The Fourth Estate

by Jeffrey Archer

  “Is WRG really that important to you?” Kate had asked him.

  “No, but a man who would stoop so low as to use my mother as a bargaining chip will get what’s coming to him.”

  So far Townsend had been briefed on Armstrong’s purchases from Stoke-on-Trent to Durham. He now controlled nineteen local and regional papers and five county magazines, and he had certainly pulled off a coup when he captured 25 percent of Lancashire Television and 49 percent of the regional radio station, in exchange for preference shares in his own company. His latest venture had been to launch the London Evening Post. But Townsend knew that, like himself, what Armstrong most craved was to be the proprietor of a national daily.

  Over the past four years Townsend had purchased three more Australian dailies, a Sunday and a weekly news magazine. He now controlled newspapers in every state of Australia, and there wasn’t a politician or businessman in the country who wasn’t available whenever Townsend picked up a phone. He had also visited America a dozen times in the past year, selecting cities where the main employers were in steel, coal, or automobiles, because he nearly always found that companies involved in those ailing industries also controlled the local newspapers. Whenever he discovered such a company having cash-flow problems he moved in, and was often able to close a deal for the newspaper quickly. In almost every case he then found his new acquisition overstaffed and badly managed, because it was rare for anyone on the main board to have any first-hand experience of running a newspaper. By sacking half the staff and replacing most of the senior management with his own people, he could turn the balance sheet round in a matter of months.

  Using this approach he had succeeded in picking up nine city papers, from Seattle to North Carolina, and that in turn had allowed him to build up a company which would be large enough to bid for one of America’s flagship newspapers, should the opportunity ever arise.

  Kate had accompanied him on several of these trips, and although he was in no doubt that he wanted to marry her, he still wasn’t sure, after his experiences with Susan, that he could ask anyone to spend the rest of her life living out of suitcases and never being quite sure where their roots were.

  If he ever envied Armstrong anything, it was that he had a son to take over his empire.

  23.

  The Times

  29 October 1966

  CHANNEL TUNNEL TARGET DATE 1975. FOUR YEARS TO BUILD

  “Miss Levitt will be accompanying me to Paris,” said Armstrong. “Book me two first class tickets and my usual suite at the George V.”

  Sally carried out his orders as if it was a normal business transaction. She smiled at the thought of the promises that would be made over the weekend and then not kept, of the presents that would be offered but never materialize. On Monday morning she would be expected to settle up with the girl, in cash, just like her predecessors—but at a far higher hourly rate than any agency would have dared to charge for even the most experienced temp.

  When Armstrong arrived back from Paris on Monday morning, there was no sign of Sharon. Sally assumed she would be hearing from her later that day. “How did the meeting with Alexander Sherwood go?” she asked after she had placed the morning post on his desk.

  “We agreed on a price for his third of the Globe,” Armstrong said triumphantly. Before Sally could ask for any details, he added, “Your next task is to get hold of the catalog for a sale at Sotheby’s in Geneva that’s taking place on Thursday morning.”

  She didn’t bat an eyelid as she flicked over three pages of the diary. “You’ve got appointments that morning at ten, eleven and eleven forty-five, and a lunch with William Barnetson, the chairman of Reuters. You’ve already rearranged it twice.”

  “Then you’ll just have to rearrange it for a third time,” said Armstrong, not even looking up.

  “Including the meeting with the chief secretary to the Treasury?”

  “Including everything,” he said. “Book me two first class tickets for Geneva on Wednesday evening, and my usual room at Le Richemond overlooking the lake.”

  So Sharon whatever-her-name-was must have survived for a second outing.

  Sally put a line through the seven appointments in the diary on Thursday, well aware that there had to be a good reason for Dick to postpone a cabinet minister and the chairman of Reuters. But what could he be buying? The only thing he had ever bid for in the past had been newspapers, and you couldn’t pick up one of those at an auction house.

  Sally returned to her office and asked Benson to drive over to Sotheby’s in Bond Street and purchase a copy of their catalog for the Geneva sale. When he presented it to her an hour later, she was even more surprised. Dick had never shown any interest in collecting eggs in the past. Could it be the Russian connection? Because surely Sharon wasn’t expecting a Fabergé for two nights’ work?

  * * *

  On the Wednesday evening, Dick and Sharon flew into the Swiss city and checked into Le Richemond. Before dinner they strolled over to the Hôtel de Bergues in the center of the city, where Sotheby’s always conduct their Geneva auctions, to inspect the room where the sale would be taking place.

  Armstrong watched as the hotel staff put out the chairs on a floor which he estimated would hold about four hundred people. He walked slowly round the room, deciding where he needed to sit to be sure that he had a clear view of the auctioneer as well as the bank of nine telephones placed on a raised platform at one side of the room. As he and Sharon were about to leave, he stopped to glance round the room once more.

  As soon as they arrived back at their hotel, Armstrong marched into the small dining room overlooking the lake and headed straight for the alcove table in the corner. He had sat down long before the head waiter could tell him the table was reserved for another guest. He ordered for himself and then passed the menu to Sharon.

  As he waited for the first course, he began to butter the bread roll on the plate by his side. When he had eaten it, he leaned across and took Sharon’s roll from her plate. She continued to turn the pages of the Sotheby’s catalog.

  “Page forty-nine,” he said between mouthfuls. Sharon quickly flicked over a few more pages. Her eyes settled on an object whose name she couldn’t pronounce.

  “Is this to be added to a collection?” she asked, hoping it might be a gift for her.

  “Yes,” he replied, with his mouth full, “but not mine. I’d never heard of Fabergé until last week,” he admitted. “It’s just part of a bigger deal I’m involved in.”

  Sharon’s eyes continued down the page, passing over the detailed description of how the masterpiece had been smuggled out of Russia in 1917, until they settled on the estimated price.

  Armstrong reached under the table and put a hand on her thigh.

  “How high will you go?” she asked, as a waiter appeared by their side and placed a large bowl of caviar in front of them.

  Armstrong quickly removed his hand and switched his attention to the first course.

  Since their weekend in Paris they had spent every night together, and Dick couldn’t remember how long it was since he had been so obsessed by anyone—if ever. Much to Sally’s surprise, he had taken to leaving the office in the early evening, and not reappearing until ten the next day.

  Over breakfast each morning he would offer to buy her presents, but she always rejected them, which made him fearful of losing her. He knew it wasn’t love, but whatever it was, he hoped it would go on for a long time. He had always dreaded the thought of a divorce, even though he rarely saw Charlotte nowadays other than at official functions and couldn’t even remember when they had last slept together. But to his relief Sharon never talked about marriage. The only suggestion she ever made would, she kept reminding him, allow them the best of both worlds. He was slowly coming round to falling in with her wishes.

  After the empty caviar bowl had been whisked away, Armstrong began to attack a steak which took up so much of his plate that the extra vegetables he had demanded had to be placed on s
everal other dishes. By using two forks he found he was able to eat from two plates at once, while Sharon contented herself with nibbling a lettuce leaf and toying with some smoked salmon. He would have ordered a second helping of Black Forest gâteau if she hadn’t started running the tip of her right foot along the inside of his thigh.

  He threw his napkin down on the table and headed out of the restaurant toward the lift, leaving Sharon to follow a pace behind. He stepped in and jabbed the button for the seventh floor, and the doors closed just in time to prevent an elderly couple from joining them.

  When they reached their floor he was relieved that there was no one else in the corridor, because if there had been, they could not have failed to notice the state he was in.

  Once he had kicked the bedroom door closed with his heel, she pulled him down on to the floor and began pulling off his shirt. “I can’t wait any longer,” she whispered.

  * * *

  The following morning, Armstrong sat down at a table laid for two in their suite. He ate both breakfasts while checking the exchange rate for the Swiss franc against the pound in the Financial Times.

  Sharon was admiring herself in a long mirror at the other end of the room, taking her time to get dressed. She liked what she saw, and smiled before turning round and walking over to the breakfast table. She placed a long, slim leg on the arm of Armstrong’s chair. He dropped his butter knife on the carpet as she began pulling on a black stocking. When she changed legs he stood up to face her, sighing as she slipped her arms inside his dressing-gown.

  “Have we got time?” he asked.

  “Don’t worry about time, my darling, the auction doesn’t start until ten,” she whispered, unclipping her bra and pulling him back down to the floor.

  They left the hotel a few minutes before ten, but as the only item Armstrong was interested in was unlikely to come up much before eleven, they strolled arm in arm along the side of the lake, making their way slowly in the direction of the city center and enjoying the warmth of the morning sun.

  When they entered the foyer of the Hôtel de Bergues, Armstrong felt strangely apprehensive. Despite the fact that he had bargained for everything he had ever wanted in his life, this was the first time he had attended an auction. But he had been carefully briefed on what was expected of him, and he immediately began to carry out his instructions. At the entrance to the ballroom he gave his name to one of the smartly-dressed women seated behind a long table. She spoke in French and he replied in kind, explaining that he was only interested in Lot Forty-three. Armstrong was surprised to find that almost every place in the room had already been taken, including the one he had identified the previous evening. Sharon pointed to two empty chairs on the left-hand side of the room, toward the back. Armstrong nodded and led her down the aisle. As they sat down a young man in an open-necked shirt slipped into a seat behind them.

  Armstrong checked that he had a clear view of the auctioneer as well as the bank of temporary phones, each of them manned by an overqualified telephonist. His position wasn’t as convenient as his original choice, but he could see no reason why it should prevent him from fulfilling his part of the bargain.

  “Lot Seventeen,” declared the auctioneer from his podium at the front of the ballroom. Armstrong turned to the relevant page in his catalog, and looked down at a silver-gilt Easter egg supported by four crosses with the blue enameled cipher of Czar Nicholas II, commissioned in 1907 from Peter Carl Fabergé for the Czarina. He began to concentrate on the proceedings.

  “Do I hear 10,000?” asked the auctioneer, looking around the room. He nodded at someone toward the back. “Fifteen thousand.” Armstrong tried to follow the different bids, although he wasn’t quite sure where they were coming from, and when Lot Seventeen eventually sold for 45,000 francs, he had no idea who the purchaser was. It came as a surprise that the auctioneer brought the hammer down without saying “Going, going, gone.”

  By the time the auctioneer had reached Lot Twenty-five, Armstrong felt a little more sure of himself, and by Lot Thirty he thought he could even spot the occasional bidder. By Lot Thirty-five he felt he was an expert, but by Lot Forty, the Winter Egg of 1913, he had begun to feel nervous again.

  “I shall start this lot at 20,000 francs,” declared the auctioneer. Armstrong watched as the bidding climbed quickly past 50,000, with the hammer finally coming down at 120,000 francs, to a customer whose anonymity was guaranteed by his being on the other end of a telephone line.

  Armstrong felt his hands begin to sweat when Lot Forty-one, the Chanticleer Egg of 1896, encrusted in pearls and rubies, went for 280,000 francs. During the sale of Lot Forty-two, the Yuberov Yellow Egg, he began to fidget, continually looking up at the auctioneer and then down at the open page of his catalog.

  When the auctioneer called Lot Forty-three, Sharon squeezed his hand and he managed a nervous smile. A buzz of conversation struck up around the room.

  “Lot Forty-three,” repeated the auctioneer, “the Fourteenth Imperial Anniversary Egg. This unique piece was commissioned by the Czar in 1910. The paintings were executed by Vasily Zulev, and the craftsmanship is considered to be among the finest examples of Fabergé’s work. There has already been considerable interest shown in this lot, so I shall start the bidding at 100,000 francs.”

  Everyone in the room fell silent except for the auctioneer. The head of his hammer was gripped firmly in his right hand as he stared down into the audience, trying to place the bidders.

  Armstrong remembered his briefing, and the exact price at which he should come in. But he could still feel his pulse rate rise when the auctioneer pronounced “One hundred and fifty thousand,” then, turning to his left, said, “The bid is now on the telephone at 150,000 francs, 150,000,” he repeated. He looked intently around the audience, then a smile crossed his lips. “Two hundred thousand in the center of the room.” He paused and looked toward the assistant on the end phone. Armstrong watched her whisper into the receiver, and then she nodded in the direction of the auctioneer, who immediately responded with “Two hundred and fifty thousand.” He turned his attention back to those seated in the room, where there must have been another bid because he immediately switched his gaze back to the assistant on the phone and said, “I have a bid of 300,000 francs.”

  The woman informed her client of the latest bid and, after a few moments, she nodded again. All heads in the room swung back to the auctioneer as if they were watching a tennis match in slow motion. “Three hundred and fifty thousand,” he said, glancing at the center of the room.

  Armstrong looked down at the catalog. He knew it was not yet time for him to join in the bidding, but that didn’t stop him continuing to fidget.

  “Four hundred thousand,” said the auctioneer, nodding to the woman on the end phone. “Four hundred and fifty thousand in the center of the room.” The woman on the phone responded immediately. “Five hundred thousand. Six hundred thousand,” said the auctioneer, his eyes now fixed on the center aisle. With that one bid Armstrong had learned another of the auctioneer’s skills.

  Armstrong craned his neck until he finally spotted who it was bidding from the floor. His eyes moved over to the woman on the phone, who nodded once again. “Seven hundred thousand,” said the auctioneer calmly.

  A man seated just in front of him raised his catalog. “Eight hundred thousand,” declared the auctioneer. “A new bidder toward the back.” He turned to the woman on the phone, who took rather longer telling her customer the latest bid. “Nine hundred thousand?” he suggested, as if he was trying to woo her. Suddenly she consented. “I have a bid of 900,000 on the phone,” he said, and looked toward the man at the back of the room. “Nine hundred thousand,” the auctioneer repeated. But this time he received no response.

  “Are there any more bids?” asked the auctioneer. “Then I’m letting this item go for 900,000 francs. Fair warning,” he said, raising the hammer. “I’m going to let…”

  When Armstrong raised his catalog, it looked to
the auctioneer as if he was waving. He wasn’t, he was shaking.

  “I have a new bidder on the right-hand aisle, toward the back of the room, at one million francs.” The auctioneer once again directed his attention to the woman on the telephone.

  “One million one hundred thousand?” said the auctioneer, pointing the handle of his hammer at the assistant on the end phone. Armstrong sat in silence, not sure what he should do next, as a million francs was the figure they had agreed on. People began to turn round and stare in his direction. He remained silent, knowing that the woman on the phone would shake her head.

  She shook her head.

  “I have a bid of one million on the aisle,” said the auctioneer, pointing toward Armstrong. “Are there any more bids? Then I’m going to let this go for one million.” His eyes scanned the audience hopefully, but no one responded. He finally brought the hammer down with a thud and, looking at Armstrong, said, “Sold to the gentleman on the aisle for one million francs.” A burst of applause erupted around the room.

  Sharon squeezed his hand again. But before Dick could catch his breath, a woman was kneeling on the floor beside him. “If you fill in this form, Mr. Armstrong, someone at the reception desk will advise you on collecting your lot.”

  Armstrong nodded. But once he had completed the form, he did not head for the desk, but instead went to the nearest telephone in the lobby and dialed an overseas number. When the phone was answered he said, “Put me straight through to the manager.” He gave the order for a million francs to be sent to Sotheby’s Geneva by swift telegraph transfer, as agreed. “And make it swift,” said Armstrong, “because I’ve no desire to hang around here any longer than necessary.”