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  “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