The Fourth Estate Read online

  “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