The Fourth Estate

“I don’t have an exact figure to hand, chairman,” replied Armstrong.

“I would be content, for the purposes of this meeting,” said Sir Paul, looking up from his notes, “with what I think the Americans call ‘a ballpark figure’.” A little laughter broke the tension round the table.

“Two hundred, perhaps as much as two hundred and thirty million,” said Armstrong, aware that the accountants in New York had already warned him it could be nearer three hundred million. No one round the table offered an opinion, although one or two of them began writing down the figures.

“It may have escaped your notice, chairman,” added Armstrong, “that the New York Tribune building is on the books, and is conservatively valued at $150 million.”

“As long as it’s producing a newspaper,” said Sir Paul, now turning the pages of a glossy document supplied to him by a legal firm from Chicago called Spender, Dickson & Withers. “But in a closing-down situation, I’m reliably informed it is worth no more than fifty million.”

“We are not in a closing-down situation,” said Armstrong, “as everyone will soon come to appreciate.”

“I only hope you’re right,” said Sir Paul quietly.

Armstrong remained silent as the board moved on to discuss the rest of the agenda item by item. He sat there wondering why he was treated so badly in his own country while he was hailed as a hero in the States. His mind drifted back to the proceedings when he caught Eric Chapman, the company secretary, saying “… and we have a satisfactory surplus in that account at the present time, Mr. Chairman.”

“As is quite right and proper,” said Sir Paul. “Perhaps you’d be kind enough to take us through the figures, Mr. Chapman.”

The company secretary bent down, lifted an old-fashioned leather-bound ledger up onto the table and slowly turned its pages. “The pension fund,” he began, “is financed, as members of the board are aware, by joint contributions. The employees pay 4 percent of their wages into the fund, and management tops it up with an equal contribution. On a year-on-year basis, we are currently paying our former employees approximately £34 million, while we receive in income from present employees the sum of £51 million. Thanks in part to a shrewd investment program carried out by our merchant bankers, the account’s balance currently stands at a little over £631 million, against a requirement properly to fulfill our legal obligation to former employees of around £400 million.”

“Most satisfactory,” purred Sir Paul. Armstrong continued to listen intently.

“Though I must inform the board,” continued Chapman, “that I have taken actuarial advice, and that although this may appear a large surplus on paper, it is, with life expectancy rising every year, no more than a necessary cushion.”

“We take your point,” said Sir Paul. “Any other business?”

No one spoke, and the directors began placing pens into pockets, closing files and opening briefcases.

“Good,” said Sir Paul. “Then I declare the meeting closed, and we can all adjourn for lunch.”

The moment they left the boardroom and entered the dining room Armstrong took over. He marched straight to the head of the table, sat down and began attacking the first course before anyone else had taken their place. He waved at Eric Chapman as he entered the room, indicating that he wanted him to sit on his right, while Peter Wakeham took the seat on his left. Sir Paul found a vacant place halfway down the table on the right-hand side.

Armstrong allowed the company secretary to chatter on about his golf handicap, the state of the government and the economy. He didn’t take a lot of interest in his views on Nick Faldo, Neil Kinnock or Alan Walters. But when Chapman moved on to his greatest passion, the pension fund, he listened intently to his every word.

“To be fair, Dick, it’s you we have to thank,” Chapman admitted. “You were the one who spotted what a goldmine they were handing over to us. Not that it’s ours really, of course. But the surpluses always make for good reading on the balance sheet, not to mention the audited accounts that have to be presented at the AGM.”

After five slices of prime roast beef had been placed on Armstrong’s plate and he had covered them with gravy, he turned his attention to Peter, who still accorded him the hound-like devotion he had become used to since they had served together in Berlin.

“Why don’t you fly over to New York and join me for a few days, Peter?” he suggested, as a waitress went on piling potatoes onto his side plate. “That way you’ll be able to see what I’m up against with the unions—and, more importantly, what I’ve achieved. Then, if for any reason I can’t make it back in time for next month’s meeting, you could report to the board on my behalf.”

“If that’s what you want,” said Peter, enjoying the thought of a visit to New York, but rather hoping that it would still be Dick who reported back to the board the following month.

“Take Concorde over next Monday,” said Armstrong. “I have a meeting scheduled with Sean O’Reilly, one of the paper’s most important trade uni

on leaders, that afternoon. I’d like you there to see how I handle him.”

After lunch, Armstrong returned to his office to find a mountain of mail on his desk. He made no attempt even to sift through it. Instead he picked up a telephone and asked to be connected to the accounts department. When the call was answered he said, “Fred, can you let me have a checkbook? I’m only in England for a few hours, and…”

“It’s not Fred, sir,” came back the reply. “It’s Mark Tenby.”

“Then put me through to Fred, will you?”

“Fred retired three months ago, sir,” the chief accountant said. “Sir Paul appointed me in his place.”

Armstrong was just about to say “With whose authority?” when he changed his mind. “Fine,” he said. “Then perhaps you would send me up a checkbook immediately. I’m leaving for the States in a couple of hours.”

“Of course, Mr. Armstrong. Personal or company?”

“The pension fund account,” he said evenly. “I’ll be making one or two investments on behalf of the company while I’m in the States.”