“So, am I nothing more than a messenger boy?” asked Armstrong.
“In our service, Lubji, I can assure you there is no higher calling.”
“I told Forsdyke, and I’ll tell you…” began Armstrong, his voice rising. But he stopped in mid-sentence.
“I can see,” said the KGB major, “that—to use another English expression—you got out of the wrong side of the bed this morning.”
Armstrong stood before him, almost shaking with anger.
“No, no, do go on, Lubji. Please tell me what you said to Forsdyke.”
“Nothing,” said Armstrong. “I said nothing.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” said the major. “Because you must understand that I am the only person to whom you can afford to tell anything.”
“What makes you so sure of that?” said Armstrong.
“Because, Lubji, like Faust, you have signed a contract with the devil.” He paused. “And perhaps also because I already know about your little plot to destabilize—a uniquely British word, that admirably expresses your intentions—Mr. Julius Hahn.”
Armstrong looked as if he was about to protest. The major raised an eyebrow, but Armstrong said nothing.
“You should have let me in on your little secret from the start, Lubji,” Tulpanov continued. “Then we could have played our part. We would have stopped the flow of electricity, not to mention the supply of paper to Hahn’s plant in the Russian sector. But then, you were probably unaware that he prints all his magazines in a building a mere stone’s throw from where we are now standing. If you had only confided in us, we could have lengthened the odds on Captain Sackville collecting his thousand dollars … quite considerably.”
Armstrong still said nothing.
“But perhaps that is exactly what you had planned. Three to one is good odds, Lubji, just as long as I am one of the three.”
“But how did you…”
“Once again you have underestimated us, Lubji. But be assured, we still have your best interests at heart.” Tulpanov began walking toward the door. “And do tell Major Forsdyke, when you next see him, a perfect fit.”
It was clear that he had no intention of inviting him to lunch on this occasion. Armstrong saluted, left Tulpanov’s office and returned sulkily to his jeep.
“Der Tekgraf,” he said quietly to Benson.
They were held up for only a few minutes at the checkpoint before being allowed to enter the British sector. As Armstrong walked into the print room of Der Telegraf, he was surprised to find the presses running flat out. He headed straight over to Arno, who was overseeing the bundling of each new stack of papers.
“Why are we still printing?” Armstrong shouted, trying to make himself heard above the noise of the presses. Arno pointed in the direction of his office, and neither of them spoke again until he had closed the door behind them.
“Haven’t you heard?” Arno asked, waving Armstrong into his chair.
“Heard what?”
“We sold 350,000 copies of the paper last night, and they still want more.”
“Three hundred and fifty thousand? And they want more? Why?”
“Der Berliner hasn’t been on the streets for the last two days. Julius Hahn rang this morning to tell me that for the past forty-eight hours his electricity has been cut off.”
“What extraordinary bad luck,” said Armstrong, trying to look sympathetic.
“And to make matters worse,” added Arno, “he’s also lost his usual supply of paper from the Russian sector. He wanted to know if we’d been having the same problems.”
“What did you tell him?” asked Armstrong.
“That we haven’t had any trouble since you took over,” Arno replied. Armstrong smiled and rose from his chair.
“If they’re off the streets again tomorrow,” said Arno as Armstrong began walking toward the door, “we’ll have to print at least 400,000 copies.”
Armstrong closed the door behind him and repeated, “What extraordinary bad luck.”
16.
Sydney Morning Herald
30 January 1957
DANE’S CONTROVERSIAL DESIGN WINS OPERA HOUSE CONTEST
“But I’ve hardly seen you since we announced our engagement,” Susan said.
“I’m trying to bring out one newspaper in Adelaide and another in Sydney,” said Keith, turning over to face her. “It’s just not possible to be in two places at once.”
“It’s never possible for you to be in one place at once nowadays,” said Susan. “And if you get your hands on that Sunday paper in Perth, as I keep reading you’re trying to, I won’t even see you at the weekends.”
Keith realized that this wasn’t the time to tell her that he had already closed the deal with the owner of the Perth Sunday Monitor. He slipped out of bed without making any comment.
“And where are you off to now?” she asked as he disappeared into the bathroom.
“I’ve got a breakfast meeting in the city,” shouted Keith from behind a closed door.
“On a Sunday morning?”
“It was the only day he could see me. The man’s flown down from Brisbane specially.”
“But we’re meant to be spending the day sailing. Or had you forgotten that as well?”
“Of course I hadn’t forgotten,” said Keith as he came out of the bathroom. “That’s exactly why I agreed to a breakfast meeting. I’ll be home long before you’re ready to leave.”
“Like you were last Sunday?”
“That was different,” said Keith. “The Perth Monitor is a Sunday paper, and if I’m buying it, how can I find out what it’s like except by being there on the one day it comes out?”
“So you have bought it?” said Susan.
Keith pulled on his trousers, then turned to face her sheepishly. “Yes, subject to legal agreement. But it’s got a first class management team, so there should be no reason for me to have to go to Perth that often.”
“And the editorial staff?” asked Susan as Keith slipped on a sports jacket. “If this one follows the same pattern as every other paper you’ve taken over, you’ll be living on top of them for the first six months.”
“No, it won’t be that bad,” said Keith. “I promise you. Just be sure you’re ready to leave the moment I get back.” He leaned down and kissed her on the cheek. “I shouldn’t be more than an hour, two at the most.” He closed the bedroom door before she had a chance to comment.
As Townsend climbed into the front of the car, his driver turned on the ignition.
“Tell me, Sam, does your wife give you a hard time about the hours you have to work for me?”
“Hard to tell, sir. Lately she’s stopped talking to me altogether.”
“How long have you been married?”
“Eleven years.”
He decided against asking Sam any further questions about matrimony. As the car sped toward the city, he tried to dismiss Susan from his thoughts and to concentrate on the meeting he was about to have with Alan Rutledge. He had never met the man before, but everyone in the newspaper world knew of Rutledge’s reputation as an award-winning journalist and a man who could drink anyone under the table. If Townsend’s latest idea was to have any chance of succeeding, he needed someone of Rutledge’s ability to get it off the ground.
Sam turned off Elizabeth Street and swept up to the entrance of the Town House Hotel. Townsend smiled when he saw the Sunday Chronicle on top of the news stand, and remembered its leader that morning. Once again the paper had told its readers that the time had come for Mr. Menzies to step down and make way for a younger man more in tune with the aspirations of modern Australians.
As the car drew in to the curb Townsend said, “I should be about an hour, two at the most.” Sam smiled to himself as his boss jumped out of the car, pushed his way through the swing doors and disappeared.
Townsend walked quickly through the foyer and on into the breakfast room. He glanced around and spotted Alan Rutledge sitting on his own in a wi
ndow seat, smoking a cigarette and reading the Sunday Chronicle.
He rose as Townsend headed toward the table, and they shook hands rather formally. Rutledge tossed the paper to one side and said, smiling, “I see you’ve taken the Chronicle even further downmarket.” Townsend glanced at the headline: “Shrunken Head Found on Top of Sydney Bus.” “Hardly a headline in the tradition of Sir Somerset Kenwright, I would have thought.”
“No,” said Townsend, “but then neither is the bottom line. We’re selling 100,000 more copies a day than they did when he was the proprietor, and the profits are up by 17 per cent.” He glanced up at the hovering waitress. “Just a black coffee for me, and perhaps some toast.”
“I hope you weren’t thinking of asking me to be the next editor of the Chronicle,” said Rutledge, lighting another Turf. Townsend glanced at the ashtray on the table, and saw that this was Rutledge’s fourth since he had arrived at the breakfast table.
“No,” said Townsend. “Bruce Kelly’s the right man for the Chronicle. What I have in mind for you is far more appropriate.”
“And what might that be?” asked Rutledge.
“A paper that doesn’t even exist yet,” said Townsend, “other than in my imagination. But one I need you to help me create.”
“And which city have you got in your sights?” asked Rutledge. “Most of them already have too many papers, and those that don’t have created a virtual monopoly for themselves. No better example than Adelaide.”
“I can’t disagree with that,” said Townsend, as the waitress poured him a cup of steaming black coffee. “But what this country doesn’t have at the moment is a national paper for all Australians. I want to create a paper called the Continent, which will sell from Sydney to Perth, and everywhere in between. I want it to be the Times of Australia, and regarded by everyone as the nation’s number-one quality newspaper. More importantly, I want you to be its first editor.”
Alan inhaled deeply, and didn’t speak for some time. “Where would it be based?”
“Canberra. It has to come out of the political capital, where the nation’s decisions are made. Our biggest task will be to sign up the best journalists available. That’s where you come in, because they’re more likely to come on board if they know you’re going to be the editor.”
“How long do you imagine the run-in time will be?” asked Rutledge, stubbing out his fifth cigarette.
“I hope to have it on the streets in six months,” Townsend replied.
“And what circulation are you hoping for?” Rutledge asked, as he lit another cigarette.
“Two hundred to 250,000 in the first year, building up to 400,000.”
“How long will you stay with it if you don’t manage those numbers?”
“Two years, perhaps three. But as long as it breaks even, I’ll stay with it forever.”
“And what sort of package do you have in mind for me?” asked Alan.
“Ten thousand a year, with all the usual extras.” A smile appeared on Rutledge’s face, but then, Townsend knew it was almost double what he was getting in his present job.
By the time Townsend had answered all his questions and Rutledge had opened another packet of cigarettes, they could have ordered an early lunch. When Townsend finally rose to shake hands again, Rutledge said he would consider his proposition and get back to him by the end of the week.
As Sam drove him back to Darling Point, Townsend wondered how he could make the idea of traveling between Sydney, Canberra, Adelaide and Perth every seven days sound exciting to Susan. He wasn’t in much doubt what her reaction would be.
When Sam pulled in to the drive a few minutes before one, the first thing Keith saw was Susan coming down the path, carrying a large hamper in one hand and a bag full of beachwear in the other.
“Close the front door,” was all she said as she passed Keith and continued walking toward the car. Keith’s fingers had just touched the door handle when the phone began to ring. He hesitated for a moment, and decided to tell whoever it was that they would have to call back that evening.
“Afternoon, Keith. It’s Dan Hadley.”
“Good afternoon, Senator,” Keith replied. “I’m in a bit of a rush. Would it be possible for you to call me back this evening?”
“You won’t be in a rush when you’ve heard what I’ve got to tell you,” said the senator.
“I’m listening, Dan, but it will still have to be quick.”
“I’ve just put the phone down on the postmaster general. He tells me that Bob Menzies is willing to support the state’s request for a new commercial radio network. He’s also let slip that Hacker and Kenwright wouldn’t be in the running, as they already control their own networks. So this time you must be in with a fighting chance of picking it up.”
Keith sat down on the chair by the phone and listened to the senator’s proposed plan of campaign. Hadley was aware of the fact that Townsend had already made unsuccessful takeover bids for his rivals’ networks. Both approaches had been rebuffed, because Hacker was still angry not to have got his hands on the Chronicle, and as for Kenwright, he and Townsend were no longer on speaking terms.
Forty minutes later Townsend put the phone down and ran out, slamming the door behind him. The car was no longer there. He cursed as he walked back up the path and let himself into the house. But now that Susan had left without him, he decided he might as well carry out the senator’s first suggestion. He picked up the phone and dialed a number that would put him straight through to the editor’s desk.
“Yes,” said a voice that Townsend recognized from the single word.
“Bruce, what’s the subject of your leader for tomorrow’s paper?” he asked, without bothering to announce who it was.
“Why Sydney doesn’t need an opera house, but does need another bridge,” said Bruce.
“Scrap it,” said Townsend. “I’ll have two hundred words ready for you in an hour’s time.”
“What’s the theme, Keith?”
“I shall be telling our readers what a first class job Bob Menzies is doing as prime minister, and how foolish it would be to replace a statesman with some inexperienced, wet-behind-the-ears apparatchik.”
* * *
Townsend spent most of the next six months locked up in Canberra with Alan Rutledge as they prepared to launch the new paper. Everything ran late, from locating the offices to employing the best administrative staff and poaching the most experienced journalists. But Townsend’s biggest problem was making enough time to see Susan, because when he wasn’t in Canberra he was inevitably in Perth.
The Continent had been on the streets for just over a month, and his bank manager was beginning to remind him that its cash flow was only going one way—out. Susan told him that even at weekends, he was always going one way—back.
Townsend was in the newsroom talking to Alan Rutledge when the phone rang. The editor put his hand over the speaker and warned him that Susan was on the line.
“Oh, Christ, I’d forgotten. It’s her birthday, and we’re meant to be having lunch at her sister’s place in Sydney. Tell her I’m at the airport. Whatever you do, don’t let her know I’m still here.”
“Hi, Susan,” said Alan. “I’ve just been told that Keith left for the airport some time ago, so I guess he’s already on his way to Sydney.” He listened carefully to her reply. “Yes … Fine … OK … I will.” He put the phone down. “She says if you leave right away, you might just get to the airport in time to catch the 8:25.”
Townsend left Alan’s office without even saying goodbye, jumped into a delivery van and drove himself to the airport, where he had already spent most of the previous night. One of the problems he hadn’t considered when choosing Canberra as the paper’s base was how many days a week planes would be unable to take off because of fog. During the past four weeks he felt he had spent half his life checking the advance weather forecasts, and the other half standing on the runway, liberally dishing out cash to reluctant pilots, who were fast
becoming the most expensive newspaper delivery boys in the world.
He was pleased with the initial reception the Continent had received, and sales had quickly reached 200,000 copies. But the novelty of a national paper already seemed to be wearing off, and the figures were now dropping steadily. Alan Rutledge was delivering the paper Townsend had asked for, but the Continent wasn’t proving to be the paper the Australian people felt they needed.
For the second time that morning Townsend drove in to the airport carpark. But this time the sun was shining and the fog had lifted. The plane for Sydney took off on time, but it wasn’t the 8:25. The stewardess offered him a copy of the Continent, but only because every plane that left the capital was supplied with a free copy for every passenger. That way the circulation figures held above 200,000, and kept the advertisers happy.
He turned the pages of a paper he felt his father would have been proud of. It was the nearest thing Australia had to The Times. And it had something else in common with that distinguished broadsheet—it was losing money fast. Townsend already realized that if they were ever going to make a profit, he would have to take the paper downmarket. He wondered just how long Alan Rutledge would agree to remain as editor once he learned what he had in mind.
He continued to turn the pages until his eyes settled on a column headed “Forthcoming Events.” His marriage to Susan in six days’ time was being billed as “the wedding of the year.” Everyone who mattered would be attending, the paper predicted, other than the prime minister and Sir Somerset Kenwright. That was one day Keith would have to be in Sydney from morning to night, because he didn’t plan to be late for his own wedding.
He turned to the back page to check what was on the radio. Victoria were playing cricket against New South Wales, but none of the networks was covering the game, so he wouldn’t be able to follow it. After months of twisting arms, investing in causes he didn’t believe in and supporting politicians he despised, Townsend had failed to be awarded the franchise for the new network. He had sat in the visitors’ gallery of the House of Representatives to hear the postmaster general announce that the franchise had been awarded to a long-time supporter of the Liberal Party. Later that evening Senator Hadley had told Townsend that the prime minister had personally blocked his application. What with the drop in sales of the Continent, the money he had lost trying to secure the radio franchise, and his mother and Susan continually complaining about never seeing him, it wasn’t turning out to be a glorious year.