The Fourth Estate (57 page)

He had already deposited
$20 million at the Manhattan Bank, gone over the press statement with his
public relations adviser and warned Peter Wakeham to prepare the board for a
special announcement.

Alexander
Sherwood had phoned the previous evening to say that he had called his
sister-in-law before she went on her annual cruise. She had confirmed that the
agreed figure was $20 million, and was looking forward to meeting Armstrong at
eleven o’clock at her apartment on the day after her return.

By the time he
and Sharon stepped onto the plane, Armstrong was confident that within
twenty-four hours he would be the sole proprietor of a national newspaper
second only in circulation to the Daily Citizen.

They touched
down at Idlewild a few hours before the Qucen Elizabeib was due to dock at Pier
90. After they had checked into the Pierre, Armstrong walked across to 63rd
Street to be sure he knew exactly where Mrs. Sherwood lived. For $10 the
doorman confirmed that she was expected back later that day.

Over dinner in
the hotel that night he and Sharon hardly spoke. He was beginning to wonder why
he had bothered to bring her along. She was in bed long before he headed for
the bathroom, and asleep by the time he came out.

As he climbed
into bed, he tried to think what could possibly go wrong between now and eleven
o’clock the next morning.

I think she knew
what we were up to al I along,” said Kate as she watched Mrs. Sherwood’s Rolls
disappear out of sight.

“She can’t
have,” said Townsend. “But even if she did, she still accepted the terms I
wanted.”

“Or was it the
terms sbe wanted?” said Kate quietly.

“What are you
getting W”

‘Just that it
was all a little bit too easy for my liking. Don’t forget, she’s not a
Sherwood. She was just clever enough to marry one.”

“You’ve become
too suspicious for your own good,” said Townsend. “Fry not to forget, she isn’t
Richard Armstrong.”

“I’ll only be
convinced when you have her signature on both contracts.”

“Both?”

“She won’t part
with her third of the Globe unless she really believes you’re going to publish
her novel.”

“I don’t think
there’ll be any problem convincing her of that,” said Townsend. “We mustn’t
forget that she’s desperate-she had fifteen rejection slips before she bumped
into me.”

“Or did she see
you coming?”

Townsend looked
down to the quayside as a black stretch limousine pulled up by the gangplank. A
tall, thickset man with a head of unruly black hair jumped out of the back and
looked up toward the passengers standing on the deck. ‘Tom Spencer’s just
arrived,” said Townsend. He turned back to Kate.

“Stop worrying.
By the time you’re back in Sydney, I’ll own 33.3 percent of the Globe. And I
couldn’t have done it without you. Call me the moment you land at
KingsfordSmith, and I’ll bring you up to date.” Townsend gave her a kiss and held
her in his arms before they returned to their separate cabins.

He grabbed his
bags and made his way quickly down to the quayside. His New York attorney was
pacing rapidly around the car-a throwback from his days as a crosscountry
runner, he had once explained to Townsend.

“We’ve got
twenty-four hours, counselor,” said Townsend, as they shook hands.

“So Mrs.
Sherwood fell in with your plan?” said the attorney, guiding his client toward
the limousine.

“Yes, but she
wants two contracts,” said Townsend as he climbed into the back of the car,
“and neither of them is the one I asked you to draw up when I called from
Sydney.”

Tom removed a
yellow pad from his briefcase and rested it on his knees.

He had long ago
realized that this was not a client who spent any time indulging in small talk.
He began to make notes as Townsend gave him the details of Mrs. Sherwood’s
terms. By the time he had heard what had taken place over the past few days,
Tom was beginning to have a sneaking admiration for the old lady. He then asked
a series of questions, and neither of them noticed when the car drew up outside
the Carlyle.

Townsend leapt
out and pushed his way through the swing doors into the lobby to find two of
Tom’s associates waiting for them.

“Why don’t you
check in?” suggested Tom. “I’ll brief my colleagues on what you’ve told me so
far. When you’re ready, join us in the Versailles Room on the third floor.”

After Townsend
had signed the registration form, he was handed the key to his usual room. He
unpacked before taking the lift down to the third floor. When he entered the
Versailles Room he found Tom pacing around a long table, briefing his two
colleagues. Townsend took a seat at the far end of the table while Tom
continued circling. He stopped only when he needed to ask for more details of
Mrs. Sherwood’s demands.

After walking
several miles, devouring pile after pile of freshly cut sandwiches and
consuming gallons of coffee, they had outline drafts prepared for both
contracts.

When a maid came
in to draw the curtains just after six, Tom sat down for the first time and
read slowly through the drafts. After he had finished the last page, he stood
up and said, “Mat’s as much as we can do for now, Keith. We’d better get back
to the office and prepare the two documents ready for engrossing. I suggest we
meet up at eight tomorrow morning so you can go over the final text.”

“Anything I
ought to be thinking about before then, counselor?” asked Townsend.

“Yes,” replied
Tom. “Are you absolutely certain we should leave out those two clauses in the
book contract that Kate felt so strongly about?”

“Absolutely.
After three days with Mrs. Sherwood, I can assure you that she knows nothing
about book publishing.”

Tom shrugged his
shoulders. “That wasn’t how Kate read it.”

“Kate was being
overcautious,” said Townsend. “There’s nothing to stop me printing 100,000
copies of the damn book and storing every one of them in a warehouse in New
Jersey.”

“No,” said Tom,
“but what happens when the book fails to get onto the New York Times
best-seller list?”

“Read the
relevant clause, counselor. There’s no mention of a time limit.

Anything else
you’re worried about?”

“Yes. You’ll
need to have two separate money orders with you for the ten o’clock meeting. I
don’t want to risk checks with Mrs. Sherwood-that would only give her an excuse
not to sign the final agreement. You can be sure of one thing: Armstrong will
have a draft for $20 million in his hand when he turns up at eleven.”

Townsend nodded
his agreement. I transferred the money from Sydney to the Manhattan Bank the
day I briefed you on the original contract. We can pick up both drafts first
thing in the morning.”

“Good. Then
we’ll be on our way.”

When Townsend
returned to his room, he collapsed onto the bed exhausted, and immediately fell
into a deep sleep. He didn’t wake until five the next morning, and was
surprised to find that he was still fully dressed.

His first
thoughts were of Kate and where she might be at that moment.

He undressed and
stood under a warm shower for a long time before ordering an early breakfast.
Or should it be a late dinner? He studied the twenty- four-hour menu and
settled for breakfast.

As he waited for
room service, Townsend watched the early-morning newscasts. They were dominated
by Israel’s crushing victory in the Six-Day War, although no one seemed to know
where Nasser was. A NASA spokesman was being interviewed on the Today show
about America’s chances of putting a man on the moon before the Russians. The
weather man was promising a cold front in New York. Over breakfast he read the
New York Times, followed by the Star, and he could see exactly what changes he
would make to both papers if he were the proprietor. He tried to forget that
the FCC was continually badgering him with questions about his expanding
American empire, and reminding him of the cross-ownership regulations that
applied to foreigners.

“There’s a
simple solution to that problem,” Tom had told him on several occasions.

“Never,” he had
always replied firmly. But what would he do if that became the only way he
could ever take over the New York Star2 “Never,” he repeated, but not with
quite the same conviction.

For the next
hour he watched the same newscasts and reread the same newspapers. By
seven-thirty he knew everything that was happening around the world, from Cairo
to Queens, and even in space. At ten to eight he took the lift down to the
ground floor, where he found the two young lawyers waiting for him. They
appeared to be wearing the same suits, shirts and ties as on the previous day,
even if they had somehow found time to shave.

He didn’t ask
where Tom was: he knew he would be pacing around the lobby, and would join them
as soon as he completed his circuit.

“Good morning,
Keith,” Tom said, shaking his client by the hand. “I’ve reserved a quiet table
for us in a corner of the coffee room.”

After three
black coffees and one white had been poured, Tom opened his briefcase, took out
two documents and presented them to his client. “If she agrees to sign these,”
he said, “33.3 percent of the Globe will be yours-as will the publishing rights
for The Senator~ Mistress.”

Townsend was
taken through the documents slowly, clause by clause, and began to realize why
the three of them had been up all night. “So what’s next?” he asked, as he
handed the contracts back to his lawyer.

“You have to
pick up the two money drafts from the Manhattan Bank, and be sure that we’re
outside Mrs. Sherwood’s front door by five to ten, because we’re going to need
every minute of that hour if these are to be signed before Armstrong turns up.”

Armstrong also
began reading the morning papers only moments after they had been dropped
outside the door of his hotel room. As he turned the pages of the New York
Times, he too kept seeing changes he would make if only he could get his hands
on a New York daily. When he had finished the Times he turned to the Star, but
it didn’t hold his attention for long.

He threw the
papers to one side, switched on the television and began flicking between the
channels to pass the time. An old black-and-white movie starring Alan Ladd took
precedence over an interview with an astronaut.

He left the
television on when he disappeared into the bathroom, not giving a thought as to
whether it might wake Sharon.

By seven he was dressed
and becoming more restless by the minute. He switched to Good Morning America
and watched the mayor explaining how he intended to deal with the firemen’s
union and their demand for higher redundancy pay. “Kick the bastards where it
hurts!” he shouted at the screen. He finally flicked it off after the weather
man informed him that it was going to be another hot, cloudless day with
temperatures in the high seventies-in Malibu. Armstrong picked up Sharon’s
powder puff from the dressing table and dabbed his forehead, then put it in his
pocket.

At 7:30 he ate
breakfast in the room, not having bothered to order anything for Sharon. By the
time he left their suite at 8:30 to join his lawyer, she still hadn’t stirred.

Russell
Critchley was waiting for him in the restaurant. Armstrong began ordering a
second breakfast before he sat down. His lawyer extracted a lengthy document
from his briefcase and began to take him through it. While Critchley sipped
coffee, Armstrong devoured a three-egg omelette followed by four waffles
covered in thick syrup.

“I can’t foresee
any real problems,” said Critchley. “It’s virtually the same document as her
brother-in-law signed in Geneva-although of course she has never requested any
form of under-the-counter payment.”

“And she has no
choice but to accept $20 million in full settlement if she is to keep to the
terms of Sir George Sherwood’s will.”

‘That is
correct,” said the lawyer. He referred to another file before adding, “it seems
that the three of them signed a binding agreement when they inherited the stock
that if they were ever to sell, it must be at a price agreed by at least two of
the parties. As you know, Alexander and Mar garet have already settled on $20
million.”

“Why would they
do that?”

“if they hadn’t,
they would have inherited nothing under the terms of Sir George’s will. He
obviously didn’t want the three of them to end up squabbling over the price.”

“And the
two-thirds rule still applies”“ asked Armstrong, spreading syrup over another
waffle.

“Yes, the clause
in question is unambiguous,” Critchley said, flicking over the pages of yet
another document. “I have it here.” He began reading:

If any person or
company becomes entitled to be registered as the owner of at least 66.66
percent of the issued shares, that person or company shall have the option to
purchase the balance of the issued shares at a price per share equal to the
average price per share paid by that person or company for its existing shares.