The Fourth Estate

With the help of the ropes, Armstrong yanked himself up the gangway to find the captain and the first officer awaiting him.

“We’ll sail immediately.”

The captain was not surpris

ed. He knew Armstrong would not want to be tied up in port any longer than was necessary: only the gentle swaying of the boat could lull him to sleep, even in the darkest hours. The captain began issuing the orders to get under way as Armstrong slipped off his shoes and disappeared below.

When Armstrong opened the door of his stateroom he was met by yet another pile of faxes. He grabbed them, still hoping for a lifeline. The first was from Peter Wakeham, the deputy chairman of Armstrong Communications, who, despite the late hour, was obviously still at his desk in London. “Please call urgently,” read the message. The second was from New York. The company’s stock had plummeted to a new low, and his bankers had “reluctantly found it necessary” to place their own shares on the market. The third was from Jacques Lacroix in Geneva to confirm that as the bank had not received the $50 million by close of business, they had been left with no choice but to …

It was twelve minutes past five in New York, twelve minutes past ten in London, and twelve minutes past eleven in Geneva. By nine o’clock the following morning he wouldn’t be able to control the headlines in his own newspapers, let alone those owned by Keith Townsend.

Armstrong undressed slowly and allowed his clothes to fall in a heap on the floor. He then took a bottle of brandy from the sideboard, poured himself a large glass and collapsed onto the double bed. He lay still as the engines roared into life, and moments later he heard the clanking of the anchor being hauled up from the sea bed. Slowly the ship began to maneuver itself out of the harbor.

Hour after hour slipped by, but Armstrong didn’t stir, except to refill the brandy balloon from time to time, until he heard four chimes on the little clock by the side of his bed. He pushed himself up, waited for a few moments and then lowered his feet onto the thick carpet. He rose unsteadily, and made his way across the unlit stateroom toward the bathroom. When he reached the open door, he unhooked a large cream dressing-gown with the words Sir Lancelot emblazoned in gold on its pocket. He padded back toward the door of the cabin, opened it cautiously and stepped barefoot into the dimly-lit corridor. He hesitated before locking the door behind him and slipping the key into his dressing-gown pocket. He didn’t move again until he was sure he could hear nothing except the familiar sound of the ship’s engine droning below him.

He lurched from side to side as he stumbled down the narrow corridor, pausing when he reached the staircase which led up onto the deck. He then slowly began to climb the steps, clutching firmly onto the rope on both sides. When he reached the top he stepped out onto the deck, checking quickly in both directions. There was no one to be seen. It was a clear, cool night, no different from ninety-nine in every hundred at that time of year.

Armstrong padded silently on until he was above the engine room—the noisiest part of the ship.

He waited only for a moment before untying the cord of his dressing-gown and allowing it to fall to the deck.

Naked in the warm night, he stared out into the still black sea and thought: isn’t your whole life meant to flash before you at a time like this?

2.

The Citizen

5 November 1991

TOWNSEND FACES RUIN

“Messages?” was all Keith Townsend said as he passed his secretary’s desk and headed toward his office.

“The President called from Camp David just before you boarded the plane,” Heather said.

“Which of my papers has annoyed him this time?” Townsend asked as he sat down.

“The New York Star. He’s heard a rumor that you’re going to print his bank statement on tomorrow’s front page,” Heather replied.

“It’s more likely to be my own bank statement that makes the front pages tomorrow,” said Townsend, his Australian accent more pronounced than usual. “Who else?”

“Margaret Thatcher has sent a fax from London. She’s agreed to your terms for a two-book contract, even though Armstrong’s bid was higher.”

“Let’s hope someone offers me $6 million when I write my memoirs.”

Heather gave him a weak smile.

“Anyone else?”

“Gary Deakins has had another writ served on him.”

“What for this time?”

“He accused the Archbishop of Brisbane of rape, on the front page of yesterday’s Truth.”

“The truth, the whole truth, and anything but the truth,” said Townsend, smiling. “Just as long as it sells papers.”

“Unfortunately it turns out that the woman in question is a well-known lay preacher, and has been a friend of the archbishop’s family for years. It seems that Gary suggested a different meaning each time he used the word ‘lay’.”