The Fourth Estate (2 page)

As the car swung
into the marina, the captain of Armstrong’s yacht stood to attention and waited
to welcome him on board. Although Armstrong had not warned anyone of his
intentions, others had phoned ahead to alert the thirteen-man crew of Sir
Lancelot that the boss was on the move. “But God knows to where,” had been his
secretary’s final comment.

Whenever
Armstrong decided that the time had come for him to head back to the airport,
his secretary would be informed immediately. It was the only way any of his
staff around the world could hope to survive for more than a week.

The captain was
apprehensive. The boss hadn’t been expected on board for another three weeks,
when he was due to take a fortnight’s holiday with the rest of the family. When
the call had come through from London that morning, the skipper had been at the
local shipyard, supervising some minor repairs to Sir Lancelot. No one had any
idea where Armstrong was heading, but he wasn’t willing to take risks. He had,
at considerable expense, managed to get the yacht released from the shipyard
and tied up at the quayside only minutes before the boss had set foot in
France.

Armstrong strode
up the gangplank and past four men in crisp white uniforms, all standing to
attention and saluting. He slipped off his shoes and went below to the private
quarters. When he pushed open the door of his stateroom, he discovered that
others had anticipated his arrival: there were several faxes already piled up
on the table beside his bed.

Could Jacques
Lacroix possibly have changed his mind? He dismissed the idea instantly. After
years of dealing with the Swiss, he knew them only too well. They remained an
unimaginative, one-dimensional nation whose bank accounts always had to be in
the black, and in whose dictionary the word “risk” wasn’t to be found.

He began to
flick through the sheets of curling fax paper. The first was from his New York
bankers, informing him that when the market had opened that morning, the price
of shares in Armstrong Communications had continued to drop. He skimmed the
page until his eyes settled on the one line he had been dreading. “No buyers,
only sellers,” it stated clinically. “if this trend continues for much longer,
the bank will be left with no choice but to consider its position.”

He swept all the
faxes onto the floor, and headed for the little safe hidden behind a large
framed photograph of himself shaking hands with the Queen. He swiveled the disk
backward and forward, stopping at 10-06-23. The heavy door swung open and
Armstrong placed both his hands inside, quickly removing all the bulky wads of
cash.

Three thousand
dollars, twenty-two thousand French francs, seven thousand drachma and a thick
bundle of Italian lire. Once he had pocketed the money, he left the yacht and
headed straight for the casino, without telling any of the crew where he was
going, how long he would be or when he might return. The captain ordered a
junior rating to shadow him, so that when he made his way back toward the
harbor they wouldn’t be taken by surprise.

A large vanilla
ice cream was placed in front of him. The head waiter began to pour hot chocolate
sauce over it as Armstrong never suggested that he should stop, he carried on
until the silver sauce-boat was empty.

The cyclical
movement of the spoon began again, and didn’t cease until the last drop of
chocolate had been scraped off the side of the bowl.

A steaming black
coffee replaced the empty bowl, Armstrong continued to gaze out over the bay.
Once the word was out that he couldn’t cover a sum as small as $50 million,
there Wouldn’t be a bank on earth that would consider doing business with him.

The head waiter
returned a few minutes later, and was surprised to find the coffee untouched.
“Shall we bring you another cup, Mr. Armstrong?” lie asked in a deferential
whisper.

Armstrong shook
his head. ‘Just the check, Henri.” He drained his champagne glass for the last
time. The head waiter scurried away and returned immediately with a folded slip
of white paper on a silver salver. This was one customer who couldn’t abide
waiting for anything, even the bill.

Armstrong
flicked open the folded slip but showed no interest in its contents. Seven
hundred and twelve francs, service non
compris
.
He signed it, rounding it up to a thousand francs. A smile appeared on the head
waiter’s face for the first time that evening-a smile that would disappear when
he discovered that the restaurant was the last in a long queue of creditors.

Armstrong pushed
back his chair, threw his crumpled napkin on the table and walked out of the
restaurant without another word. Several pairs of eyes followed him as be left,
and another was watching as he stepped onto the pavement. He didn’t notice the
young rating scamper off in the direction of the Sir Lancelot.

Armstrong
belched as he strode down the promenade, past dozens of boats huddled close
together, tied up for the night. He usually enjoyed the sensation of knowing
that the Sir Lancelot was almost certain to be the largest yacht in the bay,
unless of course the Sultan of Brunei or King Fahd had sailed in during the
evening. His only thought tonight was how much she might fetch when she was put
up for sale on the open market. But once the truth was known, would anyone want
to buy a yacht that had been owned by Richard Armstrong?

With the help of
the ropes, Armstrong yanked himself up the gangway to find the captain and the
first officer awaiting him.

“We’ll sail
immediately.”

The captain was
not surprised. He knew Armstrong would not want to be tied up in port any
longer than was necessary: only the gentle swaying of the boat could lull him
to sleep, even in the darkest hours. The captain began issuing the orders to
get under way as Armstrong slipped off his shoes and disappeared below.

When Armstrong
opened the door of his stateroom he was met by yet another pile of faxes. He
grabbed them, still hoping for a lifeline. The first was from Peter Wakeham,
the deputy chairman of Armstrong Communications, who, despite the late hour,
was obviously still at his desk in London. “Please call urgently,” read the
message. The second was from New York. The company’s stock had plummeted to a
new low, and his bankers had “reluctantly found it necessary” to place their
own shares on the market.

The third was
from Jacques Lacroix in Geneva to confirm that as the bank had not received the
$50 million by close of business, they had been left with no choice but to...

It was twelve
minutes past five in New York, twelve minutes past ten in London, and twelve
minutes past eleven in Geneva. By nine o’clock the following morning he
wouldn’t be able to control the headlines in his own newspapers, let alone
those owned by Keith Townsend.

Armstrong
undressed slowly and allowed his clothes to fall in a heap on the floor. He
then took a bottle of brandy from the sideboard, poured himself a large glass
and collapsed onto the double bed. He lay still as the engines roared into
life, and moments later he heard the clanking of the anchor being hauled up
from the sea bed. Slowly the ship began to maneuver itself out of the harbor.

Hour after hour
slipped by, but Armstrong didn’t stir, except to refill the brandy balloon from
time to time, until he heard four chimes on the little clock by the side of his
bed. He pushed himself up, waited for a few moments and then lowered his feet
onto the thick carpet, He rose unsteadily, and made his way across the unlit
stateroom toward the bathroom. When he reached the open door, he unhooked a
large cream dressing-gown with the words Sir Lancelot emblazoned in gold on its
pocket. He padded back toward the door of the cabin, opened it cautiously and
stepped barefoot into the dimly-lit corridor. He hesitated before locking the
door behind him and slipping the key into his dressing-gown pocket. He didn’t
move again until he was sure he could hear nothing except the familiar Sound of
the ship’s engine droning below him.

He lurched from
side to side as he stumbled down the narrow corridor, pausing when he reached
the staircase which led up onto the deck. He then slowly began to climb the
steps, clutching firmly onto the rope on both sides. When lie reached the top
he stepped out onto the deck, checking quickly in both directions. There was no
one to be seen. It was a clear, cool night, no different from ninety-nine in
every hundred at that time of year.

Armstrong padded
silently on until he was above the engine room-the noisiest part of the ship.

He waited only
for a moment before untying the cord of his dressing-gown and allowing it to
fall to the deck.

Naked in the
warm night, he stared out into the still black sea and thought: isn’t your
whole life meant to flash before you at a time like this?

THE CITIZEN

5 NOVEMBER 1991

T
ownsend Faces Ruin “MFSSA(;ES?” WAS All.
Keith Townsend said as he passed his secretary’s desk and headed toward his
office.

“The President
called from Camp David just before you boarded the plane,”

Heather said.

“Which of my
papers has annoyed him this time?” Townsend asked as he sat down.

“The New York
Star. He’s heard a rumor that you’re going to print his bank statement on
tomorrow’s front page,” Heather replied.

“It’s more
likely to be my own bank statement that makes the front pages tomorrow,” said
Townsend, his Australian accent more pronounced than usual. “Who else~”

“Margaret
Thatcher has sent a fax from London. She’s agreed to your terms for a two-book
contract, even though Armstrong’s bid was higher.”

“Let’s hope
someone offers me $6 million when I write my memoirs.”

Heather gave him
a weak smile.

“Anyone else?”

“Gary Deakins
has had another writ served on him.”

“What for this
time?”

“He accused the
Archbishop of Brisbane of rape, on the front page of yesterday’s Truth.”

“The truth, the
whole truth, and anything but the truth,” said Townsend, smiling. “Just as long
as it sells papers.

“Unfortunately
it turns Out that the woman in question is a well-known lay preacher, and has
been a friend of the archbishop’s family for years. It seems that Gary
suggested a different meaning each time he used the word ‘lay’.”

Townsend leaned
back in his chair and continued to listen to the myriad problems other people
were facing all around the world: the usual complaints from politicians,
businessmen and so-called media personalities who expected him to intervene
immediately to save their precious careers from ruin. By this time tomorrow,
most of them would have calmed down and been replaced by another dozen or so
equally irate, equally demanding prima donnas. He knew that every one of them
would be only too delighted to discover that it was his own career which really
was on the verge of collapse-and all because the president of a small batik in
Cleveland had demanded that a loan of $50 million be repaid by the close of
business tonight.

As Heather
continued to go through the list of messages-most of them from people whose
names meant nothing to him-Townsend’s mind drifted back to the speech he’d
given the previous evening. A thousand of his top executives from all over the
world had gathered in Honolulu for a three-day conference. In his closing
address he’d told them that Global Corp couldn’t be in better shape to face the
challenges of the new media revolution. He had ended by saying: “We are the one
company that is qualified to lead this industry into the twenty-first century.”
They had stood and cheered him for several minutes. As he looked down into the
packed audience full of confident faces, he had wondered just how many of them
suspected that Global was actually only hours away from going bankrupt.

“What shall I do
about the President?” Heather asked for the second time.

Townsend snapped
back into the real world. “Which one?”

“Of the United
States.”

“Wait until he
calls again,” he said. “He may have calmed down a bit by then. Meanwhile, I’ll
have a word with the editor of the Star.”

“And Mrs.
Thatcher?”

“Send her a
large bunch of flowers and a note saying, ‘We’ll make your memoirs number one
from Moscow to New York’.”

“Shouldn’t I add
London?”

“No, she knows
it will be number one in London.”

“And what should
I do about Gary Deakins?”

“Phone the
archbishop and tell him I’m going to build that new roof his cathedral so desperately
needs. Wait a month, then send him a check for $

10,000.”

Heather nodded,
closed her notebook and asked, “Do you want to take any calls?”

“Only Austin
Pierson.” He paused. “The moment he phones, put him straight through.”

Heather turned
and left the room.

Townsend
swiveled his chair round and stared out of the window. He tried to recall the
conversation he’d had with his financial adviser when she had phoned him in the
private jet on his way back from Honolulu.