The Fourth Estate

13 Der Telegraf 31 August 1947 Berlin Food Shortages to Continue

‘If Lauber made a will, I need to get my hands on it.’

‘Why is getting hold of this will so important?’ asked Sally.

‘Because I want to know who inherits his shares in Der Telegraf.’

‘I assume his wife does.’

‘No, it’s more likely to be Arno Schultz. In which case I’m wasting my time — so the sooner we find out, the better.’

‘But I wouldn’t know where to begin.’

‘Try the Ministry of the Interior. Once Lauber’s body was returned to Germany, it became their responsibility.’

Sally looked doubtful.

‘Use up every favor we’re owed,’ said Armstrong, ‘and promise anything in return, but find me that will.’ He turned to leave. ‘Right, I’m off to see Hallet.’

Armstrong left without another word, and was driven to the British officers’ mess by Benson. He took the stool at the corner of the bar and ordered a whiskey, checking his watch every few minutes.

Stephen Hallet strolled in a few moments after six-thirty had chimed on the grandfather clock in the hall. When he saw Armstrong, he smiled broadly and joined him at the bar.

‘Dick. Thank you so much for that case of the Mouton-Rothschild ’29. It really is quite excellent. I must confess I’m trying to ration it until my demob papers come through.’

Armstrong smiled. ‘Then we’ll just have to see if we can’t somehow arrange a more regular supply. Why don’t you join me for dinner? Then we can find out why they’re making such a fuss about the Château Beychevelle ’33.’

Over a burnt steak, Captain Hallet experienced the Beychevelle for the first time, while Armstrong found out all he needed to know about probate, and why Lauber’s shares would automatically go to Mrs. Lauber, as his next of kin, if no will was discovered.

‘But what if she’s dead too?’ asked Armstrong as the steward uncorked a second bottle.

‘If she’s dead, or can’t be traced—’ Hallet sipped his refilled glass, and the smile returned to his lips ‘—the original owner would have to wait five years. After that he would probably be able to put in a claim for the shares.’

Because Armstrong was unable to take notes, he found himself repeating questions to make sure he had all the salient information committed to memory. This didn’t seem to worry Hallet, who, Armstrong suspected, knew exactly what he was up to but wasn’t going to ask too many questions as long as someone kept on filling his glass. Once Armstrong was sure he fully understood the legal position, he made some excuse about having promised his wife he wouldn’t be home late, and left the lawyer with a half-full bottle.

After he left the mess, Armstrong made no attempt to return home. He didn’t feel like spending another evening explaining to Charlotte why it was taking so long for his demob papers to be processed when several of their friends had already returned to Blighty. Instead he ordered a tired-looking Benson to drive him to the American sector.

His first call was on Max Sackville, with whom he stopped to play a couple of hours of poker. Armstrong lost a few dollars but gained some useful information about American troop movements, which he knew Colonel Oakshott would be grateful to hear about.

He left Max soon after he had lost enough to ensure that he would be invited back again, and strolled across the road and down an alley before dropping into his favorite bar in the American sector. He joined a group of officers who were celebrating their imminent return to the States. A few whiskies later he left the bar, having added to his store of information. But he would happily have traded everything he’d picked up for one glance at Lauber’s will. He didn’t notice a sober man, wearing civilian clothes, get up and follow him out onto the street.

He was heading back toward his jeep when a voice behind him said, ‘Lubji.’

Armstrong stopped dead in his tracks, feeling slightly sick. He swung round to face a man who must have been about his own age, though much shorter and stockier than he was. He was dressed in a plain gray suit, white shirt and dark blue tie. In the unlit street Armstrong couldn’t make out the man’s features.

‘You must be a Czech,’ said Armstrong quietly.

‘No, Lubji, I am not.’

‘Then you’re a bloody German,’ said Armstrong, clenching his fists and advancing toward him.

‘Wrong again,’ said the man, not flinching.

‘Then who the hell are you?’

‘Let’s just say I’m a friend.’

‘But I don’t even know you,’ said Armstrong. ‘Why don’t you stop playing games and tell me what the hell you want.’

‘Just to help you,’ said the man quietly.

‘And how do you propose doing that?’ snarled Armstrong.

The man smiled. ‘By producing the will you seem so determined to get your hands on.’

‘The will?’ said Armstrong nervously.

‘Ah, I see I have finally touched what the British describe as a “raw nerve”.’ Armstrong stared down at the man as he placed a hand in his pocket and took out a card. ‘Why don’t you visit me when you’re next in the Russian sector?’ he said, handing over his card.

In the dim light, Armstrong couldn’t read the name on the card. When he looked up, the man had disappeared into the night.

He walked on a few paces until he came to a gas light, then looked down at the card again.

When Armstrong saw Colonel Oakshott the following morning, he reported everything that had happened in the American sector the previous evening and handed over Major Tulpanov’s card. The only thing he didn’t mention was that Tulpanov had addressed him as Lubji. Oakshott jotted down some notes on the pad in front of him. ‘Don’t mention this to anyone until I’ve made one or two inquiries,’ he said.

Armstrong was surprised to receive a call soon after he returned to his office: the colonel wanted him to return to headquarters immediately. He was quickly driven back across the sector by Benson. When he walked into Oakshott’s room for the second time that morning, he found his commanding officer flanked by two men he had never seen before, in civilian clothes. They introduced themselves as Captain Woodhouse and Major Forsdyke.

‘It looks as if you’ve hit the jackpot with this one, Dick,’ said Oakshott, even before Armstrong had sat down. ‘It seems your Major Tulpanov is with the KGB. In fact we think he’s their number three in the Russian sector. He’s considered to be a rising star. These two gentlemen,’ he said, ‘are with the security service. They would like you to take up Tulpanov’s suggestion of a visit, and report back everything you can find out, right down to the brand of cigarettes he smokes.’

‘I could go across this afternoon,’ said Armstrong.

‘No,’ said Forsdyke firmly. ‘That would be far too obvious. We would prefer you to wait a week or two and make it look more like a routine visit. If you turn up too quickly, he’s bound to become suspicious. It’s his job to be suspicious, of course, but why make it easy for him? Report to my office on Franklinstrasse at eight tomorrow morning, and I’ll see that you’re fully briefed.’

Armstrong spent the next ten mornings being taken through routine procedures by the security service. It quickly became clear that they didn’t consider him a natural recruit. After all, his knowledge of England was confined to a transit camp in Liverpool, a period as a private soldier in the Pioneer Corps, graduation to the ranks of the North Staffordshire Regiment and a journey through the night to Portsmouth, before being shipped to France. Most of the officers who briefed him would have considered Eton, Trinity and the Guards a more natural qualification for the career they had chosen. ‘God is not on our side with this one,’ Forsdyke sighed over lunch with his colleague. They hadn’t even considered inviting Armstrong to join them.

Despite these misgivings, ten days later Captain Armstrong visited the Russian sector on the pretext of trying to find some spare parts for Der Telegraf’s printing presses. Once he had confirmed that his contact didn’t have the equipment he needed — as he knew only too well he wouldn’t — he walked briskly over to Leninplatz and began to search for Tulpanov’s office.

The entrance to the vast gray building through an archway on the north side of the square was not at all imposing, and the secretary who sat alone in a dingy outer office on the third floor didn’t make Armstrong feel that her boss was a rising star. She checked his card, and didn’t seem at all surprised that a captain in the British Army would drop in without an appointment. She led Armstrong silently down a long gray corridor, its peeling walls lined with photographs of Marx, Engels, Lenin and Stalin, and stopped outside a door with no name on it. She knocked, opened the door and stood aside to allow Captain Armstrong to enter Tulpanov’s office.

Armstrong was taken by surprise as he walked into a luxuriously appointed room, full of fine paintings and antique furniture. He had once had to brief General Templer, the military governor of the British sector, and his office was far less imposing.

Major Tulpanov rose from behind his desk and walked across the carpeted room to greet his guest. Armstrong couldn’t help noticing that the major’s uniform was far better tailored than his.

‘Welcome to my humble abode, Captain Armstrong,’ said the Russian officer. ‘Isn’t that the correct English expression?’ He made no attempt to hide a smirk. ‘Your timing is perfect. Would you care to join me for lunch?’

‘Thank you,’ replied Armstrong in Russian. Tulpanov showed no surprise at the switch in tongues, and led his guest through to a second room where a table had been set for two. Armstrong couldn’t help wondering if the major hadn’t anticipated his visit.

As Armstrong took his place opposite Tulpanov, a steward appeared carrying two plates of caviar, and a second followed with a bottle of vodka. If this was meant to put him at his ease, it didn’t.

The major raised his brimming glass high in the air and toasted ‘Our future prosperity.’

‘Our future prosperity,’ repeated Armstrong as the major’s secretary entered the room. She placed a thick brown envelope on the table by Tulpanov’s side.

‘And when I say “our”, I mean “our”,’ said the major. He put his glass down, ignoring the envelope.

Armstrong also placed his drink back on the table, but said nothing in response. One of his instructions from the security service briefings was to make no attempt to lead the conversation.

‘Now, Lubji,’ said Tulpanov, ‘I will not waste your time by lying about my role in the Russian sector, not least because you have just spent the last ten days being briefed on exactly why I’m stationed in Berlin and the role I play in this new “cold war” — isn’t that how your lot describe it? — and by now I suspect you know more about me than my secretary does.’ He smiled and spooned a large lump of caviar into his mouth. Armstrong toyed uncomfortably with his fork but made no attempt to eat anything.

‘But the truth is, Lubji — or would you prefer me to call you John? Or Dick? — that I certainly know more about you than your secretary, your wife and your mother put together.’

Armstrong still didn’t speak. He put down his fork and left the caviar untouched in front of him.

‘You see, Lubji, you and I are two of a kind, which is why I feel confident we can be of great assistance to each other.’

‘I’m not sure I understand you,’ said Armstrong, looking directly across at him.

‘Well, for example, I can tell you exactly where you will find Mrs. Klaus Lauber, and that she doesn’t even know that her husband was the owner of Der Telegraf.’

Armstrong took a sip of vodka. He was relieved that his hand didn’t shake, even if his heart was beating at twice its normal rate.

Tulpanov picked up the thick brown envelope by his side, opened it and removed a document. He slid it across the table. ‘And there’s no reason to let her know, if we’re able to come to an agreement.’

Armstrong unfolded the heavy parchment and read the first paragraph of Major Klaus Otto Lauber’s will, while Tulpanov allowed the steward to serve him a second plate of caviar.

‘But it says here...’ said Armstrong, as he turned the third page.

The smile reappeared on Tulpanov’s face. ‘Ah, I see you have come to the paragraph which confirms that Arno Schultz has been left all the shares in Der Telegraf.’

Armstrong looked up and stared at the major, but said nothing.

‘That of course is relevant only so long as the will is still in existence,’ said Tulpanov. ‘If this document were never to see the light of day, the shares would go automatically to Mrs. Lauber, in which case I can see no reason...’

‘What do you expect of me in return?’ asked Armstrong.

The major didn’t reply immediately, as if he were considering the question. ‘Oh, a little information now and then, perhaps. After all, Lubji, if I made it possible for you to own your first newspaper before you were twenty-five, I would surely be entitled to expect a little something in return.’

‘I don’t quite understand,’ said Armstrong.

‘I think you understand only too well,’ said Tulpanov with a smile, ‘but let me spell it out for you.’

Armstrong picked up his fork and experienced his first taste of caviar as the major continued.

‘Let us start by acknowledging the simple fact, Lubji, that you are not even a British citizen. You just landed there by chance. And although they may have welcomed you into their army—’ he paused to take a sip of vodka ‘—I feel sure you’ve already worked out that that doesn’t mean they’ve welcomed you into their hearts. The time has therefore come for you to decide which team you are playing for.’

Armstrong took a second mouthful of caviar He liked it.

‘I think you would find that membership of our team would not be too demanding, and I am sure that we could, from time to time, help each other advance in what the British still insist on calling “the great game”.’

Armstrong scooped up the last mouthful of caviar, and hoped he would be offered more.

‘Why don’t you think it over, Lubji?’ Tulpanov said as he leaned across the table, retrieved the will and placed it back in the envelope.

Armstrong said nothing as he stared down at his empty plate.

‘In the meantime,’ said the KGB major, ‘let me give you a little piece of information to take back to your friends in the security service.’ He removed a sheet of paper from his inside pocket and pushed it across the table. Armstrong read it, and was pleased to find he could still think in Russian.

‘To be fair, Lubji, you should know that your people are already in possession of this document, but they will still be pleased to have its contents confirmed. You see, the one thing all secret service operatives have in common is a love of paperwork. It’s how they are able to prove that their job is necessary.’

‘How did I get my hands on this?’ asked Armstrong, holding up the sheet of paper.

‘I fear I have a temporary secretary today, who will keep leaving her desk unattended.’

Dick smiled as he folded up the sheet of paper and slipped it into his inside pocket.

‘By the way, Lubji, those fellows back in your security service are not quite as dumb as you may think. Take my advice: be wary of them. If you decide to join the game, you will in the end have to be disloyal to one side or the other, and if they ever find out you are double-crossing them, they will dispose of you without the slightest remorse.’

Armstrong could now hear his heart thumping away.

‘As I have already explained,’ continued the major, ‘there’s no need for you to make an immediate decision.’ He tapped the brown envelope. ‘I can easily wait for a few more days before I inform Mr. Schultz of his good fortune.’

‘I’ve some good news for you, Dick,’ said Colonel Oakshott when Armstrong reported to HQ the following morning. ‘Your demob papers have been processed at last, and I can see no reason why you shouldn’t be back in England within a month.’

The colonel was surprised that Armstrong’s reaction was so muted, but he assumed he must have other things on his mind. ‘Not that Forsdyke will be pleased to learn you’re leaving us so soon after your triumph with Major Tulpanov.’

‘Perhaps I shouldn’t rush back quite so quickly,’ said Armstrong, ‘now that I have a chance to build up a relationship with the KGB.’

‘That’s damned patriotic of you, old chap,’ said the colonel. ‘Shall we just leave it that I won’t hurry the process along until you tip me the wink?’ Armstrong’s English was as fluent as that of most officers in the British Army, but Oakshott was still able to add the occasional new expression to his vocabulary.

Charlotte continued to press him on when they might hope to leave Berlin, and that evening she explained why it was suddenly so important. When he heard the news, Dick realized that he could not prevaricate much longer. He didn’t go out that night, but sat in the kitchen with Charlotte, telling her all about his plans once they had set up home in England.

The next morning he found an excuse to visit the Russian sector, and following a long briefing from Forsdyke, he arrived outside Tulpanov’s office a few minutes before lunch.

‘How are you, Lubji?’ asked the KGB man as he rose from behind his desk. Armstrong nodded curtly. ‘And more importantly, my friend, have you come to a decision as to which side you are going to open the batting for?’

Armstrong looked puzzled.

‘To appreciate the English,’ said Tulpanov, ‘you must first understand the game of cricket, which cannot commence until after the toss of a coin. Can you imagine anything more stupid than giving the other side a chance? But have you tossed the coin yet, Lubji, I keep asking myself. And if so, have you decided whether to bat or bowl?’

‘I want to meet Mrs. Lauber before I make a final decision,’ said Dick.

The major walked around the room, his lips pursed, as if he were giving serious thought to Armstrong’s request.

‘There is an old English saying, Lubji. Where there’s a will...’

Armstrong looked puzzled.

‘Another thing you must understand about the English is that their puns are dreadful. But for all their sense of what they call fair play, they are deadly when it comes to defending their position. Now, if you wish to visit Mrs. Lauber, it will be necessary for us to make a journey to Dresden.’

‘Dresden?’

‘Yes. Mrs. Lauber is safely ensconced deep in the Russian zone. That can only be to your advantage. But I don’t think we should visit her for a few days.’

‘Why not?’ asked Armstrong.

‘You still have so much to learn about the British, Lubji. You must not imagine that conquering their language is the same as knowing how their minds work. The English love routine. You return tomorrow and they will become suspicious. You return some time next week and they won’t give it a second thought.’

‘So what do I tell them when I report back?’

‘You say I was cagey, and that you’re “still testing the water”.’ Tulpanov smiled again. ‘But you can tell them that I asked you about a man called Arbuthnot, Piers Arbuthnot, and whether it’s true that he’s about to take up a post in Berlin. You told me that you’d never heard of him, but that you would try to find out.’

Armstrong returned to the British sector later that afternoon and reported most of the conversation to Forsdyke. He expected to be told who Arbuthnot was and when he would be arriving in Berlin, but all Forsdyke said was, ‘He’s just trying you out for size. He knows exactly who Arbuthnot is and when he’s taking up his post. How soon can you find a convincing excuse to visit the Russian sector again?’

‘Next Wednesday or Thursday I’ve got my usual monthly meeting with the Russians on paper supplies.’

‘Right, if you just happen to drop in and see Tulpanov, tell him you couldn’t get a word out of me on Arbuthnot.’

‘But won’t that make him suspicious?’

‘No, he would be more suspicious if you were able to tell him anything about that particular man.’

Over breakfast the following morning, Charlotte and Dick had another row about when he expected to return to Britain.

‘How many new excuses can you come up with to keep putting it off?’ she asked.

Dick made no attempt to answer. Without giving her a second look he picked up his swagger stick and peaked hat, and stormed out of the apartment.

Private Benson drove him straight to the office, and once he was at his desk he immediately buzzed Sally. She came through with a pile of mail for signing and greeted him with a smile. When she left an hour later, she looked drained. She warned everyone to keep out of the captain’s way for the rest of the day because he was in a foul mood. His mood hadn’t improved by Wednesday, and on Thursday the whole team was relieved to learn that he would be spending most of the day out of the office.

Benson drove him into the Russian sector a few minutes before ten. Armstrong stepped out of the jeep, carrying his Gladstone bag, and told his driver to return to the British sector. He walked through the great archway off Leninplatz that led to Tulpanov’s office, and was surprised to find the major’s secretary waiting for him in the outer courtyard.

Without a word she guided him across the cobbled yard to a large black Mercedes. She held open the door and he slid onto the back seat beside Tulpanov. The engine was already running, and without waiting for instructions the driver drove out into the square and began following the signs for the autobahn.

The major showed no surprise when Armstrong reported the conversation he’d had with Forsdyke, and his failure to find out anything about Arbuthnot.

‘They don’t trust you yet, Lubji,’ said Tulpanov. ‘You see, you’re not one of them. Perhaps you never will be.’ Armstrong pouted and turned to look out of the window.

One they had reached the outskirts of Berlin, they headed south toward Dresden. After a few minutes, Tulpanov bent down and handed Armstrong a small, battered suitcase stamped with the initials ‘K.L.’

‘What’s this?’ he asked.

‘All the good major’s worldly possessions,’ Tulpanov replied. ‘Or at least, all the ones his widow can expect to inherit.’ He passed Armstrong a thick brown envelope.

‘And this? More worldly goods?’

‘No. That’s the 40,000 marks Lauber paid Schultz for his original shares in Der Telegraf. You see, whenever the British are involved, I do try to stick to the rules. “Play up, play up and play the game,”’ said Tulpanov. He paused. ‘I believe you are in possession of the only other document that is required.’

Armstrong nodded, and placed the thick envelope in his Gladstone bag. He gazed back out of the window and watched the passing countryside, horrified at how little rebuilding had been carried out since the war had ended. He tried to concentrate on how he would handle Mrs. Lauber, and didn’t speak again until they reached the outskirts of Dresden.

‘Does the driver know where to go?’ asked Armstrong as they passed a 40-kilometer speed warning.

‘Oh yes,’ said Tulpanov. ‘You’re not the first person he’s taken to visit this particular old lady. He has “the knowledge.”’

Armstrong looked puzzled.

‘When you settle down in London, Lubji, someone will explain that one to you.’

A few minutes later they came to a halt outside a drab concrete block of flats in the center of a park which looked as if it had been bombed the previous day.

‘It’s number sixty-three,’ said Tulpanov. ‘I’m afraid there’s no lift, so you’ll have to do a little climbing, my dear Lubji. But then, that’s something you’re rather good at.’

Armstrong stepped out of the car, carrying his Gladstone bag and the major’s battered suitcase. He made his way down a weed-infested path to the entrance of the prewar ten-story block. He began to climb the concrete staircase, relieved that Mrs. Lauber didn’t live on the top floor. When he reached the sixth floor, he continued around a narrow, exposed walkway until he reached a door with ‘63’ daubed in red on the wall next to it.

He tapped his swagger stick on the glass, and the door was opened a few moments later by an old woman who showed no surprise at finding a British officer standing on her doorstep. She led him down a mean, unlit corridor to a tiny, cold room overlooking an identical ten-story block. Armstrong took the seat opposite her next to a two-bar electric heater; only one of the bars was glowing.

He shivered as he watched the old woman shrink into her chair and pull a threadbare shawl around her shoulders.

‘I visited your husband in Wales just before he died,’ he began. ‘He asked me to give you this.’ He passed over the battered suitcase.

Mrs. Lauber complimented him on his German, then opened the suitcase. Armstrong watched as she removed a framed picture of her husband and herself on their wedding day, followed by a photograph of a young man he assumed was their son. From the sad look on her face, Armstrong felt he must also have lost his life in the war. There followed several items, including a book of verse by Rainer Maria Rilke and an old wooden chess set.

When she had finally removed her husband’s three medals, she looked up and asked hopefully, ‘Did he leave you any message for me?’

‘Only that he missed you. And he asked if you would give the chess set to Arno.’

‘Arno Schultz,’ she said. ‘I doubt if he’s still alive.’ She paused. ‘You see, the poor man was Jewish. We lost contact with him during the war.’

‘Then I will make it my responsibility to try and find out if he survived,’ said Armstrong. He leaned forward and took her hand.

‘You are kind,’ she said, clinging on to him with her bony fingers. It was some time before she released his hand. She then picked up the chess set and passed it over to him. ‘I do hope he’s still alive,’ she said. ‘Arno was such a good man.’

Armstrong nodded.

‘Did my husband leave any other message for me?’

‘Yes. He told me that his final wish was that you should also return Arno’s shares to him.’

‘What shares did he mean?’ she asked, sounding anxious for the first time. ‘They didn’t mention any shares when they came to visit me.’

‘It seems that Arno sold Herr Lauber some shares in a publishing company not long after Hitler came to power, and your husband promised he would return them as soon as the war was over.’

‘Well, of course I would be only too happy to do so,’ the old woman said, shivering again. ‘But sadly I am not in possession of any shares. Perhaps Klaus made a will...’

‘Unfortunately not, Mrs. Lauber,’ Armstrong said. ‘Or if he did, we haven’t been able to find it.’

‘How unlike Klaus,’ she said. ‘He was always so meticulous. But then, perhaps it has disappeared somewhere in the Russian zone. You can’t trust the Russians you know,’ she whispered.

Armstrong nodded his agreement. ‘That doesn’t present a problem,’ he said, taking her hand again. ‘I am in possession of a document which invests me with the authority to ensure that Arno Schultz, if he is still alive and we can find him, will receive the shares he’s entitled to.’

Mrs. Lauber smiled. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘It’s a great relief to know that the matter is in the hands of a British officer.’

Armstrong opened his briefcase and removed the contract. Turning to the last of its four pages, he indicated two penciled crosses, and handed Mrs. Lauber his pen. She placed her spidery signature between the crosses, without having made any attempt to read a single clause or paragraph of the contract. As soon as the ink was dry, Armstrong placed the document back in his Gladstone bag and clipped it shut. He smiled across at Mrs. Lauber.

‘I must return to Berlin now,’ he said, rising from his chair, ‘where I shall make every effort to locate Herr Schultz.’

‘Thank you,’ said Mrs. Lauber, who slowly rose to her feet and led him back down the passage to the front door. ‘Goodbye,’ she said, as he stepped out onto the landing, ‘it was most kind of you to come all this way on my behalf.’ She smiled weakly and closed the door without another word.

‘Well?’ said Tulpanov when Armstrong rejoined him in the back of the car.

‘She signed the agreement.’

‘I thought she might,’ said Tulpanov. The car swung round in a circle and began its journey back to Berlin.

‘So what happens next?’ asked Armstrong.

‘Now you have spun the coin,’ said the KGB major. ‘You have won the toss, and decided to bat. Though I must say that what you’ve just done to Mrs. Lauber could hardly be described as cricket.’

Armstrong looked quizzically at him.

‘Even I thought you’d give her the 40,000 marks,’ said Tulpanov. ‘But no doubt you plan to give Arno—’ he paused ‘—the chess set.’

The following morning, Captain Richard Armstrong registered his ownership of Der Telegraf with the British Control Commission. Although one of the officials raised an eyebrow, and he was kept waiting for over an hour by another, eventually the duty clerk stamped the document authorizing the transaction, and confirmed that Captain Armstrong was now the sole owner of the paper.

Charlotte tried to disguise her true feelings when she was told the news of her husband’s ‘coup.’ She was certain it could only mean that their departure for England would be postponed yet again. But she was relieved when Dick agreed that she could return to Lyon to be with her parents for the birth of their firstborn, as she was determined that any child of hers would begin its life as a French citizen.

Arno Schultz was surprised by Armstrong’s sudden renewed commitment to Der Telegraf. He started making contributions at the morning editorial conference, and even took to riding on the delivery vans on their midnight sojourns around the city. Arno assumed that his boss’s new enthusiasm was directly related to Charlotte’s absence in Lyon.

Within a few weeks they were selling 300,000 copies of the paper a day for the first time, and Arno accepted that the pupil had become the master.

A month later, Captain Armstrong took ten days’ compassionate leave so he could be in Lyon for the birth of his first child. He was delighted when Charlotte presented him with a boy, whom they christened David. As he sat on the bed holding the child in his arms, he promised Charlotte that it would not be long before they left for England, and the three of them would embark on a new life.

He arrived back in Berlin a week later, resolved to tell Colonel Oakshott that the time had come for him to resign his commission and return to England.

He would have done so if Arno Schultz hadn’t held a party to celebrate his sixtieth birthday.

14 Adelaide Gazette 13 March 1956 Menzies Stays Put

The first time Townsend noticed her was on a flight up to Sydney. He was reading the Gazette: the lead story should have been relegated to page three and the headline was weak. The Gazette now had a monopoly in Adelaide, but the paper was becoming increasingly slack. He should have removed Frank Bailey from the editor’s chair after the merger, but he had to satisfy himself with getting rid of Sir Colin first. He frowned.

‘Would you like your coffee topped up, Mr. Townsend?’ she asked. Townsend glanced up at the slim girl who was holding a coffee pot, and smiled. She must have been about twenty-five, with curly fair hair and blue eyes which made you go on staring at them.

‘Yes,’ he replied, despite not wanting any more. She returned his smile — an air hostess’s smile, a smile that didn’t vary for the fat or the thin, the rich or the poor.

Townsend put the Gazette to one side and tried to concentrate on the meeting that was about to take place. He had recently purchased, at a cost of half a million pounds, a small print group which specialized in giveaway papers distributed in the western suburbs of Sydney. The deal had done no more than give him a foothold in Australia’s largest city.

It had been at the Newspapers and Publishers Annual Dinner at the Cook Hotel that a man of about twenty-seven or twenty-eight, five foot eight, square-jawed with bright red hair and the shoulders of a prop forward, came up to his table after the speeches were over and whispered in his ear, ‘I’ll see you in the men’s room.’ Townsend wasn’t sure whether to laugh or just to ignore the man. But curiosity got the better of him, and a few minutes later he rose from his place and made his way through the tables to the men’s room. The man with the red hair was washing his hands in the corner basin. Townsend walked across, stood at the basin next to him and turned on the tap.

‘What hotel are you staying at?’ he asked.

‘The Town House,’ Keith replied.

‘And what’s your room number?’

‘I have no idea.’

‘I’ll find out. I’ll come to your room around midnight. That is, if you’re interested in getting your hands on the Sydney Chronicle.’ The red-headed man turned off the tap, dried his hands and left.

Townsend learned in the early hours of the morning that the man who had accosted him at the dinner was Bruce Kelly, the Chronicle’s deputy editor. He wasted no time in telling Townsend that Sir Somerset Kenwright was considering selling the paper, as he felt it no longer fitted in with the rest of his group.

‘Was there something wrong with your coffee?’ she asked.

Townsend looked up at her, and then down at his untouched coffee. ‘No, it was fine, thank you,’ he said. ‘I’m just a little preoccupied at the moment.’ She gave him that smile again, before removing the cup and continuing on to the row behind. Once again he tried to concentrate.

When he had first discussed the idea with his mother, she had told him that it had been his father’s lifelong ambition to own the Chronicle, though her own feelings were ambivalent. The reason he was traveling to Sydney for the third time in as many weeks was for another meeting with Sir Somerset’s top management team, so he could go over the terms of a possible deal. And one of them still owed him a favor.

Over the past few months Townsend’s lawyers had been working in tandem with Sir Somerset’s, and both sides now felt they were at last coming close to an agreement. ‘The old man thinks you’re the lesser of two evils,’ Kelly had warned him. ‘He’s faced the fact that his son isn’t up to the job, but he doesn’t want the paper to fall into the hands of Wally Hacker, who he’s never liked, and certainly doesn’t trust. He’s not sure about you, although he has fond memories of your father.’ Since Kelly had given him that piece of invaluable information, Townsend had mentioned his father whenever he and Sir Somerset met.

When the plane taxied to a halt at Kingsford-Smith airport, Townsend unfastened his seatbelt, picked up his briefcase and began to walk toward the forward exit. ‘Have a good day, Mr. Townsend,’ she said. ‘I do hope you’ll be flying Austair again.’

‘I will,’ he promised. ‘In fact I’m coming back tonight.’ Only an impatient line of passengers who were pressing forward stopped him from asking if she would be on that flight.

When his taxi came to a halt in Pitt Street, Townsend checked his watch and found he still had a few minutes to spare. He paid the fare and darted through the traffic to the other side of the road. When he had reached the far pavement, he turned round and stared up at the building which housed the biggest-selling newspaper in Australia. He only wished his father was still alive to witness him closing the deal.

He walked back across the road, entered the building and paced around the reception area until a well-dressed middle-aged woman appeared out of one of the lifts, walked over to him and said, ‘Sir Somerset is expecting you, Mr. Townsend.’

When Townsend walked into the vast office overlooking the harbor, he was greeted by a man he had regarded with awe and admiration since his childhood. Sir Somerset shook him warmly by the hand. ‘Keith. Good to see you. I think you were at school with my chief executive, Duncan Alexander.’ The two men shook hands, but said nothing. ‘But I don’t believe you’ve met the Chronicle’s editor, Nick Watson.’

‘No, I haven’t had that pleasure,’ said Townsend, shaking Watson by the hand. ‘But of course I know of your reputation.’

Sir Somerset waved them to seats around a large boardroom table, taking his place at the top. ‘You know, Keith,’ began the old man, ‘I’m damn proud of this paper. Even Beaverbrook tried to buy it from me.’

‘Understandably,’ said Townsend.

‘We’ve set a standard of journalism in this building that I like to think even your father would have been proud of.’

‘He always spoke of your papers with the greatest respect. Indeed, when it came to the Chronicle, I think the word “envy” would be more appropriate.’

Sir Somerset smiled. ‘It’s kind of you to say so, my boy.’ He paused. ‘Well, it seems that during the past few weeks our teams have been able to agree most of the details. So, as long as you can match Wally Hacker’s offer of £1.9 million and — just as important to me — you agree to retain Nick as editor and Duncan as chief executive, I think we might have ourselves a deal.’

‘It would be foolish of me not to rely on their vast knowledge and expertise,’ said Townsend. ‘They are two highly respected professionals, and I shall naturally be delighted to work with them. Though I feel I should let you know that it’s not my policy to interfere in the internal working of my papers, especially when it comes to the editorial content. That’s just not my style.’

‘I see that you’ve learned a great deal from your father,’ said Sir Somerset. ‘Like him, and like you, I don’t involve myself in the day-to-day running of the paper. It always ends in tears.’

Townsend nodded his agreement.

‘Well, I don’t think there’s much more for us to discuss at this stage, so I suggest we adjourn to the dining room and have some lunch.’ The old man put his arm round Townsend’s shoulder and said, ‘I only wish your father were here to join us.’

The smile never left Townsend’s face on the journey back to the airport. If she were on the return flight, that would be a bonus. His smile became even wider as he fastened his seatbelt and began to rehearse what he would say to her.

‘I hope you had a worthwhile trip to Sydney, Mr. Townsend,’ she said as she offered him an evening paper.

‘It couldn’t have turned out better,’ he replied. ‘Perhaps you’d like to join me for dinner tonight and help me celebrate?’

‘That’s very kind of you, sir,’ she said, emphasizing the word ‘sir,’ ‘but I’m afraid it’s against company policy.’

‘Is it against company policy to know your name?’

‘No, sir,’ she said. ‘It’s Susan.’ She gave him that same smile, and moved on to the next row.

The first thing he did when he got back to his flat was to make himself a sardine sandwich. He had only taken one bite when the phone rang. It was Clive Jervis, the senior partner at Jervis, Smith & Thomas. Clive was still anxious about some of the finer details of the contract, including compensation agreements and stock write-offs.

No sooner had Townsend put the phone down than it rang again, and he took an even longer call from Trevor Meacham, his accountant, who still felt that £1.9 million was too high a price.

‘I don’t have a lot of choice,’ Townsend told him. ‘Wally Hacker has already offered the same amount.’

‘Hacker is also capable of paying too much,’ came back the reply. ‘I think we should still demand staged payments, based on this year’s circulation figures, and not aggregated over the past ten years.’

‘Why?’ asked Townsend.

‘Because the Chronicle has been losing 2 to 3 percent of its readers year on year. Everything ought to be based on the latest figures available.’

‘I agree with you on that, but I don’t want it to be the reason I lose this deal.’

‘Neither do I,’ said his accountant. ‘But I also don’t want you to end up bankrupt simply because you paid far too much for sentimental reasons. Every deal must stack up in its own right, and not be closed just to prove you’re as good as your father.’

Neither man spoke for several moments.

‘You needn’t worry about that,’ said Townsend eventually. ‘I already have plans to double the circulation of the Chronicle. In a year’s time £1.9 million will look cheap. And what’s more, my father would have backed me on this one.’ He put the phone down before Trevor could say another word.

The final call came from Bruce Kelly just after eleven, by which time Townsend was in his dressing-gown, and the half-eaten sardine sandwich was stale.

‘Sir Somerset is still nervous,’ he warned him.

‘Why?’ asked Townsend. ‘I felt today’s meeting couldn’t have gone better.’

‘The meeting wasn’t the problem. After you left, he had a call from Sir Colin Grant which lasted nearly an hour. And Duncan Alexander isn’t exactly your closest mate.’

Townsend thumped his fist on the table. ‘Damn the man,’ he said. ‘Now listen carefully, Bruce, and I’ll tell you exactly what line you should take. Whenever Sir Colin’s name comes up, remind Sir Somerset that as soon as he became chairman of the Messenger, it began losing sales every week. As for Alexander, you can leave him to me.’

Townsend was disappointed to find that on his next flight up to Sydney, Susan was nowhere to be seen. When a steward served him with coffee, he asked if she was working on another flight.

‘No, sir,’ he replied. ‘Susan left the company at the end of last month.’

‘Do you know where she’s working now?’

‘I’ve no idea, sir,’ he replied, before moving on to the next passenger.

Townsend spent the morning being shown round the Chronicle’s offices by Duncan Alexander, who kept the conversation businesslike, making no attempt to be friendly. Townsend waited until they were alone in the lift before he turned to him and said, ‘You once told me many years ago, “We Alexanders have long memories. Call on me when you need me.”’

‘Yes, I did,’ Duncan admitted.

‘Good, because the time has come for me to call in my marker.’

‘What do you expect from me?’

‘I want Sir Somerset to be told what a good man I am.’

The lift came to a halt, and the doors opened.

‘If I do that, will you guarantee I’ll keep my job?’

‘You have my word on it,’ said Townsend as he stepped out into the corridor.

After lunch, Sir Somerset — who seemed a little more restrained than when they had first met — accompanied Townsend around the editorial floor, where he was introduced to the journalists. All of them were relieved to find that the new proprietor just nodded and smiled at them, making himself agreeable to even the most junior staff. Everyone who came in contact with Townsend that day was pleasantly surprised, especially after what they had been told by reporters who had worked for him on the Gazette. Even Sir Somerset began to wonder if Sir Colin hadn’t exaggerated about Townsend’s behavior in the past.

‘Don’t forget what happened to the sales of the Messenger when Sir Colin took over as chairman,’ Bruce Kelly whispered into several ears, including his editor’s, soon after Townsend had left.

The staff on the Chronicle would not have given Townsend the benefit of the doubt if they had seen the notes he was compiling on the flight back to Adelaide. It was clear to him that if he hoped to double the paper’s profits, there was going to have to be some drastic surgery, with cuts from top to bottom.

Townsend found himself looking up from time to time and thinking about Susan. When another steward offered him a copy of the evening paper, he asked if he had any idea where she was now working.

‘Do you mean Susan Glover?’ he asked.

‘Blonde, curly hair, early twenties,’ said Townsend.

‘Yes, that’s Susan. She left us when she was offered a job at Moore’s. Said she couldn’t take the irregular hours any longer, not to mention being treated like a bus conductor. I know just how she feels.’

Townsend smiled. Moore’s had always been his mother’s favorite store in Adelaide. He was sure it wouldn’t take him long to discover which department Susan worked in.

The following morning, after he had finished going through the mail with Bunty, he dialed Moore’s number the moment she had closed the door behind her.

‘Can you put me through to Miss Glover, please?’

‘Which department does she work in?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Townsend.

‘Is it an emergency?’

‘No, it’s a personal call.’

‘Are you a relative?’

‘No, I’m not,’ he said, puzzled by the question.

‘Then I’m sorry, but I can’t help. It’s against company policy for staff to take private calls during office hours.’ The line went dead.

Townsend replaced the phone, rose from his chair and walked into Bunty’s office. ‘I’ll be away for about an hour, maybe a little longer, Bunty. I’ve got to pick up a birthday present for my mother.’

Miss Bunting was surprised, as she knew his mother’s birthday was four months away. But at least he was an improvement on his father, she thought. She’d always had to remind Sir Graham the day before.

When Townsend stepped out of the building it was such a warm day that he told his driver, Sam, he would walk the dozen or so blocks to Moore’s, which would give him a chance to check all the paper stands on the way. He was not pleased to find that the first one he came across, on the corner of King William Street, had already sold out of the Gazette, and it was only a few minutes past ten. He made a note to speak to the distribution manager as soon as he returned to the office.

As he approached the massive department store on Rundle Street, he wondered just how long it would take him to find Susan. He pushed his way through the revolving door and walked up and down between the counters on the ground floor: jewelry, gloves, perfume. But he could see no sign of her. He took the escalator to the second floor, where he repeated the process: crockery, bedding, kitchenware. Still no success. The third floor turned out to be menswear, which reminded him that he needed a new suit. If she worked there he could order one immediately, but there wasn’t a woman in sight.

As he stepped onto the escalator to take him up to the fourth floor, Townsend thought he recognized the smartly dressed man standing on the step above him.

When he turned round and saw Townsend, he said, ‘How are you?’

‘I’m fine,’ replied Townsend, trying desperately to place him.

‘Ed Scott,’ the man said, solving the problem. ‘I was a couple of years below you at St. Andrew’s, and still remember your editorials in the school magazine.’

‘I’m flattered,’ said Townsend. ‘So, what are you up to now?’

‘I’m the assistant manager.’

‘You’ve done well then,’ said Townsend, looking round at the huge store.

‘Hardly,’ said Ed. ‘My father’s the managing director. But then, that’s something I don’t have to explain to you.’

Townsend scowled.

‘Were you looking for anything in particular?’ asked Ed as they stepped off the escalator.

‘Yes,’ replied Townsend. ‘A present for my mother. She’s already chosen something, and I’ve just come to pick it up. I can’t remember which floor it’s on, but I do have the name of the assistant who served her.’

‘Tell me the name, and I’ll find out the department.’

‘Susan Glover,’ said Townsend, trying not to blush.

Ed stood to one side, dialed a number on his intercom and repeated the name. A few moments later a look of surprise crossed his face. ‘It seems she’s in the toy department,’ he said. ‘Are you certain you’ve been given the right name?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Townsend. ‘Puzzles.’

‘Puzzles?’

‘Yes, my mother can’t resist jigsaw puzzles. But none of the family is allowed to choose them for her, because whenever we do, it always turns out to be one she already has.’

‘Oh, I see,’ said Ed. ‘Well, take the escalator back down to the basement. You’ll find the toy department on your right-hand side.’ Townsend thanked him, and the assistant manager disappeared off in the direction of luggage and travel.

Townsend took the escalator all the way down to ‘The World of Toys.’ He looked round the counters, but there was no sign of Susan, and he started to wonder if it might be her day off. He wandered slowly around the department, and decided against asking a rather officious-looking woman, who wore a badge on her ample chest declaring she was the ‘Senior Sales Assistant,’ if a Susan Glover worked there.

He thought he would have to come back the following day, and was about to leave when a door behind one of the counters opened and Susan came through it, carrying a large Meccano set. She went over to a customer who was leaning on the counter.

Townsend stood transfixed on the spot. She was even more captivating than he had remembered.

‘Can I help you, sir?’

Townsend jumped, turned round and came face to face with the officious-looking woman.

‘No, thank you,’ he said nervously. ‘I’m just looking for a present for... for my... nephew.’ The woman glared at him, and Townsend moved away and selected a spot where he could be hidden from her view but still keep Susan in his sights.

The customer she was serving took an inordinate amount of time making up her mind if she wanted the Meccano set. Susan was made to open up the box to prove that the contents fulfilled the promise on the lid. She picked up some of the red and yellow pieces and tried to put them together, but the customer left a few minutes later, empty-handed.

Townsend waited until the officious woman began to serve another customer before he strolled over to the counter. Susan looked up and smiled. This time it was a smile of recognition.

‘How may I help you, Mr. Townsend?’ she asked.

‘Will you have dinner with me tonight?’ he replied. ‘Or is it still against company policy?’

She smiled and said, ‘Yes, it is Mr. Townsend, but...’

The senior sales assistant reappeared at Susan’s side, looking more suspicious than ever.

‘It must be over a thousand pieces,’ said Townsend. ‘My mother needs the sort of puzzle that will keep her going for at least a week.’

‘Of course, sir,’ said Susan, and led him over to a table which displayed several different jigsaw puzzles.

He began picking them up and studying them closely, without looking at her. ‘How about Pilligrini’s at eight o’clock?’ he whispered, just as the officious woman was approaching.

‘That’s perfect. I’ve never been there, but I’ve always wanted to,’ she said, taking the puzzle of Sydney Harbor from his hands. She walked back to the counter, rang up the bill and dropped the large box into a Moore’s bag. ‘That will be £2 10s. please, sir.’

Townsend paid for his purchase, and would have confirmed their date if the officious lady hadn’t stuck close to Susan and said, ‘I do hope your nephew enjoys the puzzle.’

Two sets of eyes followed his progress out of the store.

When he returned to the office, Bunty was a little surprised to discover the contents of the shopping bag. In the thirty-two years she had worked for Sir Graham, she couldn’t once remember him giving his wife a jigsaw puzzle.

Townsend ignored her inquiring look, and said, ‘Bunty, I want to see the circulation manager immediately. The news stand on the corner of King William Street had run out of the Gazette by ten o’clock.’ As she turned to leave he added, ‘Oh, and could you book me a table for two tonight at Pilligrini’s?’

As Susan entered the restaurant, several men in the room turned to watch her walk across to the corner table. She was wearing a pink suit that emphasized her slim figure, and although her skirt fell an inch below the knee, Townsend’s eyes were still looking down when she arrived at the table. When she took the seat opposite him, some of his fellow-diners’ looks turned to envy.

One voice, which was intended to carry, said, ‘That bloody man gets everything he wants.’

They both laughed, and Townsend poured her a glass of champagne. He soon found how easy it was to be in her company. They began to swap stories of what they had both been doing for the past twenty years as if they were old friends just catching up. Townsend explained why he had been making so many journeys to Sydney recently, and Susan told him why she wasn’t enjoying working in the toy department of Moore’s.

‘Is she always that awful?’ asked Townsend.

‘You caught her in a good mood. After you left, she spent the rest of the morning being sarcastic about whether it was your mother or your nephew or perhaps someone else that you’d come in for. And when I was a couple of minutes late getting back from lunch, she said, “You’re one hundred and twenty seconds late, Miss Glover. One hundred and twenty seconds of the company’s time. If it happens again, we’ll have to think about deducting the appropriate sum from your wages.”’ It was an almost perfect imitation, and caused Townsend to burst out laughing.

‘What’s her problem?’

‘I think she wanted to be an air hostess.’

‘I fear she lacks one or two of the more obvious qualifications,’ suggested Townsend.

‘So, what have you been up to today?’ Susan asked. ‘Still trying to pick up air hostesses on Austair?’

‘No,’ he smiled. ‘That was last week — and I failed. Today I satisfied myself with trying to work out if I could afford to pay £1.9 million for the Sydney Chronicle.’

‘One point nine million?’ she said incredulously. ‘Then the least I can do is pick up the tab for dinner. Last time I bought a copy of the Sydney Chronicle it was sixpence.’

‘Yes, but I want all the copies,’ said Townsend.

Although their coffee cups had been cleared away, they continued to talk until long after the kitchen staff had left. A couple of bored-looking waiters lounged against a pillar, occasionally glancing at them hopefully. When he caught one of them stifling a yawn, Townsend called for the bill and left a large tip. As they stepped out onto the pavement, he took Susan’s hand. ‘Where do you live?’

‘In the northern suburbs, but I’m afraid I’ve missed the last bus. I’ll have to get a taxi.’

‘It’s such a glorious evening, why don’t we walk?’

‘Suits me,’ she said, smiling.

They didn’t stop talking until they arrived outside her front door an hour later. Susan turned to him and said, ‘Thank you for a lovely evening, Keith. You’ve brought a new meaning to the words “walking it off”.’

‘Let’s do it again soon,’ he said.

‘I’d like that.’

‘When would suit you?’

‘I would have said tomorrow, but it depends on whether I’m going to be expected to walk home every time. If I am, I might have to suggest a local restaurant, or at least wear more sensible shoes.’

‘Certainly not,’ said Townsend. ‘I promise you tomorrow I’ll drive you home. But I have to be in Sydney to sign a contract earlier in the day, so I don’t expect to be back much before eight.’

‘That’s perfect. It will give me enough time to go home and change.’

‘Would L’Étoile suit you?’

‘Only if you have something to celebrate.’

‘There will be something to celebrate, that I promise you.’

‘Then I’ll see you at L’Étoile at nine.’ She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. ‘You know, you’ll never get a taxi out here at this time of night, Keith,’ she said, looking rather concerned. ‘I’m afraid you’re going to have a long walk back.’

‘It will be worth it,’ said Townsend, as Susan disappeared down the short drive to her front door.

A car drove up and came to a halt by his side. The driver jumped out and opened the door for him.

‘Where to, boss?’

‘Home, Sam,’ he said to his driver. ‘But let’s go via the station, so I can pick up the early morning edition.’

Townsend took the first flight to Sydney the following morning. His lawyer, Clive Jervis, and his accountant, Trevor Meacham, were sitting on either side of him.

‘I’m still not altogether happy with the rescission clause,’ said Clive.

‘And the payment schedule needs a little fine tuning, that’s for sure,’ added Trevor.

‘How long is it going to take to sort out these problems?’ asked Townsend. ‘I have a dinner appointment in Adelaide tonight, and I must catch an afternoon flight.’ Both men looked doubtful.

Their fears were to prove justified. The two companies’ lawyers spent the morning going over the fine print, and the two accountants took even longer checking the figures. Nobody stopped for lunch, and by three o’clock Townsend was checking his watch every few minutes. Despite his pacing up and down the room, delivering monosyllabic replies to lengthy questions, the final document wasn’t ready for signing until a few minutes after five.

Townsend breathed a sigh of relief when the lawyers finally rose from the boardroom table and began to stretch themselves. He checked his watch again, and was confident he could still catch a plane that would get him back to Adelaide in time. He thanked both his advisers for their efforts, and was shaking hands with their opposite numbers when Sir Somerset walked into the room, followed by his editor and chief executive.

‘I’m told we have an agreement at last,’ said the old man with a broad grin.

‘I think so,’ said Townsend, trying not to show how anxious he was to escape. If he called Moore’s to warn her he might be late, he knew they wouldn’t put him through.

‘Well, let’s have a drink to celebrate before we put our signatures to the final document,’ said Sir Somerset.

After the third whiskey, Townsend suggested that perhaps the time had come to sign the contract. Nick Watson agreed, and reminded Sir Somerset that he still had a paper to bring out that night. ‘Quite right,’ said the proprietor, removing a fountain pen from his inside pocket. ‘And as I will still own the Chronicle for another six weeks, we can’t allow standards to drop. By the way, Keith, I do hope you’ll be able to join me for dinner?’

‘I’m afraid I can’t tonight,’ replied Townsend. ‘I already have a dinner appointment in Adelaide.’

Sir Somerset swung round to face him. ‘It had better be a beautiful woman,’ he said, ‘because I’m damned if I’ll be stood up for another business deal.’

‘I promise you she’s beautiful,’ said Townsend, laughing. ‘And it’s only our second date.’

‘In that case, I won’t hold you up,’ said Sir Somerset, heading toward the boardroom table where two copies of the agreement had been laid out. He stopped for a moment, staring down at the contract, and seemed to hesitate. Both sides looked a little nervous, and one of Sir Somerset’s lawyers began to fidget.

The old man turned to Townsend and winked. ‘I must tell you that it was Duncan who finally convinced me I should go with you, and not Hacker,’ he said. He bent down and put his signature to both contracts, then passed the pen over to Townsend, who scribbled his name by the side of Sir Somerset’s.

The two men shook hands rather formally. ‘Just time for another drink,’ said Sir Somerset, and winked at Townsend. ‘You run along, Keith, and we’ll see how much of the profits we can consume in your absence. I must say, my boy, I couldn’t be more delighted that the Chronicle will be passing into the hands of Sir Graham Townsend’s son.’

Nick Watson stepped forward and put his arm round Townsend’s shoulder as he turned to leave. ‘I must say, as editor of the Chronicle, how much I’m looking forward to working with you. I hope we’ll be seeing you back in Sydney before too long.’

‘I’m looking forward to working with you as well,’ said Townsend, ‘and I’m sure we’ll bump into each other from time to time.’ He turned to shake hands with Duncan Alexander. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘We’re all square.’ Duncan thrust out his hand, but Townsend was already rushing out of the door. He saw the lift doors close seconds before he could stab the down arrow on the wall. When he finally flagged a taxi, the driver refused to break the speed limit despite coaxing, bribing and finally shouting. As he was being driven into the terminal, Townsend was able to watch the Douglas DC4 rise into the air above him, oblivious of its final passenger stranded in a taxi below.

‘It must have left on time for a change,’ said the taxi driver with a shrug of the shoulders. That was more than could be said for the next flight, which was scheduled to take off an hour later, but ended up being delayed by forty minutes.

Townsend checked his watch, walked slowly over to the phone booth, and looked up Susan’s number in the Adelaide directory. The operator told him that the number was engaged. When he rang again a few minutes later, there was no reply. Perhaps she was taking a shower. He tried to imagine the scene as the Tannoy announced, ‘This is a final call for all passengers traveling to Adelaide.’

He asked the operator to try once more, only to find the number was engaged again. He cursed, replaced the phone and ran all the way to the aircraft, boarding just before they closed the door. He continually thumped his armrest throughout the flight, but it didn’t make the plane go any faster.

Sam was standing by the car looking anxious when his master came charging out of the terminal. He drove into Adelaide, ignoring every known speed limit, but by the time he dropped his boss outside L’Étoile, the head waiter had already taken the last orders.

Townsend tried to explain what had happened, but Susan seemed to understand even before he had opened his mouth. ‘I phoned you from the airport, but it was either engaged or just went on ringing.’ He looked at the untouched cutlery on the table in front of her. ‘Don’t tell me you haven’t eaten.’

‘No, I didn’t feel that hungry,’ she said, and took his hand. ‘But you must be famished, and I’ll bet you still want to celebrate your triumph. So, if you had a choice, what would you like to do most?’

When Townsend walked into his office the following morning, he found Bunty hovering by his desk clutching a sheet of paper. She looked as if she had been standing there for some time.

‘Problem?’ Townsend asked as he closed the door.

‘No. It’s just that you seem to have forgotten that I’m due to retire at the end of this month.’

‘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.

Armstrong ordered a Coca-Cola and took a seat in the corner of the bar. He was relieved that no one recognized him or made any attempt to join him. After a third Coke, he checked that the $410 was in place. It was going to be a long night.

‘Where the hell is he?’ demanded Forsdyke.

‘Captain Armstrong had to go over to the American sector just before lunch, sir,’ said Sally. ‘Something urgent came up following his meeting with Colonel Oakshott. But before he left, he did ask me to make an appointment if you called.’

‘That was most thoughtful of him,’ said Forsdyke sarcastically. ‘Something urgent has come up in the British sector, and I’d be obliged if Captain Armstrong would report to my office at nine o’clock tomorrow morning.’

‘I’ll see that he gets your message just as soon as he returns, Major Forsdyke,’ said Sally. She would have tried to contact Dick immediately, but she had absolutely no idea where he was.

‘Five card stud as usual?’ said Max, pushing a bottle of beer and an opener across the green baize table.

‘Suits me,’ said Armstrong as he began to shuffle the deck.

‘I have a feeling about tonight, old buddy,’ said Max, removing his jacket and hanging it on the arm of his chair. ‘I hope you’ve got a lot of money to burn.’ He poured his beer slowly into a glass.

‘Enough,’ said Armstrong. He only sipped at his beer, aware that he would need to remain stone cold sober for several hours. When he had finished shuffling, Max cut the deck and lit a cigarette.

By the end of the first hour, Armstrong was $70 ahead, and the word ‘lucky’ kept floating across from the other side of the table. He began the second hour with a cushion of nearly $500. ‘You’ve been on a lucky run so far,’ said Max, flicking the top off his fourth bottle of beer. ‘But the night is far from over.’

Armstrong smiled and nodded, as he tossed another card across to his opponent and dealt himself a second one. He checked his cards: the four and nine of spades. He placed $5 on the table and dealt two more cards.

Max countered the bid with $5 of his own, and turned the corner of his card to see what Dick had dealt him. He tried not to smile, and placed another $5 on top of Armstrong’s stake.

Armstrong dealt himself a fifth card, and studied his hand for some time before placing a $10 bill in the kitty. Max didn’t hesitate to remove $10 from a wad in an inside pocket and drop it on the pile of notes in the center of the table. He licked his lips and said, ‘See you, old buddy.’

Armstrong turned his cards over to reveal a pair of fours. Max’s smile became even broader as he produced a pair of tens. ‘You can’t bluff me,’ said the American, and clawed the money back to his side of the table.

By the end of the second hour Max was slightly ahead. ‘I did warn you that it was going to be a long night,’ he said. He had dispensed with the glass some time ago, and was now drinking straight from the bottle.

It was during the third hour, after Max had won three hands in a row, that Dick brought the name of Julius Hahn into the conversation. ‘Claims he knows you.’

‘Yeah, sure does,’ said Max. ‘He’s responsible for bringing out the paper in this sector. Not that I ever read it.’

‘He seems pretty successful,’ said Armstrong, dealing another hand.

‘Certainly is. But only thanks to me.’ Armstrong placed $10 in the center of the table, despite having nothing more than ace high. Max immediately dropped $10 on top of his, and demanded another card.

‘What do you mean “because of you”?’ Armstrong asked, placing $20 on the growing pile.

Max hesitated, checked his cards, looked at the pile and said, ‘Was that $20 you just put in?’ Armstrong nodded, and the American extracted $20 from the pocket of his jacket.

‘He couldn’t even wipe his ass in the morning if I didn’t hand him the paper,’ said Max, studying his hand intently. ‘I issue his monthly permit. I control his paper supply. I decide how much electricity he gets. I decide when it will be turned on and off. As you and Arno Schultz know only too well.’

Max looked up, and was surprised to see Armstrong removing a stack of notes from his wallet. ‘You’re bluffing, kid,’ said Max. ‘I can smell it.’ He hesitated. ‘How much did you put up that time?’

‘Fifty dollars,’ said Armstrong casually.

Max dug into his jacket pocket and extracted two tens and six fives, placing them gingerly on the table. ‘So let’s see what you’ve come up with this time,’ he said apprehensively.

Armstrong revealed a pair of sevens. Max immediately burst out laughing, and flicked over three jacks.

‘I knew it. You’re full of shit.’ He took another swig from his bottle. As he started dealing the next hand the smile never left his face. ‘I’m not sure which one would be easier to polish off, you or Hahn,’ he said, beginning to slur his words.

‘Are you sure that’s not the drink talking?’ said Dick, studying his hand with little interest.

‘You’ll see who’s doing the talking,’ replied Max. ‘Within an hour I’ll have wiped you out.’

‘I wasn’t referring to me,’ said Armstrong, dropping another $5 into the center of the table. ‘I was talking about Hahn.’

There was a long pause while Max took another swig from the bottle. He then studied his cards before putting them face down on the table. Armstrong drew another card and deposited $10 with the bank. Max demanded a further card, and when he saw it he began licking his lips. He returned to his wad and extracted a further $10.

‘Let’s see what you’ve got this time, old buddy,’ Max said, confident he must win with two pairs, aces and jacks.

Armstrong turned over three fives. Max scowled as he watched his winnings return across the table. ‘Would you be willing to put real money in place of that big mouth of yours?’ he asked.

‘I just have,’ said Dick, pocketing the money.

‘No, I meant when it comes to Hahn.’

Dick said nothing.

‘You’re full of chickenshit,’ said Max, after Dick had remained silent for some time.

Dick placed the deck back on the table, looked across at his opponent and said coolly, ‘I’ll bet you a thousand dollars you can’t put Hahn out of business.’

Max put down his bottle and stared across the table as if he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. ‘How long will you give me?’

‘Six weeks.’

‘No, that’s not long enough. Don’t forget I have to make it look as if it’s nothing to do with me. I’ll need at least six months.’

‘I haven’t got six months,’ said Armstrong. ‘I could always close down Der Telegraf in six weeks if you want to reverse the bet.’

‘But Hahn’s running a far bigger operation than Arno Schultz,’ said Max.

‘I realize that. So I’ll give you three months.’

‘Then I’d expect you to offer me odds.’

Once again, Armstrong pretended he needed time to consider the proposition. ‘Two to one,’ he eventually said.

‘Three to one and you’re on,’ said Max.

‘You’ve got a deal,’ said Armstrong, and the two men leaned across the table and shook hands. The American captain then rose unsteadily from his chair, and walked over to a drawing of a scantily dressed woman adorning a calendar on the far wall. He lifted the pages until he reached October, removed a pen from his hip pocket, counted out loud and drew a large circle around the seventeenth. ‘That’ll be the day when I collect my thousand dollars,’ he said.

‘You haven’t a hope in hell,’ said Armstrong. ‘I’ve met Hahn, and I can tell you he won’t be that easy to roll over.’

‘Just watch me,’ said Max as he returned to the table. ‘I’m going to do to Hahn exactly what the Germans failed to do.’

Max began to deal a new hand. For the next hour, Dick continued to win back most of what he had lost earlier in the evening. But when he left to return home just before midnight, Max was still licking his lips.

When Dick came out of the bathroom the following morning he found Charlotte sitting up in bed wide awake.

‘And what time did you get home last night?’ she asked coldly, as he pulled open a drawer in search of a clean shirt.

‘Twelve,’ said Dick, ‘maybe one. I ate out so you didn’t have to worry about me.’

‘I’d rather you came home at a civilized hour, and then perhaps we could eat one of the meals I prepare for you every night.’

‘As I keep trying to tell you, everything I do is in your best interests.’

‘I’m beginning to think you don’t know what is in my best interests,’ said Charlotte.

Dick studied her reflection in the mirror, but said nothing.

‘If you’re never going to make the effort to get us out of this hellhole, perhaps the time has come for me to go back to Lyon.’

‘My demob papers should be through fairly soon,’ Dick said as he checked his Windsor knot in the mirror. ‘Three months at the most, Colonel Oakshott assured me.’

‘Three more months?’ said Charlotte in disbelief.

‘Something’s come up that could turn out to be very important for our future.’

‘And as usual I suppose you can’t tell me what it is.’

‘No. It’s top secret.’

‘How very convenient,’ said Charlotte. ‘Every time I want to discuss what’s happening in our life, all you say is “Something’s come up.” And when I ask you for details, you always tell me it’s top secret.’

‘That’s not fair,’ said Dick. ‘It is top secret. And everything I am trying to achieve will in the end be for you and David.’

‘How would you know? You’re never here when I put David to bed, and you’ve left for the office long before he wakes up in the morning. He sees so little of you nowadays that he’s not sure if it’s you or Private Benson who’s his father.’

‘I have responsibilities,’ said Dick, his voice rising.

‘Yes,’ said Charlotte. ‘Responsibilities to your family. And the most important one must surely be to get us out of this godforsaken city as soon as possible.’

Dick put on his khaki jacket and turned round to face her. ‘I’m still working on it. It’s not easy at the moment. You must try to understand.’

‘I think I understand only too well, because it seems remarkably easy for a lot of other people I know. And as Der Telegraf keeps reminding us, trains are now leaving Berlin at least twice a day. Perhaps David and I should catch one.’

‘What do you mean by that?’ shouted Dick, advancing toward her.

‘Quite simply that you might just come home one night and find you no longer have a wife and child.’

Dick took another step toward her and raised his fist, but she didn’t flinch. He stopped and stared down into her eyes.

‘Going to treat me the same way you treat anyone below the rank of captain, are you?’

‘I don’t know why I bother,’ said Dick, lowering his fist. ‘You don’t give me any support when I most need it, and whenever I try to do something for you, you just complain all the time.’ Charlotte didn’t blanch. ‘Go back to your family if you want to, you stupid bitch, but don’t think I’ll come running after you.’ He stormed out of the bedroom, grabbed his peaked hat and swagger stick from the hall stand, ran down the stairs and strode out of the front door. Benson was sitting in the jeep, engine running, waiting to drive him to the office.

‘And where the bloody hell do you imagine you’d end up if you left me?’ Armstrong said as he climbed into the front seat.

‘I beg your pardon, sir?’ said Benson.

Armstrong turned to face his driver and said, ‘Are you married, Reg?’

‘No, sir. Hitler saved me just in time.’

‘Hitler?’

‘Yes, sir, I was called up three days before the wedding.’

‘Is she still waiting for you?’

‘No, sir. She married my best mate.’

‘Do you miss her?’

‘No, but I miss him.’

Armstrong laughed as Benson drew up outside the office.

The first person he came across as he walked into the building was Sally. ‘Did you get my message?’ she asked.

Armstrong stopped immediately. ‘What message?’

‘I phoned you at home yesterday and asked Charlotte to tell you that Major Forsdyke expects to see you in his office at nine this morning.’

‘Damn the woman,’ said Armstrong, heading back past Sally and toward the front door. ‘What else have I got on today?’ he shouted on the move.

‘The diary is fairly clear,’ she replied, chasing after him, ‘except for a dinner this evening in honor of Field Marshal Auchinleck. Charlotte’s been invited too. You have to be in the officers’ mess at seven for seven-thirty. All the top brass is going to be on parade.’

As Armstrong reached the front door he said, ‘Don’t expect me back much before lunch.’

Benson hastily stubbed out the cigarette he had just lit and said, ‘Where to this time, sir?’ as Armstrong jumped in beside him.

‘Major Forsdyke’s office, and I need to be there by nine o’clock.’

‘But, sir...’ began Benson as he pressed the starter, and decided against telling the captain that even Nuvolari would be hard-pressed to get to the other side of the sector in seventeen minutes.

Armstrong was dropped outside Forsdyke’s office with sixty seconds to spare. Benson was only relieved that they hadn’t been stopped by the military police.

‘Good morning, Armstrong,’ said Forsdyke as Dick entered his office. He waited for him to salute, but he didn’t. ‘Something urgent has come up. We need you to deliver a package to your friend Major Tulpanov.’

‘He’s not my friend,’ Armstrong replied curtly.

‘No need to be so sensitive, old fellow,’ said Forsdyke. ‘You should know by now that you can’t afford to be when you work for me.’

‘I don’t work for you,’ barked Armstrong.

Forsdyke looked up at the man standing on the other side of his desk. His eyes narrowed and his lips tightened in a straight line. ‘I am aware of the influence you have in the British sector, Captain Armstrong, but I would remind you that however powerful you imagine you are, I still outrank you. And perhaps more importantly, I have absolutely no interest in appearing on the front page of your frightful little rag. So can we stop fussing about your over-inflated ego, and get on with the job in hand.’

A long silence followed. ‘You wanted me to make a delivery,’ Armstrong eventually managed.

‘Yes, I do,’ the major replied. He pulled open a drawer in his desk, took out a package the size of a shoebox and handed it across to Armstrong. ‘Please see that Major Tulpanov gets this as soon as possible.’

Armstrong took the package, placed it under his left arm, saluted in an exaggerated manner, and marched out of the major’s office.

‘The Russian sector,’ he barked as he climbed back into the jeep.

‘Yes, sir,’ said Benson, pleased that on this occasion he had at least had time to have a couple of drags on his cigarette. A few minutes after they had crossed into the Russian sector, Armstrong ordered him to pull in to the curb.

‘Wait here, and don’t move until I return,’ he said as he stepped out of the jeep and made off in the direction of Leninplatz.

‘Excuse me, sir,’ said Benson, jumping out of the jeep and running after him.

Armstrong swung round and glared at his driver. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

‘Won’t you be needing this, sir?’ he asked, holding out the brown paper parcel.

Armstrong grabbed the package and walked away without saying another word. Benson wondered if his boss was visiting a mistress, although the cathedral clock had only just struck ten.

When Armstrong reached Leninplatz a few minutes later, his temper had hardly cooled. He charged straight into the building and up the stairs, through the room where the secretary sat and on toward Tulpanov’s office.

‘Excuse me, sir,’ said the secretary, shooting out of her chair. But it was too late. Armstrong had reached the door of Tulpanov’s office long before she could catch up with him. He pushed it open and strode in.

He stopped in his tracks the moment he saw who Tulpanov was speaking to. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he stammered, and quickly turned to leave, nearly knocking over the advancing secretary.

‘No, Lubji, please don’t go,’ said Tulpanov. ‘Won’t you join us?’

Armstrong swung back, came to attention and gave a crisp salute. He felt his face going redder and redder. ‘Marshal,’ the KGB man said, ‘I don’t think you’ve met Captain Armstrong, who’s in charge of public relations for the British sector.’

Armstrong shook hands with the officer commanding the Russian sector and apologized once again for interrupting him, but this time in Russian. ‘I am delighted to meet you,’ said Marshal Zhukov in his own tongue. ‘If I’m not mistaken, I believe I shall be joining you for dinner tonight.’

Armstrong looked surprised. ‘I don’t think so, sir.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Zhukov. ‘I checked the guest list only this morning. I have the pleasure of being seated next to your wife.’

There followed an uneasy silence in which Armstrong decided not to venture any more opinions. ‘Thank you for dropping by, sir,’ said Tulpanov, breaking the silence. ‘And for clearing up that little misunderstanding.’

Major Tulpanov gave a half-hearted salute. Zhukov responded in kind, and left them without another word. When the door had closed behind him, Armstrong asked, ‘Do marshals usually visit majors in your army?’

‘Only when the majors are in the KGB,’ said Tulpanov with a smile. His eyes settled on the parcel. ‘I see you come bearing gifts.’

‘I’ve no idea what it is,’ said Armstrong, handing over the parcel. ‘All I know is that Forsdyke asked me to make sure it was delivered to you immediately.’

Tulpanov took the parcel and slowly undid the string, like a child unwrapping an unexpected Christmas present. Once he had removed the brown paper, he lifted the lid of the box to reveal a pair of brown Church’s brogues. He tried them on. ‘A perfect fit,’ he said, looking down at the highly polished toecaps. ‘Forsdyke may well be what your friend Max would call an arrogant son of a bitch, but you can always rely on the English to supply one with the finer things in life.’

‘So, am I nothing more than a messenger boy?’ asked Armstrong.

‘In our service, Lubji, I can assure you there is no higher calling.’

‘I told Forsdyke, and I’ll tell you...’ began Armstrong, his voice rising. But he stopped in mid-sentence.

‘I can see,’ said the KGB major, ‘that — to use another English expression — you got out of the wrong side of the bed this morning.’

Armstrong stood before him, almost shaking with anger.

‘No, no, do go on, Lubji. Please tell me what you said to Forsdyke.’

‘Nothing,’ said Armstrong. ‘I said nothing.’

‘I’m glad to hear that,’ said the major. ‘Because you must understand that I am the only person to whom you can afford to tell anything.’

‘What makes you so sure of that?’ said Armstrong.

‘Because, Lubji, like Faust, you have signed a contract with the devil.’ He paused. ‘And perhaps also because I already know about your little plot to destabilize — a uniquely British word, that admirably expresses your intentions — Mr. Julius Hahn.’

Armstrong looked as if he was about to protest. The major raised an eyebrow, but Armstrong said nothing.

‘You should have let me in on your little secret from the start, Lubji,’ Tulpanov continued. ‘Then we could have played our part. We would have stopped the flow of electricity, not to mention the supply of paper to Hahn’s plant in the Russian sector. But then, you were probably unaware that he prints all his magazines in a building a mere stone’s throw from where we are now standing. If you had only confided in us, we could have lengthened the odds on Captain Sackville collecting his thousand dollars... quite considerably.’

Armstrong still said nothing.

‘But perhaps that is exactly what you had planned. Three to one is good odds, Lubji, just as long as I am one of the three.’

‘But how did you...’

‘Once again you have underestimated us, Lubji. But be assured, we still have your best interests at heart.’ Tulpanov began walking toward the door. ‘And do tell Major Forsdyke, when you next see him, a perfect fit.’

It was clear that he had no intention of inviting him to lunch on this occasion. Armstrong saluted, left Tulpanov’s office and returned sulkily to his jeep.

‘Der Tekgraf,’ he said quietly to Benson.

They were held up for only a few minutes at the checkpoint before being allowed to enter the British sector. As Armstrong walked into the print room of Der Telegraf, he was surprised to find the presses running flat out. He headed straight over to Arno, who was overseeing the bundling of each new stack of papers.

‘Why are we still printing?’ Armstrong shouted, trying to make himself heard above the noise of the presses. Arno pointed in the direction of his office, and neither of them spoke again until he had closed the door behind them.

‘Haven’t you heard?’ Arno asked, waving Armstrong into his chair.

‘Heard what?’

‘We sold 350,000 copies of the paper last night, and they still want more.’

‘Three hundred and fifty thousand? And they want more? Why?’

‘Der Berliner hasn’t been on the streets for the last two days. Julius Hahn rang this morning to tell me that for the past forty-eight hours his electricity has been cut off.’

‘What extraordinary bad luck,’ said Armstrong, trying to look sympathetic.

‘And to make matters worse,’ added Arno, ‘he’s also lost his usual supply of paper from the Russian sector. He wanted to know if we’d been having the same problems.’

‘What did you tell him?’ asked Armstrong.

‘That we haven’t had any trouble since you took over,’ Arno replied. Armstrong smiled and rose from his chair.

‘If they’re off the streets again tomorrow,’ said Arno as Armstrong began walking toward the door, ‘we’ll have to print at least 400,000 copies.’

Armstrong closed the door behind him and repeated, ‘What extraordinary bad luck.’

16 Sydney Morning Herald 30 January 1957 Dane’s Controversial Design Wins Opera House Contest

‘But I’ve hardly seen you since we announced our engagement,’ Susan said.

‘I’m trying to bring out one newspaper in Adelaide and another in Sydney,’ said Keith, turning over to face her. ‘It’s just not possible to be in two places at once.’

‘It’s never possible for you to be in one place at once nowadays,’ said Susan. ‘And if you get your hands on that Sunday paper in Perth, as I keep reading you’re trying to, I won’t even see you at the weekends.’

Keith realized that this wasn’t the time to tell her that he had already closed the deal with the owner of the Perth Sunday Monitor. He slipped out of bed without making any comment.

‘And where are you off to now?’ she asked as he disappeared into the bathroom.

‘I’ve got a breakfast meeting in the city,’ shouted Keith from behind a closed door.

‘On a Sunday morning?’

‘It was the only day he could see me. The man’s flown down from Brisbane specially.’

‘But we’re meant to be spending the day sailing. Or had you forgotten that as well?’

‘Of course I hadn’t forgotten,’ said Keith as he came out of the bathroom. ‘That’s exactly why I agreed to a breakfast meeting. I’ll be home long before you’re ready to leave.’

‘Like you were last Sunday?’

‘That was different,’ said Keith. ‘The Perth Monitor is a Sunday paper, and if I’m buying it, how can I find out what it’s like except by being there on the one day it comes out?’

‘So you have bought it?’ said Susan.

Keith pulled on his trousers, then turned to face her sheepishly. ‘Yes, subject to legal agreement. But it’s got a first class management team, so there should be no reason for me to have to go to Perth that often.’

‘And the editorial staff?’ asked Susan as Keith slipped on a sports jacket. ‘If this one follows the same pattern as every other paper you’ve taken over, you’ll be living on top of them for the first six months.’

‘No, it won’t be that bad,’ said Keith. ‘I promise you. Just be sure you’re ready to leave the moment I get back.’ He leaned down and kissed her on the cheek. ‘I shouldn’t be more than an hour, two at the most.’ He closed the bedroom door before she had a chance to comment.

As Townsend climbed into the front of the car, his driver turned on the ignition.

‘Tell me, Sam, does your wife give you a hard time about the hours you have to work for me?’

‘Hard to tell, sir. Lately she’s stopped talking to me altogether.’

‘How long have you been married?’

‘Eleven years.’

He decided against asking Sam any further questions about matrimony. As the car sped toward the city, he tried to dismiss Susan from his thoughts and to concentrate on the meeting he was about to have with Alan Rutledge. He had never met the man before, but everyone in the newspaper world knew of Rutledge’s reputation as an award-winning journalist and a man who could drink anyone under the table. If Townsend’s latest idea was to have any chance of succeeding, he needed someone of Rutledge’s ability to get it off the ground.

Sam turned off Elizabeth Street and swept up to the entrance of the Town House Hotel. Townsend smiled when he saw the Sunday Chronicle on top of the news stand, and remembered its leader that morning. Once again the paper had told its readers that the time had come for Mr. Menzies to step down and make way for a younger man more in tune with the aspirations of modern Australians.

As the car drew in to the curb Townsend said, ‘I should be about an hour, two at the most.’ Sam smiled to himself as his boss jumped out of the car, pushed his way through the swing doors and disappeared.

Townsend walked quickly through the foyer and on into the breakfast room. He glanced around and spotted Alan Rutledge sitting on his own in a window seat, smoking a cigarette and reading the Sunday Chronicle.

He rose as Townsend headed toward the table, and they shook hands rather formally. Rutledge tossed the paper to one side and said, smiling, ‘I see you’ve taken the Chronicle even further downmarket.’ Townsend glanced at the headline: ‘Shrunken Head Found on Top of Sydney Bus.’ ‘Hardly a headline in the tradition of Sir Somerset Kenwright, I would have thought.’

‘No,’ said Townsend, ‘but then neither is the bottom line. We’re selling 100,000 more copies a day than they did when he was the proprietor, and the profits are up by 17 per cent.’ He glanced up at the hovering waitress. ‘Just a black coffee for me, and perhaps some toast.’

‘I hope you weren’t thinking of asking me to be the next editor of the Chronicle,’ said Rutledge, lighting another Turf. Townsend glanced at the ashtray on the table, and saw that this was Rutledge’s fourth since he had arrived at the breakfast table.

‘No,’ said Townsend. ‘Bruce Kelly’s the right man for the Chronicle. What I have in mind for you is far more appropriate.’

‘And what might that be?’ asked Rutledge.

‘A paper that doesn’t even exist yet,’ said Townsend, ‘other than in my imagination. But one I need you to help me create.’

‘And which city have you got in your sights?’ asked Rutledge. ‘Most of them already have too many papers, and those that don’t have created a virtual monopoly for themselves. No better example than Adelaide.’

‘I can’t disagree with that,’ said Townsend, as the waitress poured him a cup of steaming black coffee. ‘But what this country doesn’t have at the moment is a national paper for all Australians. I want to create a paper called the Continent, which will sell from Sydney to Perth, and everywhere in between. I want it to be the Times of Australia, and regarded by everyone as the nation’s number-one quality newspaper. More importantly, I want you to be its first editor.’

Alan inhaled deeply, and didn’t speak for some time. ‘Where would it be based?’

‘Canberra. It has to come out of the political capital, where the nation’s decisions are made. Our biggest task will be to sign up the best journalists available. That’s where you come in, because they’re more likely to come on board if they know you’re going to be the editor.’

‘How long do you imagine the run-in time will be?’ asked Rutledge, stubbing out his fifth cigarette.

‘I hope to have it on the streets in six months,’ Townsend replied.

‘And what circulation are you hoping for?’ Rutledge asked, as he lit another cigarette.

‘Two hundred to 250,000 in the first year, building up to 400,000.’

‘How long will you stay with it if you don’t manage those numbers?’

‘Two years, perhaps three. But as long as it breaks even, I’ll stay with it forever.’

‘And what sort of package do you have in mind for me?’ asked Alan.

‘Ten thousand a year, with all the usual extras.’ A smile appeared on Rutledge’s face, but then, Townsend knew it was almost double what he was getting in his present job.

By the time Townsend had answered all his questions and Rutledge had opened another packet of cigarettes, they could have ordered an early lunch. When Townsend finally rose to shake hands again, Rutledge said he would consider his proposition and get back to him by the end of the week.

As Sam drove him back to Darling Point, Townsend wondered how he could make the idea of traveling between Sydney, Canberra, Adelaide and Perth every seven days sound exciting to Susan. He wasn’t in much doubt what her reaction would be.

When Sam pulled in to the drive a few minutes before one, the first thing Keith saw was Susan coming down the path, carrying a large hamper in one hand and a bag full of beachwear in the other.

‘Close the front door,’ was all she said as she passed Keith and continued walking toward the car. Keith’s fingers had just touched the door handle when the phone began to ring. He hesitated for a moment, and decided to tell whoever it was that they would have to call back that evening.

‘Afternoon, Keith. It’s Dan Hadley.’

‘Good afternoon, Senator,’ Keith replied. ‘I’m in a bit of a rush. Would it be possible for you to call me back this evening?’

‘You won’t be in a rush when you’ve heard what I’ve got to tell you,’ said the senator.

‘I’m listening, Dan, but it will still have to be quick.’

‘I’ve just put the phone down on the postmaster general. He tells me that Bob Menzies is willing to support the state’s request for a new commercial radio network. He’s also let slip that Hacker and Kenwright wouldn’t be in the running, as they already control their own networks. So this time you must be in with a fighting chance of picking it up.’

Keith sat down on the chair by the phone and listened to the senator’s proposed plan of campaign. Hadley was aware of the fact that Townsend had already made unsuccessful takeover bids for his rivals’ networks. Both approaches had been rebuffed, because Hacker was still angry not to have got his hands on the Chronicle, and as for Kenwright, he and Townsend were no longer on speaking terms.

Forty minutes later Townsend put the phone down and ran out, slamming the door behind him. The car was no longer there. He cursed as he walked back up the path and let himself into the house. But now that Susan had left without him, he decided he might as well carry out the senator’s first suggestion. He picked up the phone and dialed a number that would put him straight through to the editor’s desk.

‘Yes,’ said a voice that Townsend recognized from the single word.

‘Bruce, what’s the subject of your leader for tomorrow’s paper?’ he asked, without bothering to announce who it was.

‘Why Sydney doesn’t need an opera house, but does need another bridge,’ said Bruce.

‘Scrap it,’ said Townsend. ‘I’ll have two hundred words ready for you in an hour’s time.’

‘What’s the theme, Keith?’

‘I shall be telling our readers what a first class job Bob Menzies is doing as prime minister, and how foolish it would be to replace a statesman with some inexperienced, wet-behind-the-ears apparatchik.’

Townsend spent most of the next six months locked up in Canberra with Alan Rutledge as they prepared to launch the new paper. Everything ran late, from locating the offices to employing the best administrative staff and poaching the most experienced journalists. But Townsend’s biggest problem was making enough time to see Susan, because when he wasn’t in Canberra he was inevitably in Perth.

The Continent had been on the streets for just over a month, and his bank manager was beginning to remind him that its cash flow was only going one way — out. Susan told him that even at weekends, he was always going one way — back.

Townsend was in the newsroom talking to Alan Rutledge when the phone rang. The editor put his hand over the speaker and warned him that Susan was on the line.

‘Oh, Christ, I’d forgotten. It’s her birthday, and we’re meant to be having lunch at her sister’s place in Sydney. Tell her I’m at the airport. Whatever you do, don’t let her know I’m still here.’

‘Hi, Susan,’ said Alan. ‘I’ve just been told that Keith left for the airport some time ago, so I guess he’s already on his way to Sydney.’ He listened carefully to her reply. ‘Yes... Fine... OK... I will.’ He put the phone down. ‘She says if you leave right away, you might just get to the airport in time to catch the 8:25.’

Townsend left Alan’s office without even saying goodbye, jumped into a delivery van and drove himself to the airport, where he had already spent most of the previous night. One of the problems he hadn’t considered when choosing Canberra as the paper’s base was how many days a week planes would be unable to take off because of fog. During the past four weeks he felt he had spent half his life checking the advance weather forecasts, and the other half standing on the runway, liberally dishing out cash to reluctant pilots, who were fast becoming the most expensive newspaper delivery boys in the world.

He was pleased with the initial reception the Continent had received, and sales had quickly reached 200,000 copies. But the novelty of a national paper already seemed to be wearing off, and the figures were now dropping steadily. Alan Rutledge was delivering the paper Townsend had asked for, but the Continent wasn’t proving to be the paper the Australian people felt they needed.

For the second time that morning Townsend drove in to the airport carpark. But this time the sun was shining and the fog had lifted. The plane for Sydney took off on time, but it wasn’t the 8:25. The stewardess offered him a copy of the Continent, but only because every plane that left the capital was supplied with a free copy for every passenger. That way the circulation figures held above 200,000, and kept the advertisers happy.

He turned the pages of a paper he felt his father would have been proud of. It was the nearest thing Australia had to The Times. And it had something else in common with that distinguished broadsheet — it was losing money fast. Townsend already realized that if they were ever going to make a profit, he would have to take the paper downmarket. He wondered just how long Alan Rutledge would agree to remain as editor once he learned what he had in mind.

He continued to turn the pages until his eyes settled on a column headed ‘Forthcoming Events.’ His marriage to Susan in six days’ time was being billed as ‘the wedding of the year.’ Everyone who mattered would be attending, the paper predicted, other than the prime minister and Sir Somerset Kenwright. That was one day Keith would have to be in Sydney from morning to night, because he didn’t plan to be late for his own wedding.

He turned to the back page to check what was on the radio. Victoria were playing cricket against New South Wales, but none of the networks was covering the game, so he wouldn’t be able to follow it. After months of twisting arms, investing in causes he didn’t believe in and supporting politicians he despised, Townsend had failed to be awarded the franchise for the new network. He had sat in the visitors’ gallery of the House of Representatives to hear the postmaster general announce that the franchise had been awarded to a long-time supporter of the Liberal Party. Later that evening Senator Hadley had told Townsend that the prime minister had personally blocked his application. What with the drop in sales of the Continent, the money he had lost trying to secure the radio franchise, and his mother and Susan continually complaining about never seeing him, it wasn’t turning out to be a glorious year.

Once the plane had taxied to a halt at Kingsford-Smith airport, Townsend ran down the steps, across the tarmac, through the arrivals terminal and out on to the pavement to find Sam standing by the car, waiting for him. ‘What’s that?’ asked Townsend, pointing to a large, smartly wrapped parcel on the back seat.

‘It’s a birthday present for Susan. Heather thought you might not have been able to find anything suitable in Canberra.’

‘God bless her,’ said Townsend.

Although Heather had only been with him for four months, she was already proving a worthy successor to Bunty.

‘How much longer is it going to take before we get there?’ asked Townsend anxiously, looking at his watch.

‘If the traffic stays as light as this, boss, it should be no longer than twenty minutes.’ Townsend tried to relax, but he couldn’t help reflecting on how much work he had to get through before the wedding. He was already beginning to regret that he had committed himself to a two-week honeymoon.

When the car came to a halt outside a small terraced house in the southern suburbs, Sam leaned back and handed the present over to his boss. Townsend smiled, jumped out of the car and ran up the path. Susan had opened the door even before he had rung the bell. She was about to remonstrate with him when he gave her a long kiss and handed the parcel over to her. She smiled and quickly led him through to the dining room just as the birthday cake was being wheeled in. ‘What’s inside?’ she asked, rattling the parcel like a child.

Townsend just stopped himself saying ‘I haven’t a clue,’ and managed, ‘I’m not going to tell you, but I think you’ll be pleased with my choice.’ He nearly risked ‘color.’

He kissed her on the cheek and took the empty seat between Susan’s sister and her mother, and they all watched as she began to unwrap the large box. Keith waited with the same anticipation as everyone else. Susan lifted the lid to reveal a full-length eggshell-blue cashmere coat she had first seen in Farmers over a month before. She could have sworn Keith hadn’t been with her at the time.

‘How did you know that was my favorite color?’ she asked.

Keith had no idea, but he smiled knowingly, and turned his attention to the slice of birthday cake on the plate in front of him. The rest of the meal was spent going over the wedding plans, and Susan warned him yet again that Bruce Kelly’s speech at the reception was definitely not to be in the same vein as the paper’s editorials.

After lunch Susan helped her mother and sister clear the table, while the men settled down around the radio in the drawing room. Keith was surprised to find the cricket was on.

‘Which station are we listening to?’ he asked Susan’s father.

‘2WW, from Wollongong.’

‘But you can’t pick up 2WW in Sydney.’

‘You can in the southern suburbs,’ he replied.

‘Wollongong’s a one-horse town, isn’t it?’ said Keith.

‘One horse, two coalmines and a hotel when I was a boy. But the population has doubled in the last ten years.’

Keith continued to listen to the ball-by-ball commentary, but his mind was already in Wollongong. As soon as he thought he could get away with it, he strolled into the kitchen to find the women sitting round the table, still discussing the wedding.

‘Susan, did you come in your own car?’ Keith asked.

‘Yes, I drove over yesterday and stayed the night.’

‘Fine. I’ll get Sam to take me home now. I’m feeling a bit guilty about having him hang about for so long. See you in about an hour?’ He kissed her on the cheek and turned to leave. He was halfway down the path before Susan realized that he could have sent Sam off hours ago, because they could have gone home in her car.

‘Back to Darling Point, boss?’

‘No,’ said Keith. ‘Wollongong.’

Sam swung the car round in a circle, turning left at the end of the road so that he could join the afternoon traffic leaving Sydney on the Princes Highway. Keith suspected that if he had said ‘Wagga Wagga’ or ‘Broken Hill,’ Sam still wouldn’t have raised an eyebrow.

Within moments Keith had fallen asleep, suspecting the trip was likely to prove a waste of time. When they passed a sign saying ‘Welcome to Wollongong,’ Sam took the next corner sharply, which always woke the boss. ‘Anywhere in particular?’ he asked. ‘Or were you just hoping to buy a coalmine?’

‘No, a radio station actually,’ said Keith.

‘Then my guess,’ said Sam, ‘is that it has to be pretty near that great aerial sticking out of the ground over there.’

‘Bet you got an observation badge when you were in the Cubs.’

A few minutes later Sam dropped him outside a building which had ‘2WW’ written in faded white letters across its corrugated-iron roof.

Townsend got out of the car, ran up the steps, pushed through the door and walked up to a small desk. The young receptionist stopped knitting and looked up.

‘Can I help you?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ said Townsend. ‘Do you know who owns this station?’

‘Yes, I do,’ she replied.

‘And who’s that?’ asked Townsend.

‘My uncle.’

‘And who is your uncle?’

‘Ben Ampthill.’ She looked up at him. ‘You’re not local, are you?’

‘No, I’m not,’ admitted Townsend.

‘I thought I hadn’t seen you before.’

‘Do you know where he lives?’

‘Who?’

‘Your uncle.’

‘Yes, of course I do.’

‘Would it be possible for you to tell me where that is?’ said Townsend, trying not to sound too exasperated.

‘Sure can. It’s the big house on the hill in Woonona, just outside town. Hard to miss it.’

Townsend ran back out of the building, jumped into the car and passed on the directions to Sam.

The young receptionist turned out to be right about one thing: the large white house nestling in the hills was hard to miss. Sam swung off the main road, slowing down as he passed through the wrought-iron gates and up a long drive toward the house. They pulled up outside a smart portico.

Townsend banged on the large black doorknocker and waited patiently, his speech already prepared: I’m sorry to bother you on a Sunday afternoon, but I was rather hoping I might be able to have a word with Mr. Ampthill.

The door was opened by a middle-aged woman in a smart floral dress, who looked as if she had been expecting him.

‘Mrs. Ampthill?’

‘Yes. How can I help you?’

‘My name is Keith Townsend. I’m sorry to bother you on a Sunday afternoon, but I was rather hoping I might be able to have a word with your husband.’

‘My niece was right,’ said Mrs. Ampthill. ‘You’re not local, otherwise you would have known that Ben can always be found at the mine office from Monday to Friday, takes the day off on Saturday to play golf, goes to church on Sunday morning and spends the afternoon at the radio station, listening to the cricket. I think that’s the only reason he bought the station in the first place.’

Townsend smiled at this piece of information and said, ‘Thank you for your help, Mrs. Ampthill. I’m sorry to have bothered you.’

‘No bother,’ she replied, as she watched him run back toward the car.

‘Back to the radio station,’ Townsend said, unwilling to admit his mistake to Sam.

When Townsend walked up to the reception desk for a second time, he immediately asked, ‘Why didn’t you tell me that your uncle was here all the time?’

‘Because you didn’t ask,’ the young woman said, not bothering to look up from her knitting.

‘So where is he, exactly?’ asked Townsend slowly.

‘In his office.’

‘And where is his office?’

‘On the third floor.’

‘Of this building?’

‘Of course,’ she said, looking at him as if she were dealing with a moron.

As there was no sign of a lift, Townsend ran up the stairs to the third floor. He looked up and down the corridor, but there was no clue as to where Mr. Ampthill’s office might be. He had knocked on several doors before someone eventually hollered, ‘Come in.’

Townsend pushed open the door to find an overweight, balding man in a sweatshirt with his feet up on the desk. He was listening to the closing overs of the match Townsend had been following earlier in the afternoon. He swung round, took one look at Townsend and said, ‘Have yourself a seat, Mr. Townsend. But don’t say anything just yet, because we only need another eleven runs to win.’

‘I support New South Wales too,’ said Townsend.

Ben Ampthill smiled as the next ball was hit to the boundary. Still without looking at Townsend, he leaned back and passed him a bottle of Resch’s and an opener.

‘A couple more balls should do it, and then I’ll be with you,’ he said.

Neither spoke until the last seven runs had been scored. Then Mr. Ampthill leaned forward, punched his fist in the air and said, ‘That should wrap up the Sheffield Shield for us.’ He removed his feet from the desk, swung round, thrust out his hand and said, ‘I’m Ben Ampthill.’

‘Keith Townsend.’

Ampthill nodded. ‘Yes, I know who you are. My wife rang to tell me you’d been up to the house. She thought you might be a salesman of some sort, in that flashy suit and wearing a tie on a Sunday afternoon.’

Townsend tried not to laugh. ‘No, Mr. Ampthill, I’m not...’

‘Call me Ben, everybody else does.’

‘No, Ben, I’m not a seller, I’m a buyer.’

‘And what are you hoping to buy, young man?’

‘Your radio station.’

‘It’s not for sale, Keith. Not unless you also want the local newspaper, a no-star hotel, and a couple of coalmines thrown in. Because they’re all part of the same company.’

‘Who owns the company?’ asked Townsend. ‘It’s just possible that the shareholders might consider...’

‘There are only two shareholders,’ Ben explained. ‘Pearl and me. So even if I wanted to sell, I’d still have to convince her.’

‘But if you own the company—’ Townsend hesitated ‘—along with your wife, you have it in your power to sell me the station.’

‘Sure do,’ said Ben. ‘But I’m not going to. If you want the station, you’re just going to have to buy everything else that goes with it.’

After several more Resch’s and another hour of haggling, Townsend came to realize that Ben’s niece had failed to inherit any genes from his side of the family.

When Townsend finally emerged from Ben’s office it was pitch dark, and the receptionist had left. He fell into the car, and told Sam to take him back to the Ampthills’ house. ‘And by the way,’ he said, as the car swung round yet again, ‘you were right about the coalmines. I’m now the proud owner of two of them, as well as the local paper and a hotel, but most important of all, a radio station. But the deal can’t be finally ratified until I’ve had dinner with the other shareholder, just to be sure she approves of me.’

When Keith crept into the house at one o’clock the following morning, he wasn’t surprised to find Susan was fast asleep. He quietly closed the bedroom door and went down to his study on the ground floor, where he sat at his desk and began writing some notes. It wasn’t long before he started wondering what was the earliest moment that he could possibly call his lawyer. He settled on six thirty-five, and filled in the time by having a shower, putting on a fresh set of clothes, packing a suitcase, making himself some breakfast and reading the first editions of the Sydney papers, which were always delivered to him by five every morning.

At twenty-five to seven he left the kitchen, returned to his study and dialed his lawyer’s home number. A sleepy voice answered the phone.

‘Good morning, Clive. I thought I ought to let you know I’ve just bought a coalmine. Two, in fact.’

‘And why in heaven’s name did you do that, Keith?’ a more awake voice asked. It took another forty minutes for Townsend to explain how he had spent the previous afternoon, and the price agreed on. Clive’s pen never stopped moving across the pad by the side of his bed, which was always there just in case Townsend phoned.

‘My first reaction is that Mr. Ampthill looks as if he’s got himself a good deal,’ said Clive when his client finally stopped talking.

‘He sure did,’ said Townsend. ‘And had he wanted to prove it, he could also have drunk me under the table.’

‘Well, I’ll call you later this morning to fix an appointment so we can flesh this deal out.’

‘Can’t do that,’ said Townsend. ‘I have to catch the first flight to New York if I’m going to make this deal worthwhile. You’ll need to sort out the details with Ben Ampthill. He’s not the sort of man who’ll go back on his word.’

‘But I’m still going to need your input.’

‘You’ve just had it,’ said Townsend. ‘So be sure you have the contract ready for signing the moment I get back.’

‘How long will you be away?’ asked Clive.

‘Four days, five at the most.’

‘Can you pick up what you need in five days?’

‘If I can’t, I’ll have to take up coalmining.’

Once he had put the phone down, Townsend returned to the bedroom and picked up his suitcase. He decided not to wake Susan: flying off to New York at such short notice would take a lot of explaining. He scribbled her a note and left it on the hall table.

When he saw Sam standing at the end of the drive, Townsend couldn’t help thinking that he looked as if he hadn’t had much sleep either. At the airport, he told him that he’d be back some time on Friday.

‘Don’t forget you’re getting married on Saturday, boss.’

‘Even I couldn’t forget that,’ said Townsend. ‘No need to worry, I’ll be back with at least twenty-four hours to spare.’

In the plane, he fell asleep moments after he had fastened his seatbelt. When he woke several hours later, he couldn’t remember where he was going or why. Then it all came back to him. He and his radio team had spent several days in New York during their preparations for the earlier network bid, and he had made three subsequent visits to the city that year, setting up deals with American networks and agencies that would have been immediately turned into a program schedule had he been awarded the new franchise. Now he intended to take advantage of all that hard work.

A Yellow Cab drove him from the airport to the Pierre. Despite all four windows being down, Townsend had removed his tie and undone his shirt collar long before he was dropped outside the hotel.

The concierge welcomed him as if he had made fifty trips to New York that year, and instructed a bellboy to show Mr. Townsend up to ‘his usual room.’ Another shower, a further change of clothes, a late breakfast and several more phone calls were made before Townsend began shuttling round the city from agent to agent, network to network, studio to studio, in an attempt to close deals at breakfast, lunch, dinner and sometimes in the small hours of the morning.

Four days later he had purchased the Australian rights for most of the top American radio programs for the coming season, with options on them for a further four years. He signed the final agreement only a couple of hours before his flight was due to leave for Sydney. He packed a suitcase full of dirty clothes — he disapproved of paying unnecessary bills — and took a cab to the airport.

Once the plane had taken off he started drafting a 500-word article, revising paragraphs and changing phrases, until he was satisfied it was good enough for the front page. When they landed in Los Angeles, Townsend went in search of the nearest pay phone and called Bruce Kelly’s office. He was surprised that the editor wasn’t at his desk. Kelly’s deputy assured him that he still had enough time to make the final edition, and quickly transferred him to a copy typist. As Townsend dictated the article, he wondered how long it would be before Hacker and Kenwright were on the phone, begging him to make a deal now that he had broken their cozy cartel wide open.

He heard his name being called out over the loudspeaker, and had to run all the way back to the aircraft. They closed the door as soon as he had stepped on board. Once he had settled into his seat, his eyes didn’t open again until the plane touched down at Sydney the following morning.

When he reached the baggage collection area, he called Clive Jervis as he waited for his suitcases to come down the chute. He glanced at his watch when he heard Clive’s voice on the other end of the line. ‘I hope I didn’t get you out of bed,’ he said.

‘Not at all. I was just putting on my morning dress,’ the lawyer replied.

Townsend would have asked whose wedding Clive was attending, but he was only interested in finding out if Ampthill had signed the contract.

‘Let me tell you before you ask,’ Clive began. ‘You are now the proud owner of the Wollongong Times, the Wollongong Grand Hotel, two coalmines and a radio station known as 2WW, which can be picked up as far south as Nowra and as far north as the southern outskirts of Sydney. I only hope you know what you’re up to, Keith, because I’m damned if I do.’

‘Read the front page of this morning’s Chronicle,’ said Townsend. ‘It might give you a clue.’

‘I never read the papers on a Saturday morning,’ said Clive. ‘I think I’m entitled to one day off a week.’

‘But today’s Friday,’ said Townsend.

‘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 had 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.

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.’

‘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.

‘I want that front-page story about Hahn pulled and this set up in its place,’ he said, extracting a sheet of paper from his jacket pocket and handing it over to the bewildered chief printer, who immediately began to set up a new block for the front page, leaving a space in the top right-hand corner for the most recent picture they had of the Duke of Gloucester.

Armstrong turned round to see a group of stackers waiting for the next edition to come off the presses. ‘You lot,’ he shouted. ‘See that every copy of the first edition that’s still on the premises is destroyed.’ They scattered, and began gathering up every paper they could find, however old.

Forty minutes later, a proof copy of the new front page was hurried up to Schultz’s office. Armstrong studied the other story he had written that morning about the proposed visit to Berlin by the Duke of Gloucester.

‘Good,’ he said, once he had finished checking it through. ‘Let’s get on with bringing out the second edition.’

When Arno came rushing through the door nearly an hour later, he was surprised to find Captain Armstrong, his sleeves rolled up, helping to load the newly printed second edition onto the vans. Armstrong waved a finger in the direction of his office. Once the door was closed, he told him what he had done the moment he had seen the front-page article.

‘I’ve managed to get most of the early copies back and have them destroyed,’ he told Schultz. ‘But I couldn’t do anything about the twenty thousand or so that were distributed in the Russian and American sectors. Once they’ve crossed the checkpoint, you can never hope to retrieve them.’

‘What a piece of luck that you picked up a first edition as it hit the streets,’ said Arno. ‘I blame myself for not coming back earlier.’

‘You are in no way to blame,’ said Armstrong. ‘But your deputy far exceeded his responsibility in going ahead and printing the article without even bothering to check with my office.’

‘I’m surprised. He’s normally so reliable.’

‘I had no choice but to sack him on the spot,’ said Armstrong, looking directly at Schultz.

‘No choice,’ said Schultz. ‘Of course.’ He continued to look distressed. ‘Although I fear the damage may be irretrievable.’

‘I’m not sure I understand,’ said Armstrong. ‘I managed to get all but a few of the early copies back.’

‘Yes, I realize that. In fact you couldn’t have done more. But just before I crossed the checkpoint I picked up a first edition in the Russian sector. I’d only been home for a few minutes when Julius called to say his phone hadn’t stopped ringing for the past hour — mostly calls from anxious retailers. I promised I’d come straight over and see how it could possibly have happened.’

‘You can tell your friend that I shall instigate a full inquiry in the morning,’ promised Armstrong. ‘And I’ll take charge of it personally.’ He rolled down his sleeves and put his jacket back on. ‘I was just stacking the second edition for the vans when you walked in, Arno. Perhaps you would be good enough to take over. My wife...’

‘Of course, of course,’ said Arno.

Armstrong left the building with Arno’s last words ringing in his ears: ‘You couldn’t have done more, Captain Armstrong, you couldn’t have done more.’

Armstrong had to agree with him.

Armstrong was not surprised to receive a call from Julius Hahn early the following morning.

‘So sorry about our first edition,’ he said, before Hahn had a chance to speak.

‘It wasn’t your fault,’ said Hahn. ‘Arno has explained how much worse it might have been without your intervention. But now I fear I need another favor.’

‘I’ll do anything I can to help, Julius.’

‘That’s most kind of you, Captain Armstrong. Would it be possible for you to come and see me?’

‘Would some time next week suit you?’ asked Armstrong, casually flicking over the pages of his diary.

‘I’m afraid it’s rather more urgent than that,’ said Hahn. ‘Do you think there might be a chance that we could meet some time today?’

‘Well, it’s not convenient at the moment,’ said Armstrong, looking down at the empty page in his diary, ‘but as I have another appointment in the American sector this afternoon, I suppose I could drop in on you around five — but only for fifteen minutes, you understand.’

‘I understand, Captain Armstrong. But I would be most grateful if you could manage even fifteen minutes.’

Armstrong smiled as he put the phone down. He unlocked the top drawer of his desk and removed the contract. For the next hour he checked over each clause to make sure that every eventuality was covered. The only interruption he received was a call from Colonel Oakshott, congratulating him on the article about the Duke of Gloucester’s forthcoming visit. ‘First class,’ he said. ‘First class.’

After a long lunch in the mess, Armstrong spent the early afternoon clearing his desk of letters Sally had wanted answered for weeks. At half past four he asked Private Benson to drive him over to the American sector; the jeep pulled up outside the offices of Der Berliner at a few minutes past five. A nervous Hahn was waiting on the steps of the building, and quickly ushered him through to his office.

‘I must apologize again for our first edition last night,’ began Armstrong. ‘I was having dinner with a general from the American sector, and Arno was unfortunately visiting his brother in the Russian sector, so neither of us had any idea what his deputy was up to. I sacked him immediately, of course, and have set up a full inquiry. If I hadn’t been passing the station at midnight...’

‘No, no, you are not in any way to blame, Captain Armstrong.’ Hahn paused. ‘However, the few copies that did reach the American and Russian sectors have been more than enough to cause panic among some of my oldest clients.’

‘I’m very sorry to hear that,’ said Armstrong.

‘I fear that they fell into the wrong hands. One or two of my most reliable suppliers have rung today demanding that in future they must be paid in advance, and that won’t prove easy after all the extra expense I’ve had to bear during the past couple of months. We both know it’s Captain Sackville who is behind all this.’

‘Take my advice, Julius,’ said Armstrong. ‘Don’t even mention his name when referring to this incident. You have no proof, absolutely no proof, and he’s the sort of man who wouldn’t hesitate to close you down if you gave him the slightest excuse.’

‘But he’s systematically bringing my company to its knees,’ said Hahn. ‘And I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve it, or how to stop him.’

‘Don’t get so upset, my friend. I’ve been working on your behalf for some time now, and I may just have come up with a solution.’

Hahn forced a smile, but didn’t look convinced.

‘How would you feel,’ continued Armstrong, ‘if I were to arrange for Captain Sackville to be posted back to America by the end of the month?’

‘That would solve all my problems,’ said Hahn, with a deep sigh. But the look of doubt remained. ‘If only he could be sent home...’

‘By the end of the month,’ Armstrong repeated. ‘Mind you, Julius, it’s going to take a lot of arm-twisting at the very highest levels, not to mention...’

‘Anything. I’ll do anything. Just tell me what you want.’

Armstrong removed the contract from his inside pocket and pushed it across the desk. ‘You sign this, Julius, and I’ll see that Sackville is sent back to the States.’

Hahn read the four-page document, first quickly and then more slowly, before placing it on the desk in front of him. He looked up and said quietly, ‘Let me understand the consequences of this agreement, should I sign it.’ He paused again and picked up the contract again. ‘You would receive the foreign distribution rights for all my publications.’

‘Yes,’ said Armstrong quietly.

‘I take it by that you mean for Britain.’ He hesitated. ‘And the Commonwealth.’

‘No, Julius. The rest of the world.’

Hahn checked the contract once again. When he came to the relevant clause, he nodded gravely.

‘And in return I would receive 50 percent of the profits.’

‘Yes,’ said Armstrong. ‘After all, you did tell me, Julius, that you would be looking for a British company to represent you once your present contract had come to an end.’

‘True, but at the time I didn’t realize you were in publishing.’

‘I have been all my life,’ said Armstrong. ‘And once I’ve been demobbed, I shall be returning to England to carry on running the family business.’

Hahn looked bemused. ‘And in exchange for these rights,’ he said, ‘I would become the sole proprietor of Der Telegraf.’ He paused again. ‘I had no idea that you owned the paper.’

‘Neither does Arno, so I must ask you to keep that piece of information in the strictest confidence. I had to pay well above the market price for his shares.’

Hahn nodded, then frowned. ‘But if I were to sign this document, you could become a millionaire.’

‘And if you don’t,’ said Armstrong, ‘you could be bankrupt by the end of the month.’

Both men stared at each other.

‘You have evidently given my problem considerable thought, Captain Armstrong,’ said Hahn eventually.

‘Only with your best interests in mind,’ said Armstrong.

Hahn didn’t comment, so Armstrong continued, ‘Allow me to prove my good will, Julius. I would not wish you to sign the document if Captain Sackville is still in this country on the first day of next month. If he has been replaced by then, I will expect you to put your signature to it on the same day. For the moment, Julius, a handshake will be good enough for me.’

Hahn remained silent for a few more seconds. ‘I can’t argue with that,’ he said eventually. ‘If that man has left the country by the end of the month, I will sign the contract in your favor.’

The two men stood up and shook hands solemnly.

‘I’d better be on my way,’ said Armstrong. ‘There are still quite a number of people I’ll have to get in line, and a lot of paperwork to be dealt with if I’m to make sure Sackville is sent back to America in three weeks’ time.’

Hahn just nodded.

Armstrong dismissed his driver, and strolled the nine blocks to Max’s quarters for their usual Friday-night poker session. The cold air cleared his head, and by the time he arrived he was ready to put the second part of his plan into action.

Max was impatiently shuffling the deck. ‘Pour yourself a beer, old buddy,’ he said as Armstrong took his place at the table, ‘because tonight, my friend, you’re going to lose.’

Two hours later, Armstrong was about $80 up, and Max hadn’t licked his lips all evening. He took a long draft of beer as Dick began shuffling the deck. ‘It doesn’t help to think,’ said Max, ‘that if Hahn is still in business at the end of the month I’ll owe you another thousand — which would just about wipe me out.’

‘It’s looking a pretty good bet for me at the moment, I must admit.’ Armstrong paused as he dealt Max his first card. ‘Mind you, there are circumstances in which I might agree to waive the wager.’

‘Just tell me what I have to do,’ said Max, dropping his cards face-up on the table. Armstrong pretended to be concentrating on his hand, and said nothing.

‘Anything, Dick. I’ll do anything.’ Max paused. ‘Short of killing the damn Kraut.’

‘How about bringing him back to life again?’

‘I’m not sure I understand.’

Armstrong placed his hand on the table and looked across at the American. ‘I want you to make sure that Hahn gets all the electricity he needs, all the paper he requires, and a helping hand whenever he contacts your office.’

‘But why this sudden change of heart?’ asked Max, sounding suspicious.

‘Simple really, Max. It’s just that I’ve been laying off the bet with several suckers in the British sector. I’ve been backing Hahn to still be in business in a month’s time. So if you were to reverse everything, I’d stand to make a lot more than a thousand dollars.’

‘You cunning old bastard,’ said Max, licking his lips for the first time that evening. ‘You’ve got yourself a deal, old buddy.’ He thrust his hand across the table.

Armstrong shook hands on the second agreement he’d made that day.

Three weeks later, Captain Max Sackville boarded a plane for North Carolina. He hadn’t had to pay Armstrong more than the few dollars he’d lost in their final poker game. On the first of the month he was replaced by a Major Bernie Goodman.

Armstrong drove over to the American sector that afternoon to see Julius Hahn, who handed him the signed contract.

‘I’m not quite sure how you managed it,’ said Hahn, ‘but I’m bound to admit, from your lips to God’s ears.’

They shook hands.

‘I look forward to a long and fruitful partnership,’ were Armstrong’s parting words. Hahn made no comment.

When Armstrong arrived back at the flat early that evening, he told Charlotte that his demob papers had finally come through, and that they would be leaving Berlin before the end of the month. He also let her know that he had been offered the rights to represent Julius Hahn’s overseas distribution, which would mean he’d be working flat out from the moment the plane landed in London. He began roaming around the room, blasting off idea after idea, but Charlotte didn’t complain because she was only too happy to be leaving Berlin. When he had finally stopped talking, she looked up at him and said, ‘Please sit down, Dick, because I also have something to tell you.’

Armstrong promised Lieutenant Wakeham, Private Benson and Sally that they could be sure of a job when they left the army, and all of them said they would be in touch just as soon as their discharge papers came through.

‘You’ve done one hell of a job for us here in Berlin, Dick,’ Colonel Oakshott told him. ‘In fact, I don’t know how we’re going to replace you. Mind you, after your brilliant suggestion of merging Der Telegraf and Der Berliner, we may not even have to.’

‘It seemed the obvious solution,’ said Armstrong. ‘May I add how much I’ve enjoyed being part of your team, sir.’

‘It’s kind of you to say so, Dick,’ the colonel said. He lowered his voice. ‘I’m due to be discharged myself fairly shortly. Once you’re back in civvy street, do let me know if you hear of anything that might suit an old soldier.’

Armstrong didn’t bother to visit Arno Schultz, but Sally told him that Hahn had offered him the job of editor of the new paper.

Armstrong’s final call before he handed in his uniform to the quartermaster was to Major Tulpanov’s office in the Russian sector, and on this occasion the KGB man did invite him to stay for lunch.

‘Your coup with Hahn was a pleasure to observe, Lubji,’ said Tulpanov, waving him to a chair, ‘even if only from a distance.’ An orderly poured them each a vodka, and the Russian raised his glass high in the air.

‘Thank you,’ said Armstrong, returning the compliment. ‘And not least for the part you played.’

‘Insignificant,’ said Tulpanov, placing his drink back on the table. ‘But that may not always be the case, Lubji.’ Armstrong raised an eyebrow. ‘You may well have secured the foreign distribution rights to the bulk of German scientific research, but it won’t be too long before it’s out of date, and then you’ll need all the latest Russian material. That is, if you wish to remain ahead of the game.’

‘And what would you expect in return?’ asked Armstrong, scooping up another spoonful of caviar.

‘Let us just leave it, Lubji, that I will be in touch from time to time.’

18 Daily Mail 13 April 1961 The Voice from Space: ‘How I Did It.’ Gagarin Tells Khrushchev of the Blue Earth

Heather placed a cup of black coffee in front of him. Townsend was already regretting that he had agreed to give the interview, especially to a trainee reporter. His golden rule was never to allow a journalist to talk to him on the record. Some proprietors enjoyed reading about themselves in their own papers. Townsend was not among them, but when Bruce Kelly had pressed him in an unguarded moment, saying it would be good for the paper and good for his image, he’d reluctantly agreed.

He had nearly canceled two or three times that morning, but a series of telephone calls and meetings meant that he’d never got round to doing it. And then Heather walked in to tell him that the young reporter was waiting in the outer hall. ‘Shall I send her in?’ Heather asked.

‘Yes,’ he said, checking his watch. ‘But I don’t want to be too long. There are several things I need to go over with you before tomorrow’s board meeting.’

‘I’ll come back in about fifteen minutes and tell you there’s an overseas call on the line.’

‘Good idea,’ he said. ‘But say it’s from New York. For some reason that always makes them leave a little quicker. And if you get desperate, use the Andrew Blacker routine.’

Heather nodded and left the room as Townsend ran his finger down the agenda for the board meeting. He stopped at item seven. He needed to be better briefed on the West Riding Group if he was going to convince the board that they should back him on that one. Even if they gave him the go-ahead, he still had to close the deal on his trip to England. In fact he would have to travel straight up to Leeds if he felt the deal was worth pursuing.

‘Good morning, Mr. Townsend.’

Keith looked up, but didn’t speak.

‘Your secretary warned me that you’re extremely busy, so I’ll try not to waste too much of your time,’ she said rather quickly.

He still didn’t say a word.

‘I’m Kate Tulloh. I’m a reporter with the Chronicle.’

Keith came from behind his desk, shook hands with the young journalist, and ushered her toward a comfortable chair usually reserved for board members, editors or people with whom he expected to close important deals. Once she was seated, he took the chair opposite her.

‘How long have you been with the company?’ he asked as she extracted a shorthand pad and a pencil from her bag.

She crossed her legs and said, ‘Only for a few months, Mr. Townsend. I joined the Chronicle as a trainee after leaving college. You’re my first big assignment.’

Keith felt old for the first time in his life, although he had only recently celebrated his thirty-third birthday.

‘What’s the accent?’ he asked. ‘I can’t quite place it.’

‘I was born in Budapest, but my parents fled from Hungary at the time of the revolution. The only ship we could get on was going to Australia.’

‘My grandfather also fled to Australia,’ Keith said.

‘Because of a revolution?’ she asked.

‘No. He was Scottish, and just wanted to get as far away from the English as possible.’ Kate laughed. ‘You recently won a young writers’ award, didn’t you?’ he asked, trying to recall the briefing note Heather had prepared for him.

‘Yes. Bruce presented the awards last year, which is how I ended up on the Chronicle.’

‘So what does your father do?’

‘Back in Hungary he was an architect, but over here he’s only been able to pick up odd laboring jobs. The government refuses to recognize his qualifications, and the unions haven’t been all that sympathetic.’

‘They don’t like me either,’ said Keith. ‘And what about your mother?’

‘I’m sorry to appear rude, Mr. Townsend, but I think I’m meant to be interviewing you.’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Keith, ‘do go ahead.’ He stared at the girl, unaware of how nervous he was making her. He had never seen anyone more captivating. She had long, dark hair which fell onto her shoulders, and a perfectly oval face that hadn’t yet been savaged by the Australian sun. He suspected that the simple, well-tailored navy-blue suit she wore was more formal than she might normally have chosen. But that was probably because she was interviewing her boss. She crossed her legs again and her skirt rose slightly. He tried not to lower his eyes.

‘Shall I repeat the question, Mr. Townsend?’

‘Err... I’m so sorry.’

Heather walked in, and was surprised to find them seated in the directors’ corner of the room.

‘There’s a call for you on line one from New York,’ she said. ‘Mr. Lazar. He needs to have a word about a counterbid he’s just received from Channel 7 for one of next season’s sitcoms.’

‘Tell him I’ll call back later,’ said Keith, without looking up. ‘By the way, Kate,’ he said, leaning forward, ‘would you like a coffee?’

‘Yes, thank you Mr. Townsend.’

‘Black or white?’

‘White, but no sugar. Thank you,’ she repeated, looking toward Heather.

Heather turned and left the room without asking Keith if he wanted another coffee.

‘Sorry, what was the question?’ Keith asked.

‘Did you write or publish anything when you were at school?’

‘Yes, I was editor of the school magazine in my last year,’ he said. Kate began writing furiously. ‘As my father was before me.’ By the time Heather reappeared with the coffee, he was still telling Kate about his triumph with the pavilion appeal.

‘And when you went to Oxford, why didn’t you edit the student newspaper, or take over Isis, the university magazine?’

‘In those days I was far more interested in politics — and in any case, I knew I’d be spending the rest of my life in the newspaper world.’

‘Is it true that when you returned to Australia, you were devastated to find that your mother had sold the Melbourne Courier?’

‘Yes, it is,’ admitted Keith, as Heather walked back into the room. ‘And I’ll get it back one day,’ he added under his breath.

‘A problem, Heather?’ he asked, raising an eyebrow. She was standing only a foot away from him.

‘Yes. I’m sorry to interrupt you again, Mr. Townsend, but Sir Kenneth Stirling has been trying to get in touch with you all morning. He wants to discuss your proposed trip to the UK.’

‘Then I’ll have to call him back as well, won’t I?’

‘He did warn me that he’ll be out most of the afternoon.’

‘Then tell him I’ll call him at home this evening.’

‘I can see you’re busy,’ said Kate. ‘I can wait or come back at some other time.’

Keith shook his head, despite Heather remaining fixed on the spot for several seconds. He even began to wonder if Ken really was on the line.

Kate tried once more. ‘There are several stories among the clippings about how you took control of the Adelaide Messenger, and your coup with the late Sir Colin Grant.’

‘Sir Colin was a close friend of my father,’ said Keith, ‘and a merger was always going to be in the best interests of both papers.’ Kate didn’t look convinced. ‘I’m sure you’ll have read in the clippings that Sir Colin was the first chairman of the merged group.’

‘But he only chaired one board meeting.’

‘I think you’ll find it was two.’

‘Didn’t Sir Somerset Kenwright suffer roughly the same fate when you took over the Chronicle?’

‘No, that’s not quite accurate. I can assure you that no one admired Sir Somerset more than I did.’

‘But Sir Somerset once described you,’ said Kate, glancing down at her notes, ‘as “a man who is happy to lie in the gutter and watch while others climb mountains”.’

‘I think you’ll find that Sir Somerset, like Shakespeare, is often misquoted.’

‘It would be hard to prove either way,’ said Kate, ‘as he’s also dead.’

‘True,’ said Keith, a little defensively. ‘But the words of Sir Somerset that I will always recall are: “I couldn’t be more delighted that the Chronicle will be passing into the hands of Sir Graham Townsend’s son.”’

‘But didn’t Sir Somerset say that,’ suggested Kate, once again referring to her notes, ‘six weeks before you actually took over?’

‘What difference does that make?’ asked Keith, trying to fight back.

‘Simply that on the first day you arrived at the Chronicle as its proprietor, you sacked the editor and the chief executive. A week later they issued a joint statement, saying — and this time I quote verbatim...’

‘Your next appointment has arrived, Mr. Townsend,’ said Heather, standing by the door as if she was about to show someone in.

‘Who is it?’ asked Keith.

‘Andrew Blacker.’

‘Rearrange it.’

‘No, no, please,’ said Kate. ‘I have more than enough.’

‘Rearrange it,’ repeated Keith firmly.

‘As you wish,’ said Heather, equally firmly. She walked back out, leaving the door wide open.

‘I’m sorry to have taken up so much of your time, Mr. Townsend,’ said Kate. ‘I’ll try to speed things up,’ she added, before returning to her long list of questions. ‘Can I now turn to the launching of the Continent?’

‘But I haven’t finished telling you about Sir Somerset Kenwright, and the state the Chronicle was in when I took it over.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Kate, ‘it’s just that I’m concerned about the calls you have to make, and I’m feeling a little guilty about Mr. Blacker.’

There was a long silence before Keith admitted, ‘There is no Mr. Blacker.’

‘I’m not sure I understand,’ said Kate.

‘He’s a code name. Heather uses them to let me know how long a meeting has overrun: New York is fifteen minutes, Mr. Andrew Blacker is thirty minutes. In a quarter of an hour she’ll reappear and tell me I have a conference call with London and Los Angeles. And if she’s really cross with me, she throws in Tokyo for good measure.’

Kate began to laugh.

‘Let’s hope you last the full hour. You’ll never believe what she comes up with after an hour.’

‘To be honest, Mr. Townsend, I wasn’t expecting to be given more than fifteen minutes of your time,’ Kate said, as she looked back down at her questions.

‘You’d begun to ask me about the Continent,’ prompted Keith.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Kate. ‘It’s often reported that you were devastated when Alan Rutledge resigned as editor.’

‘Yes, I was,’ admitted Keith. ‘He was a fine journalist, and had become a close friend. But the paper had fallen below 50,000 copies a day, and we were losing nearly £100,000 a week. Now, under the new editor, we have returned to sales of 200,000 copies a day, and will be launching a Sunday Continent early in the new year.’

‘But surely you accept that the paper can no longer be described as “the Times of Australia”?’

‘Yes, and I regret that,’ said Keith, admitting the fact for the first time to anyone other than his mother.

‘Will the Sunday Continent follow the same pattern as the daily, or are you going to produce the quality national newspaper Australia so desperately needs?’

Keith was beginning to realize why Miss Tulloh had won her award, and why Bruce thought so highly of her. This time he chose his words more carefully. ‘I will endeavor to produce a paper that the majority of Australians would like to see on their breakfast tables every Sunday morning. Does that answer your question, Kate?’

‘I fear it does, Mr. Townsend,’ she said with a smile.

Keith returned the smile. It quickly disappeared when he heard her next question.

‘May I now turn to an incident in your life that has been widely covered by the gossip columns?’ Keith reddened slightly as she waited for his response. His instinct was to end the interview there and then, but he just nodded.

‘Is it true that on your wedding day you ordered your chauffeur to drive straight past the church only moments before the bride was due to arrive?’

Keith was relieved when Heather marched into the room and said firmly, ‘Your conference call is due in a couple of minutes, Mr. Townsend.’

‘My conference call?’ he asked, brightening up.

‘Yes, sir,’ said Heather. ‘Sir’ was a word she resorted to only when she was very cross.

‘London and Los Angeles,’ she said. She paused before adding, ‘and Tokyo.’ Very cross, thought Keith. But at least she had given him the chance to escape. Kate had even closed her shorthand pad.

‘Rearrange it for this afternoon,’ he said quietly. He wasn’t sure which of the women looked more surprised. Heather left them without another word, and this time she closed the door behind her.

Neither of them spoke again until Keith said, ‘Yes, it’s true. But I’d be obliged if you didn’t refer to it in your article.’

Kate put her pencil down on the table, as Keith turned and looked out of the window. ‘I’m sorry, Mr. Townsend,’ she said, ‘that was insensitive of me.’

‘“Just doing my job” is what reporters usually say,’ said Keith quietly.

‘Perhaps we could move on to your somewhat unusual, if not to say bizarre, takeover of 2WW.’

Keith sat up in his chair and relaxed a little for the first time.

‘When the story first broke in the Chronicle — on the morning of your wedding, incidentally — Sir Somerset described you as “a pirate”.’

‘I’m sure he intended it as a compliment.’

‘A compliment?’

‘Yes. I assume he meant that I was acting in the great tradition of pirates.’

‘Who did you have in mind?’ asked Kate innocently.

‘Walter Raleigh and Francis Drake,’ replied Keith.

‘I suspect it’s more likely to have been Bluebeard or Captain Morgan that Sir Somerset had in mind,’ said Kate, returning his smile.

‘Perhaps. But I think you’ll find that both sides ended up satisfied with that particular deal.’

Kate looked back down at her notes. ‘Mr. Townsend, you now own, or have the majority shareholding in, seventeen newspapers, eleven radio stations, an aircraft company, a hotel and two coalmines.’ She looked back up at him. ‘What do you plan to do next?’

‘I’d like to sell the hotel and the coalmines, so if you happen to come across anyone who might be interested...’

Kate laughed. ‘No, seriously,’ she said, as Heather marched back into the room.

‘The prime minister is on his way up in the lift, Mr. Townsend,’ she said, her Scottish accent even more pronounced than usual. ‘You are, as you will remember, entertaining him for lunch in the boardroom.’

Keith winked at Kate, who burst out laughing. Heather held open the door and stood back to allow a distinguished-looking gentleman with a head of silver hair to enter the room.

‘Good morning, Prime Minister,’ Keith said, as he rose from his place and stepped forward to greet Robert Menzies. The two men shook hands before Keith turned round to introduce Kate, who was trying to hide in the corner of the room. ‘I don’t think you’ve met Kate Tulloh, Prime Minister. She’s one of the Chronicle’s most promising young reporters. I know she was hoping to get an interview with you at some point.’

‘I should be delighted,’ said Menzies. ‘Why don’t you give my office a call, Miss Tulloh, and we can fix a time?’

For the next two days Keith was unable to get Kate out of his mind. One thing was certain: she didn’t fit into any of his well-ordered plans.

When they had sat down to lunch, the prime minister had wondered why his host was so preoccupied. Townsend showed little interest in his innovative proposals for curbing the power of the trades unions, despite the fact that his papers had been pressing the government on the subject for several years.

Townsend wasn’t a great deal more articulate the following morning, when he chaired the monthly board meeting. In fact, for a man who controlled the largest communications empire in Australia, he was amazingly uncommunicative. One or two of his fellow-directors wondered if he was going down with something. When he addressed the board on item seven, his proposed trip to the UK for the purpose of taking over a small newspaper group in the north of England, few of them could see much point in his making the journey. He totally failed to convince them that anything worthwhile could possibly come out of it.

Once the board meeting was over and the directors had dispersed, Townsend returned to his office and remained at his desk going over papers until Heather finally left for the evening. He checked his watch as the door closed behind her. It was a few minutes past seven, which reminded him how late she normally worked. He didn’t pick up the phone until he was sure she wasn’t going to return, then he dialed the three digits that would put him straight through to the editor’s desk.

‘Bruce, this trip I’m about to take to London. I ought to have a journalist along with me to make sure that if the story breaks, you’ll be the first to hear about it.’

‘What are you hoping to buy this time?’ asked Bruce. ‘The Times?’

‘No, not on this trip,’ replied Townsend. ‘I’m looking for something that just might make a profit.’

‘Why don’t I call Ned Brewer at the London bureau? He’s the obvious man to follow up any story.’

‘I’m not sure it’s a job for the bureau chief,’ said Townsend. ‘I’m going to be traipsing round the north of England for several days, looking at print works, meeting journalists, trying to decide which editors to retain. I wouldn’t want Ned to be away from his desk for that length of time.’

‘I suppose I could spare Ed Makins for a week. But I’d need him back for the opening of Parliament — especially if your hunch turns out to be right and Menzies does announce a bill to curb the powers of the trades unions.’

‘No, no, I don’t need someone that high-powered. In any case, I can’t be sure how long I’ll be away. A good junior could do the job.’ He paused, but Bruce made no helpful suggestions. ‘I was impressed by that girl you sent up to interview me the other day,’ he said. ‘What was her name?’

‘Kate Tulloh,’ said Bruce. ‘But she’s far too young and inexperienced for something as big as this.’

‘So were you when we first met, Bruce. It didn’t stop me from offering you the job as editor.’

There was a moment’s silence before Bruce said, ‘I’ll see if she’s available.’

Townsend smiled as he put the phone down. He couldn’t pretend that he’d been looking forward to the trip to England, although he knew the time had come to expand his horizons beyond Australia.

He looked back down at the pile of notes that littered his desk. Despite a team of management consultants trawling through the details of every newspaper group in the United Kingdom, they had only come up with one good prospect.

A file had been prepared for him to consider over the weekend. He turned the first page and began to read a profile of the West Riding Group. Its head office was in Leeds. He smiled. The nearest he’d ever been to Leeds was a visit to the Doncaster racecourse when he was at Oxford. On that occasion — if he remembered correctly — he’d backed a winner.

19 News Chronicle 25 October 1951 Final Poll Gives Churchill the Lead

‘And how will you be paying, Mr. Armstrong?’ asked the estate agent.

‘It’s Captain Armstrong, actually.’

‘I’m sorry, Captain Armstrong.’

‘I’ll pay by check.’

It had taken Armstrong ten days to find suitable accommodation, and he only signed the short lease on a flat in Stanhope Gardens when the agent mentioned that a retired brigadier was living on the floor above.

The search for an appropriate office took even longer, because it needed to have an address that would convince Julius Hahn that Armstrong had been in publishing all his life.

When John D. Wood asked what price range he had in mind, a very junior agent was handed the assignment.

Two weeks later, Armstrong settled on an office that was even smaller than his flat in Stanhope Gardens. Although he couldn’t altogether accept the agent’s description of the 308-square-foot room with a lavatory on the floor above as ideal, perfect and unique, it did have two advantages. The Fleet Street address, and a rent he could afford to pay — for the first three months.

‘If you’ll be kind enough to sign on the bottom line, Captain Armstrong.’

Armstrong unscrewed the top of his new Parker pen and signed the contract.

‘Good. Then that’s settled,’ said the young agent as he waited for the ink to dry. ‘The rent for this property is, as you know, Captain Armstrong, £10 a week, payable quarterly in advance. Perhaps you would be kind enough to let me have a check for £130.’

‘I’ll send one of my staff round with a check later this afternoon,’ said Armstrong, straightening his bow tie.

The agent hesitated for a moment, and then placed the contract in his briefcase. ‘I’m sure that will be all right, Captain Armstrong,’ he said, handing over the keys to the smallest property on their books.

Armstrong felt confident that Hahn would have no way of knowing, when he rang FLE 6093 and heard the words ‘Armstrong Communications,’ that his publishing house consisted of one room, two desks, a filing cabinet and a recently installed telephone. And as for ‘one of my staff,’ one was correct. Sally Carr had returned to London the week before, and had joined him as his personal assistant earlier that morning.

Armstrong had been unable to give the estate agent a check immediately because he had only recently opened an account with Barclays, and the bank was unwilling to issue a checkbook until it received the promised transfer of funds from Holt & Co in Berlin. The fact that he was Captain Armstrong MC, as he kept reminding them, didn’t seem to impress the manager.

When the money did eventually come through, the manager confessed to his accounts clerk that after their meeting he had expected a little more than £217 9s. 6d. to be deposited in Captain Armstrong’s account.

While he was waiting for the money to be transferred, Armstrong contacted Stephen Hallet at his offices in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, and asked him to register Armstrong Communications as a private company. That cost him another £10.

No sooner had the company been formed than another unpayable bill landed on Sally’s desk. This time Armstrong didn’t have a dozen bottles of claret to settle the account, so he invited Hallet to become company secretary.

Once his funds had been deposited, Armstrong cleared all his debts, which left him with less than £40 in the account. He told Sally that in future she should not pay any bills over £10 until they had received at least three demands for payment.

Charlotte, already six months pregnant with their second child, joined Dick in London a few days after he had signed the lease on the Knightsbridge flat. When she was first shown round the four rooms, she didn’t comment on how small they were compared with their spacious apartment in Berlin. She was only too happy to have escaped from Germany.

As Armstrong traveled to and from the office by bus each day, he wondered how long it would be before he had a car and a driver. Once the company had been registered, he flew to Berlin and talked a reluctant Hahn into a loan of £1,000. He returned to London with a check and a dozen manuscripts, having promised that they would be translated within days, and that the money would be repaid as soon as he signed the first foreign distribution deal. But he was facing a problem that he couldn’t admit to Hahn. Although Sally spent hours on the phone trying to arrange appointments with the chairmen of all the leading scientific publishing houses in London, she quickly discovered that their doors didn’t open for Captain Armstrong MC in the way they had done in Berlin.

On those evenings when he got home before midnight, Charlotte would ask him how the business was doing. ‘Never better’ took the place of ‘top secret.’ But she couldn’t help noticing that thin brown envelopes were regularly dropping through their letterbox, and seemed to get stuffed into the nearest drawer, unopened. When she flew out to Lyon for the birth of their second child, Dick assured her that by the time she returned he would have signed his first big contract.

Ten days later, while Armstrong was dictating an answer to the one letter he’d received that morning, there was a knock on the door. Sally bustled across the room to open it, and came face to face with their first customer. Geoffrey Bailey, a Canadian who represented a small publisher in Montreal, had actually got out of the lift on the wrong floor. But an hour later he left clutching three German scientific manuscripts. Once he had had them translated, and had realized their commercial potential, he returned with a check, and signed a contract for the Canadian and French rights on all three books. Armstrong banked the check, but didn’t bother to inform Julius Hahn of the transaction.

Thanks to Mr. Bailey, by the time Charlotte arrived back at Heathrow six weeks later, carrying Nicole in her arms, Dick had signed two more contracts, with publishers from Spain and Belgium. She was surprised to find that he had acquired a large Dodge automobile, and that Private Benson was behind the wheel. What he didn’t tell her was that the Dodge was on the ‘never never,’ and that he couldn’t always afford to pay Benson at the end of the week.

‘It impresses the customers,’ he said, and assured her that business was looking better and better. She tried to ignore the fact that some of his stories had changed since she’d been away, and that the unopened brown envelopes remained in the drawer. But even she was impressed when he told her that Colonel Oakshott was back in London, and had visited Dick and asked him if he knew of anyone who might employ an old soldier.

Armstrong had been the fifth person he had approached, and none of the others had anything to offer someone of his age or seniority. The following day Oakshott had been appointed to the board of Armstrong Communications at a salary of £1,000 a year, although his monthly check wasn’t always honored on the first presentation.

Once the first three manuscripts had been published in Canada, France, Belgium and Spain, more and more foreign publishers began to get out of the lift on the right floor, later leaving Armstrong’s office carrying long typewritten lists of all the books whose rights were available.

As Armstrong began to close an increasing number of deals, he cut down on his trips to Berlin, sending Colonel Oakshott in his place, and giving him the unenviable task of explaining to Julius Hahn why the cash flow was so slow. Oakshott continued to believe everything Armstrong told him — after all, hadn’t they served as officers in the same regiment? — and so, for some time, did Hahn.

But despite the occasional coup with foreign houses, Armstrong was still having no luck in convincing a leading British publisher to take on the rights to his books. After months of being told, ‘I’ll get back to you, Captain Armstrong,’ he began to wonder just how long it was going to take him to push open the door that would allow him to become part of the British publishing establishment.

It was on an October morning when Armstrong was staring across at the massive edifices of the Globe and the Citizen — the nation’s two most popular dailies — that Sally told him a journalist from The Times was on the line. Armstrong nodded.

‘I’ll put you through to Captain Armstrong,’ she said.

Armstrong crossed the room and took the receiver from her hand. ‘It’s Dick Armstrong, chairman of Armstrong Communications. How can I help you?’

‘My name is Neville Andrade. I’m the science correspondent of The Times. I recently picked up the French edition of one of Julius Hahn’s publications, The Germans and the Atom Bomb, and was curious to know how many other titles you have in translation.’ Armstrong put the phone down an hour later, having told Andrade his life story and promised that his driver would have the complete list of titles on his desk by midday.

When he arrived at the office late the following morning, because of what Londoners described as a pea-souper, Sally told him she had taken seven calls in twenty minutes. As the phone rang again, she pointed to his desk. A copy of The Times lay open at the science page. Armstrong sat down and began to read Andrade’s long piece about the atom bomb and how, despite losing the war, German scientists still remained far ahead of the rest of the world in many fields.

The phone rang again, but he remained puzzled as to why Sally was being besieged until he came to the final paragraph of the article. ‘The key to this information is held by Captain Richard Armstrong MC, who controls the translation rights in all the publications of the prestigious Julius Hahn empire.’

Within days, the phrase ‘We’ll get back to you, Captain Armstrong,’ became ‘I’m sure we can match those terms, Dick,’ and he began selecting which houses would be allowed to publish his manuscripts and distribute his magazines. People he had never been able to get an appointment with in the past were inviting him to lunch at the Garrick, even if, having met him, they didn’t go as far as suggesting he should become a member.

By the end of the year Armstrong had finally returned the £1,000, and it was no longer possible for Colonel Oakshott to convince Hahn that his chairman was still having a tough time getting anyone to sign a contract. Oakshott was glad Hahn couldn’t see that the Dodge had been replaced by a Bentley, and that Benson was now wearing a smart gray uniform and a peaked cap. Armstrong’s newest problem was to find suitable new offices and qualified staff, so that he could keep up with the rapid expansion. When the floors above and below him fell vacant, he signed new leases for them within hours.

It was at the annual reunion of the North Staffordshire Regiment at the Café Royal that Armstrong bumped into Major Wakeham. He discovered that Peter had just been demobbed, and was about to take up a job in personnel with the Great Western Railway. Armstrong spent the rest of the evening persuading him that Armstrong Communications was a better prospect. Peter joined him as general manager the following Monday.

Once Peter had settled in, Armstrong began to travel all over the world — from Montreal to New York to Tokyo to Christchurch — selling Hahn manuscripts, and always demanding large advances. He began to place the money in several different bank accounts, with the result that even Sally couldn’t be quite sure just how much the company had on deposit at any one time, or where it was located. Whenever he was back in England, he found his small staff quite unable to keep up with the demands of an ever-growing order book. And Charlotte had become tired of him commenting on how much the children had grown.

When the lease for the entire building in Fleet Street came on the market, he immediately snapped it up. Now even the most skeptical potential customer who visited him in his new offices accepted that Captain Armstrong was safe to do business with. Rumors reached Berlin of Armstrong’s success, but Hahn’s letters requesting details of sales figures country by country, sight of all overseas contracts and audited accounts were studiously ignored.

Colonel Oakshott, who was left to report Hahn’s growing incredulity at Armstrong’s claims that the company was having difficulty in breaking even, was treated more and more like a messenger boy, despite the fact that he had recently been appointed deputy chairman. But even after Oakshott threatened to resign, and Stephen Hallet warned Armstrong that he had received a letter from Hahn’s London solicitors threatening to terminate their partnership, Armstrong remained unperturbed. He felt confident that as long as the law prevented Hahn from traveling outside Germany, he had no way of discovering how large his empire had grown, and therefore how much 50 percent actually represented.

Within weeks of Winston Churchill’s government being returned to power in 1951, all restrictions on travel for German citizens were lifted. Armstrong was not surprised to learn from the colonel that Hahn’s and Schultz’s first trip abroad would be to London.

After a long consultation with a KC at Gray’s Inn, the two Germans took a taxi to Fleet Street for a meeting with their overseas partner. Hahn’s habit of punctuality had not deserted him in old age, and Sally met the two men in reception. She guided them up to Dick’s vast new office, and hoped they were suitably impressed by the hustle and bustle of activity that was taking place all around them.

They entered Armstrong’s office to be greeted with the expansive smile they both remembered so well. Schultz was shocked by how much weight the captain had put on, and didn’t care for his colorful bow tie.

‘Welcome, my dear old friends,’ Armstrong began, holding out his arms like a large bear. ‘It has been far too long.’ He appeared surprised to receive a cool response, but he ushered them to the comfortable seats on the other side of his partner’s desk, then returned to an elevated chair which allowed him to tower over them. Behind him on the wall hung a large blown-up photograph of Field Marshal Montgomery pinning the Military Cross on the young captain’s chest.

Once Sally had poured his guests Brazilian coffee served in bone china cups, Hahn wasted no time in trying to tell Armstrong — as he referred to him — the purpose of their visit. He was just about to embark on his well-prepared speech when one of the four phones on the desk began ringing. Armstrong grabbed it, and Hahn assumed that he would instruct his secretary to hold all further calls. But instead he began an intense conversation in Russian. No sooner had he finished than another phone rang, and he started a fresh dialogue in French. Hahn and Schultz hid their misgivings and waited patiently for Captain Armstrong to complete the calls.

‘So sorry,’ said Armstrong, after he had finally put the third phone down, ‘but as you can see, the damn thing never stops ringing. And 50 percent of it,’ he added with a broad smile, ‘is on your behalf.’

Hahn was just about to begin his speech a second time, when Armstrong pulled open his top drawer and took out a box of Havana cigars, a sight neither of his guests had seen for over ten years. He pushed the box across the desk. Hahn waved a hand in dismissal, and Schultz reluctantly followed his chairman’s lead.

Hahn tried to begin a third time.

‘By the way,’ said Armstrong, ‘I’ve booked a table for lunch at the Savoy Grill. Anybody who’s anybody eats at the Grill.’ He gave them another expansive smile.

‘We are not free for lunch,’ said Hahn curtly.

‘But we have so much to discuss,’ insisted Armstrong, ‘not least catching up on old times.’

‘We have very little to discuss,’ said Hahn. ‘Especially old times.’

Armstrong was silenced for a moment.

‘I am sorry to have to inform you, Captain Armstrong,’ Hahn continued, ‘that we have decided to terminate our arrangement with you.’

‘But that’s not possible,’ said Armstrong. ‘We have a binding legal agreement.’

‘You have obviously not read the document for some time,’ said Hahn. ‘If you had, you would be only too aware of the penalties for failing to fulfill your financial obligations to us.’

‘But I intend to fulfill...’

‘“In the event of non-payment, after twelve months all overseas rights automatically revert to the parent company.”’ Hahn sounded as if he knew the clause off by heart.

‘But I can clear all my obligations immediately,’ said Armstrong, not at all certain that he could.

‘That would not influence my decision,’ said Hahn.

‘But the contract stipulates that you must give me ninety days’ notice in writing,’ said Armstrong, remembering one of the clauses Stephen Hallet had emphasized recently.

‘We have done so on eleven separate occasions,’ replied Hahn.

‘I am not aware of having received any such notice,’ said Armstrong. ‘Therefore I...’

‘The last three of which,’ continued Hahn, ‘were sent to this office, recorded delivery.’

‘That doesn’t mean we ever received them.’

‘Each of them was signed for by your secretary or Colonel Oakshott. Our final demand was hand-delivered to your solicitor, Stephen Hallet, who I understand drew up the original agreement.’

Once again Armstrong was silenced.

Hahn opened his battered briefcase, that Armstrong remembered so well, and removed copies of three documents which he placed on the desk in front of his former partner. He then took out a fourth document.

‘I am now serving you with a month’s notice, requesting that you return any publications, plates or documents in your possession which have been supplied by us during the past two years, along with a check for £170,000 to cover the royalties due to us. Our accountants consider this a conservative estimate.’

‘Surely you’ll give me one more chance, after all I’ve done for you?’ pleaded Armstrong.

‘We have given you far too many chances already,’ said Hahn, ‘and neither of us,’ he nodded toward his colleague, ‘is at an age when we can waste any more time hoping you will honor your agreements.’

‘But how can you hope to survive without me?’ demanded Armstrong.

‘Quite simply,’ said Hahn. ‘We have already signed an agreement this morning to be represented by the distinguished publishing house of Macmillan, with whom I’m sure you are familiar. We will be making an announcement to that effect in next Friday’s Bookseller, so that our clients in Britain, the United States and the rest of the world are aware that you no longer represent us.’

Hahn rose from his chair, and Armstrong watched as he and Schultz turned to leave without another word. Before they reached the door, he shouted after them, ‘You’ll be hearing from my lawyers!’

Once the door had been closed, he walked slowly over to the window behind his desk. He stared down at the pavement, and didn’t move until he’d seen them climb into a taxi. As they drove away he returned to his chair, picked up the nearest phone and dialed a number. A familiar voice answered. ‘For the next seven days, buy every Macmillan share you can lay your hands on.’ He slammed the phone down, then made a second call.

Stephen Hallet listened carefully as his client gave him a full report of his meeting with Hahn and Schultz. Hallet wasn’t surprised by their attitude, because he’d recently informed Armstrong about the termination order he’d received from Hahn’s London solicitors. When Armstrong had finished his version of the meeting, he only had one question: ‘How long do you think I can string it out for? I’m due to collect several large payments in the next few weeks.’

‘A year, eighteen months perhaps, if you’re willing to issue a writ and take them all the way to court.’

Two years later, after Armstrong had exhausted everyone, including Stephen Hallet, he settled with Hahn on the courtroom steps.

Hallet drew up a lengthy document in which Armstrong agreed to return all of Hahn’s property, including publishing material, plates, rights agreements, contracts and over a quarter of a million books from his warehouse in Watford. He also had to pay out £75,000 as a full and final settlement for profits made during the previous five years.

‘Thank God we’re finally rid of the man,’ was all Hahn said as he walked away from the High Court in the Strand.

The day after the settlement had been signed, Colonel Oakshott resigned from the board of Armstrong Communications without explanation. He died of a heart attack three weeks later. Armstrong couldn’t find the time to attend the funeral, so he sent Peter Wakeham, the new deputy chairman, to represent him.

Armstrong was in Oxford on the day of Oakshott’s funeral, signing a long lease on a large building on the outskirts of the city.

During the next two years Armstrong almost spent more time in the air than he did on the ground, as he traveled around the world visiting author after author contracted to Hahn, and trying to persuade them that they should break their agreements and join Armstrong Communications. He realized he might not be able to convince some of the German scientists to come across to him, but that had been more than compensated for by the exclusive entrée into Russia which Colonel Tulpanov had made possible, and the many contacts Armstrong had made in America during the years when Hahn had been unable to travel abroad.

Many of the scientists, who rarely ventured outside their laboratories, were flattered by Armstrong’s personal approach and the promise of exposure to a vast new readership around the world. They often had no idea of the true commercial value of their research, and happily signed the proffered contract. Later they would dispatch their life’s works to Headley Hall, Oxford, often assuming that it was in some way connected to the university.

Once they had signed an agreement, usually committing all their future works to Armstrong in exchange for a derisory advance, they never heard from him again. These tactics made it possible for Armstrong Communications to declare a profit of £90,000 the year after he and Hahn had parted, and a year later the Manchester Guardian named Richard Armstrong Young Entrepreneur of the Year. Charlotte reminded him that he was nearer forty than thirty.

‘True,’ he replied, ‘but never forget that all my rivals had a twenty-year start on me.’

Once they had settled into Headley Hall, their Oxford home, Dick found that he received many invitations to attend university events. He turned most of them down, because he knew all they wanted was his money. But then Allan Walker wrote. Walker was the president of the Oxford University Labor Club, and he wanted to know if Captain Armstrong would sponsor a dinner to be given by the committee in honor of Hugh Gaitskell, the leader of the opposition. ‘Accept it,’ said Dick. ‘On one condition: that I can sit next to him.’ After that he sponsored every visit to the university by a front-bench Labor spokesman, and within a couple of years he had met every member of the shadow cabinet and several foreign dignitaries, including the prime minister of Israel, David Ben-Gurion, who invited him to Tel Aviv, and suggested he take an interest in the plight of Jews who had not been quite as fortunate as him.

After Allan Walker had taken his degree, his first job application was to Armstrong Communications. The chairman immediately took him onto his personal staff so he could advise him on how he should go about extending his political influence. Walker’s first suggestion was for him to take over the ailing university magazine Isis, which was, as usual, in financial trouble. For a small investment Armstrong became a hero of the university left, and shamelessly used the magazine to promote his own cause. His face appeared on the cover at least once a term, but as the magazine’s editors only ever lasted for a year, and doubted if they would find another source of income, none of them objected.

When Harold Wilson became leader of the Labor Party, Armstrong began to make public statements in his support; cynics suggested it was only because the Tories would have nothing to do with him. He never failed to let visiting front-bench Labor spokesmen know that he was happy to bear any losses on Isis, as long as it could in some way encourage the next generation of Oxford students to support the Labor Party. Some politicians found this approach fairly crude. But Armstrong began to believe that if the Labor Party were to form the next government, he would be able to use his influence and wealth to fulfill his new dream — to be the proprietor of a national newspaper.

In fact, he began to wonder just who would be able to stop him.

20 The Times 16 October 1964 Khrushchev Gives Up — ‘Old and Ill.’ Brezhnev and Kosygin to Rule Russia

Keith Townsend unfastened his seatbelt a few minutes after the Comet took off, flicked open his briefcase and removed a bundle of papers. He glanced across at Kate, who was already engrossed in the latest novel by Patrick White.

He began to check through the file on the West Riding Group. Was this his best chance yet of securing a foothold in Britain? After all, his first purchase in Sydney had been a small group of papers, which in time had made it possible for him to buy the Sydney Chronicle. He was convinced that once he controlled a regional newspaper group in Britain, he would be in a far stronger position to make a takeover bid for a national paper.

Harry Shuttleworth, he read, was the man who had founded the group at the turn of the century. He had first published an evening paper in Huddersfield as an adjunct to his highly successful textile mill. Townsend recognized the pattern of a local paper being controlled by the biggest employer in the area — that was how he had ended up with a hotel and two coalmines. Each time Shuttleworth opened a factory in a new town, a newspaper would follow a couple of years later. By the time he retired, he had four mills and four newspapers in the West Riding.

Shuttleworth’s eldest son, Frank, took over the firm when he returned from the First World War, and although his primary interest remained in textiles, he...

‘Would you like a drink, sir?’

Townsend nodded. ‘A whiskey and a little water please.’

...he also added local papers to the three factories he built in Doncaster, Bradford and Leeds. At various times these had attracted friendly approaches from Beaverbrook, Northcliffe and Rothermere. Frank had apparently given all three of them the oft-quoted reply: ‘There’s nowt here for thee, lad.’

But it seemed that the third generation of Shuttleworths were not of the same mettle. A combination of cheap imported textiles from India and an only son who had always wanted to be a botanist meant that though Frank died leaving eight mills, seven dailies, five weeklies and a county magazine, the profits of his company began falling within days of his coffin being lowered into the ground. The mills finally went into liquidation in the late 1940s, and since then the newspaper group had barely broken even. It seemed now to be surviving only on the loyalty of its readers, but the latest figures showed that even that couldn’t be sustained much longer.

Townsend looked up as a table was fitted into his armrest and a small linen cloth placed over it. When the stewardess did the same for Kate she put down Riders in the Chariot but remained silent, not wanting to interrupt her boss’s concentration.

‘I’d like you to read this,’ he said, passing her the first few pages of the report. ‘Then you’ll understand why I’m making this trip to England.’

Townsend opened a second file, prepared by Henry Wolstenholme, a contemporary of his at Oxford and now a solicitor in Leeds. He could remember very little about Wolstenholme, except that after a few drinks in the buttery he became unusually loquacious. He would not have been Townsend’s first choice to do business with, but as his firm had represented the West Riding Group since its foundation, there wasn’t an alternative. It had been Wolstenholme who had first alerted him to the group’s potential: he had written to him in Sydney suggesting that although WRG was not on the market — certainly its current chairman would deny it should he be approached — he knew that if John Shuttleworth were ever to consider a sale, he would want the purchaser to come from as far away from Yorkshire as possible. Townsend smiled as a bowl of turtle soup was placed in front of him. As the proprietor of the Hobart Mail, he had to be the best-qualified candidate in the world.

Once Townsend had written expressing interest, Wolstenholme had suggested that they meet to discuss terms. Townsend’s first stipulation was that he needed to see the group’s presses. ‘Not a hope,’ came back the immediate reply. ‘Shuttleworth doesn’t want to be the subject of his own front pages until the deal is closed.’ Townsend accepted that no negotiations through a third party were ever easy, but with this one he was going to have to rely on Wolstenholme to answer even more questions than usual.

With a fork in one hand, and the next page in the other, he began to go over the figures Clive Jervis had prepared for him. Clive estimated that the company was worth about a hundred to a hundred and fifty thousand pounds, but pointed out that having seen nothing except the balance sheet, he was in no position to commit himself — clearly he wanted a get-out clause in case anything went wrong at a later stage, thought Townsend.

‘It’s more exciting than Riders in the Chariot,’ Kate said after she had put down the first file. ‘But what part am I expected to play?’

‘That will depend on the ending,’ replied Keith. ‘If I pull this one off, I’ll need articles in all my Australian papers, and I’ll want a separate piece — slightly less gushing — for Reuters and the Press Association. The important thing is to alert publishers all over the world to the fact that I’m now a serious player outside Australia.’

‘How well do you know Wolstenholme?’ Kate asked. ‘It seems to me that you’re going to have to rely a lot on his judgment.’

‘Not that well,’ admitted Keith. ‘He was a couple of years ahead of me at Worcester, and was considered a bit of a hearty.’

‘A hearty?’ repeated Kate, looking puzzled.

‘During Michaelmas he spent most of his time with the college rugby team, and the other two terms standing on the riverbank urging on the college boat. I think he was chosen to coach them because he had a voice that could be heard on the other side of the Thames, and enjoyed the odd pint of ale with the crew, even after they’d sunk. But that was ten years ago; for all I know he’s settled down and become a dour Yorkshire solicitor, with a wife and several children.’

‘Do you have any idea how much the West Riding Group is really worth?’

‘No, but I can always make an offer subject to seeing the six presses, and at the same time try to get a feel of how good the editors and journalists are. But in England the biggest problem is always the trades unions. If this group’s controlled by a closed shop, then I’m not interested, because however good the deal is, the unions could still bankrupt me within months.’

‘And if it isn’t?’ said Kate.

‘Then I might be willing to go as high as a hundred, even a hundred and twenty thousand. But I won’t suggest a figure until they let me know what they have in mind.’

‘Well, it beats covering the juvenile courts,’ said Kate.

‘That’s where I started too,’ said Keith. ‘But the editor didn’t think my efforts were award-winning material, unlike yours, and most of my copy was spiked before he’d finished the first paragraph.’

‘Perhaps he wanted to prove that he wasn’t frightened of your father.’

Keith looked across at her, and could see that she was wondering if she had gone too far. ‘Perhaps,’ he replied. ‘But that was before I took over the Chronicle and was able to sack him.’

Kate remained silent as a stewardess cleared away their trays. ‘We’re just about to dim the cabin lights,’ she said, ‘but there’s a light above your heads if you wish to carry on reading.’

Keith nodded and flicked on his light. Kate stretched and eased her seat back as far as it would go, covered herself in a blanket and closed her eyes. Keith looked at her for a few moments before opening a fourth file. He read on through the night.

When Colonel Tulpanov phoned to suggest that he should meet a business associate of his called Yuri Valchek to discuss a matter of mutual interest, Armstrong suggested they have lunch at the Savoy when Mr. Valchek was next in London.

For the past decade Armstrong had been making regular trips to Moscow, and in exchange for the exclusive foreign rights to the works of Soviet scientists he had continued to carry out little tasks for Tulpanov, still able to persuade himself that he wasn’t doing any real harm to his adopted country. This delusion was helped by always letting Forsdyke know when he was making such trips, and occasionally by delivering messages on his behalf, often to return with unfathomable replies. Armstrong realized that both sides considered him to be their man, and suspected that Valchek was not a messenger on a simple errand, but was being sent to find out just how far he could be pushed. By choosing the Savoy Grill, Armstrong hoped to convince Forsdyke that he was hiding nothing from him.

Armstrong arrived at the Savoy a few minutes early, and was guided to his usual alcove table in the corner. He abandoned his favorite whiskey and soda for a vodka, the agreed sign among agents that no English would be spoken. He glanced toward the entrance of the restaurant, and wondered if he would be able to identify Valchek when he walked in. Ten years ago it would have been easy, but he had warned many of the new breed that they stuck out like sore thumbs in their cheap double-breasted suits and thin gravy-stained ties. Since then several of the more regular visitors to London and New York had learned to drop into Savile Row and Fifth Avenue during their visits — though Armstrong suspected that a quick change had to be made on Aeroflot flights when they flew back to Moscow.

Two businessmen strolled into the Grill, deep in conversation. Armstrong recognized one of them, but couldn’t recall his name. They were followed by a stunning young woman with another two men in her wake. A woman having lunch in the Grill was an unusual sight, and he followed her progress as they were guided into the adjoining alcove.

The head waiter interrupted him. ‘Your guest has arrived, sir.’

Armstrong rose to shake hands with a man who could have passed for a British company director, and who obviously did not need to be told where Savile Row was. Armstrong ordered two vodkas.

‘How was your flight?’ he asked in Russian.

‘Not good, comrade,’ replied Valchek. ‘Unlike you, I have no choice but to fly Aeroflot. If you ever have to, take a sleeping pill, and don’t even think of eating the food.’

Armstrong laughed. ‘And how is Colonel Tulpanov?’

‘General Tulpanov is about to be appointed as the KGB’s number two, and he wants you to let Brigadier Forsdyke know he still outranks him.’

‘That will be a pleasure,’ said Armstrong. ‘Are there any other changes at the top that I should know about?’

‘Not at the moment.’ He paused. ‘Though I suspect Comrade Khrushchev will not be sitting at the high table for much longer.’

‘Then perhaps even you may have to clear your desk,’ Armstrong said, staring at him directly.

‘Not as long as Tulpanov is my boss.’

‘And who will be Khrushchev’s successor?’ asked Armstrong.

‘Brezhnev would be my bet,’ said his visitor. ‘But as Tulpanov has files on every possible candidate, no one is going to try to replace him.’

Armstrong smiled at the thought that Tulpanov hadn’t lost his touch.

A waiter placed another vodka in front of his guest. ‘The general speaks highly of you,’ said Valchek once the waiter had disappeared, ‘and no doubt your position will become even more influential when his appointment is made official.’ Valchek paused while he checked the menu before making his order in English to a hovering waiter. ‘Tell me,’ he continued once the waiter had left them alone, ‘why does General Tulpanov always refer to you as Lubji?’

‘It’s as good a code name as any,’ said Armstrong.

‘But you are not a Russian.’

‘No, I am not,’ said Armstrong firmly.

‘But you are also not English, comrade?’

‘I’m more English than the English,’ replied Armstrong, which seemed to silence his guest. A plate of smoked salmon was placed in front of him.

Valchek had finished his first course, and was cutting into a rare steak before he began to reveal the real purpose of his visit.

‘The National Science Institute want to publish a book commemorating their achievements in space exploration,’ he said, after selecting a Dijon mustard. ‘The chairman feels that President Kennedy is receiving far too much credit for his NASA program when, as everyone knows, it was the Soviet Union that put the first man in space. We have prepared a document detailing the achievements of our program from the founding of the Space Academy to the present day. I am in possession of a 200,000-word manuscript compiled by the leading scientists in the field, over a hundred photographs taken as recently as last month, and detailed diagrams and specifications for Luna IV and V.’

Armstrong made no attempt to stop Valchek’s flow. The messenger had to be aware that such a book would be out of date even before it was published. Clearly there had to be another reason why he had traveled all the way from Moscow to have lunch with him. But his guest chatted on, adding more and more irrelevant details. Finally he asked Armstrong for his opinion of the project.

‘How many copies does General Tulpanov expect to be printed?’

‘One million in hardback, to be distributed through the usual channels.’

Armstrong doubted whether such a book would have a worldwide readership of even a fraction of that figure. ‘But my print costs alone...’ he began.

‘We fully understand the risks you would be taking with such a publication. So we will be advancing you a sum of five million dollars, to be distributed among those countries in which the book will be translated, published and sold. Naturally there will be an agent’s commission of 10 percent. I should add that it will come as no great surprise to General Tulpanov if the book does not appear on any best-seller list. Just as long as you are able to show in your annual report that a million copies were printed, he will be content. It’s the distribution of the profits that really matters,’ added Valchek, sipping his vodka.

‘Is this to be a one-off?’ asked Armstrong.

‘If you make a success of this—’ Valchek paused before choosing the right word ‘—project, we would want a paperback edition to be published a year later, which we of course appreciate would require a further advance of five million. After that there might have to be reprints, revised versions...’

‘Thus ensuring a continuous flow of currency to your operatives in every country where the KGB has a presence,’ said Armstrong.

‘And as our representative,’ said Valchek, ignoring the comment, ‘you will receive 10 percent of any advance. After all, there is no reason why you should be treated differently from any normal literary agent. And I’m confident that our scientists will be able to produce a new manuscript that is worthy of publication every year.’ He paused. ‘Just as long as their royalties are always paid on time and in whichever currency we require.’

‘When do I get to see the manuscript?’ asked Armstrong.

‘I have a copy with me,’ Valchek replied, lowering his eyes to the briefcase by his side. ‘If you agree to be the publisher, the first five million will be paid into your account in Liechtenstein by the end of the week. I understand that is how we’ve always conducted business with you in the past.’

Armstrong nodded. ‘I’ll need a second copy of the manuscript to give to Forsdyke.’

Valchek raised an eyebrow as his plate was whisked away.

‘He has an agent seated on the far side of the room,’ said Armstrong. ‘So you should hand over the manuscript just before we leave, and I’ll walk out with it under my arm. Don’t worry,’ he continued, sensing Valchek’s anxiety. ‘He knows nothing about publishing, and his department will probably spend months searching for coded messages among the Sputniks.’

Valchek laughed, but made no attempt to look across the room as the dessert trolley was wheeled over to their table, but simply stared at the three tiers of extravagances before him.

In the silence that followed, Armstrong caught a single word drifting across from the next table — ‘presses.’ He began to listen in to the conversation, but then Valchek asked him for his opinion of a young Czech called Havel, who had recently been put in jail.

‘Is he a politician?’

‘No, he’s a...’

Armstrong put a finger to his lips to indicate that his colleague should continue talking but shouldn’t expect an answer. The Russian needed no lessons in this particular deceit.

Armstrong concentrated on the three people seated in the adjoining alcove. The thin, softly-spoken man with his back to him could only be an Australian, but although the accent was obvious, Armstrong could hardly pick up a word he was saying. Next to him sat the young woman who had so distracted him when she first entered the room. At a guess, he would have said she was mid-European, and had probably originated not that far from his own birthplace. On her right, facing the Australian, was a man with an accent from the north of England and a voice that would have delighted his old regimental sergeant major. The word ‘confidential’ had obviously never been fully explained to him.

As Valchek continued talking softly in Russian, Armstrong removed a pen from his pocket and began to jot down the odd word on the back of the menu — not an easy exercise, unless you have been taught by a master of the profession. Not for the first time, he was thankful for Forsdyke’s expertise.

‘John Shuttleworth, WRG chairman’ were the first words he scribbled down, and a moment later, ‘owner.’ Some time passed before he added ‘Huddersfield Echo’ and the names of six other papers. He stared into Valchek’s eyes and continued to concentrate, then scribbled down four more words: ‘Leeds, tomorrow, twelve o’clock.’ While his coffee went cold there followed ‘120,000 fair price.’ And finally ‘factories closed for some time.’

When the subject at the next table turned to cricket, Armstrong felt that although he had several pieces of a jigsaw in place, he now needed to return to his office as soon as possible if he was to have any hope of completing the picture before twelve o’clock the following day. He checked his watch, and despite having only just been served with a second helping of bread and butter pudding, he called for the bill. When it appeared a few moments later, Valchek removed a thick manuscript from his briefcase and handed it ostentatiously across the table to his host. Once the bill had been settled, Armstrong rose from his place, tucked the manuscript under his arm and talked to Valchek in Russian as they strolled past the next alcove. He glanced at the woman, and thought he detected a look of relief on her face when she heard them speaking in a foreign language.

When they reached the door, Armstrong passed a pound note to the head waiter. ‘An excellent lunch, Mario,’ he said. ‘And thank you for seating such a stunning young woman in the next booth.’

‘My pleasure, sir,’ said Mario, pocketing the money.

‘Dare I ask what name the table was booked in?’

Mario ran a finger down the booking list. ‘A Mr. Keith Townsend, sir.’

That particular piece of the jigsaw had been well worth a pound, thought Armstrong as he marched out of the restaurant in front of his guest.

When they reached the pavement, Armstrong shook hands with the Russian and assured him that the publication process would be set in motion without delay. ‘That is good to hear, comrade,’ said Valchek, in the most refined English accent. ‘And now,’ he said, ‘I must hurry if I’m not to be late for an appointment with my tailor.’ He quickly melted into the stream of people crossing the Strand, and disappeared in the direction of Savile Row.

As Benson drove him back to the office, Armstrong’s mind was not on Tulpanov, Yuri Gagarin, or even Forsdyke. Once he had reached the top floor he ran straight into Sally’s office, where he found her talking on the phone. He leaned across the desk and cut the caller off. ‘Why should Keith Townsend be interested in something called WRG?’

Sally, still holding the receiver, thought for a moment then suggested, ‘Western Railway Group?’

‘No, that can’t be right — Townsend’s only interested in newspapers.’

‘Do you want me to try and find out?’

‘Yes,’ said Armstrong. ‘If Townsend’s in London to buy something, I want to know what. Allow only the Berlin team to work on this one, and don’t let anyone else in on it.’

It took Sally, Peter Wakeham, Stephen Hallet and Reg Benson a couple of hours to supply several more pieces of the jigsaw, while Armstrong called his accountant and banker and warned them to be on twenty-four — hour standby.

By 4:15 Armstrong was studying a report on the West Riding Publishing Group which had been hand-delivered to him by Dunn & Bradstreet a few minutes earlier. After he had been through the figures a second time, he had to agree with Townsend that £120,000 was a fair price. But of course that was before Mr. John Shuttleworth knew he would be receiving a counter-offer.

The team were all seated around Armstrong’s desk ready to reveal their findings by six o’clock that evening.

Stephen Hallet had discovered who the other man at the table was, and which firm of solicitors he belonged to. ‘They’ve represented the Shuttleworth family for over half a century,’ he told Armstrong. ‘Townsend has a meeting with John Shuttleworth, the present chairman, in Leeds tomorrow, but I couldn’t find out where or the precise time.’ Sally smiled.

‘Well done, Stephen. What have you got to offer, Peter?’

‘I have Wolstenholme’s office and home numbers, the time of the train he’ll be catching back to Leeds, and the registration number of the car his wife will be driving when she meets him at the station. I managed to convince his secretary that I’m an old schoolfriend.’

‘Good, you’ve filled in a couple of corners of the jigsaw,’ said Armstrong. ‘What about you, Reg?’ It had taken him years to stop addressing him as Private Benson.

‘Townsend’s staying at the Ritz, and so is the girl. She’s called Kate Tulloh. Twenty-two years old, works on the Sunday Chronicle.’

‘I think you’ll find it’s the Sydney Chronicle,’ interrupted Sally.

‘Bloody Australian accent,’ said Reg in a cockney twang. ‘Miss Tulloh,’ he continued, ‘the head porter assures me, is not only booked into a separate room from her boss, but is two floors below him.’

‘So she’s not his mistress,’ said Armstrong. ‘Sally, what have you come up with?’

‘The connection between Townsend and Wolstenholme is that they were undergraduates at Oxford at the same time, as the Worcester College secretary confirmed. But the bad news is that John Shuttleworth is the sole shareholder of the West Riding Group, and virtually a recluse. I can’t find out where he lives, and he’s not on the telephone. In fact, no one at the group’s headquarters has seen him for several years. So the idea of making a counter-offer before twelve o’clock tomorrow is just not realistic.’

Sally’s news caused a glum silence, finally broken by Armstrong.

‘Right then. Our only hope is somehow to stop Townsend attending the meeting in Leeds, and to take his place.’

‘That won’t be easy if we don’t know where the meeting’s going to be held,’ said Peter.

‘The Queen’s Hotel,’ said Sally.

‘How can you be sure of that?’ asked Armstrong.

‘I rang all the large hotels in Leeds and asked if they had a reservation in Wolstenholme’s name. The Queen’s said he’d booked the White Rose Room from twelve to three, and would be serving lunch for a party of four at one o’clock. I can even tell you what’s on the menu.’

‘I don’t know what I’d do without you, Sally,’ said Armstrong. ‘So now, let’s take advantage of the knowledge we have. Where is Wolst...’

‘Already on his way back to Leeds,’ interrupted Peter, ‘on the 6:50 from King’s Cross. He’s expected to be at his desk by nine tomorrow morning.’

‘What about Townsend and the girl?’ asked Armstrong. ‘Reg?’

‘Townsend has ordered a car to take them to King’s Cross at 7:30 tomorrow, so they can catch the 8:12 which arrives at Leeds Central at 11:47, giving them enough time to reach the Queen’s Hotel by midday.’

‘So between now and 7:30 tomorrow we somehow have to stop Townsend getting on that train to Leeds.’ Armstrong glanced around the room, but none of them looked at all hopeful. ‘And we’ll have to come up with something good,’ he added, ‘because I can tell you, Townsend is a lot sharper than Julius Hahn. And I have a feeling Miss Tulloh is no fool either.’

There followed another long silence before Sally said, ‘I don’t have a particular brainwave, but I did find out that Townsend was in England when his father died.’

‘So what?’ said Armstrong.

21 Daily Mirror 17 October 1964 Wilson’s First Pledge: ‘It’s Our Job to Govern, and We Will’

Keith had agreed to meet Kate in the Palm Court for breakfast at seven o’clock. He sat at a table in the corner reading The Times. He wasn’t surprised that it made so little money, and couldn’t understand why the Astors didn’t close it down, because no one else would want to buy it. He sipped a black coffee, and stopped concentrating on the lead story as his mind drifted back to Kate. She remained so distant and professional that he began to wonder if there was some other man in her life, and whether he had been foolish to ask her to accompany him.

Just after seven she joined him at the table. She was carrying a copy of the Guardian. Not the best way to start the day, Keith thought, although he had to admit he still felt the same excitement as he had the first moment he saw her.

‘How are you this morning?’ she asked.

‘Never better,’ said Keith.

‘Does it feel like a day for taking something over?’ she asked with a grin.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I have a feeling that by this time tomorrow, I will own my first paper in England.’

A waiter poured Kate a cup of white coffee. She was impressed that after only one day at the hotel he didn’t need to ask whether she took milk.

‘Henry Wolstenholme telephoned last night just before I went to bed,’ said Keith. ‘He’d already spoken to Shuttleworth, and by the time we arrive in Leeds the lawyers will have all the contracts ready to sign.’

‘Isn’t it all a bit risky? You haven’t even seen the presses.’

‘No, I’m only signing subject to a ninety-day due diligence clause, so you’d better be prepared to spend some time in the north of England. At this time of year it will be what they call “parky”.’

‘Mr. Townsend, paging Mr. Townsend,’ A bellboy, carrying a sign with Keith’s name on it, walked straight over to them. ‘Message for you, sir,’ he said, handing him an envelope.

Keith ripped it open to find a note scribbled on a sheet of paper embossed with the crest of the Australian High Commissioner. ‘Please call urgently. Alexander Downer.’

He showed it to Kate. She frowned. ‘Do you know Downer?’ she asked.

‘I met him once at the Melbourne Cup,’ said Keith, ‘but that was long before he became High Commissioner. I don’t suppose he’ll remember me.’

‘What can he want at this time in the morning?’ asked Kate.

‘No idea. Probably wants to know why I turned down his invitation for dinner this evening,’ he said, laughing. ‘We can always pay him a visit when we get back from the north. Still, I’d better try and speak to him before we leave for Leeds in case it’s something important.’ He rose from his chair. ‘I look forward to the day when they have phones in cars.’

‘I’ll pop up to my room and see you back in the foyer just before 7:30,’ said Kate.

‘Right,’ said Keith, and left the Palm Court in search of a phone. When he reached the foyer, the hall porter pointed to a little table opposite the reception desk. Keith dialed the number at the top of the sheet of paper, and a woman’s voice answered almost immediately. ‘Good morning, Australian High Commission.’

‘Can I speak to the High Commissioner?’ Keith asked.

‘Mr. Downer’s not in yet, sir,’ she replied. ‘Would you like to call back after 9:30?’

‘It’s Keith Townsend. I was asked to phone him urgently.’

‘Oh, yes, sir, I was told that if you called, I was to put you through to the residence. Please hold on.’

As Keith waited to be connected, he checked his watch. It was 7:20.

‘Alexander Downer speaking.’

‘It’s Keith Townsend, High Commissioner. You asked me to call urgently.’

‘Yes, thank you, Keith. We last met at the Melbourne Cup, but I don’t suppose you remember.’ His Australian accent sounded far more pronounced than Townsend recalled.

‘I do remember actually,’ said Townsend.

‘I’m sorry to say it’s not good news, Keith. It seems that your mother has had a heart attack. She’s at the Royal Melbourne Hospital. Her condition’s stable, but she’s in intensive care.’

Townsend was speechless. He had been out of the country when his father had died, and he wasn’t going to...

‘Are you still there, Keith?’

‘Yes, yes,’ he said. ‘But I had dinner with her the night before I left, and I’ve never seen her looking better.’

‘I’m sorry, Keith. It’s damned bad luck that it happened while you’re abroad. I’ve arranged to hold two first class seats on a Qantas flight to Melbourne that takes off at nine this morning. You can still make it if you leave at once. Or you could catch the same flight tomorrow morning.’

‘No, I’ll leave immediately,’ said Townsend.

‘Would you like me to send my car over to the hotel to take you to the airport?’

‘No, that won’t be necessary. I already have a car booked to drive me to the station. I’ll use that one.’

‘I’ve alerted the Qantas staff at Heathrow, so you won’t have any delays, but don’t hesitate to call me if there’s anything else I can do to help. I hope we meet again in happier circumstances.’

‘Thank you,’ said Townsend. He put the phone down and ran across to the reception desk.

‘I’ll be checking out immediately,’ he said to the man standing behind the counter. ‘Please have my bill ready as soon as I come back down.’

‘Certainly, sir. Do you still need the car that’s waiting outside?’

‘Yes, I do,’ said Townsend. He turned quickly and ran up the stairs to the first floor, and jogged along the passageway checking the numbers. When he reached 124, he banged on the door with his fist. Kate opened it a few moments later, and immediately saw the anxiety in his face.

‘What’s happened?’ she asked.

‘My mother’s had a heart attack. Bring your bags straight down. We’re leaving in five minutes.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘Would you like me to call Henry Wolstenholme and tell him what’s happened?’

‘No. We can do that from the airport,’ said Townsend, rushing off down the corridor.

A few minutes later he emerged from the lift on the ground floor. While his luggage was being placed in the boot, he settled the bill, walked quickly to the car, tipped the bellboy and joined Kate in the back. He leaned forward and said to the driver, ‘Heathrow.’

‘Heathrow?’ said the driver. ‘My day sheet says I’m to take you to King’s Cross. There’s nothing here about Heathrow.’

‘I don’t give a damn what your day sheet says,’ said Townsend. ‘Just get me to Heathrow.’

‘I’m sorry, sir, but I’ve got my instructions. You see, King’s Cross is an inner-city booking whereas Heathrow is an outer-city journey, and I can’t just...’

‘If you don’t move and move quickly, I’ll break your bloody neck,’ said Townsend.

‘I don’t have to listen to language like that from anyone,’ said the driver. He got out of the car, unlocked the boot and began unloading their cases onto the curb.

Townsend was about to leap out after him when Kate took his hand. ‘Sit still and let me deal with this,’ she said firmly.

Townsend was unable to hear the conversation that was taking place behind the car, but after a few moments he could see the cases being put back into the boot.

When Kate rejoined him, he said, ‘Thank you.’

‘Don’t thank me, thank him,’ she whispered.

The driver eased the car away from the curb, turned left at the lights, and joined the morning traffic. He was relieved that the traffic leaving London at that time in the morning wasn’t like the bumper-to-bumper queues that were trying to fight their way into the capital.

‘I’ll have to call Downer as soon as we get to the airport,’ said Townsend quietly.

‘Why do you want to speak to him again?’ asked Kate.

‘I thought I’d try and have a word with my mother’s doctor in Melbourne before we take off, but I don’t have the number.’

Kate nodded. Townsend began tapping his fingers on the window. He tried to remember the last meeting he had had with his mother. He had briefed her on the possible takeover of the West Riding Group, and she had responded with her usual set of shrewd questions. After dinner he had left, promising her that he would call her from Leeds if he closed the deal.

‘And who’s the girl going with you?’ she had asked. He’d been cagey, but he knew he hadn’t fooled her. He glanced across at Kate and wanted to take her hand, but she seemed preoccupied. Neither of them spoke until they arrived at the airport. When the car pulled up outside the terminal, Townsend jumped out and went in search of a trolley while the driver unloaded the cases. The moment they were stacked up, he gave him a large tip, said ‘Thank you’ several times, then pushed the trolley as fast as he could through the hall to the checking-in counter, with Kate following a pace behind him.

‘Are we still in time for the Melbourne flight?’ Townsend asked as he placed his passport on the Qantas check-in desk.

‘Yes, Mr. Townsend,’ the booking clerk replied, flicking open his passport. ‘The High Commissioner called earlier.’ She looked up and said, ‘We have reserved two tickets for you, one in your name, the other for Miss Tulloh.’

‘That’s me,’ said Kate, handing over her passport.

‘You’re both in first class, seats 3D and E. Would you please go straight to gate number seventeen, where boarding is about to commence.’

By the time they arrived in the departure lounge, economy was already boarding, and Townsend left Kate to check them in while he went off in search of a telephone. He had to wait in a queue of three for the one available phone, and when he eventually reached the front of the line, he dialed Henry’s home number. It was engaged. He tried three more times, but it continued to give out the same long beeps. As he began dialing the number at the head of the High Commissioner’s writing paper, a booking clerk announced that all remaining passengers should take their seats, as the gates were about to close. The High Commissioner’s number began to ring, and Townsend glanced round to find that the departure lounge was empty, apart from him and Kate. He waved her in the direction of the aircraft.

Townsend let the phone ring for a few more moments, but no one answered. He gave up and replaced the receiver, then ran down the corridor to find Kate waiting by the door of the plane. Once they had entered it, the doors swung closed behind them.

‘Any luck?’ asked Kate, as she began strapping herself into the seat.

‘No,’ said Townsend. ‘Henry was constantly engaged, and the High Commission didn’t answer the phone.’

Kate remained silent as the plane taxied toward the runway. When it came to a halt, she said, ‘While you were on the phone, I began thinking. It just doesn’t add up.’

The plane began to accelerate down the runway as Townsend fastened his seatbelt.

‘What do you mean, it doesn’t add up?’

‘The last hour,’ said Kate.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Well, to start with, my ticket.’

‘Your ticket?’ said Keith, puzzled.

‘Yes. How did Qantas know what name to book it in?’

‘I suppose the High Commissioner told them.’

‘But how could he?’ said Kate. ‘When he sent you the invitation to dinner it didn’t include me, because he had no idea that I was with you.’

‘He could have asked the hotel manager.’

‘Possibly. But something else has been nagging at the back of my mind.’

‘And what’s that?’

‘The bellboy knew exactly which table to go to.’

‘So what?’

‘You were facing me in the corner of the room looking toward the window, but I just happened to look up when he came into the Palm Court. I remember thinking it was strange that he knew exactly where to go, despite you having your back to him.’

‘He could have asked the head waiter.’

‘No,’ said Kate. ‘He walked straight past the head waiter. Didn’t even give him a glance.’

‘What are you getting at?’

‘And Henry’s phone — continually engaged even though it was only just after 8:30 in the morning.’ The wheels of the plane left the ground. ‘And why couldn’t you get through to the High Commissioner at 8:30 when you could at 7:20?’

Keith looked straight at her.

‘We’ve been taken, Keith. And by someone who wanted to be certain that you wouldn’t be in Leeds at twelve o’clock to sign that contract.’

Keith flicked off his seatbelt, ran up the aisle and barged into the cockpit before the steward could stop him. The captain listened to his story sympathetically, but pointed out that there was nothing he could do now that the plane was on its way to Bombay.

‘Flight 009 has taken off for Melbourne with both pieces of cargo on board,’ said Benson from a telephone in the observation tower. He watched as the Comet disappeared through a bank of clouds. ‘They will be in the air for at least the next fourteen hours.’

‘Well done, Reg,’ said Armstrong. ‘Now get back to the Ritz. Sally’s already booked the room Townsend was in, so wait there for Wolstenholme to call. My guess is that it will be soon after twelve. By then I’ll have arrived at the Queen’s Hotel, and I’ll let you know my room number.’

Keith sat in his seat on the plane, banging the armrests with the palms of his hands. ‘Who are they, and how did they manage it?’

Kate was fairly certain she knew who, and a great deal of how.

Three hours later, a call came through to the Ritz for Mr. Keith Townsend. The switchboard operator followed the instructions she’d been given by the extremely generous gentleman who’d had a word with her earlier that morning, and put the call through to room 319, where Benson was sitting on the edge of the bed.

‘Is Keith there?’ asked an anxious voice.

‘Who’s calling, please?’

‘Henry Wolstenholme,’ he boomed.

‘Good morning, Mr. Wolstenholme. Mr. Townsend tried to call you this morning, but your line was continually engaged.’

‘I know. Someone called me at home around seven, but it turned out to be a wrong number. When I tried to dial out later, the line had gone dead. But where is Keith?’

‘He’s on a plane to Melbourne. His mother’s had a heart attack and the High Commissioner arranged to hold up the flight for him.’

‘I’m sorry to hear about Keith’s mother, but I fear Mr. Shuttleworth may not be willing to hold up the contract. It’s been hard enough to get him to agree to see us at all.’

Benson read out the exact words Armstrong had written down for him: ‘Mr. Townsend instructed me to say that he has sent a representative up to Leeds with the authority to sign any contract, as long as you have no objection.’

‘I have no objection,’ said Wolstenholme. ‘When is he expected to arrive?’

‘He should be at the Queen’s Hotel by now. He left for Leeds soon after Mr. Townsend departed for Heathrow. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was already in the hotel looking for you.’

‘I’d better go down to the foyer and see if I can find him,’ said Wolstenholme.

‘By the way,’ said Benson, ‘our accountant just wanted to check the final figure — £120,000.’

‘Plus all the legal expenses,’ said Wolstenholme.

‘Plus all the legal expenses,’ repeated Benson. ‘I won’t keep you any longer, Mr. Wolstenholme.’ He put the phone down.

Wolstenholme left the White Rose Room and headed down in the lift, confident that if Keith’s lawyer had a money draft for the full amount, he could still have everything settled before Mr. Shuttleworth arrived. There was only one problem: he had no idea who he was looking for.

Benson asked the switchboard operator to connect him to a number in Leeds. When the call was answered, he asked to be put through to room 217.

‘Well done, Benson,’ said Armstrong after he had confirmed the figure of £120,000. ‘Now book out of the hotel, pay the bill in cash and take the rest of the day off.’

Armstrong left room 217 and took the lift down to the ground floor. As he stepped out into the foyer he saw Hallet talking to the man he had seen at the Savoy. He went straight over to them. ‘Good morning,’ he said. ‘My name is Richard Armstrong, and this is the company lawyer. I think you’re expecting us.’

Wolstenholme stared at Armstrong. He could have sworn he’d seen him somewhere before. ‘Yes. I’ve booked us into the White Rose Room so we won’t be disturbed.’

The two men nodded and followed him. ‘Sad news about Keith’s mother,’ said Wolstenholme as they stepped into the lift.

‘Yes, wasn’t it?’ said Armstrong, careful not to add anything that might later incriminate him.

Once they had taken their places round the boardroom table in the White Rose Room, Armstrong and Hallet checked over the details of the contract line by line, while Wolstenholme sat in the corner drinking coffee. He was surprised that they were going over the final draft so thoroughly when Keith had already given it his blessing, but he accepted that he would have done the same in their position. From time to time Hallet came up with a question which was invariably followed by a whispered exchange with Armstrong. An hour later they passed the contract back to Wolstenholme and confirmed that everything was in order.

Wolstenholme was about to ask some questions of his own, when a middle-aged man shuffled in, dressed in a prewar suit that hadn’t yet come back into fashion. Wolstenholme introduced John Shuttleworth, who smiled shyly. After they had shaken hands Armstrong said, ‘Nothing left for us to do except sign the contract.’

John Shuttleworth nodded his agreement, and Armstrong removed a pen from inside his jacket and bent down to sign where Stephen’s trembling finger was poised. He passed the pen over to Shuttleworth, who signed between the penciled crosses without uttering a word. Stephen then handed over a draft for £120,000 to Wolstenholme. The lawyer nodded when Armstrong reminded him that as it was a draft for cash, it would perhaps be wise to bank it immediately.

‘I’ll just pop across to the nearest Midland while they’re setting up for lunch,’ said Wolstenholme. ‘I shouldn’t be more than a few minutes.’

When Wolstenholme returned, he found Shuttleworth seated at the lunch table on his own. ‘Where are the other two?’ he asked.

‘They were most apologetic, but said they couldn’t wait for lunch — had to get back to London.’ Wolstenholme looked perplexed. There were still several questions he wanted to ask — and he didn’t know where to send his bill. Shuttleworth poured him a glass of champagne and said, ‘Congratulations, Henry. You couldn’t have done a more professional job. I must say your friend Townsend is obviously a man of action.’

‘Not much doubt about that,’ said Wolstenholme.

‘And generous, too,’ said Shuttleworth.

‘Generous?’

‘Yes — they may have left without saying goodbye, but they threw in a couple of bottles of champagne.’

When Wolstenholme arrived home that night, the phone was ringing. He picked it up to find Townsend on the other end of the line.

‘I was so sorry to hear about your mother,’ were Henry’s opening words.

‘There’s nothing wrong with my mother,’ said Townsend sharply.

‘What?’ said Henry. ‘But...’

‘I’m returning on the next available flight. I’ll be in Leeds by tomorrow evening.’

‘No need to do that, old chap,’ said Henry, slightly bemused. ‘Shuttleworth has already signed.’

‘But the contract still needs my signature,’ said Townsend.

‘No it doesn’t. Your representative signed everything on your behalf,’ said Henry, ‘and I can assure you that all the paperwork was in order.’

‘My representative?’ said Townsend.

‘Yes, a Mr. Richard Armstrong. I banked his draft for £120,000 just before lunch. There’s really no need for you to come all the way back. WRG now belongs to you.’

Townsend slammed the phone down and turned round to find Kate standing behind him. ‘I’m going on to Sydney, but I want you to return to London and find out everything you can about a man called Richard Armstrong.’

‘So that’s the name of the man who was sitting in the next alcove to us at the Savoy.’

‘It would seem so,’ said Townsend, spitting out the words.

‘And he now owns the West Riding Group?’

‘Yes, he does.’

‘Can’t you do anything about it?’

‘I could sue him for misrepresentation, even fraud, but that could take years. In any case, a man who would go to that amount of trouble will have made sure he stayed within the letter of the law. And one thing’s for sure: Shuttleworth isn’t going to agree to appear in any witness box.’

Kate frowned. ‘Well then, I can’t see much point in returning to London now. I suspect your battle with Mr. Richard Armstrong has only just begun. We may as well spend the night in Bombay,’ she suggested. ‘I’ve never been to India.’

Townsend looked at her, but didn’t say anything until he spotted a TWA captain heading toward them.

‘Which is the best hotel in Bombay?’ he asked him.

The captain stopped. ‘They tell me the Grand Palace is in a class of its own, but I’ve never actually stayed there myself,’ he replied.

‘Thank you,’ said Townsend, and began pushing their baggage toward the exit. Just as they stepped out of the terminal it began to rain.

Townsend loaded their bags into a waiting taxi that he felt certain would have been decommissioned in any other country. Once he had joined Kate in the back, they began the long journey into Bombay. Although some of the street lights were working, the taxi’s were not, nor were its windscreen wipers. And the driver didn’t seem to know how to get out of second gear. But he was able to confirm every few minutes that the Grand Palace was ‘in a class of its own.’

When they eventually swept into the driveway, a clap of thunder struck above them. Keith had to admit that the ornate white building was certainly large and palatial, even if the more seasoned traveler might ungraciously have added the word ‘faded.’

‘Welcome,’ said a man in a fashionable dark suit as they entered the marble-floored foyer. ‘My name is Mr. Baht. I am the general manager.’ He bowed low. ‘May I ask what name your booking is in?’

‘We don’t have a reservation. We’ll be needing two rooms,’ said Keith.

‘That is indeed unfortunate,’ said Mr. Baht, ‘because I am almost certain that we are fully booked for the night. Let me find out.’ He ushered them toward the reservation desk and spoke for some time to the booking clerk. The clerk kept shaking his head. Mr. Baht studied the reservation sheet himself and finally turned to face them again.

‘I’m very very sorry to tell you that we have only one room vacant,’ he said, placing his hands together, perhaps in the hope that through the power of prayer one room might miraculously turn into two. ‘And I fear...’

‘You fear...?’ said Keith.

‘It is the Royal Suite, sahib.’

‘How appropriate,’ said Kate, ‘remembering your views on the monarchy.’ She was trying not to laugh. ‘Does it have a sofa?’ she asked.

‘Several,’ said a surprised general manager, who had never been asked that question before.

‘Then we’ll take it,’ said Kate.

After they had filled in the booking form, Mr. Baht clapped his hands and a porter in a long red tunic, red pantaloons and a red turban came bustling forward.

‘Very fine suite,’ said the porter as he carried their bags up the wide staircase. This time Kate did laugh. ‘Slept in by Lord Mountbatten,’ he added with obvious pride, ‘and many maharajahs. Very fine suite.’ He placed the bags by the entrance to the Royal Suite, put a large key in the lock and pushed open the double door, then switched on the lights and stood aside to usher them in.

The two of them walked into an enormous room. Up against the far wall was a vast, opulent double bed, which could have slept half a dozen maharajahs. And to Keith’s disappointment there were, as Mr. Baht had promised, several large sofas.

‘Very fine bed,’ said the porter, placing their bags in the center of the room. Keith handed him a pound note. The porter bowed low, turned and left the room as a flash of lightning shot across the sky and the lights suddenly went out.

‘How did you manage that?’ asked Kate.

‘If you look out of the window, I think you’ll find it was carried out by a far higher authority than me.’ Kate turned to see that the whole city was in darkness.

‘So, shall we just stand around waiting for the lights to come back on, or shall we go in search of somewhere to sit down?’ Keith put out his hand in the darkness, and touched Kate’s hip. ‘You lead,’ she said, taking his hand. He turned in the direction of the bed and began taking small paces toward it, sweeping the air in front of him with his free arm until he eventually hit the corner post. They fell onto the large mattress together, laughing.

‘Very fine bed,’ said Keith.

‘Slept in by many maharajahs,’ said Kate.

‘And by Lord Mountbatten,’ said Keith.

Kate laughed. ‘By the way, Keith, you didn’t have to buy off the Bombay electricity company just to get me into bed. I’ve spent the last week thinking you were only interested in my brain.’