The Fourth Estate

28 The Citizen 15 April 1968 Minister Resigns

‘One hundred thousand copies of The Senator’s Mistress have been printed and are stacked in the warehouse in New Jersey, awaiting Mrs. Sherwood’s inspection,’ said Kate, looking up at the ceiling.

‘That’s a good start,’ said Townsend. ‘But they’re not going to return a penny of my money until they see them in the shops.’

‘Once her lawyer has verified the numbers and the invoiced orders, he’ll have no choice but to return the first million dollars. We will have fulfilled that part of the contract within the stipulated twelve-month period.’

‘And how much has this little exercise cost me so far?’

‘If you include printing and transport, around $30,000,’ replied Kate. ‘Everything else was done in-house, or can be set against tax.’

‘Clever girl. But what chance do I have of getting my second million back? For all the time you’ve spent rewriting the damn book, I still can’t see it making the bestseller lists.’

‘I’m not so sure,’ said Kate. ‘Everybody knows that only eleven hundred shops report their sales to the New York Times each week. If I could get a sight of that list of booksellers, I’d have a real chance of making sure you get your second million back.’

‘But knowing which shops report doesn’t make customers buy books.’

‘No, but I think we could nudge them in the right direction.’

‘And how do you propose doing that?’

‘First by launching the book in a slow month — say, January or February — and then by only selling in to those outlets that report to the New York Times.’

‘But that won’t make people buy them.’

‘It will if we only charge the bookshop fifty cents a copy, with a cover price of $3.50, so the bookseller shows a 700 percent mark-up on every copy sold, instead of the usual one hundred.’

‘But that still won’t help if the book is unreadable.’

‘It won’t matter in the first week,’ said Kate. ‘If the bookshops stand to make that sort of return, it will be in their interest to put the book in the window, on the counter, by the till, even on the best-seller shelves. My research shows that we’ll only have to sell ten thousand copies in the first week to hit the number fifteen slot on the best-seller list, which works out at less than ten copies per shop.’

‘I suppose that might just give us a fifty-fifty chance,’ said Townsend.

‘And I can lower those odds even further. In the week of publication we can use our network of newspapers and magazines across America to make sure the book gets favorable reviews and front-page advertisements, and put my article on “The Amazing Mrs. Sherwood” in as many of our journals as you think we can get away with.’

‘If it’s going to save me a million dollars, that will be every one of them,’ said Townsend. ‘But that still only makes the odds a shade better than fifty-fifty.’

‘If you’ll let me go one step further, I can probably make it odds-on.’

‘What are you proposing? That I buy the New York Times?’

‘Nothing quite as drastic as that,’ said Kate with a smile. ‘I’m recommending that during the week of publication our own employees buy back 5,000 copies of the book.’

‘Five thousand copies? That would just be throwing money down the drain.’

‘Not necessarily,’ said Kate. ‘After we’ve sold them back to the shops at fifty cents apiece a second time, for an outlay of $15,000 you’ll be virtually guaranteed a week on the best-seller list. And then Mr. Yablon will have to return your second million.’

Townsend took her in his arms. ‘We just might pull it off.’

‘But only if you get hold of the names of the shops that report to the New York Times best-seller list.’

‘You’re a clever girl,’ he said, pulling her closer.

Kate smiled. ‘At last I’ve found out what turns you on.’

‘Stephen Hallet is on line one, and Ray Atkins, the minister for industry, on line two,’ said Pamela.

‘I’ll take Atkins first. Tell Stephen I’ll call him straight back.’

Armstrong waited for the click on his latest toy, which would ensure that the whole conversation was recorded. ‘Good morning, Minister,’ he said. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘It’s a personal problem, Dick. I wondered if we could meet?’

‘Of course,’ Armstrong replied. ‘How about lunch at the Savoy some time next week?’ He flicked through his diary to see who he could cancel.

‘I’m afraid it’s more urgent than that, Dick. And I’d prefer not to meet in such a public place.’

Armstrong checked his appointments for the rest of the day. ‘Well, why don’t you join me for lunch today in my private dining room? I was due to see Don Sharpe, but if it’s that urgent, I can put him off.’

‘That’s very kind of you, Dick. Shall we say around one?’

‘Fine. I’ll see that there’s someone to meet you in reception and bring you straight up to my office.’ Armstrong put the phone down and smiled. He knew exactly what the minister of industry wanted to see him about. After all, he had remained a loyal supporter of the Labor Party over the years — not least by donating a thousand pounds per annum to each of fifty key marginal seats. This small investment ensured that he had fifty close friends in the parliamentary party, several of them ministers, and gave him an entrée into the highest levels of government whenever he needed it. Had he wanted to exert the same influence in America, it would have cost him a million dollars a year.

His thoughts were interrupted by the phone ringing. Pamela had Stephen Hallet on the line.

‘Sorry to have to call you back, Stephen, but I had young Ray Atkins on the line. Says he needs to see me urgently. I think we can both work out what that’s about.’

‘I thought the decision on the Citizen wasn’t expected until next month at the earliest.’

‘Perhaps they want to make an announcement before people start speculating. Don’t forget that Atkins was the minister who referred Townsend’s bid for the Citizen to the Monopolies and Mergers Commission. I don’t think the Labor Party will be ecstatic about Townsend controlling the Citizen as well as the Globe.’

‘It’s the MMC who’ll decide in the end, Dick, not the minister.’

‘I still can’t see them allowing Townsend to gain control of half of Fleet Street. In any case, the Citizen is the one paper that’s consistently supported the Labor Party over the years, while most of the other rags have been nothing more than Tory magazines.’

‘But the MMC will still have to appear even-handed.’

‘Like Townsend has been with Wilson and Heath? The Globe has become a daily love letter to Teddy the sailor boy. If Townsend were to get his hands on the Citizen as well, the Labor movement would be left without a voice in this country.’

‘You know it and I know it,’ said Stephen. ‘But the MMC isn’t made up only of socialists.’

‘More’s the pity,’ said Armstrong. ‘If I could get my hands on the Citizen, for the first time in his life Townsend would discover what real competition is all about.’

‘You don’t have to convince me, Dick. I wish you luck with the minister. But that wasn’t the reason I was calling.’

‘Whenever you phone, Stephen, it’s a problem. What is it this time?’

‘I’ve just received a long letter from Sharon Levitt’s solicitor, threatening you with a writ,’ said Stephen.

‘But I signed a settlement with her months ago. She can’t expect another penny out of me.’

‘I know you did, Dick. But this time they’re going to serve a paternity order on you. It seems that Sharon has given birth to a son, and she’s claiming that you’re the father.’

‘It could be anyone’s, knowing that promiscuous little bitch...’ began Armstrong.

‘Possibly,’ said Stephen. ‘But not with that birthmark below its right shoulderblade. And don’t forget there are four women on the MMC, and Townsend’s wife is pregnant.’

‘When was the bastard born?’ asked Armstrong, quickly leafing backward through his diary.

‘4 January.’

‘Hold on,’ said Armstrong. He stared down at the entry in the diary for nine months before that date: Alexander Sherwood, Paris. ‘The bloody woman must have planned it all along,’ he boomed, ‘while pretending that she wanted to be my personal assistant. That way she knew she’d end up with two settlements. What are you recommending?’

‘Her solicitors will be aware of the battle that’s going on for the Citizen, and therefore they know that it would only take one call to the Globe...’

‘They wouldn’t dare,’ said Armstrong, his voice rising.

‘Perhaps not,’ replied Stephen calmly. ‘But she might. I can only recommend that you let me settle on the best terms I can get.’

‘If you say so,’ said Armstrong quietly. ‘But make sure you warn them that if one word of this leaks out, the payments will dry up the same day.’

‘I’ll do my best,’ said Stephen. ‘But I’m afraid she’s learned something from you.’

‘And what’s that?’ asked Dick.

‘That it doesn’t pay to hire a cheap solicitor. I’ll phone you back as soon as we’ve agreed terms.’

‘Do that,’ said Armstrong, slamming the phone down.

‘Pamela!’ he bellowed through the door. ‘Get me Don Sharpe.’ When the editor of the London Evening Post came on the line, Armstrong said, ‘Something’s come up. I’m going to have to postpone our lunch for the time being.’ He put the phone down before giving Sharpe a chance to respond. Armstrong had long ago decided that this particular editor needed replacing, and he had even approached the man he wanted for the job, but the minister’s phone call had caused that decision to be delayed for a few more days.

He wasn’t too worried about Sharon and whether she might blab. He had files on every editor in Fleet Street, even thicker ones on their masters, and almost an entire cabinet devoted to Keith Townsend. His mind drifted back to Ray Atkins.

After Pamela had gone through the morning mail with him, he asked her for a copy of Dod’s Parliamentary Companion. He wanted to remind himself of the salient facts of Atkins’s career, the names of his wife and children, the ministries he’d held, even his hobbies.

Everyone accepted that Ray Atkins was one of the brightest politicians of his generation, as was confirmed when Harold Wilson made him a shadow minister after only fifteen months. Following the 1966 general election Atkins became Minister of State at the Department of Trade and Industry. It was generally agreed that if Labor were to win the next election — a result that Armstrong didn’t consider likely — Atkins would be invited to join the Cabinet. One or two people were even talking of him as a future leader of the party.

As Atkins was a member for a northern constituency covered by one of Armstrong’s local papers, the two men had become more than casual acquaintances over the years, often having a meal together at the party conference. When Atkins was appointed minister of industry, with special responsibilities for takeovers, Armstrong made even more of an effort to cultivate him, hoping that might tip the balance when it came to deciding who should be allowed to take over the Citizen.

Sales of the Globe had continued their steady decline after Townsend had bought out Sir Walter Sherwood. Townsend had intended to sack the editor, but he shelved his plans when a few months later Hugh Tuncliffe, the proprietor of the Citizen, died, and his widow announced she would be putting the paper up for sale. Townsend spent several days convincing his board that he should put in an offer for the Citizen — an offer which the Financial Times described as ‘too high a price to pay,’ even though the Citizen boasted the largest daily circulation in Britain. After all the bids had been received, his turned out to be the highest by far. There was an immediate outcry from the chattering classes, whose strongly held views were reported on the front page of the Guardian. Day after day, selected columnists trumpeted their disapproval of the prospect of Townsend owning the two most successful dailies in the land. In a rare display of broadsheet solidarity The Times thundered its views in a leader on behalf of the Establishment, condemning the idea of foreigners taking over national institutions and thus exerting a powerful influence over the British way of life. The following morning several letters landed on the editor’s desk pointing out that The Times’s own proprietor was a Canadian. None of them was published.

When Armstrong announced that he would match Townsend’s offer, and agreed to retain Sir Paul Maitland, the former ambassador to Washington, as chairman of the board, the government was left with no choice but to recommend that the matter be referred to the Monopolies and Mergers Commission. Townsend was livid at what he described as ‘nothing more than a socialist plot,’ but he didn’t gain much sympathy from those who had followed the decline in the journalistic standards of the Globe over the past year. Not that many people came out in favor of Armstrong either. The cliché about having to choose the lesser of two evils had appeared in several papers during the past month.

But this time Armstrong was convinced he had Townsend on the run, and that the biggest prize in Fleet Street was about to fall into his lap. He couldn’t wait for Ray Atkins to join him for lunch and have the news officially confirmed.

Atkins arrived at Armstrong House just before one. The proprietor was having a conversation in Russian when Pamela ushered him into the office. Armstrong immediately put the phone down in mid-sentence and rose to welcome his guest. He couldn’t help noticing as he shook Atkins’s hand that it was a little damp.

‘What would you like to drink?’ he asked.

‘A small Scotch and a lot of water,’ Atkins replied.

Armstrong poured the minister a drink and then led him through to the adjoining room. He switched on an unnecessary light and, with it, a concealed tape recorder. Atkins smiled with relief when he saw that only two places had been laid at the long dining table. Armstrong ushered him into a chair.

‘Thank you, Dick,’ he said nervously. ‘It’s most kind of you to see me at such short notice.’

‘Not at all, Ray,’ said Armstrong, taking his place at the top of the table. ‘It’s my pleasure. I’m only too delighted to see anyone who works so tirelessly for our cause. Here’s to your future,’ he added, raising his glass, ‘which everyone tells me is rosy.’

Armstrong noticed a slight tremble of the hand before the minister responded. ‘You do so much for our party, Dick.’

‘Kind of you to say so, Ray.’

During the first two courses they chatted about the Labor Party’s chances of winning the next election, and both of them admitted that they weren’t over-optimistic.

‘Although the opinion polls are looking a little better,’ said Atkins, ‘you only have to study the local election results to see what’s really happening out there in the constituencies.’

‘I agree,’ said Dick. ‘Only a fool would allow the opinion polls to influence him when it comes to calling an election. Although I believe Wilson regularly gets the better of Ted Heath at Question Time in the House.’

‘True, but only a few hundred MPs see that. If only the Commons was televised, the whole nation could see that Harold’s in a different class.’

‘Can’t see that happening in my lifetime,’ said Dick.

Atkins nodded, then fell into a deep silence. When the main course had been cleared away, Dick instructed his butler to leave them alone. He topped up the minister’s glass with more claret, but Atkins only toyed with it, looking as if he was wondering how to broach an embarrassing topic. Once the butler had closed the door behind him, Atkins took a deep breath. ‘This is all a bit awkward for me,’ he began hesitantly.

‘Feel free to say anything you like, Ray. Whatever it is will go no further than this room. Never forget, we bat for the same team.’

‘Thank you, Dick,’ the minister replied. ‘I knew straight away that you’d be the right person with whom to discuss my little problem.’ He continued to toy with his glass, saying nothing for some time. Then he suddenly blurted out, ‘The Evening Post has been prying into my personal life, Dick, and I can’t take much more of it.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Armstrong, who had imagined that they were going to discuss a completely different subject. ‘What have they been doing that’s so disturbed you?’

‘They’ve been threatening me.’

‘Threatening you?’ said Armstrong, sounding annoyed. ‘In what way?’

‘Well, perhaps “threatening” is a little strong. But one of your reporters has been constantly calling my office and my home at weekends, sometimes two or three times a day.’

‘Believe me, Ray, I knew nothing about this,’ said Armstrong. ‘I’ll speak to Don Sharpe the moment you’ve gone. You can be assured that’s the last you’ll hear of it.’

‘Thank you, Dick,’ he said. This time he did take a gulp of wine. ‘But it’s not the calls I need stopped. It’s the story they’ve got hold of.’

‘Would it help if you were to tell me what it’s all about, Ray?’

The minister stared down at the table. It was some time before he raised his head. ‘It all happened years ago,’ he began. ‘So long ago, in fact, that until recently I’d almost been able to forget it ever took place.’

Armstrong remained silent as he topped up his guest’s wine glass once again.

‘It was soon after I’d been elected to the Bradford city council.’ He took another sip of wine. ‘I met the housing manager’s secretary.’

‘Were you married to Jenny at the time?’ asked Armstrong.

‘No, Jenny and I met a couple of years later, just before I was selected for Bradford West.’

‘So what’s the problem?’ said Armstrong. ‘Even the Labor Party allows girlfriends before you’re married,’ he added, trying to lighten the tone.

‘Not when they become pregnant,’ said the minister. ‘And when their religion forbids abortion.’

‘I see,’ said Armstrong quietly. He paused. ‘Does Jenny know anything about this?’

‘No, nothing. I’ve never told her, or anyone else for that matter. She’s the daughter of a local doctor — a bloody Tory, so the family never approved of me in the first place. If this ever came out, among other things I’d have to suffer the “I told you so” syndrome.’

‘So is it the girl who’s making things difficult?’

‘No, God bless her, Rahila’s been terrific — although her family regard me with about as much affection as my in-laws. I pay her the full maintenance, of course.’

‘Of course. But if she isn’t causing you any trouble, what’s the problem? No paper would dare to print anything unless she corroborated the story.’

‘I know. But unfortunately her brother had a little too much to drink one night and began shouting his mouth off in the local pub. He didn’t realize there was a freelance journalist at the bar who works as a stringer for the Evening Post. The brother denied everything the following day, but the journalist just won’t stop digging, the bastard. If this story gets out, I’d be left with no choice but to resign. And God knows what that would do to Jenny.’

‘Well, it hasn’t reached that stage yet, Ray, and you can be sure of one thing: you’ll never see it referred to in any paper I own. On that you have my word. The moment you leave I’ll call Sharpe and make it clear where I stand on this. You won’t be contacted again, at least not on this subject.’

‘Thank you,’ said Atkins. ‘That’s a great relief. Now all I have to pray is that the journalist doesn’t take it anywhere else.’

‘What’s his name?’ asked Armstrong.

‘John Cummins.’

Armstrong scribbled the name down on a pad by his side. ‘I’ll see that Mr. Cummins is offered a job on one of my papers in the north, somewhere not too near Bradford. That should dampen his ardor.’

‘I don’t know how to thank you,’ said the minister.

‘I’m sure you’ll find a way,’ said Armstrong as he rose from his place, not bothering to offer his guest a coffee. He accompanied Atkins out of the dining room. The minister’s nervousness had been replaced by the voluble self-assurance more usually associated with politicians. As they passed through Armstrong’s office, he noticed that the bookshelf contained a full set of Wisden. ‘I didn’t know you were a cricket fan, Dick,’ he said.

‘Oh yes,’ said Armstrong. ‘I’ve loved the game from an early age.’

‘Which county do you support?’ asked Atkins.

‘Oxford,’ replied Armstrong as they reached the lift.

Atkins said nothing. He shook his host warmly by the hand. ‘Thank you again, Dick. Thank you so much.’

The moment the lift doors had slid closed, Armstrong returned to his office. ‘I want to see Don Sharpe immediately,’ he shouted as he passed Pamela’s desk.

The editor of the Evening Post appeared in the proprietor’s office a few minutes later, clutching a thick file. He waited for Armstrong to finish a phone conversation in a language he didn’t recognize.

‘You asked to see me,’ he said once Armstrong had put the phone down.

‘Yes. I’ve just had Ray Atkins to lunch. He says the Post has been harassing him. Some story that you’ve been following up.’

‘Yes, I have had someone working on a story. In fact we’ve been trying to get in touch with Atkins for days. We think the minister may have fathered a love child some years ago, a boy called Vengi.’

‘But this all took place before he was married.’

‘That’s true,’ said the editor. ‘But...’

‘So I can hardly see how it could be described as in the public interest.’

Don Sharpe appeared somewhat surprised by the proprietor’s unusual sensitivity on the matter — but then, he was also aware that the MMC’s decision on the Citizen was due to be made within the next few weeks.

‘Would you agree or not?’ asked Armstrong.

‘In normal circumstances I would,’ replied Sharpe. ‘But in this case the woman in question has lost her job with the council, been abandoned by her family, and is surviving — just — in a one-bedroom flat in the minister’s constituency. He, on the other hand, is being driven around in a Jaguar and has a second home in the south of France.’

‘But he pays her full maintenance.’

‘Not always on time,’ said the editor. ‘And it could be regarded as being in the public’s interest that when he was an under-secretary of state in the Social Services Department, he was responsible for piloting the single-parent allowance through its committee stage on the floor of the House.’

‘That’s irrelevant, and you know it.’

‘There’s another factor that might interest our readers.’

‘And what’s that?’

‘She’s a Moslem. Having given birth to a child out of wedlock, she can never hope to marry. They’re a little stricter on these matters than the Church of England.’ The editor removed a photograph from his file and placed it on Armstrong’s desk. Armstrong glanced at the picture of an attractive Asian mother with her arms around a little boy. The child’s resemblance to his father would have been hard to deny.

Armstrong looked back up at Sharpe. ‘How did you know I was going to want to discuss this with you?’

‘I assumed you hadn’t canceled our lunch because you wanted to chat with Ray Atkins about Bradford City’s chances of being relegated this season.’

‘Don’t be sarcastic with me,’ snapped Armstrong. ‘You’ll drop this whole inquiry, and you’ll drop it immediately. If I ever see even a hint of this story in any one of my papers, you needn’t bother to report to work the next morning.’

‘But...’ said the editor.

‘And while you’re at it, you can leave that file on my desk.’

‘I can what?’

Armstrong continued to glower at him until he meekly placed the heavy file on the desk. He turned and left without another word.

Armstrong cursed. If he sacked Sharpe now, the first thing he would do would be to walk across the road and give the story to the Globe. He had made a decision that was likely to cost him a great deal of money either way. He picked up the phone. ‘Pamela, get me Mr. Atkins at the Department of Trade and Industry.’

Atkins came on the line a few moments later. ‘Is this a public line?’ asked Armstrong, aware that civil servants often listened in on conversations in case their ministers made commitments that they would then have to follow up.

‘No, you’ve come through on my private line,’ Atkins assured him.

‘I have spoken to the editor in question,’ said Armstrong, ‘and I can assure you that Mr. Cummins won’t be bothering you again. I also warned him that if I see any reference to this incident in any one of my papers, he can start looking for another job.’

‘Thank you,’ said the minister.

‘And it may interest you to know, Ray, that I have on my desk Cummins’s file concerning this matter, and will be shredding it as soon as we’ve finished speaking. Believe me, no one will ever hear a word of this again.’

‘You’re a good friend, Dick. And you’ve probably saved my career.’

‘A career worth saving,’ said Armstrong. ‘Never forget, I’m here if you need me.’ As he replaced the phone Pamela put her head round the door.

‘Stephen called again while you were on the phone to the minister. Shall I get him back?’

‘Yes. And after that, there’s something I want you to do for me.’ Pamela nodded and disappeared into her own office. A moment later one of the phones on his desk rang. Armstrong picked it up.

‘What’s the problem, Stephen?’

‘There’s no problem. I’ve had a long discussion with Sharon Levitt’s solicitors, and we’ve come up with some preliminary proposals for a settlement — subject of course to both parties agreeing.’

‘Fill me in,’ said Armstrong.

‘It seems that Sharon has a boyfriend living in Italy, and...’ Armstrong listened intently as Stephen outlined the terms that had been negotiated on his behalf. He was smiling long before his lawyer had finished.

‘That all seems very satisfactory,’ he said.

‘Yes. How did the meeting with the minister go?’

‘It went well. He’s facing roughly the same problem that I am, but he has the disadvantage of not having someone like you to sort it out for him.’

‘Am I meant to understand that?’

‘No,’ replied Armstrong. As soon as he had put the phone down, he called for his secretary.

‘Pamela, when you’ve typed up the conversation that took place over lunch today, I want you to put a copy of it in this file,’ he said, pointing to the pile of papers Don Sharpe had left on his desk.

‘And then what do I do with the file?’

‘Lock it in the large safe. I’ll let you know if I need it again.’

When the editor of the London Evening Post requested a private meeting with Keith Townsend, he received an immediate response. It was well understood in Fleet Street that Armstrong’s staff had a standing invitation to see Townsend if they had any interesting information about their boss. Not many of them had taken advantage of the offer, because they all knew that if they were caught, they could clear their desks the same day, and would never work for any of Armstrong’s newspapers again.

It had been some time since anyone as senior as Don Sharpe had contacted Townsend direct. He suspected that Mr. Sharpe already knew his days were numbered, and had calculated that he had nothing to lose. But like so many others before him, he had insisted that the meeting should take place on neutral ground.

Townsend always hired the Fitzalan Suite at the Howard Hotel for such purposes, as it was only a short distance from Fleet Street, but wasn’t a haunt of prying journalists. One phone call from Heather to the head porter and all the necessary arrangements were made with complete discretion.

Sharpe told Townsend in detail about the conversation that had taken place between himself and Armstrong following the proprietor’s lunch with Ray Atkins the previous day, and waited for his reaction.

‘Ray Atkins,’ said Townsend.

‘Yes, the minister for industry.’

‘The man who will make the final decision as to who takes control of the Citizen.’

‘Precisely. That’s why I thought you would want to know immediately,’ said Sharpe.

‘And Armstrong kept the file?’

‘Yes, but it would only take me a few days to get duplicates of everything. If you broke the story on the front page of the Globe, I’m sure that under the circumstances the Monopolies and Mergers Commission would have to remove Armstrong from their calculations.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Townsend. ‘Once you’ve put the documentation together, send it to me direct. Make sure you put my initials, K.R.T., on the bottom left-hand corner of the package. That will ensure that no one else opens it.’

Sharpe nodded. ‘Give me a week, a fortnight at the most.’

‘And should I end up as proprietor of the Citizen,’ said Townsend, ‘you can be sure that there will be a job for you on the paper if ever you want it.’

Sharpe was about to ask him what job he had in mind when Townsend added, ‘Don’t leave the hotel for another ten minutes.’ As he stepped out onto the street, the senior porter touched the rim of his top hat. Townsend was driven back to Fleet Street, confident that the Citizen must now surely fall into his hands.

A young porter, who had seen the two men arrive separately and leave separately, waited for his boss to take a tea break before he made a phone call.

Ten days later two envelopes arrived in Townsend’s office with ‘K.R.T.’ printed boldly in the bottom left-hand corners. Heather left them on his desk unopened. The first was from a former employee of the New York Times, who supplied him with the full list of shops that reported to the best-seller list. For $2,000 it had been a worthwhile investment, thought Townsend. He put the list on one side, and opened the second envelope. It contained pages and pages of research supplied by Don Sharpe on the extracurricular activities of the minister for industry.

An hour later, Townsend felt confident not only that he would retrieve his second million, but also that Armstrong would live to regret suppressing the minister’s secret. He picked up a phone and told Heather that he needed to send a package to New York by special delivery. When she had taken one of the sealed envelopes away, he picked up the phone and asked the editor of the Globe to join him.

‘When you’ve had a chance to read through this,’ he said, pushing the second envelope across his desk, ‘you’ll know what to lead on tomorrow.’

‘I already have a lead story for tomorrow,’ said the editor. ‘We have evidence that Marilyn Monroe is alive.’

‘She can wait for another day,’ said Townsend. ‘Tomorrow we lead on the minister for industry and his attempt to suppress the story of his illegitimate child. Make sure I have a dummy front page on my desk by five this afternoon.’

A few minutes later Armstrong received a call from Ray Atkins.

‘How can I help you, Ray?’ he asked, as he pressed a button on the side of his phone.

‘No, Dick, this time it’s my turn to help you,’ said Atkins. ‘A report has just landed on my desk from the Monopolies and Mergers Commission, outlining their recommendations for the Citizen.’

It was Armstrong’s turn to feel a slight sweat on his hands.

‘Their advice is that I should rule in your favor. I’m simply ringing to let you know that I intend to take that advice.’

‘That’s wonderful news,’ said Armstrong, standing up. ‘Thank you.’

‘Delighted to be the one to let you know,’ said Atkins. ‘As long as you’ve got a check for £78 million, the Citizen is yours.’

Armstrong laughed. ‘When does it become official?’

‘The MMC’s recommendation will go before the Cabinet at eleven o’clock this morning, and I can’t imagine you’ll find anyone round that table objecting,’ said the minister. ‘I’m scheduled to make a statement in the House at 3:30 this afternoon, so I’d be obliged if you said nothing before then. After all, we don’t want to give the commission any reason to reverse their decision.’

‘Not a word, Ray, of that I can promise you.’ He paused. ‘And I want you to know that if there is anything I can do for you in the future, you only have to ask.’

Townsend smiled as he checked the headline once again:

He then read the proposed first paragraph, inserting one or two small changes.

‘What is it, Heather?’ he asked, looking up as his secretary entered the room.

‘The political editor is on the phone from the press gallery at the House of Commons. It seems there’s been a statement concerning the Citizen.’

‘But I was told there would be no announcement for at least another month,’ said Townsend as he grabbed the phone. His face became grimmer and grimmer as the details of the statement Ray Atkins had just made to the House were read out to him.

‘Not much point in running that front-page story now,’ said the political editor.

‘Let’s just set and hold,’ said Townsend. ‘I’ll have another look at it this evening.’ He stared gloomily out of the window. Atkins’s decision meant that Armstrong would now control the one daily in Britain that had a larger circulation than the Globe. From that moment he and Armstrong would be locked in battle for the same readers, and Townsend wondered if they could both survive.

Within an hour of the minister delivering his statement in the Commons, Armstrong had called Alistair McAlvoy, the editor of the Citizen, and asked him to come across to Armstrong House. He also arranged to have dinner that evening with Sir Paul Maitland, the chairman of the Citizen’s board.

Alistair McAlvoy had been editor of the Citizen for the past decade. When he was briefed on the minister’s decision, he warned his colleagues that no one, including himself, should be confident they would be bringing out the next day’s edition of the paper. But when Armstrong put his arm around McAlvoy’s shoulder for a second time that afternoon, describing him as the greatest editor in the street, he began to feel that perhaps his job was safe after all. As the atmosphere became a little more relaxed, Armstrong warned him that they were about to face a head-on battle with the Globe, which he suspected would begin the following morning.

‘I know,’ said McAlvoy, ‘so I’d better get back to my desk. I’ll call you the moment I discover what the Globe is leading on, and see if we can find some way of countering it.’

McAlvoy left Armstrong’s office as Pamela walked in with a bottle of champagne.

‘Who did that come from?’

‘Ray Atkins,’ said Pamela.

‘Open it,’ said Armstrong. Just as she uncorked the bottle, the phone rang. Pamela picked it up and listened. ‘It’s the junior porter at the Howard Hotel — he says he can’t hang on for much longer, or he’ll be caught.’ She placed her hand over the mouthpiece. ‘He tried to speak to you ten days ago, but I didn’t put him through. He says it’s about Keith Townsend.’

Armstrong grabbed the phone. When the porter told him who Townsend had just had a meeting with in the Fitzalan Suite, he immediately knew what the Globe’s front-page story would be the following morning. All the boy wanted for this exclusive piece of information was £50.

He put the phone down and blasted out a series of orders before Pamela had even finished filling his glass with champagne. ‘And once I’ve seen Sharpe, put me through to McAlvoy.’

The moment Don Sharpe walked back into the building, he was told that the proprietor wanted to see him. He went straight to Armstrong’s office, where the only words he heard were ‘You’re fired.’ He turned round to find two security guards standing by the door waiting to escort him off the premises.

‘Get McAlvoy for me.’

All Armstrong said when the editor of the Citizen came on the line was, ‘Alistair, I know what’s going to be on the front page of the Globe tomorrow, and I’m the one person who can top it.’

As soon as he put the phone down on McAlvoy, Armstrong asked Pamela to dig the Atkins file out of the safe. He began sipping his champagne. It wasn’t vintage.

The following morning the Globe’s headline read: ‘Minister’s Secret Moslem Love Child: Exclusive.’ There followed three pages of pictures, illustrating an interview with Miss Patel’s brother, under the byline ‘Don Sharpe, Chief Investigative Reporter.’

Townsend was delighted, until he turned to the Citizen and read its headline:

There followed five pages of pictures and extracts from a tape-recorded interview given exclusively to the paper’s unnamed special affairs correspondent.

The lead story in the London Evening Post that night was that the prime minister had announced from 10 Downing Street that he had, with considerable regret, accepted the resignation of Mr. Ray Atkins MP.

29 The Citizen 21 August 1978 Not Many People Inhabiting the New Globe

When Townsend had cleared customs he found Sam waiting outside the terminal to drive him into Sydney. On the twenty-five-minute journey, Sam brought the boss up to date with what was happening in Australia. He left him in no doubt as to what he felt about the prime minister, Malcolm Fraser — out of date and out of touch — and the Sydney Opera House — a waste of money, and already out of date. But he gave him one piece of information which was fresh, and not out of date.

‘Where did you pick that up, Sam?’

‘The chairman’s driver told me.’

‘And what did you have to tell him in exchange?’

‘Only that you were coming back from London on a flying visit,’ replied Sam, as they pulled up outside Global Corp’s headquarters on Pitt Street.

Heads turned as Townsend pushed his way through the revolving doors, walked across the lobby and into a waiting lift which whisked him straight up to the top floor. He called for the editor even before Heather had a chance to welcome him back.

Townsend paced up and down his office as he waited, stopping occasionally to admire the opera house, which, like Sam, all his papers with the exception of the Continent had been quick to condemn. Only half a mile away was the bridge that had until recently been the city’s trademark. In the harbor, colorful dinghies were sailing, their masts glowing in the sun. Although its population had doubled, Sydney now seemed terribly small compared to when he had first taken over the Chronicle. He felt as if he was looking down on a Lego town.

‘Good to have you back, Keith,’ said Bruce Kelly as he walked through the open door. Townsend swung round to greet the first man he had ever appointed to be editor of one of his newspapers.

‘And it’s great to be back, Bruce. It’s been too long,’ he said as they shook hands. He wondered if he had aged as much as the balding, overweight man who stood in front of him.

‘How’s Kate?’

‘She hates London, and seems to spend most of her time in New York, but I’m hoping she’ll be joining me next week. What’s happening over here?’

‘Well, you’ll have seen from our weekly reports that sales are slightly up on last year, advertising is up, and profits are at a record level. So I guess it must be time for me to retire.’

‘That’s exactly what I came back home to talk to you about,’ said Townsend.

The blood drained out of Bruce’s face. ‘Are you serious, chief?’

‘Never been more serious,’ said Townsend, facing his friend. ‘I need you in London.’

‘Whatever for?’ asked Bruce. ‘The Globe is hardly the sort of paper I’ve been trained to edit. It’s far too traditional and British.’

‘That’s exactly why it’s losing sales every week. For one thing, its readers are so old that they’re literally dying on me. If I’m going to tackle Armstrong head-on, I need you as the next editor of the Globe. The whole paper has to be reshaped. The first thing to be done is to turn it into a tabloid.’

Bruce stared at his boss in disbelief. ‘But the unions will never wear it.’

‘I also have plans for them,’ said Townsend.

‘But Bruce Kelly knew nothing about it,’ said Townsend, as Sam drove him from Tullamarine airport into Melbourne.

‘I wouldn’t expect him to,’ said Sam. ‘He’s never even met the chairman’s driver.’

‘Are you trying to tell me that a driver knows something that no one else in the newspaper world has heard about?’

‘No. The deputy chairman also knows, because he was discussing it with the chairman in the back of the car.’

‘And the driver told you that the board are meeting at ten o’clock this morning?’

‘That’s right, chief. In fact he’s taking the chairman to the meeting right now.’

‘And the agreed price was $12 a share?’

‘That’s what the chairman and deputy chairman settled on in the back of the car,’ said Sam as he drove into the center of the city.

Townsend couldn’t think of any more questions to ask Sam that could prevent him from making a complete fool of himself. ‘I don’t suppose you’d care to take a wager on it?’ he said as the car turned into Flinders Street.

Sam thought about the proposition for some time before saying, ‘OK by me, chief.’ He paused. ‘A hundred dollars says I’m right.’

‘Oh no,’ said Townsend. ‘Your wages for a month, or we turn round and go straight back to the airport.’

Sam ran through a red light and just managed to avoid hitting a tram. ‘You’re on,’ he said finally. ‘But only if Arthur gets the same terms.’

‘And who in hell’s name is Arthur?’

‘The chairman’s driver.’

‘You and Arthur have got yourselves a deal,’ said Townsend, as the car drew up outside the Courier’s offices.

‘How long do you want me to wait?’ asked Sam.

‘Just as long as it takes you to lose a month’s wages,’ Townsend replied, slamming the car door behind him.

Townsend stared up at the building in which his father had begun his career as a reporter in the 1920s, and where he himself had carried out his first assignment as a trainee journalist while he was still at school, which his mother later told him she had sold to a rival without even letting him know. From the footpath he could pick out the room his father had worked in. Could the Courier really be up for sale without any of his professional advisers being aware of it? He had checked the share price that morning before taking the first flight out of Sydney: $8.40. Could he risk it all on the word of his driver? He began to wish Kate was with him, so that he could seek her opinion. Thanks to her, The Senator’s Mistress by Margaret Sherwood had spent two weeks at the bottom of the New York Times best-seller list, and the second million had been returned in full. To the surprise of both of them, the book had also received some reasonable reviews in the non-Townsend press. Keith had been amused to receive a letter from Mrs. Sherwood asking if he’d be interested in a three-book contract.

Townsend walked through the double doors and under the clock above the entrance to the foyer. He stood for a moment in front of a bronze bust of his father, remembering how as a child he had stretched up and tried to touch his hair. It only made him more nervous.

He turned and walked across the foyer, joining a group of people who stepped into the first available lift. They fell silent when they realized who it was. He pressed the button and the doors slid closed. He hadn’t been in the building for over thirty years, but he could still remember where the boardroom was — a few yards down the corridor from his father’s office.

The doors slid open on circulation, advertising and then editorial, until he was finally left alone in the lift. At the executive floor he stepped cautiously out into the corridor, and looked in both directions. He couldn’t see anyone. He turned to the right and walked toward the boardroom, his pace slowing as he passed his father’s old office. It then became slower and slower until he reached the boardroom door.

He was about to turn back, leave the building and tell Sam exactly what he thought of him, and his friend Arthur too, when he remembered the wager. If he hadn’t been such a bad loser, he might not have knocked on the door and, without waiting for a response, marched in.

Sixteen faces turned and stared up at him. He waited for the chairman to ask him what the hell he thought he was doing, but no one spoke. It was almost as if they had been anticipating his arrival. ‘Mr. Chairman,’ he began, ‘I am willing to offer $12 a share for your stock in the Courier. As I leave for London tonight, we either close the deal right now or we don’t close it at all.’

Sam sat in the car waiting for his boss to return. During the third hour he rang Arthur to tell him to invest next month’s wages in Melbourne Courier shares, and to do it before the board made an official announcement.

When Townsend flew into London the following morning, he issued a press release to announce that Bruce Kelly would be taking over as editor of the Globe in its run-up to becoming a tabloid. Only a handful of insiders appreciated the significance of the appointment. During the next few days, profiles of Bruce appeared in several national newspapers. All of them reported that he had been editor of the Sydney Chronicle for twenty-five years, was divorced with two grown-up children, and though Keith Townsend was thought not to have any close friends, he was the nearest thing to it. The Citizen jeered when he wasn’t granted a work permit, and suggested that editing the Globe couldn’t be considered work. Beyond that there wasn’t a lot of information on the latest immigrant from Australia. Under the headline ‘R.I.P.,’ the Citizen went on to inform its readers that Kelly was nothing more than an undertaker who had been brought in to bury something everyone else accepted had been dead for years. It went on to say that for every copy the Globe sold, the Citizen now sold three. The real figure was 2.3, but Townsend was becoming used to Armstrong’s exaggeration when it came to statistics. He had the leader framed, and hung it on the wall of Bruce’s new office to await his arrival.

As soon as Bruce landed in London, even before he’d found somewhere to live, he began poaching journalists from the tabloids. Most of them didn’t seem to be concerned by the Citizen’s warnings that the Globe was on a downward spiral, and might not even survive if Townsend was unable to come to terms with the unions. Bruce’s first appointment was Kevin Rushcliffe, who, he had been assured, was making a reputation as deputy editor on the People.

The first time Rushcliffe was left to edit the paper on Bruce’s day off, they received a writ from lawyers representing Mr. Mick Jagger. Rushcliffe casually shrugged his shoulders and said, ‘It was too good a story to check.’ After substantial damages had been paid and an apology printed, the lawyers were instructed to check Mr. Rushcliffe’s copy more carefully in future.

Some seasoned journalists did sign up to join the editorial staff. When they were asked why they had left secure jobs to join the Globe, they pointed out that as they had been offered three-year contracts, they didn’t care much either way.

In the first few weeks under Kelly’s editorship sales continued to slide. The editor would have liked to have spent more time discussing the problem with Townsend, but the boss seemed to be continually locked into negotiations with the print unions.

On the day of the launch of the Globe as a tabloid, Bruce held a party in the offices to watch the new paper coming off the presses. He was disappointed when many of the politicians and celebrities he had invited failed to turn up. He learned later that they were attending a party thrown by Armstrong to celebrate the Citizen’s seventy-fifth anniversary. A former employee of the Citizen, now working at the Globe, pointed out that it was actually only their seventy-second year. ‘Well then, we’ll just have to remind Armstrong in three years’ time,’ said Townsend.

A few minutes after midnight, when the party was drawing to a close, a messenger strolled into the editor’s office to let him know that the presses had broken down. Townsend and Bruce ran down to the print room to find that the workforce had downed tools and already gone home. They rolled up their sleeves and set about the hopeless task of trying to get the presses started again, but they quickly discovered that a spanner had literally been thrown in the works. Only 131,000 copies of the paper appeared on the streets the following day, none of them delivered beyond Birmingham, as the train drivers had come out in support of their brothers in the print unions.

‘NOT MANY PEOPLE INHABITING THE NEW GLOBE,’ ran the headline in the Citizen the following morning. The paper went on to devote the whole of page five to suggesting that the time had come to bring back the old Globe. After all, the ‘illegal immigrant’ — as they kept referring to Bruce — had promised new sales records, and had indeed achieved them: the Citizen now outsold the Globe by thirty to one. Yes, thirty to one!

On the opposite page, the Citizen offered its readers a hundred to one against the Globe surviving another six months. Townsend immediately wrote out a check for £1,000 and sent it round to Armstrong’s office by hand, but he received no acknowledgment. However, one call to the Press Association from Bruce made sure that the story was released to every other newspaper.

On the front page of the Citizen the following morning, Armstrong announced that he had banked Townsend’s check for £1,000, and that as the Globe had no hope of surviving for another six months, he would be giving a donation of £50,000 to the Press Benevolent Fund and a further £50,000 to any charity of Mr. Townsend’s choice. By the end of the week, Townsend had received over a hundred letters from leading charities explaining why he should select their particular cause.

During the next few weeks the Globe rarely managed to print more than 300,000 copies a day, and Armstrong never stopped reminding his readers of the fact. As the months passed, Townsend accepted that eventually he would have to take on the unions. But he knew it wouldn’t be possible while the Labor Party remained in power.

30 The Globe 4 May 1979 Maggie Victorious!

Townsend left the television in his office on all night so he could watch the election results coming in from around the country. Once he was certain Margaret Thatcher would be moving in to 10 Downing Street, he hastily wrote a leader assuring readers that Britain was about to embark on an exciting new era. He ended with the words ‘Fasten your seatbelts.’

As he and Bruce staggered out of the building at four o’clock in the morning, Townsend’s parting words were, ‘You know what this means, don’t you?’

The following afternoon Townsend arranged a private meeting with Eric Harrison, the general secretary of the breakaway print union, at the Howard Hotel. When the meeting broke up, the head porter knocked on the door and asked if he could see him privately. He told Townsend what he had overheard his junior saying on the telephone when he had arrived back early from his tea break. Townsend didn’t need to be told who must have been on the other end of the line.

‘I’ll sack him at once,’ said the head porter. ‘You can be sure it will never happen again.’

‘No, no,’ said Townsend. ‘Leave him exactly where he is. I may no longer be able to meet people I don’t want Armstrong to know about here, but that doesn’t stop me from meeting those I do.’

At the monthly board meeting of Armstrong Communications, the finance director reported that he estimated the Globe must still be losing around £100,000 a week. However deep Townsend’s pockets were, that sort of negative cash-flow would soon empty them.

Armstrong smiled, but said nothing until Sir Paul Maitland moved on to the second item on the agenda, and called on him to brief the board on his latest American trip. Armstrong brought them up to date on his progress in New York, and went on to tell them that he intended to make a further trip across the Atlantic in the near future, as he believed it would not be long before the company was in a position to make a public bid for the New York Star.

Sir Paul said he was anxious about the sheer scale of such an acquisition, and asked that no commitments should be made without the board’s approval. Armstrong assured him that it had never crossed his mind to do otherwise.

Under Any Other Business, Peter Wakeham brought to the attention of the board an article in the Financial Times which reported that Keith Townsend had recently purchased a large block of warehouses on the Isle of Dogs, and that a fleet of unmarked lorries were regularly making late-night deliveries to it.

‘Has anyone any idea what this is all about?’ asked Sir Paul, his eyes sweeping the table.

‘We know,’ said Armstrong, ‘that Townsend got himself landed with a trucking company when he took over the Globe. As his papers are doing so badly, perhaps he’s having to diversify.’

Some members of the board laughed, but Sir Paul was not among them. ‘That wouldn’t explain why Townsend has set up such tight security around the site,’ he said. ‘Security guards, dogs, electric gates, barbed wire along the tops of the walls — he’s up to something.’

Armstrong shrugged his shoulders and looked bored, so Sir Paul reluctantly brought the meeting to a close.

Three days later, Armstrong took a call from the Howard Hotel, and was told by the junior porter that Townsend had spent the whole afternoon and most of the evening locked in the Fitzalan Suite with three officials from one of the leading print unions, who were refusing to carry out any overtime. Armstrong assumed they were negotiating for improved pay and conditions in exchange for getting their members back to work.

The following Monday he flew to America, confident that as Townsend was preoccupied with his problems in London, there couldn’t be a better time to prepare a takeover bid for the New York Star.

When Townsend called a meeting of all the journalists who worked on the Globe, most of them assumed that the proprietor had finally reached a settlement with the print unions, and the get-together would be nothing more than a public relations exercise to prove he had got the better of them.

At four o’clock that afternoon, over seven hundred journalists crammed onto the editorial floor. They fell silent as Townsend and Bruce Kelly walked in, clearing a path to allow the proprietor to walk to the center of the room, where he climbed up onto a table. He looked down on the group of people who were about to decide his fate.

‘For the past few months,’ he began quietly, ‘Bruce Kelly and I have been involved in a plan which I believe will change all our lives, and possibly the whole face of journalism in this country. Newspapers cannot hope to survive in the future if they continue to be run as they have been for the past hundred years. Someone has to make a stand, and that person is me. And this is the time to do it. Starting at midnight on Sunday, I intend to transfer my entire printing and publishing operation to the Isle of Dogs.’

A small gasp was audible.

‘I have recently come to an agreement,’ Townsend continued, ‘with Eric Harrison, the general secretary of the Allied Printworkers, which will give us a chance once and for all to rid ourselves of the stranglehold of the closed shop.’ Some people began to applaud. Others looked uncertain, and some downright angry.

The proprietor went on to explain to the journalists the logistics of such an immense operation. ‘The problem of distribution will be dealt with by our own fleet of trucks, making it unnecessary in future for us to rely on the rail unions, who will undoubtedly come out on strike in support of their comrades in the print unions. I can only hope that you will all back me in this venture. Are there any questions?’ Hands shot up all around the room. Townsend pointed to a man standing directly in front of him.

‘Are you expecting the unions to picket the new building, and if so, what contingency measures have you put in place?’

‘The answer to the first part of your question has to be yes,’ said Townsend. ‘As far as the second part is concerned, the police have advised me not to divulge any details of what they have planned. But I can assure you that I have the backing of the prime minister and the Cabinet for this whole operation.’

Some groans could be heard around the room. Townsend turned and pointed to another raised hand.

‘Will there be compensation for those of us who are unwilling to join this crazy scheme?’

That was one question Townsend had hoped someone would ask.

‘I advise you to read your contracts carefully,’ he said. ‘You’ll find in them exactly how much compensation you’ll get if I have to close the paper down.’

A buzz began all around him.

‘Are you threatening us?’ asked the same journalist.

Townsend swung back to him and said fiercely, ‘No, I’m not. But if you don’t back me on this one, you’ll be threatening the livelihood of everyone who works for the Globe.’

A sea of hands shot up. Townsend pointed to a woman standing at the back.

‘How many other unions have agreed to back you?’

‘None,’ he replied. ‘In fact, I’m expecting the rest of them to come out on strike immediately following this meeting.’ He pointed to someone else, and continued to answer questions for over an hour. When he finally stepped off the table, it was clear that the journalists were divided on whether to go along with his plan, or to join the other print unions and opt for an all-out strike.

Later that evening, Bruce told him that the National Union of Journalists had issued a press release stating their intention to hold a meeting of all Townsend employees at ten o’clock the next morning, when they would decide what their response would be to his demands. An hour later Townsend issued his own press release.

Townsend spent a sleepless night wondering if he had embarked on a reckless gamble that would in time bring the whole of his empire to its knees. The only good news he had received in the past month was that his youngest son, Graham, who was in New York with Kate, had spoken his first word, and it wasn’t ‘newspaper.’ Although he had attended the child’s birth, he had been seen boarding a plane at Kennedy three hours later. He sometimes wondered if it was all worthwhile.

The following morning, after being driven to his office, he sat alone awaiting the outcome of the NUJ meeting. If they decided to call a strike, he knew he was beaten. Following his press release outlining his plans, Global Corp’s shares had fallen four pence overnight, while those of Armstrong Communications, the obvious beneficiaries if there was to be any fall-out, had risen by two.

A few minutes after one o’clock, Bruce charged into his office without knocking. ‘They backed you,’ he said. Townsend looked up, the color rushing back into his cheeks. ‘But it was a damn close thing. They voted 343 to 301 to make the move. I think your threat to close the paper down if they didn’t support you was what finally tilted it in your favor.’

Townsend rang Number Ten a few minutes later to warn the prime minister that there was likely to be a bloody confrontation which could last for several weeks. Mrs. Thatcher promised her full backing. As the days passed, it quickly became clear that he hadn’t exaggerated: journalists and printers alike had to be escorted in and out of the new complex by armed police; Townsend and Bruce Kelly were given twenty-four-hour protection after they received anonymous death threats.

That didn’t turn out to be their only problem. Although the new site on the Isle of Dogs was unquestionably the most modern in the world, some of the journalists were complaining about the life they were expected to endure, pointing out that there was nothing in their contracts about having abuse, sometimes even stones, hurled at them by hundreds of trades unionists as they entered Fortress Townsend each morning and left at night.

The journalists’ complaints didn’t stop there. Once they were inside, few of them cared for the production-line atmosphere, the modern keyboards and computers which had replaced their old typewriters, and in particular the ban on alcohol on the premises. It might have been easier if they hadn’t been stranded so far from their familiar Fleet Street watering holes.

Sixty-three journalists resigned in the first month after the move to the Isle of Dogs, and sales of the Globe continued to fall week after week. The picketing became more and more violent, and the financial director warned Townsend that if it went on for much longer, even the resources of Global Corp would be exhausted. He went on to ask, ‘Is it worth risking bankruptcy to prove a point?’

Armstrong watched with delight from the other side of the Atlantic. The Citizen kept picking up sales, and his share price soared. But he knew that if Townsend was able to turn the tide he would have to return to London and quickly put a similar operation in motion.

But no one could have anticipated what would happen next.

31 The Sun 4 May 1982 Gotcha!

On a Friday night in April 1982, while the British were fast asleep, Argentinian troops invaded the Falkland Islands. Mrs. Thatcher recalled Parliament on a Saturday for the first time in forty years, and the House voted in favor of dispatching a task force without delay to recapture the islands.

Alistair McAlvoy contacted Armstrong in New York and persuaded him that the Citizen should toe the Labor Party line — that a jingoistic response was not the solution, and that the United Nations should sort the problem out. Armstrong remained unconvinced until McAlvoy added, ‘This is an irresponsible adventure which will cause the downfall of Thatcher. Believe me, the Labor Party will be back in power within weeks.’

Townsend, on the other hand, was in no doubt that he should back Mrs. Thatcher and wrap the Union Jack round the Globe. ‘Argy Bargy’ was the headline on Monday’s edition, with a cartoon depicting General Galtieri as a cutthroat pirate. As the task force headed out of Portsmouth and on toward the South Atlantic, sales of the Globe rose to 300,000 for the first time in months. During the first few days of skirmishing even Prince Andrew was praised for his ‘gallant and heroic service’ as a helicopter pilot. When the British submarine HMS Conqueror sunk the General Belgrano on 2 May, the Globe told the world ‘BULLSEYE!’, and sales rose again. By the time the British forces had retaken Port Stanley, the Globe was selling over 500,000 copies a day, while sales of the Citizen had dipped slightly for the first time since Armstrong had become proprietor. When Peter Wakeham called Armstrong in New York to let him know the latest circulation figures, he jumped on the first flight back to London.

By the time the triumphant British troops were sailing back home, the Globe was selling over a million copies a day, while the Citizen had dipped below four million for the first time in twenty-five years. When the fleet sailed into Portsmouth, the Globe launched a campaign to raise money for the widows whose gallant husbands had made the ultimate sacrifice for their country. Day after day, Bruce Kelly ran stories of heroism and pride alongside pictures of widows and their children — all of whom turned out to be readers of the Globe.

On the day after the remembrance service at St. Paul’s Cathedral, Armstrong called a council of war on the ninth floor of Armstrong House. He was reminded quite unnecessarily by his circulation manager that most of the Globe’s gains had been at the expense of the Citizen. Alistair McAlvoy still advised him not to panic. After all, the Globe was a rag; the Citizen remained a serious radical newspaper with a great reputation. ‘It would be foolish to lower our standards simply to appease an upstart whose paper is not fit to be wrapped around a self-respecting serving of fish and chips,’ he said. ‘Can you imagine the Citizen ever involving itself in a bingo competition? Another one of Kevin Rushcliffe’s vulgar ideas.’

Armstrong made a note of the name. Bingo had put the Globe’s circulation up by a further 100,000 copies a day, and he could see no reason why it shouldn’t do the same for the Citizen. But he also knew that the team McAlvoy had built up over the past ten years was still fully behind its editor.

‘Look at the Globe’s front-page lead this morning,’ Armstrong said in a last desperate effort to make his point. ‘Why don’t we get stories like that?’

‘Because Freddie Starr wouldn’t even make page eleven of the Citizen,’ said McAlvoy. ‘And in any case, who cares a damn about his eating habits? We get offered stories like that every day, but we don’t get the handful of writs that usually go with them.’ McAlvoy and his team left the meeting believing that they had persuaded the proprietor not to go down the same path as the Globe.

Their confidence lasted only until the next quarter’s circulation figures landed on Armstrong’s desk. Without consulting anyone, he picked up a phone and made an appointment to see Kevin Rushcliffe, the deputy editor of the Globe.

Rushcliffe arrived at Armstrong Communications later that afternoon. He couldn’t have been in greater contrast to Alistair McAlvoy. He addressed Dick at their first meeting as if they were old friends, and talked in rapid-fire soundbites that the proprietor didn’t begin to understand. Rushcliffe left him in no doubt as to the immediate changes he would make if he were given a chance to edit the Citizen. ‘The editorials are too bland,’ he said. ‘Let them know what you feel in a couple of sentences. No words with more than three syllables, and no sentences with more than ten words. Don’t ever try to influence them. Just make sure you demand what they already want.’ An unusually subdued Armstrong explained to the young man that he would have to start as the deputy editor, ‘Because McAlvoy’s contract has another seven months to run.’

Armstrong nearly changed his mind about the new appointment when Rushcliffe told him the package he expected. He wouldn’t have given way so easily had he known the terms of Rushcliffe’s contract with the Globe, or the fact that Bruce Kelly had no intention of renewing it at the end of the year. Three days later he sent a memo down to McAlvoy telling him that he had appointed Kevin Rushcliffe as his deputy.

McAlvoy considered protesting at having the Globe’s deputy editor foisted upon him, until his wife pointed out that he was due for retirement in seven months on a full pension, and that this was not the time to sacrifice his job on the altar of principle. When he arrived in the office the next morning, McAlvoy simply ignored his new deputy and his idea-a-minute for tomorrow’s front page.

When the Globe put a nude on page three and sold two million copies for the first time, McAlvoy declared at morning conference, ‘Over my dead body.’ No one felt able to point out that two or three of his best reporters had recently left the Citizen to join the Globe, while only Rushcliffe had made the journey in the opposite direction.

As Armstrong continued to spend a great deal of his time preparing for a takeover battle in New York, he reluctantly continued to accept McAlvoy’s judgment, not least because he didn’t want to sack his most experienced editor only weeks before a general election.

When Margaret Thatcher was returned to the Commons with a majority of 144, the Globe claimed the victory as theirs, and declared that this would surely hasten the downfall of the Citizen. Several commentators were quick to point out the irony of this particular statement.

When Armstrong returned to England the following week for the monthly board meeting, Sir Paul raised the subject of the fall in the paper’s circulation figures.

‘While the Globe’s continue to rise every month,’ Peter Wakeham interjected from the other end of the table.

‘So what are we going to do about it?’ asked the chairman, turning to face his chief executive.

‘I have already put some plans in hand,’ said Armstrong.

‘Are we to be privy to these plans?’ asked Sir Paul.

‘I will brief the board fully at our next meeting,’ said Armstrong.

Sir Paul didn’t look satisfied, but made no further comment.

The next day, Armstrong called for McAlvoy without bothering to consult anyone on the board. When the editor of the Citizen entered the proprietor’s office, Armstrong didn’t stand to greet him, and made no suggestion that he should take a seat.

‘I’m sure you’ve worked out why I’ve asked to see you,’ he said.

‘No, Dick, I haven’t the slightest idea,’ replied McAlvoy innocently.

‘Well, I’ve just seen the JICNAR figures for the past month. If we continue at this rate, the Globe will be selling more copies than we are by the end of the year.’

‘And you will still be the proprietor of a great national newspaper, while Townsend will still be publishing a rag.’

‘That may well be the case. But I have a board and shareholders to consider.’

McAlvoy couldn’t recall Armstrong ever mentioning a board or shareholders in the past. The last refuge of a proprietor, he was about to say. Then he recalled his lawyer’s warning that his contract still had five months to run, and that he would be unwise to provoke Armstrong.

‘I assume you’ve seen the Globe’s headline this morning?’ said Armstrong, holding up his rival’s paper.

‘Yes, of course I have,’ said McAlvoy, glancing at the thick, bold print: ‘Top Pop Star Named in Drugs Scandal.’

‘And we led on “Extra Benefits for Nurses.”’

‘Our readers love nurses,’ said McAlvoy.

‘Our readers may well love nurses,’ said Armstrong, flicking through the paper, ‘but in case you haven’t noticed, the Globe had the same story on page seven. It’s fairly clear to me, even if it isn’t to you, that most of our readers are more interested in pop stars and drug scandals.’

‘The pop star in question,’ countered McAlvoy, ‘has never had a record in the top hundred, and was smoking a joint in the privacy of his own home. If anyone had ever heard of him, the Globe would have put his name in the headline. I have a filing cabinet full of such rubbish, but I don’t insult our readers by publishing it.’

‘Then perhaps it’s time you did,’ said Armstrong, his voice rising with every word. ‘Let’s start challenging the Globe on its own ground for a change. Maybe if we did that, I wouldn’t be looking for a new editor.’

McAlvoy was momentarily stunned. ‘Am I to assume from this outburst that I’m fired?’ he asked eventually.

‘At last I’ve got through to you,’ said Armstrong. ‘Yes, you’re fired. The name of the new editor will be announced on Monday. See that your desk is cleared by this evening.’

‘Can I assume that after ten years as editor of this paper I will receive my full pension?’

‘You will receive no more and no less than you are entitled to,’ shouted Armstrong. ‘Now get out of my office.’ He glared at McAlvoy, waiting for him to unleash one of the tirades for which he was so famous, but the sacked editor simply turned and left without uttering another word, closing the door quietly behind him.

Armstrong slipped into the adjoining room, toweled himself down and changed into a fresh shirt. It was exactly the same color as the previous one, so no one would notice.

Once McAlvoy was back at his desk, he quickly briefed a handful of his closest associates on the outcome of his meeting with Armstrong and on what he planned to do. A few minutes later he took the chair at the afternoon conference for the last time. He looked down the list of stories vying for the front page.

‘I’m putting down a marker for tomorrow’s splash, Alistair,’ said a voice. McAlvoy looked up at his political editor.

‘What do you have in mind, Campbell?’ he asked.

‘A Labor councilor in Lambeth has gone on hunger strike to highlight the unfairness of the government’s housing policy. She’s black and unemployed.’

‘Sounds good to me,’ said McAlvoy. ‘Anyone else pushing for the lead?’ No one spoke as he looked slowly round the room. His eyes finally rested on Kevin Rushcliffe, to whom he hadn’t addressed a word for over a month.

‘How about you, Kevin?’

The deputy editor looked up from his place in the corner of the room and blinked, unable to believe that the editor was addressing him. ‘Well, I’ve been following up a lead on the foreign secretary’s private life for some weeks, but I’m finding it hard to make the story stand up.’

‘Why don’t you knock out three hundred words on the subject, and we’ll let the lawyers decide if we can get away with it.’

Some of the older hands began to shuffle in their chairs.

‘And what happened to that story about the architect?’ asked McAlvoy, still addressing his deputy editor.

‘You spiked it,’ said Rushcliffe, looking surprised.

‘I thought it was a bit dull. Can’t you spice it up a little?’

‘If that’s what you want,’ said Rushcliffe, looking even more surprised.

As McAlvoy never had a drink until he had read the first edition from cover to cover, one or two of those present wondered if he was feeling well.

‘Right, that’s settled then. Kevin gets the front page and Campbell gets the second lead.’ He paused. ‘And as I’m taking my wife to see Pavarotti tonight, I’ll be leaving the paper in Kevin’s hands. Do you feel comfortable with that?’ he asked, turning to face his deputy.

‘Of course,’ said Rushcliffe, looking delighted that he was at last being treated as an equal.

‘Then that’s settled,’ said McAlvoy. ‘Let’s all get back to work, shall we?’

As the journalists began to drift out of the editor’s office muttering to each other, Rushcliffe came across to McAlvoy’s desk and thanked him. ‘Not at all,’ said the editor. ‘You know this could be your big chance, Kevin. I’m sure you’re aware that I saw the proprietor earlier this afternoon, and he told me that he’d like to see the paper challenging the Globe on its own ground. In fact, those were his exact words. So when he reads the Citizen tomorrow, be sure it has your stamp on it. I won’t be sitting in this chair forever, you know.’

‘I’ll do my best,’ promised Rushcliffe as he left the office. If he’d stayed a moment longer, he would have been able to help the editor clear his desk.

Later that afternoon McAlvoy made his way slowly out of the building, stopping to speak to every member of staff he bumped into. He told all of them how much he and his wife were looking forward to seeing Pavarotti, and when they asked who would be bringing out the paper that night, he told them, even the doorman. Indeed, he double-checked the time with the doorman before he headed off toward the nearest underground station, aware that his company car would already have been clamped.

Kevin Rushcliffe tried to concentrate on writing his front-page story, but he was constantly interrupted by a stream of people who wanted his input for their copy. He cleared several pages he just didn’t have time to check carefully. When he finally handed his piece in, the print room was complaining about running late, and he was relieved when the first edition came off the stone a few minutes before eleven.

Armstrong picked up the phone by his bed a couple of hours later to have the front page read out to him by Stephen Hallet. ‘Why the hell didn’t you stop it?’ he demanded.

‘I didn’t see it until the first edition hit the streets,’ replied Stephen. ‘By the time the second edition came off the stone, we were leading on a Lambeth councilor who’s gone on a hunger strike. She’s black and...’

‘I don’t give a damn what color she is,’ shouted Armstrong. ‘What the hell did McAlvoy imagine he was up to?’

‘McAlvoy didn’t edit the paper last night.’

‘Then who in heaven’s name did?’

‘Kevin Rushcliffe,’ the lawyer replied.

Armstrong didn’t get back to sleep that night. Nor did most of Fleet Street, who were frantically trying to contact the foreign secretary and/or the actress/model. By the time their final editions came out, most of them had established that he had never actually met Miss Soda Water Syphon 1983.

The story was so widely discussed the following morning that few people spotted a little item tucked away on page seven of the Citizen under the headline ‘Bricks but no Mortarboard,’ which claimed that one of Britain’s leading architects was designing council houses which kept falling down. A hand-delivered letter from his equally distinguished solicitor pointed out that Sir Angus had never designed a council house in his life. The solicitor enclosed a copy of the apology he expected to be published on the front page of the following day’s paper, and a note stating the size of the donation that should be sent to the architect’s favorite charity.

On the food pages a leading restaurant was accused of poisoning a customer a day, while the travel section named the tour company alleged to have left the most holiday-makers stranded in Spain without a hotel room. On the back page the England football manager was said to have...

McAlvoy made it clear to everyone who called him at home that morning that he had been sacked by Armstrong the previous day and told to clear his desk immediately. He had left Armstrong House at 4:19, leaving the deputy editor in charge. ‘That’s Rushcliffe with an e,’ he added helpfully.

Every member of staff who was approached confirmed McAlvoy’s story.

Stephen Hallet rang Armstrong five times during the day, telling him on every occasion that he had received a writ, and recommending that each of them be settled, and settled quickly.

The Globe reported on page two the sad departure of Alistair McAlvoy from the Citizen after a decade’s devoted service. They went on to describe him as the doyen of Fleet Street editors, who would be sadly missed by all true professionals.

When the Globe sold three million copies for the first time, Townsend held a party to celebrate. This time most of the leading politicians and media personalities did attend — despite Armstrong’s rival party to celebrate the Citizen’s eightieth anniversary.

‘Well, at least he got the date right this time,’ said Townsend.

‘Talking about dates,’ said Bruce, ‘when can I hope to return to Australia? I don’t suppose you’ve noticed, but I haven’t been home for five years.’

‘You don’t go home until you’ve removed the words “Britain’s Best-Selling Daily” from the Citizen’s masthead,’ replied Townsend.

Bruce Kelly didn’t book a flight to Sydney for another fifteen months, when the audit commission announced that the Globe’s daily sales for the previous month had averaged 3,612,000 against the Citizen’s 3,610,000. The Globe’s banner headline the following morning was ‘GET ’EM OFF,’ above a picture of the twenty-two-stone Armstrong in boxer shorts.

When the Citizen’s boast remained firmly in place, the Globe informed ‘the world’s most discerning readers’ that the proprietor of the Citizen still hadn’t honored his debt of £100,000 from his lost bet, and was ‘not only a bad loser, but also a welcher.’

Armstrong sued Townsend for libel the following day. Even The Times felt this was worthy of comment: ‘Only the lawyers will benefit,’ it concluded.

The case reached the High Court eighteen months later, and lasted for over three weeks, regularly making every front page except that of the Independent. Mr. Michael Beloff QC, on behalf of the Globe, argued that the official audit figures proved his client’s case. Mr. Anthony Grabinar QC pointed out for the Citizen that the audited figures did not include the sales of the Scottish Citizen, which when combined with those of the Daily kept its circulation comfortably ahead of the Globe.

The jury retired for five hours to consider their verdict, and by a majority of ten to two came down in favor of Armstrong. When the judge asked what damages they were recommending, the foreman stood up and declared without hesitation, ‘Twelve pence, m’Lud,’ — the price of a copy of the Citizen.

The judge told leading counsel that in the circumstances he felt both sides should pay their own costs, which were conservatively estimated at one million pounds each. Counsel nodded their acquiescence and began gathering up their briefs.

The following day the Financial Times, in a long article on the two press barons, predicted that one of them must eventually cause the other’s downfall. However, the reporter went on to reveal that the trial had helped to increase the sales of both papers, which in the case of the Globe had passed four million copies for the first time.

Next day both groups’ shares rose by a penny.

While Armstrong was reading about himself in the acres of column inches devoted to the trial, Townsend was concentrating on an article in the New York Times which had been faxed over to him by Tom Spencer.

Although he had never heard of Lloyd Summers, or the art gallery that was coming to the end of its lease, when he reached the last line of the fax he realized why Tom had written boldly across the top: FOR IMMEDIATE ATTENTION.

After he had read the piece for a second time, Townsend asked Heather to get Tom on the line, and after she had done that, to book him onto the earliest possible flight to New York.

Tom wasn’t surprised that his client rang back within minutes of the fax being placed on his desk. After all, he had been looking for an opportunity to get his hands on a substantial shareholding in the New York Star for over a decade.

Townsend listened intently as Tom told him everything he had found out about Mr. Lloyd Summers and why his art gallery was looking for new premises. When he had exhausted all his questions, he instructed his lawyer to arrange a meeting with Summers as quickly as possible. ‘I’ll be flying to New York tomorrow morning,’ he added.

‘No need for you to come all this way, Keith. I can always see Summers on your behalf.’

‘No,’ Townsend replied. ‘With the Star it’s personal. I want to close this particular deal myself.’

‘Keith, you do realize that if you succeed you’ll have to become an American citizen,’ said Tom.

‘As I’ve told you many times, Tom, never.’

He put the phone down and jotted some notes on a pad. Once he had worked out how much he was willing to offer, he picked up the receiver and asked Heather what time his flight was. If Armstrong wasn’t on the same plane, he could close a deal with Summers before anyone realized that a lease on an art gallery in SoHo could hold the key to his becoming the owner of the New York Star.

‘My bet is that Townsend will be on the first flight to New York,’ said Armstrong, once Russell Critchley had finished reading the article out to him.

‘Then you’d better be on the same plane,’ said his New York attorney, sitting on the end of his bed.

‘No way,’ said Armstrong. ‘Why alert the bastard to the fact that we know as much as he does? No, my best bet is to make a move even before his plane touches down. Set up an appointment to see Summers as soon as possible.’

‘I doubt if the gallery opens much before ten.’

‘Then make sure you’re outside waiting for him at five to ten.’

‘How much leeway have I got?’

‘Give him anything he wants,’ said Armstrong. ‘Even offer to buy him a new gallery. But whatever you do, don’t let Townsend get anywhere near him, because if we can convince Summers to back us, that will open the door to his mother.’

‘Right,’ said Critchley, pulling on a sock. ‘I’d better get moving.’

‘Just make sure you’re outside the gallery before it opens,’ said Armstrong. He paused. ‘And if Townsend’s lawyer gets there before you, run him over.’

Critchley would have laughed, but he wasn’t entirely sure that his client was joking.

Tom was waiting outside the customs hall when his client came through the swing doors.

‘The news isn’t good, Keith,’ were his first words after they had shaken hands.

‘What do you mean?’ said Townsend as they headed toward the exit. ‘Armstrong couldn’t have got to New York ahead of me, because I know he was still at his desk at the Citizen when I flew out of Heathrow.’

‘He may still be at his desk right now, for all I know,’ said Tom, ‘but Russell Critchley, his New York attorney, had an appointment with Summers earlier this morning.’

Townsend stopped in the middle of the road, ignoring the screeching of brakes and the immediate cacophony of taxi horns.

‘Did they sign a deal?’

‘I have no idea,’ said Tom. ‘All I can tell you is that when I got into my office, Summers’s secretary had left a message on my machine saying that your appointment had been canceled.’

‘Damn. Then our first stop has to be the gallery,’ said Townsend, finally stepping onto the sidewalk. ‘They can’t have signed a contract yet. Damn. Damn,’ he repeated. ‘I should have let you see him in the first place.’

‘He’s agreed to pledge you his 5 percent share in the Star if you’ll put up the money for a new gallery,’ said Critchley.

‘And what’s that going to cost me?’ asked Armstrong, putting down his fork.

‘He hasn’t found the right building yet, but he thinks around three million.’

‘How much?’

‘You would of course own the lease on the building...’

‘Of course.’

‘... and as the gallery is registered as a non-profit-making charity, there are some tax advantages.’

There was a long silence on the other end of the line before Armstrong said, ‘So how did you leave it?’

‘When he reminded me for the third time that he had an appointment with Townsend later this morning, I said yes, subject to contract.’

‘Did you sign anything?’

‘No. I explained that you were on your way over from London, and I didn’t have the authority to do so.’

‘Good. Then we still have a little time to...’

‘I doubt it,’ said Russell. ‘Summers knows only too well that he’s got you by the balls.’

‘It’s when people think they’ve got me by the balls,’ said Armstrong, ‘that I most enjoy screwing them.’

32 Wall Street Journal 12 November 1986 New York Stocks Dive Record 86.61 Points

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Armstrong began. ‘I have called this press conference to announce that I informed the Securities Exchange Commission this morning that it is my intention to make an official takeover bid for the New York Star. I am delighted to report that a major shareholder in the paper, Mrs. Nancy Summers, has sold her stock to Armstrong Communications at a price of $4.10 per share.’

Although some journalists continued to write down Armstrong’s every word, this piece of news had been flagged up in most papers for over a week. Most of the journalists’ pencils remained poised as they waited for the real news.

‘But I am especially proud to announce today,’ continued Armstrong, ‘that Mr. Lloyd Summers, the son of Mrs. Summers and the director of the foundation which bears her name, has also pledged the 5 percent of the company held in trust to my cause.

‘It will come as no surprise to you that it is my intention to continue to support the outstanding work the Summers Foundation does in prompting the careers of young artists and sculptors who would not normally be given the chance to exhibit in a major gallery. I have, as many of you will know, had a lifelong involvement with the arts, in particular with young artists.’ Not one journalist present could remember a single artistic event Armstrong had ever attended, let alone supported. Most of the pencils remained poised.

‘With Mr. Summers’s backing, I am now in control of 19 percent of the Star’s stock, and I look forward in the near future to becoming the majority shareholder and taking over as chairman of the paper at the AGM next month.’

Armstrong looked up from the statement that had been prepared for him by Russell Critchley, and smiled at the sea of faces. ‘I shall now be happy to answer your questions.’

Russell felt that Dick handled the first few questions well, but then he pointed to a woman seated in the third row.

‘Janet Brewer, Washington Post. Mr. Armstrong, may I ask for your reaction to the press release issued this morning by Keith Townsend?’

‘I never read Mr. Townsend’s press releases,’ said Armstrong. ‘They’re about as accurate as his newspapers.’

‘Then allow me to enlighten you,’ she said, looking down at a sheet of paper. ‘It seems that Mr. Townsend has the backing of the bankers J.P. Grenville, who have pledged 11 percent of their portfolio stock in support of his bid to take over the Star. With his own shareholding, that gives him over 15 percent.’

Armstrong looked straight at her and said, ‘As chairman of the Star, I shall look forward to welcoming Mr. Townsend to next month’s AGM — as a minority shareholder.’

This time the pencils wrote down his every word.

Sitting in his newly acquired apartment on the thirty-seventh floor of Trump Tower, Armstrong read over Townsend’s press release. He chuckled when he came to the paragraph in which Townsend praised the work of the Summers Foundation. ‘Too late,’ he said out loud. ‘That 5 percent belongs to me.’

He immediately gave instructions to his brokers to buy up any Star stock that came on the market, whatever the price. The shares rocketed as it became clear that Townsend had given the same order. Some financial analysts suggested that because of ‘a strong personal animosity,’ both men were paying well above the real value.

For the next four weeks Armstrong and Townsend, accompanied by a battery of lawyers and accountants, spent every waking hour in planes, trains and cars as they zigzagged across America, trying to convince banks and institutions, trusts and even the occasional wealthy widow to support them in the battle to take over the Star.

The chairman of the paper, Cornelius J. Adams IV, announced that he would hand over the reins of power at the AGM to whichever contender controlled 51 percent of the shares. With only two weeks to go before the Star’s AGM, the financial editors were still unable to agree on who had the largest shareholding in the company. Townsend announced that he now controlled 46 percent of the stock, while Armstrong claimed that he had 41 percent. The analysts therefore concluded that whichever one of them was able to capture the 10 percent held by the Applebaum Corporation must surely carry the day.

Vic Applebaum was determined to enjoy his fifteen minutes of fame, and declared to anyone who cared to listen that it was his intention to see both would-be proprietors before he came to a final decision. He chose the Tuesday before the AGM to conduct the interviews which would decide on whom he should bestow his favor.

The two rivals’ lawyers met on neutral ground, and agreed that Armstrong should be allowed to see Applebaum first, which Tom Spencer assured his client was a tactical error. Townsend agreed, until Armstrong emerged from the meeting clutching the share certificates which proved he was in possession of Applebaum’s 10 percent.

‘How did he manage that?’ Townsend asked in disbelief.

Tom didn’t have an answer until he read the first edition of the New York Times at breakfast the following morning. Its media correspondent informed readers on the front page that Armstrong had not spent a great deal of time explaining to Mr. Applebaum how he would manage the Star, but had concentrated more on telling him in Yiddish that he had never really recovered from losing his entire family in the Holocaust, and that he had ended their meeting by disclosing that the proudest moment in his life had been when the prime minister of Israel had appointed him as the country’s roving ambassador to the USSR, with a special brief to assist Russian Jews who wished to emigrate to Israel. At this point Applebaum apparently broke down in tears, handed over the stock and refused to see Townsend.

Armstrong announced that as he now controlled 51 percent of the company, he was therefore the new owner of the New York Star. The Wall Street Journal concurred, declaring that the Star’s AGM would be nothing more than an anointing ceremony. But it added a postscript pointing out that Keith Townsend shouldn’t be too depressed about having lost the paper to his great rival. Because of the huge rise in the share price, he would make a profit in excess of $20 million.

The New York Times arts section reminded its readers that the Summers Foundation would be opening an avant-garde exhibition on Thursday evening, After the press barons’ claims of support for Lloyd Summers and the foundation’s work, it said, it would be interesting to see if either of them bothered to turn up.

Tom Spencer advised Townsend that it might be wise to drop in for a few minutes, as Armstrong was certain to be there, and you never knew what you might pick up on such occasions.

Townsend regretted his decision to attend the exhibition moments after he arrived. He circled the room once, glanced at the selection of paintings chosen by the trustees and concluded that they were, without exception, what Kate would have described as ‘pretentious rubbish.’ He decided to leave as quickly as possible. He had successfully negotiated a route to the door when Summers tapped a microphone and called for silence. The director then proceeded to ‘say a few words.’ Townsend checked his watch. When he looked up he saw Armstrong, firmly clutching a catalog, standing next to Summers and beaming at the assembled guests.

Summers began by saying how sad he was that his mother was unable to be with them because of a prolonged illness, and delivered a lengthy disquisition extolling the virtues of the artists whose works he had selected. He declared twenty minutes later how delighted he was that the New York Star’s new chairman had been able to find the time to attend ‘one of our little soirées.’

There was a smattering of applause, hampered by the holding of wine glasses, and Armstrong beamed once again. Townsend assumed that Summers had come to the end of his speech and turned to leave, but he added, ‘Unhappily, this will be the last exhibition to be held at this venue. As I’m sure you all know, our lease is coming to an end in December.’ A sigh went up around the room, but Summers raised his hands and said, ‘Fear not, my friends. I do believe I have, after a long search, found the perfect site to house the foundation. I hope that we will all meet there for our next exhibition.’

‘Though only one or two of us really know why that particular site was chosen,’ someone murmured sotto voce behind Townsend. He glanced round to see a slim woman who must have been in her mid-thirties, with short-cropped auburn hair and wearing a white blouse and a floral-patterned skirt. The little label on her blouse announced that she was Ms. Angela Humphries, deputy director.

‘And it would be a wonderful start,’ continued Summers, ‘if the first exhibition in our new building were to be opened by the Star’s next chairman, who has so generously pledged his continued support for the foundation.’

Armstrong beamed and nodded.

‘Not if he’s got any sense, he won’t,’ said the woman behind Townsend. He took a pace back so that he was standing next to Ms. Angela Humphries, who was sipping a glass of Spanish champagne.

‘Thank you, my dear friends,’ said Summers. ‘Now, do please continue to enjoy the exhibition.’ There followed another round of applause, after which Armstrong stepped forward and shook the director warmly by the hand. Summers began moving among the guests, introducing Armstrong to those he considered important.

Townsend turned to face Angela Humphries as she finished her drink. He quickly grabbed a bottle of Spanish champagne from the table behind them and refilled her glass.

‘Thank you,’ she said, looking at him for the first time. ‘As you can see, I’m Angela Humphries. Who are you?’

‘I’m from out of town.’ He hesitated. ‘Just visiting New York on a business trip.’

Angela took a sip before asking, ‘What sort of business?’

‘I’m in transport, actually. Mainly planes and haulage. Though I do own a couple of coalmines.’

‘Most of these would be better off down a coalmine,’ said Angela, her free arm gesturing toward the pictures.

‘I couldn’t agree more,’ said Townsend.

‘Then what made you come in the first place?’

‘I was on my own in New York and read about the exhibition in the Times,’ he replied.

‘So, what sort of art do you like then?’ she asked.

Townsend avoided saying ‘Boyd, Nolan and Williams,’ who filled the walls of his house at Darling Point, and told her ‘Bonnard, Camoir and Vuillard,’ who Kate had been collecting for several years.

‘Now they really could paint,’ Angela said. ‘If you admire them, I can think of several exhibitions that would have been worth giving up an evening for.’

‘That’s fine if you know where to look, but when you’re a stranger and on your own...’

She raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you married?’

‘No,’ he replied, hoping she believed him. ‘And you?’

‘Divorced,’ she said. ‘I used to be married to an artist who was convinced he had a talent second only to Bellini’s.’

‘And how good was he really?’ asked Townsend.

‘He was rejected for this exhibition,’ she replied, ‘which may give you a clue.’

Townsend laughed. People had begun steadily drifting toward the exit, and Armstrong and Summers were now only a few paces away. As Townsend poured Angela another glass of champagne, Armstrong suddenly came face to face with him. The two men stared at each other for a moment, before Armstrong grabbed Summers by the arm and dragged him quickly back to the center of the room.

‘You notice he didn’t want to introduce me to the new chairman,’ Angela said wistfully.

Townsend didn’t bother to explain that he thought it was more likely that Armstrong didn’t want him to meet the director.

‘Nice to have met you, Mr....’

‘Are you doing anything for dinner?’

She hesitated for a moment. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I had nothing planned, but I do have an early start tomorrow.’

‘So do I,’ said Townsend. ‘Why don’t we have a quick bite to eat?’

‘OK. Just give me a minute to get my coat, and I’ll be with you.’

As she walked off in the direction of the cloakroom, Townsend glanced around the room. Armstrong, with Summers in tow, was now surrounded by a crowd of admirers. Townsend didn’t need to be any closer to know that he would be telling them all about his exciting plans for the future of the foundation.

A moment later Angela returned, wearing a heavy winter coat that stopped only inches from the ground. ‘Where would you like to eat?’ Townsend asked as they began to climb the wide staircase that led from the basement gallery up to the street.

‘All the halfway decent restaurants will already be booked up by this time on a Thursday night,’ said Angela. ‘Where are you staying?’

‘The Carlyle.’

‘I’ve never eaten there. It might be fun,’ she said, as he held open the door for her. When they stepped out onto the sidewalk they were greeted by an icy New York gale, and he almost had to hold her up.

The driver of Mr. Townsend’s waiting BMW was surprised to see him flag down a taxi, and even more surprised when he saw the girl he was with. Frankly, he wouldn’t have thought she was Mr. Townsend’s type. He turned on the ignition and trailed the cab back to the Carlyle, then watched them get out on Madison and disappear through the revolving door into the hotel.

Townsend guided Angela straight to the dining room on the first floor, hoping that the maître d’ wouldn’t remember his name.

‘Good evening, sir,’ he said. ‘Have you booked a table?’

‘No,’ Townsend replied. ‘But I’m resident in the hotel.’

The head waiter frowned. ‘I’m sorry, sir, but I won’t be able to fit you in for at least another thirty minutes. You could of course take advantage of room service, if you wish.’

‘No, we’ll wait at the bar,’ said Townsend.

‘I really do have an early appointment tomorrow,’ Angela said. ‘And I can’t afford to be late for it.’

‘Shall we go in search of a restaurant?’

‘I’m quite happy to eat in your room, but I’ll have to be away by eleven.’

‘Suits me,’ said Townsend. He turned back to the maître d’ and said, ‘We’ll have dinner in my room.’

He gave a slight bow. ‘I’ll have someone sent up immediately. What room number is it, sir?’

‘712,’ said Townsend. He guided Angela back out of the restaurant. As they walked down the corridor they passed a room in which Bobby Schultz was playing.

‘Now he really does have talent,’ Angela said as they headed toward the elevator. Townsend nodded and smiled. They joined a group of guests just before the doors closed, and he pressed the button for the seventh floor. When they stepped out she gave him a nervous smile. He wanted to tell her that it wasn’t her body he was interested in.

Townsend slipped his pass-key into the lock and pushed open the door to let Angela in. He was relieved to see the complimentary bottle of champagne, which he hadn’t bothered to open, was still in its place on the center table. She took off her coat and placed it over the nearest chair as he removed the gold wrapping from the neck of the bottle, then eased the cork out and filled two glasses up to the brim.

‘I mustn’t have too much,’ she said. ‘I drank quite a lot at the gallery.’ Townsend raised his glass just as there was a knock on the door. A waiter appeared holding a menu, a pad and a pencil.

‘Dover sole and a green salad will suit me just fine,’ Angela said, without looking at the proffered menu.

‘On or off the bone, madam?’ asked the waiter.

‘Off, please.’

‘Why don’t you make that two?’ said Townsend. He then took his time selecting a couple of bottles of French wine, ignoring his favorite Australian chardonnay.

Once they were both seated, Angela began to talk about other artists who were exhibiting in New York, and her enthusiasm and knowledge of her subject almost made Townsend forget why he had invited her to dinner in the first place. As they waited for the meal to arrive, he slowly guided the conversation round to her work at the gallery. He agreed with her judgment of the current exhibition, and asked why she, as the deputy director, hadn’t done something about it.

‘A grand title that carries little or no influence,’ she said with a sigh as Townsend refilled her empty glass.

‘So Summers makes all the decisions?’

‘He certainly does. I wouldn’t waste the foundation’s money on that pseudo-intellectual rubbish. There’s so much real talent out there, if only someone would take the trouble to go and look for it.’

‘The exhibition was well hung,’ said Townsend, trying to push her an extra yard.

‘Well hung?’ she said in a tone of disbelief. ‘I’m not discussing the hanging — or the lighting, or the framing, for that matter. I was referring to the pictures. In any case, there’s only one thing in that gallery that ought to be hung.’

There was a knock on the door. Townsend rose from his chair and stood aside to allow the waiter to enter, pushing a laden trolley. He set up a table in the center of the room and laid out dinner for two, explaining that the fish was in a warming drawer below. Townsend signed the check and handed him a ten-dollar bill. ‘Shall I come back and clear up later, sir?’ the waiter asked politely. He received a slight but firm shake of the head.

Angela was already toying with her salad when Townsend took the seat opposite her. He uncorked the chardonnay and filled both their glasses. ‘So you feel that Summers possibly spent more than was strictly necessary on the exhibition?’ he prompted.

‘More than was strictly necessary?’ said Angela, as she tasted the white wine. ‘He fritters away over a million dollars of the foundation’s money every year. We have nothing to show for it other than a few parties, the sole purpose of which is to boost his ego.’

‘How does he manage to get through a million a year?’ asked Townsend, pretending to concentrate on his salad.

‘Well, take tonight’s exhibition. That cost the foundation a quarter of a million for a start. Then there’s his expense account, which runs second only to Ed Koch’s.’

‘So how does he get away with it?’ asked Townsend, topping up her glass of wine. He hoped she hadn’t noticed he’d hardly touched his.

‘Because there’s no one to check on what he’s up to,’ said Angela. ‘The foundation is controlled by his mother, who holds the purse strings — until the AGM, at least.’

‘Mrs. Summers?’ prompted Townsend, determined to keep the flow going.

‘No less,’ said Angela.

‘Then why doesn’t she do something about it?’

‘How can she? The poor woman’s been bedridden for the past two years, and the one person who visits her — daily, I might add — is none other than her devoted only son.’

‘I’ve got a feeling that could change as soon as Armstrong takes over.’

‘Why do you say that? Do you know him?’

‘No,’ said Townsend quickly, trying to recover from his mistake. ‘But everything I’ve read about him would suggest that he doesn’t care much for hangers-on.’

‘I only hope that’s right,’ said Angela, pouring herself another glass of wine, ‘because that might give me a chance to show him what I could do for the foundation.’

‘Perhaps that’s why Summers never let Armstrong out of his sight this evening.’

‘He didn’t even introduce him to me,’ said Angela, ‘as I’m sure you noticed. Lloyd isn’t going to give up his lifestyle without a fight, that’s for sure.’ She stuck her fork into a slice of courgette. ‘And if he can get Armstrong to sign the lease on the new premises before the AGM, there will be no reason for him to do so. This wine really is exceptional,’ she said, putting down her empty glass. Townsend filled it again, and uncorked the second bottle.

‘Are you trying to get me drunk?’ she asked, laughing.

‘The thought hadn’t even crossed my mind,’ said Townsend. He rose from his place, removed two plates from the warming drawer and set them on the table. ‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘are you looking forward to moving?’

‘Moving?’ she said, as she put some Hollandaise sauce on the side of her plate.

‘To your new premises,’ said Townsend. ‘It sounds as if Lloyd has found the perfect location.’

‘Perfect?’ she repeated. ‘At $3 million it should be perfect. But perfect for whom?’ she said, picking up her knife and fork.

‘Still, as he explained,’ said Townsend, ‘you weren’t exactly left with a lot of choice.’

‘No, what you mean is that the board weren’t left with a lot of choice, because he told them there wasn’t an alternative.’

‘But the lease on the present building was coming to an end, wasn’t it?’ said Townsend.

‘What he didn’t tell you in his speech was that the owner would have been quite happy to renew the lease for another ten years with no rent increase,’ said Angela, picking up her wine glass. ‘I really shouldn’t have any more, but after that rubbish they serve at the gallery, this is a real treat.’

‘Then why didn’t he?’ asked Townsend.

‘Why didn’t he what?’

‘Renew the lease.’

‘Because he found another building that just happens to have a penthouse apartment thrown in,’ she said, putting down her wine glass and concentrating once again on her fish.

‘But he has every right to live on the premises,’ said Townsend. ‘He’s the director, after all.’

‘True, but that doesn’t give him the right to have a separate lease on the apartment, so that when he finally decides to retire they won’t be able to get rid of him without paying vast compensation. He’s got it all worked out.’ She was beginning to slur her words.

‘How do you know all this?’

‘We once shared a lover,’ she said rather sadly.

Townsend quickly refilled her glass. ‘So where is this building?’

‘Why are you so keen to know all about the new building?’ she said, sounding suspicious for the first time.

‘I’d like to look you up when I’m next in New York,’ he replied without missing a beat.

Angela put her knife and fork down on the plate, pushed her chair back and said, ‘You don’t have any brandy, do you? Just a small one, to warm me up before I face the blizzard on my way home.’

‘I’m sure I do,’ said Townsend. He walked over to the fridge, extracted four miniature brandies of different origins and poured them all into a large goblet.

‘Won’t you join me?’ she asked.

‘No, thank you. I haven’t quite finished my wine,’ he said, picking up his first glass, which was almost untouched. ‘And more important, I don’t have to face the blizzard. Tell me, how did you become deputy director?’

‘After five deputies had resigned in four years, I think I must have been the only person who applied.’

‘I’m surprised he bothers with a deputy.’

‘He has to.’ She took a sip of brandy. ‘It’s in the statutes.’

‘But you must be well qualified to have been offered the job,’ he said, quickly changing the subject.

‘I studied the history of art at Yale, and did my PhD on the Renaissance 1527–1590 at the Accademia in Venice.’

‘After Caravaggio, Luini and Michelangelo, that lot must be a bit of a come-down,’ said Townsend.

‘I wouldn’t mind even that, but I’ve been deputy director for nearly two years and haven’t been allowed to mount one show. If only he would give me the chance, I could put on an exhibition the foundation could be proud of, at about a tenth of the cost of this current show.’ She took another sip of brandy.

‘If you feel that strongly, I’m surprised you stick around,’ said Townsend.

‘I won’t for much longer,’ she said. ‘If I can’t convince Armstrong to change the gallery’s policy, I’m going to resign. But as Lloyd seems to be leading him around on a leash, I doubt if I’ll still be around when they open the next exhibition.’ She paused, and took a sip of brandy. ‘I haven’t even told my mother that,’ she admitted. ‘But then, sometimes it’s easier to talk to strangers.’ She took another sip. ‘You’re not in the art world, are you?’

‘No, as I said, I’m in transport and coalmines.’

‘So what do you actually do? Drive or dig?’ She stared across at him, drained her glass and tried again. ‘What I mean is...’

‘Yes?’ said Townsend.

‘To start with... what do you transport, and to where?’ She picked up her glass, paused for a moment, then slowly slid off her chair onto the carpet, mumbling something about fossil fuels in Renaissance Rome. Within a few seconds she was curled up on the floor, purring like a contented cat. Townsend picked her up gently and carried her through to the bedroom. He pulled back the top sheet, laid her down on the bed and covered her slight body with a blanket. He had to admire her for lasting so long; he doubted if she weighed more than eight stone.

He returned to the sitting room, closing the bedroom door quietly behind him, and set about looking for the statute book of the New York Star. Once he had found the thin red volume tucked in the bottom of his briefcase, he sat on the sofa and began to read slowly through the company statutes. He had reached page forty-seven before he nodded off.

Armstrong couldn’t think of a good excuse for turning Summers down when he suggested they should have dinner together after the exhibition. He was relieved that his lawyer hadn’t gone home. ‘You’ll join us, won’t you, Russell?’ he boomed at his attorney, making it sound more like a command than an invitation.

Armstrong had already expressed privately to Russell his thoughts on the exhibition, which he had just managed to conceal from Summers. He had been trying to avoid a meeting from the moment Summers announced he’d found the perfect site for the foundation to move into. But Russell had warned him that Summers was becoming impatient, and had even begun threatening, ‘Don’t forget, I still have an alternative.’

Armstrong had to admit that the restaurant Summers had chosen was quite exceptional, but over the past month he had become accustomed to the man’s extravagant tastes. After the main course had been cleared away, Summers reiterated how important it was to sign the lease for the new building as quickly as possible, or the foundation wouldn’t have a home. ‘I made it clear on the first day we met, Dick, that my condition for pledging the trust’s shares was that in return you would purchase a new gallery for the foundation.’

‘And it is still my intention to do so,’ said Armstrong firmly.

‘And before the AGM.’ The two men stared across the table at each other. ‘I suggest you have the lease drawn up immediately, so it’s ready for signing by Monday.’ Summers picked up a glass of brandy and drained it. ‘Because I know someone else who’d be only too happy to sign it if you don’t.’

‘No, no, I’ll have it drawn up immediately,’ said Armstrong.

‘Good. Then I’ll show you round the premises tomorrow morning.’

‘Tomorrow morning?’ said Armstrong. ‘I’m sure I’ll be able to fit that in.’

‘Shall we say nine o’clock, then?’ said Summers, as a decaffeinated coffee was placed in front of him.

Armstrong gulped down his coffee. ‘Nine o’clock will be fine,’ he said eventually, before calling for the bill. He settled another of Summers’s extravagances, threw his napkin on the table and rose from his place. The director of the foundation and Russell followed suit, and accompanied him in silence to his waiting stretch limousine.

‘I’ll see you at nine tomorrow morning,’ Summers said, as Armstrong climbed into the back of the car.

‘You most certainly will,’ muttered Armstrong, not looking back.

On their way to the Pierre, Armstrong told Russell that he wanted answers to three questions. The lawyer took a small leather notepad from his inside pocket.

‘First, who controls the foundation? Second, how much of the Star’s profits does it eat up each year? And third, is there any legal obligation on me to spend three million on this new building he keeps going on about?’

Russell scribbled away on his little notepad.

‘And I want the answers by tomorrow morning.’

The limousine dropped Armstrong outside his hotel, and he nodded good night to Russell, then got out of the car and took a stroll around the block. He picked up a copy of the New York Star on the corner of Sixty-first and Madison, and smiled when he saw a large photo of himself dominating the front page, with the headline ‘Chairman’ underneath. It didn’t please him that Townsend’s photo was also on the same page — even if it was considerably smaller, and below the fold. The caption read: ‘A $20 million profit?’

Armstrong tucked the paper under his arm. When he reached the hotel, he stepped into a waiting lift and said to the bellboy, ‘Who cares about $20 million, when you can be the owner of the Star?’

‘Excuse me, sir?’ said the puzzled bellboy.

‘Which would you rather have,’ Armstrong asked. ‘The New York Star or $20 million?’

The bellboy looked up at the giant of a man, who seemed perfectly sober, and said hopefully, ‘$20 million, sir.’

When Townsend woke the following morning he had a stiff neck. He stood up and stretched. Then he noticed the New York Star’s statutes lying at his feet. And then he remembered.

He walked across the room and cautiously opened the bedroom door. Angela was still fast asleep. He closed the door quietly, returned to his chair and rang through to room service. He ordered breakfast and five papers, and asked them to clear away the dinner table.

When the bedroom door opened the second time that morning, Angela stepped out gingerly to find Townsend reading the Wall Street Journal and sipping coffee. She asked the same question as she had when they met in the gallery. ‘Who are you?’ He gave her the same reply. She smiled.

‘Can I order you some breakfast?’

‘No thanks, but you could pour me a large black coffee. I’ll be back in a moment.’ The bedroom door closed and didn’t open again for another twenty minutes. When Angela sat down in the chair opposite Townsend, she looked very nervous. He poured her a coffee, but she made no attempt at conversation until she had taken several large gulps.

‘Did I do anything foolish last night?’ she asked eventually.

‘No, you didn’t,’ said Townsend with a smile.

‘It’s just that I’ve never...’

‘There’s nothing to worry about,’ he assured her. ‘You fell asleep and I put you to bed.’ He paused. ‘Fully dressed.’

‘That’s a relief.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Good heavens, is that really the time, or did I put my watch on upside down?’

‘It’s twenty past eight,’ said Townsend.

‘I’ll have to grab a cab immediately. I’ve got a site meeting in SoHo with the new chairman at nine, and I must make a good impression. If he refuses to buy the new building, it could be my one chance.’

‘Don’t bother with a cab,’ said Townsend. ‘My driver will take you wherever you want to go. You’ll find him parked out front in a white BMW.’

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘That’s really generous of you.’

She quickly drained her coffee. ‘It was a great dinner last night, and you were very thoughtful,’ she said as she rose from her chair. ‘But if I’m to be there ahead of Mr. Armstrong, I really must leave now.’

‘Of course.’ Townsend stood up and helped her on with her coat.

When they reached the door she turned and faced him again. ‘If I didn’t do anything foolish last night, did I say anything I might regret?’

‘No, I don’t think so. You just chatted about your work at the foundation,’ he said as he opened the door for her.

‘It was kind of you to listen. I do hope we meet again.’

‘I have a feeling we will,’ said Townsend.

She leaned forward and gave him a kiss on the cheek. ‘By the way,’ she said, ‘you never did tell me your name.’

‘Keith Townsend.’

‘Oh shit,’ she said, as the door closed behind her.

When Armstrong arrived outside 147 Lower Broadway that morning, he was greeted by the sight of Lloyd Summers waiting on the top step standing next to a rather thin, academic-looking woman, who was either very tired or simply bored.

‘Good morning, Mr. Armstrong,’ said Summers as he stepped out of the car.

‘Good morning,’ he replied, forcing a smile as he shook the director’s hand.

‘This is Angela Humphries, my deputy,’ he explained. ‘You may have met her at the opening last night.’

Armstrong could recall her face, but didn’t remember meeting her. He nodded curtly.

‘Angela’s speciality is the Renaissance period,’ said Summers, opening the door and standing to one side.

‘How interesting,’ said Armstrong, making no attempt to sound interested.

‘Let me start by showing you round,’ said the director, as they entered a large empty room on the ground floor. Armstrong put a hand in his pocket and flicked on a switch.

‘So many wonderful walls for hanging,’ enthused the director.

Armstrong tried to appear fascinated by a building he had absolutely no intention of buying. But he knew that he couldn’t admit as much until he had been confirmed as the Star’s chairman on Monday, and that wouldn’t be possible without Summers’s 5 percent. He somehow managed to punctuate the director’s effusive monologue with the occasional ‘Wonderful,’ ‘Ideal,’ ‘Perfect,’ ‘I do agree,’ and even ‘How clever of you to find it,’ as they entered each new room.

When Summers took him by the arm and started to lead him back down to the ground floor, Armstrong pointed to a staircase that led up to another floor. ‘What goes on up there?’ he asked suspiciously.

‘It’s just an attic,’ replied Summers dismissively. ‘It might prove useful for storage, but not much else.’ Angela said nothing, and tried to remember if she had told Mr. Townsend what was on the top floor.

By the time they arrived back at the ground floor, Armstrong couldn’t wait to escape. As they stepped out onto the sidewalk, Summers said, ‘Now you’ll understand, chairman, why I consider this to be the ideal spot for the foundation to continue its work into the next century.’

‘I couldn’t agree with you more,’ Armstrong said. ‘Absolutely ideal.’ He smiled with relief when he saw who was waiting for him in the back of the limousine. ‘I’ll deal with all the necessary paperwork just as soon as I get back to my office.’

‘I’ll be at the gallery for the rest of the day,’ said Summers.

‘Then I’ll send the documents round for you to sign this afternoon.’

‘Any time — today,’ said Summers, offering his hand.

Armstrong shook hands with the director and, without bothering to say goodbye to Angela, stepped into the car. He found Russell, yellow pad on lap, pen poised. ‘Do you have all the answers?’ he asked, before the driver had even turned the key in the ignition. He turned to wave at Summers as the car moved away from the curb.

‘Yes, I do,’ Russell replied, looking down at his pad. ‘First, the foundation is currently chaired by Mrs. Summers, who appointed her son director six years ago.’ Armstrong nodded. ‘Second, they spent a little over a million dollars of the Star’s profits last year.’

Armstrong gripped the armrest. ‘How in hell’s name did they manage that?’

‘Well, to start with, Summers is paid a salary of $150,000 a year. But more interestingly,’ said Russell, referring to his notes, ‘he’s somehow managed to get through $240,000 a year in expenses — for each of the past four years.’

Armstrong could feel his pulse-rate increasing. ‘How does he get away with it?’ he asked, as they passed a white BMW he could have sworn he’d seen somewhere before. He turned and stared at it.

‘I suspect his mother doesn’t ask too many questions.’

‘What?’

‘I suspect his mother doesn’t ask too many questions,’ Russell repeated.

‘But what about the board? Surely they have a duty to be more vigilant. Not to mention the shareholders.’

‘Someone did raise the subject at last year’s AGM,’ said Russell, referring to his notes. ‘But the chairman assured them — and I quote — that “the Star’s readers thoroughly approve of the paper being involved with the advancement of culture in our great city”.’

‘The advancement of what?’ said Armstrong.

‘Culture,’ said Russell.

‘And what about the building?’ demanded Armstrong, pointing out of the back window.

‘No future management is under any obligation to purchase another building once the lease on the old one runs out — which it does on December quarter day.’

Armstrong smiled for the first time that morning.

‘Though I must warn you,’ said Russell, ‘that I believe Summers will need to be convinced that you have purchased the building before the AGM takes place on Monday. Otherwise, as director of the trust, he could still switch his 5 percent at the last moment.’

‘Then send him two copies of a lease prepared for signature. That will keep him quiet until Monday morning.’

Russell didn’t look convinced.

When the BMW arrived back at the Carlyle, Townsend was already waiting on the sidewalk. He climbed in next to the driver and asked, ‘Where did you drop the girl off?’

‘SoHo, Lower Broadway,’ the driver replied.

‘Then that’s where I want to go,’ Townsend said. As the driver joined the Fifth Avenue traffic, he remained puzzled by what Mr. Townsend saw in the girl. There had to be an angle he hadn’t worked out. Perhaps she was an heiress.

When the BMW turned into Lower Broadway, Townsend couldn’t miss the stretch limousine parked outside a building with a ‘For Sale’ sign in the front window. ‘Park on this side of the road, about fifty yards short of the building where you dropped the lady earlier this morning,’ he said.

As the driver pulled on the handbrake, Townsend squinted over his shoulder and asked, ‘Can you read the phone numbers on those signs?’

‘There are two signs, sir, with different numbers on them.’

‘I need both,’ Townsend said. The driver read the numbers out, and Townsend wrote them on the back of a five-dollar bill. Then he picked up the car phone and dialed the first number.

When the line was answered with, ‘Good morning, Wood, Knight & Levy. How may I assist you?’ Townsend said he was interested in the details of 147 Lower Broadway.

‘I’ll put you through to Offices, sir,’ he was told. A click followed and a second voice asked, ‘How may I assist you?’ Townsend repeated his query, and was put through to a third voice.

‘Number 147 Broadway? Ah, yes, I’m afraid we already have a prospective buyer for that property, sir. We’ve been instructed to draw up a lease, with a view to closing on Monday. However, we do have other properties in the same locality.’

Townsend pressed the END button without saying another word. Only in New York would no one be surprised by such bad manners. He immediately dialed the second number. While he waited to be connected to the right person, he became distracted by a taxi drawing up outside the building. A tall, elegantly-dressed middle-aged man jumped out and walked over to the stretch limousine. He had a word with the driver, and then climbed into the back as a voice came onto the line.

‘You’ll have to move quickly if you’re interested in number 147,’ said the agent. ‘Because I know the other firm involved with the property already has a party interested who is close to nailing a deal, and that’s no bullshit. In fact they’re looking over the building right now, so I couldn’t even take you round before ten.’

‘Ten will suit me just fine,’ said Townsend. ‘I’ll meet you outside the building then.’ He pressed the END button.

Townsend had to wait only a few more minutes before Armstrong, Summers and Angela came out onto the sidewalk. After only a short exchange and a handshake, Armstrong stepped into the back of the limousine. He didn’t seem at all surprised to find someone waiting there for him. As the car moved off, Summers waved effusively until Armstrong was out of sight. Angela stood a pace behind him, looking fed up. Townsend ducked as the limousine passed him, and when he looked back up, he saw Summers hailing a Yellow Cab. He and Angela got in, and Townsend watched them as they disappeared in the opposite direction to the limousine.

Once the cab had turned the corner, Townsend got out of his car and walked across the road to study the building from the outside. After a few moments he walked a little further down the pavement, and found that there was a similar property up for sale a few doors away, the number of which he also wrote down on the back of the five-dollar bill. He then returned to the car.

One more phone call, and he had discovered that the price of number 171 was $2.5 million. Not only was Summers getting an apartment thrown in, but it also looked as if he was making a handsome profit on the side.

The driver tapped on the internal window and pointed toward number 147. Townsend looked up and saw a young man climbing the steps. He put the phone down and went across to join him.

After an extensive viewing of all five floors, Townsend had to agree with Angela that at $3 million it was perfect — but for only one person. As they stepped back out onto the sidewalk he asked the agent, ‘What’s the minimum deposit you would require on this building?’

‘Ten percent, non-returnable,’ he replied.

‘With the usual thirty days for completion, I assume?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said the agent.

‘Good. Then why don’t you draw up a lease immediately,’ Townsend said, handing the young man his card. ‘Send it round to me at the Carlyle.’

‘Yes, sir,’ the agent repeated. ‘I’ll make sure it’s with you by this afternoon.’

Townsend finally extracted a hundred-dollar bill from his wallet and held it up so that the young man could see which president was on it. ‘And I want the other agent who’s trying to sell this property to know that I will be putting down a deposit first thing on Monday morning.’

The young man pocketed the hundred-dollar bill, and nodded.

When Townsend arrived back in his room at the Carlyle, he immediately called Tom at his office. ‘What have you got planned for the weekend?’ he asked his lawyer.

‘A round of golf, a little gardening,’ said Tom. ‘And I was also hoping to watch my youngest pitch for his high school. But from the way you phrased that question, Keith, I have a feeling I won’t even be taking the train back to Greenwich.’

‘You’re right, Tom. We’ve got a lot of work to do before Monday morning if I’m going to be the next proprietor of the New York Star.’

‘Where do I start?’

‘With a lease that needs checking over before I sign it. Then I want you to close a deal with the one person who can make this all possible.’ When Townsend eventually put the phone down, he leaned back in his chair and gazed at the little red book that had kept him awake the previous night. A few moments later he picked it up, and turned to page 47.

For the first time in his life he was grateful for an Oxford education.

33 New York Times 11 December 1986 Star Wars

Armstrong signed the lease, then passed his pen to Russell, who witnessed the signature.

Lloyd Summers hadn’t stopped grinning since he’d arrived at Trump Tower that morning, and he almost leaped out of his chair when Russell added his signature to the lease on 147 Lower Broadway. He thrust out his hand at Armstrong and said, ‘Thank you, chairman. I can only say how much I’m looking forward to working with you.’

‘And I with you,’ said Armstrong, shaking his hand.

Summers bowed low in Armstrong’s direction, then gave a slightly lesser bow to Russell. He gathered up the lease and the draft for $300,000 before turning to leave the room. When he reached the door, he looked back and said, ‘You’ll never regret it.’

‘I fear you might, Dick,’ said Russell the moment the door was closed. ‘What made you change your mind?’

‘I didn’t have a lot of choice once I discovered what Townsend was up to.’

‘So that’s $3 million down the drain,’ said the lawyer.

‘Three hundred thousand,’ said Armstrong.

‘I don’t understand.’

‘I may have paid the deposit, but I have absolutely no intention of buying the bloody building.’

‘But he’ll issue a writ against you if you fail to complete within the thirty days.’

‘I doubt it,’ said Armstrong.

‘What makes you so sure?’

‘Because in a couple of weeks’ time you will phone his lawyer and tell him how horrified I was to discover that his client had signed a separate lease on a penthouse apartment above the gallery, having described it to me as an attic.’

‘That will be almost impossible to prove.’

Armstrong removed a small cassette from an inside pocket and handed it over to Russell. ‘It may be easier than you think.’

‘But this could well be inadmissible,’ said Russell, taking the tape.

‘Then you may just have to ask what would have happened to the $600,000 the agents were going to pay Summers over and above the original asking price.’

‘He’ll simply deny it, especially as you won’t have completed the contract.’

Armstrong paused for a moment. ‘Well, there’s always a last resort.’ He opened a drawer in his desk and withdrew a dummy front page of the Star. The headline read: ‘Lloyd Summers Indicted for Fraud.’

‘He’ll just issue another writ.’

‘Not after he’s read the inside pages.’

‘But by the time the trial comes around it will all be ancient history.’

‘Not as long as I’m proprietor of the Star, it won’t.’

‘How long will it all take?’ asked Townsend.

‘About twenty minutes would be my guess,’ Tom replied.

‘And how many people have you signed up?’

‘Just over two hundred.’

‘Will that be enough?’

‘It’s all I could manage at such short notice, so let’s hope so.’

‘Do they know what’s expected of them?’

‘They sure do. I took them through several rehearsals last night. But I still want you to address them before the meeting begins.’

‘And how about the lead player? Has she been rehearsing?’ Townsend asked.

‘She didn’t need to,’ said Tom. ‘She’s been understudying the part for some time.’

‘Did she agree to my terms?’

‘Didn’t even haggle.’

‘What about the lease? Any surprises there?’

‘No, it was just as she said it would be.’

Townsend stood up, walked across to the window and stared out over Central Park. ‘Will you be proposing the motion?’

‘No, I’ve asked Andrew Fraser to do that. I’m going to stick with you.’

‘Why did you pick Fraser?’

‘He’s the senior partner, which will ensure that the chairman realizes just how serious we are.’

Townsend swung round and faced his attorney. ‘So what can go wrong?’

When Armstrong walked out of the offices of Keating, Could & Critchley, accompanied by the senior partner, he was faced with a battery of cameramen, photographers and journalists, all hoping to get the same questions answered.

‘What changes do you intend to make, Mr. Armstrong, when you are the chairman of the Star?’

‘Why change a great institution?’ he replied. ‘In any case,’ he added, as he marched down the long corridor and out onto the sidewalk, ‘I’m not the sort of proprietor who interferes with the daily running of a paper. Ask any of my editors. They’ll tell you.’

One or two of the journalists who were chasing after him had already done so, but Armstrong had reached the relative safety of his limousine before they could follow up with any supplementaries.

‘Bloody hacks,’ he said, as the car set off in the direction of the Plaza Hotel where the Annual General Meeting of the Star shareholders was to be held. ‘You can’t even control the ones you own.’

Russell didn’t comment. As they proceeded down Fifth Avenue, Armstrong began glancing at his watch every few moments. Lights seemed to turn red just as they approached them. Or did you only ever notice such things when you were in a hurry? Armstrong looked out at the busy sidewalk and watched the natives of Manhattan streaming back and forth at a pace he now took for granted. As the lights turned green, he touched his breast pocket to check his acceptance speech was still in place. He had once read that Margaret Thatcher would never allow an aide to carry her speeches, because she had a dread of arriving on a platform without the script. He understood her anxiety for the first time.

The nervous conversation between Armstrong and his attorney stopped and started, as the car passed the General Motors building. Armstrong took a large powder puff out of his pocket and dabbed his forehead. Russell continued to stare out of the window.

‘So what can go wrong?’ asked Armstrong, for the tenth time.

‘Nothing,’ repeated Russell, tapping the leather briefcase on his knees. ‘I have shares and pledges totaling 51 percent of the stock, and we know Townsend has only 46 percent. Just relax.’

More cameramen, photographers and journalists were waiting on the steps of the Plaza as the limousine drew up. Russell glanced across at his client who, despite his protests to the contrary, seemed to be enjoying every moment of the attention. As Armstrong stepped out of the car, the manager of the Plaza took a pace forward to greet him as if he were a visiting head of State. He guided the two men into the hotel, across the lobby and on toward the Lincoln Room. Armstrong failed to notice Keith Townsend and the senior partner of another distinguished law firm step out of the elevator as he and his party swept by.

Townsend had arrived at the Plaza an hour earlier. Unnoticed by the manager, he had checked out the room where the meeting would be held, and then made his way to the State Suite, where Tom had assembled a team of out-of-work actors. He briefed them on the role they would be expected to play, and why it was necessary for them to sign so many transfer forms. Forty minutes later he returned to the lobby.

Townsend and Tom Spencer walked slowly toward the Lincoln Room in Armstrong’s wake. They could easily have been mistaken for two of his minor acolytes.

‘What if she doesn’t turn up?’ asked Townsend.

‘Then a lot of people will have wasted a great deal of time and money,’ said Tom as they entered the Lincoln Room.

Townsend was surprised to find how crowded the room was; he had imagined that the five hundred chairs he had watched the staff putting out earlier that morning would prove far more than were needed. He was wrong — there were already people standing at the back. About a third of the way down the room, a red rope prevented anyone other than stockholders from taking a place in the twenty rows nearest the stage. The press, employees of the paper and the simply curious were packed into the back of the room.

Townsend and his lawyer walked slowly down the center aisle, the occasional flashbulb popping, until they came to the red rope, where both were asked to produce proof that they were stockholders of the company. An efficient woman ran her finger down a long list of names that covered several pages. She made two little ticks, gave them a smile, and unhooked the rope.

The first thing Townsend noticed was the amount of media attention being focused on Armstrong and his entourage, who seemed to be occupying most of the front two rows. It was Tom who spotted them first. He touched Townsend on the elbow. ‘Far left-hand side, about the tenth row.’ Townsend looked to his left, and let out an audible sigh when his eyes settled on Lloyd Summers and his deputy, who were seated next to each other.

Tom guided Townsend to the other side of the room, and they took two vacant seats halfway back. As Townsend looked nervously around, Tom nodded in the direction of another man walking down the center aisle. Andrew Fraser, the senior partner of Tom’s law practice, slipped into an empty seat a couple of rows behind Armstrong.

Townsend turned his attention toward the stage, where he recognized some of the Star directors he had met during the past six weeks, milling around behind a long table covered in a green baize cloth which had printed on it in bold red letters the legend ‘The New York Star.’ Armstrong had promised several of them they would remain on the board if he became chairman. None of them believed him.

The clock on the wall behind them indicated that it was five to twelve. Townsend glanced over his shoulder, and noticed that the room was becoming so crowded that it would soon be difficult for anyone else to find a place. He whispered to Tom, who also looked back, frowned and said, ‘If it’s still a problem when they start coming in, I’ll deal with it personally.’

Townsend turned back to the stage and watched the members of the board beginning to take their places behind the long table. The last person to occupy his seat was the chairman, Cornelius J. Adams IV, as a smartly printed card placed in front of him reminded the less well-informed. The moment he took his place, the cameras switched their attention from the front row of the audience to the stage. The buzz that had been filling the hall became distinctly subdued. As the clock behind him struck twelve, the chairman banged his gavel several times, until he had gained everyone’s attention.

‘Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,’ he began. ‘My name is Cornelius Adams, and I am chairman of the board of the New York Star.’ He paused. ‘Well, at least for a few more minutes.’ He looked in Armstrong’s direction. A little laughter broke out for what Townsend suspected had been a well-rehearsed line. ‘This,’ he declared, ‘is the annual general meeting of the greatest newspaper in America.’ This statement was greeted with enthusiastic applause by large sections seated at the front of the hall, and with silent indifference by most of those behind the red rope.

‘Our main purpose today,’ he continued, ‘is to appoint a new chairman, the man who will have the responsibility of leading the Star into the next century. As I am sure you all know, a takeover bid for the paper was launched earlier in the year by Mr. Richard Armstrong of Armstrong Communications, and a counterbid was made on the same day by Mr. Keith Townsend of Global Corp. My first task this afternoon is to guide you through the procedure which will ensure that a transfer of power takes place smoothly.

‘I am able to confirm that both parties concerned have presented to me, through their distinguished counsel, proof of their entitlement or control over the company’s stock. Our auditors have double-checked all these claims and found them to be in order. They show,’ he said, referring to a clipboard that he picked up from the table, ‘that Mr. Richard Armstrong is in possession of 51 percent of the company’s stock, while Mr. Keith Townsend has control over 46 percent. Three percent of stockholders have not made their preference known.

‘As the majority shareholder, Mr. Armstrong is ipso facto in control, so there is nothing left for me to do other than hand over the chair to his stewardship — unless, as the marriage service states, anyone can show just cause or impediment for me not so to do.’ He beamed at the audience like a priest standing in front of the bride and groom, and remained silent for a moment.

A woman immediately jumped up in the third row. ‘Both of the men who have been bidding to take over the Star are foreigners,’ she said. ‘What recourse do I have if I don’t want either of them as chairman?’

It was a question that the company secretary had anticipated, and for which Adams had an answer prepared. ‘None, madam,’ came back the chairman’s immediate reply. ‘Otherwise any group of stockholders would be in a position to remove American directors from British and Australian companies throughout the world.’ The chairman was satisfied that he had dealt with the woman politely and effectively.

The questioner obviously did not agree. She turned her back on the stage and stalked out of the room, followed by a CNN camera and one photographer.

There followed several more questions in the same vein, which Russell had warned Armstrong was likely. ‘It’s simply stockholders exercising their goddamn rights,’ he had explained.

As each question was answered, Townsend turned round and looked anxiously toward the door. Every time there were more people blocking it. Tom could see how nervous his client had become, so he slipped out of his seat and went to the back of the room to have a word with the chief usher. By the time the chairman was satisfied he had answered every question from the floor, several of them twice, Tom had returned to his place. ‘Don’t worry, Keith,’ he said. ‘Everything’s under control.’

‘But when will Andrew...’

‘Patience,’ said Tom, as the chairman announced, ‘If there are no more questions from the floor, I am left only with the pleasant task of inviting Mr. Richard...’ He would have completed the sentence if Andrew Fraser hadn’t risen from his place a couple of rows behind Armstrong and indicated that he wished to speak.

Cornelius J. Adams frowned, but nodded curtly when he saw who it was wanting to ask a question.

‘Mr. Chairman,’ Fraser began, as one or two groans went up around the room.

‘Yes?’ said Adams, unable to disguise his irritation.

Townsend looked back toward the entrance once again, and saw a trickle of people making their way down the center aisle toward the shareholders’ seats. As each of them reached the red rope barrier, they were stopped by the efficient woman who checked their names on the long list before unhooking the rope and allowing them through to fill up the few remaining places.

‘I wish to bring to your attention,’ continued Tom’s colleague, ‘rule 7B of the company’s statutes.’ Conversations started up around the room. Few people on either side of the rope had ever read the company’s statutes, and certainly none had any idea what rule 7B referred to. The chairman leaned down to allow the company secretary to whisper in his ear the words he had just looked up on page forty-seven of the rarely consulted little red leather book. This was one question he had not anticipated, and for which he did not have a prepared answer.

Townsend could see from the frenzy of activity in the front row that the man he had first seen climbing into the back of the limousine outside 147 Lower Broadway was trying to explain the significance of rule 7B to his client.

Andrew Fraser waited for the furor around him to settle before he attempted to continue, allowing more time for the steady stream of people entering the room to take their places beyond the red rope. The chairman found it necessary to bang his gavel several more times before the room was quiet enough for him to inform everyone: ‘Rule 7B allows any shareholder attending the annual general meeting’ — he was reading directly from the little red book — ‘“to propose a nominee for the position of any office-holder of the company.” Is that the rule to which you are referring, sir?’ he asked, looking directly at Andrew Fraser.

‘It is,’ responded the elderly lawyer firmly. The company secretary tugged the sleeve of his chairman. Once again Adams leaned over and listened. Andrew Fraser remained in his place. A few moments later, the chairman drew himself up to his full height and stared down at Fraser. ‘You are of course aware, sir, that you are unable to propose an alternative nominee for chairman without giving thirty days’ notice in writing. Rule 7B, subsection a,’ he said, with some degree of satisfaction.

‘I am aware of that, sir,’ said Fraser, who had remained standing. ‘It is not the position of chairman for which I wish to propose a nominee.’

Uproar broke out in the hall. Adams had to bang his gavel several times before Fraser could continue.

‘I wish to propose a nominee for the position of director of the Summers Foundation.’

Townsend kept his eye on Lloyd Summers, who had turned white. He was staring at Andrew Fraser and dabbing his forehead with a red silk handkerchief.

‘But we already have an excellent director in Mr. Summers,’ said the chairman. ‘Or are you merely wishing to confirm his position? If that is so, I can assure you that Mr. Armstrong intends...’

‘No, sir. I propose that Mr. Summers be replaced by Ms. Angela Humphries, the current deputy chairman.’

The chairman bent down and tried to ascertain from the company secretary if the motion was in order. Tom Spencer stood up in his place and began checking to make sure that all his recruits were safely in front of the red rope. Townsend could see that every seat had been taken, and several late arrivals had to be content with standing at the side or sitting in the aisles.

Having been told by the company secretary that the motion was in order, the chairman asked, ‘Do I have a seconder?’ To his surprise, several hands shot up. Adams selected a woman in the fifth row. ‘May I have your name, please, for the record?’

‘Mrs. Roscoe,’ she said.

The company secretary turned to another page in the little red book, which he passed up to the chairman.

‘It is my duty to inform you that a ballot will now take place under rule 7B, which allows any shareholders present to cast their votes,’ he read directly from the red book. ‘Ballot papers will be distributed, as directed by the statutes, and you may place a cross in one of the boxes provided, indicating whether you are for or against the motion to replace Mr. Lloyd Summers as director of the Summers Foundation with Ms. Angela Humphries.’ He paused and looked up. ‘I feel it appropriate at this juncture to let you know that it is your board’s intention to vote as one against this motion, as we believe that the trust has been well served by its present director, Mr. Summers, and that he should be allowed to continue in that position.’ Summers looked nervously toward Adams, but seemed to be reassured when he saw the board members nodding in support of their chairman.

Attendants began moving up and down the aisles, handing out voting slips. Armstrong placed his cross in the square marked ‘AGAINST.’ Townsend placed his in the square marked ‘FOR,’ and dropped the slip into the tin box provided.

As the voting continued, some people in the room began to stand and stretch. Lloyd Summers remained silently slumped in his chair, occasionally mopping his forehead with his red silk handkerchief. Angela Humphries didn’t once look in his direction.

Russell advised his client to remain cool and use the time to go over his acceptance speech. He was confident that, after the board’s clear lead, the motion would be heavily defeated.

‘But shouldn’t you have a word with Ms. Humphries, just in case it isn’t?’ whispered Armstrong.

‘I think that would be most unwise in the circumstances,’ said Russell, ‘especially in view of who she is sitting next to.’

Armstrong glanced in their direction, and scowled. Surely Townsend couldn’t have...

While the counting was taking place somewhere behind the stage, Lloyd Summers could be seen angrily trying to ask his deputy a question. She glanced in his direction and smiled sweetly.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ said Cornelius Adams as he rose again from his place. ‘Can I now ask you to return to your seats, as the counting has been completed.’ Those who had been chatting in the gangways went back to their places and waited for the result of the ballot to be declared. The chairman was passed a folded slip of paper by the company secretary. He opened it and, like a good judge, gave no clue from his expression as to the verdict.

‘Those voting for the motion, 317,’ he declared in senatorial tones.

Townsend took a deep breath. ‘Is it enough?’ he asked Tom, trying to calculate how many people were sitting in front of the red rope.

‘We’re about to find out,’ said Tom calmly.

‘Those voting against, 286. I therefore declare the motion carried by thirty-one votes.’ He paused. ‘And Ms. Angela Humphries to be the new director of the foundation.’

A gasp went up around the room, followed by uproar, as it seemed that everyone in the audience had a view to express.

‘Closer than I’d expected,’ shouted Townsend.

‘But you won, and that’s all that matters,’ Tom replied.

‘I haven’t won yet,’ said Townsend, his eyes now firmly fixed on Angela.

People were now looking round the room trying to discover where Ms. Humphries was seated, though not many of them had any idea what she looked like. One person remained standing in his place.

On the stage, the chairman was having a further consultation with the secretary, who was once again reading directly to him from the little red book. He eventually nodded, turned back to the audience and banged his gavel.

Looking directly down at Fraser, the chairman waited for the gathering to return to some semblance of order before asking, ‘Is it your intention to propose another motion, Mr. Fraser?’ He did not attempt to hide the sarcasm in his voice.

‘No, sir, it is not. But I do wish to know who the newly elected director will be supporting with the foundation’s 5 percent shareholding in the company, as that will affect the identity of the next chairman of the board.’

For a second time everybody in the room began chattering or looking around the room, searching for the new director. Mr. Fraser sat down, and Angela rose from her place, as if she was on the other end of the seesaw.

The chairman switched his attention to her. ‘Ms. Humphries,’ he said, ‘as you now control 5 percent of the company’s shares, it is my duty to ask who you will be supporting as chairman.’

Lloyd Summers continued to mop his brow, but couldn’t bring himself to look in Angela’s direction. She herself appeared remarkably calm and composed. She waited until there was total silence.

‘Mr. Chairman, it will come as no surprise to you that I wish to support the man who I believe will serve the foundation’s best interests.’ She paused as Armstrong stood up and waved in her direction, but the glare of the television arc-lights made it impossible for her to see him. The chairman appeared to relax.

‘The trust casts its 5 percent in favor of—’ she paused again, obviously enjoying every moment ‘—Mr. Keith Townsend.’

A gasp went up around the room. For the first time, the chairman was speechless. He dropped his gavel on the floor and stared open-mouthed at Angela. A moment later he recovered it as well as his composure, and began calling for order. When he felt he could be heard, he asked, ‘Are you aware, Ms. Humphries, of the consequences of switching the foundation’s vote at this late stage?’

‘I mostly certainly am, Mr. Chairman,’ she replied firmly.

A bevy of Armstrong’s lawyers were already up on their feet protesting. The chairman banged his gavel on the table again and again. Once the noise had subsided, he announced that as Ms. Humphries had pledged the foundation’s 5 percent of stock in favor of Mr. Townsend, thus giving him 51 percent to Mr. Armstrong’s 46, he was therefore left with no choice under standing order 11A, subsection d, but to declare Mr. Keith Townsend the new chairman of the New York Star.

The two hundred shareholders who had arrived in the hall late rose and cheered on cue like well-rehearsed film extras as Townsend made his way up onto the stage. Armstrong stormed out of the room, leaving his lawyers to carry on with their protests.

Townsend began by shaking hands with Cornelius Adams, the former chairman, and each of the members of the board, though none of them looked particularly pleased to see him.

He then took his place at the front of the stage and looked down into the noisy hall. ‘Mr. Chairman, ladies and gentlemen,’ he said, tapping the microphone, ‘may I begin by thanking you, Mr. Adams, and the board of the Star, for the service and inspired leadership you have all given the company over the years, and may I wish every one of you success in whatever it is you choose to do in the future.’

Tom was glad that Townsend couldn’t see the expressions on the faces of the men seated behind him.

‘Let me assure the shareholders of this great paper that I will do everything in my power to continue to uphold the traditions of the Star. You have my word that I will never interfere in the editorial integrity of the paper, other than to remind every journalist of the words of the great Manchester Guardian editor C.P. Scott, which have been the benchmark of my professional life: “Comment is free, but facts are sacred.”’

The actors rose from their places again and began applauding on cue. When the noise finally died down, Townsend ended by saying, ‘I look forward to seeing you all again in a year’s time.’ He banged the gavel and declared the AGM closed.

Several people in the front row leapt up again to continue their protest, while two hundred others carried out their instructions. They rose and began to make their way toward the exit, talking loudly among themselves. Within minutes, the room was cleared of all but a handful of protesters addressing an empty stage.

As Townsend left the room, the first thing he asked Tom was, ‘Have you drawn up a new lease on the foundation’s old building?’

‘Yes, it’s in my office. All it requires is your signature.’

‘And there will be no increase in rent?’

‘No, it’s fixed for the next ten years,’ said Tom. ‘As Ms. Humphries assured me it would be.’

‘And her contract?’

‘Also for ten years, but at a third of Lloyd Summers’s salary.’

As the two men stepped out of the hotel, Townsend turned to his lawyer and said, ‘So all I have to do now is decide whether to sign it or not.’

‘But I’ve already made a verbal agreement with her,’ said Tom.

Townsend grinned at his attorney as the hotel manager and several cameramen, photographers and journalists pursued them to their waiting car.

‘My turn to ask you a question,’ said Tom as they slipped into the back seat of the BMW.

‘Go ahead.’

‘Now it’s all over, I’d just like to know when you came up with that masterstroke to defeat Armstrong.’

‘About forty years ago.’

‘I’m not sure I understand,’ said the lawyer, looking puzzled.

‘No reason why you should, Brother Tom, but then, you weren’t a member of the Oxford University Labor Club when I failed to become chairman simply because I had never read the statute book.’

34 The Sun 12 June 1987 Maggie the Third: Tories Romp It ‘by 110 Seats’

As Armstrong stormed out of the Lincoln Room, unwilling to suffer the humiliation of having to sit through Townsend’s acceptance speech, few of the press bothered to follow him. But two gentlemen who had traveled down from Chicago did. Their client’s instructions could not have been clearer. ‘Make an offer to whichever one of them fails to become chairman of the Star.’

Armstrong stood alone on the sidewalk, having dispatched one of his expensive lawyers to go and find his limousine. The manager of the hotel was no longer to be seen. ‘Where is my bloody car?’ shouted Armstrong, staring at a white BMW parked on the opposite side of the road.

‘It should be with us in a few moments,’ said Russell as he arrived by his side.

‘How did he fix the vote?’ Armstrong demanded.

‘He must have created a large number of shareholders in the past twenty-four hours, who wouldn’t show up on the register for at least another two weeks.’

‘Then why were they allowed into the meeting?’

‘All they had to do was present the person checking the list with evidence of the minimum required shareholding and their identity. A hundred shares each for, say, a couple of hundred of them, would be all that was needed. They could have bought the stock from any broker on Wall Street, or Townsend could have allotted them 20,000 of his own shares as late as this morning.’

‘And that’s legal?’

‘Let’s say that it’s within the letter of the law,’ said Russell. ‘We could challenge its legality in the courts. That might take a couple of years, and there’s no saying which side the judge would come down on. But my advice would be that you should sell your shares and satisfy yourself with a handsome profit.’

‘That’s exactly the sort of advice you would give,’ said Armstrong. ‘And I don’t intend to take it. I’m going to demand three places on the board and harry the damned man for the rest of his days.’

Two tall, elegantly-dressed men in long black coats hovered a few yards away from them. Armstrong assumed they must be part of Critchley’s legal team. ‘So how much are those two costing me?’ he demanded.

Russell glanced at them and said, ‘I’ve never seen them before.’

This seemed to act as a cue, because one of the men immediately took a pace forward and said, ‘Mr. Armstrong?’

Armstrong was about to answer when Russell stepped forward and said, ‘I’m Russell Critchley, Mr. Armstrong’s New York attorney. Can I be of assistance?’

The taller of the two men smiled. ‘Good afternoon, Mr. Critchley,’ he said. ‘I’m Earl Withers of Spender, Dickson & Withers of Chicago. I believe we have had the pleasure of dealing with your firm in the past.’

‘On many occasions,’ said Russell, smiling for the first time.

‘Get on with it,’ said Armstrong.

The shorter of the two men gave a slight nod. ‘Our firm has the honor to represent the Chicago News Group, and my colleague and I are eager to discuss a business proposition with your client.’

‘Why don’t you contact me at my office tomorrow morning?’ said Russell, as a limousine drew up.

‘What business proposition?’ asked Armstrong, as the driver jumped out and opened the back door for him.

‘We have been invested with the authority to offer you the opportunity to purchase the New York Tribune.’

‘As I said...’ Russell tried again.

‘I’ll see you both back at my apartment in Trump Tower in fifteen minutes,’ said Armstrong, climbing into the car. Withers nodded as Russell ran round to the other side of the vehicle and joined his client in the back. He pulled the door closed, pressed a button, and said nothing until the glass had slid up between them and the driver.

‘Dick, I could not under any circumstances recommend...’ the lawyer began.

‘Why not?’ said Armstrong.

‘It’s quite simple,’ said Russell. ‘Everyone knows that the Tribune is in hock for $200 million, and is losing over a million a week. Not to mention that it’s locked into an intractable trade union dispute. I promise you, Dick, no one is capable of turning that paper around.’

‘Townsend managed it with the Globe,’ said Armstrong. ‘As I know to my cost.’

‘That was a quite different situation,’ said Russell, beginning to sound desperate.

‘And I’ll bet he does it again with the Star.’

‘From a far more viable base. Which is precisely why I recommended that you should mount a takeover bid in the first place.’

‘And you failed,’ said Armstrong. ‘So I can’t think of any reason why we shouldn’t at least give them a hearing.’

The limousine drew up in front of the Trump Tower. The two lawyers from Chicago were standing there waiting for them. ‘How did they manage that?’ asked Armstrong, pushing himself out of the car and onto the sidewalk.

‘I suspect they walked,’ said Russell.

‘Follow me,’ said Armstrong to the two lawyers, as he marched off toward the lifts. None of them said another word until they had reached the penthouse suite. Armstrong didn’t ask if they would like to take off their coats, or to have a seat, or offer them a cup of coffee. ‘My attorney tells me that your paper is bankrupt and that it is most unwise of me even to agree to speak to you.’

‘Mr. Critchley’s advice may well turn out to be correct. Nevertheless, the Tribune remains the New York Star’s only competitor,’ said Withers, who seemed to be acting as spokesman. ‘And despite all its current problems, it still commands a far higher circulation than the Star.’

‘Only when it’s on the streets,’ said Russell.

Withers nodded but said nothing, obviously hoping that they would move on to another question.

‘And is it true that it’s in debt for $200 million?’ said Armstrong.

‘Two hundred and seven million, to be precise,’ said Withers.

‘And losing over a million a week.’

‘Around one million three hundred thousand.’

‘And the unions have got you by the balls.’

‘In Chicago, Mr. Armstrong, we would describe it as over a barrel. But that is precisely why my clients felt we should approach you, as we do not have a great deal of experience in handling unions.’

Russell hoped his client realized that Withers would happily have exchanged the name of Armstrong for Townsend if half an hour earlier the vote had gone the other way. He watched his client closely, and began to fear that he was slowly being seduced by the two men from Chicago.

‘Why should I be able to do something you’ve failed so lamentably to achieve in the past?’ Armstrong asked, as he looked out of the bay window over a panoramic view of Manhattan.

‘My client’s long-term relationship with the unions has, I fear, become unsustainable, and having the Tribune’s sister paper, as well as the group’s headquarters, based in Chicago doesn’t help matters. I’m bound to add that it’s going to take a big man to sort this one out. Someone who is willing to stand up to the trade unions the way Mr. Townsend did so successfully in Britain.’

Russell watched for Armstrong’s reaction. He couldn’t believe his client would be beguiled by such sycophantic flattery. He must surely turn round and throw them out.

He turned round. ‘And if I don’t buy it, what’s your alternative?’

Russell leaned forward in his chair, put his head in his hands and sighed loudly.

‘We will have no choice but to close the paper down and allow Townsend to enjoy a monopoly in this city.’

Armstrong said nothing, but continued to stare at the two strangers, who still hadn’t taken off their coats.

‘How much are you hoping to get for it?’

‘We are open to offers,’ said Withers.

‘I’ll bet you are,’ said Armstrong.

Russell willed him to make them an offer they could refuse.

‘Right,’ said Armstrong, avoiding his lawyer’s disbelieving stare. ‘Here’s my offer. I’ll take the paper off your hands for twenty-five cents, the current cover price.’ He laughed loudly. The lawyers from Chicago smiled for the first time, and Russell’s head sank further into his hands.

‘But you will carry the debt of $207 million on your own balance sheet. And while due diligence is being carried out, any day-to-day costs will continue to be your responsibility.’ He swung round to face Russell. ‘Do offer our two friends a drink while they consider my proposition.’

Armstrong wondered just how long it would take them to bargain. But then, he had no way of knowing that Mr. Withers had been instructed to sell the paper for a dollar. The lawyer would have to report back to his clients that they had lost seventy-five cents on the deal.

‘We will return to Chicago and take instructions,’ was all Withers said.

Once the two lawyers from Chicago had left, Russell spent the rest of the afternoon trying to convince his client what a mistake it would be to buy the Tribune, whatever the terms.

By the time he left Trump Tower a few minutes after six — having sat through the longest lunch of his life — they had agreed that if Withers rang back accepting his offer, Armstrong would make it clear that he was no longer interested.

When Withers called the following morning to say that his clients had accepted the offer, Armstrong told him he was having second thoughts.

‘Why don’t you visit the building before you commit yourself?’ suggested Withers.

Armstrong could see no harm in that, and even felt it would give him an easy way out. Russell suggested that he should accompany him, and after they had seen over the building, he would phone Chicago and explain that his client no longer wished to proceed.

When they arrived at the New York Tribune building later that afternoon, Armstrong stood on the sidewalk and stared up at the art deco skyscraper. It was love at first sight. When he walked into the lobby and saw the seventeen-foot globe marked with the distance in miles to the world’s capital cities, including London, Moscow and Jerusalem, he proposed. When the hundreds of staff who had crammed into the hall to await his arrival began cheering, the marriage was consummated. However much the best man tried to talk him out of it, he couldn’t stop the signing ceremony taking place.

Six weeks later Armstrong took possession of the New York Tribune. The headline on the paper’s front page that afternoon told New Yorkers, ‘DICK TAKES OVER!’

Townsend first heard of Armstrong’s offer to purchase the Tribune for twenty-five cents on the Today show, just as he was about to step into a shower. He stopped and stared down at his rival, slumped in an armchair and wearing a red baseball cap with ‘The N.Y. Tribune’ emblazoned on it.

‘I intend to keep New York’s greatest newspaper on the streets,’ he was telling Barbara Walters, ‘whatever the personal cost to me.’

‘The Star is already on the streets,’ said Townsend, as if Armstrong were in the room.

‘And keep the finest journalists in America in a job.’

‘They’re already working for the Star.’

‘And perhaps, if I’m lucky, make a small profit,’ Armstrong added, laughing.

‘You’ll have to be very lucky,’ said Townsend. ‘Now ask him how he intends to deal with the unions,’ he added, glaring at Barbara Walters.

‘But isn’t there a massive overmanning problem which has beleaguered the Tribune for the past three decades?’

Townsend left his shower running as he waited to hear the reply. ‘That may well have been the case in the past, Barbara,’ said Armstrong. ‘But I have made it abundantly clear to all the trade unions concerned that if they won’t accept my proposed cuts in the workforce, I will be left with no choice but to close the paper down once and for all.’

‘How long will you give them?’ demanded Townsend.

‘And just how long are you willing to go on losing over a million dollars a week before you carry out that threat?’

Townsend’s eyes never left the screen.

‘I couldn’t have made my position clearer with the trade union leaders,’ Armstrong said firmly. ‘Six weeks at the outside.’

‘Well, good luck, Mr. Armstrong,’ said Barbara Walters. ‘I look forward to interviewing you again in six weeks’ time.’

‘An invitation I’ll be happy to accept, Barbara,’ said Armstrong, touching the peak of his baseball cap. Townsend flicked off the television, threw off his dressing-gown and headed for the shower.

From that moment he didn’t need to employ anyone to tell him what Armstrong was up to. For an investment of a quarter a day he could be brought up to date by reading the front page of the Tribune. Woody Allen suggested that it would take a plane crash in the middle of Queens to remove Armstrong from the front page of the paper — and even then it would have to be Concorde.

Townsend was also having his problems with the unions. When the Star came out on strike, the Tribune almost doubled its circulation overnight. Armstrong began to appear on every television channel that would take him, telling New Yorkers that ‘If you know how to negotiate with the unions, strikes become unnecessary.’ The trade union leaders quickly sensed that Armstrong enjoyed being on the front page of the paper and regularly appearing on television, and that he would be loath to close the Tribune down or admit he had failed.

When Townsend finally settled with the unions, the Star had been off the streets for over two months, and had lost several million dollars. It took him a great deal of his time to rebuild the circulation. The Tribune’s figures, however, weren’t helped by a series of banner headlines telling New Yorkers that ‘Dick Bites the Big Apple,’ ‘Dick Pitches for Yankees’ and ‘Magic Dick Shoots a Basket for the Knicks.’ But these appeared humble when the troops came back from the Gulf and the city gave the returning heroes a tickertape parade all the way down Fifth Avenue. The front page of the Tribune was given over to a picture of Armstrong standing on the podium between General Schwarzkopf and Mayor Dinkins; the inside story, covering the event in detail, mentioned Captain Armstrong’s MC on four different pages.

But as the weeks went by, Townsend was unable to find any mention of Armstrong reaching a settlement with the print unions, search as he might through the columns of the Tribune. When Barbara Walters did invite him back on the program six weeks later, Armstrong’s press secretary told her that there was nothing he would have enjoyed more, but that he had to be in London to attend a board meeting of the parent company.

That at least was true — but only because Peter Wakeham had called to warn him that Sir Paul was on the warpath, and demanding to know how much longer he intended to keep the New York Tribune on the streets while it was still losing over a million dollars a week.

‘Who does he imagine allowed him to stay on as chairman in the first place?’ asked Armstrong.

‘I couldn’t agree with you more,’ said Peter. ‘But I thought I ought to let you know what he’s been telling everyone.’

‘Then I’ll just have to come back and explain a few home truths to Sir Paul, won’t I?’

The limousine drew up outside the district court in Lower Manhattan a few minutes before 10:30 that morning. Townsend, accompanied by his lawyer, stepped out of the car and walked swiftly up the courthouse steps.

Tom Spencer had visited the building the previous day to deal with all the legal formalities, so he knew exactly where his client needed to go, and guided him through the maze of corridors. Once they had entered the courtroom, the two of them squeezed onto one of the overcrowded benches near the back and waited patiently. The room was packed with people chattering away in different languages. They sat in silence between two Cubans, and Townsend wondered if he had made the right decision. Tom had kept pointing out that it was the only way left open for him if he wished to expand his empire, but he knew that his countrymen, not to mention the British Establishment, would be scathing about his reasons. What he couldn’t tell them was that there was no form of words which would ever make him feel he was anything other than an Australian.

Twenty minutes later, a judge in a long black gown entered the court and everyone rose. Once he had taken his seat on the bench, an immigration officer stepped forward and said, ‘Your Honor, I ask permission to present one hundred and seventy-two immigrants for your consideration as American citizens.’

‘Have they all carried out the correct procedure as demanded by the law?’ the judge asked solemnly.

‘They have, Your Honor,’ replied the court officer.

‘Then you may proceed with the Oath of Allegiance.’

Townsend and 171 other would-be Americans recited in unison the words he had read for the first time in the car on the way to the court.

‘I hereby declare, on oath, that I absolutely and entirely renounce and abjure all allegiance and fidelity to any foreign prince, potentate, state or sovereignty, of whom or which I have heretofore been a subject or citizen; that I will support and defend the Constitution and laws of the United States of America against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I will bear arms on behalf of the United States when required by law; that I will perform noncombatant service in the armed forces of the United States when required to do so by the law; that I will perform work of national importance under civilian direction when required by the law; and that I take this obligation freely without any mental reservation of purpose or evasion: So help me God.’

The judge smiled down at the joyful faces. ‘Let me be the first to welcome you as full citizens of the United States,’ he said.

As eleven o’clock struck, Sir Paul Maitland coughed slightly and suggested that perhaps the time had come to bring the meeting to order. ‘I would like to begin by welcoming our chief executive back from New York,’ he said, glancing to his right. There were murmurs of assent from around the table. ‘But it would be remiss of me not to admit to a little anxiety caused by some of the reports coming out of that city.’ The murmurs were repeated, and if anything were slightly louder.

‘The board backed you, Dick, when without seeking its approval you purchased the New York Tribune for twenty-five cents,’ continued Sir Paul. ‘However, we now feel you should let us know for how much longer you are willing to tolerate losses in the region of nearly one and a half million dollars a week. Because the present situation,’ he said, referring to a row of figures in front of him, ‘is that the group’s profits in London are only just covering the losses we are sustaining in New York. In a few weeks’ time we will have to face our shareholders at the annual general meeting—’ he looked up at his colleagues seated round the table ‘—and I am not convinced that they will approve our stewardship if this state of affairs continues for much longer. As you are all aware, our share price has fallen from £3.10 to £2.70 in the last month.’ Sir Paul leaned back in his chair and turned to Armstrong, indicating that he was ready to listen to his explanation.

Armstrong looked slowly around the boardroom table, aware that almost everyone present was there because of his patronage.

‘I am able to tell the board, Mr. Chairman,’ he began, ‘that my negotiations with the New York unions, which I must admit have been keeping me up most nights, are finally reaching their conclusion.’ He paused as one or two smiles appeared on the faces around the table.

‘Seven hundred and twenty members of the print union have already agreed to take early retirement, or to accept a redundancy package. I shall be announcing this officially as soon as I return to New York.’

‘But the Wall Street Journal has estimated,’ said Sir Paul, referring to an article he had extracted from his briefcase, ‘that we need to reduce the workforce by between fifteen hundred and two thousand.’

‘What do that lot know, sitting in their cozy air-conditioned offices downtown?’ said Armstrong. ‘I am the person who has to deal with these men face to face.’

‘Nevertheless...’

‘The second tranche of sackings and redundancies will take place in the next few weeks,’ continued Armstrong. ‘I remain confident that I will have concluded those negotiations by the time of the next board meeting.’

‘And how many weeks do you imagine it will be before we see the benefits of these negotiations?’

Armstrong hesitated. ‘Six weeks. Eight weeks at the most, Chairman. But naturally I will be doing everything in my power to speed the process up.’

‘How much is this latest package going to cost the company?’ asked Sir Paul, returning to a typewritten sheet of paper in front of him. Armstrong could see he had been ticking off a list of questions one by one.

‘I don’t have an exact figure to hand, chairman,’ replied Armstrong.

‘I would be content, for the purposes of this meeting,’ said Sir Paul, looking up from his notes, ‘with what I think the Americans call “a ballpark figure”.’ A little laughter broke the tension round the table.

‘Two hundred, perhaps as much as two hundred and thirty million,’ said Armstrong, aware that the accountants in New York had already warned him it could be nearer three hundred million. No one round the table offered an opinion, although one or two of them began writing down the figures.

‘It may have escaped your notice, chairman,’ added Armstrong, ‘that the New York Tribune building is on the books, and is conservatively valued at $150 million.’

‘As long as it’s producing a newspaper,’ said Sir Paul, now turning the pages of a glossy document supplied to him by a legal firm from Chicago called Spender, Dickson & Withers. ‘But in a closing-down situation, I’m reliably informed it is worth no more than fifty million.’

‘We are not in a closing-down situation,’ said Armstrong, ‘as everyone will soon come to appreciate.’

‘I only hope you’re right,’ said Sir Paul quietly.

Armstrong remained silent as the board moved on to discuss the rest of the agenda item by item. He sat there wondering why he was treated so badly in his own country while he was hailed as a hero in the States. His mind drifted back to the proceedings when he caught Eric Chapman, the company secretary, saying ‘... and we have a satisfactory surplus in that account at the present time, Mr. Chairman.’

‘As is quite right and proper,’ said Sir Paul. ‘Perhaps you’d be kind enough to take us through the figures, Mr. Chapman.’

The company secretary bent down, lifted an old-fashioned leather-bound ledger up onto the table and slowly turned its pages. ‘The pension fund,’ he began, ‘is financed, as members of the board are aware, by joint contributions. The employees pay 4 percent of their wages into the fund, and management tops it up with an equal contribution. On a year-on-year basis, we are currently paying our former employees approximately £34 million, while we receive in income from present employees the sum of £51 million. Thanks in part to a shrewd investment program carried out by our merchant bankers, the account’s balance currently stands at a little over £631 million, against a requirement properly to fulfill our legal obligation to former employees of around £400 million.’

‘Most satisfactory,’ purred Sir Paul. Armstrong continued to listen intently.

‘Though I must inform the board,’ continued Chapman, ‘that I have taken actuarial advice, and that although this may appear a large surplus on paper, it is, with life expectancy rising every year, no more than a necessary cushion.’

‘We take your point,’ said Sir Paul. ‘Any other business?’

No one spoke, and the directors began placing pens into pockets, closing files and opening briefcases.

‘Good,’ said Sir Paul. ‘Then I declare the meeting closed, and we can all adjourn for lunch.’

The moment they left the boardroom and entered the dining room Armstrong took over. He marched straight to the head of the table, sat down and began attacking the first course before anyone else had taken their place. He waved at Eric Chapman as he entered the room, indicating that he wanted him to sit on his right, while Peter Wakeham took the seat on his left. Sir Paul found a vacant place halfway down the table on the right-hand side.

Armstrong allowed the company secretary to chatter on about his golf handicap, the state of the government and the economy. He didn’t take a lot of interest in his views on Nick Faldo, Neil Kinnock or Alan Walters. But when Chapman moved on to his greatest passion, the pension fund, he listened intently to his every word.

‘To be fair, Dick, it’s you we have to thank,’ Chapman admitted. ‘You were the one who spotted what a goldmine they were handing over to us. Not that it’s ours really, of course. But the surpluses always make for good reading on the balance sheet, not to mention the audited accounts that have to be presented at the AGM.’

After five slices of prime roast beef had been placed on Armstrong’s plate and he had covered them with gravy, he turned his attention to Peter, who still accorded him the hound-like devotion he had become used to since they had served together in Berlin.

‘Why don’t you fly over to New York and join me for a few days, Peter?’ he suggested, as a waitress went on piling potatoes onto his side plate. ‘That way you’ll be able to see what I’m up against with the unions — and, more importantly, what I’ve achieved. Then, if for any reason I can’t make it back in time for next month’s meeting, you could report to the board on my behalf.’

‘If that’s what you want,’ said Peter, enjoying the thought of a visit to New York, but rather hoping that it would still be Dick who reported back to the board the following month.

‘Take Concorde over next Monday,’ said Armstrong. ‘I have a meeting scheduled with Sean O’Reilly, one of the paper’s most important trade union leaders, that afternoon. I’d like you there to see how I handle him.’

After lunch, Armstrong returned to his office to find a mountain of mail on his desk. He made no attempt even to sift through it. Instead he picked up a telephone and asked to be connected to the accounts department. When the call was answered he said, ‘Fred, can you let me have a checkbook? I’m only in England for a few hours, and...’

‘It’s not Fred, sir,’ came back the reply. ‘It’s Mark Tenby.’

‘Then put me through to Fred, will you?’

‘Fred retired three months ago, sir,’ the chief accountant said. ‘Sir Paul appointed me in his place.’

Armstrong was just about to say ‘With whose authority?’ when he changed his mind. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Then perhaps you would send me up a checkbook immediately. I’m leaving for the States in a couple of hours.’

‘Of course, Mr. Armstrong. Personal or company?’

‘The pension fund account,’ he said evenly. ‘I’ll be making one or two investments on behalf of the company while I’m in the States.’

There followed a longer silence than Armstrong had expected. ‘Yes, sir,’ said the chief accountant eventually. ‘You will of course require the signature of a second director for that particular account, as I’m sure you know, Mr. Armstrong. And I should remind you that it’s against company law to invest pension fund money in any company in which we already have a majority shareholding.’

‘I don’t need a lecture on company law from you, young man,’ shouted Armstrong, and slammed the phone down. ‘Bloody cheek,’ he added to the empty room. ‘Who does he imagine pays his wages?’

Once the checkbook had been sent up, Armstrong abandoned any pretense of going through his post, and slipped out of the room without even saying goodbye to Pamela. He took the elevator to the roof and ordered his helicopter pilot to take him to Heathrow. As they took off, he looked down on London with none of the affection he now felt for New York.

He landed at Heathrow twenty minutes later, and quickly made his way through to the executive lounge. While he was waiting to board his flight, one or two Americans came over to shake him by the hand and thank him for all he was doing for the citizens of New York. He smiled, and began to wonder what would have happened to his life if the boat on which he had escaped all those years ago had docked at Ellis Island rather than Liverpool. Perhaps he might have ended up in the White House.

His flight was called, and he took his place at the front of the aircraft. After an inadequate meal had been served, he slept intermittently for a couple of hours. The nearer they came to the east coast of the United States, the more confident he became that he could still pull it off. A year from today the Tribune would not only still be outselling the Star, but would be declaring a profit that even Sir Paul Maitland would have to acknowledge he had achieved single-handed. And with the prospect of a Labor government in power, there was no saying what he might achieve. He scribbled on the menu, ‘Sir Richard Armstrong,’ and then, a few moments later, put a line through it and wrote underneath, ‘The Rt Hon the Lord Armstrong of Headley.’

When the wheels touched down on the tarmac at Kennedy he felt like a young man again, and couldn’t wait to get back to his office. As he strode through the customs hall, passengers pointed at him, and he could hear murmurs of ‘Look, it’s Dick Armstrong.’ Some of them even waved. He pretended not to notice, but the smile never left his face. His limousine was waiting for him in the VIP section, and he was quickly whisked off in the direction of Manhattan. He slumped in the back seat and turned on the television, flicking from channel to channel until a familiar face suddenly caught his attention.

‘The time has come for me to retire and concentrate on the work of my foundation,’ said Henry Sinclair, the chairman of Multi Media, the largest publishing empire in the world. Armstrong was listening to Sinclair and wondering what price he would consider selling up for when the car came to a halt outside the Tribune building.

Armstrong heaved himself up out of the car and waddled across the pavement. After he had pushed his way through the swing doors, people in the lobby applauded him all the way to the elevator. He smiled at them as if this were something that happened wherever he went. A trade union official watched as the elevator doors closed, and wondered if the proprietor would ever find out that his members had been instructed to applaud whenever and wherever he appeared. ‘Treat him like the president and he’ll start to believe he is the president,’ Sean O’Reilly had told the packed meeting. ‘And go on applauding until the money runs out.’

At each floor on which the elevator doors opened the applause started afresh. When he reached the twenty-first floor, Armstrong found his secretary standing waiting for him. ‘Welcome home, sir,’ she said.

‘You’re right,’ he replied as he stepped out of the elevator. ‘This is my home. I only wish I’d been born in America. If I had, by now I’d be the president.’

‘Mr. Critchley arrived a few minutes ahead of you, sir, and is waiting in your office,’ the secretary said as they walked down the corridor.

‘Good,’ said Armstrong, striding into the largest room in the building. ‘Great to see you again, Russell,’ he said as his lawyer stood up to greet him. ‘So, have you sorted out the union problem for me?’

‘I’m afraid not, Dick,’ said Russell, as they shook hands. ‘In fact, the news is not good from this end. I’m sorry to report that we’re going to have to start over.’

‘What do you mean, start over?’ said Armstrong.

‘While you were away the unions rejected the $230 million redundancy package you proposed. They’ve come back with a demand for $370 million.’

Armstrong collapsed into his chair. ‘I only have to go away for a few days, and you let everything fall apart!’ he screamed. He looked toward the door as his secretary entered the room and placed the first edition of the Tribune on the desk in front of him. He glanced down at the headline: ‘WELCOME HOME DICK!’

35 New York Tribune 4 February 1991 Captain Dick in Command

‘Armstrong has made a bid of $2 billion for Multi Media,’ said Townsend.

‘What? That’s like a politician declaring war when he doesn’t want people to realize how bad his problems are at home,’ said Tom.

‘Possibly. But like those same politicians, if he pulls it off, it just might sort out his problems at home.’

‘I doubt it. After going through those figures over the weekend, if he stumps up $2 billion it’s more likely to end up as yet another disaster.’

‘Multi Media is worth far more than two billion,’ said Townsend. ‘It owns fourteen newspapers stretching from Maine to Mexico, nine television stations, and the TV News, the biggest-selling magazine in the world. Its turnover alone touched a billion last year, and the company declared an overall profit of over $100 million. It’s a cash mountain.’

‘For which Sinclair will expect to be given Everest in return,’ said Tom. ‘I can’t see how Armstrong can hope to make a profit at $2 billion, especially if he has to borrow heavily to get it.’

‘Simply by generating more cash,’ said Townsend. ‘Multi Media has been on autopilot for years. To start with, I’d sell off several of the subsidiaries that are no longer profitable and revitalize others that should be making far more. But my main efforts would concentrate on building up the media side, which has never been properly exploited, using the turnover and profits from the newspapers and magazines to finance the whole operation.’

‘But you have more than enough to worry about at the moment without getting involved in another takeover,’ said Tom. ‘You’ve only just settled the strike at the New York Star, and don’t forget that the bank recommended a period of consolidation.’

‘You know what I think of bankers,’ said Townsend. ‘The Globe, the Star and all my Australian interests are now in profit, and I may never have an opportunity like this again. Surely you can see that, Tom, even if the bank can’t.’

Tom didn’t speak for some time. He admired Townsend’s drive and innovation, but Multi Media dwarfed anything they had ever attempted in the past. And however hard he tried, he just couldn’t make the figures add up. ‘There’s only one way I can see it working,’ he said eventually.

‘And how’s that?’ asked Townsend.

‘By offering him preference shares — our stock in exchange for his.’

‘But that would simply be a reverse takeover. He’d never agree to it, especially if Armstrong has already offered him two billion in cash.’

‘If he has, God knows where he’s getting it from,’ said Tom. ‘Why don’t I have a word with their lawyers and see if I can find out if Armstrong really has made a cash offer?’

‘No. That’s not the right approach. Don’t forget that Sinclair owns the entire company himself, so it makes a lot more sense to deal with him direct. That’s what Armstrong will have done.’

‘But that’s hardly your usual style.’

‘I realize that. But it’s become rare for me lately to be able to deal with anyone who owns their own company.’

Tom shrugged his shoulders. ‘So, what do you know about Sinclair?’

‘He’s seventy,’ said Townsend, ‘which is why he’s retiring. In his lifetime he’s built up the most successful privately-owned media corporation in the world. He was the Ambassador to the Court of St. James’s when his friend Nixon was president, and in his spare time he’s put together one of the finest private collections of Impressionist paintings outside a national gallery. He’s also chairman of a charitable foundation which specializes in education, and somehow he still finds time to play golf.’

‘Good. And what do you imagine Sinclair knows about you?’

‘That I’m Australian by birth, run the second-largest media company in the world, prefer Nolan to Renoir, and don’t play golf.’

‘So how do you intend to approach him?’

‘Cut out the bullshit, call him direct and make an offer. At least that way I won’t spend years wondering if I might have pulled it off.’ Townsend looked across at his lawyer, but Tom made no comment.

Townsend picked up the phone. ‘Heather, get me Multi Media headquarters in Colorado. And when they come on, connect me to the operator.’ He replaced the receiver.

‘Do you really believe that Armstrong has put in a bid for two billion?’ asked Tom.

Townsend considered the question for some time. ‘Yes, I do.’

‘But where would he find that amount of cash?’

‘Wherever he found the money to pay off the unions would be my guess.’

‘And how much do you intend to offer?’

The phone on the desk rang before he could answer.

‘Is that Multi Media?’

‘Yes, sir,’ replied a deep Southern voice.

‘My name is Keith Townsend,’ he said. ‘I’d like to speak to Mr. Sinclair.’

‘Does Ambassador Sinclair know you, sir?’

‘I hope so,’ said Townsend. ‘Otherwise I’m wasting my time.’

‘I’ll put you through to his office.’

Townsend made a sign to his lawyer that he should listen in on the extension. Tom picked up the phone on the side table next to him.

‘Ambassador Sinclair’s office,’ said another Southern voice.

‘It’s Keith Townsend. I was rather hoping I might be able to have a word with Mr. Sinclair.’

‘The Ambassador is at his ranch, Mr. Townsend, and I know he’s due at the country club in twenty minutes for his weekly golf lesson. But I’ll see if I can catch him before he leaves.’

Tom put his hand over the mouthpiece and said quietly, ‘Call him Ambassador. It’s obvious that everyone else does.’

Townsend nodded as a voice came on the line and said, ‘Good morning, Mr. Townsend. Henry Sinclair here. How can I help you?’

‘Good morning, Ambassador,’ said Townsend, trying to remain calm. ‘I wanted to have a word with you in person, so as not to waste unnecessary time dealing through lawyers.’

‘Not to mention unnecessary expense,’ suggested Sinclair. ‘What is it that you felt you had to speak to me about, Mr. Townsend?’

For a moment Townsend wished he’d spent a little more time discussing tactics with Tom. ‘I want to make a bid for Multi Media,’ he said eventually, ‘and it seemed sensible to deal with you direct.’

‘I appreciate that, Mr. Townsend,’ said Sinclair. ‘But remember that Mr. Armstrong, with whom I believe you are acquainted, has already made me an offer I was able to refuse.’

‘I’m aware of that, Ambassador,’ said Townsend, wondering how much Armstrong had really offered. He paused for a moment, not looking in Tom’s direction.

‘Would it be too much to ask the figure you have in mind, Mr. Townsend?’ said Sinclair.

When Townsend replied, Tom nearly dropped the phone on the floor.

‘And how would you intend to finance that?’ asked Sinclair.

‘In cash,’ said Townsend, without any idea how he would raise the money.

‘If you can come up with that amount of cash within thirty days, Mr. Townsend, you have yourself a deal. In which case perhaps you would be kind enough to ask your lawyers to get in touch with mine.’

‘And the name of your lawyers...?’

‘Forgive me for cutting this conversation short, Mr. Townsend, but I’m due on the driving range in ten minutes, and my pro charges by the hour.’

‘Of course, Ambassador,’ said Townsend, relieved that Sinclair couldn’t see the look of disbelief on his face. He put the phone down and looked across at Tom.

‘Do you know what you’ve just done, Keith?’

‘The biggest deal of my life,’ replied Townsend.

‘At three billion dollars, it’s possibly the last,’ said Tom.

‘I’ll close the damn paper down,’ shouted Armstrong, thumping his fist on the desk.

Russell Critchley, who stood one pace behind his client, felt the words might have carried a little more conviction if Sean O’Reilly hadn’t heard them every day for the past three months.

‘It will cost you a whole lot more if you do,’ replied O’Reilly, his voice quiet and gentle as he stood facing Armstrong.

‘What do you mean by that?’ hollered Armstrong.

‘Just that by the time you put the paper up for sale, there might not be anything left worth selling.’

‘Are you threatening me?’

‘I guess you might interpret it that way.’

Armstrong rose from his chair, placed the palms of his hands on the desk and leaned forward until he was only a few inches away from the trade union leader’s face; but O’Reilly didn’t even blink. ‘You expect me to settle for $320 million, when only last night I found eighteen names listed on the checking-in sheets who have retired from the company, one of them over ten years ago?’

‘I know,’ said O’Reilly. ‘They get so attached to the place they just can’t stay away.’ He tried to keep a straight face.

‘At $500 a night,’ shouted Armstrong, ‘I’m not surprised.’

‘That’s why I’m offering you a way out,’ said O’Reilly.

Armstrong grimaced as he looked down at the latest work sheets. ‘And what about Bugs Bunny, Jimmy Carter and O.J. Simpson, not to mention forty-eight other well-known personalities who signed on for yesterday’s late shift? And I’ll bet the only finger any of them lifted all night was to stir their coffee between hands of poker. And you expect me to agree that every one of them, including George Bush, has to be included in your redundancy package?’

‘Yes. It’s just our way of helping him with his campaign contributions.’

Armstrong looked toward Russell and Peter in desperation, hoping to get some support from them, but for different reasons neither of them opened his mouth. He turned back to face O’Reilly. ‘I’ll let you know my decision later,’ he shouted. ‘Now get out of my office.’

‘Were you still hoping that the paper will hit the streets tonight?’ asked O’Reilly innocently.

‘Is that another threat?’ asked Armstrong.

‘Sure is,’ said O’Reilly. ‘Because if you are, I suggest you settle before the evening shift comes on at five o’clock. It doesn’t make a lot of difference to my men if they’re paid for working or not working.’

‘Get out of my office,’ Armstrong repeated at the top of his voice.

‘Whatever you say, Mr. Armstrong. You’re the boss.’ He nodded to Russell and turned to leave.

Once the door had closed behind him, Armstrong swung round to face Peter. ‘Now you can see what I’m up against. What do they expect me to do?’ He was still shouting.

‘To close the paper down,’ said Russell calmly, ‘as you should have done on the first day of the seventh week. By now they would have settled at a far lower price.’

‘But if I’d taken your advice, we’d have no paper.’

‘And we’d all be getting a night’s sleep.’

‘If you want a night’s sleep, you have one,’ said Armstrong. ‘I’m going to settle. In the short term it’s the only way out. We’ll win them round in the end, nothing’s more certain. O’Reilly is about to crack. I’m sure you agree with me, Peter.’

Peter Wakeham didn’t say anything until Armstrong turned to face him, when he began to nod vigorously.

‘But where are you going to find another $320 million?’ asked Russell.

‘That’s my problem,’ said Armstrong.

‘It’s mine too. I’ll need the money within minutes of O’Reilly putting his signature to the agreement, otherwise they’ll come out on strike just as we’re about to print the next edition.’

‘You’ll have it,’ said Armstrong.

‘Dick, it’s still not too late...’ said Russell.

‘Settle, and settle now,’ shouted Armstrong.

Russell nodded reluctantly and left the room as Armstrong picked up a phone that would put him directly through to the editor. ‘Barney, it’s good news,’ he boomed. ‘I’ve managed to convince the unions that they should settle on my terms. I want a front-page story saying it’s a victory for common sense and a leader on how I’ve achieved something no one else has ever done in the past.’

‘Sure, if that’s what you want, boss. Would you like me to print the details of the settlement?’

‘No, don’t bother with the details. The terms are so complicated that even the readers of the Wall Street Journal wouldn’t understand them. In any case, there’s no point in embarrassing the unions,’ he added before putting the phone down.

‘Well done, Dick,’ said Peter. ‘Not that I was in any doubt that you’d win in the end.’

‘At a price,’ said Armstrong, opening the top drawer of his desk.

‘Not really, Dick. O’Reilly caved in the moment you threatened to close the paper. You handled him quite brilliantly.’

‘Peter, I need a couple of checks signed,’ said Armstrong, ‘and as you’re the only other director in New York at the moment...’

‘Of course,’ said Peter. ‘Only too happy to oblige.’

Armstrong placed the pension fund checkbook on his desk and flicked open the cover. ‘When are you returning to London?’ he asked as he waved Peter into his chair.

‘Tomorrow’s Concorde,’ Peter replied with a smile.

‘Then you’ll have to explain to Sir Paul why I can’t make the board meeting on Wednesday, much as I’d like to. Just tell him that I’ve finally settled with the unions on excellent terms, and that by the time I report to the board next month we should be showing a positive cash flow.’ He placed his hand on Peter’s shoulder.

‘With pleasure, Dick,’ said Peter. ‘Now, how many of these checks do you need signed?’

‘You may as well do the lot while you’re at it.’

‘The whole book?’ said Peter, shifting uneasily in his chair.

‘Yes,’ replied Armstrong, handing him his pen. ‘They’ll be quite safe with me. After all, none of them can be cashed until I’ve countersigned them.’

Peter gave a nervous laugh as he unscrewed the top of the pen. He hesitated until he felt Armstrong’s fingers tightening round his shoulder.

‘Your position as deputy chairman comes up for renewal in a few weeks’ time, doesn’t it?’ said Armstrong.

Peter signed the first three checks.

‘And Paul Maitland won’t go on for ever, you know. Eventually someone will have to take his place as chairman.’

Peter continued signing.