The Fourth Estate

by Jeffrey Archer

  He landed at Heathrow twenty minutes later, and quickly made his way through to the executive lounge. While he was waiting to board his flight, one or two Americans came over to shake him by the hand and thank him for all he was doing for the citizens of New York. He smiled, and began to wonder what would have happened to his life if the boat on which he had escaped all those years ago had docked at Ellis Island rather than Liverpool. Perhaps he might have ended up in the White House.

  His flight was called, and he took his place at the front of the aircraft. After an inadequate meal had been served, he slept intermittently for a couple of hours. The nearer they came to the east coast of the United States, the more confident he became that he could still pull it off. A year from today the Tribune would not only still be outselling the Star, but would be declaring a profit that even Sir Paul Maitland would have to acknowledge he had achieved single-handed. And with the prospect of a Labor government in power, there was no saying what he might achieve. He scribbled on the menu, “Sir Richard Armstrong,” and then, a few moments later, put a line through it and wrote underneath, “The Rt Hon the Lord Armstrong of Headley.”

  When the wheels touched down on the tarmac at Kennedy he felt like a young man again, and couldn’t wait to get back to his office. As he strode through the customs hall, passengers pointed at him, and he could hear murmurs of “Look, it’s Dick Armstrong.” Some of them even waved. He pretended not to notice, but the smile never left his face. His limousine was waiting for him in the VIP section, and he was quickly whisked off in the direction of Manhattan. He slumped in the back seat and turned on the television, flicking from channel to channel until a familiar face suddenly caught his attention.

  “The time has come for me to retire and concentrate on the work of my foundation,” said Henry Sinclair, the chairman of Multi Media, the largest publishing empire in the world. Armstrong was listening to Sinclair and wondering what price he would consider selling up for when the car came to a halt outside the Tribune building.

  Armstrong heaved himself up out of the car and waddled across the pavement. After he had pushed his way through the swing doors, people in the lobby applauded him all the way to the elevator. He smiled at them as if this were something that happened wherever he went. A trade union official watched as the elevator doors closed, and wondered if the proprietor would ever find out that his members had been instructed to applaud whenever and wherever he appeared. “Treat him like the president and he’ll start to believe he is the president,” Sean O’Reilly had told the packed meeting. “And go on applauding until the money runs out.”

  At each floor on which the elevator doors opened the applause started afresh. When he reached the twenty-first floor, Armstrong found his secretary standing waiting for him. “Welcome home, sir,” she said.

  “You’re right,” he replied as he stepped out of the elevator. “This is my home. I only wish I’d been born in America. If I had, by now I’d be the president.”

  “Mr. Critchley arrived a few minutes ahead of you, sir, and is waiting in your office,” the secretary said as they walked down the corridor.

  “Good,” said Armstrong, striding into the largest room in the building. “Great to see you again, Russell,” he said as his lawyer stood up to greet him. “So, have you sorted out the union problem for me?”

  “I’m afraid not, Dick,” said Russell, as they shook hands. “In fact, the news is not good from this end. I’m sorry to report that we’re going to have to start over.”

  “What do you mean, start over?” said Armstrong.

  “While you were away the unions rejected the $230 million redundancy package you proposed. They’ve come back with a demand for $370 million.”

  Armstrong collapsed into his chair. “I only have to go away for a few days, and you let everything fall apart!” he screamed. He looked toward the door as his secretary entered the room and placed the first edition of the Tribune on the desk in front of him. He glanced down at the headline: “WELCOME HOME DICK!”

  35.

  New York Tribune

  4 February 1991

  CAPTAIN DICK IN COMMAND

  “Armstrong has made a bid of $2 billion for Multi Media,” said Townsend.

  “What? That’s like a politician declaring war when he doesn’t want people to realize how bad his problems are at home,” said Tom.

  “Possibly. But like those same politicians, if he pulls it off, it just might sort out his problems at home.”

  “I doubt it. After going through those figures over the weekend, if he stumps up $2 billion it’s more likely to end up as yet another disaster.”

  “Multi Media is worth far more than two billion,” said Townsend. “It owns fourteen newspapers stretching from Maine to Mexico, nine television stations, and the TV News, the biggest-selling magazine in the world. Its turnover alone touched a billion last year, and the company declared an overall profit of over $100 million. It’s a cash mountain.”

  “For which Sinclair will expect to be given Everest in return,” said Tom. “I can’t see how Armstrong can hope to make a profit at $2 billion, especially if he has to borrow heavily to get it.”

  “Simply by generating more cash,” said Townsend. “Multi Media has been on autopilot for years. To start with, I’d sell off several of the subsidiaries that are no longer profitable and revitalize others that should be making far more. But my main efforts would concentrate on building up the media side, which has never been properly exploited, using the turnover and profits from the newspapers and magazines to finance the whole operation.”

  “But you have more than enough to worry about at the moment without getting involved in another takeover,” said Tom. “You’ve only just settled the strike at the New York Star, and don’t forget that the bank recommended a period of consolidation.”

  “You know what I think of bankers,” said Townsend. “The Globe, the Star and all my Australian interests are now in profit, and I may never have an opportunity like this again. Surely you can see that, Tom, even if the bank can’t.”

  Tom didn’t speak for some time. He admired Townsend’s drive and innovation, but Multi Media dwarfed anything they had ever attempted in the past. And however hard he tried, he just couldn’t make the figures add up. “There’s only one way I can see it working,” he said eventually.

  “And how’s that?” asked Townsend.

  “By offering him preference shares—our stock in exchange for his.”

  “But that would simply be a reverse takeover. He’d never agree to it, especially if Armstrong has already offered him two billion in cash.”

  “If he has, God knows where he’s getting it from,” said Tom. “Why don’t I have a word with their lawyers and see if I can find out if Armstrong really has made a cash offer?”

  “No. That’s not the right approach. Don’t forget that Sinclair owns the entire company himself, so it makes a lot more sense to deal with him direct. That’s what Armstrong will have done.”

  “But that’s hardly your usual style.”

  “I realize that. But it’s become rare for me lately to be able to deal with anyone who owns their own company.”

  Tom shrugged his shoulders. “So, what do you know about Sinclair?”

  “He’s seventy,” said Townsend, “which is why he’s retiring. In his lifetime he’s built up the most successful privately-owned media corporation in the world. He was the Ambassador to the Court of St. James’s when his friend Nixon was president, and in his spare time he’s put together one of the finest private collections of Impressionist paintings outside a national gallery. He’s also chairman of a charitable foundation which specializes in education, and somehow he still finds time to play golf.”

  “Good. And what do you imagine Sinclair knows about you?”

  “That I’m Australian by birth, run the second-largest media company in the world, prefer Nolan to Renoir, and don’t play golf.”

  “So how do you intend to approach
him?”

  “Cut out the bullshit, call him direct and make an offer. At least that way I won’t spend years wondering if I might have pulled it off.” Townsend looked across at his lawyer, but Tom made no comment.

  Townsend picked up the phone. “Heather, get me Multi Media headquarters in Colorado. And when they come on, connect me to the operator.” He replaced the receiver.

  “Do you really believe that Armstrong has put in a bid for two billion?” asked Tom.

  Townsend considered the question for some time. “Yes, I do.”

  “But where would he find that amount of cash?”

  “Wherever he found the money to pay off the unions would be my guess.”

  “And how much do you intend to offer?”

  The phone on the desk rang before he could answer.

  “Is that Multi Media?”

  “Yes, sir,” replied a deep Southern voice.

  “My name is Keith Townsend,” he said. “I’d like to speak to Mr. Sinclair.”

  “Does Ambassador Sinclair know you, sir?”

  “I hope so,” said Townsend. “Otherwise I’m wasting my time.”

  “I’ll put you through to his office.”

  Townsend made a sign to his lawyer that he should listen in on the extension. Tom picked up the phone on the side table next to him.

  “Ambassador Sinclair’s office,” said another Southern voice.

  “It’s Keith Townsend. I was rather hoping I might be able to have a word with Mr. Sinclair.”

  “The Ambassador is at his ranch, Mr. Townsend, and I know he’s due at the country club in twenty minutes for his weekly golf lesson. But I’ll see if I can catch him before he leaves.”

  Tom put his hand over the mouthpiece and said quietly, “Call him Ambassador. It’s obvious that everyone else does.”

  Townsend nodded as a voice came on the line and said, “Good morning, Mr. Townsend. Henry Sinclair here. How can I help you?”

  “Good morning, Ambassador,” said Townsend, trying to remain calm. “I wanted to have a word with you in person, so as not to waste unnecessary time dealing through lawyers.”

  “Not to mention unnecessary expense,” suggested Sinclair. “What is it that you felt you had to speak to me about, Mr. Townsend?”

  For a moment Townsend wished he’d spent a little more time discussing tactics with Tom. “I want to make a bid for Multi Media,” he said eventually, “and it seemed sensible to deal with you direct.”

  “I appreciate that, Mr. Townsend,” said Sinclair. “But remember that Mr. Armstrong, with whom I believe you are acquainted, has already made me an offer I was able to refuse.”

  “I’m aware of that, Ambassador,” said Townsend, wondering how much Armstrong had really offered. He paused for a moment, not looking in Tom’s direction.

  “Would it be too much to ask the figure you have in mind, Mr. Townsend?” said Sinclair.

  When Townsend replied, Tom nearly dropped the phone on the floor.

  “And how would you intend to finance that?” asked Sinclair.

  “In cash,” said Townsend, without any idea how he would raise the money.

  “If you can come up with that amount of cash within thirty days, Mr. Townsend, you have yourself a deal. In which case perhaps you would be kind enough to ask your lawyers to get in touch with mine.”

  “And the name of your lawyers…?”

  “Forgive me for cutting this conversation short, Mr. Townsend, but I’m due on the driving range in ten minutes, and my pro charges by the hour.”

  “Of course, Ambassador,” said Townsend, relieved that Sinclair couldn’t see the look of disbelief on his face. He put the phone down and looked across at Tom.

  “Do you know what you’ve just done, Keith?”

  “The biggest deal of my life,” replied Townsend.

  “At three billion dollars, it’s possibly the last,” said Tom.

  * * *

  “I’ll close the damn paper down,” shouted Armstrong, thumping his fist on the desk.

  Russell Critchley, who stood one pace behind his client, felt the words might have carried a little more conviction if Sean O’Reilly hadn’t heard them every day for the past three months.

  “It will cost you a whole lot more if you do,” replied O’Reilly, his voice quiet and gentle as he stood facing Armstrong.

  “What do you mean by that?” hollered Armstrong.

  “Just that by the time you put the paper up for sale, there might not be anything left worth selling.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “I guess you might interpret it that way.”

  Armstrong rose from his chair, placed the palms of his hands on the desk and leaned forward until he was only a few inches away from the trade union leader’s face; but O’Reilly didn’t even blink. “You expect me to settle for $320 million, when only last night I found eighteen names listed on the checking-in sheets who have retired from the company, one of them over ten years ago?”

  “I know,” said O’Reilly. “They get so attached to the place they just can’t stay away.” He tried to keep a straight face.

  “At $500 a night,” shouted Armstrong, “I’m not surprised.”

  “That’s why I’m offering you a way out,” said O’Reilly.

  Armstrong grimaced as he looked down at the latest work sheets. “And what about Bugs Bunny, Jimmy Carter and O.J. Simpson, not to mention forty-eight other well-known personalities who signed on for yesterday’s late shift? And I’ll bet the only finger any of them lifted all night was to stir their coffee between hands of poker. And you expect me to agree that every one of them, including George Bush, has to be included in your redundancy package?”

  “Yes. It’s just our way of helping him with his campaign contributions.”

  Armstrong looked toward Russell and Peter in desperation, hoping to get some support from them, but for different reasons neither of them opened his mouth. He turned back to face O’Reilly. “I’ll let you know my decision later,” he shouted. “Now get out of my office.”

  “Were you still hoping that the paper will hit the streets tonight?” asked O’Reilly innocently.

  “Is that another threat?” asked Armstrong.

  “Sure is,” said O’Reilly. “Because if you are, I suggest you settle before the evening shift comes on at five o’clock. It doesn’t make a lot of difference to my men if they’re paid for working or not working.”

  “Get out of my office,” Armstrong repeated at the top of his voice.

  “Whatever you say, Mr. Armstrong. You’re the boss.” He nodded to Russell and turned to leave.

  Once the door had closed behind him, Armstrong swung round to face Peter. “Now you can see what I’m up against. What do they expect me to do?” He was still shouting.

  “To close the paper down,” said Russell calmly, “as you should have done on the first day of the seventh week. By now they would have settled at a far lower price.”

  “But if I’d taken your advice, we’d have no paper.”

  “And we’d all be getting a night’s sleep.”

  “If you want a night’s sleep, you have one,” said Armstrong. “I’m going to settle. In the short term it’s the only way out. We’ll win them round in the end, nothing’s more certain. O’Reilly is about to crack. I’m sure you agree with me, Peter.”

  Peter Wakeham didn’t say anything until Armstrong turned to face him, when he began to nod vigorously.

  “But where are you going to find another $320 million?” asked Russell.

  “That’s my problem,” said Armstrong.

  “It’s mine too. I’ll need the money within minutes of O’Reilly putting his signature to the agreement, otherwise they’ll come out on strike just as we’re about to print the next edition.”

  “You’ll have it,” said Armstrong.

  “Dick, it’s still not too late…” said Russell.

  “Settle, and settle now,” shouted Armstrong.

 
; Russell nodded reluctantly and left the room as Armstrong picked up a phone that would put him directly through to the editor. “Barney, it’s good news,” he boomed. “I’ve managed to convince the unions that they should settle on my terms. I want a front-page story saying it’s a victory for common sense and a leader on how I’ve achieved something no one else has ever done in the past.”

  “Sure, if that’s what you want, boss. Would you like me to print the details of the settlement?”

  “No, don’t bother with the details. The terms are so complicated that even the readers of the Wall Street Journal wouldn’t understand them. In any case, there’s no point in embarrassing the unions,” he added before putting the phone down.

  “Well done, Dick,” said Peter. “Not that I was in any doubt that you’d win in the end.”

  “At a price,” said Armstrong, opening the top drawer of his desk.

  “Not really, Dick. O’Reilly caved in the moment you threatened to close the paper. You handled him quite brilliantly.”

  “Peter, I need a couple of checks signed,” said Armstrong, “and as you’re the only other director in New York at the moment…”

  “Of course,” said Peter. “Only too happy to oblige.”

  Armstrong placed the pension fund checkbook on his desk and flicked open the cover. “When are you returning to London?” he asked as he waved Peter into his chair.

  “Tomorrow’s Concorde,” Peter replied with a smile.

  “Then you’ll have to explain to Sir Paul why I can’t make the board meeting on Wednesday, much as I’d like to. Just tell him that I’ve finally settled with the unions on excellent terms, and that by the time I report to the board next month we should be showing a positive cash flow.” He placed his hand on Peter’s shoulder.

  “With pleasure, Dick,” said Peter. “Now, how many of these checks do you need signed?”

  “You may as well do the lot while you’re at it.”

  “The whole book?” said Peter, shifting uneasily in his chair.

  “Yes,” replied Armstrong, handing him his pen. “They’ll be quite safe with me. After all, none of them can be cashed until I’ve countersigned them.”