “Dick, I feel I must…”

  “What’s the latest on Margaret Sherwood?”

  “There’s still no change,” said Sally. “She returns from her cruise at the end of the month, and I’ve arranged for you to see her in New York the following day. The flight is already booked, and I’ve reserved your usual suite at the Pierre, overlooking Central Park. I’m preparing a file, with reference to Alexander Sherwood’s latest piece of information. I understand he’s already let his sister-in-law know the price at which he’s sold you his shares, and has advised her to do the same as soon as she gets back.”

  “Good. So do I have any other problems?”

  “Yes. Me,” said Sally.

  “You?” said Armstrong. “Why? What’s wrong with you?”

  “My annual pay rise is nearly two months overdue, and I’m becoming…”

  “I wasn’t thinking of giving you a rise this year.”

  Sally was about to laugh when she caught the expression on her employer’s face. “Oh, come off it, Dick. You know I can’t live on what you pay me.”

  “Why not? Others seem to manage well enough without complaining.”

  “Be reasonable, Dick. Since Malcolm left me…”

  “I suppose you’re going to claim it was my fault he left you?”

  “Most probably.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “I’m not suggesting anything, but with the hours I put in…”

  “Then perhaps the time has come for you to look for a job where the hours aren’t quite as demanding.”

  Sally couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “After twenty-one years of working for you,” she said, “I’m not sure anyone else would be willing to take me on.”

  “And just what do you mean by that?” shouted Armstrong.

  Sally rocked back, wondering what had come over him. Was he drunk, and unaware of what he was saying? Or had he been drinking because he knew exactly what he wanted to say? She stared down at him. “What’s come over you, Dick? I’m only asking for an increase in line with inflation, not even a proper rise.”

  “I’ll tell you what’s come over me,” he replied. “I’m sick and tired of the inefficiency in this place, plus the fact that you’ve got into the habit of fixing up private appointments during office hours.”

  “It’s not the first of April, is it, Dick?” she asked, trying to lighten the mood.

  “Don’t you get sarcastic with me, or you’ll find it’s more like the Ides of March. It’s exactly that sort of attitude that convinces me the time has come to bring in someone who will carry out this job without always complaining. Someone with fresh ideas. Someone who would bring some much-needed discipline into this office.” He slammed his clenched fist down on the folder of unsigned letters.

  Sally stood shaking in front of his desk, and stared at him in disbelief. Benson must have been right all along. “It’s that girl, isn’t it?” she said. “What was her name? Sharon?” Sally paused before adding, “So that’s why she hasn’t been in to see me.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” shouted Armstrong. “I simply feel that…”

  “You know exactly what I’m talking about,” snapped Sally. “You can’t fool me after all these years, Dick. You’ve offered her my job, haven’t you? I can hear your exact words. ‘It will solve all our problems, darling. That way we’ll always be together.’”

  “I said nothing of the sort.”

  “Used a different line this time, did you?”

  “I just feel that I need a change,” he said lamely. “I’ll see that you’re properly compensated.”

  “Properly compensated?” shouted Sally. “You know damn well that at my age it will be almost impossible for me to find another job. And in any case, how do you propose to ‘compensate’ me for all the sacrifices I’ve made for you over the years? A dirty weekend in Paris, perhaps?”

  “How dare you speak to me like that.”

  “I shall speak to you in any way I like.”

  “Carry on like this and you’ll live to regret it, my girl.”

  “I am not your girl,” said Sally. “In fact I am the one person in this organization you can neither seduce nor bully. I’ve known you far too long for that.”

  “I agree, far too long. Which is why the time has come for you to leave.”

  “To be replaced by Sharon, no doubt.”

  “It’s none of your god-damned business.”

  “I only hope she’s good in bed,” said Sally.

  “And what do you mean by that?”

  “Only that when she temped here for a couple of hours, I had to retype seven of her
nine letters because she couldn’t spell, and the other two because they were addressed to the wrong person. Unless of course you wanted the prime minister to know your inside-leg measurements.”

  “It was her first day. She’ll improve.”

  “Not if your fly buttons are undone the whole time, she won’t.”

  “Get out before I have you thrown out.”

  “You’ll have to do it yourself, Dick, because there’s no one on your staff who’d be willing to do it for you,” she said calmly. He rose from his chair, red in the face, placed the palms of his hands on the desk and stared down at her. She gave him a big smile, turned round and walked calmly out of the room. Fortunately he didn’t hear the ripple of applause that greeted her as she walked through the outer office, or several other employees might have ended up having to join her.

  Armstrong picked up a phone and dialed an internal number.

  “Security. How can I help you?”

  “It’s Dick Armstrong. Mrs. Carr will be leaving the building in the next few minutes. Do not under any circumstances let her drive off in her company car, and be sure that she is never allowed back on the premises again. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” said a disbelieving voice on the other end of the line.

  Armstrong slammed down the phone and immediately picked it back up again, then dialed another number.

  “Accounts department,” said a voice.

  “Put me through to Fred Preston.”

  “He’s on the phone at the moment.”

  “Then get him off the phone.”

  “Who shall I say is calling?”

  “Dick Armstrong,” he bawled, and the line went dead for a moment. The next voice he heard was the head of the accounts department.

  “It’s Fred Preston here, Dick. I’m sorry that…”

  “Fred, Sally has just resigned. Cancel her monthly check and send her P45 to her home address without delay.”

  There was no response. Armstrong shouted, “Did you hear me?”