The Fourth Estate

“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 Kingsford-Smith, 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 cross-country 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, “That’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 Star? “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.”