The Fourth Estate (46 page)

“That will
depend on the ending,” replied Keith. “if I pull this one off, I’ll need
articles in all my Australian papers, and I’ll want a separate piece-slightly
less gushing-for Reuters and the Press Association. The important thing is to
alert publishers all over the world to the fact that I’m now a serious player
outside Australia.”

“How well do you
know Wolstenholme?” Kate asked. “It seems to me that you’re going to have to
rely a lot on his judgment.”

“Not that well,”
admitted Keith. “He was a couple of years ahead of me at Worcester, and was
considered a bit of a hearty.”

“A hearty?”
repeated Kate, looking puzzled.

“During
Michaelmas he spent most of his time with the college rugby team, and the other
two terms standing on the riverbank urging on the college boat. I think he was
chosen to coach them because he had a voice that could be heard on the other
side of the Thames, and enjoyed the odd pint of ale with the crew, even after
they’d sunk. But that was ten years ago; for all I know he’s settled down and
become a dour Yorkshire solicitor, with a wife and several children.”

“Do you have any
idea how much the West Riding Group is really worth?”

“No, but I can
always make an offer subject to seeing the six presses, and at the same time
try to get a feel of how good the editors and journalists are. But in England
the biggest problem is always the trades unions. If this group’s controlled by
a closed shop, then I’m not interested, because however good the deal is, the
unions could still bankrupt me within months.”

“And if it
isn’t?” said Kate.

“Then I might be
willing to go as high as a hundred, even a hundred and twenty thousand. But I
won’t suggest a figure until they let me know what they have in mind.”

“Well, it beats
covering the juvenile courts,” said Kate.

“That’s where I
started too,” said Keith. “But the editor didn’t think my efforts were
award-winning material, unlike yours, and most of my copy was spiked before
he’d finished the first paragraph.”

“Perhaps he
wanted to prove that he wasn’t frightened of your father.”

Keith looked
across at her, and could see that she was wondering if she had gone too far.
“Perhaps,” he replied. “But that was before I took over the Cbronicle and was
able to sack him.”

Kate remained
silent as a stewardess cleared away their trays. “We’re just about to dim the
cabin lights,” she said, “but there’s a light above your heads if you wish to
carry on reading.”

Keith nodded and
flicked on his light. Kate stretched and eased her seat back as far as it would
go, covered herself in a blanket and closed her eyes. Keith looked at her for a
few moments before opening a fourth file.

He read on
through the night.

When Colonel
Tulpanov phoned to suggest that he should meet a business associate of his
called Yuri Valchek to discuss a matter of mutual interest, Armstrong suggested
they have lunch at the Savoy when Mr. Valchek was next in London.

For the past
decade Armstrong had been making regular trips to Moscow, and in exchange for
the exclusive foreign rights to the works of Soviet scientists he had continued
to carry out little tasks for Tulpanov, still able to persuade himself that he
wasn’t doing any real harm to his adopted country. This delusion was helped by
always letting Forsdyke know when he was making such trips, and occasionally by
delivering messages on his behalf, often to return with unfathomable replies.
Armstrong realized that both sides considered him to be their man, and
suspected that Valchek was not a messenger on a simple errand, but was being
sent to find outjust how far he could be pushed. By choosing the Savoy Grill,
Armstrong hoped to convince Forsdyke that he was hiding nothing from him.

Armstrong arrived
at the Savoy a few minutes early, and was guided to his usual alcove table in
the corner. He abandoned his favorite whiskey and soda for a vodka, the agreed
sign among agents that no English would be spoken. He glanced toward the
entrance of the restaurant, and wondered if he would be able to identify
Valchek when he walked in. Ten years ago it would have been easy, but he had
warned many of the new breed that they stuck out like sore thumbs in their
cheap double-breasted suits and thin gravy-stained ties. Since then several of
the more regular visitors to London and New York had learned to drop into
Savile Row and Fifth Avenue during their visits-though Armstrong suspected that
a quick change had to be made on Aeroflot flights when they flew back to
Moscow.

Two businessmen
strolled into the Grill, deep in conversation. Armstrong recognized one of
them, but couldn’t recall his name. They were followed by a stunning young
woman with another two men in her wake. A woman having lunch in the Grill was
an unusual sight, and he followed her progress as they were guided into the
adjoining alcove.

The head waiter
interrupted him. “Your guest has arrived, sir.”

Armstrong rose
to shake hands with a man who could have passed for a British company director,
and who obviously did not need to be told where Savile Row was. Armstrong
ordered two vodkas.

“How was your
flight?” he asked in Russian.

“Not good,
comrade,” replied Valchek. “Unlike you, I have no choice but to fly Aeroflot.
If you ever have to, take a sleeping pill, and don’t even think of eating the
food.”

Armstrong
laughed. “And how is Colonel Tulpanov?”

“General
Tulpanov is about to be appointed as the KGBs number two, and he wants you to
let Brigadier Forsdyke know he still outranks him.”

‘That will be a
pleasure,” said Armstrong. “Are there any other changes at the top that I
should know about?”

“Not at the
moment.” He paused. ‘Though I suspect Comrade Khrushchev will not be sitting at
the high table for much longer.”

“Then perhaps
even you may have to clear your desk,” Armstrong said, staring at him directly.

“Not as long as
Tulpanov is my boss.”

“And who will be
Khrushchev’s successor?” asked Armstrong.

“Brezhnev would
be my bet,” said his visitor. “But as Tulpanov has files on every possible
candidate, no one is going to try to replace him.”

Armstrong smiled
at the thought that Tulpanov hadn’t lost his touch.

A waiter placed
another vodka in front of his guest. “The general speaks highly Of You,” said
Valchek once the waiter had disappeared, “and no doubt your position will
become even more influential when his appointment is made official.” Valchek
paused while he checked the menu before making his order in English to a
hovering waiter. “Tell me,” he continued once the waiter had left them alone,
“why does General Tulpanov always refer to you as Lubji?”

“It’s as good a
code name as any,” said Armstrong.

“But you are not
a Russian.

“No, I am not,”
said Armstrong firmly.

“But you are
also not English, comrade?”

“I’m more
English than the English,” replied Armstrong, which seemed to silence his
guest. A plate of smoked salmon was placed in front of him.

Valchek had
finished his first course, and was cutting into a rare steak before he began to
reveal the real purpose of his visit.

“The National
Science Institute want to publish a book commemorating their achievements in
space exploration,” he said, after selecting a Dijon mustard. ‘The chairman
feels that President Kennedy is receiving far too much credit for his NASA
program when, as everyone knows, it was the Soviet Union that put the first man
in space. We have prepared a document detailing the achievements of our program
from the founding of the Space Academy to the present day. I am in possession
of a 200,000-word manuscript compiled by the leading scientists in the field,
over a hundred photographs taken as recently as last month, and detailed
diagrams and specifications for Luna IV and W

Armstrong made
no attempt to stop Valchek’s flow. The messenger had to be aware that such a
book would be out of date even before it was published.

Clearly there
had to be another reason why he had traveled all the way from Moscow to have
lunch with him. But his guest chatted on, adding more and more irrelevant
details. Finally he asked Armstrong for his opinion of the project.

“How many copies
does General Tulpanov expect to be printed?”

“One million in
hardback, to be distributed through the usual channels.”

Armstrong
doubted whether such a book would have a worldwide readership of even a
fraction of that figure. “But my print costs alone...” he began.

“We fully
understand the risks you would be taking with such a publication.

So we will be
advancing you a sum of five million dollars, to be distributed among those
countries in which the book will be translated, published and sold. Naturally
there will be an agent’s commission of 10 percent. I should add that it will
come as no great surprise to General Tulpanov if the book does not appear on
any best-seller list. just as long as you are able to show in your annual
report that a million copies were printed, he will be content. It’s the
distribution of the profits that really matters,” added Valchek, sipping his
vodka.

“Is this to be a
one-off?” asked Armstrong.

“if you make a
success of this-” Valchek paused before choosing the right word “-project, we
would want a paperback edition to be published a year later, which we of course
appreciate would require a further advance of five million. After that there
might have to be reprints, revised versions . . .”

‘Thus ensuring a
continuous flow of currency to your operatives in every country where the KGB
has a presence,” said Armstrong.

“And as our
representative,” said Valchek, ignoring the comment, “you will receive 10
percent of any advance. After all, there is no reason why you should be treated
differently from any normal literary agent. And I’m confident that our
scientists will be able to produce a new manuscript that is worthy of
publication every year.” He paused. “Just as long as their royalties are always
paid on time and in whichever currency we require.”

“When do I get
to see the manuscript?” asked Armstrong. “I have a copy with me,” Valchek
replied, lowering his eyes to the briefcase by his side. “If you agree to be the
publisher, the first five million will be paid into your account in
Liechtenstein by the end of the week. I understand that is how we’ve always
conducted business with you in the past.”

Armstrong
nodded. “I’ll need a second copy of the manuscript to give to Forsdyke.”

Valchek raised
an eyebrow as his plate was whisked away.

“He has an agent
seated on the far side of the room,” said Armstrong. “So you should hand over
the manuscript just before we leave, and I’ll walk out with it under my arm.
Don’t worry,” he continued, sensing Valchek’s anxiety. “He knows nothing about
publishing, and his department will probably spend months searching for coded
messages among the Sputniks.”

Valchek laughed,
but made no attempt to look across the room as the dessert trolley was wheeled
over to their table, but simply stared at the three tiers of extravagances
before him.

In the silence
that followed, Armstrong caught a single word drifting across from the next
table-”presses.” He began to listen in to the conversation, but then Valchek
asked him for his opinion of a young Czech called Havel, who had recently been
put in jail.

“Is he a
politician?”

“No, he’s a...”

Armstrong put a
finger to his lips to indicate that his colleague should continue talking but
shouldn’t expect an answer. The Russian needed no lessons in this particular
deceit.

Armstrong
concentrated on the three people seated in the adjoining alcove.

The thin,
softly-spoken man with his back to him could only be an Australian, but
although the accent was obvious, Armstrong could hardly pick up a word he was
saying- Next to him sat the young woman who had so distracted him when she
first entered the room. At a guess, he would have said she was mid-European,
and had probably originated not that far from his own birthplace. On her right,
facing the Australian, was a man with an accent from the north of Fngland and a
voice that would have delighted his old regimental sergeant major. The word
“confidential” had obviously never been fully explained to him.

As Valchek continued
talking softly in Russian, Armstrong removed a pen from his pocket and began to
jot down the odd word on the back of the menu-not an easy exercise, unless you
have been taught by a master of the profession. Not for the first time, he was
thankful for Forsdyke’s expertise.

“John
Shuttleworth, WRG chairman” were the first words he scribbled down, and a
moment later, “owner.” Some time passed before he added “Huddersfield Ecbo” and
the names of six other papers. He stared into Valchek’s eyes and continued to
concentrate, then scribbled down four more words: “Leeds, tomorrow, twelve
o’clock.” While his coffee went cold there followed “l 20,000 fair price.” And
finally “factories closed for some time.”