‘Good,’ said Sir Paul. ‘Then I declare the meeting closed, and we can all adjourn for lunch.’
The moment they left the boardroom and entered the dining room Armstrong took over. He marched straight to the head of the table, sat down and began attacking the first course before anyone else had taken their place. He waved at Eric Chapman as he entered the room, indicating that he wanted him to sit on his right, while Peter Wakeham took the seat on his left. Sir Paul found a vacant place halfway down the table on the right-hand side.
Armstrong allowed the company secretary to chatter on about his golf handicap, the state of the government and the economy. He didn’t take a lot of interest in his views on Nick Faldo, Neil Kinnock or Alan Walters. But when Chapman moved on to his greatest passion, the pension fund, he listened intently to his every word.
‘To be fair, Dick, it’s you we have to thank,’ Chapman admitted. ‘You were the one who spotted what a goldmine they were handing over to us. Not that it’s ours really, of course. But the surpluses always make for good reading on the balance sheet, not to mention the audited accounts that have to be presented at the AGM.’
After five slices of prime roast beef had been placed on Armstrong’s plate and he had covered them with gravy, he turned his attention to Peter, who still accorded him the hound-like devotion he had become used to since they had served together in Berlin.
‘Why don’t you fly over to New York and join me for a few days, Peter?’ he suggested, as a waitress went on piling potatoes onto his side plate. ‘That way you’ll be able to see what I’m up against with the unions — and, more importantly, what I’ve achieved. Then, if for any reason I can’t make it back in time for next month’s meeting, you could report to the board on my behalf.’
‘If that’s what you want,’ said Peter, enjoying the thought of a visit to New York, but rather hoping that it would still be Dick who reported back to the board the following month.
‘Take Concorde over next Monday,’ said Armstrong. ‘I have a meeting scheduled with Sean O’Reilly, one of the paper’s most important trade union leaders, that afternoon. I’d like you there to see how I handle him.’
After lunch, Armstrong returned to his office to find a mountain of mail on his desk. He made no attempt even to sift through it. Instead he picked up a telephone and asked to be connected to the accounts department. When the call was answered he said, ‘Fred, can you let me have a checkbook? I’m only in England for a few hours, and...’
‘It’s not Fred, sir,’ came back the reply. ‘It’s Mark Tenby.’
‘Then put me through to Fred, will you?’
‘Fred retired three months ago, sir,’ the chief accountant said. ‘Sir Paul appointed me in his place.’
Armstrong was just about to say ‘With whose authority?’ when he changed his mind. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Then perhaps you would send me up a checkbook immediately. I’m leaving for the States in a couple of hours.’
‘Of course, Mr. Armstrong. Personal or company?’
‘The pension fund account,’ he said evenly. ‘I’ll be making one or two investments on behalf of the company while I’m in the States.’
There followed a longer silence than Armstrong had expected. ‘Yes, sir,’ said the chief accountant eventually. ‘You will of course require the signature of a second director for that particular account, as I’m sure you know, Mr. Armstrong. And I should remind you that it’s against company law to invest pension fund money in any company in which we already have a majority shareholding.’
‘I don’t need a lecture on company law from you, young man,’ shouted Armstrong, and slammed the phone down. ‘Bloody cheek,’ he added to the empty room. ‘Who does he imagine pays his wages?’
Once the checkbook had been sent up, Armstrong abandoned any pretense of going through his post, and slipped out of the room without even saying goodbye to Pamela. He took the elevator to the roof and ordered his helicopter pilot to take him to Heathrow. As they took off, he looked down on London with none of the affection he now felt for New York.
He landed at Heathrow twenty minutes later, and quickly made his way through to the executive lounge. While he was waiting to board his flight, one or two Americans came over to shake him by the hand and thank him for all he was doing for the citizens of New York. He smiled, and began to wonder what would have happened to his life if the boat on which he had escaped all those years ago had docked at Ellis Island rather than Liverpool. Perhaps he might have ended up in the White House.
His flight was called, and he took his place at the front of the aircraft. After an inadequate meal had been served, he slept intermittently for a couple of hours. The nearer they came to the east coast of the United States, the more confident he became that he could still pull it off. A year from today the Tribune would not only still be outselling the Star, but would be declaring a profit that even Sir Paul Maitland would have to acknowledge he had achieved single-handed. And with the prospect of a Labor government in power, there was no saying what he might achieve. He scribbled on the menu, ‘Sir Richard Armstrong,’ and then, a few moments later, put a line through it and wrote underneath, ‘The Rt Hon the Lord Armstrong of Headley.’
When the wheels touched down on the tarmac at Kennedy he felt like a young man again, and couldn’t wait to get back to his office. As he strode through the customs hall, passengers pointed at him, and he could hear murmurs of ‘Look, it’s Dick Armstrong.’ Some of them even waved. He pretended not to notice, but the smile never left his face. His limousine was waiting for him in the VIP section, and he was quickly whisked off in the direction of Manhattan. He slumped in the back seat and turned on the television, flicking from channel to channel until a familiar face suddenly caught his attention.
‘The time has come for me to retire and concentrate on the work of my foundation,’ said Henry Sinclair, the chairman of Multi Media, the largest publishing empire in the world. Armstrong was listening to Sinclair and wondering what price he would consider selling up for when the car came to a halt outside the Tribune building.
Armstrong heaved himself up out of the car and waddled across the pavement. After he had pushed his way through the swing doors, people in the lobby applauded him all the way to the elevator. He smiled at them as if this were something that happened wherever he went. A trade union official watched as the elevator doors closed, and wondered if the proprietor would ever find out that his members had been instructed to applaud whenever and wherever he appeared. ‘Treat him like the president and he’ll start to believe he is the president,’ Sean O’Reilly had told the packed meeting. ‘And go on applauding until the money runs out.’
At each floor on which the elevator doors opened the applause started afresh. When he reached the twenty-first floor, Armstrong found his secretary standing waiting for him. ‘Welcome home, sir,’ she said.
‘You’re right,’ he replied as he stepped out of the elevator. ‘This is my home. I only wish I’d been born in America. If I had, by now I’d be the president.’
‘Mr. Critchley arrived a few minutes ahead of you, sir, and is waiting in your office,’ the secretary said as they walked down the corridor.
‘Good,’ said Armstrong, striding into the largest room in the building. ‘Great to see you again, Russell,’ he said as his lawyer stood up to greet him. ‘So, have you sorted out the union problem for me?’
‘I’m afraid not, Dick,’ said Russell, as they shook hands. ‘In fact, the news is not good from this end. I’m sorry to report that we’re going to have to start over.’