The Fourth Estate (78 page)

Townsend could
feel the sweat beginning to trickle down onto his nose.

“in one respect
the Financial Times was accurate,” she continued. “If one of the banks takes it
upon itself to be bloodyminded, then, I quote,’the whole edifice will come crashing
down.’If that is the eventual outcome, then I shall pass this case on to a
colleague of mine who works on the floor below this one, and who specializes in
liquidations.

“I will conclude
by saying, Mr. Townsend, that if you hope to avoid the fate of your
fellow-countrymen Mr. Alan

Bond and Mr.
Christopher Skase, you must not only agree to cooperate with me fully, but you
must also give me your assurance that from the moment you leave this office you
will not sign a check, or move any monies from any account under your control,
other than those which are absolutely necessary to cover your day-to-day
expenses. And even then they must not, under any circumstances, exceed $2,000
without it being referred to me.”

She looked up
and waited for his response.

‘Two thousand
dollars?” Townsend repeated.

“Yes,” she said.
“You will be able to reach me at all times, night or day, and you will never
have to wait more than an hour for my decision.

If, however, you
feel unable to adhere to these conditions,” she said, closing the file, “then I
am not willing to continue representing you, and in that I include this bank,
whose reputation, needless to say, is also on the line, I hope I have made my
position clear, Mr. Townsend.”

“Abundantly,”
said Townsend, who felt as if he had gone ten rounds with a heavyweight boxer.

Elizabeth
Beresford leaned back in her chair. “You may of course wish to take
professional advice,” she said. “in which case I will be happy to offer you the
use of one of our consultation rooms.”

‘That won’t be
necessary,” said Townsend. “if my professional adviser had disagreed with any
part of your assessment, he would have said so long before now.”

Tom allowed
himself a smile.

“I will
cooperate fully with your recommendations.” He turned to glance at Tom, who
nodded his approval.

“Good,” said Ms.
Beresford. “Perhaps you could start by handing over your credit cards.”

Three hours
later Townsend rose from his chair, shook hands with Elizabeth Beresford again
and, feeling utterly exhausted, left her to her files. Tom returned to his
office as Townsend made his way unsteadily up the staircase to the floor above
and along the corridor to the chief executive’s room. He was about to knock
when the door swung open and David Grenville stood in front of him holding a
large glass of whiskey.

1 had a feeling
you might need this,” he said, handing it to Townsend.

“But first tell
me, did you survive the opening rounds with E.131’

“I’m not sure,”
he replied. “But I’m booked in every afternoon from three to six for the next
fortnight, including weekends.” He took a large gulp of whiskey and added, “And
she’s taken away my credit cards.”

“That’s a good
sign,” said Grenville. “it shows that she hasn’t given up on you. Sometimes
E.B. simply sends the files down a floor as soon as the first meeting is
concluded.”

“Am I supposed
to feel grateful?” asked Townsend when he had drained his whiskey.

“No, just
temporarily relieved,” said Grenville. “Do you still feel up to attending the
bankers’ dinner tonight?” he asked as he poured Townsend a second whiskey.

“Well, I was
hoping to join you,” replied Townsend. “But she,” he said, pointing down at the
floor, “has set me so much homework to be completed by three tomorrow afternoon
that...”

“I think it
would be wise if you were to put in an appearance tonight, Keith, Your absence
might easily, in the present circumstances, be misinterpreted.”

‘That may be
true. But won’t she send me home even before they’ve served the entr6e?”

“I doubt it,
because I’ve placed you on her right-hand side. It’s all part of my strategy to
convince the banking world that we’re 100 percent behind you.”

“Hell. What’s
she like socially?”

The chairman
considered the question only briefly before saying, “I must confess, E.B.
doesn’t have a great deal of small talk.”

DAILY MAIL

2 JuLy 1991

C
harles and
Diana:

“Cause for
Concern”

“THERE’S A CALL
from Switzerland on line one, Mr. Armstrong,” said the temporary secretary
whose name he couldn’t remember. “He says his name is Jacques Lacroix. I’m also
holding another call from London on line two.”

“Who’s calling
from London?” asked Armstrong.

“A Mr. Peter
Wakeham.”

“Ask him to
hold, and put the call from Switzerland straight through.”

“is that you, Dick?”

“Yes, Jacques.
How are you, old friend?” Armstrong boomed.

“A little
disturbed, Dick,” came the softly-spoken reply from Geneva.

“Why?” asked
Armstrong. 1 deposited a check for $50 million with your New York branch last
week. I even have a receipt for it.”

“I am not
disputing the fact that you deposited the check,” said Lacroix.

‘The purpose of
this call is to let you know that it has been returned to the bank today,
marked ‘Refer to drawer.’”

‘There must be
some mistake,” said Armstrong. 1 know that account still has more than enough
to cover the sum in question.”

‘That may well
be the case. But someone is nevertheless refusing to release any of those funds
to us, and indeed has made it clear, through the usual channels, that they will
not in future honor any checks presented on that account.”

“I’ll ring them
immediately,” said Armstrong, “and call you straight back.”

“I would be
grateful if you did,” said Lacroix.

Armstrong rang
off and noticed that the light on top of the phone was flashing. He remembered
that Wakeham was still holding on line two, grabbed the receiver and said,
“Peter, what the hell is going on over there?”

“I’m not too
sure myself,” admitted Peter. “All I can tell you is that Paul Maitland and
Eric Chapman visited me at home late last night, and asked if I had signed any
checks on the pension fund account. I said exactly what you told me to say, but
I got the impression that Maitland has now given orders to stop any checks that
have my signature on them.”

“Who the hell do
they think they are?” bawled Armstrong. “It’s my company, and I’ll do as I see
fit.”

“Sir Paul says
he’s been trying to get in touch with you for the past week, but you haven’t
been returning his calls. He said at a finance committee meeting last week that
if you fail to turn up at next month’s board meeting, he will be left with no
choice but to resign.”

“Let him
resign-who gives a damn? As soon as he’s gone I can appoint anyone I like as
chairman.”

“Of course you
can,” said Peter. “But I thought you’d want to know that his secretary told me
he’s spent the last few days drafting and redrafting a press release to
coincide with his resignation.”

“So what?” said
Armstrong. “No one will bother to follow it UP.”

“I’m not so
sure,” said Peter.

“What makes you
say that?”

“After his
secretary had left for the evening, I hung around and managed to bring up the
statement on her console.”

“And what does
it say?”

“Among other
things, that he will be asking the Stock Exchange to suspend our shares until a
full inquiry can be carried out.”

“He doesn’t have
the authority to do that,” shouted Arrnstrong. “It would have to be sanctioned
by the board.”

“I think he
plans to ask for that authority at the next board meeting,” said Peter.

‘Then make it
clear to him that I will be present at that meeting,” hollered Armstrong down
the phone, “and that the only press release that will be issued will be the one
from me setting out the reasons why Sir Paul Maitland has had to be replaced as
chairman of the board.”

“Perhaps it
would be better if you told him that yourself,” said Peter quietly. “I’ll just
let him know that you intend to be there.”

“Say what you
damn well like. Just make sure that he doesn’t issue any press statements
before I get back at the end of the month.”

“I’ll do my best,
Dick, but . Peter heard a click on the other end of the line.

Armstrong tried
to collect his thoughts. Sir Paul could wait. His first priority was somehow to
get his hands on fifty million before Jacques Lacroix let the whole world in on
his secret. The Tribune still hadn’t turned the corner, despite all his
efforts. Even after the second settlement with the unions, the company was
showing a disastrously negative cash flow. He had already removed over C300
million from the pension fund without the boarcrs knowledge, to get the unions
off his back and keep the share price as steady as he could by buying up
massive amounts of stock in his own company. But if he failed to pay back the
Swiss in the next few days, he knew there would be a further run on the stock,
and this time he wouldn’t have such a ready source of funds with which to shore
them up.

He glanced round
at the international clock on the wall behind his desk to check what time it
was in Moscow. Just after six o’clock. But he suspected that the man he needed
to speak to would still be in his office. He picked up the phone and asked the
secretary to get him a number in Moscow.

He put the
receiver down. No one had been more delighted than Armstrong when Marshal
Tulpanov was appointed head of the KGB. Since then he had made several trips to
Moscow, and a number of large Eastern European contracts had come his way. But
recently he had found that Tulpanov hadn’t been quite so readily available.

Armstrong began
to sweat as he waited for the call to be put through. Over the years he had had
a number of meetings with Mikhail Gorbachev, who appeared to be quite receptive
to his ideas. But then Boris Yeltsin had taken over. Tulpanov had introduced
him to the new Russian leader, but Armstrong had come away from the meeting
with a feeling that neither of them appreciated how important he was.

While he waited
to be put through, he began to leaf through the pages of his Filofax, searching
for any names that might be able to help with his present dilemma. He’d reached
C-Sally Carr-when the phone rang. He picked it up to hear a voice in Russian
asking who wished to speak to Marshal Tulpanov.

“Lubji, London
sector,” he replied. There was a click, and the familiar voice of the head of
the KGB came on the line.

“What can I do
for you, Lubji?” he asked.

“I need a little
help, Sergei,” began Armstrong. There was no immediate response.

“And what form
is this help expected to take?” Tulpanov eventually inquired in a measured
tone.

“I need a
short-term loan of $50 million. You’d get it back within a month, that I can
guarantee.”

“But, comrade,”
said the head of the KGB, “you are already holding $7 million of our money.
Several of my station commanders tell me that they haven’t received their
royalties from the publication of our latest book.”

Armstrong’s
mouth went dry. “I know, I know, Sergei,” he pleaded. “But I just need a little
more time, and I’ll be able to return everything in the same package.”

“I’m not sure I
want to take that risk,” said Tulpanov after another long silence. “I believe
the British have a saying about throwing good money after bad. And you’d be
wise to remember, Lubji, that the Financial Times is read not only in London
and New York, but also in Moscow. I think I shall wait until I have seen my seven
million deposited in all the correct accounts before I consider lending you any
more. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes,” replied
Armstrong quietly.

“Good. I will
give you until the end of the month to fulfill your obligations. Then I fear we
may have to resort to a less subtle approach.

I think I
pointed out to you many years ago, Lubji, that at some time you would have to
make up your mind about which side you were on. I remind you only because at
the moment, to quote another English saying, you seem to be playing both sides
against the middle.”

“No, that’s not
fair,” protested Armstrong. “I’m on your side, Sergei, I’ve always been on your
side.”

“I hear what you
are saying, Lubji, but if our money is not returned by the end of the month, I
will be powerless to help. And after such a long friendship, that would be most
unfortunate. I am sure you appreciate the position you have put me in.”

Armstrong heard
the line go dead. His forehead was dripping with sweat; he felt queasy. He put
down the receiver, took a powder puff from his pocket and began dabbing his
forehead and cheeks. He tried to concentrate. A few moments later he picked up
the phone again. “Get me the prime minister of Israel.”