The Fourth Estate

“Sir Paul says he’s been trying to get in touch with you for the past week, but you haven’t been returning his calls. He said at a finance committee meeting last week that if you fail to turn up at next month’s board meeting, he will be left with no choice but to resign.”

“Let him resign—who gives a damn? As soon as he’s gone I can appoint anyone I like as chairman.”

“Of course you can,” said Peter. “But I thought y

ou’d want to know that his secretary told me he’s spent the last few days drafting and redrafting a press release to coincide with his resignation.”

“So what?” said Armstrong. “No one will bother to follow it up.”

“I’m not so sure,” said Peter.

“What makes you say that?”

“After his secretary had left for the evening, I hung around and managed to bring up the statement on her console.”

“And what does it say?”

“Among other things, that he will be asking the Stock Exchange to suspend our shares until a full inquiry can be carried out.”

“He doesn’t have the authority to do that,” shouted Armstrong. “It would have to be sanctioned by the board.”

“I think he plans to ask for that authority at the next board meeting,” said Peter.

“Then make it clear to him that I will be present at that meeting,” hollered Armstrong down the phone, “and that the only press release that will be issued will be the one from me setting out the reasons why Sir Paul Maitland has had to be replaced as chairman of the board.”

“Perhaps it would be better if you told him that yourself,” said Peter quietly. “I’ll just let him know that you intend to be there.”

“Say what you damn well like. Just make sure that he doesn’t issue any press statements before I get back at the end of the month.”

“I’ll do my best, Dick, but…” Peter heard a click on the other end of the line.

Armstrong tried to collect his thoughts. Sir Paul could wait. His first priority was somehow to get his hands on fifty million before Jacques Lacroix let the whole world in on his secret. The Tribune still hadn’t turned the corner, despite all his efforts. Even after the second settlement with the unions, the company was showing a disastrously negative cash flow. He had already removed over £300 million from the pension fund without the board’s knowledge, to get the unions off his back and keep the share price as steady as he could by buying up massive amounts of stock in his own company. But if he failed to pay back the Swiss in the next few days, he knew there would be a further run on the stock, and this time he wouldn’t have such a ready source of funds with which to shore them up.

He glanced round at the international clock on the wall behind his desk to check what time it was in Moscow. Just after six o’clock. But he suspected that the man he needed to speak to would still be in his office. He picked up the phone and asked the secretary to get him a number in Moscow.

He put the receiver down. No one had been more delighted than Armstrong when Marshal Tulpanov was appointed head of the KGB. Since then he had made several trips to Moscow, and a number of large Eastern European contracts had come his way. But recently he had found that Tulpanov hadn’t been quite so readily available.

Armstrong began to sweat as he waited for the call to be put through. Over the years he had had a number of meetings with Mikhail Gorbachev, who appeared to be quite receptive to his ideas. But then Boris Yeltsin had taken over. Tulpanov had introduced him to the new Russian leader, but Armstrong had come away from the meeting with a feeling that neither of them appreciated how important he was.

While he waited to be put through, he began to leaf through the pages of his Filofax, searching for any names that might be able to help with his present dilemma. He’d reached C—Sally Carr—when the phone rang. He picked it up to hear a voice in Russian asking who wished to speak to Marshal Tulpanov.

“Lubji, London sector,” he replied. There was a click, and the familiar voice of the head of the KGB came on the line.

“What can I do for you, Lubji?” he asked.

“I need a little help, Sergei,” began Armstrong. There was no immediate response.

“And what form is this help expected to take?” Tulpanov eventually inquired in a measured tone.

“I need a short-term loan of $50 million. You’d get it back within a month, that I can guarantee.”

“But, comrade,” said the head of the KGB, “you are already holding $7 million of our money. Several of my station commanders tell me that they haven’t received their royalties from the publication of our latest book.”

Armstrong’s mouth went dry. “I know, I know, Sergei,” he pleaded. “But I just need a little more time, and I’ll be able to return everything in the same package.”

“I’m not sure I want to take that risk,” said Tulpanov after another long silence. “I believe the British have a saying about throwing good money after bad. And you’d be wise to remember, Lubji, that the Financial Times is read not only in London and New York, but also in Moscow. I think I shall wait until I have seen my seven million deposited in all the correct accounts before I consider lending you any more. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes,” replied Armstrong quietly.