The Fourth Estate

by Jeffrey Archer

  Armstrong had to admit that the restaurant Summers had chosen was quite exceptional, but over the past month he had become accustomed to the man’s extravagant tastes. After the main course had been cleared away, Summers reiterated how important it was to sign the lease for the new building as quickly as possible, or the foundation wouldn’t have a home. “I made it clear on the first day we met, Dick, that my condition for pledging the trust’s shares was that in return you would purchase a new gallery for the foundation.”

  “And it is still my intention to do so,” said Armstrong firmly.

  “And before the AGM.” The two men stared across the table at each other. “I suggest you have the lease drawn up immediately, so it’s ready for signing by Monday.” Summers picked up a glass of brandy and drained it. “Because I know someone else who’d be only too happy to sign it if you don’t.”

  “No, no, I’ll have it drawn up immediately,” said Armstrong.

  “Good. Then I’ll show you round the premises tomorrow morning.”

  “Tomorrow morning?” said Armstrong. “I’m sure I’ll be able to fit that in.”

  “Shall we say nine o’clock, then?” said Summers, as a decaffeinated coffee was placed in front of him.

  Armstrong gulped down his coffee. “Nine o’clock will be fine,” he said eventually, before calling for the bill. He settled another of Summers’s extravagances, threw his napkin on the table and rose from his place. The director of the foundation and Russell followed suit, and accompanied him in silence to his waiting stretch limousine.

  “I’ll see you at nine tomorrow morning,” Summers said, as Armstrong climbed into the back of the car.

  “You most certainly will,” muttered Armstrong, not looking back.

  On their way to the Pierre, Armstrong told Russell that he wanted answers to three questions. The lawyer took a small leather notepad from his inside pocket.

  “First, who controls the foundation? Second, how much of the Star’s profits does it eat up each year? And third, is there any legal obligation on me to spend three million on this new building he keeps going on about?”

  Russell scribbled away on his little notepad.

  “And I want the answers by tomorrow morning.”

  The limousine dropped Armstrong outside his hotel, and he nodded good night to Russell, then got out of the car and took a stroll around the block. He picked up a copy of the New York Star on the corner of Sixty-first and Madison, and smiled when he saw a large photo of himself dominating the front page, with the headline “Chairman” underneath. It didn’t please him that Townsend’s photo was also on the same page—even if it was considerably smaller, and below the fold. The caption read: “A $20 million profit?”

  Armstrong tucked the paper under his arm. When he reached the hotel, he stepped into a waiting lift and said to the bellboy, “Who cares about $20 million, when you can be the owner of the Star?”

  “Excuse me, sir?” said the puzzled bellboy.

  “Which would you rather have,” Armstrong asked. “The New York Star or $20 million?”

  The bellboy looked up at the giant of a man, who seemed perfectly sober, and said hopefully, “$20 million, sir.”

  * * *

  When Townsend woke the following morning he had a stiff neck. He stood up and stretched. Then he noticed the New York Star’s statutes lying at his feet. And then he remembered.

  He walked across the room and cautiously opened the bedroom door. Angela was still fast asleep. He closed the door quietly, returned to his chair and rang through to room service. He ordered breakfast and five papers, and asked them to clear away the dinner table.

  When the bedroom door opened the second time that morning, Angela stepped out gingerly to find Townsend reading the Wall Street Journal and sipping coffee. She asked the same question as she had when they met in the gallery. “Who are you?” He gave her the same reply. She smiled.

  “Can I order you some breakfast?”

  “No thanks, but you could pour me a large black coffee. I’ll be back in a moment.” The bedroom door closed and didn’t open again for another twenty minutes. When Angela sat down in the chair opposite Townsend, she looked very nervous. He poured her a coffee, but she made no attempt at conversation until she had taken several large gulps.

  “Did I do anything foolish last night?” she asked eventually.

  “No, you didn’t,” said Townsend with a smile.

  “It’s just that I’ve never…”

  “There’s nothing to worry about,” he assured her. “You fell asleep and I put you to bed.” He paused. “Fully dressed.”

  “That’s a relief.” She looked at her watch. “Good heavens, is that really the time, or did I put my watch on upside down?”

  “It’s twenty past eight,” said Townsend.

  “I’ll have to grab a cab immediately. I’ve got a site meeting in SoHo with the new chairman at nine, and I must make a good impression. If he refuses to buy the new building, it could be my one chance.”

  “Don’t bother with a cab,” said Townsend. “My driver will take you wherever you want to go. You’ll find him parked out front in a white BMW.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “That’s really generous of you.”

  She quickly drained her coffee. “It was a great dinner last night, and you were very thoughtful,” she said as she rose from her chair. “But if I’m to be there ahead of Mr. Armstrong, I really must leave now.”

  “Of course.” Townsend stood up and helped her on with her coat.

  When they reached the door she turned and faced him again. “If I didn’t do anything foolish last night, did I say anything I might regret?”

  “No, I don’t think so. You just chatted about your work at the foundation,” he said as he opened the door for her.

  “It was kind of you to listen. I do hope we meet again.”

  “I have a feeling we will,” said Townsend.

  She leaned forward and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “By the way,” she said, “you never did tell me your name.”

  “Keith Townsend.”

  “Oh shit,” she said, as the door closed behind her.

  * * *

  When Armstrong arrived outside 147 Lower Broadway that morning, he was greeted by the sight of Lloyd Summers waiting on the top step standing next to a rather thin, academic-looking woman, who was either very tired or simply bored.

  “Good morning, Mr. Armstrong,” said Summers as he stepped out of the car.

  “Good morning,” he replied, forcing a smile as he shook the director’s hand.

  “This is Angela Humphries, my deputy,” he explained. “You may have met her at the opening last night.”

  Armstrong could recall her face, but didn’t remember meeting her. He nodded curtly.

  “Angela’s speciality is the Renaissance period,” said Summers, opening the door and standing to one side.

  “How interesting,” said Armstrong, making no attempt to sound interested.

  “Let me start by showing you round,” said the director, as they entered a large empty room on the ground floor. Armstrong put a hand in his pocket and flicked on a switch.

  “So many wonderful walls for hanging,” enthused the director.

  Armstrong tried to appear fascinated by a building he had absolutely no intention of buying. But he knew that he couldn’t admit as much until he had been confirmed as the Star’s chairman on Monday, and that wouldn’t be possible without Summers’s 5 percent. He somehow managed to punctuate the director’s effusive monologue with the occasional “Wonderful,” “Ideal,” “Perfect,” “I do agree,” and even “How clever of you to find it,” as they entered each new room.

  When Summers took him by the arm and started to lead him back down to the ground floor, Armstrong pointed to a staircase that led up to another floor. “What goes on up there?” he asked suspiciously.

  “It’s just an attic,” replied Summers dismissively. “It might prove useful for storage,
but not much else.” Angela said nothing, and tried to remember if she had told Mr. Townsend what was on the top floor.

  By the time they arrived back at the ground floor, Armstrong couldn’t wait to escape. As they stepped out onto the sidewalk, Summers said, “Now you’ll understand, chairman, why I consider this to be the ideal spot for the foundation to continue its work into the next century.”

  “I couldn’t agree with you more,” Armstrong said. “Absolutely ideal.” He smiled with relief when he saw who was waiting for him in the back of the limousine. “I’ll deal with all the necessary paperwork just as soon as I get back to my office.”

  “I’ll be at the gallery for the rest of the day,” said Summers.

  “Then I’ll send the documents round for you to sign this afternoon.”

  “Any time—today,” said Summers, offering his hand.

  Armstrong shook hands with the director and, without bothering to say goodbye to Angela, stepped into the car. He found Russell, yellow pad on lap, pen poised. “Do you have all the answers?” he asked, before the driver had even turned the key in the ignition. He turned to wave at Summers as the car moved away from the curb.

  “Yes, I do,” Russell replied, looking down at his pad. “First, the foundation is currently chaired by Mrs. Summers, who appointed her son director six years ago.” Armstrong nodded. “Second, they spent a little over a million dollars of the Star’s profits last year.”

  Armstrong gripped the armrest. “How in hell’s name did they manage that?”

  “Well, to start with, Summers is paid a salary of $150,000 a year. But more interestingly,” said Russell, referring to his notes, “he’s somehow managed to get through $240,000 a year in expenses—for each of the past four years.”

  Armstrong could feel his pulse-rate increasing. “How does he get away with it?” he asked, as they passed a white BMW he could have sworn he’d seen somewhere before. He turned and stared at it.

  “I suspect his mother doesn’t ask too many questions.”

  “What?”

  “I suspect his mother doesn’t ask too many questions,” Russell repeated.

  “But what about the board? Surely they have a duty to be more vigilant. Not to mention the shareholders.”

  “Someone did raise the subject at last year’s AGM,” said Russell, referring to his notes. “But the chairman assured them—and I quote—that ‘the Star’s readers thoroughly approve of the paper being involved with the advancement of culture in our great city’.”

  “The advancement of what?” said Armstrong.

  “Culture,” said Russell.

  “And what about the building?” demanded Armstrong, pointing out of the back window.

  “No future management is under any obligation to purchase another building once the lease on the old one runs out—which it does on December quarter day.”

  Armstrong smiled for the first time that morning.

  “Though I must warn you,” said Russell, “that I believe Summers will need to be convinced that you have purchased the building before the AGM takes place on Monday. Otherwise, as director of the trust, he could still switch his 5 percent at the last moment.”

  “Then send him two copies of a lease prepared for signature. That will keep him quiet until Monday morning.”

  Russell didn’t look convinced.

  * * *

  When the BMW arrived back at the Carlyle, Townsend was already waiting on the sidewalk. He climbed in next to the driver and asked, “Where did you drop the girl off?”

  “SoHo, Lower Broadway,” the driver replied.

  “Then that’s where I want to go,” Townsend said. As the driver joined the Fifth Avenue traffic, he remained puzzled by what Mr. Townsend saw in the girl. There had to be an angle he hadn’t worked out. Perhaps she was an heiress.

  When the BMW turned into Lower Broadway, Townsend couldn’t miss the stretch limousine parked outside a building with a “For Sale” sign in the front window. “Park on this side of the road, about fifty yards short of the building where you dropped the lady earlier this morning,” he said.

  As the driver pulled on the handbrake, Townsend squinted over his shoulder and asked, “Can you read the phone numbers on those signs?”

  “There are two signs, sir, with different numbers on them.”

  “I need both,” Townsend said. The driver read the numbers out, and Townsend wrote them on the back of a five-dollar bill. Then he picked up the car phone and dialed the first number.

  When the line was answered with, “Good morning, Wood, Knight & Levy. How may I assist you?” Townsend said he was interested in the details of 147 Lower Broadway.

  “I’ll put you through to Offices, sir,” he was told. A click followed and a second voice asked, “How may I assist you?” Townsend repeated his query, and was put through to a third voice.

  “Number 147 Broadway? Ah, yes, I’m afraid we already have a prospective buyer for that property, sir. We’ve been instructed to draw up a lease, with a view to closing on Monday. However, we do have other properties in the same locality.”

  Townsend pressed the END button without saying another word. Only in New York would no one be surprised by such bad manners. He immediately dialed the second number. While he waited to be connected to the right person, he became distracted by a taxi drawing up outside the building. A tall, elegantly-dressed middle-aged man jumped out and walked over to the stretch limousine. He had a word with the driver, and then climbed into the back as a voice came onto the line.

  “You’ll have to move quickly if you’re interested in number 147,” said the agent. “Because I know the other firm involved with the property already has a party interested who is close to nailing a deal, and that’s no bullshit. In fact they’re looking over the building right now, so I couldn’t even take you round before ten.”

  “Ten will suit me just fine,” said Townsend. “I’ll meet you outside the building then.” He pressed the END button.

  Townsend had to wait only a few more minutes before Armstrong, Summers and Angela came out onto the sidewalk. After only a short exchange and a handshake, Armstrong stepped into the back of the limousine. He didn’t seem at all surprised to find someone waiting there for him. As the car moved off, Summers waved effusively until Armstrong was out of sight. Angela stood a pace behind him, looking fed up. Townsend ducked as the limousine passed him, and when he looked back up, he saw Summers hailing a Yellow Cab. He and Angela got in, and Townsend watched them as they disappeared in the opposite direction to the limousine.

  Once the cab had turned the corner, Townsend got out of his car and walked across the road to study the building from the outside. After a few moments he walked a little further down the pavement, and found that there was a similar property up for sale a few doors away, the number of which he also wrote down on the back of the five-dollar bill. He then returned to the car.

  One more phone call, and he had discovered that the price of number 171 was $2.5 million. Not only was Summers getting an apartment thrown in, but it also looked as if he was making a handsome profit on the side.

  The driver tapped on the internal window and pointed toward number 147. Townsend looked up and saw a young man climbing the steps. He put the phone down and went across to join him.

  After an extensive viewing of all five floors, Townsend had to agree with Angela that at $3 million it was perfect—but for only one person. As they stepped back out onto the sidewalk he asked the agent, “What’s the minimum deposit you would require on this building?”

  “Ten percent, non-returnable,” he replied.

  “With the usual thirty days for completion, I assume?”

  “Yes, sir,” said the agent.

  “Good. Then why don’t you draw up a lease immediately,” Townsend said, handing the young man his card. “Send it round to me at the Carlyle.”

  “Yes, sir,” the agent repeated. “I’ll make sure it’s with you by this afternoon.”

  Tow
nsend finally extracted a hundred-dollar bill from his wallet and held it up so that the young man could see which president was on it. “And I want the other agent who’s trying to sell this property to know that I will be putting down a deposit first thing on Monday morning.”

  The young man pocketed the hundred-dollar bill, and nodded.

  When Townsend arrived back in his room at the Carlyle, he immediately called Tom at his office. “What have you got planned for the weekend?” he asked his lawyer.

  “A round of golf, a little gardening,” said Tom. “And I was also hoping to watch my youngest pitch for his high school. But from the way you phrased that question, Keith, I have a feeling I won’t even be taking the train back to Greenwich.”

  “You’re right, Tom. We’ve got a lot of work to do before Monday morning if I’m going to be the next proprietor of the New York Star.”

  “Where do I start?”

  “With a lease that needs checking over before I sign it. Then I want you to close a deal with the one person who can make this all possible.” When Townsend eventually put the phone down, he leaned back in his chair and gazed at the little red book that had kept him awake the previous night. A few moments later he picked it up, and turned to page 47.

  For the first time in his life he was grateful for an Oxford education.

  33.

  New York Times

  11 December 1986

  STAR WARS

  Armstrong signed the lease, then passed his pen to Russell, who witnessed the signature.

  Lloyd Summers hadn’t stopped grinning since he’d arrived at Trump Tower that morning, and he almost leaped out of his chair when Russell added his signature to the lease on 147 Lower Broadway. He thrust out his hand at Armstrong and said, “Thank you, chairman. I can only say how much I’m looking forward to working with you.”

  “And I with you,” said Armstrong, shaking his hand.