‘Ladies and gentlemen, let me begin by saying that Global has never been in better shape to face the challenges of the twenty-first century. We now control forty-one television and radio stations, 137 newspapers and 249 magazines. And of course we have recently added a jewel to our crown: TV News, the biggest-selling magazine in the world. With such a portfolio, Global has become the most powerful communications empire on earth. Our task is to remain the world leaders, and I see before me a team of men and women who are dedicated to keeping Global in the forefront of communications. During the next decade...’ Townsend spoke for another forty minutes on the future of the company and the roles they would all be playing in it, finishing with the words: ‘It has been a record year for Global. When we meet next year, let’s confound our critics by delivering an even better one.’
They all stood and cheered him. But as the applause died down, he couldn’t help remembering that another meeting would be taking place in Cleveland the following morning, at which only one question would be answered, and it certainly wouldn’t be followed by applause.
As the delegates broke up, Townsend strolled round the room, trying to appear relaxed as he said goodbye to some of his chief executives. He only hoped that when they returned to their own territories, they wouldn’t be met by journalists from rival newspapers wanting to know why the company had gone into voluntary liquidation. And all because a banker from Ohio had said, ‘No, Mr. Townsend, I require the fifty million to be repaid by close of business this evening. Otherwise I will be left with no choice but to place the matter in the hands of our legal department.’
As soon as he could get away, Townsend returned to his suite and packed. A chauffeur drove him to the airport, where the Gulfstream was waiting to take off. Would he be traveling economy class tomorrow? He was unaware of how much the conference had taken out of him, and within moments of fastening his seatbelt he fell into a deep sleep.
Armstrong had planned to rise early and give himself enough time to destroy various papers in his safe, but he was woken by the chimes of Big Ben, foreshadowing the seven o’clock television news. He cursed jetlag as he heaved his legs over the side of the bed, aware of what still needed to be done.
He dressed and went into the dining room to find his breakfast already laid out: bacon, sausages, black pudding and four fried eggs, which he washed down with half a dozen cups of steaming black coffee.
At 7:35 he left the penthouse and took the lift down to the eleventh floor. He stepped out onto the landing, switched on the lights, walked quickly down the corridor past his secretary’s desk, and stopped to jab a code into the pad by the side of his office door. When the light turned from red to green he pushed the door open.
Once inside, he ignored the pile of correspondence waiting for him on his desk and headed straight for the massive safe in the far corner of the room. There was another longer and more complicated code to complete before he could pull back the heavy door.
The first file he dug out was marked ‘Liechtenstein.’ He went over to the shredder and began to feed it in, page after page. Then he returned to the safe and removed a second file marked ‘Russia (Book Contracts),’ and carried out the same process. He was halfway through a file marked ‘Territories for Distribution’ when a voice behind him said, ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ Armstrong swung round to find one of the security guards shining a torch into his face.
‘Get out of here, you fool,’ he shouted. ‘And close the door behind you.’
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ said the guard. ‘No one told me you were in the building.’ When the door had closed, Armstrong continued to shred documents for another forty minutes until he heard his secretary arrive.
She knocked on the door. ‘Good morning, Mr. Armstrong,’ she said cheerfully. ‘It’s Pamela. Do you need any help?’
‘No,’ he shouted above the noise of the shredder. ‘I’ll be out in a few moments.’
But it was another twenty-five minutes before he eventually opened the door. ‘How much time have I got before the board meeting?’ he asked.
‘Just over half an hour,’ she replied.
‘Ask Mr. Wakeham to join me immediately.’
‘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—’