The Fourth Estate

“The deputy chairman is not expected in today, sir,” said Pamela.

“Not expected? Why not?” bellowed Armstrong.

“I think he’s caught the ’flu bug that’s been going around. I know he’s already sent his apologies to the company secretary.”

Armstrong went over to his desk, looked up Peter’s number in his Filofax and began dialing. The phone rang several times before it was answered by a female voice.

“Is Peter there?” he boomed.

“Yes, but he’s in bed. He’s been rather poorly, and the doctor said he needed a few days’ rest.”

“Get him out of bed.”

There was a long silence, before a reedy voice asked, “Is that you, Dick?”

“Yes, it is,” replied Armstrong. “What the hell do you mean by missing such a crucial board meeting?”

“I’m sorry, Dick, but I’ve got rather a bad dose of ’flu, and my doctor recommended a few days’ rest.”

“I don’t give a damn what your doctor recommended,” said Armstrong. “I want you at this board meeting. I’m going to need all the support I can get.”

“Well, if you feel it’s that important,” said Peter.

“I most certainly do,” replied Armstrong. “So get here, and get here fast.”

Armstrong sat behind his desk, aware of the buzz emanating from the outer offices that showed the building was coming to life. He checked his watch: only about ten minutes before the meeting was due to begin. But not one director had dropped in for their usual chat, or to ensure that they had his support for whatever proposal they were recommending to the board. Perhaps they just didn’t realize he was back.

Pamela entered his office nervously and handed him a thick briefing file on the agenda for the morning’s meeting. Item number one, as he had read the previous night, was “The Pension Fund.” But when he checked in the file, there were no briefing notes for the directors to consider—the first such notes were attached to item number two: the fall in circulation of the Citizen after the Globe had cut its cover price to ten pence.

Armstrong continued reading through the file until Pamela returned to tell him that it was two minutes to ten. He pushed himself up from the chair, tucked the file under his arm and walked confidently into the corridor. As he made his way toward the boardroom, several employees who passed him said “Good morning.” He gave them each a warm smile and returned their greeting, though he wasn’t always certain of their names.

As he approached the open door of the boardroom, he could hear his fellow directors muttering among themselves. But the moment he stepped into the room there was an eerie silence, as if his presence had struck them dumb.

* * *

Townsend was woken by a stewardess as the plane began its descent into Kennedy.

“A Ms. Beresford phoning from Cleveland. She says you’ll take the call.”

“I’ve just come out of my meeting with Pierson,” said E.B. “It lasted over an hour, but he still hadn’t made up his mind by the time I left him.”

“Hadn’t made up his mind?”

“No. He still needs to consult the bank’s finance committee before he can come to a final decision.”

“But surely now that all the other banks have fallen into place, Pierson can’t—”

“He can and he may well. Try to remember that he’s the president of a small bank in Ohio. He’s not interested in what other banks have agreed to. And after all the bad press coverage you’ve been getting in the past few weeks, he only cares about one thing right now.”

“What’s that?”

“Covering his backside.”

“But doesn’t he realize that all the other banks will renege if he doesn’t go along with the overall plan?”

“Yes, he does, but when I put that to him he shrugged his shoulders and said, ‘In which case I’ll just have to take my chance along with all the others.’”

Townsend began to curse.