The Fourth Estate Read online

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  To Michael and Judith

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  In May 1789, Louis XVI summoned to Versailles a full meeting of the “Estates General.”

  The First Estate consisted of three hundred nobles.

  The Second Estate, three hundred clergy.

  The Third Estate, six hundred commoners.

  * * *

  Some years later, after the French Revolution, Edmund Burke, looking up at the Press Gallery of the House of Commons said, “Yonder sits the Fourth Estate, and they are more important than them all.”

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Author’s Note

  LATE NIGHT EXTRA: Media Moguls Battle to Save Their Empires

  1. The Globe

  2. The Citizen

  FIRST EDITION: Births, Marriages and Deaths

  3. The Times

  4. Melbourne Courier

  5. The Times

  6. Daily Mail

  7. The Times

  8. St. Andy

  SECOND EDITION: To the Victor the Spoils

  9. Daily Mirror

  10. News Chronicle

  11. The Times

  12. Melbourne Courier

  THIRD EDITION: Where There’s a Will …

  13. Der Telegraf

  14. Adelaide Gazette

  15. Evening Chronicle

  16. Sydney Morning Herald

  17. The Times

  18. Daily Mail

  19. News Chronicle

  20. The Times

  21. Daily Mirror

  FOURTH EDITION: Armstrong and Townsend Battle for the Globe

  22. The Times

  23. The Times

  24. Daily Telegraph

  25. Ocean Times

  26. Daily Mail

  27. The Globe

  FIFTH EDITION: The Citizen v the Globe

  28. The Citizen

  29. The Citizen

  30. The Globe

  31. The Sun

  32. Wall Street Journal

  33. New York Times

  34. The Sun

  35. New York Tribune

  FINAL EDITION: Double or Quits

  36. Daily Express

  37. Daily Mail

  38. New York Star

  39. Financial Times

  40. The Globe

  41. New York Star

  Titles by Jeffrey Archer

  Praise for international bestselling author Jeffrey Archer

  Copyright

  LATE NIGHT EXTRA

  Media Moguls Battle to Save Their Empires

  1.

  The Globe

  5 November 1991

  ARMSTRONG FACES BANKRUPTCY

  The odds were stacked against him. But the odds had never worried Richard Armstrong in the past.

  “Faites vos jeux, mesdames et messieurs. Place your bets.”

  Armstrong stared down at the green baize. The mountain of red chips that had been placed in front of him twenty minutes earlier had dwindled to a single stack. He had already lost forty thousand francs that evening—but what was forty thousand francs when you had squandered a billion dollars in the past twelve months?

  He leaned over and deposited all his remaining chips on zero.

  “Les jeux sont faits. Rien ne va plus,” the croupier said as he flicked his wrist and set the wheel in motion. The little white ball sped around the wheel, before falling and jumping in and out of the tiny black and red slots.

  Armstrong stared into the distance. Even after the ball had finally settled he refused to lower his eyes.

  “Vingt-six,” declared the croupier, and immediately began scooping up the chips that littered every number other than twenty-six.

  Armstrong walked away from the table without even glancing in the direction of the croupier. He moved slowly past the crowded backgammon and roulette tables until he reached the double doors that led out into the real world. A tall man in a long blue coat pulled one of them open for him, and smiled at the well-known gambler, anticipating his usual hundred-franc tip. But that wouldn’t be possible tonight.

  Armstrong ran a hand through his thick black hair as he walked down through the lush terraced gardens of the casino and on past the fountain. It had been fourteen hours since the emergency board meeting in London, and he was beginning to feel exhausted.

  Despite his bulk—Armstrong hadn’t consulted a set of scales for several years—he kept up a steady pace along the promenade, only stopping when he reached his favorite restaurant overlooking the bay. He knew every table would have been booked at least a week in advance, and the thought of the trouble he was about to cause brought a smile to his face for the first time that evening.

  He pushed open the door of the restaurant. A tall, thin waiter swung round and tried to hide his surprise by bowing low.

  “Good evening, Mr. Armstrong,” he said. “How nice to see you again. Will anyone be joining you?”

  “No, Henri.”

  The head waiter quickly guided his unexpected customer through the packed restaurant to a small alcove table. Once Armstrong was seated, he presented him with a large leather-bound menu.

  Armstrong shook his head. “Don’t bother with that, Henri. You know exactly what I like.”

  The head waiter frowned. European royalty, Hollywood stars, even Italian footballers didn’t unnerve him, but whenever Richard Armstrong was in the restaurant he was constantly on edge. And now he was expected to select Armstrong’s meal for him. He was relieved that his famous customer’s usual table had been free. If Armstrong had arrived a few minutes later, he would have had to wait at the bar while they hastily set up a table in the center of the room.

  By the time Henri placed a napkin on Armstrong’s lap the wine waiter was already pouring a glass of his favorite champagne. Armstrong stared out of the window into the distance, but his eyes did not focus on the large yacht moored at the north end of the bay. His thoughts were several hundred miles away, with his wife and children. How would they react when they heard the news?

  A lobster bisque was placed in front of him, at a temperature that would allow him to eat it immediately. Armstrong disliked having to wait for anything to cool down. He would rather be burned.

  To the head waiter’s surprise, his customer’s eyes remained fixed on the horizon as his champagne glass was filled for a second time. How quickly, Armstrong wondered, would his colleagues on the board—most of them placemen with titles or connections—begin to cover their tracks and distance themselves from him once the company’s accounts were made public? Only Sir Paul Maitland, he suspected, would be able to salvage his reputation.

  Armstrong picked up the dessert spoon in front of him, lowered it into the bowl and began to scoop up the soup in a rapid cyclical movement.

  Customers at surrounding tables occasionally turned to glance in his direction, and whispered conspiratorially to their companions.

  “One of the richest men in the world,” a local banker was telling the young woman he was taking out for the first time. She looked suitably impressed. Normally Armstrong reveled in the thought of his fame. But tonight he didn’t even notice his fellow-diners. His mind had moved on to the boardroom of a Swiss bank, where the decision had been taken to bring down the final curtain—and all for a mere $50 million.

  The empty soup bowl was whisked away as Armstrong touched his lips with the lin