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

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

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

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

  “Three hundred thousand,” said Armstrong.

  “I don’t understand.”

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

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

  “I doubt it,” said Armstrong.

  “What makes you so sure?”

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

  “That will be almost impossible to prove.”

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

  “But this could well be inadmissible,” said Russell, taking the tape.

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

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

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

  “He’ll just issue another writ.”

  “Not after he’s read the inside pages.”

  “But by the time the trial comes around it will all be ancient history.”

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

  * * *

  “How long will it all take?” asked Townsend.

  “About twenty minutes would be my guess,” Tom replied.

  “And how many people have you signed up?”

  “Just over two hundred.”

  “Will that be enough?”

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

  “Do they know what’s expected of them?”

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

  “And how about the lead player? Has she been rehearsing?” Townsend asked.

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

  “Did she agree to my terms?”

  “Didn’t even haggle.”

  “What about the lease? Any surprises there?”

  “No, it was just as she said it would be.”

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

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

  “Why did you pick Fraser?”

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

  Townsend swung round and faced his attorney. “So what can go wrong?”

  * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “So what can go wrong?” asked Armstrong, for the tenth time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  The first thing Townsend noticed was the amount of media attention being focused on Armstrong and his entourage, who seemed to be occupying most of the front two rows. It was Tom who spotted them first. He touched Tow