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  “McAlvoy didn’t edit the paper last night.”

  “Then who in heaven’s name did?”

  “Kevin Rushcliffe,” the lawyer replied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  * * *

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

  “Well, at least he got the date right this time,” said Townsend.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Next day both groups’ shares rose by a penny.

  * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  * * *

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

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

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

  “I doubt if the gallery opens much before ten.”

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

  “How much leeway have I got?”

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

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

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

  Critchley would have laughed, but he wasn�