The Fourth Estate (31 page)

Armstrong
nodded.

‘Did my husband
leave any other message for me?”

“Yes. He told me
that his final wish was that you should also return Arno’s shares to him.”

“What shares did
he mean?” she asked, sounding anxious for the first time.

“They didn’t
mention any shares when they came to visit me.”

“It seems that
Arno sold Herr Lauber some shares in a publishing company not long after Hitler
came to power, and your husband promised he would return them as soon as the
war was over.”

“Well, of course
I would be only too happy to do so,” the old woman said, shivering again. “But
sadly I am not in possession of any shares. Perhaps Klaus made a will...”

“Unfortunately
not, Mrs. Lauber,” Armstrong said. “Or if he did, we haven’t been able to find
it.”

“How unlike
Klaus,” she said. “He was always so meticulous. But then, perhaps it has
disappeared somewhere in the Russian zone. You can’t trust the Russians you
know,” she whispered.

Armstrong nodded
his agreement. “That doesn’t present a problem,” he said, taking her hand
again. “I am in possession of a document which invests me with the authority to
ensure that Arno Schultz, if he is still alive and we can find him, will
receive the shares he’s entitled to.”

Mrs. Lauber
smiled. “Thank you,” she said. “It’s a great relief to know that the matter is
in the hands of a British officer.”

Armstrong opened
his briefcase and removed the contract. Turning to the last of its four pages,
he indicated two penciled crosses, and handed Mrs.

Lauber his pen.
She placed her spidery signature between the crosses, without having made any
attempt to read a single clause or paragraph of the contract. As soon as the
ink was dry, Armstrong placed the document back in his Gladstone bag and clipped
it shut. He smiled across at Mrs. Lauber.

“I must return
to Berlin now,” he said, rising from his chair, “where I shall make every
effort to locate Herr Schultz.”

“Thank you,”
said Mrs. Lauber, who slowly rose to her feet and led him back down the passage
to the front door. “Goodbye,” she said, as he stepped out onto the landing, “it
was most kind of you to come all this way on my behalf.” She smiled weakly and
closed the door without another word.

“Well?” said
Tulpanov when Armstrong rejoined him in the back of the car.

“She signed the
agreement.”

I thought she
might,” said TuIpanov. The car swung round in a circle and began its journey
back to Berlin.

“So what happens
next?” asked Armstrong.

“Now you have
spun the coin,” said the KGB major. “You have won the toss, and decided to bat.
Though I must say that what you’ve just done to Mrs.

Lauber could
hardly be described as cricket.”

Armstrong looked
quizzically at him.

“Even I thought
you’d give her the 40,000 marks,” said Tulpanov. “But no doubt you plan to give
Arno-” he paused “-the chess set.”

The following
morning, Captain Richard Armstrong registered his ownership of
Der Telegraf
with the British Control
Commission. Although one of the officials raised an eyebrow, and he was kept
waiting for over an hour by another, eventually the duty clerk stamped the
document authorizing the transaction, and confirmed that Captain Armstrong was
now the sole owner of the paper.

Charlotte tried
to disguise her true feelings when she was told the news of her husband’s
“coup.” She was certain it could only mean that their departure for England
would be postponed yet again. But she was relieved when Dick agreed that she
could return to Lyon to be with her parents for the birth of their firstborn,
as she was determined that any child of hers would begin its life as a French
citizen.

Arno Schultz was
surprised by Armstrong’s sudden renewed commitment to
Der Telegraf
. He started making contributions at the morning
editorial conference, and even took to riding on the delivery vans on their
midnight sojourns around the city. Arno assumed that his boss’s new enthusiasm
was directly related to Charlotte’s absence in Lyon.

Within a few
weeks they were selling 300,000 copies of the paper a day for the first time,
and Arno accepted that the pupil had become the master.

A month later,
Captain Armstrong took ten days’compassionate leave so he could be in Lyon for
the birth of his first child. He was delighted when Charlotte presented him
with a boy, whom they christened David. As he sat on the bed holding the child
in his arms, he promised Charlotte that it would not be long before they left
for England, and the three of them would embark on a new life.

He arrived back
in Berlin a week later, resolved to tell Colonel Clakshott that the time had
come for him to resign his commission and return to England.

He would have
done so if Arno Schultz hadn’t held a party to celebrate his sixtieth birthday.

ADELAIDEGAZETTE

13 MARCH 1956

M
enzies Stays Put
THE FIRST TIME Townsend noticed her was on a flight up to Sydney, He was
reading the Gazette: the lead story should have been relegated to page three
and the headline was weak. The Gazette now had a monopoly in Adelaide, but the
paper was becoming increasingly slack. He should have removed Frank Bailey from
the editor’s chair after the merger, but he had to satisfy himself with getting
rid of Sir Colin first. He frowned.

“Would you like
your coffee topped up, Mr. Townsend?” she asked. Townsend glanced up at the
slim girl who was holding a coffee pot, and smiled. She must have been about
twenty-five, with curly fair hair and blue eyes which made you go on staring at
them.

“Yes,” he
replied, despite not wanting any more. She returned his smile-an air hostess’s
smile, a smile that didn’t vary for the fat or the thin, the rich or the poor.

Townsend put the
Gazette to one side and tried to concentrate on the meeting that was about to
take place. He had recently purchased, at a cost of half a million pounds, a
small print group which specialized in giveaway papers distributed in the
western suburbs of Sydney. The deal had done no more than give him a foothold
in Australia’s largest city.

It had been at
the Newspapers and Publishers Annual Dinner at the Cook Hotel that a man of
about twentyseven or twenty-eight, five foot eight, square-jawed with bright
red hair and the shoulders of a prop forward, came up to his table after the
speeches were over and whispered in his ear, “I’ll see you in the men’s room.”
Townsend wasn’t sure whether to laugh or just to ignore the man. But curiosity
got the better of him, and a few minutes later he rose from his place and made
his way through the tables to the men’s room. The man with the red hair was
washing his hands in the corner basin. Townsend walked across, stood at the
basin next to him and turned on the tap.

“What hotel are
you staying at?” he asked.

“The Town
House,” Keith replied.

“And what’s your
room number?”

“I have no
idea.”

“I’ll find out.
I’ll come to your room around midnight. That is, if you’re interested in
getting your hands on the Sydney Cbronicle.” The red-headed man turned off the
tap, dried his hands and left.

Townsend learned
in the early hours of the morning that the man who had accosted him at the
dinner was Bruce Kelly, the Cbronicle’s deputy editor.

He wasted no
time in telling Townsend that Sir Somerset Kenwright was considering selling
the paper, as he felt it no longer fitted in with the rest of his group.

“Was there
something wrong with your coffee?” she asked.

Townsend looked
up at her, and then down at his untouched coffee. “No, it was fine, thank you,”
he said. “I’m just a little preoccupied at the moment.” She gave him that smile
again, before removing the cup and continuing on to the row behind. Once again
he tried to concentrate.

When he had
first discussed the idea with his mother, she had told him that it had been his
fathe~s lifelong ambition to own the Cbronicle, though her own feelings were
ambivalent. The reason he was traveling to Sydney for the third time in as many
weeks was for another meeting with Sir Somerset’s top management team, so he
could go over the terms of a possible deal. And one of them still owed him a
favor.

Over the past few
months Townsend’s lawyers had been working in tandem with Sir Somerset’s, and
both sides now felt they were at last coming close to an agreement. ‘The old
man thinks you’re the lesser of two evils,” Kelly had warned him. “He’s faced
the fact that his son isn’t up to the job, but he doesn’t want the paper to
fall into the hands of Wally Hacker, who he’s never liked, and certainly
doesn’t trust. He’s not sure about you, although he has fond memories of your
father.” Since Kelly had given him that piece of invaluable information,
Townsend had mentioned his father whenever he and Sir Somerset met.

When the plane
taxied to a halt at Kingsford-Smith airport, Townsend unfastened his seatbelt,
picked up his briefcase and began to walk toward the forward exit. “Have a good
day, Mr. Townsend,” she said. “I do hope you’ll be flying Austair again.”

1 will,” he
promised. “In fact I’m coming back tonight.” Only an impatient line of
passengers who were pressing forward stopped him from asking if she would be on
that flight.

When his taxi
came to a halt in Pitt Street, Townsend checked his watch and found he still
had a few minutes to spare. He paid the fare and darted through the traffic to
the other side of the road. When he had reached the far pavement, he turned
round and stared up at the building which housed the biggest-selling newspaper
in Australia. He only wished his father was still alive to witness him closing
the deal.

He walked back
across the road, entered the building and paced around the reception area until
a well-dressed middle-aged woman appeared out of one of the lifts, walked over
to him and said, “Sir Somerset is expecting you, Mr. Townsend.”

When Townsend
walked into the vast office overlooking the harbor, he was greeted by a man he
had regarded with awe and admiration since his childhood. Sir Somerset shook
him warmly by the hand. “Keith. Good to see you. I think you were at school
with my chief executive, Duncan Alexander.”

The two men
shook hands, but said nothing. “But I don’t believe you’ve met the Cbronicle’s
editor, Nick Watson.”

“No, I haven’t
had that pleasure,” said Townsend, shaking Watson by the hand. “But of course I
know of your reputation.”

Sir Somerset
waved them to seats around a large boardroorn table, taking his place at the
top. “You know, Keith,” began th( old man, “I’m damn proud of this paper. Even
Beaverbrook tried to buy it from me.”

“Understandably,
“ said Townsend.

“We’ve set a
standard of journalism in this building that I like to think even Your father
would have been proud of.”

“He always spoke
of your papers with the greatest respect. Indeed, when it came to the
Cbronicle, I think the word’envy’would be more appropriate.”

Sir Somerset
smiled. “It’s kind of you to say so, my boy.” He paused.

“Well, it seems
that during the past few weeks Our teams have been able to agree most of the
details. So, as long as you can match Wally Hacker’s offer of E 1.9 million
and-just as important to me-you agree to retain Nick as editor and Duncan as
chief executive, I think we might have ourselves a deal.”

“It Would be
foolish of me not to rely on their vast knowledge and expertise,” said
Townsend. “They are two highly respected professionals, and I shall naturally
be delighted to work with them. Though I feel I should let you know that it’s not
my policy to interfere in the internal working of my papers, especially when it
comes to the editorial content.

That’s just not
my style.”

“I see that
you’ve learned a great deal from your father,” said Sir Somerset. “Like him,
and like you, I don’t involve myself in the day-to-day running of the paper. It
always ends in tears.”

Townsend nodded
his agreement.

“Well, I don’t
think there’s much more for us to discuss at this stage, so I suggest we
adjourn to the dining room and have Some lunch.” The old man Put his arm round
Townsend’s shoulder and said, “I only wish your father were here to join LIS.”

The smile never
left Townsend’s face on the journey back to the airport.

If she were on
the return flight, that would be a bonus. His smile became even wider as he
fastened his seatbelt and began to rehearse what he would say to her.

“I hope you had
a worthwhile trip to Sydney, Mr. Townsend,” she said as she offered him an
evening paper.

“it couldn’t
have turned out better,” he replied. “Perhaps you’d like to join me for dinner
tonight and help me celebrate?”

“That’s very
kind of you, Sir,” she said, emphasizing the word “Sir,”