The Fourth Estate (42 page)

When Armstrong
arrived back at the flat early that evening, he told Charlotte that his demob
papers had finally come through, and that they would be leaving Berlin before
the end of the month. He also let her know that he had been offered the rights
to represent Julius Hahn’s overseas distribution, which would mean he’d be
working flat out from the moment the plane landed in London. He began roaming
around the room, blasting off idea after idea, but Charlotte didn’t complain
because she was only too happy to be leaving Berlin. When he had finally
stopped talking, she looked up at him and said, “Please sit down, Dick, because
I also have something to tell you.”

Armstrong
promised Lieutenant Wakeham, Private Benson and Sally that they could be sure
of a job when they left the army, and all of them said they would be in touch
just as soon as their discharge papers came through.

“You’ve done one
hell of a job for us here in Berlin, Dick,” Colonel Oakshott told him. “in
fact, I don’t know how we’re going to replace you.

Mind you, after
your brilliant suggestion of merging
Der
Telegraf
and Der Berliner, we may not even have to.”

“it seemed the
obvious solution,” said Armstrong. “May I add how much I’ve enjoyed being part
of your team, sir.”

“It’s kind of
you to say so, Dick,” the colonel said. He lowered his voice.

“I’m due to be
discharged myself fairly shortly. Once you’re back in civvy street, do let me
know if you hear of anything that might suit an old soldier.”

Armstrong didn’t
bother to visit Arno Schultz, but Sally told him that Hahn had offered him the
job of editor of the new paper.

Armstrong’s
final call before he handed in his uniform to the quartermaster was to Major
Tulpanov’s office in the Russian sector, and on this occasion the KGB man did
invite him to stay for lunch.

“Your coup with
Hahn was a pleasure to observe, Lubji,” said Tulpanov, waving him to a chair,
“even if only from a distance.” An orderly poured them each a vodka, and the
Russian raised his glass high in the air.

“Thank you,”
said Armstrong, returning the compliment. “And not least for the part you
played.”

“Insignificant,”
said Tulpanov, placing his drink back on the table. “But that may not always be
the case, Lubji.” Armstrong raised an eyebrow. “You may well have secured the
foreign distribution rights to the bulk of German scientific research, but it
won’t be too long before it’s out of date, and then you’ll need all the latest
Russian material. That is, if you wish to remain ahead of the game.”

“And what would
you expect in return?” asked Armstrong, scooping up another spoonful of caviar.

“Let us just
leave it, Lubji, that I will be in touch from time to time.”

DAILY MAIL

13 APRIL 1961

T
he Voice from
Space: “How I did it.”

Gagarin Tells Khrushchev
of the Blue Earth HEATHER PLACE[) A Cup of black coffee in front of him.
Townsend was already regretting that he had agreed to give the interview,
especially to a trainee reporter. His golden rule was never to allow a
journalist to talk to him on the record. Some proprietors enjoyed reading about
themselves in their own papers. Townsend was not among them, but when Bruce
Kelly had pressed him in an unguarded moment, saying it would be good for the
paper and good for his image, he’d reluctantly agreed.

He had nearly
canceled two or three times that morning, but a series of telephone calls and
meetings meant that he’d never got round to doing it.

And then Heather
walked in to tell him that the young reporter was waiting in the outer hall.
“Shall I send her in?” Heather asked.

“Yes,” he said,
checking his watch. “But I don’t want to 360 be too long. There are several
things I need to go over with you before tomorrow’s board meeting.”

“I’ll come back
in about fifteen minutes and tell you there’s an overseas call on the line.”

“Good idea,” he
said. “But say it’s from New York. For some reason that always makes them leave
a little quicker. And if You get desperate, use the Andrew Blacker routine.”

Heather nodded
and left the room as Townsend ran his finger down the agenda for the board
meeting. He stopped at item seven. He needed to be better briefed on the West
Riding Group if he was going to convince the board that they should back him on
that one. Even if they gave him the go-ahead, he still had to close the deal on
his trip to England. In fact he would have to travel straight up to Leeds if he
felt the deal was worth pursuing.

“Good morning,
Mr. Townsend.”

Keith looked up,
but didn’t speak.

“Your secretary
warned me that you’re extremely busy, so I’ll try not to waste too much of your
time,” she said rather quickly.

He still didn’t
say a word.

“I’m Kate
Tulloh. I’m a reporter with the Cbronicle.

Keith came from
behind his desk, shook hands with the young journalist, and ushered her toward
a comfortable chair usually reserved for board members, editors or people with
whom he expected to close important deals. Once she was seated, he took the
chair opposite her.

“How long have
you been with the company?” he asked as she extracted a shorthand pad and a
pencil from her bag.

She crossed her
legs and said, “Only for a few months, Mr. Townsend. I joined the Cbronicle as
a trainee after leaving college.

You’re my first
big assignment.”

Keith felt old
for the first time in his life, although he had only recently celebrated his
thirty-third birthday.

“What’s the
accent?” he asked. “I can’t quite place it.”

“I was born in
Budapest, but my parents fled from Hungary at the time of the revolution. The
only ship we could get on was going to Australia.”

“My grandfather
also fled to Australia,” Keith said.

“Because of a
revolution?” she asked.

“No. He was
Scottish, and just wanted to get as far away from the English as possible.”
Kate laughed. “You recently won a young writers’award, didn’t you?” he asked,
trying to recall the briefing note Heather had prepared for him.

“Yes. Bruce
presented the awards last year, which is how I ended up on the Cbronicle.”

“So what does
your father do?”

“Back in Hungary
he was an architect, but over here he’s only been able to pick up odd laboring
jobs. The governmerit refuses to recognize his qualifications, and the unions
haven’t been all that sympathetic.”

“They don’t like
me either,” said Keith. “And what about your mother?”

“I’m sorry to
appear rude, Mr. Townsend, but I think I’m meant to be interviewing you.”

“Yes, of
course,” said Keith, “do go ahead.” He stared at the girl, unaware of how
nervous he was making her. He had never seen anyone more captivating. She had
long, dark hair which fell onto her shoulders, and a perfectly oval face that
hadn’t yet been savaged by the Australian sun.

He suspected
that the simple, well-tailored navy-blue suit she wore was more formal than she
might normally have chosen. But that was probably because she was interviewing
her boss. She crossed her legs again and her skirt rose slightly. He tried not
to lower his eyes.

“Shall I repeat
the question, Mr- Townsend?”

“Eff... I’m so
sorry.”

Heather walked
in, and was surprised to find them seated in the directors’conner of the room.

‘There’s a call
for you on line one from New York,” she said. “Mr. Lazar.

He needs to have
a word about a counterbid he’s just received from Channel 7 for one of next
season’s sitcoms.”

‘Tell him I’ll
call back later,” said Keith, without looking up. “By the way, Kate,” he said,
leaning forward, “would you like a coffee?”

“Yes, thank you
Mr. Townsend,”

“Black or
white?”

“White, but no
sugar. Thank you,” she repeated, looking toward Heather.

Heather turned
and left the room without asking Keith if he wanted another coffee ...

“Sorry, what was
the question?” Keith asked.

“Did you write
or publish anything when you were at school?”

“Yes, I was
editor of the school magazine in my last year,” he said. Kate began writing
furiously. “As my father was before me.” By the time Heather reappeared with
the coffee, he was still telling Kate about his triumph with the pavilion
appeal.

“And when you
went to Oxford, why didn’t you edit the student newspaper, or take over Isis,
the university magazine?”

“in those days I
was far more interested in politics-and in any case, I knew I’d be spending the
rest of my life in the newspaper world.”

“Is it true that
when you returned to Australia, you were devastated to find that your mother had
sold the Melbourne Courier?”

“Yes, it is,”
admitted Keith, as Heather walked back into the room. “And I’ll get it back one
day,” he added under his breath.

“A problem,
Heather?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. She was standing only a foot away from
him.

“Yes. I’m sorry
to interrupt you again, Mr. Townsend, but Sir Kenneth Stirling has been trying
to get in touch with you all morning. He wants to discuss your proposed trip to
the UK.”

‘Then I’ll have
to call him back as well, won’t l?”

“He did warn me
that he’ll be out most of the afternoon.”

“Then tell him
I’ll call him at home this evening.”

“I can see
you’re busy,” said Kate. “I can wait or come back at some other time.”

Keith shook his head,
despite Heather remaining fixed on the spot for several seconds. He even began
to wonder if Ken really was on the line.

Kate tried once
more. “There are several stories among the clippings about how you took control
of the Adelaide Messenger, and your coup with the late Sir Colin Grant.”

“Sir Colin was a
close friend of my father,” said Keith, and a merger was always going to be in
the best interests of both papers.” Kate didn’t look convinced. “I’m sure
you’ll have read in the clippings that Sir Colin was the first chairman of the
merged group.”

“But he only
chaired one board meeting ...”

“I think you’ll
find it was two.”

“Didn’t Sir
Somerset Kenwright suffer roughly the same fate when you took over the
Cbronicle?”

“No, that’s not
quite accurate. I can assure you that no one admired Sir Somerset more than I
did.”

“But Sir
Somerset once described you,” said Kate, glancing down at her notes, “as’a man
who is happy to lie in the gutter and watch while others climb mountains’.”

“I think you’ll
find that Sir Somerset, like Shakespeare, is often misquoted.”

“It would be
hard to prove either way,” said Kate, “as he’s also dead.”

“Frue,” said
Keith, a little defensively. “But the words of Sir Somerset that I will always
recall are: ‘I couldn’t be more delighted that the Cbronicle will be passing
into the hands of Sir Graham Townsend’s son.’”

“But didn’t Sir
Somerset say that,” suggested Kate, once again referring to her notes, “six
weeks before you actually took over?”

“What difference
does that make?” asked Keith, trying to fight back.

“Simply that on
the first day you arrived at the Cbronide as its proprietor, you sacked the
editor and the chief executive. A week later they issued a joint statement,
saying-and this time I quote verbatim .

. .”

“Your next
appointment has arrived, Mr. Townsend,” said Heather, standing by the door as
if she was about to show someone in.

“Who is it?”
asked Keith.

“Andrew
Blacker.”

“Rearrange it.”

“No, no,
please,” said Kate. “I have more than enough.”

“Rearrange it,”
repeated Keith firmly.

“As you wish,”
said Heather, equally firmly. She walked back out, leaving the door wide open.

“I’m sorry to
have taken up so much of your time, Mr. Townsend,” said Kate.

“I’ll try to
speed things up,” she added, before returning to her long list of questions.
“Can I now turn to the launching of the Continent?”

“But I haven’t
finished telling you about Sir Somerset Kenwright, and the state the Clironicle
was in when I took it over.”

“I’m sorry,”
said Kate, “it’s just that I’m concerned about the calls you have to make, and
I’m feeling a little guilty about Mr. Blacker.”

There was a long
silence before Keith admitted, “There is no Mr. Blacker.”

“I’m not sure I
understand,” said Kate.

“He’s a code name.
Heather uses them to let me know how long a meeting has overrun: New York is
fifteen minutes, Mr. Andrew Blacker is thirty minutes.