She stopped for a moment, then leaned forward and opened another file. “It appears,” she said, reading from a handwritten note, “that I would have to visit thirty-seven banks and eleven other financial institutions based in four continents, most of which have already been in touch with me this morning. I only hope I’ve been able to stall them long enough for us to make sense of all this.” Her hands swept the air above the files on her desk. “If, by some miracle, stages one, two and three can be completed, my final task—and by far the most difficult—will be to convince those same banks and institutions, currently so apprehensive about your future prospects, that you should be allowed to put together a financial package to ensure the long-term survival of the company. I will not be able to reach that stage unless I can prove to them, with independently audited figures, that their loans are secured on real assets and a positive cash flow. On that subject, you will not be surprised to learn, I still need to be convinced myself. And don’t imagine for one moment that should you be fortunate enough to reach stage four, you can relax. Far from it, because that is when you’ll be told the details of stage five.”
Townsend could feel the sweat beginning to trickle down onto his nose.
“In one respect the Financial Times was accurate,” she continued. “If one of the banks takes it upon itself to be bloody-minded, then, I quote, ‘the whole edifice will come crashing down.’ If that is the eventual outcome, then I shall pass this case on to a colleague of mine who works on the floor below this one, and who specializes in liquidations.
“I will conclude by saying, Mr. Townsend, that if you hope to avoid the fate of your fellow countrymen Mr. Alan Bond and Mr. Christopher Skase, you must not only agree to cooperate with me fully, but you must also give me your assurance that from the moment you leave this office you will not sign a check, or move any monies from any account under your control, other than those which are absolutely necessary to cover your day-to-day expenses. And even then they must not, under any circumstances, exceed $2,000 without it being referred to me.” She looked up and waited for his response.
“Two thousand dollars?” Townsend repeated.
“Yes,” she said. “You will be able to reach me at all times, night or day, and you will never have to wait more than an hour for my decision. If, however, you feel unable to adhere to these conditions,” she said, closing the file, “then I am not willing to continue representing you, and in that I include this bank, whose reputation, needless to say, is also on the line. I hope I have made my position clear, Mr. Townsend.”
“Abundantly,” said Townsend, who felt as if he had gone ten rounds with a heavyweight boxer.
Elizabeth Beresford leaned back in her chair. “You may of course wish to take professional advice,” she said. “In which case I will be happy to offer you the use of one of our consultation rooms.”
“That won’t be necessary,” said Townsend. “If my professional adviser had disagreed with any part of your assessment, he would have said so long before now.”
Tom allowed himself a smile.
“I will cooperate fully with your recommendations.” He turned to glance at Tom, who nodded his approval.
“Good,” said Ms. Beresford. “Perhaps you could start by handing over your credit cards.”
Three hours later Townsend rose from his chair, shook hands with Elizabeth Beresford again and, feeling utterly exhausted, left her to her files. Tom returned to his office as Townsend made his way unsteadily up the staircase to the floor above and along the corridor to the chief executive’s room. He was about to knock when the door swung open and David Grenville stood in front of him holding a large glass of whiskey.
“I had a feeling you might need this,” he said, handing it to Townsend. “But first tell me, did you survive the opening rounds with E.B.?”
“I’m not sure,” he replied. “But I’m booked in every afternoon from three to six for the next fortnight, including weekends.” He took a large gulp of whiskey and added, “And she’s taken away my credit cards.”
“That’s a good sign,” said Grenville. “It shows that she hasn’t given up on you. Sometimes E.B. simply sends the files down a floor as soon as the first meeting is concluded.”
“Am I supposed to feel grateful?” asked Townsend when he had drained his whiskey.
“No, just temporarily relieved,” said Grenville. “Do you still feel up to attending the bankers’ dinner tonight?” he asked as he poured Townsend a second whiskey.
“Well, I was hoping to join you,” replied Townsend. “But she,” he said, pointing down at the floor, “has set me so much homework to be completed by three tomorrow afternoon that…”
“I think it would be wise if you were to put in an appearance tonight, Keith. Your absence might easily, in the present circumstances, be misinterpreted.”
“That may be true. But won’t she send me home even before they’ve served the entrée?”
“I doubt it, because I’ve placed you on her right-hand side. It’s all part of my strategy to convince the banking world that we’re 100 percent behind you.”
“Hell. What’s she like socially?”
The chairman considered the question only briefly before saying, “I must confess, E.B. doesn’t have a great deal of small talk.”
37.
Daily Mail
2 July 1991
CHARLES AND DIANA: “CAUSE FOR CONCERN”
“There’s a call from Switzerland on line one, Mr. Armstrong,” said the temporary secretary whose name he couldn’t remember. “He says his name is Jacques Lacroix. I’m also holding another call from London on line two.”
“Who’s calling from London?” asked Armstrong.
“A Mr. Peter Wakeham.”
“Ask him to hold, and put the call from Switzerland straight through.”
“Is that you, Dick?”
“Yes, Jacques. How are you, old friend?” Armstrong boomed.
“A little disturbed, Dick,” came the softly-spoken reply from Geneva.
“Why?” asked Armstrong. “I deposited a check for $50 million with your New York branch last week. I even have a receipt for it.”
“I am not disputing the fact that you deposited the check,” said Lacroix. “The purpose of this call is to let you know that it has been returned to the bank today, marked ‘Refer to drawer.’”
“There must be some mistake,” said Armstrong. “I know that account still has more than enough to cover the sum in question.”
“That may well be the case. But someone is nevertheless refusing to release any of those funds to us, and indeed has made it clear, through the usual channels, that they will not in future honor any checks presented on that account.”
“I’ll ring them immediately,” said Armstrong, “and call you straight back.”
“I would be grateful if you did,” said Lacroix.
Armstrong rang off and noticed that the light on top of the phone was flashing. He remembered that Wakeham was still holding on line two, grabbed the receiver and said, “Peter, what the hell is going on over there?”
“I’m not too sure myself,” admitted Peter. “All I can tell you is that Paul Maitland and Eric Chapman visited me at home late last night, and asked if I had signed any checks on the pension fund account. I said exactly what you told me to say, but I got the impression that Maitland has now given orders to stop any checks that have my signature on them.”
“Who the hell do they think they are?” bawled Armstrong. “It’s my company, and I’ll do as I see fit.”
“Sir Paul says he’s been trying to get in touch with you for the past week, but you haven’t been returning his calls. He said at a finance committee meeting last week that if you fail to turn up at next month’s board meeting, he will be left with no choice but to resign.”
“Let him resign—who gives a damn? As soon as he’s gone I can appoint anyone I like as chairman.”
“Of course you can,” said Peter. “But I thought y
ou’d want to know that his secretary told me he’s spent the last few days drafting and redrafting a press release to coincide with his resignation.”
“So what?” said Armstrong. “No one will bother to follow it up.”
“I’m not so sure,” said Peter.
“What makes you say that?”
“After his secretary had left for the evening, I hung around and managed to bring up the statement on her console.”
“And what does it say?”
“Among other things, that he will be asking the Stock Exchange to suspend our shares until a full inquiry can be carried out.”
“He doesn’t have the authority to do that,” shouted Armstrong. “It would have to be sanctioned by the board.”
“I think he plans to ask for that authority at the next board meeting,” said Peter.
“Then make it clear to him that I will be present at that meeting,” hollered Armstrong down the phone, “and that the only press release that will be issued will be the one from me setting out the reasons why Sir Paul Maitland has had to be replaced as chairman of the board.”
“Perhaps it would be better if you told him that yourself,” said Peter quietly. “I’ll just let him know that you intend to be there.”
“Say what you damn well like. Just make sure that he doesn’t issue any press statements before I get back at the end of the month.”
“I’ll do my best, Dick, but…” Peter heard a click on the other end of the line.
Armstrong tried to collect his thoughts. Sir Paul could wait. His first priority was somehow to get his hands on fifty million before Jacques Lacroix let the whole world in on his secret. The Tribune still hadn’t turned the corner, despite all his efforts. Even after the second settlement with the unions, the company was showing a disastrously negative cash flow. He had already removed over £300 million from the pension fund without the board’s knowledge, to get the unions off his back and keep the share price as steady as he could by buying up massive amounts of stock in his own company. But if he failed to pay back the Swiss in the next few days, he knew there would be a further run on the stock, and this time he wouldn’t have such a ready source of funds with which to shore them up.
He glanced round at the international clock on the wall behind his desk to check what time it was in Moscow. Just after six o’clock. But he suspected that the man he needed to speak to would still be in his office. He picked up the phone and asked the secretary to get him a number in Moscow.
He put the receiver down. No one had been more delighted than Armstrong when Marshal Tulpanov was appointed head of the KGB. Since then he had made several trips to Moscow, and a number of large Eastern European contracts had come his way. But recently he had found that Tulpanov hadn’t been quite so readily available.
Armstrong began to sweat as he waited for the call to be put through. Over the years he had had a number of meetings with Mikhail Gorbachev, who appeared to be quite receptive to his ideas. But then Boris Yeltsin had taken over. Tulpanov had introduced him to the new Russian leader, but Armstrong had come away from the meeting with a feeling that neither of them appreciated how important he was.
While he waited to be put through, he began to leaf through the pages of his Filofax, searching for any names that might be able to help with his present dilemma. He’d reached C—Sally Carr—when the phone rang. He picked it up to hear a voice in Russian asking who wished to speak to Marshal Tulpanov.
“Lubji, London sector,” he replied. There was a click, and the familiar voice of the head of the KGB came on the line.
“What can I do for you, Lubji?” he asked.
“I need a little help, Sergei,” began Armstrong. There was no immediate response.
“And what form is this help expected to take?” Tulpanov eventually inquired in a measured tone.
“I need a short-term loan of $50 million. You’d get it back within a month, that I can guarantee.”
“But, comrade,” said the head of the KGB, “you are already holding $7 million of our money. Several of my station commanders tell me that they haven’t received their royalties from the publication of our latest book.”
Armstrong’s mouth went dry. “I know, I know, Sergei,” he pleaded. “But I just need a little more time, and I’ll be able to return everything in the same package.”
“I’m not sure I want to take that risk,” said Tulpanov after another long silence. “I believe the British have a saying about throwing good money after bad. And you’d be wise to remember, Lubji, that the Financial Times is read not only in London and New York, but also in Moscow. I think I shall wait until I have seen my seven million deposited in all the correct accounts before I consider lending you any more. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes,” replied Armstrong quietly.
“Good. I will give you until the end of the month to fulfill your obligations. Then I fear we may have to resort to a less subtle approach. I think I pointed out to you many years ago, Lubji, that at some time you would have to make up your mind about which side you were on. I remind you only because at the moment, to quote another English saying, you seem to be playing both sides against the middle.”
“No, that’s not fair,” protested Armstrong. “I’m on your side, Sergei, I’ve always been on your side.”
“I hear what you are saying, Lubji, but if our money is not returned by the end of the month, I will be powerless to help. And after such a long friendship, that would be most unfortunate. I am sure you appreciate the position you have put me in.”
Armstrong heard the line go dead. His forehead was dripping with sweat; he felt queasy. He put down the receiver, took a powder puff from his pocket and began dabbing his forehead and cheeks. He tried to concentrate. A few moments later he picked up the phone again. “Get me the prime minister of Israel.”
“Is that a Manhattan number?” asked the temp.
“Damn it, am I the only person left in this building who can carry out a simple task?”
“I’m sorry,” she stammered.
“Don’t bother, I’ll do it myself,” shouted Armstrong.
He checked his Filofax and dialed the number. While he waited to be connected, he continued to turn the pages of his Filofax. He had reached H—Julius Hahn—when a voice on the end of the line said, “The prime minister’s office.”
“It’s Dick Armstrong here. I need to speak to the prime minister urgently.”
“I’ll see if I can interrupt him, sir.”
Another click, another wait, a few more pages turned. He reached the letter L—Sharon Levitt.
“Dick, is that you?” inquired Prime Minister Shamir.
“Yes it is, Yitzhak.”
“How are you, my old friend?”
“I’m just fine,” said Armstrong, “and you?”
“I’m well thank you.” He paused. “I’ve got all the usual problems, of course, but at least I’m in good health. And how’s Charlotte?”
“Charlotte’s fine,” said Armstrong, unable to remember when he had last seen her. “She’s in Oxford looking after the grandchildren.”
“So how many do you have now?” asked Shamir.
Armstrong had to think for a moment. “Three,” he said, and nearly added, “or is it four?”
“Lucky man. And are you still keeping the Jews of New York happy?”
“You can always rely on me to do that,” said Armstrong.
“I know we can, old friend,” said the prime minister. “So tell me. What is it I can do for you?”
“It’s a personal matter, Yitzhak, that I hoped you might be able to advise me on.”
“I’ll do everything I can to help; Israel will always be in your debt for the work you have done for our people. Tell me how I can assist you, old friend.”
“A simple request,” replied Armstrong. “I need a short-term loan of $50 million, no more than a month at the most. I wondered if you could help in any way?”
There was a long silence b
efore the prime minister said, “The government does not involve itself in loans, of course, but I could have a word with the chairman of Bank Leumi if you thought that would be helpful.”
Armstrong decided not to tell the prime minister that he already had an outstanding loan of $20 million with that particular bank, and they had made it clear that no more would be forthcoming.
“That’s a good idea, Yitzhak. But don’t you bother, I can contact him myself,” he added, trying to sound cheerful.
“By the way, Dick,” said the prime minister, “while I’ve got you on the line, about your other request…”
“Yes?” he said, his hopes rising for a moment.
“Without sounding too morbid, the Knesset agreed last week that you should be buried on the Mount of Olives, a privilege afforded only to those Jews who have done a great service to the State of Israel. My congratulations. Not every prime minister can be sure of making it, you know.” He laughed. “Not that I anticipate you will be taking advantage of this offer for many years to come.”
“Let’s hope you’re right,” said Armstrong.
“So, will I see you and Charlotte in London for the Guildhall Banquet next month?”
“Yes, we’re looking forward to it,” said Armstrong. “I’ll see you then. But don’t let me detain you any longer, prime minister.”
Armstrong put the phone down, suddenly aware that his shirt was soaked through and clinging to his body. He heaved himself out of his chair and made his way to the bathroom, taking off his jacket and unbuttoning his shirt as he went. When he had closed the door behind him, he toweled himself down and pulled on his third clean shirt that day.
He returned to his desk and continued flicking through his list of phone numbers until he reached S—Arno Schultz. He picked up the phone and asked the secretary to get his lawyer on the line.
“Do you have his number?” she asked.
The Fourth Estate Page 55
