The Fourth Estate (79 page)

“is that a
Manhattan number?” asked the temp.

“Damn it, am I
the only person left in this building who can carry out a simple task?”

“I’m sorry,” she
stammered.

“Don’t bother,
I’ll do it myself,” shouted Armstrong.

He checked his
Filofax and dialed the number. While he waited to be connected, he continued to
turn the pages of his Filofax. He had reached H-Julius; Hahn-when a voice on
the end of the line said, ‘The prime ministees office.”

“It’s Dick
Armstrong here. I need to speak to the prime minister urgently.”

“I’ll see if I
can interrupt him, sir.”

Another click, another
wait, a few more pages turned. He reached the letter L-Sharon Levitt.

“Dick, is that
you?” inquired Prime Minister Shamir.

“Yes it is,
Yitzhak.”

“How are you, my
old friend?”

“I’m just fine,”
said Armstrong, “and you?”

“I’m well thank
you.” He paused. “I’ve got all the usual problems, of course, but at least I’m
in good health. And how’s Charlotte?”

“Charlotte’s
fine,” said Armstrong, unable to remember when he had last seen her. “She’s in
Oxford looking after the grandchildren.”

“So how many do
you have now?” asked Shamir.

Armstrong had to
think for a moment. “Three,” he said, and nearly added, “or is it four?”

“Lucky man. And
are you still keeping the Jews of New York happy?”

“You can always
rely on me to do that,” said Armstrong.

1 know we can,
old friend,” said the prime minister. “So tell me. What is it I can do for
you?”

“It’s a personal
matter, Yitzhak, that I hoped you might be able to advise me on.”

“I’ll do
everything I can to help; Israel will always be in your debt for the work you
have done for our people. Tell me how I can assist you, old friend.”

“A simple
request,” replied Armstrong. “I need a shortterm loan of $50 million, no more
than a month at the most. I wondered if you could help in any way?”

There was a long
silence before the prime minister said, “The government does not involve itself
in loans, of course, but I could have a word with the chairman of Bank Leumi if
you thought that would be helpful.”

Armstrong
decided not to tell the prime minister that he already had an outstanding loan
of $20 million with that particular bank, and they had made it clear that no
more would be forthcoming.

“That’s a good
idea, Yitzhak. But don’t you bother, I can contact him myself,” he added,
trying to sound cheerful.

“By the way,
Dick,” said the prime minister, “while I’ve got you on the line, about your
other request...”

“Yes?” he said,
his hopes rising for a moment ...

“Without
sounding too morbid, the Knesset agreed last week that you should be buried on
the Mount of Olives, a privilege afforded only to those Jews who have done a
great service to the State of Israel. My congratulations. Not every prime
minister can be sure of making it, you know.” He laughed. “Not that I
anticipate you will be taking advantage of this offer for many years to come.”

“Let’s hope
you’re right,” said Armstrong.

“So, will I see
you and Charlotte in London for the Guildhall Banquet next month?”

“Yes, we’re
looking forward to it,” said Armstrong. “I’ll see you then. But don’t let me
detain you any longer, prime minister.”

Armstrong put
the phone down, suddenly aware that his shirt was soaked through and clinging
to his body. He heaved himself out of his chair and made his way to the
bathroom, taking off his jacket and unbuttoning his shirt as he went. When he
had closed the door behind him, he toweled himself down and pulled on his third
clean shirt that day.

He returned to
his desk and continued flicking through his list of phone numbers until he
reached S-Arno Schultz. He picked up the phone and asked the secretary to get
his lawyer on the line.

“Do you have his
number?” she asked.

After another
outburst he slammed down the receiver and dialed Russell’s number himself.
Without thinking, he turned a few more pages of his Filofax until he heard the attorney’s
voice on the other end of the line. “Have I got $50 million hidden away
anywhere in the world?” he asked.

“What do you
need it for?” asked Russell.

“The Swiss are
beginning to threaten me.”

“I thought you’d
settled with them last week.”

“So did L”

“What’s happened
to that endless source of funds?”

“It’s dried up.”

“I see. How much
did you say~”

“Fifty million.”

“Well, I can
certainly think of one way you could raise at least that amount.”

“How?” asked
Armstrong, trying not to sound desperate.

Russell
hesitated. “You could always sell your 46 percent stake in the Neu, York Star.”

“But who could
come up with that sort of money at such short notice?”

“Keith
Townsend.” Russell held the phone away from his ear and waited for the word
“Nevee’to come booming down the line. But nothing happened, so he carried on.
“My guess is that he’d agree to pay above the market price, because it would
guarantee him complete control of the company.

Russell held the
phone away from his ear again, expecting a tirade of abuse. But ail Armstrong
said was, “Why don’t you have a word with his lawyers?”

“I’m not sure
that would be the best approach,” said Russell. “If I were to phone them out of
the blue, Townsend would assume that you were short of funds.”

“Which I am
not!” shouted Armstrong.

“No one’s
suggesting you are,” said Russell. “Will you be attending the bankers’ dinner
tonight at the Four Seasons?”

“Bankers’
dinner? What bankers’ dinner?”

“Me annual
get-together for the principal players in the financial world and their guests.
I know you’ve been invited, because I read in the Tribune that you’d be sitting
between the governor and the mayor.”

Armstrong
checked the printed day-sheet which was lying on his desk.

“You’re right,
I’m supposed to be going. But so what?”

“I have a
feeling that Townsend will make an appearance, if only to let the banking world
know he’s still around after that unfortunate article in the Financial Tmes.”

“I suppose the
same could apply to me,” said Armstrong, sounding unusually morose.

“It might be the
ideal opportunity to bring up the subject casually and see what sort of
reaction you get.”

Another phone
began to ring.

“Hold on a
moment, Russell,” Armstrong said, as he picked up the other phone. It was his
secretary on the end of the line. “What do you want?”

Armstrong
bellowed out the words so loudly that Russell wondered for a moment if he was
still talking to him.

“I’m sorry to
interrupt you, Mr. Armstrong,” she said, “but the man from Switzerland has just
phoned again.”

‘Tell him I’ll call
straight back,” said Armstrong.

“He insisted on
holding, sir. Shall I put him through?”

“I’ll have to
call you back in a moment, Russell,” said Armstrong, switching phones.

He looked down
at his Filofax, which was open at the letter T lacques, I think I may have
solved our little problem.”

NEW YORK STAR

20 AuGUST 1991

M
ayor Tells
Police Chief:

“The Cupboard’s
Bare”

ToWNSEND HATED
THE idea of having to sell his shares in the Star, and to Richard Armstrong of
all people. He checked his bow tie in the mirror and cursed out loud yet again.
He knew that everything Elizabeth Beresford had insisted on that afternoon was
probably his only hope of survival.

Perhaps
Armstrong might fail to turn up at the dinner? That would at least allow him to
bluff for a few more days. How could E.B. begin to understand that of all his
assets, the Star was second only to the Melbourne Courier in his affections? He
shuddered at the thought that she hadn’t yet told him what she felt would have
to be disposed of in Australia.

Townsend
rummaged around in the bottom drawer, searching for a dress shirt, and was
relieved to find one 694 neatly wrapped in a cellophane packet. He pulled it
on. Damn! He cursed as the top button flew off when he tried to do it up, and
cursed again when he remembered that Kate wouldn’t be back from Sydney for
another week. He tightened his bow tie, hoping that it would cover the problem.
He looked in the mirror. It didn’t. Worse, the collar of his dinner jacket was
so shiny that it made him look like a 1950s band leader. Kate had been telling
him for years to get a new DJ, and perhaps the time had come to take her
advice.

And then he
remembered: he no longer had any credit cards.

When he left his
apartment that evening and took the elevator down to the waiting car, Townsend
couldn’t help noticing for the first tinne that his chauffeur was wearing a
smarter suit than anything he had in his entire wardrobeAs the limousine began
its slow journey to the Four Seasons, he sat back and tried to work out just
how he might bring tip the subject of selling his shares in the Star should he
get a moment alone with Dick Arrnstrong.

One of the good
things about a well-cut double-breasted DJ, Armstrong thought, was that it
helped to disguise just how overweight you really were.

He had spent
more than an hour that evening having his hair dyed by his butler and his hands
manicured by a maid. When he checked himself in the mirror, he felt confident
that few of those attending the bankers’dinner that night would have believed
he was nearly seventy.

Russell had
phoned him just before he left the office to say that he calculated the value
of his shares in the Star must be around sixty to seventy million dollars, and
he was confident that Townsend would be willing to pay a premium if he could
buy the stock in one block.

All he needed
for the moment was fifty-seven million. That would take care of the Swiss, the
Russians and even Sir Paul.

As his limousine
drew up outside the Four Seasons, a young man in a smart red jacket rushed up
and opened the back door for him. When he saw who it was trying to heave
himself out, he touched his cap and said, “Good evening, Mr. Armstrong.”

“Good evening,”
Armstrong replied, and handed the young man a ten-dollar bill. At least one
person that night would still believe he was a multimillionaire. He climbed the
wide staircase up to the dining room, joining a stream of other guests. Some of
them turned to smile in his direction, others pointed. He wondered what they
were whispering to each other. Were they predicting his downfall, or talking of
his genius? He returned their smiles.

Russell was
waiting for him at the top of the stairs. As they walked on toward the dining
room, he leaned over and whispered, “Townsend’s already here. He’s on table
fourteen as a guest of J.P. Grenville,” Armstrong nodded, aware that J.P.
Grenville had been Townsend’s merchant bankers for over twenty-five years. He
entered the dining room, lit up a large Havana cigar and began to weave his way
through the packed circular tables, occasionally stopping to shake an
outstretched hand, and pausing to chat for a few moments to anyone he knew was
capable of loaning large sums of money.

Townsend stood
behind his chair on table fourteen and watched Armstrong make his slow progress
toward the top table. Eventually he took his place between Governor Cuomo and
Mayor Dinkins. He smiled whenever a guest waved in their direction, always
assuming it was him they were interested in.

“Fonight could
well turn out to be your best chance,” said Elizabeth Beresford, who was also
looking toward the top table.

Townsend nodded.
“It might not be quite that easy to speak to him privately.”

“if you wanted
to buy his shares, you’d find a way quickly enough.”

Why was the damned
woman always right?

The master of
ceremonies thumped the table with a gavel several times before the room fell
quiet enough for a rabbi to deliver a prayer. Over half the people in the room
put khivas on their heads, including Armstrong-something Townsend had never
seen him do at a public function in London.

As the guests
sat down, a band of waiters began serving the soup. It didn’t take long for
Townsend to discover that David Grenville had been right in his assessment of
E.B.’s small talk, which came to an end long before he had finished the first
course. As soon as the main course had been served, she turned toward him,
lowered her voice and began to ask a series of questions about his Australian
assets. He answered every one of them as best he could, aware that even the
slightest inaccuracy would be picked up and later used in evidence against him.
Making no concessions to the fact that they were at a social occasion, she then
moved on to how he intended to raise the subject of selling his shares in the
Star to Armstrong.