The Fourth Estate

Townsend leaned back in his chair and continued to listen to the myriad problems other people were facing all around the world: the usual complaints from politicians, businessmen and so-called media personalities who expected him to intervene immediately to save their precious careers from ruin. By this time tomorrow, most of them would have calmed down and been replaced by another dozen or so equally irate, equally demanding prima donnas. He knew that every one of them would be only too delighted to discover that it was his own career which really was on the verge of collapse—and all because the president of a small bank in Cleveland had demanded that a loan of $50 million be repaid by the close of business tonight.

As Heather continued to go through the list of messages—most of them from people whose names meant nothing to him—Townsend’s mind drifted back to the speech he’d given the previous evening. A thousand of his top executives from all over the world had gathered in Honolulu for a three-day conference. In his closing address he’d told them that Global Corp couldn’t be in better shape to face the challenges of the new media revolution. He had ended by saying: “We are the one company that is qualified to lead this industry into the twenty-first century.” They had stood and cheered him for several minutes. As he looked down into the packed audience full of confident faces, he had wondered just how many of them suspected that Global was actually only hours away from going bankrupt.

“What shall I do about the President?” Heather asked for the second time.

Townsend snapped back into the real world. “Which one?”

“Of the United States.”

“Wait until he calls again,” he said. “He may have calmed down a bit by then. Meanwhile, I’ll have a word with the editor of the Star.”

“And Mrs. Thatcher?”

“Send her a large bunch of flowers and a note saying, ‘We’ll make your memoirs number one from Moscow to New York’.”

“Shouldn’t I add London?”

“No, she knows it will be number one in London.”

“And what should I do about Gary Deakins?”

“Phone the archbishop and tell him I’m going to build that new roof his cathedral so desperately needs. Wait a month, then send him a check for $10,000.”

Heather nodded, closed her notebook and asked, “Do you want to take any calls?”

“Only Austin Pierson.” He paused. “The moment he phones, put him straight through.”

Heather turned and left the room.

Townsend swiveled his chair round and stared out of the window. He tried to recall the conversation he’d had with his financial adviser when she had phoned him in the private jet on his way back from Honolulu.

“I’ve just come out of my meeting with Pierson,” she’d said. “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?” he’d asked.

“Covering his backside,” she’d replied.

“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 had begun to curse, when E.B. added, “But he did promise me one thing.”

“What was that?”

“He’ll call the moment the committee has reached its decision.”

“That’s big of him. So what am I expected to do if it goes against me?”

“Release the press statement we agreed on,” she’d said.