The Fourth Estate

“Will that be enough?”

“It’s all I could manage at such short notice, so let’s hope so.”

“Do they know what’s expected of them?”

“They sure do. I took them through several rehearsals last night. But I still want you to address them before the meeting begins.”

“And how about the lead player? Has she been rehearsing?” Townsend asked.

“She didn’t need to,” said Tom. “She’s been understudying the part for some time.”

“Did she agree to my terms?”

“Didn’t even haggle.”

“What about the lease? Any surprises there?”

“No, it was just as she said it would be.”

Townsend stood up, walked across to the window and stared out over Central Park. “Will you be proposing the motion?”

“No, I’ve asked Andrew Fraser to do that. I’m going to stick with you.”

“Why did you pick Fraser?”

“He’s the senior partner, which will ensure that the chairman realizes just how serious we are.”

Townsend swung round and faced his attorney. “So what can go wrong?”

* * *

When Armstrong walked out of the offices of Keating, Could & Critchley, accompanied by the senior partner, he was faced with a battery of cameramen, photographers and journalists, all hoping to get the same questions answered.

“What changes do you intend to make, Mr. Armstrong, when you are the chairman of the Star?”

“Why change a great institution?” he replied. “In any case,” he added, as he marched down the long corridor and out onto the sidewalk, “I’m not the sort of proprietor who interferes with the daily running of a paper. Ask any of my editors. They’ll tell you.”

One or two of the journalists who were chasing after him had already done so, but Armstrong had reached the relative safety of his limousine before they could follow up with any supplementaries.

“Bloody hacks,” he said, as the car set off in the direction of the Plaza Hotel where the Annual General Meeting of the Star shareholders was to be held. “You can’t even control the ones you own.”

Russell didn’t comment. As they proceeded down Fifth Avenue, Armstrong began glancing at his watch every few moments. Lights seemed to turn red just as they approached them. Or did you only ever notice such things when you were in a hurry? Armstrong looked out at the busy sidewalk and watched the natives of Manhattan streaming back and forth at a pace he now took for granted. As the lights turned green, he touched his breast pocket to check his acceptance speech was still in place. He had once read that Margaret Thatcher would never allow an aide to carry her speeches, because she had a dread of arriving on a platform without the script. He understood her anxiety for the first time.

The nervous conversation between Armstrong and his attorney stopped and started, as the car passed the General Motors building. Armstrong took a large powder puff out of his pocket and dabbed his forehead. Russell continued to stare out of the window.

“So what can go wrong?” asked Armstrong, for the tenth time.

“Nothing,” repeated Russell, tapping the leather briefcase on his knees. “I have shares and pledges totaling 51 percent of the stock, and we know Townsend has only 46 percent. Just relax.”

More cameramen, photographers and journalists were waiting on the steps of the Plaza as the limousine drew up. Russell glanced across at his client who, despite his protests to the contrary, seemed to be enjoying every moment of the attention. As Armstrong stepped out of the car, the manager of the Plaza took a pace forward to greet him as if he were a visiting head of State. He guided the two men into the hotel, across the lobby and on toward the Lincoln Room. Armstrong failed to notice Keith Townsend and the senior partner of another distinguished law firm step out of the elevator as he and his party swept by.

Townsend had arrived at the Plaza an hour earlier. Unnoticed by the manager, he had checked out the room where the meeting would be held, and then made his way to the State Suite, where Tom had assembled a team of out-of-work actors. He briefed them on the role they would be expected to play, and why it was necessary for them to sign so many transfer forms. Forty minutes later he returned to the lobby.

Townsend and Tom Spencer walked slowly toward the Lincoln Room in Armstrong’s wake. They could easily have been mistaken for two of his minor acolytes.

“What if she doesn’t turn up?” asked Townsend.

“Then a lot of people will have wasted a great deal of time and money,” said Tom as they entered the Lincoln Room.