Hour after hour slipped by, but Armstrong didn’t stir, except to refill the brandy balloon from time to time, until he heard four chimes on the little clock by the side of his bed. He pushed himself up, waited for a few moments and then lowered his feet onto the thick carpet. He rose unsteadily, and made his way across the unlit stateroom toward the bathroom. When he reached the open door, he unhooked a large cream dressing-gown with the words Sir Lancelot emblazoned in gold on its pocket. He padded back toward the door of the cabin, opened it cautiously and stepped barefoot into the dimly-lit corridor. He hesitated before locking the door behind him and slipping the key into his dressing-gown pocket. He didn’t move again until he was sure he could hear nothing except the familiar sound of the ship’s engine droning below him.
He lurched from side to side as he stumbled down the narrow corridor, pausing when he reached the staircase which led up onto the deck. He then slowly began to climb the steps, clutching firmly onto the rope on both sides. When he reached the top he stepped out onto the deck, checking quickly in both directions. There was no one to be seen. It was a clear, cool night, no different from ninety-nine in every hundred at that time of year.
Armstrong padded silently on until he was above the engine room — the noisiest part of the ship.
He waited only for a moment before untying the cord of his dressing-gown and allowing it to fall to the deck.
Naked in the warm night, he stared out into the still black sea and thought: isn’t your whole life meant to flash before you at a time like this?
2
The Citizen
5 November 1991
Townsend Faces Ruin
‘Messages?’ was all Keith Townsend said as he passed his secretary’s desk and headed toward his office.
‘The President called from Camp David just before you boarded the plane,’ Heather said.
‘Which of my papers has annoyed him this time?’ Townsend asked as he sat down.
‘The New York Star. He’s heard a rumor that you’re going to print his bank statement on tomorrow’s front page,’ Heather replied.
‘It’s more likely to be my own bank statement that makes the front pages tomorrow,’ said Townsend, his Australian accent more pronounced than usual. ‘Who else?’
‘Margaret Thatcher has sent a fax from London. She’s agreed to your terms for a two-book contract, even though Armstrong’s bid was higher.’
‘Let’s hope someone offers me $6 million when I write my memoirs.’
Heather gave him a weak smile.
‘Anyone else?’
‘Gary Deakins has had another writ served on him.’
‘What for this time?’
‘He accused the Archbishop of Brisbane of rape, on the front page of yesterday’s Truth.’
‘The truth, the whole truth, and anything but the truth,’ said Townsend, smiling. ‘Just as long as it sells papers.’
‘Unfortunately it turns out that the woman in question is a well-known lay preacher, and has been a friend of the archbishop’s family for years. It seems that Gary suggested a different meaning each time he used the word “lay”.’
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.
Townsend had felt sick. ‘Is there nothing left that I can do?’
‘No, nothing,’ Ms. Beresford had replied firmly. ‘Just sit and wait for Pierson to call. If I’m going to make the next flight to New York, I’ll have to dash. I should be with you around midday.’ The line had gone dead.
Townsend continued to think about her words as he rose from his chair and began pacing around the room. He stopped to check his tie in the mirror above the mantelpiece — he hadn’t had time to change his clothes since getting off the plane, and it showed. For the first time, he couldn’t help thinking that he looked older than his sixty-three years. But that wasn’t surprising after what E.B. had put him through over the past six weeks. He would have been the first to admit that had he sought her advice a little earlier, he might not now be so dependent on a call from the president of a small bank in Ohio.