The Fourth Estate (74 page)

When Townsend
finally settled with the unions, the Star had been off the streets for over two
months, and had lost several million dollars. It took him a great deal of his
time to rebuild the circulation. The Tribune’s figures, however, weren’t helped
by a series of banner headlines telling New Yorkers that “Dick Bites the Big
Apple,” “Dick Pitches for Yankees” and “Magic Dick Shoots a Basket for the
Knicks.” But these appeared humble when the troops came back from the Gulf and
the city gave the returning heroes a tickertape parade all the way down Fifth
Avenue. The front page of the Tribune was given over to a picture of Armstrong
standing on the podium between General Schwarzkopf and Mayor Dinkins; the
inside story, covering the event in detail, mentioned Captain Armstrong’s MC on
four different pages.

But as the weeks
went by, Townsend was unable to find any mention of Armstrong reaching a
settlement with the print unions, search as he might through the columns of the
Tribune. When Barbara Walters did invite him back on the program six weeks
later, Armstrong’s press secretary told her that there was nothing he would
have enjoyed more, but that he had to be in London to attend a board meeting of
the parent company.

That at least
was true – but only because Peter Wakeham had called to warn him that Sir Paul
was on the warpath, and demanding to know how much longer he intended to keep
the New York Tribune on the streets while it was still losing over a million
dollars a week.

“Who does he
imagine allowed him to stay on as chairman in the first place?” asked
Armstrong.

“I couldn’t
agree with you more,” said Peter. “But I thought I ought to let you know what
he’s been telling everyone.

‘Then I’ll just
have to come back and explain a few home truths to Sir Paul, won’t l?”

The limousine
drew up outside the district court in Lower Manhattan a few minutes before
10:30 that morning. Townsend, accompanied by his lawyer, stepped out of the car
and walked swiftly up the courthouse steps.

Tom Spencer had
visited the building the previous day to deal with all the legal formalities,
so he knew exactly where his client needed to go, and guided him through the
maze of corridors. Once they had entered the courtroom, the two of them
squeezed onto one of the overcrowded benches near the back and waited
patiently. The room was packed with people chattering away in different
languages. They sat in silence between two Cubans, and Townsend wondered if he
had made the right decision. Tom had kept pointing out that it was the only way
left open for him if he wished to expand his empire, but he knew that his
countrymen, not to mention the British Establishment, would be scathing about
his reasons. What he couldn’t tell them was that there was no form of words
which would ever make him feel he was anything other than an Australian.

Twenty minutes
later, a judge in a long black gown entered the court and everyone rose. Once
he had taken his seat on the bench, an immigration officer stepped forward and
said, “Your Honor, I ask permission to present one hundred and seventy-two
immigrants for your consideration as American citizens.”

“Have they all
caff ied out the correct procedure as demanded by the law?” the judge asked
solemnly.

‘They have, Your
Honor,” replied the court officer.

‘Then you may
proceed with the Oath of Allegiance.”

Townsend and 171
other would-be Americans recited in unison the words he had read for the first
time in the car on the way to the court.

I hereby
declare, on oath, that I absolutely and entirely renounce and abjure all allegiance
and fidelity to any foreign prince, potentate, state or sovereignty, of whom or
which I have heretofore been a subject or citizeni that I will support and
defend the Constitution and laws of the United States of America against all
enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to
the same; that I will bear arms on behalf of the United States when required by
law; that I will perform noncombatant service in the armed forces of the United
States when required to do so by the law; that I will perfon-n work of national
importance under civilian direction when required by the lawi and that I take
this obligation freely without any mental reservation of purpose or evasion: So
help me God.”

The judge smiled
down at the joyful faces. “Let me be the first to welcome you as full citizens
of the United States,” he said.

As eleven
o’clock struck, Sir Paul Maitland coughed slightly and suggested that perhaps
the time had come to bring the meeting to order. “I would like to begin by
welcoming our chief executive back from New York,” he said, glancing to his
right. There were murmurs of assent from around the table. “But it would be
remiss of me not to admit to a little anxiety caused by some of the reports
coming out of that city.” The murmurs were repeated, and if anything were
slightly louder.

“Me board backed
you, Dick, when without seeking its approval you purchased the New York Tri6ne
for twenty-five cents,” continued Sir Paul.

“However, we now
feel you should let us know for how much longer you are willing to tolerate
losses in the region of nearly one and a half million dollars a week. Because
the present situation,” he said, referring to a row of figures in front of him,
“is that the group’s profits in London are only just covering the losses we are
sustaining in New York. In a few weeks’time we will have to face our
shareholders at the annual general meeting-” he looked up at his colleagues
seated round the table’~-and I am not convinced that they will approve our
stewardship if this state of affairs continues for much longer. As you are all
aware, our share price has fallen from C3. 10 to C2.70 in the last month.” Sir
Paul leaned back in his chair and turned to Armstrong, indicating that he was
ready to listen to his explanation.

Armstrong looked
slowly around the boardroom table, aware that almost everyone present was there
because of his patronage.

“I am able to
tell the board, Mr. Chairman,” he began, “that my negotiations with the New
York unions, which I must admit have been keeping me up most nights, are
finally reaching their conclusion.” He paused as one or two smiles appeared on
the faces around the table.

“Seven hundred
and twenty members of the print union have already agreed to take early retirement,
or to accept a redundancy package. I shall be announcing this officially as
soon as I return to New York.”

“But the Wall
Street Journal has estimated,” said Sir Paul, referring to an article he had
extracted from his briefcase, 11 that we need to reduce the workforce by
between fifteen hundred and two thousand.”

“What do that
lot know, sitting in their cozy airconditioned offices downtown?” said
Armstrong. I am the person who has to deal with these men face to face.”

“Nevertheless...”

‘The second
tranche of sackings and redundancies will take place in the next few weeks,”
continued Armstrong. I remain confident that I will have concluded those
negotiations by the time of the next board meeting.”

“And how many
weeks do you imagine it will be before we see the benefits of these
negotiations?”

Armstrong
hesitated. “Six weeks. Eight weeks at the most, Chairman. But naturally I will
be doing everything in my power to speed the process up.”

“How much is
this latest package going to cost the company?” asked Sir Paul, returning to a
typewritten sheet of paper in front of him.

Armstrong could
see he had been ticking off a list of questions one by one.

I don’t have an
exact figure to hand, chairman,” replied Armstrong.

I would be
content, for the purposes of this meeting,” said Sir Paul, looking up from his
notes, “with what I think the Americans call ‘a ballpark figure’.” A little
laughter broke the tension round the table.

“Fwo hundred,
perhaps as much as two hundred and thirty million,” said Armstrong, aware that
the accountants in New York had already warned him it could be nearer three
hundred million. No one round the table offered an opinion, although one or two
of them began writing down the figures.

“it may have
escaped your notice, chairman,” added Armstrong, “that the New York Tribune
building is on the books, and is conservatively valued at $150 million.”

“As long as it’s
producing a newspaper,” said Sir Paul, now turning the pages of a glossy
document supplied to him by a legal firm from Chicago called Spender, Dickson
& Withers. “But in a closing-down situation, I’m reliably informed it is
worth no more than fifty million.”

“We are not in a
closing-down situation,” said Armstrong, “as everyone will soon come to
appreciate.”

“I only hope
you’re right,” said Sir Paul quietly.

Armstrong
remained silent as the board moved on to discuss the rest of the agenda item by
item. He sat there wondering why he was treated so badly in his own country
while he was hailed as a hero in the States. His mind drifted back to the
proceedings when he caught Eric Chapman, the company secretary, saying “
...
and we have a satisfactory surplus in
that account at the present time, Mr. Chairman.”

“As is quite
right and proper,” said Sir Paul. “Perhaps you’d be kind enough to take us
through the figures, Mr. Chapman.”

The company
secretary bent down, lifted an oldfashioned leather-bound ledger up onto the
table and slowly turned its pages. “The pension fund,” he began, “is financed,
as members of the board are aware, by joint contributions. The employees pay 4
percent of their wages into the fund, and management tops it up with an equal
contribution. On a year-on-year basis, we are currently paying our former
employees approximately C34 million, while we receive in income from present
employees the sum of C51 million. Thanks in part to a shrewd investment program
carried out by our merchant bankers, the account’s balance currently stands at
a little over £631 million, against a requirement properly to fulfill our legal
obligation to former employees of around £400 million.”

“Most
satisfactory,” purred Sir Paul. Armstrong continued to listen intently.

“Though I must
inform the board,” continued Chapman, “that I have taken actuarial advice, and
that although this may appear a large surplus on paper, it is, with life
expectancy rising every year, no more than a necessary cushion “

“We take your
point,” said Sir Paul- “Any other business?”

No one spoke,
and the directors began placing pens into pockets, closing files and opening
briefcases.

“Good,” said Sir
Paul. “Then I declare the meeting closed, and we can all adjourn for lunch.”

The moment they
left the boardroom and entered the dining room Armstrong took over. He marched
straight to the head of the table, sat down and began attacking the first
course before anyone else had taken their place- He waved at Eric Chapman as he
entered the room, indicating that he wanted him to sit on his right, while
Peter Wakeham took the seat on his left. Sir Paul found a vacant place halfway
down the table on the right-hand side.

Armstrong
allowed the company secretary to chatter on about his golf handicap, the state
of the government and the economy. He didn’t take a lot of interest in his
views on Nick Faldo, Neil Kinnock or Alan Walters. But when Chapman moved on to
his greatest passion, the pension fund, he listened intently to his every word.

‘To be fair,
Dick, it’s you we have to thank,” Chapman admitted. “You were the one who
spotted what a goldmine they were handing over to us. Not that it’s ours
really, of course. But the surpluses always make for good reading on the
balance sheet, not to mention the audited accounts that have to be presented at
the AGM.”

After five
slices of prime roast beef had been placed on Armstrong’s plate and he had
covered them with gravy, he turned his attention to Peter, who still accorded
him the hound-like devotion he had become used to since they had served
together in Berlin.

“Why don’t you
fly over to New York and join me for a few days, Peter?” he suggested, as a waitress
went on piling potatoes onto his side plate. “That way you’ll be able to see
what I’m up against with the unions-and, more importantly, what I’ve achieved.
Then, if for any reason I can’t make it back in time for next month’s meeting,
you could report to the board on my behalf.”

“If that’s what
you want,” said Peter, enjoying the thought of a visit to New York, but rather
hoping that it would still be Dick who reported back to the board the following
month.

“Fake Concorde
over next Monday,” said Armstrong. “I have a meeting scheduled with Sean
O’Reilly, one of the paper’s most important trade union leaders, that
afternoon. I’d like you there to see how I handle him.”

After lunch,
Armstrong returned to his office to find a mountain of mail on his desk. He
made no attempt even to sift through it. Instead he picked up a telephone and
asked to be connected to the accounts department. When the call was answered he
said, “Fred, can you let me have a checkbook? I’m only in England for a few
hours, and. . .”