The Fourth Estate

Sharon didn’t say another word on the journey to the airport. As they drove up to the terminal, Armstrong fingered the two tickets in his inside pocket to be sure he hadn’t left them behind. They stepped out of the limousine, and he asked the Skycap to check his bags straight through to London, then began running toward passport control with Sharon in his wake.

They were ushered quickly in the direction of the exit gate, where a stewardess was already checking passengers on board. “Don’t worry, sir,” she said. “You’ve stil

l got a couple of minutes to spare. You can both catch your breath.”

Armstrong removed the tickets from his pocket and gave one to Sharon. A steward checked his ticket, and he hurried off down the long corridor to the waiting plane.

Sharon handed over her ticket. The steward looked at it and said, “This ticket is not for this flight, madam.”

“What do you mean?” said Sharon. “I’m booked first class on this flight along with Mr. Armstrong. I’m his personal assistant.”

“I’m sure you are, madam, but I’m afraid this ticket is economy, for Pan Am’s evening flight. I fear you’re going to have rather a long wait.”

* * *

“Where are you phoning from?” he asked.

“Kingsford-Smith airport,” she replied.

“Then you can turn straight round and book yourself back on the same plane.”

“Why? Did the deal fall through?”

“No, she signed—but at a price. A problem has arisen over Mrs. Sherwood’s novel, and I have a feeling you’re the only person who can solve it for me.”

“Can’t I grab a night’s sleep, Keith? I’d still be back in New York the day after tomorrow.”

“No, you can’t,” he replied. “There’s something else we need to do before you get down to work, and I’ve only got one afternoon free.”

“What’s that?” asked Kate.

“Get married,” replied Keith.

There was a long silence on the other end of the line before Kate said, “Keith Townsend, you must be the least romantic man God ever put on earth!”

“Does that mean ‘yes’?” he asked. But the line had already gone dead. He put the phone down and looked across the desk at Tom Spencer.

“Did she accept your terms?” the lawyer asked with a grin.

“Can’t be absolutely certain,” Townsend replied. “But I still want you to go ahead with the arrangements as planned.”

“Right, then I’d better get in touch with City Hall.”

“And make sure you’re free tomorrow afternoon.”

“Why?” asked Tom.

“Because, counselor, we’ll need a witness to the contract.”

* * *

Sir Walter Sherwood had sworn several times that day, well above his average for a month.

The first string of expletives came after he had put the phone down on his brother. Alexander had called from Paris just before breakfast to tell him that he had sold his shares in the Globe to Richard Armstrong, at a price of $20 million. He recommended Walter to do the same.

But everything Sir Walter had heard about Armstrong only convinced him that he was the last man alive who should control a newspaper that was as British as roast beef and Yorkshire pudding.

He had calmed down a little after a good lunch at the Turf Club, but then nearly had a heart attack when his sister-in-law called from New York to say that she had also sold her shares, not to Armstrong, but to Keith Townsend, a man Sir Walter considered gave colonials a bad name. He would never forget being stuck in Sydney for a week and having to endure the daily views of the Sydney Chronicle on the subject of “the so-called Queen of Australia.” He had switched to the Continent, only to discover that it was in favor of Australia becoming a republic.