‘No, that’s not fair,’ protested Armstrong. ‘I’m on your side, Sergei, I’ve always been on your side.’
‘I hear what you are saying, Lubji, but if our money is not returned by the end of the month, I will be powerless to help. And after such a long friendship, that would be most unfortunate. I am sure you appreciate the position you have put me in.’
Armstrong heard the line go dead. His forehead was dripping with sweat; he felt queasy. He put down the receiver, took a powder puff from his pocket and began dabbing his forehead and cheeks. He tried to concentrate. A few moments later he picked up the phone again. ‘Get me the prime minister of Israel.’
‘Is that a Manhattan number?’ asked the temp.
‘Damn it, am I the only person left in this building who can carry out a simple task?’
‘I’m sorry,’ she stammered.
‘Don’t bother, I’ll do it myself,’ shouted Armstrong.
He checked his Filofax and dialed the number. While he waited to be connected, he continued to turn the pages of his Filofax. He had reached H — Julius Hahn — when a voice on the end of the line said, ‘The prime minister’s office.’
‘It’s Dick Armstrong here. I need to speak to the prime minister urgently.’
‘I’ll see if I can interrupt him, sir.’
Another click, another wait, a few more pages turned. He reached the letter L — Sharon Levitt.
‘Dick, is that you?’ inquired Prime Minister Shamir.
‘Yes it is, Yitzhak.’
‘How are you, my old friend?’
‘I’m just fine,’ said Armstrong, ‘and you?’
‘I’m well thank you.’ He paused. ‘I’ve got all the usual problems, of course, but at least I’m in good health. And how’s Charlotte?’
‘Charlotte’s fine,’ said Armstrong, unable to remember when he had last seen her. ‘She’s in Oxford looking after the grandchildren.’
‘So how many do you have now?’ asked Shamir.
Armstrong had to think for a moment. ‘Three,’ he said, and nearly added, ‘or is it four?’
‘Lucky man. And are you still keeping the Jews of New York happy?’
‘You can always rely on me to do that,’ said Armstrong.
‘I know we can, old friend,’ said the prime minister. ‘So tell me. What is it I can do for you?’
‘It’s a personal matter, Yitzhak, that I hoped you might be able to advise me on.’
‘I’ll do everything I can to help; Israel will always be in your debt for the work you have done for our people. Tell me how I can assist you, old friend.’
‘A simple request,’ replied Armstrong. ‘I need a short-term loan of $50 million, no more than a month at the most. I wondered if you could help in any way?’
There was a long silence before the prime minister said, ‘The government does not involve itself in loans, of course, but I could have a word with the chairman of Bank Leumi if you thought that would be helpful.’
Armstrong decided not to tell the prime minister that he already had an outstanding loan of $20 million with that particular bank, and they had made it clear that no more would be forthcoming.
‘That’s a good idea, Yitzhak. But don’t you bother, I can contact him myself,’ he added, trying to sound cheerful.
‘By the way, Dick,’ said the prime minister, ‘while I’ve got you on the line, about your other request...’
‘Yes?’ he said, his hopes rising for a moment.
‘Without sounding too morbid, the Knesset agreed last week that you should be buried on the Mount of Olives, a privilege afforded only to those Jews who have done a great service to the State of Israel. My congratulations. Not every prime minister can be sure of making it, you know.’ He laughed. ‘Not that I anticipate you will be taking advantage of this offer for many years to come.’
‘Let’s hope you’re right,’ said Armstrong.
‘So, will I see you and Charlotte in London for the Guildhall Banquet next month?’
‘Yes, we’re looking forward to it,’ said Armstrong. ‘I’ll see you then. But don’t let me detain you any longer, prime minister.’
Armstrong put the phone down, suddenly aware that his shirt was soaked through and clinging to his body. He heaved himself out of his chair and made his way to the bathroom, taking off his jacket and unbuttoning his shirt as he went. When he had closed the door behind him, he toweled himself down and pulled on his third clean shirt that day.
He returned to his desk and continued flicking through his list of phone numbers until he reached S — Arno Schultz. He picked up the phone and asked the secretary to get his lawyer on the line.
‘Do you have his number?’ she asked.
After another outburst he slammed down the receiver and dialed Russell’s number himself. Without thinking, he turned a few more pages of his Filofax until he heard the attorney’s voice on the other end of the line. ‘Have I got $50 million hidden away anywhere in the world?’ he asked.
‘What do you need it for?’ asked Russell.
‘The Swiss are beginning to threaten me.’
‘I thought you’d settled with them last week.’
‘So did I.’
‘What’s happened to that endless source of funds?’
‘It’s dried up.’
‘I see. How much did you say?’
‘Fifty million.’
‘Well, I can certainly think of one way you could raise at least that amount.’
‘How?’ asked Armstrong, trying not to sound desperate.
Russell hesitated. ‘You could always sell your 46 percent stake in the New York Star.’
‘But who could come up with that sort of money at such short notice?’
‘Keith Townsend.’ Russell held the phone away from his ear and waited for the word ‘Never’ to come booming down the line. But nothing happened, so he carried on. ‘My guess is that he’d agree to pay above the market price, because it would guarantee him complete control of the company.’
Russell held the phone away from his ear again, expecting a tirade of abuse. But all Armstrong said was, ‘Why don’t you have a word with his lawyers?’
‘I’m not sure that would be the best approach,’ said Russell. ‘If I were to phone them out of the blue, Townsend would assume that you were short of funds.’
‘Which I am not!’ shouted Armstrong.
‘No one’s suggesting you are,’ said Russell. ‘Will you be attending the bankers’ dinner tonight at the Four Seasons?’
‘Bankers’ dinner? What bankers’ dinner?’
‘The annual get-together for the principal players in the financial world and their guests. I know you’ve been invited, because I read in the Tribune that you’d be sitting between the governor and the mayor.’
Armstrong checked the printed day-sheet which was lying on his desk. ‘You’re right, I’m supposed to be going. But so what?’
‘I have a feeling that Townsend will make an appearance, if only to let the banking world know he’s still around after that unfortunate article in the Financial Times.’
‘I suppose the same could apply to me,’ said Armstrong, sounding unusually morose.
‘It might be the ideal opportunity to bring up the subject casually and see what sort of reaction you get.’
Another phone began to ring.
‘Hold on a moment, Russell,’ Armstrong said, as he picked up the other phone. It was his secretary on the end of the line. ‘What do you want?’ Armstrong bellowed out the words so loudly that Russell wondered for a moment if he was still talking to him.