The Fourth Estate

by Jeffrey Archer

  After another outburst he slammed down the receiver and dialed Russell’s number himself. Without thinking, he turned a few more pages of his Filofax until he heard the attorney’s voice on the other end of the line. “Have I got $50 million hidden away anywhere in the world?” he asked.

  “What do you need it for?” asked Russell.

  “The Swiss are beginning to threaten me.”

  “I thought you’d settled with them last week.”

  “So did I.”

  “What’s happened to that endless source of funds?”

  “It’s dried up.”

  “I see. How much did you say?”

  “Fifty million.”

  “Well, I can certainly think of one way you could raise at least that amount.”

  “How?” asked Armstrong, trying not to sound desperate.

  Russell hesitated. “You could always sell your 46 percent stake in the New York Star.”

  “But who could come up with that sort of money at such short notice?”

  “Keith Townsend.” Russell held the phone away from his ear and waited for the word “Never” to come booming down the line. But nothing happened, so he carried on. “My guess is that he’d agree to pay above the market price, because it would guarantee him complete control of the company.”

  Russell held the phone away from his ear again, expecting a tirade of abuse. But all Armstrong said was, “Why don’t you have a word with his lawyers?”

  “I’m not sure that would be the best approach,” said Russell. “If I were to phone them out of the blue, Townsend would assume that you were short of funds.”

  “Which I am not!” shouted Armstrong.

  “No one’s suggesting you are,” said Russell. “Will you be attending the bankers’ dinner tonight at the Four Seasons?”

  “Bankers’ dinner? What bankers’ dinner?”

  “The annual get-together for the principal players in the financial world and their guests. I know you’ve been invited, because I read in the Tribune that you’d be sitting between the governor and the mayor.”

  Armstrong checked the printed day-sheet which was lying on his desk. “You’re right, I’m supposed to be going. But so what?”

  “I have a feeling that Townsend will make an appearance, if only to let the banking world know he’s still around after that unfortunate article in the Financial Times.”

  “I suppose the same could apply to me,” said Armstrong, sounding unusually morose.

  “It might be the ideal opportunity to bring up the subject casually and see what sort of reaction you get.”

  Another phone began to ring.

  “Hold on a moment, Russell,” Armstrong said, as he picked up the other phone. It was his secretary on the end of the line. “What do you want?” Armstrong bellowed out the words so loudly that Russell wondered for a moment if he was still talking to him.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt you, Mr. Armstrong,” she said, “but the man from Switzerland has just phoned again.”

  “Tell him I’ll call straight back,” said Armstrong.

  “He insisted on holding, sir. Shall I put him through?”

  “I’ll have to call you back in a moment, Russell,” said Armstrong, switching phones.

  He looked down at his Filofax, which was open at the letter T.

  “Jacques, I think I may have solved our little problem.”

  38.

  New York Star

  20 August 1991

  MAYOR TELLS POLICE CHIEF: “THE CUPBOARD’S BARE”

  Townsend hated the idea of having to sell his shares in the Star, and to Richard Armstrong of all people. He checked his bow tie in the mirror and cursed out loud yet again. He knew that everything Elizabeth Beresford had insisted on that afternoon was probably his only hope of survival.

  Perhaps Armstrong might fail to turn up at the dinner? That would at least allow him to bluff for a few more days. How could E.B. begin to understand that of all his assets, the Star was second only to the Melbourne Courier in his affections? He shuddered at the thought that she hadn’t yet told him what she felt would have to be disposed of in Australia.

  Townsend rummaged around in the bottom drawer, searching for a dress shirt, and was relieved to find one neatly wrapped in a cellophane packet. He pulled it on. Damn! He cursed as the top button flew off when he tried to do it up, and cursed again when he remembered that Kate wouldn’t be back from Sydney for another week. He tightened his bow tie, hoping that it would cover the problem. He looked in the mirror. It didn’t. Worse, the collar of his dinner jacket was so shiny that it made him look like a 1950s band leader. Kate had been telling him for years to get a new DJ, and perhaps the time had come to take her advice. And then he remembered: he no longer had any credit cards.

  When he left his apartment that evening and took the elevator down to the waiting car, Townsend couldn’t help noticing for the first time that his chauffeur was wearing a smarter suit than anything he had in his entire wardrobe. As the limousine began its slow journey to the Four Seasons, he sat back and tried to work out just how he might bring up the subject of selling his shares in the Star should he get a moment alone with Dick Armstrong.

  * * *

  One of the good things about a well-cut double-breasted DJ, Armstrong thought, was that it helped to disguise just how overweight you really were. He had spent more than an hour that evening having his hair dyed by his butler and his hands manicured by a maid. When he checked himself in the mirror, he felt confident that few of those attending the bankers’ dinner that night would have believed he was nearly seventy.

  Russell had phoned him just before he left the office to say that he calculated the value of his shares in the Star must be around sixty to seventy million dollars, and he was confident that Townsend would be willing to pay a premium if he could buy the stock in one block.

  All he needed for the moment was fifty-seven million. That would take care of the Swiss, the Russians and even Sir Paul.

  As his limousine drew up outside the Four Seasons, a young man in a smart red jacket rushed up and opened the back door for him. When he saw who it was trying to heave himself out, he touched his cap and said, “Good evening, Mr. Armstrong.”

  “Good evening,” Armstrong replied, and handed the young man a ten-dollar bill. At least one person that night would still believe he was a multimillionaire. He climbed the wide staircase up to the dining room, joining a stream of other guests. Some of them turned to smile in his direction, others pointed. He wondered what they were whispering to each other. Were they predicting his downfall, or talking of his genius? He returned their smiles.

  Russell was waiting for him at the top of the stairs. As they walked on toward the dining room, he leaned over and whispered, “Townsend’s already here. He’s on table fourteen as a guest of J.P. Grenville.” Armstrong nodded, aware that J.P. Grenville had been Townsend’s merchant bankers for over twenty-five years. He entered the dining room, lit up a large Havana cigar and began to weave his way through the packed circular tables, occasionally stopping to shake an outstretched hand, and pausing to chat for a few moments to anyone he knew was capable of loaning large sums of money.

  Townsend stood behind his chair on table fourteen and watched Armstrong make his slow progress toward the top table. Eventually he took his place between Governor Cuomo and Mayor Dinkins. He smiled whenever a guest waved in their direction, always assuming it was him they were interested in.

  “Tonight could well turn out to be your best chance,” said Elizabeth Beresford, who was also looking toward the top table.

  Townsend nodded. “It might not be quite that easy to speak to him privately.”

  “If you wanted to buy his shares, you’d find a way quickly enough.”

  Why was the damned woman always right?

  The master of ceremonies thumped the table with a gavel several times before the room fell quiet enough for a rabbi to deliver a prayer. Over half the people in the room put khiv
as on their heads, including Armstrong—something Townsend had never seen him do at a public function in London.

  As the guests sat down, a band of waiters began serving the soup. It didn’t take long for Townsend to discover that David Grenville had been right in his assessment of E.B.’s small talk, which came to an end long before he had finished the first course. As soon as the main course had been served, she turned toward him, lowered her voice and began to ask a series of questions about his Australian assets. He answered every one of them as best he could, aware that even the slightest inaccuracy would be picked up and later used in evidence against him. Making no concessions to the fact that they were at a social occasion, she then moved on to how he intended to raise the subject of selling his shares in the Star to Armstrong.

  The first opportunity to escape E.B.’s interrogation—Townsend’s answers having already filled the back of two menu cards—arrived when a waiter came between them to top up his wine glass. He immediately turned to Carol Grenville, the bank chairman’s wife, who was seated on his left. The only questions Carol wanted answering were “How are Kate and the children?” and “Have you seen the revival of Guys and Dolls?”

  “Have you seen the revival of Guys and Dolls, Dick?” the governor asked.

  “I can’t say I have, Mario,” replied Armstrong. “What with trying to run the most successful newspapers in New York and London, I just don’t seem to find the time for the theater nowadays. And frankly, with an election coming up, I’m surprised you can either.”

  “Never forget, Dick, that voters go to the theater as well,” said the governor. “And if you sit in the fifth row of the stalls, three thousand of them see you at once. They’re always pleased to discover that you have the same tastes they do.”

  Armstrong laughed. “I’d never make a politician,” he said, putting a hand up. A few moments later a waiter appeared by his side. “Can I have a little more?” Armstrong whispered.

  “Certainly, sir,” said the top-table waiter, although he could have sworn that he had already given Mr. Armstrong a second helping.

  Armstrong glanced to his right at David Dinkins, and noticed that he was only picking at his food—a habit common among after-dinner speakers, he had found over the years. The mayor, head down, was checking his typewritten text, making the occasional change with a Four Seasons ballpoint pen.

  Armstrong made no attempt to interrupt him, and noticed that when Dinkins was offered a crème brûlée he waved it away. Armstrong suggested to the waiter that he should leave it on one side, in case the mayor changed his mind. By the time Dinkins had finished going over his speech, Armstrong had devoured his dessert. He was delighted to see a plate of petits fours placed between them a few moments after the coffee had been poured.

  During the speeches that followed, Townsend became distracted. He tried not to dwell on his current problems, but when the applause had died down after the President of the Bankers’ Association had given his vote of thanks, he realized he could barely recall anything that had been said.

  “The speeches were excellent, didn’t you think?” said David Grenville, from the other side of the table. “I doubt if a more distinguished line-up will address an audience in New York this year.”

  “You’re probably right,” said Townsend. His only thought now was how long he would have to hang around before E.B. would allow him to go home. When he glanced to his right, he saw that her eyes were fixed firmly on the top table.

  “Keith,” said a voice from behind him, and he turned to receive the bearhug for which the mayor of New York was famous. Townsend accepted that there had to be some disadvantages in being the proprietor of the Star.

  “Good evening, Mr. Mayor,” he said. “How good to see you again. May I congratulate you on your excellent speech.”

  “Thank, you, Keith, but that wasn’t why I came to have a word with you.” He jabbed a finger at Townsend’s chest. “Why do I have the feeling that your editor has got it in for me? I know he’s Irish, but I want you to ask him how I can be expected to give the NYPD another pay increase, when the city’s already run out of money for this year. Does he want me to raise taxes again, or just let the city go bankrupt?”

  Townsend would have recommended that the mayor employ E.B. to sort out the problem of the police department, but when David Dinkins finally stopped talking, he agreed to have a word with his editor in the morning. Though he did point out that it had always been his policy not to interfere in the editorial input of any of his papers.

  E.B. raised an eyebrow, which indicated just how meticulously she must have been through his files.

  “I’m grateful, Keith,” said the mayor. “I was sure that once I’d explained what I’m up against, you’d appreciate my position—although you can hardly be expected to know what it’s like not to be able to pay your bills at the end of the month.”

  The mayor looked over Townsend’s shoulder, and announced at the top of his voice, “Now there’s a man who never gives me any trouble.”

  Townsend and E.B. turned round to see who he was referring to. The mayor was pointing in the direction of Richard Armstrong.

  “I assume you two are old friends,” he said, holding his arms out to them both. One of them might have answered the question if Dinkins hadn’t walked off to continue his milk round. Elizabeth retreated discreetly, but not so far that she couldn’t hear every word that passed between them.

  “So, how are you, Dick?” asked Townsend, who had not the slightest interest in Armstrong’s well-being.

  “Never better,” Armstrong replied, turning to blow a mouthful of cigar smoke in Elizabeth’s direction.

  “It must be quite a relief for you to have finally settled with the unions.”

  “They were left with no choice in the end,” said Armstrong. “Either they agreed to my terms, or I would have closed the paper down.”

  Russell walked quietly over and hovered behind them.

  “At a price,” said Townsend.

  “A price I can well afford,” said Armstrong. “Especially now that the paper has begun showing a profit every week. I only hope you’ll eventually find that possible at Multi Media.” He drew deeply on his cigar.

  “That’s never been a problem for Multi Media since day one,” said Townsend. “With the sort of cash flow that company generates, my biggest worry is to make sure we have enough staff to bank the money.”

  “I have to admit that coughing up three billion for that cowboy outfit showed you’ve got balls. I only offered Henry Sinclair one and a half billion, and then not until my accountants had gone over his books with a magnifying glass.”

  In different circumstances Townsend might have reminded him that at the Lord Mayor’s Dinner at the Guildhall the previous year, Armstrong had told him that he had offered Sinclair two and a half billion, despite the fact that they wouldn’t let him even see the accounts—but not while E.B. was only a couple of paces away.

  Armstrong sucked deeply on his cigar before delivering his next well-rehearsed line. “Do you still have enough time to keep an eye on my interests at the Star?”

  “More than enough, thank you,” Townsend replied. “And although it may not have the circulation figures of the Tribune, I’m sure you’d be happy to exchange them for the Star’s profits.”

  “By this time next year,” said Armstrong, “I can assure you that the Tribune will be ahead of the Star on both counts.”

  It was Russell’s turn to raise an eyebrow.

  “Well, let’s compare notes at next year’s dinner,” said Townsend. “By then it should be clear for anyone to see.”

  “As long as I control 100 percent of the Tribune and 46 percent of the Star, I’m bound to win either way,” said Armstrong.

  Elizabeth frowned.

  “In fact, if Multi Media is worth three billion dollars,” Armstrong continued, “my shares in the Star must be worth at least a hundred million of anyone’s money.”

  “If that’s the case,
” said Townsend, a little too quickly, “mine must be worth well over a hundred million.”

  “So perhaps the time has come for one of us to buy the other out,” said Armstrong.

  Both men fell silent. Russell and Elizabeth glanced at each other.

  “What did you have in mind?” Townsend eventually asked.

  Russell turned his attention back to his client, not quite sure how he would react. This was a question for which they hadn’t rehearsed a reply.

  “I’d be willing to sacrifice my 46 percent of the Star for … let’s say one hundred million.”

  Elizabeth wondered how Townsend would have responded to such an offer if she hadn’t been there.

  “Not interested,” he said. “But I tell you what I’ll do. If you think your shares are worth a hundred million, I’ll let mine go for exactly the same amount. I couldn’t make you a fairer offer.”

  Three people tried not to blink as they waited for Armstrong’s reaction. Armstrong inhaled once again before leaning across the table and stubbing out the remains of his cigar in Elizabeth’s crème brûlée. “No,” he finally said as he lit up another cigar. He puffed away for a few seconds before adding, “I’m quite happy to wait for you to put your stock on the open market, because then I’ll be able to pick it up for a third of the price. That way I’d control both tabloids in this city, and there are no prizes for guessing which one I’d close down first.” He laughed, and turning to his lawyer for the first time said, “Come on, Russell, it’s time we were on our way.”

  Townsend stood there, barely able to control himself.

  “Let me know if you have a change of heart,” said Armstrong loudly as he headed in the direction of the exit. The moment he felt sure he was out of earshot, he turned to his lawyer and said, “That man’s so strapped for cash he was trying to sell me his shares.”

  “It certainly looked that way,” said Russell. “I must confess that was one scenario I hadn’t anticipated.”

  “What chance do I now have of selling my stock in the Star?”

  “Not much of one,” said Russell. “After that conversation it won’t be long before everyone in this city knows he’s a seller. Then any other potential buyer will assume that you’re both trying to offload your stock before the other gets the chance to.”