The Fourth Estate (51 page)

Over the past
four years Townsend had purchased three more Australian dailies, a Sunday and a
weekly news magazine. He now controlled newspapers in every state of Australia,
and there wasn’t a politician or businessman in the country who wasn’t
available whenever Townsend picked up a phone. He had also visited America a
dozen times in the past year, selecting cities where the main employers were in
steel, coal, or automobiles, because he nearly always found that companies
involved in those ailing industries also controlled the local newspapers.
Whenever he discovered such a company having cash-flow problems he moved in,
and was often able to close a deal for the newspaper quickly. In almost every
case he then found his new acquisition overstaffed and badly managed, because
it was rare for anyone on the main board to have any first-hand experience of
running a newspaper. By sacking half the staff and replacing most of the senior
management with his own people, he could turn the balance sheet round in a
matter of months.

Using this
approach he had succeeded in picking up nine city papers, from Seattle to North
Carolina, and that in turn had allowed him to build up a company which would be
large enough to bid for one of America’s flagship newspapers, should the
opportunity ever arise.

Kate had accompanied
him on several of these trips, and although he was in no doubt that he wanted
to marry her, he still wasn’t sure, after his experiences with Susan, that he
could ask anyone to spend the rest of her life living out of suitcases and
never being quite sure where their roots were.

If he ever
envied Armstrong anything, it was that he had a son to take over his empire.

THE TIMES

29 OCTOBER 1966

C
hannel Tunnel
Target Date 1975.

Four Years to
Build “Miss LEVITT WILL be accompanying me to Paris,” said Armstrong. “Book me
two first class tickets and my usual suite at the George V.”

Sally carried
out his orders as if it was a normal business transaction.

She smiled at the
thought of the promises that would be made over the weekend and then not kept,
of the presents that would be offered but never materialize. On Monday morning
she would be expected to settle up with the girl, in cash, just like her
predecessors-but at a far higher hourly rate than any agency would have dared
to charge for even the most experienced temp.

When Armstrong
arrived back from Paris on Monday morning, there was no sign of Sharon. Sally
assumed she would be hearing from her later that day. “How did the meeting with
Alexander Sherwood go?” she asked after she had placed the morning post on his
desk.

“We agreed on a
price for his third of the Globe,” Armstrong said triumphantly. Before Sally
could ask for any details, he added, “Your next task is to get hold of the
catalog for a sale at Sotheby’s in Geneva that’s taking place on Thursday
morning.”

She didn’t bat
an eyelid as she flicked over three pages of the diary.

“You’ve got
appointments that morning at ten, eleven and eleven forty-five, and a lunch
with William Barnetson, the chairman of Reuters. You’ve already rearranged it
twice.”

‘Then you’ll
just have to rearrange it for a third time,” said Armstrong, not even looking
up.

“Including the
meeting with the chief secretary to the Treasury?”

“Including
everything,” he said. “Book me two first class tickets for Geneva on Wednesday
evening, and my usual room at Le Richemond overlooking the take.”

So Sharon
whatever- her- name-was must have survived for a second outing.

Sally put a line
through the seven appointments in the diary on Thursday, well aware that there
had to be a good reason for Dick to postpone a cabinet minister and the
chairman of Reuters. But what could he be buying?

The only thing
he had ever bid for in the past had been newspapers, and you couldn’t pick up
one of those at an auction house.

Sally returned
to her office and asked Benson to drive over to Sotheby’s in Bond Street and
purchase a copy of their catalog for the Geneva sale. When he presented it to
her an hour later, she was even more surprised. Dick had never shown any
interest in collecting eggs in the past. Could it be the Russian connection?

Because surely
Sharon wasn’t expecting a Faberg6 for two nights’work?

On the Wednesday
evening, Dick and Sharon flew into Swiss city and checked into Le Richemond.
Before dinner they strolled over to the H6tel de Bergues in the center of the
city, where Sotheby’s always conduct their Geneva auctions, to inspect the room
where the sale would be taking place.

Armstrong
watched as the hotel staff put out the chairs on a floor which he estimated
would hold about four hundred people. He walked slowly round the room, deciding
where he needed to sit to be sure that he had a clear view of the auctioneer as
well as the bank of nine telephones placed on a raised platform at one side of
the room. As he and Sharon were about to leave, he stopped to glance round the
room once more.

As soon as they
arrived back at their hotel, Armstrong marched into the small dining room
overlooking the lake and headed straight for the alcove table in the corner. He
had sat down long before the head waiter could tell him the table was reserved
for another guest. He ordered for himself and then passed the menu to Sharon.

As he waited for
the first course, he began to butter the bread roll on the plate by his side.
When he had eaten it, he leaned across and took Sharon’s roll from her plate.
She continued to turn the pages of the Sotheby’s catalog.

“Page
forty-nine,” he said between mouthfuls. Sharon quickly flicked over a few more
pages. Her eyes settled on an object whose name she couldn’t pronounce.

“Is this to be
added to a collection?” she asked, hoping it might be a gift for her.

“Yes,” he
replied, with his mouth full, “but not mine. I’d never heard of Faberg6 until
last week,” he admitted. “It’s just part of a bigger deal I’m involved in.”

Sharon’s eyes
continued down the page, passing over the detailed description of how the
masterpiece had been smuggled out of Russia in 1917, until they settled on the
estimated price.

Armstrong
reached under the table and put a hand on her thigh.

“How high will
you go?” she asked, as a waiter appeared by their side and placed a large bowl
of caviar in front of them.

Armstrong
quickly removed his hand and switched his attention to the first course.

Since
theirweekend in Paris they had spent every night together, and Dick couldn’t
remember how long it was since he had been so obsessed by anyone-if ever. Much
to Sally’s surprise, he had taken to leaving the office in the early evening,
and not reappearing until ten the next day.

Over breakfast
each morning he would offer to buy her presents, but she always rejected them,
which made him fearful of losing her. He knew it wasn’t love, but whatever it
was, he hoped it would go on for a long time. He had always dreaded the thought
of a divorce, even though he rarely saw Charlotte nowadays other than at
official functions and couldn’t even remember when they had last slept
together. But to his relief Sharon never talked about marriage. The only suggestion
she ever made would, she kept reminding him, allow them the best of both
worlds. He was slowly coming round to failing in with her wishes.

After the empty
caviar bowl had been whisked away, Armstrong began to attack a steak which took
up so much of his plate that the extra vegetables he had demanded had to be
placed on several other dishes. By using two forks he found he was able to eat
from two plates at once, while Sharon contented herself with nibbling a lettuce
leaf and toying with some smoked salmon. He would have ordered a second helping
of Black Forest gateau if she hadn’t started running the tip of her right foot
along the inside of his thigh.

He threw his
napkin down on the table and headed out of the restaurant toward the lift, leaving
Sharon to follow a pace behind. He stepped in and jabbed the button for the
seventh floor, and the doors closed just in time to prevent an elderly couple
from joining them.

When they
reached their floor he was relieved that there was no one else in the corridor,
because if there had been, they could not have failed to notice the state he
was in.

Once he had
kicked the bedroom door closed with his heel, she pulled him down on to the
floor and began pulling off his shirt. I can’t wait any longer,” she whispered.

-Me following
morning, Armstrong sat down at a table laid for two in their suite. He ate both
breakfasts while checking the exchange rate for the Swiss franc against the
pound in the Financial Times.

Sharon was
admiring herself in a long mirror at the other end of the room, taking her time
to get dressed. She liked what she saw, and smiled before turning round and
walking over to the breakfast table. She placed a long, slim leg on the arm of
Armstrong’s chair. He dropped his butter knife on the carpet as she began
pulling on a black stocking. When she changed legs he stood up to face her,
sighing as she slipped her arms inside his dressing-gown.

“Have we got
time?” he asked.

“Don’t worry
about time, my darling, the auction doesn’t start until ten,” she whispered,
unclipping her bra and pulling him back down to the floor.

They left the
hotel a few minutes before ten, but as the only item Armstrong was interested
in was unlikely to come up much before eleven, they strolled arm in arm along
the side of the lake, making their way slowly in the direction of the city
center and enjoying the warmth of the morning sun.

When they
entered the foyer of the H6tel de Bergues, Armstrong felt strangely
apprehensive. Despite the fact that he had bargained for everything he had ever
wanted in his life, this was the first time he had attended an auction. But he
had been carefully briefed on what was expected of him, and he immediately
began to carry out his instructions. At the entrance to the ballroom he gave
his name to one of the smartly-dressed women seated behind a long table. She
spoke in French and he replied in kind, explaining that he was only interested
in Lot Forty-three. Armstrong was surprised to find that almost every place in
the room had already been taken, including the one he had identified the
previous evening. Sharon pointed to two empty chairs on the left-hand side of
the room, toward the back. Armstrong nodded and led her down the aisle. As they
sat down a young man in an open-necked shirt slipped into a seat behind them.

Armstrong
checked that he had a clear view of the auctioneer as well as the bank of
temporary phones, each of them manned by an overqualified telephonist. His
position wasn’t as convenient as his original choice, but he could see no
reason why it should prevent him from fulfilling his part of the bargain.

“Lot Seventeen,”
declared the auctioneer from his podium at the front of the ballroom. Armstrong
turned to the relevant page in his catalog, and looked down at a silver-gilt
Easter egg supported by four crosses with the blue enameled cipher of Czar
Nicholas 11, commissioned in 1907 from Peter Carl Fabcrg6 for the Czarina. He
began to concentrate on the proceedings.

“Do I hear
10,000?” asked the auctioneer, looking around the room. He nodded at someone
toward the back. “Fifteen thousand.” Armstrong tried to follow the different
bids, although he wasn’t quite sure where they were coming from, and when Lot
Seventeen eventually sold for 45,000 francs, he had no idea who the purchaser was.
It came as a surprise that the auctioneer brought the hammer down without
saying “Going, going, gone.”

By the time the
auctioneer had reached Lot Twentyfive, Armstrong felt a little more sure of
himself, and by Lot Thirty he thought he could even spot the occasional bidder.
By Lot Thirty-five he felt he was an expert, but by Lot Forty, the Winter Egg
of 1913, he had begun to feel nervous again.

“I shall start
this lot at 20,000 francs,” declared the auctioneer.

Armstrong
watched as the bidding climbed quickly past 50,000, with the hammer finally
coming down at 120,000 francs, to a customer whose anonymity was guaranteed by
his being on the other end of a telephone line.

Armstrong felt
his hands begin to sweat when Lot Forty-one, the Chanticleer Egg of 1896,
encrusted in pearls and rubies, went for 280,000 francs. During the sale of Lot
Forty-two, the Yuberov Yellow Egg, he began to fidget, continually looking up
at the auctioneer and then down at the open page of his catalog.

When the
auctioneer called Lot Forty-three, Sharon squeezed his hand and he managed a
nervous smile. A buzz of conversation struck up around the room.

“Lot
Forty-three,” repeated the auctioneer, “the Fourteenth Imperial Anniversary
Egg. This unique piece was commissioned by the Czar in 19 10.

The paintings
were executed by Vasily Zulev, and the craftsmanship is considered to be among
the finest examples of Faberg~’s work. There has already been considerable
interest shown in this lot, so I shall start the bidding at 100,000 francs.”