The Fourth Estate

36 Daily Express 8 February 1991 Cabinet Escapes as IRA Bomb Explodes in Garden of No. 10

‘Bitten Off More than They Can Chew’ was the headline on the article in the Financial Times. Sir Paul Maitland, sitting by the fire at his home in Epsom, and Tom Spencer, traveling in from Greenwich, Connecticut, on a commuter train, both read the article a second time, although only half the contents were of any real interest to them.

The phone rang, and Sir Paul put the paper down, rose from his chair and went into his study to answer it. When he heard the voice of Eric Chapman, he asked him to wait for a moment while he closed the door. This was somewhat unnecessary, as there was no one else in the house at the time, but when you’ve been the British Ambassador in Beijing for four years, some habits die hard.

‘I think we ought to meet immediately,’ said Chapman.

‘The Financial Times article?’ said Sir Paul.

‘No, it’s potentially far more damaging than that. I’d rather not say too much over the phone.’

‘I quite understand,’ said Sir Paul. ‘Shall I ask Peter Wakeham to join us?’

‘Not if you want the meeting to remain confidential.’

‘You’re right,’ said Sir Paul. ‘Where shall we meet?’

‘I could drive over to Epsom straight away. I should be with you in about an hour.’

Tom Spencer skimmed through the first half of the article as his train headed past Mamaroneck on its journey into New York. He only began to concentrate fully when he reached the words:

Tom was the first person off the train when it pulled in to Grand Central station. He ran to the nearest phone booth and dialed Townsend’s number. Heather put him straight through. This time Townsend listened attentively to his lawyer’s advice.

When Armstrong finished reading the article he picked up an internal phone and instructed his secretary that if Sir Paul Maitland should call from London, he was out. No sooner had he replaced the receiver than the phone rang.

‘Mr. Armstrong, I’ve got the chief dealer at the Bank of New Amsterdam on the line. He says he needs to speak to you urgently.’

‘Then put him through,’ said Armstrong.

‘The market is being flooded with sell orders on Armstrong Communications stock,’ the dealer informed him. ‘The share price is now down to $2.31, and I wondered if you had any instructions?’

‘Keep buying,’ said Armstrong without hesitation.

There was a pause. ‘I must point out that every time the shares drop a cent, you lose another $700,000,’ said the chief dealer, quickly checking the number of shares that had been traded that morning.

‘I don’t care what it costs,’ said Armstrong. ‘It’s a short-term necessity. Once the market has settled again, you can release the shares back onto the floor and gradually recoup the losses.’

‘But if they continue to fall despite...’

‘You just keep on buying,’ said Armstrong. ‘At some point the market is bound to turn.’ He slammed down the phone and stared at the photograph of himself on the front page of the Financial Times. It wasn’t flattering.

The moment Townsend had finished reading the article, he took Tom’s advice and called his merchant bankers before they called him. David Grenville, the chief executive of the bank, confirmed that Global shares had fallen again that morning. He felt it would be a good idea if they met as soon as possible, and Townsend agreed to reschedule his afternoon appointments to fit in a meeting at two o’clock. ‘You might find it worthwhile to have your lawyer present,’ Grenville added ominously.

Townsend instructed Heather to cancel all his afternoon appointments. He spent the rest of the morning being briefed on a seminar that the company was due to hold the following month. Henry Kissinger and Sir James Goldsmith had already agreed to be the keynote speakers. It had been Townsend’s idea that all his senior executives throughout the world should get together in Honolulu to discuss the development of the corporation over the next ten years, where Multi Media fitted into the overall company structure, and how they could best take advantage of their new acquisition. Would the seminar end up having to be canceled too, he wondered? Or would it turn out to be a funeral service?

It had taken twenty-seven frantic days to put together the financial package to acquire Multi Media, and many more sleepless nights wondering if he had made a disastrous mistake. Now it appeared as if his worst fears had been confirmed by a hack on the Financial Times. If only he had failed to make the deadline, or had listened to Tom in the first place.

His driver turned into Wall Street a few minutes before two and drew up outside the offices of J.P. Grenville. As Townsend stepped out onto the pavement, he remembered how nervous he had been when he had first been summoned to his headmaster’s study almost fifty years before. The huge plate-glass door was opened by a man in a long blue coat. He touched the rim of his top hat when he saw who it was. But for how much longer would he do that, Townsend wondered.

He nodded and walked on toward the reception desk, where David Grenville was deep in conversation with Tom Spencer. The moment they saw him both men turned and smiled. They had obviously been confident that this was one appointment he would not be late for. ‘Good to see you, Keith,’ said Grenville as they shook hands. ‘And thank you for being so prompt.’ Townsend smiled. He couldn’t remember his headmaster ever saying that. Tom put an arm round his client’s shoulder as they walked toward a waiting elevator.

‘How’s Kate?’ asked Grenville. ‘When I last saw her she was editing a novel.’

‘It was such a success she’s now working on one of her own,’ said Townsend. ‘If things don’t work out, I might end up living off her royalties.’ Neither of his two companions made any comment on his gallows humor.

The lift doors slid open at the fifteenth floor, and they walked down the corridor and into the chief executive’s office. Grenville ushered the two men into comfortable chairs, and opened a file on the blotter in front of him. ‘Let me begin by thanking you both for coming in at such short notice,’ he said.

Townsend and his lawyer both nodded, although they knew they hadn’t been left with a lot of choice.

‘We have had the privilege,’ said Grenville, turning to Townsend, ‘of acting on behalf of your company for over a quarter of a century, and I would be sorry to see that association come to an end.’

Townsend’s mouth went dry, but he made no attempt to interrupt.

‘But it would be foolish for any of us to underestimate the gravity of the situation we are now facing. On a superficial study of your affairs, it looks to us as if your borrowings may well exceed your assets, possibly leaving you insolvent. If you wish us to remain as your investment bankers, Keith, then we will do so only if we are guaranteed your full co-operation in trying to solve your current dilemma.’

‘And what does “full co-operation” mean?’ asked Tom.

‘We would begin by attaching to your company a financial team under one of our most senior banking officers, who would be given complete — and I mean complete — authority to investigate any aspect of your dealings we felt necessary in order to ensure the company’s survival.’

‘And once that investigation has been completed?’ asked Tom, his eyebrows rising.

‘The banking officer would make recommendations which we would expect you to carry out to the letter.’

‘When can I see him?’ asked Townsend.

‘Her,’ the bank’s chief executive replied. ‘And the answer to your question is immediately, because Ms. Beresford is in her office on the floor below us waiting to meet you.’

‘Then let’s get on with it,’ said Townsend.

‘First I must know if you agree to our terms,’ said Grenville.

‘I think you can assume that my client has already made that decision,’ said Tom.

‘Good, then I’ll take you down to meet E.B. so she can brief you on the next stage.’

Grenville rose from behind his desk, and led the two men down a flight of stairs to the fourteenth floor. When they arrived outside Ms Beresford’s office, he stopped and gave an almost deferential knock.

‘Come in,’ said a woman’s voice. The chief executive opened the door and led them into a large, comfortably furnished room overlooking Wall Street. It gave an immediate impression of being occupied by someone who was neat, tidy and efficient.

A woman Townsend would have guessed was around forty, perhaps forty-five, stood up and came from behind the desk to greet them. She was about the same height as Townsend, with neatly cropped dark hair and an austere face almost hidden by a rather large pair of spectacles. She wore a smartly-cut dark blue suit and a cream blouse.

‘Good afternoon,’ she said, thrusting out her hand. ‘I’m Elizabeth Beresford.’

‘Keith Townsend,’ he said, shaking her hand. ‘And this is my legal counsel, Tom Spencer.’

‘I’ll leave you to get on with it,’ David Grenville said. ‘But do drop into my office on the way out, Keith.’ He paused. ‘If you still feel up to it.’

‘Thank you,’ said Townsend. Grenville left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

‘Please have a seat,’ said Ms. Beresford, ushering them into two comfortable chairs on the opposite side of her desk. As she returned to her own seat, Townsend stared at the dozen or more files laid out in front of her.

‘Would either of you care for coffee?’ she asked.

‘No, thank you,’ said Townsend, desperate to get on with it. Tom also shook his head.

‘I am a company doctor,’ began Ms. Beresford, ‘and my task, Mr. Townsend, is quite simply to save Global Corp from a premature death.’ She leaned back in her chair and placed the tips of her fingers together. ‘Like any doctor who diagnoses a tumor, my first task is to discover whether it is malignant or benign. I have to tell you at the outset that my success rate in such operations is about one in four. I should also add that this is my most difficult assignment to date.’

‘Thank you, Ms. Beresford,’ said Townsend. ‘That’s most reassuring.’

She showed no reaction as she leaned forward and opened one of the files on her desk.

‘Though I’ve spent several hours this morning going over your balance sheets, and despite the additional research of my excellent financial team, I am still in no position to judge if the Financial Times’s assessment of your company is accurate, Mr. Townsend. That paper has satisfied itself with an educated guess that your liabilities exceed your assets. It is my job to be far more exacting.

‘My problems have been compounded by several outside influences. Firstly, having gone through your files, it is clear for anyone to see that you suffer from a disease common among self-made men — when you’re closing a deal you’re fascinated by the distant horizon, so long as you can leave it to others to worry about how you get there.’

Tom tried not to smile.

‘Secondly, you appear to have made the classic error which the Japanese so quaintly describe as “the Archimedes principle” — namely that your latest deal is often greater than the sum of all your other deals put together.

‘Specifically, you went ahead and borrowed $3 billion from a number of banks and institutions for the purpose of taking over Multi Media, without ever considering if the rest of the group could produce the cash flow to sustain such a vast loan.’ She paused and placed the tips of her fingers together again. ‘I find it hard to believe that this was a transaction on which you took professional advice.’

‘I did take professional advice,’ said Townsend. ‘And Mr. Spencer tried to talk me out of it.’ He glanced toward his lawyer, who remained impassive.

‘I see,’ said Ms. Beresford. ‘If I fail, it will be the reckless gambler in you that will have been the cause of your downfall. Reading through these files last night and into the early hours of this morning, I came to the conclusion that the only reason you have survived so far is that over the years you have just about won more than you have lost, and your bankers, although often nearly driven to distraction, have — sometimes against their better judgment — retained their confidence in you.’

‘Is there going to be any good news?’ asked Townsend.

She ignored the question and continued, ‘My first responsibility will be to go over your books with the clichéd fine-tooth comb, study every one of your companies and its commitments — whatever their size, in whatever country, in whatever currency — and try to make some sense of the overall picture. If, when that is done, I conclude that Global Corp is still solvent in the legal sense of the word, I will move on to the second stage, which will undoubtedly mean selling off some of the company’s most treasured assets, to many of which I feel sure you will have a personal attachment.’

Townsend didn’t even want to think about which treasures she had in mind. He just sat there, listening to her mortician’s diagnosis.

‘Even assuming that process is satisfactorily completed, as a contingency plan we will then have to draft a press release setting out why Global Corp is filing for voluntary liquidation. Should it prove necessary, I would release it to Reuters without delay.’

Townsend gulped.

‘But if that step proves unnecessary, and we are still working together, I will go on to stage three. This will require me to visit every bank and financial institution with which you are involved, in order to try to convince them to give you a little more time to repay your outstanding loans. Though I must say that if I were in their position, I would not do so.’

She stopped for a moment, then leaned forward and opened another file. ‘It appears,’ she said, reading from a handwritten note, ‘that I would have to visit thirty-seven banks and eleven other financial institutions based in four continents, most of which have already been in touch with me this morning. I only hope I’ve been able to stall them long enough for us to make sense of all this.’ Her hands swept the air above the files on her desk. ‘If, by some miracle, stages one, two and three can be completed, my final task — and by far the most difficult — will be to convince those same banks and institutions, currently so apprehensive about your future prospects, that you should be allowed to put together a financial package to ensure the long-term survival of the company. I will not be able to reach that stage unless I can prove to them, with independently audited figures, that their loans are secured on real assets and a positive cash flow. On that subject, you will not be surprised to learn, I still need to be convinced myself. And don’t imagine for one moment that should you be fortunate enough to reach stage four, you can relax. Far from it, because that is when you’ll be told the details of stage five.’

Townsend could feel the sweat beginning to trickle down onto his nose.

‘In one respect the Financial Times was accurate,’ she continued. ‘If one of the banks takes it upon itself to be bloody-minded, then, I quote, “the whole edifice will come crashing down.” If that is the eventual outcome, then I shall pass this case on to a colleague of mine who works on the floor below this one, and who specializes in liquidations.

‘I will conclude by saying, Mr. Townsend, that if you hope to avoid the fate of your fellow countrymen Mr. Alan Bond and Mr. Christopher Skase, you must not only agree to cooperate with me fully, but you must also give me your assurance that from the moment you leave this office you will not sign a check, or move any monies from any account under your control, other than those which are absolutely necessary to cover your day-to-day expenses. And even then they must not, under any circumstances, exceed $2,000 without it being referred to me.’ She looked up and waited for his response.

‘Two thousand dollars?’ Townsend repeated.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘You will be able to reach me at all times, night or day, and you will never have to wait more than an hour for my decision. If, however, you feel unable to adhere to these conditions,’ she said, closing the file, ‘then I am not willing to continue representing you, and in that I include this bank, whose reputation, needless to say, is also on the line. I hope I have made my position clear, Mr. Townsend.’

‘Abundantly,’ said Townsend, who felt as if he had gone ten rounds with a heavyweight boxer.

Elizabeth Beresford leaned back in her chair. ‘You may of course wish to take professional advice,’ she said. ‘In which case I will be happy to offer you the use of one of our consultation rooms.’

‘That won’t be necessary,’ said Townsend. ‘If my professional adviser had disagreed with any part of your assessment, he would have said so long before now.’

Tom allowed himself a smile.

‘I will cooperate fully with your recommendations.’ He turned to glance at Tom, who nodded his approval.

‘Good,’ said Ms. Beresford. ‘Perhaps you could start by handing over your credit cards.’

Three hours later Townsend rose from his chair, shook hands with Elizabeth Beresford again and, feeling utterly exhausted, left her to her files. Tom returned to his office as Townsend made his way unsteadily up the staircase to the floor above and along the corridor to the chief executive’s room. He was about to knock when the door swung open and David Grenville stood in front of him holding a large glass of whiskey.

‘I had a feeling you might need this,’ he said, handing it to Townsend. ‘But first tell me, did you survive the opening rounds with E.B.?’

‘I’m not sure,’ he replied. ‘But I’m booked in every afternoon from three to six for the next fortnight, including weekends.’ He took a large gulp of whiskey and added, ‘And she’s taken away my credit cards.’

‘That’s a good sign,’ said Grenville. ‘It shows that she hasn’t given up on you. Sometimes E.B. simply sends the files down a floor as soon as the first meeting is concluded.’

‘Am I supposed to feel grateful?’ asked Townsend when he had drained his whiskey.

‘No, just temporarily relieved,’ said Grenville. ‘Do you still feel up to attending the bankers’ dinner tonight?’ he asked as he poured Townsend a second whiskey.

‘Well, I was hoping to join you,’ replied Townsend. ‘But she,’ he said, pointing down at the floor, ‘has set me so much homework to be completed by three tomorrow afternoon that...’

‘I think it would be wise if you were to put in an appearance tonight, Keith. Your absence might easily, in the present circumstances, be misinterpreted.’

‘That may be true. But won’t she send me home even before they’ve served the entrée?’

‘I doubt it, because I’ve placed you on her right-hand side. It’s all part of my strategy to convince the banking world that we’re 100 percent behind you.’

‘Hell. What’s she like socially?’

The chairman considered the question only briefly before saying, ‘I must confess, E.B. doesn’t have a great deal of small talk.’

37 Daily Mail 2 July 1991 Charles and Diana: ‘Cause for Concern’

‘There’s a call from Switzerland on line one, Mr. Armstrong,’ said the temporary secretary whose name he couldn’t remember. ‘He says his name is Jacques Lacroix. I’m also holding another call from London on line two.’

‘Who’s calling from London?’ asked Armstrong.

‘A Mr. Peter Wakeham.’

‘Ask him to hold, and put the call from Switzerland straight through.’

‘Is that you, Dick?’

‘Yes, Jacques. How are you, old friend?’ Armstrong boomed.

‘A little disturbed, Dick,’ came the softly-spoken reply from Geneva.

‘Why?’ asked Armstrong. ‘I deposited a check for $50 million with your New York branch last week. I even have a receipt for it.’

‘I am not disputing the fact that you deposited the check,’ said Lacroix. ‘The purpose of this call is to let you know that it has been returned to the bank today, marked “Refer to drawer.”’

‘There must be some mistake,’ said Armstrong. ‘I know that account still has more than enough to cover the sum in question.’

‘That may well be the case. But someone is nevertheless refusing to release any of those funds to us, and indeed has made it clear, through the usual channels, that they will not in future honor any checks presented on that account.’

‘I’ll ring them immediately,’ said Armstrong, ‘and call you straight back.’

‘I would be grateful if you did,’ said Lacroix.

Armstrong rang off and noticed that the light on top of the phone was flashing. He remembered that Wakeham was still holding on line two, grabbed the receiver and said, ‘Peter, what the hell is going on over there?’

‘I’m not too sure myself,’ admitted Peter. ‘All I can tell you is that Paul Maitland and Eric Chapman visited me at home late last night, and asked if I had signed any checks on the pension fund account. I said exactly what you told me to say, but I got the impression that Maitland has now given orders to stop any checks that have my signature on them.’

‘Who the hell do they think they are?’ bawled Armstrong. ‘It’s my company, and I’ll do as I see fit.’

‘Sir Paul says he’s been trying to get in touch with you for the past week, but you haven’t been returning his calls. He said at a finance committee meeting last week that if you fail to turn up at next month’s board meeting, he will be left with no choice but to resign.’

‘Let him resign — who gives a damn? As soon as he’s gone I can appoint anyone I like as chairman.’

‘Of course you can,’ said Peter. ‘But I thought you’d want to know that his secretary told me he’s spent the last few days drafting and redrafting a press release to coincide with his resignation.’

‘So what?’ said Armstrong. ‘No one will bother to follow it up.’

‘I’m not so sure,’ said Peter.

‘What makes you say that?’

‘After his secretary had left for the evening, I hung around and managed to bring up the statement on her console.’

‘And what does it say?’

‘Among other things, that he will be asking the Stock Exchange to suspend our shares until a full inquiry can be carried out.’

‘He doesn’t have the authority to do that,’ shouted Armstrong. ‘It would have to be sanctioned by the board.’

‘I think he plans to ask for that authority at the next board meeting,’ said Peter.

‘Then make it clear to him that I will be present at that meeting,’ hollered Armstrong down the phone, ‘and that the only press release that will be issued will be the one from me setting out the reasons why Sir Paul Maitland has had to be replaced as chairman of the board.’

‘Perhaps it would be better if you told him that yourself,’ said Peter quietly. ‘I’ll just let him know that you intend to be there.’

‘Say what you damn well like. Just make sure that he doesn’t issue any press statements before I get back at the end of the month.’

‘I’ll do my best, Dick, but...’ Peter heard a click on the other end of the line.

Armstrong tried to collect his thoughts. Sir Paul could wait. His first priority was somehow to get his hands on fifty million before Jacques Lacroix let the whole world in on his secret. The Tribune still hadn’t turned the corner, despite all his efforts. Even after the second settlement with the unions, the company was showing a disastrously negative cash flow. He had already removed over £300 million from the pension fund without the board’s knowledge, to get the unions off his back and keep the share price as steady as he could by buying up massive amounts of stock in his own company. But if he failed to pay back the Swiss in the next few days, he knew there would be a further run on the stock, and this time he wouldn’t have such a ready source of funds with which to shore them up.

He glanced round at the international clock on the wall behind his desk to check what time it was in Moscow. Just after six o’clock. But he suspected that the man he needed to speak to would still be in his office. He picked up the phone and asked the secretary to get him a number in Moscow.

He put the receiver down. No one had been more delighted than Armstrong when Marshal Tulpanov was appointed head of the KGB. Since then he had made several trips to Moscow, and a number of large Eastern European contracts had come his way. But recently he had found that Tulpanov hadn’t been quite so readily available.

Armstrong began to sweat as he waited for the call to be put through. Over the years he had had a number of meetings with Mikhail Gorbachev, who appeared to be quite receptive to his ideas. But then Boris Yeltsin had taken over. Tulpanov had introduced him to the new Russian leader, but Armstrong had come away from the meeting with a feeling that neither of them appreciated how important he was.

While he waited to be put through, he began to leaf through the pages of his Filofax, searching for any names that might be able to help with his present dilemma. He’d reached C — Sally Carr — when the phone rang. He picked it up to hear a voice in Russian asking who wished to speak to Marshal Tulpanov.

‘Lubji, London sector,’ he replied. There was a click, and the familiar voice of the head of the KGB came on the line.

‘What can I do for you, Lubji?’ he asked.

‘I need a little help, Sergei,’ began Armstrong. There was no immediate response.

‘And what form is this help expected to take?’ Tulpanov eventually inquired in a measured tone.

‘I need a short-term loan of $50 million. You’d get it back within a month, that I can guarantee.’

‘But, comrade,’ said the head of the KGB, ‘you are already holding $7 million of our money. Several of my station commanders tell me that they haven’t received their royalties from the publication of our latest book.’

Armstrong’s mouth went dry. ‘I know, I know, Sergei,’ he pleaded. ‘But I just need a little more time, and I’ll be able to return everything in the same package.’

‘I’m not sure I want to take that risk,’ said Tulpanov after another long silence. ‘I believe the British have a saying about throwing good money after bad. And you’d be wise to remember, Lubji, that the Financial Times is read not only in London and New York, but also in Moscow. I think I shall wait until I have seen my seven million deposited in all the correct accounts before I consider lending you any more. Do I make myself clear?’

‘Yes,’ replied Armstrong quietly.

‘Good. I will give you until the end of the month to fulfill your obligations. Then I fear we may have to resort to a less subtle approach. I think I pointed out to you many years ago, Lubji, that at some time you would have to make up your mind about which side you were on. I remind you only because at the moment, to quote another English saying, you seem to be playing both sides against the middle.’

‘No, that’s not fair,’ protested Armstrong. ‘I’m on your side, Sergei, I’ve always been on your side.’

‘I hear what you are saying, Lubji, but if our money is not returned by the end of the month, I will be powerless to help. And after such a long friendship, that would be most unfortunate. I am sure you appreciate the position you have put me in.’

Armstrong heard the line go dead. His forehead was dripping with sweat; he felt queasy. He put down the receiver, took a powder puff from his pocket and began dabbing his forehead and cheeks. He tried to concentrate. A few moments later he picked up the phone again. ‘Get me the prime minister of Israel.’

‘Is that a Manhattan number?’ asked the temp.

‘Damn it, am I the only person left in this building who can carry out a simple task?’

‘I’m sorry,’ she stammered.

‘Don’t bother, I’ll do it myself,’ shouted Armstrong.

He checked his Filofax and dialed the number. While he waited to be connected, he continued to turn the pages of his Filofax. He had reached H — Julius Hahn — when a voice on the end of the line said, ‘The prime minister’s office.’

‘It’s Dick Armstrong here. I need to speak to the prime minister urgently.’

‘I’ll see if I can interrupt him, sir.’

Another click, another wait, a few more pages turned. He reached the letter L — Sharon Levitt.

‘Dick, is that you?’ inquired Prime Minister Shamir.

‘Yes it is, Yitzhak.’

‘How are you, my old friend?’

‘I’m just fine,’ said Armstrong, ‘and you?’

‘I’m well thank you.’ He paused. ‘I’ve got all the usual problems, of course, but at least I’m in good health. And how’s Charlotte?’

‘Charlotte’s fine,’ said Armstrong, unable to remember when he had last seen her. ‘She’s in Oxford looking after the grandchildren.’

‘So how many do you have now?’ asked Shamir.

Armstrong had to think for a moment. ‘Three,’ he said, and nearly added, ‘or is it four?’

‘Lucky man. And are you still keeping the Jews of New York happy?’

‘You can always rely on me to do that,’ said Armstrong.

‘I know we can, old friend,’ said the prime minister. ‘So tell me. What is it I can do for you?’

‘It’s a personal matter, Yitzhak, that I hoped you might be able to advise me on.’

‘I’ll do everything I can to help; Israel will always be in your debt for the work you have done for our people. Tell me how I can assist you, old friend.’

‘A simple request,’ replied Armstrong. ‘I need a short-term loan of $50 million, no more than a month at the most. I wondered if you could help in any way?’

There was a long silence before the prime minister said, ‘The government does not involve itself in loans, of course, but I could have a word with the chairman of Bank Leumi if you thought that would be helpful.’

Armstrong decided not to tell the prime minister that he already had an outstanding loan of $20 million with that particular bank, and they had made it clear that no more would be forthcoming.

‘That’s a good idea, Yitzhak. But don’t you bother, I can contact him myself,’ he added, trying to sound cheerful.

‘By the way, Dick,’ said the prime minister, ‘while I’ve got you on the line, about your other request...’

‘Yes?’ he said, his hopes rising for a moment.

‘Without sounding too morbid, the Knesset agreed last week that you should be buried on the Mount of Olives, a privilege afforded only to those Jews who have done a great service to the State of Israel. My congratulations. Not every prime minister can be sure of making it, you know.’ He laughed. ‘Not that I anticipate you will be taking advantage of this offer for many years to come.’

‘Let’s hope you’re right,’ said Armstrong.

‘So, will I see you and Charlotte in London for the Guildhall Banquet next month?’

‘Yes, we’re looking forward to it,’ said Armstrong. ‘I’ll see you then. But don’t let me detain you any longer, prime minister.’

Armstrong put the phone down, suddenly aware that his shirt was soaked through and clinging to his body. He heaved himself out of his chair and made his way to the bathroom, taking off his jacket and unbuttoning his shirt as he went. When he had closed the door behind him, he toweled himself down and pulled on his third clean shirt that day.

He returned to his desk and continued flicking through his list of phone numbers until he reached S — Arno Schultz. He picked up the phone and asked the secretary to get his lawyer on the line.

‘Do you have his number?’ she asked.

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

‘What do you need it for?’ asked Russell.

‘The Swiss are beginning to threaten me.’

‘I thought you’d settled with them last week.’

‘So did I.’

‘What’s happened to that endless source of funds?’

‘It’s dried up.’

‘I see. How much did you say?’

‘Fifty million.’

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

‘How?’ asked Armstrong, trying not to sound desperate.

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

‘But who could come up with that sort of money at such short notice?’

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

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

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

‘Which I am not!’ shouted Armstrong.

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

‘Bankers’ dinner? What bankers’ dinner?’

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

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

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

‘I suppose the same could apply to me,’ said Armstrong, sounding unusually morose.

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

Another phone began to ring.

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

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

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

‘He insisted on holding, sir. Shall I put him through?’

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

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

‘Jacques, I think I may have solved our little problem.’

38 New York Star 20 August 1991 Mayor Tells Police Chief: ‘The Cupboard’s Bare’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Townsend nodded. ‘It might not be quite that easy to speak to him privately.’

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

Why was the damned woman always right?

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

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

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

‘Have you seen the revival of Guys and Dolls, Dick?’ the governor asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Russell walked quietly over and hovered behind them.

‘At a price,’ said Townsend.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was Russell’s turn to raise an eyebrow.

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

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

Elizabeth frowned.

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

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

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

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

‘What did you have in mind?’ Townsend eventually asked.

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

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

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

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

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

Townsend stood there, barely able to control himself.

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

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

‘What chance do I now have of selling my stock in the Star?’

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

‘And if I were to put mine on the open market, what do you think they might fetch?’

‘If you placed that quantity of shares on the market in one tranche, it would be assumed you were dumping them, in which case you’d be lucky to get twenty million. In a successful sale there has to be a willing buyer and a reluctant seller. At the moment this deal seems to have two desperate sellers.’

‘What alternatives am I left with?’ asked Armstrong as they walked toward the limousine.

‘He’s left us with virtually no alternative,’ E.B. replied. ‘I’m going to have to find a third party who’s willing to buy your shares in the Star, and preferably before Armstrong’s forced to dump his.’

‘Why go down that route?’ asked Townsend.

‘Because I have a feeling that Mr. Armstrong is in even worse trouble than you.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘My eyes never left him, and once the speeches were over the first thing he did was to head straight for this table.’

‘What does that prove?’

‘That he had only one purpose in mind,’ replied E.B. ‘To sell you his shares in the Star.’

A thin smile appeared on Townsend’s face. ‘So why don’t we buy them?’ he said. ‘If I could get my hands on his holding, I might...’

‘Mr. Townsend, don’t even think about it.’

39 Financial Times 1 November 1991 Newspaper Groups’ Shares in Free Fall

By the time Townsend boarded the plane for Honolulu, Elizabeth Beresford was already halfway across the Atlantic. During the past three weeks he had been put through the toughest examination of his life — and, like all examinations, it would be some time before the results were known.

E.B. had questioned, probed and investigated every aspect of every deal he had ever been involved in. She now knew more about him than his mother, wife, children and the IRS put together. In fact Townsend wondered if there was anything she didn’t know — other than what he had been up to in the school pavilion with the headmaster’s daughter. And if he’d paid for that, she would doubtless have insisted on being told the precise details of the transaction.

When he arrived back at the apartment each night, exhausted, he would go over the latest position with Kate. ‘I’m certain of only one thing,’ he often repeated. ‘My chances of survival now rest entirely in the hands of that woman.’

They had completed stage one: E.B. accepted that the company was technically solvent. She then turned her attention to stage two: the disposal of assets. When she told Townsend that Mrs. Summers wanted to buy back her shares in the New York Star, he reluctantly agreed. But at least E.B. allowed him to retain his controlling interest in the Melbourne Courier and the Adelaide Gazette. He was however made to sell off the Perth Sunday Monitor and the Continent in exchange for keeping the Sydney Chronicle. He also had to sacrifice his minority interest in his Australian television channel and all the non-contributing subsidiary companies in Multi Media, so that he could go on publishing TV News.

By the end of the third week she had completed the striptease, and left him all but naked. And all because of one phone call. He began to wonder how long those words would haunt him:

‘Would it be too much to ask the figure you have in mind, Mr. Townsend?’

‘Yes, Ambassador. Three billion dollars.’

E.B. didn’t have to remind him that there was still the contingency plan to be considered before she could move on to stage three.

However many times they wrote and rewrote the press release, its conclusion was always the same: Global Corp was filing for Chapter Eleven, and would be going into voluntary liquidation. Townsend had rarely spent a more distasteful couple of hours in his life. He could already see the stark headline in the Citizen: ‘Townsend Bankrupt.’

Once they had agreed on the wording of the press release, E.B. was ready to move on to the next stage. She asked Townsend which banks he felt would be most sympathetic to his cause. He immediately identified six, and then added a further five whose long-term relationship with the company had always been amicable. But as for the rest, he warned her, he had never dealt with any of them before he set about raising the three billion for the Multi Media deal. And one of them had already demanded their money back, ‘come what may.’

‘Then we’ll have to leave that one till last,’ said E.B.

She began by approaching the senior loan officer of the bank with the largest credit line, and told him in detail of the rigors she had put Townsend through. He was impressed and agreed to support her plan — but only if every other bank involved also accepted the rescue package. The next five took a little longer to fall into line, but once she had secured their co-operation, E.B. began to pick off the others one by one, always able to point out that to date every institution she had talked to had agreed to go along with her proposals. In London she had appointments with Barclays, Midland Montagu and Rothschilds. She intended to continue her journey to Paris, where she would see Crédit Lyonnais, and then flights were booked for Frankfurt, Bonn and Zurich, as she tried to weld each link in the chain.

She had promised Townsend that if she was successful in London she would phone and let him know immediately. But if she failed at any stage, her next flight would be to Honolulu, where she would brief the assembled Global delegates not on the company’s long-term future, but on why, when they returned to their own countries, they would be looking for new jobs.

E.B. left for London that evening, armed with a case full of files, a book of plane tickets and a list of telephone numbers that would allow her access to Townsend at any time of the day or night. Over the next four days she planned to visit all the banks and financial institutions which would, between them, decide Global’s fate. Townsend knew that if she failed to convince just one of them, she wouldn’t hesitate to return to New York and send his files down to the thirteenth floor. The only concession she agreed was to give him an hour’s notice before she issued the press release.

‘At least if you’re in Honolulu you won’t be doorstepped by the world’s press,’ she had said just before she left for Europe.

Townsend had given her a wry smile. ‘If you issue that press release it won’t matter where I am,’ he said. ‘They’ll find me.’

Townsend’s Gulfstream landed in Honolulu just as the sun was setting. He was picked up at the airport and driven straight to the hotel. When he checked in, he was handed a message which read simply, ‘All three banks in London have agreed to the package. On my way to Paris. E.B.’

He unpacked, took a shower and joined his main board directors for dinner. They had flown in from all over the world for what he had originally intended to be an exchange of ideas on the development of the company over the next ten years. Now it looked as if they might be talking about how to dismantle it in the next ten days.

Everyone around the table did their utmost to appear cheerful, although most of them had been summoned to the presence of E.B. at some time during the past few weeks. And all of them, after they had been released, immediately shelved any ideas they might have had for expansion. The most optimistic word that ever passed E.B.’s lips during those cross-examinations had been ‘consolidation.’ She had asked the company secretary and the group’s chief financial officer to prepare a contingency plan which would involve suspending the company’s shares and filing for voluntary liquidation. They were finding it particularly difficult to look as if they were enjoying themselves.

After dinner Townsend went straight to bed, and spent another sleepless night that couldn’t be blamed on jetlag. He heard the message being pushed under his door at around three in the morning. He leaped out of bed and tore it open nervously. ‘The French have agreed — reluctantly. On my way to Frankfurt. E.B.’

At seven, Bruce Kelly joined him in his suite for breakfast. Bruce had recently returned to London to become managing director of Global TV, and he began by explaining to Townsend that his biggest problem was getting the skeptical British to buy the hundred thousand satellite dishes that were presently being stored in a warehouse in Watford. His latest idea was to give them away free to every reader of the Globe. Townsend just nodded between sips of tea. Neither of them mentioned the one subject that was on both their minds.

After breakfast they went down to the coffee room together, and Townsend moved among the tables, chatting to his chief executives from around the world. By the time he had circled the room, he came to the conclusion that they were either very good actors or they had no idea how precarious the situation really was. He hoped the latter.

The opening lecture that morning was given by Henry Kissinger, on the international significance of the Pacific Rim. Townsend sat in the front row, wishing that his father could have been present to hear the words of the former secretary of state as he talked of opportunities no one would have thought possible a decade before, and in which he believed Global would be a major player. Townsend’s mind drifted back to his mother, now aged over ninety, and her words when he had first returned to Australia forty years earlier: ‘I have always had an abhorrence of debt in any form.’ He could even remember the tone of her voice.

During the day, Townsend dropped into as many of the seminars as he could manage, leaving each one with the words ‘commitment,’ ‘vision,’ and ‘expansion’ ringing in his ears. Before he climbed into bed that night, he was handed the latest missive from E.B.: ‘Frankfurt and Bonn have agreed, but extracted tough terms. On my way to Zurich. Will phone as soon as I know their decision.’ He had another sleepless night as he lay waiting for the phone to ring.

Townsend had originally suggested that, following Zurich, E.B. should fly straight to Honolulu so that she could brief him personally. But she didn’t think that was a good idea. ‘After all,’ she reminded him, ‘I’m hardly going to boost morale by chatting to the delegates about my job description.’

‘Perhaps they’d think you’re my mistress,’ said Townsend.

She didn’t laugh.

After lunch on the third day, it was Sir James Goldsmith’s turn to address the conference. But as soon as the lights were lowered, Townsend began checking his watch, anxiously wondering when E.B. might call.

Sir James walked onto the platform to enthusiastic applause from the delegates. He placed his speech on the lectern, looked out into an audience he could no longer see and began with the words: ‘It is a great pleasure for me to be addressing a group of people who work for one of the most successful companies in the world.’ Townsend became engrossed by Sir James’s views on the future of the EC, and why he had decided to stand for the European Parliament. ‘As an elected member I will have the opportunity to...’

‘Excuse me, sir.’ Townsend looked up to see the hotel manager hovering beside him. ‘There’s a call from Zurich for you. She says it’s urgent.’ Townsend nodded and quickly followed him out of the darkened room and into the corridor.

‘Would you like to take it in my office?’

‘No,’ Townsend said. ‘Put it through to my room.’

‘Of course, sir,’ said the manager, as Townsend headed for the nearest lift.

In the corridor he passed one of his secretaries, who wondered why the boss was leaving Sir James’s lecture when he was down on the program to give the vote of thanks.

When Townsend let himself into his suite, the phone was already ringing. He walked across the room and picked up the receiver, glad she couldn’t see how nervous he was.

‘Keith Townsend,’ he said.

‘The Bank of Zurich have agreed to the package.’

‘Thank God for that.’

‘But at a price. They’re demanding three points above base rate, for the entire ten-year period. That will cost Global a further $17.5 million.’

‘And what was your response?’

‘I accepted their terms. They were shrewd enough to work out that they were among the last to be approached, so I didn’t have many cards to bargain with.’

He took his time before he asked the next question. ‘What are my chances of survival now?’

‘Still no better than fifty-fifty,’ she said. ‘Don’t put any money on it.’

‘I don’t have any money,’ Townsend said. ‘You even took away my credit cards, remember?’

E.B. didn’t respond.

‘Is there anything I can still do?’

‘Just be sure that when you deliver your closing speech this evening, you leave them in no doubt that you’re the chairman of the most successful media company in the world, not that you’re possibly only a few hours away from filing for voluntary liquidation.’

‘And when will I know which it is?’

‘Sometime tomorrow would be my guess,’ said E.B. ‘I’ll call you the moment my meeting with Austin Pierson is over.’ The line went dead.

Armstrong was met off Concorde by Reg, who drove him through the drifting sleet from Heathrow into London. It always annoyed him that the civil aviation authorities wouldn’t allow him the use of his helicopter over the city during the hours of darkness. Back at Armstrong House, he took the lift straight up to the penthouse, woke his chef and ordered him to prepare a meal. He took a long, hot shower, and thirty minutes later he appeared at the dining room table in a dressing-gown, smoking a cigar.

A large plate of caviar had been laid out for him; he had scooped up the first mouthful with his fingers even before he sat down. After several more handfuls, he lifted his briefcase up onto the table and extracted a single sheet of paper which he placed in front of him. He began to study the agenda for the next day’s board meeting, between mouthfuls of caviar and glass after glass of champagne.

After a few minutes he pushed the agenda to one side, confident that if he could get past item one he had convincing answers to anything else Sir Paul might come up with. He lumbered into the bedroom and propped himself up in bed with a couple of pillows. He switched on the television and began flicking from channel to channel in search of something to distract him. He finally fell asleep watching an old Laurel and Hardy movie.

Townsend picked up his speech from a side table, left the suite and walked across the corridor to the lift. At the ground floor, he made his way quickly over to the conference center.

Long before he reached the ballroom he could hear the relaxed chattering of the waiting delegates. As he entered the room, a thousand executives fell silent and rose from their places. He walked down the center aisle onto the stage and placed his speech on the lectern, then looked down at his audience, a group of the most talented men and women in the media world, some of whom had served him for over thirty years.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, let me begin by saying that Global has never been in better shape to face the challenges of the twenty-first century. We now control forty-one television and radio stations, 137 newspapers and 249 magazines. And of course we have recently added a jewel to our crown: TV News, the biggest-selling magazine in the world. With such a portfolio, Global has become the most powerful communications empire on earth. Our task is to remain the world leaders, and I see before me a team of men and women who are dedicated to keeping Global in the forefront of communications. During the next decade...’ Townsend spoke for another forty minutes on the future of the company and the roles they would all be playing in it, finishing with the words: ‘It has been a record year for Global. When we meet next year, let’s confound our critics by delivering an even better one.’

They all stood and cheered him. But as the applause died down, he couldn’t help remembering that another meeting would be taking place in Cleveland the following morning, at which only one question would be answered, and it certainly wouldn’t be followed by applause.

As the delegates broke up, Townsend strolled round the room, trying to appear relaxed as he said goodbye to some of his chief executives. He only hoped that when they returned to their own territories, they wouldn’t be met by journalists from rival newspapers wanting to know why the company had gone into voluntary liquidation. And all because a banker from Ohio had said, ‘No, Mr. Townsend, I require the fifty million to be repaid by close of business this evening. Otherwise I will be left with no choice but to place the matter in the hands of our legal department.’

As soon as he could get away, Townsend returned to his suite and packed. A chauffeur drove him to the airport, where the Gulfstream was waiting to take off. Would he be traveling economy class tomorrow? He was unaware of how much the conference had taken out of him, and within moments of fastening his seatbelt he fell into a deep sleep.

Armstrong had planned to rise early and give himself enough time to destroy various papers in his safe, but he was woken by the chimes of Big Ben, foreshadowing the seven o’clock television news. He cursed jetlag as he heaved his legs over the side of the bed, aware of what still needed to be done.

He dressed and went into the dining room to find his breakfast already laid out: bacon, sausages, black pudding and four fried eggs, which he washed down with half a dozen cups of steaming black coffee.

At 7:35 he left the penthouse and took the lift down to the eleventh floor. He stepped out onto the landing, switched on the lights, walked quickly down the corridor past his secretary’s desk, and stopped to jab a code into the pad by the side of his office door. When the light turned from red to green he pushed the door open.

Once inside, he ignored the pile of correspondence waiting for him on his desk and headed straight for the massive safe in the far corner of the room. There was another longer and more complicated code to complete before he could pull back the heavy door.

The first file he dug out was marked ‘Liechtenstein.’ He went over to the shredder and began to feed it in, page after page. Then he returned to the safe and removed a second file marked ‘Russia (Book Contracts),’ and carried out the same process. He was halfway through a file marked ‘Territories for Distribution’ when a voice behind him said, ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ Armstrong swung round to find one of the security guards shining a torch into his face.

‘Get out of here, you fool,’ he shouted. ‘And close the door behind you.’

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

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

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

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

‘Just over half an hour,’ she replied.

‘Ask Mr. Wakeham to join me immediately.’

‘The deputy chairman is not expected in today, sir,’ said Pamela.

‘Not expected? Why not?’ bellowed Armstrong.

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

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

‘Is Peter there?’ he boomed.

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

‘Get him out of bed.’

There was a long silence, before a reedy voice asked, ‘Is that you, Dick?’

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

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

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

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

‘I most certainly do,’ replied Armstrong. ‘So get here, and get here fast.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Hadn’t made up his mind?’

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

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

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

‘What’s that?’

‘Covering his backside.’

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

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

Townsend began to curse.

‘But he did promise me one thing,’ said E.B.

‘What was that?’

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

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

‘Release the press statement we agreed on,’ she said.

Townsend felt sick.

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

‘Have you heard anything from Cleveland yet?’ was her first question.

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

‘What do you think the odds are on him extending the loan?’

‘I asked E.B. the same question yesterday, and she said fifty-fifty.’

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

‘He will soon enough.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

40 The Globe 5 November 1991 Search for Missing Tycoon

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

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

Everyone nodded except Armstrong.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now he had everyone’s attention.

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

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

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

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

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

‘So we don’t yet have anything in writing?’

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

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

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

‘In what, may I ask?’ inquired Sir Paul.

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

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

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

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

‘Not if that might jeopardize my chances of closing a major deal.’

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

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

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

Several of the directors bowed their heads.

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

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

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

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

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

‘Frankly, I have no idea what you get up to when you’re in New York — though I am bound to say that the explanation Peter Wakeham gave to last month’s meeting of how money withdrawn from the pension fund ended up in accounts at the Bank of New Amsterdam and the Manhattan Bank was just not credible.’

‘What are you suggesting?’ shouted Armstrong.

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

‘He said no such thing,’ shouted Armstrong.

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

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

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

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

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

‘Are you accusing me of lying?’ shouted Armstrong.

‘If I were to do so,’ asked the chairman, ‘would you then issue a writ for slander against me?’

For a moment Armstrong was stunned.

‘I can see that you have no intention of answering any of my questions candidly,’ continued Sir Paul. ‘I am therefore left with no choice but to resign as chairman of the board.’

‘No, no,’ cried a few muted voices round the table.

Armstrong realized for the first time that he had overplayed his hand. If Sir Paul were to resign now, within days the whole world would become aware of the precarious state of the company’s finances. ‘I do hope you will find it possible to remain as chairman until the AGM in April,’ he said quietly, ‘so that we can at least expedite an orderly handover.’

‘I fear it has already gone too far for that,’ said Sir Paul.

As he rose from his place, Armstrong looked up and said, ‘Do you expect me to beg?’

‘No, sir, I do not. You are about as capable of that as you are of telling the truth.’

Armstrong immediately rose from his place, and the two men stared at each other for some time before Sir Paul turned and left the room, leaving his papers on the desk behind him.

Armstrong slipped across into the chairman’s place, but didn’t speak for some time as his eyes slowly scanned the table. ‘If there is anyone else who would care to join him,’ he said finally, ‘now’s your chance.’

There was a little shuffling of papers, some scraping of chairs and the odd staring down at hands, but nobody attempted to leave.

‘Good,’ said Armstrong. ‘Now, as long as we all behave like grown-ups, it will soon become clear that Sir Paul was simply jumping to conclusions without any grasp of the real situation.’

Not everyone around the table looked convinced. Eric Chapman, the company secretary, was among those whose heads remained bowed.

‘Item number two,’ said Armstrong firmly. The circulation manager took some time explaining why the figures for the Citizen had fallen so sharply during the past month, which he said would have an immediate knock-on effect on the advertising revenue. ‘As the Globe has slashed its cover price to ten pence, I can only advise the board that we should follow suit.’

‘But if we do that,’ said Chapman, ‘we’ll just suffer an even greater loss of revenue.’

‘True...’ began the circulation manager.

‘We just have to keep our nerve,’ said Armstrong, ‘and see who blinks first. My bet is that Townsend won’t be around in a month’s time, and we’ll be left to pick up the pieces.’

Although one or two of the directors nodded, most of them had been on the board long enough to remember what had happened the last time Armstrong had suggested that particular scenario.

It took another hour to go through the remaining items on the agenda, and it became clearer by the minute that no one around the table was willing to confront the chief executive directly. When Armstrong finally asked if there was any other business, no one responded.

‘Thank you, gentlemen,’ he said. He rose from his place, gathered up Sir Paul’s files and quickly left the room. As he strode down the corridor toward the lift, he saw Peter Wakeham rushing breathlessly toward him. Armstrong smiled at the deputy chairman, who turned and chased after him. He caught up just as Armstrong stepped into the lift. ‘If only you had arrived a few minutes earlier, Peter,’ he said, looking down at him. ‘I could have made you chairman.’ He beamed at Wakeham as the lift doors closed.

He pressed the top button and was whisked up to the roof, where he found his pilot leaning on the railing, enjoying a cigarette. ‘Heathrow,’ he barked, without giving a thought to clearance by air-traffic control or the availability of take-off slots. The pilot quickly stubbed out his cigarette and ran toward the helicopter landing pad. As they flew over the City of London, Armstrong began to consider the sequence of events that would take place during the next few hours unless the $50 million were somehow miraculously to materialize.

Fifteen minutes later, the helicopter landed on the private apron. He lowered himself onto the ground and walked slowly over to his private jet.

Another pilot, this one waiting to receive his orders, greeted him at the top of the steps.

‘Nice,’ said Armstrong, before making his way to the back of the cabin. The pilot disappeared into the cockpit, assuming that ‘Captain Dick’ would be joining his yacht in Monte Carlo for a few days’ rest.

The Gulfstream took off to the south. During the two-hour flight Armstrong made only one phone call, to Jacques Lacroix in Geneva. But however much he pleaded, the answer remained the same: ‘Mr. Armstrong, you have until close of business today to repay the $50 million, otherwise I will be left with no choice but to place the matter in the hands of our legal department.’

41 New York Star 6 November 1991 Splash!

‘I have the President of the United States on line one,’ said Heather, ‘and a Mr. Austin Pierson from Cleveland, Ohio on line two. Which will you take first?’

Townsend told Heather which call he wanted put through. He picked up the phone nervously and heard an unfamiliar voice.

‘Good morning, Mr. Pierson, how kind of you to call,’ Townsend said. He listened intently.

‘Yes, Mr. Pierson,’ he said eventually. ‘Of course. I fully understand your position. I’m sure I would have responded in the same way, given the circumstances.’ Townsend listened carefully to the reasons why Pierson had come to his decision.

‘I understand your dilemma, and I appreciate your taking the trouble to call me personally.’ He paused. ‘I can only hope that you won’t regret it. Goodbye, Mr. Pierson.’ He put the phone down and buried his head in his hands. He suddenly felt very calm.

When Heather heard the cry she stopped typing, jumped up and ran through to Townsend’s office. She found him leaping up and down, shouting, ‘He’s agreed! He’s agreed!’

‘Does that mean I can finally order another dinner jacket for you?’ asked Heather.

‘Half a dozen, if you want to,’ he said, taking her in his arms. ‘But first you’ll have to get my credit cards back.’ Heather laughed, and they both started to jump up and down.

Neither of them noticed Elizabeth Beresford enter the room.

‘Am I to assume that this is some form of cult worship practiced in the more remote parts of the Antipodes?’ asked E.B. ‘Or could there be a more simple explanation, involving a decision made by a banker in a mid-western state?’

They abruptly stopped and looked toward her. ‘It’s cult worship,’ Townsend said. ‘And you’re its idol.’

E.B. smiled. ‘I’m gratified to hear it,’ she said calmly. ‘Perhaps, Heather, I could have a word with Mr. Townsend in private?’

‘Of course,’ said Heather. She put her shoes back on and left the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

Townsend put a hand through his hair and returned quickly to his chair. Once he had sat down, he tried to compose himself.

‘Now I want you to listen, Keith, and listen carefully,’ E.B. began. ‘You have been incredibly lucky. You were within a whisker of losing everything.’

‘I realize that,’ said Townsend quietly.

‘I want you to promise me that you will never make a bid for anything ever again without first consulting the bank — and by the bank, I mean me.’

‘You have my solemn oath on it.’

‘Good. Because you’ve now got ten years in which to consolidate Global and make it into one of the most conservative and respected institutions in its field. Don’t forget, that was stage five of our original agreement.’

‘I will never forget,’ said Townsend. ‘And I shall be eternally grateful to you, Elizabeth, not only for saving my company, but me along with it.’

‘It’s been a pleasure to help,’ said E.B., ‘but I won’t feel my job has been completed until I hear your company described, especially by your detractors, as blue chip.’

He nodded solemnly as she bent down, flicked open her briefcase and removed a stack of credit cards. She passed them across to him.

‘Thank you,’ he said.

A flicker of a smile appeared on her lips. She rose from her chair and offered an outstretched hand across the table. Townsend shook it. ‘I hope we’ll meet again soon,’ he said as he accompanied her to the door.

‘I hope not,’ said E.B. ‘I don’t think I want to be put through that particular mangle a second time.’

When they reached Heather’s office, E.B. turned to face him. For a moment Townsend considered kissing her on the cheek, but then thought better of it. He remained by Heather’s desk as E.B. shook hands with his secretary in the same formal way. She glanced in Townsend’s direction, nodded and left without another word.

‘Some lady, that,’ said Townsend, staring at the closed door.

‘That’s for sure,’ said Heather wistfully. ‘She even taught me one or two things about you.’

Townsend was about to ask what they could possibly be when Heather added, ‘Shall I call the White House back?’

‘Yes, straight away. I’d completely forgotten. When I’ve finished with him, get me Kate.’

As Townsend returned to his office, Elizabeth stood in the corridor, waiting for one of the six lifts to arrive at the top floor. She was in a hurry to get to the bank and clear her desk — she hadn’t spent a weekend at home for the past month, and had promised her husband that she would be back in time to see their daughter perform the role of Gwendolen in the school play. When a lift finally reached the executive level, she stepped inside and pressed the button for the ground floor just as another lift door opened on the other side of the corridor. But the doors closed before she could see who it was who had leaped out and run off in the direction of Townsend’s office.

The lift stopped at the forty-first floor, and E.B. was joined by three young men who continued their animated conversation as if she wasn’t there. When one of them mentioned Armstrong’s name, she began to pay closer attention. She couldn’t believe what they were saying. Every time the lift stopped and new people came in, she picked up a fresh piece of information.

A breathless Tom came rushing into Heather’s office. All he said was, ‘Is he in?’

‘Yes, Mr. Spencer,’ she replied. ‘He’s just finished speaking to the President. Why don’t you go straight through?’

Tom walked toward the executive suite and threw open the door just as Townsend completed dialing a number on his private phone. ‘Have you heard the news?’ he gasped.

‘Yes,’ said Townsend, looking up. ‘I was just phoning Kate to let her know that Pierson’s agreed to extend the loan.’

‘I’m delighted to hear it. But that’s not news, it’s history,’ said Tom, falling into the seat E.B. had recently vacated.

‘What do you mean?’ asked Townsend. ‘I only heard it myself a few minutes ago.’

A voice came on the line and said, ‘Hello, Kate Townsend.’

‘I mean, have you heard about Armstrong?’

‘Armstrong? No, what’s he been up to now?’ asked Townsend, ignoring the phone.

‘Hello,’ Kate repeated. ‘Is anyone there?’

‘He’s committed suicide,’ said Tom.

‘Is that you, Keith?’ said Kate.

‘He’s done what?’ said Townsend, dropping the receiver back in place.

‘It seems he was lost at sea for several hours, and some fishermen have just picked up his body off the coast of Sardinia.’

‘Armstrong dead?’ Townsend swiveled his chair round, and for a few moments just stared out of the window over Fifth Avenue. ‘And to think my mother outlived him,’ he said eventually.

Tom looked bemused by this statement.

‘I can’t believe it was suicide,’ said Townsend.

‘Why do you say that?’ asked Tom.

‘It’s just not his style. The damned man always believed he could survive anything.’

‘Whatever it was, London’s leaking like a sieve,’ said Tom. ‘It seems that Armstrong’s endless flow of cash came from the company’s pension fund, which he was not only using to buy up his own shares, but also to pay off the unions in New York.’

‘The company’s pension fund?’ said Townsend. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘Apparently Armstrong discovered there was far more cash in the fund than was legally necessary, so he began siphoning it off at a few million a time, until his chairman found out what he was up to and handed in his resignation.’

Townsend picked up an internal phone and pressed three digits.

‘What are you doing?’ asked Tom.

‘Shh,’ said Townsend, placing a finger up to his lips. When he heard a voice on the other end of the line, he asked, ‘Is that the accounts department?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said someone who immediately recognized the Australian accent. ‘It’s Hank Turner, I’m the company’s deputy chief accountant.’

‘You’re exactly the man I need, Hank. First, tell me, does Global have a separate pension fund account?’

‘Yes, of course it does, sir.’

‘And how much are we holding in that account at the present time?’ he asked.

He hung on and waited for the answer. E.B.’s lift had reached the ninth floor on the way back up by the time the deputy chief accountant was able to inform Townsend, ‘As of nine o’clock this morning, sir, that account is showing a balance of $723 million.’

‘And how much are we required to hold by law in order to fulfill our pension fund obligations?’

‘A little over $400 million,’ came back the accountant’s reply. ‘Thanks to our fund manager’s shrewd investment policy, we’ve been able to keep well ahead of inflation.’

‘So we’re carrying a surplus of more than $300 million over and above our statutory obligation?’

‘That is correct, sir, but the legal position is that at all times we must...’

Townsend replaced the receiver and looked up to find his lawyer staring at him in disbelief.

E.B. stepped out of the lift and into the corridor.

‘I hope you’re not thinking what I think you’re thinking,’ said Tom, as E.B. walked into Heather’s office.

‘I need to see Mr. Townsend urgently,’ she said.

‘Don’t tell me Pierson has changed his mind?’ said Heather.

‘No, it’s nothing to do with Pierson. It’s Richard Armstrong.’

‘Armstrong?’

‘He’s been found dead at sea. The first reports are suggesting that he committed suicide.’

‘Good heavens. You’d better go in immediately, Mrs. Beresford. He’s got Tom Spencer with him at the moment.’

E.B. headed toward Townsend’s room. Tom had left the door open when he had rushed in, so before she reached the office, E.B. was aware that a heated discussion was taking place. When she heard the words ‘pension fund’ she froze on the spot, and listened in disbelief to the conversation taking place between Townsend and his lawyer.

‘No, hear me out, Tom,’ Townsend was saying. ‘My idea would still fall well within any legal requirements.’

‘I hope you’ll allow me to be the judge of that,’ said Tom.

‘Let’s assume that trading in Armstrong Communications shares will be suspended later today.’

‘That’s a fair assumption,’ agreed Tom.

‘So it would be pointless at this stage for me to try and lay my hands on any of their stock. All we know at present is that Armstrong was bleeding the pension fund dry, so when the shares come back on the market, they’re certain to be at an all-time low.’

‘I still can’t see how that helps you,’ said Tom.

‘Because, like the crusaders of old, dressed in the armor of righteousness, I shall ride in and save the day.’

‘And how do you propose to do that?’

‘Simply by merging the two companies.’

‘But they would never agree to that. To start with, the trustees of the Citizen’s pension fund wouldn’t risk a further...’

‘They might when they discover that the surplus in our pension fund more than covers the losses in theirs. It would conveniently solve two problems at the same time. First, the British government wouldn’t have to dip into its special reserve fund.’

‘And second?’ said Tom, still looking highly skeptical.

‘The pensioners themselves could sleep secure in the knowledge that they would not be spending the rest of their lives facing penury.’

‘But the Monopolies and Mergers Commission would never agree to you owning both of the two biggest tabloids in Britain,’ said Tom.

‘Perhaps not,’ said Townsend, ‘but they couldn’t object to my taking over all of Armstrong’s regional publications — which should have been mine in the first place.’

‘I suppose they just might wear that,’ said Tom, ‘but the shareholders wouldn’t...’

‘...they wouldn’t give a damn about Armstrong’s 46 percent stockholding in the New York Star.’

‘It’s a bit late to be worrying about that,’ said Tom. ‘You’ve already lost overall control of that paper.’

‘Not yet, I haven’t,’ said Townsend. ‘We’re still going through the process of due diligence. I’m not required to sign the completion documents until next Monday.’

‘But what about the New York Tribune?’ asked Tom. ‘Armstrong may be dead, but you’d simply inherit all his problems. Whatever he claimed to the contrary, that paper is still losing over a million dollars a week.’

‘But it won’t be if I do what Armstrong should have done in the first place, and close the paper down,’ said Townsend. ‘That way I’d create a monopoly in this city which no one would ever be able to challenge.’

‘But even if you squared the British government and the Monopolies and Mergers Commission, what makes you think the board of Armstrong Communications will fall in with your cozy little plan?’

‘Because not only will I be replenishing their pension fund, but I would also allow the management to retain control of the Citizen. And we wouldn’t be breaking the law, because the surplus in our pension fund more than covers the shortfall in theirs.’

‘I still think they’d put up one hell of a fight to prevent you,’ said Tom.

‘Not when the Globe reminds the Citizen’s 35,000 former employees every morning that there’s a simple solution to their pension problem. Within days they’ll be demonstrating outside Armstrong House, demanding that the board go along with the merger.’

‘But that also assumes Parliament will wear it,’ said Tom. ‘Think of those Labor members who detest you even more than they did Armstrong.’

‘I’ll just have to make sure that those same members receive sackfuls of letters from their constituents, reminding them that they are only months away from an election, and that if they expect them to vote...’

Keith looked up to see E.B. standing in the doorway. She stared at him in the same way she had on the first day they met.

‘Mr. Townsend,’ she said. ‘Less than fifteen minutes ago, you and I came to an agreement, an agreement on which you gave your solemn oath. Or does your memory not stretch back that far?’

Keith’s cheeks reddened slightly, and then a smile slowly appeared on his face. ‘I’m sorry, E.B.,’ he said, ‘I lied.’