The Fourth Estate

by Jeffrey Archer

  “Get out of here, you fool,” he shouted. “And close the door behind you.”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” said the guard. “No one told me you were in the building.” When the door had closed, Armstrong continued to shred documents for another forty minutes until he heard his secretary arrive.

  She knocked on the door. “Good morning, Mr. Armstrong,” she said cheerfully. “It’s Pamela. Do you need any help?”

  “No,” he shouted above the noise of the shredder. “I’ll be out in a few moments.”

  But it was another twenty-five minutes before he eventually opened the door. “How much time have I got before the board meeting?” he asked.

  “Just over half an hour,” she replied.

  “Ask Mr. Wakeham to join me immediately.”

  “The deputy chairman is not expected in today, sir,” said Pamela.

  “Not expected? Why not?” bellowed Armstrong.

  “I think he’s caught the ’flu bug that’s been going around. I know he’s already sent his apologies to the company secretary.”

  Armstrong went over to his desk, looked up Peter’s number in his Filofax and began dialing. The phone rang several times before it was answered by a female voice.

  “Is Peter there?” he boomed.

  “Yes, but he’s in bed. He’s been rather poorly, and the doctor said he needed a few days’ rest.”

  “Get him out of bed.”

  There was a long silence, before a reedy voice asked, “Is that you, Dick?”

  “Yes, it is,” replied Armstrong. “What the hell do you mean by missing such a crucial board meeting?”

  “I’m sorry, Dick, but I’ve got rather a bad dose of ’flu, and my doctor recommended a few days’ rest.”

  “I don’t give a damn what your doctor recommended,” said Armstrong. “I want you at this board meeting. I’m going to need all the support I can get.”

  “Well, if you feel it’s that important,” said Peter.

  “I most certainly do,” replied Armstrong. “So get here, and get here fast.”

  Armstrong sat behind his desk, aware of the buzz emanating from the outer offices that showed the building was coming to life. He checked his watch: only about ten minutes before the meeting was due to begin. But not one director had dropped in for their usual chat, or to ensure that they had his support for whatever proposal they were recommending to the board. Perhaps they just didn’t realize he was back.

  Pamela entered his office nervously and handed him a thick briefing file on the agenda for the morning’s meeting. Item number one, as he had read the previous night, was “The Pension Fund.” But when he checked in the file, there were no briefing notes for the directors to consider—the first such notes were attached to item number two: the fall in circulation of the Citizen after the Globe had cut its cover price to ten pence.

  Armstrong continued reading through the file until Pamela returned to tell him that it was two minutes to ten. He pushed himself up from the chair, tucked the file under his arm and walked confidently into the corridor. As he made his way toward the boardroom, several employees who passed him said “Good morning.” He gave them each a warm smile and returned their greeting, though he wasn’t always certain of their names.

  As he approached the open door of the boardroom, he could hear his fellow directors muttering among themselves. But the moment he stepped into the room there was an eerie silence, as if his presence had struck them dumb.

  * * *

  Townsend was woken by a stewardess as the plane began its descent into Kennedy.

  “A Ms. Beresford phoning from Cleveland. She says you’ll take the call.”

  “I’ve just come out of my meeting with Pierson,” said E.B. “It lasted over an hour, but he still hadn’t made up his mind by the time I left him.”

  “Hadn’t made up his mind?”

  “No. He still needs to consult the bank’s finance committee before he can come to a final decision.”

  “But surely now that all the other banks have fallen into place, Pierson can’t—”

  “He can and he may well. Try to remember that he’s the president of a small bank in Ohio. He’s not interested in what other banks have agreed to. And after all the bad press coverage you’ve been getting in the past few weeks, he only cares about one thing right now.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Covering his backside.”

  “But doesn’t he realize that all the other banks will renege if he doesn’t go along with the overall plan?”

  “Yes, he does, but when I put that to him he shrugged his shoulders and said, ‘In which case I’ll just have to take my chance along with all the others.’”

  Townsend began to curse.

  “But he did promise me one thing,” said E.B.

  “What was that?”

  “He’ll call the moment the committee has reached its decision.”

  “That’s big of him. So what am I expected to do if it goes against me?”

  “Release the press statement we agreed on,” she said.

  Townsend felt sick.

  Twenty minutes later he dashed out of the terminal. A limousine was waiting for him, and he climbed into the back before the driver could open the door for him. The first thing he did was to dial his apartment in Manhattan. Kate must have been waiting by the phone, because she answered immediately.

  “Have you heard anything from Cleveland yet?” was her first question.

  “Yes. E.B.’s seen Pierson, but he still hasn’t made up his mind,” replied Townsend, as the car joined the bumper-to-bumper traffic on Queens Boulevard.

  “What do you think the odds are on him extending the loan?”

  “I asked E.B. the same question yesterday, and she said fifty-fifty.”

  “I just wish he’d put us out of our misery.”

  “He will soon enough.”

  “Well, the moment he does, be sure I’m the first person you call, whatever the outcome.”

  “Of course you’ll be the first person I call,” he said, putting the phone down.

  Townsend’s second call, as the limousine crossed the Queensboro Bridge, was to Tom Spencer. He hadn’t heard anything either. “But I wouldn’t expect to until after E.B. has briefed you,” he said. “That’s just not her style.”

  “As soon as I know what Pierson’s decided, we’d better get together to discuss what has to be done next.”

  “Sure,” said Tom. “Just give me a call the moment you hear anything and I’ll come straight over.”

  The driver swung into Madison Avenue and eased the limousine into the right-hand lane before pulling up outside the headquarters of Global International. He was taken by surprise when Mr. Townsend leaned forward and thanked him for the first time in twenty years. But he was shocked when he opened the door and the boss said, “Goodbye.”

  The chairman of Global International strode quickly across the sidewalk and into the building. He headed straight for the bank of elevators and entered the first one that returned to the ground floor. Although the lobby was full of Global employees, none of them attempted to join him, except a bellhop who jumped in and turned a key in a lock next to the top button. The doors slid closed and the elevator began to accelerate toward the forty-seventh floor.

  When the lift doors opened again, Townsend stepped out into the thickly carpeted corridor of the executive floor and walked straight past a receptionist who looked up and smiled at him. She was about to say “Good morning, Mr. Townsend,” when she saw the grim expression on his face and thought better of it.

  Townsend’s pace never faltered as the glass doors that led to his office area slid open.

  “Messages?” was all he said as he passed his secretary’s desk and headed toward his office.

  40.

  The Globe

  5 November 1991

  SEARCH FOR MISSING TYCOON

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” Armstrong said in a loud, cheerful voice, but he received
only the odd murmur in response. Sir Paul Maitland gave a slight nod as Armstrong took the vacant place on his right. Armstrong looked slowly round the boardroom table. Every seat was filled except for the deputy chairman’s.

  “As everyone is present other than Mr. Wakeham,” said Sir Paul, checking his fob watch, “who has already tendered his apologies to the company secretary, I suggest we begin. Can I ask if you all accept the minutes which have been circulated of last month’s board meeting as a true and accurate record?”

  Everyone nodded except Armstrong.

  “Good. Then the first item on the agenda is the one we discussed at great length during our recent finance meeting,” continued Sir Paul, “namely the current position of the pension fund. On that occasion Mr. Wakeham did his best to brief us following his short trip to New York, but I fear several questions still remain unanswered. We came to the conclusion that only our chief executive could properly bring us up to date on what was actually taking place in New York. I am relieved to see that he has found it possible to join us on this occasion, so perhaps I should begin by…”

  “No, perhaps it is I who should begin,” interrupted Armstrong, “by giving you a full explanation of why it was impossible for me to attend last month’s board meeting.” Sir Paul pursed his lips, folded his arms and stared at the unoccupied chair at the other end of the table.

  “I remained at my desk in New York, gentlemen,” continued Armstrong, “because I was the only person with whom the print unions were willing to negotiate—as I am sure Peter Wakeham confirmed at last month’s board meeting. Because of this, not only did I pull off what some commentators described as a miracle—” Sir Paul glanced down at a leader that had appeared in the New York Tribune the previous week, which did indeed use the word “miracle”—“but I am now able to confirm to the board something else I asked Mr. Wakeham to pass on to you, namely that the Tribune has finally turned the corner, and for the past month has been making a positive contribution to our P and L account.” Armstrong paused before adding, “And what’s more, it is doing so for the first time since we took the paper over.” Several members of the board seemed unable to look in his direction. Others who did were not indicating approval. “Perhaps I deserve some praise for this monumental achievement,” Armstrong said, “rather than the continual carping criticism I get from a chairman whose idea of enterprise is to feed the ducks on Epsom Downs.”

  Sir Paul looked as if he was about to protest, but Armstrong waved a hand in the air and, raising his voice, said, “Allow me to finish.” The chairman sat bolt upright, his fingers gripping the arms of his chair, his gaze still fixed rigidly ahead of him.

  “Now, as far as the pension fund is concerned,” continued Armstrong, “the company secretary will be in a better position than I am to confirm that we are holding a considerable surplus in that account, a little of which I used—quite legitimately—for investments in the United States. It may also interest the board to know that I have recently been in confidential negotiations with Keith Townsend, with a view to taking over the New York Star.” Most of the directors looked stunned by the announcement, and this time all of them turned to face him.

  “It’s no secret,” continued Armstrong, “that Townsend is in deep financial trouble following his foolhardy takeover of Multi Media, for which he paid three billion dollars. The board will recall that only last year I recommended we should offer no more than one and a half billion for that particular company, and in hindsight it turns out that my judgment was correct. I have now been able to take advantage of Townsend’s disastrous mistake and make him an offer for his shares in the Star that would not have been thought possible only six months ago.”

  Now he had everyone’s attention.

  “That coup will make Armstrong Communications the most powerful newspaper presence on the east coast of America.” Armstrong paused for effect. “It will also ensure an even larger contribution to our bottom line than we presently enjoy from Britain.”

  One or two of the faces round the table brightened up, but the chairman’s was not among them. “Are we to understand that this deal with Townsend has been concluded?” he asked quietly.

  “It is in its final stages, Chairman,” replied Armstrong. “But I wouldn’t dream of committing the company to an undertaking of such importance without first seeking the board’s approval.”

  “And what exactly does ‘final stages’ mean?” inquired Sir Paul.

  “Townsend and I have had an informal meeting on neutral ground, with both our professional advisers present. We were able to come to an agreement on the sort of figure that would be acceptable to both parties, so now it’s simply up to the lawyers to draw up the contracts for signature.”

  “So we don’t yet have anything in writing?”

  “Not yet,” said Armstrong. “But I am confident that I will be able to deliver all the necessary documentation in time for the board’s approval at next month’s meeting.”

  “I see,” said Sir Paul drily, as he opened a file in front of him. “Nevertheless, I wonder if we might now return to the first item on the agenda, and in particular to the current state of the pension fund.” He checked his notes and added, “Which has recently had withdrawals totaling over four hundred and…”

  “And I can assure you that the money has been well invested,” said Armstrong, once again not allowing the chairman to finish his sentence.

  “In what, may I ask?” inquired Sir Paul.

  “I don’t have the precise details to hand at the moment,” said Armstrong. “But I have requested that our accountants in New York produce a detailed and comprehensive report, so that members of the board are in a position to make a full appraisal of the situation before the next board meeting.”

  “How interesting,” said Sir Paul. “When I spoke to our accounts department in New York only last night, they had no idea what I was talking about.”

  “That’s because a small inner team has been chosen for this particular exercise, and they’ve been instructed not to release any details, owing to the sensitivity of one or two of the deals I am currently involved in. I cannot therefore…”

  “Damn it,” said Sir Paul, his voice rising with every word. “I am the chairman of this company, and I have the right to be informed of any major development that may affect its future.”

  “Not if that might jeopardize my chances of closing a major deal.”

  “I am not a rubber stamp,” said Sir Paul, turning to face Armstrong for the first time.

  “I didn’t suggest you were, Chairman, but there are times when decisions have to be made when you are tucked up in bed fast asleep.”

  “I would be quite happy to be woken,” said Sir Paul, still looking directly at Armstrong, “as I was last night by a Monsieur Jacques Lacroix from Geneva, who rang to tell me that unless an outstanding loan to his bank of $50 million is repaid by close of business tonight, they will find it necessary to place the matter in the hands of their lawyers.”

  Several of the directors bowed their heads.

  “That money will be in place by tonight,” said Armstrong, without flinching. “Of that I can assure you.”

  “And where do you propose to get it from this time?” asked Sir Paul. “Because I have issued clear instructions that nothing more can be withdrawn from the pension fund as long as I remain chairman. Our lawyers have advised me that if that check for $50 million had been cashed, every member of this board would have been liable to criminal prosecution.”

  “That was a simple clerical error made by a junior clerk in the accounts department,” said Armstrong, “who foolishly deposited the check with the wrong bank. He was sacked the same day.”

  “But Monsieur Lacroix informed me that you had delivered the check personally, and he has a signed receipt to prove it.”

  “Do you really believe that I spend my time in New York going around depositing checks?” Armstrong said, staring back at Sir Paul.

  “Frankly, I have n
o idea what you get up to when you’re in New York—though I am bound to say that the explanation Peter Wakeham gave to last month’s meeting of how money withdrawn from the pension fund ended up in accounts at the Bank of New Amsterdam and the Manhattan Bank was just not credible.”

  “What are you suggesting?” shouted Armstrong.

  “Mr. Armstrong, we are both aware that the Manhattan is the bank which represents the print unions in New York, and that BNA were given instructions by you to purchase over $70 million of our shares during the past month—this despite the fact that Mark Tenby, our chief accountant, pointed out when he issued you with a pension fund checkbook that to purchase shares in one of our own companies was a criminal offense.”

  “He said no such thing,” shouted Armstrong.

  “Is that just another example of ‘a simple clerical error,’” said Sir Paul, “which can no doubt be solved by sacking the chief accountant?”

  “This is absolutely preposterous,” said Armstrong. “BNA could have been purchasing those shares for any one of their customers.”

  “Unfortunately not,” said Sir Paul, referring to another file. “The chief dealer, who was willing to return my call, confirmed that you had given clear instructions,” he glanced at his notes, “to ‘prop up’—in your words—the share price, because you couldn’t afford to let the stock fall any further. When the implications of such an action were pointed out to you, you apparently told him”—once again Sir Paul checked his notes—‘I don’t give a damn what it costs.’”

  “It’s his word against mine,” said Armstrong. “If he repeats it, I’ll take out a writ for slander against him.” He paused. “In both countries.”

  “That might not be a wise course of action,” said Sir Paul, “because every call which goes through to that department at BNA is recorded and logged, and I have requested that a transcript of the conversation should be sent to me.”