The Fourth Estate

“By the way, Dick,” said the prime minister, “while I’ve got you on the line, about your other request…”

“Yes?” he said, his hopes rising for a moment.

“Without sounding too morbid, the Knesset agreed last week that you should be buried on the Mount of Olives, a privilege afforded only to those Jews who have done a great service to the State of Israel. My congratulations. Not every prime minister can be sure of making it, you know.” He laughed. “Not that I anticipate you will be taking advantage of this offer for many years to come.”

“Let’s hope you’re right,” said Armstrong.

“So, will I see you and Charlotte in London for the Guildhall Banquet next month?”

“Yes, we’re looking forward to it,” said Armstrong. “I’ll see you then. But don’t let me detain you any longer, prime minister.”

Armstrong put the phone down, suddenly aware that his shirt was soaked through and clinging to his body. He heaved himself out of his chair and made his way to the bathroom, taking off his jacket and unbuttoning his shirt as he went. When he had closed the door behind him, he toweled himself down and pulled on his third clean shirt that day.

He returned to his desk and continued flicking through his list of phone numbers until he reached S—Arno Schultz. He picked up the phone and asked the secretary to get his lawyer on the line.

“Do you have his number?” she asked.

After another outburst he slammed down the receiver and dialed Russell’s number himself. Without thinking, he turned a few more pages of his Filofax until he heard the attorney’s voice on the other end of the line. “Have I got $50 million hidden away anywhere in the world?” he asked.

“What do you need it for?” asked Russell.

“The Swiss are beginning to threaten me.”

“I thought you’d settled with them last week.”

“So did I.”

“What’s happened to that endless source of funds?”

“It’s dried up.”

“I see. How much did you say?”

“Fifty million.”

“Well, I can certainly think of one way you could raise at least that amount.”

“How?” asked Armstrong, trying not to sound desperate.

Russell hesitated. “You could always sell your 46 percent stake in the New York Star.”

“But who could come up with that sort of money at such short notice?”

“Keith Townsend.” Russell held the phone away from his ear and waited for the word “Never” to come booming down the line. But nothing happened, so he carried on. “My guess is that he’d agree to pay above the market price, because it would guarantee him complete control of the company.”

Russell held the phone away from his ear again, expecting a tirade of abuse. But all Armstrong said was, “Why don’t you have a word with his lawyers?”

“I’m not sure that would be the best approach,” said Russell. “If I were to phone them out of the blue, Townsend would assume that you were short of funds.”

“Which I am not!” shouted Armstrong.

“No one’s suggesting you are,” said Russell. “Will you be attending the bankers’ dinner tonight at the Four Seasons?”

“Bankers’ dinner? What bankers’ dinner?”

“The annual get-together for the principal players in the financial world and their guests. I know you’ve been invited, because I read in the Tribune that you’d be sitting between the governor and the mayor.”

Armstrong checked the printed day-sheet which was lying on his desk. “You’re right, I’m supposed to be going. But so what?”