The Fourth Estate

There followed a longer silence than Armstrong had expected. “Yes, sir,” said the chief accountant eventually. “You will of course require the signature of a second director for that particular account, as I’m sure you know, Mr. Armstrong. And I should remind you that it’s against company law to invest pension fund money in any company in which we already have a majority shareholding.”

“I don’t need a lecture on company law from you, young man,” shouted Armstrong, and slammed the phone down. “Bloody cheek,” he added to the empty room. “Who does he imagine pays his wages?”

Once the checkbook had been sent up, Armstrong abandoned any pretense of going through his post, and slipped out of the room without even saying goodbye to Pamela. He took the elevator to the roof and ordered his helicopter pilot to take him to Heathrow. As they took off, he looked down on London with none of the affection he now felt for New York.

He landed at Heathrow twenty minutes later, and quickly made his way through to the executive lounge. While he was waiting to board his flight, one or two Americans came over to shake him by the hand and thank him for all he was doing for the citizens of New York. He smiled, and began to wonder what would have happened to his life if the boat on which he had escaped all those years ago had docked at Ellis Island rather than Liverpool. Perhaps he might have ended up in the White House.

His flight was called, and he took his place at the front of the aircraft. After an inadequate meal had been served, he slept intermittently for a couple of hours. The nearer they came to the east coast of the United States, the more confident he became that he could still pull it off. A year from today the Tribune would not only still be outselling the Star, but would be declaring a profit that even Sir Paul Maitland would have to acknowledge he had achieved single-handed. And with the prospect of a Labor government in power, there was no saying what he might achieve. He scribbled on the menu, “Sir Richard Armstrong,” and then, a few moments later, put a line through it and wrote underneath, “The Rt Hon the Lord Armstrong of Headley.”

When the wheels touched down on the tarmac at Kennedy he felt like a young man again, and couldn’t wait to get back to his office. As he strode through the customs hall, passengers pointed at him, and he could hear murmurs of “Look, it’s Dick Armstrong.” Some of them even waved. He pretended not to notice, but the smile never left his face. His limousine was waiting for him in the VIP section, and he was quickly whisked off in the direction of Manhattan. He slumped in the back seat and turned on the television, flicking from channel to channel until a familiar face suddenly caught his attention.

“The time has come for me to retire and concentrate on the work of my foundation,” said Henry Sinclair, the chairman of Multi Media, the largest publishing empire in the world. Armstrong was listening to Sinclair and wondering what price he would consider selling up for when the car came to a halt outside the Tribune building.

Armstrong heaved himself up out of the car and waddled across the pavement. After he had pushed his way through the swing doors, people in the lobby applauded him all the way to the elevator. He smiled at them as if this were something that happened wherever he went. A trade union official watched as the elevator doors closed, and wondered if the proprietor would ever find out that his members had been instructed to applaud whenever and wherever he appeared. “Treat him like the president and he’ll start to believe he is the president,” Sean O’Reilly had told the packed meeting. “And go on applauding until the money runs out.”

At each floor on which the elevator doors opened the applause started afresh. When he reached the twenty-first floor, Armstrong found his secretary standing waiting for him. “Welcome home, sir,” she said.

“You’re right,” he replied as he stepped out of the elevator. “This is my home. I only wish I’d been born in America. If I had, by now I’d be the president.”

“Mr. Critchley arrived a few minutes ahead of you, sir, and is waiting in your office,” the secretary said as they walked down the corridor.

“Good,” said Armstrong, striding into the largest room in the building. “Great to see you again, Russell,” he said as his lawyer stood up to greet him. “So, have you sorted out the union problem for me?”

“I’m afraid not, Dick,” said Russell, as they shook hands. “In fact, the news is not good from this end. I’m sorry to report that we’re going to have to start over.”

“What do you mean, start over?” said Armstrong.

“While you were away the unions rejected the $230 million redundancy package you proposed. They’ve come back with a demand for $370 million.”

Armstrong collapsed into his chair. “I only have to go away for a few days, and you let everything fall apart!” he screamed. He looked toward the door as his secretary entered the room and placed the first edition of the Tribune on the desk in front of him. He glanced down at the headline: “WELCOME HOME DICK!”

35.

New York Tribune

4 February 1991

CAPTAIN DICK IN COMMAND

“Armstrong has made a bid of $2 billion for Multi Media,” said Townsend.

“What? That’s like a politician declaring war when he doesn’t want people to realize how bad his problems are at home,” said Tom.

“Possibly. But like those same politicians, if he pulls it off, it just might sort out his problems at home.”

“I doubt it. After going through those figures over the weekend, if he stumps up $2 billion it’s more likely to end up as yet another disaster.”

“Multi Media is worth far more than two billion,” said Townsend. “It owns fourteen newspapers stretching from Maine to Mexico, nine television stations, and the TV News, the biggest-selling magazine in the world. Its turnover alone touched a billion last year, and the company declared an overall profit of over $100 million. It’s a cash mountain.”

“For which Sinclair will expect to be given Everest in return,” said Tom. “I can’t see how Armstrong can hope to make a profit at $2 billion, especially if he has to borrow heavily to get it.”

“Simply by generating more cash,” said Townsend. “Multi Media has been on autopilot for years. To start with, I’d sell off several of the subsidiaries that are no longer profitable and revitalize others that should be making far more. But my main efforts would concentrate on building up the media side, which has never been properly exploited, using the turnover and profits from the newspapers and magazines to finance the whole operation.”

“But you have more than enough to worry about at the moment without getting involved in another takeover,” said Tom. “You’ve only just settled the strike at the New York Star, and don’t forget that the bank recommended a period of consolidation.”

“You know what I think of bankers,” said Townsend. “The Globe, the Star and all my Australian interests are now in profit, and I may never have an opportunity like this again. Surely you can see that, Tom, even if the bank can’t.”

Tom didn’t speak for some time. He admired Townsend’s drive and innovation, but Multi Media dwarfed anything they had ever attempted in the past. And however hard he tried, he just couldn’t make the figures add up. “There’s only one way I can see it working,” he said eventually.