E.B. didn’t respond.
“Is there anything I can still do?”
“Just be sure that when you deliver your closing speech this evening, you leave them in no doubt that you’re the chairman of the most successful media company in the world, not that you’re possibly only a few hours away from filing for voluntary liquidation.”
“And when will I know which it is?”
“Sometime tomorrow would be my guess,” said E.B. “I’ll call you the moment my meeting with Austin Pierson is over.” The line went dead.
* * *
Armstrong was met off Concorde by Reg, who drove him through the drifting sleet from Heathrow into London. It always annoyed him that the civil aviation authorities wouldn’t allow him the use of his helicopter over the city during the hours of darkness. Back at Armstrong House, he took the lift straight up to the penthouse, woke his chef and ordered him to prepare a meal. He took a long, hot shower, and thirty minutes later he appeared at the dining room table in a dressing-gown, smoking a cigar.
A large plate of caviar had been laid out for him; he had scooped up the first mouthful with his fingers even before he sat down. After several more handfuls, he lifted his briefcase up onto the table and extracted a single sheet of paper which he placed in front of him. He began to study the agenda for the next day’s board meeting, between mouthfuls of caviar and glass after glass of champagne.
After a few minutes he pushed the agenda to one side, confident that if he could get past item one he had convincing answers to anything else Sir Paul might come up with. He lumbered into the bedroom and propped himself up in bed with a couple of pillows. He switched on the television and began flicking from channel to channel in search of something to distract him. He finally fell asleep watching an old Laurel and Hardy movie.
* * *
Townsend picked up his speech from a side table, left the suite and walked across the corridor to the lift. At the ground floor, he made his way quickly over to the conference center.
Long before he reached the ballroom he could hear the relaxed chattering of the waiting delegates. As he entered the room, a thousand executives fell silent and rose from their places. He walked down the center aisle onto the stage and placed his speech on the lectern, then looked down at his audience, a group of the most talented men and women in the media world, some of whom had served him for over thirty years.
“Ladies and gentlemen, let me begin by saying that Global has never been in better shape to face the challenges of the twenty-first century. We now control forty-one television and radio stations, 137 newspapers and 249 magazines. And of course we have recently added a jewel to our crown: TV News, the biggest-selling magazine in the world. With such a portfolio, Global has become the most powerful communications empire on earth. Our task is to remain the world leaders, and I see before me a team of men and women who are dedicated to keeping Global in the forefront of communications. During the next decade…” Townsend spoke for another forty minutes on the future of the company and the roles they would all be playing in it, finishing with the words: “It has been a record year for Global. When we meet next year, let’s confound our critics by delivering an even better one.”
They all stood and cheered him. But as the applause died down, he couldn’t help remembering that another meeting would be taking place in Cleveland the following morning, at which only one question would be answered, and it certainly wouldn’t be followed by applause.
As the delegates broke up, Townsend strolled round the room, trying to appear relaxed as he said goodbye to some of his chief executives. He only hoped th
at when they returned to their own territories, they wouldn’t be met by journalists from rival newspapers wanting to know why the company had gone into voluntary liquidation. And all because a banker from Ohio had said, “No, Mr. Townsend, I require the fifty million to be repaid by close of business this evening. Otherwise I will be left with no choice but to place the matter in the hands of our legal department.”
As soon as he could get away, Townsend returned to his suite and packed. A chauffeur drove him to the airport, where the Gulfstream was waiting to take off. Would he be traveling economy class tomorrow? He was unaware of how much the conference had taken out of him, and within moments of fastening his seatbelt he fell into a deep sleep.
* * *
Armstrong had planned to rise early and give himself enough time to destroy various papers in his safe, but he was woken by the chimes of Big Ben, foreshadowing the seven o’clock television news. He cursed jetlag as he heaved his legs over the side of the bed, aware of what still needed to be done.
He dressed and went into the dining room to find his breakfast already laid out: bacon, sausages, black pudding and four fried eggs, which he washed down with half a dozen cups of steaming black coffee.
At 7:35 he left the penthouse and took the lift down to the eleventh floor. He stepped out onto the landing, switched on the lights, walked quickly down the corridor past his secretary’s desk, and stopped to jab a code into the pad by the side of his office door. When the light turned from red to green he pushed the door open.
Once inside, he ignored the pile of correspondence waiting for him on his desk and headed straight for the massive safe in the far corner of the room. There was another longer and more complicated code to complete before he could pull back the heavy door.
The first file he dug out was marked “Liechtenstein.” He went over to the shredder and began to feed it in, page after page. Then he returned to the safe and removed a second file marked “Russia (Book Contracts),” and carried out the same process. He was halfway through a file marked “Territories for Distribution” when a voice behind him said, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Armstrong swung round to find one of the security guards shining a torch into his face.
“Get out of here, you fool,” he shouted. “And close the door behind you.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” said the guard. “No one told me you were in the building.” When the door had closed, Armstrong continued to shred documents for another forty minutes until he heard his secretary arrive.
She knocked on the door. “Good morning, Mr. Armstrong,” she said cheerfully. “It’s Pamela. Do you need any help?”
“No,” he shouted above the noise of the shredder. “I’ll be out in a few moments.”
But it was another twenty-five minutes before he eventually opened the door. “How much time have I got before the board meeting?” he asked.
“Just over half an hour,” she replied.
“Ask Mr. Wakeham to join me immediately.”