* * *
Two years later, after Armstrong had exhausted everyone, including Stephen Hallet, he settled with Hahn on the courtroom steps.
Hallet drew up a lengthy document in which Armstrong agreed to return all of Hahn’s property, including publishing material, plates, rights agreements, contracts and over a quarter of a million books from his warehouse in Watford. He also had to pay out £75,000 as a full and final settlement for profits made during the previous five years.
“Thank God we’re finally rid of the man,” was all Hahn said as he walked away from the High Court in the Strand.
The day after the settlement had been signed, Colonel Oakshott resigned from the board of Armstrong Communications without explanation. He died of a heart attack three weeks later. Armstrong couldn’t find the time to attend the funeral, so he sent Peter Wakeham, the new deputy chairman, to represent him.
Armstrong was in Oxford on the day of Oakshott’s funeral, signing a long lease on a large building on the outskirts of the city.
* * *
During the next two years Armstrong almost spent more time in the air than he did on the ground, as he traveled around the world visiting author after author contracted to Hahn, and trying to persuade them that they should break their agreements and join Armstrong Communications. He realized he might not be able to convince some of the German scientists to come across to him, but that had been more than compensated for by the exclusive entrée into Russia which Colonel Tulpanov had made possible, and the many contacts Armstrong had made in America during the years when Hahn had been unable to travel abroad.
Many of the scientists, who rarely ventured outside their laboratories, were flattered by Armstrong’s personal approach and the promise of exposure to a vast new readership around the world. They often had no idea of the true commercial value of their research, and happily signed the proffered contract. Later they would dispatch their life’s works to Headley Hall, Oxford, often assuming that it was in some way connected to the university.
Once they had signed an agreement, usually committing all their future works to Armstrong in exchange for a derisory advance, they never heard from him again. These tactics made it possible for Armstrong Communications to declare a profit of £90,000 the year after he and Hahn had parted, and a year later the Manchester Guardian named Richard Armstrong Young Entrepreneur of the Year. Charlotte reminded him that he was nearer forty than thirty.
“True,” he replied, “but never forget that all my rivals had a twenty-year start on me.”
* * *
Once they had settled into Headley Hall, their Oxford home, Dick found that he received many invitations to attend university events. He turned most of them down, because he knew all they wanted was his money. But then Allan Walker wrote. Walker was the president of the Oxford University Labor Club, and he wanted to know if Captain Armstrong would sponsor a dinner to be given by the committee in honor of Hugh Gaitskell, the leader of the opposition. “Accept it,” said Dick. “On one condition: that I can sit next to him.” After that he sponsored every visit to the university by a front-bench Labor spokesman, and within a couple of years he had met every member of the shadow cabinet and several foreign dignitaries, including the prime minister of Israel, David Ben-Gurion, who invited him to Tel Aviv, and suggested he take an interest in the plight of Jews who had not been quite as fortunate as him.
After Allan Walker had taken his degree, his first job application was to Armstrong Communications. The chairman immediately took him onto his personal staff so he could advise him on how he should go about extending his political influence. Walker’s first suggestion was for him to take over the ailing university magazine Isis, which was, as usual, in financial trouble. For a small investment Armstrong became a hero of the university left, and shamelessly used the magazine to promote his own cause. His face appeared on the cover at least once a term, but as the magazine’s editors only ever lasted for a year, and doubted if they would find another source of income, none of them objected.
When Harold Wilson became leader of the Labor Party, Armstrong began to make public statements in his support; cynics suggested it was only because the Tories would have nothing to do with him. He never failed to let visiting front-bench Labor spokesmen know that he was happy to bear any losses on Isis, as long as it could in some way encourage the next generation of Oxford students to support the Labor Party. Some politicians found this approach fairly crude. But Armstrong began to believe that if the Labor Party were to form the next government, he would be able to use his influence and wealth to fulfill his new dream—to be the proprietor of a national newspaper.
In fact, he began to wonder just who would be able to stop him.
20.
The Times
16 October 1964
KHRUSHCHEV GIVES UP—“OLD AND III.” BREZHNEV AND KOSYGIN TO RULE RUSSIA
Keith Townsend unfastened his seatbelt a few minutes after the Comet took off, flicked open his briefcase and removed a bundle of papers. He glanced across at Kate, who was already engrossed in the latest novel by Patrick White.
He began to check through the file on the West Riding Group. Was this his best chance yet of securing a foothold in Britain? After all, his first purchase in Sydney had been a small group of papers, which in time had made it possible for him to buy the Sydney Chronicle. He was convinced that once he controlled a regional newspaper group in Britain, he would be in a far stronger position to make a takeover bid for a national paper.
Harry Shuttleworth, he read, was the man who had founded the group at the turn of the century. He had first published an evening paper in Huddersfield as an adjunct to his highly successful textile mill. Townsend recognized the pattern of a local paper being controlled by the biggest employer in the area—that was how he had ended up with a hotel and two coalmines. Each time Shuttleworth opened a factory in a new town, a newspaper would follow a couple of years later. By the time he retired, he had four mills and four newspapers in the West Riding.
Shuttleworth’s eldest son, Frank, took over the firm when he returned from the First World War, and although his primary interest remained in textiles, he …
“Would you like a drink, sir?”
Townsend nodded. “A whiskey and a little water please.”
… he also added local papers to the three factories he built in Doncaster, Bradford and Leeds. At various times these had attracted friendly approaches from Beaverbrook, Northcliffe and Rothermere. Frank had apparently given all three of them the oft-quoted reply: “There’s nowt here for thee, lad.”
But it seemed that the third generation of Shuttleworths were not of the same mettle. A combination of cheap imported textiles from India and an only son who had always wanted to be a botanist meant that though Frank died leaving eight mills, seven dailies, five weeklies and a county magazine, the profits of his company began falling within days of his coffin being lowered into the ground. The mills finally went into liquidation in the late 1940s, and since then the newspaper group had barely broken even. It seemed now to be surviving only on the loyalty of its readers, but the latest figures showed that even that couldn’t be sustained much longer.
Townsend looked up as a table was fitted into his armrest and a small linen cloth placed over it. When the stewardess did the same for Kate she put down Riders in the Chariot but remained silent, not wanting to interrupt her boss’s concentration.
“I’d like you to read this,” he said, passing her the first few pages of the report. “Then you’ll understand why I’m making this trip to England.”
Townsend opened a second file, prepared by Henry Wolstenholme, a contemporary of his at Oxford and now a solicitor in Leeds. He could remember very little about Wolstenholme, except that after a few drinks in the buttery he became unusually loquacious. He would not have been Townsend’s first choice to do business with, but as his firm had represented the West Riding Group since its foundation, there wasn’t an alternative. It had
been Wolstenholme who had first alerted him to the group’s potential: he had written to him in Sydney suggesting that although WRG was not on the market—certainly its current chairman would deny it should he be approached—he knew that if John Shuttleworth were ever to consider a sale, he would want the purchaser to come from as far away from Yorkshire as possible. Townsend smiled as a bowl of turtle soup was placed in front of him. As the proprietor of the Hobart Mail, he had to be the best-qualified candidate in the world.
Once Townsend had written expressing interest, Wolstenholme had suggested that they meet to discuss terms. Townsend’s first stipulation was that he needed to see the group’s presses. “Not a hope,” came back the immediate reply. “Shuttleworth doesn’t want to be the subject of his own front pages until the deal is closed.” Townsend accepted that no negotiations through a third party were ever easy, but with this one he was going to have to rely on Wolstenholme to answer even more questions than usual.
With a fork in one hand, and the next page in the other, he began to go over the figures Clive Jervis had prepared for him. Clive estimated that the company was worth about a hundred to a hundred and fifty thousand pounds, but pointed out that having seen nothing except the balance sheet, he was in no position to commit himself—clearly he wanted a get-out clause in case anything went wrong at a later stage, thought Townsend.
“It’s more exciting than Riders in the Chariot,” Kate said after she had put down the first file. “But what part am I expected to play?”
“That will depend on the ending,” replied Keith. “If I pull this one off, I’ll need articles in all my Australian papers, and I’ll want a separate piece—slightly less gushing—for Reuters and the Press Association. The important thing is to alert publishers all over the world to the fact that I’m now a serious player outside Australia.”
“How well do you know Wolstenholme?” Kate asked. “It seems to me that you’re going to have to rely a lot on his judgment.”
“Not that well,” admitted Keith. “He was a couple of years ahead of me at Worcester, and was considered a bit of a hearty.”
“A hearty?” repeated Kate, looking puzzled.
“During Michaelmas he spent most of his time with the college rugby team, and the other two terms standing on the riverbank urging on the college boat. I think he was chosen to coach them because he had a voice that could be heard on the other side of the Thames, and enjoyed the odd pint of ale with the crew, even after they’d sunk. But that was ten years ago; for all I know he’s settled down and become a dour Yorkshire solicitor, with a wife and several children.”
“Do you have any idea how much the West Riding Group is really worth?”
“No, but I can always make an offer subject to seeing the six presses, and at the same time try to get a feel of how good the editors and journalists are. But in England the biggest problem is always the trades unions. If this group’s controlled by a closed shop, then I’m not interested, because however good the deal is, the unions could still bankrupt me within months.”
“And if it isn’t?” said Kate.
“Then I might be willing to go as high as a hundred, even a hundred and twenty thousand. But I won’t suggest a figure until they let me know what they have in mind.”
“Well, it beats covering the juvenile courts,” said Kate.
“That’s where I started too,” said Keith. “But the editor didn’t think my efforts were award-winning material, unlike yours, and most of my copy was spiked before he’d finished the first paragraph.”
“Perhaps he wanted to prove that he wasn’t frightened of your father.”
Keith looked across at her, and could see that she was wondering if she had gone too far. “Perhaps,” he replied. “But that was before I took over the Chronicle and was able to sack him.”
Kate remained silent as a stewardess cleared away their trays. “We’re just about to dim the cabin lights,” she said, “but there’s a light above your heads if you wish to carry on reading.”
Keith nodded and flicked on his light. Kate stretched and eased her seat back as far as it would go, covered herself in a blanket and closed her eyes. Keith looked at her for a few moments before opening a fourth file. He read on through the night.
* * *
When Colonel Tulpanov phoned to suggest that he should meet a business associate of his called Yuri Valchek to discuss a matter of mutual interest, Armstrong suggested they have lunch at the Savoy when Mr. Valchek was next in London.
For the past decade Armstrong had been making regular trips to Moscow, and in exchange for the exclusive foreign rights to the works of Soviet scientists he had continued to carry out little tasks for Tulpanov, still able to persuade himself that he wasn’t doing any real harm to his adopted country. This delusion was helped by always letting Forsdyke know when he was making such trips, and occasionally by delivering messages on his behalf, often to return with unfathomable replies. Armstrong realized that both sides considered him to be their man, and suspected that Valchek was not a messenger on a simple errand, but was being sent to find out just how far he could be pushed. By choosing the Savoy Grill, Armstrong hoped to convince Forsdyke that he was hiding nothing from him.
Armstrong arrived at the Savoy a few minutes early, and was guided to his usual alcove table in the corner. He abandoned his favorite whiskey and soda for a vodka, the agreed sign among agents that no English would be spoken. He glanced toward the entrance of the restaurant, and wondered if he would be able to identify Valchek when he walked in. Ten years ago it would have been easy, but he had warned many of the new breed that they stuck out like sore thumbs in their cheap double-breasted suits and thin gravy-stained ties. Since then several of the more regular visitors to London and New York had learned to drop into Savile Row and Fifth Avenue during their visits—though Armstrong suspected that a quick change had to be made on Aeroflot flights when they flew back to Moscow.
Two businessmen strolled into the Grill, deep in conversation. Armstrong recognized one of them, but couldn’t recall his name. They were followed by a stunning young woman with another two men in her wake. A woman having lunch in the Grill was an unusual sight, and he followed her progress as they were guided into the adjoining alcove.
The head waiter interrupted him. “Your guest has arrived, sir.”
Armstrong rose to shake hands with a man who could have passed for a British company director, and who obviously did not need to be told where Savile Row was. Armstrong ordered two vodkas.
“How was your flight?” he asked in Russian.
“Not good, comrade,” replied Valchek. “Unlike you, I have no choice but to fly Aeroflot. If you ever have to, take a sleeping pill, and don’t even think of eating the food.”
Armstrong laughed. “And how is Colonel Tulpanov?”
“General Tulpanov is about to be appointed as the KGB’s number two, and he wants you to let Brigadier Forsdyke know he still outranks him.”
“That will be a pleasure,” said Armstrong. “Are there any other changes at the top that I should know about?”
“Not at the moment.” He paused. “Though I suspect Comrade Khrushchev will not be sitting at the high table for much longer.”
“Then perhaps even you may have to clear your desk,” Armstrong said, staring at him directly.
“Not as long as Tulpanov is my boss.”
“And who will be Khrushchev’s successor?” asked Armstrong.
“Brezhnev would be my bet,” said his visitor. “But as Tulpanov has files on every possible candidate, no one is going to try to replace him.”
Armstrong smiled at the thought that Tulpanov hadn’t lost his touch.
A waiter placed another vodka in front of his guest. “The general speaks highly of you,” said Valchek once the waiter had disappeared, “and no doubt your position will become even more influential when his appointment is made official.” Valchek paused while he checked the menu before making his order in English to a hove
ring waiter. “Tell me,” he continued once the waiter had left them alone, “why does General Tulpanov always refer to you as Lubji?”
“It’s as good a code name as any,” said Armstrong.
“But you are not a Russian.”
“No, I am not,” said Armstrong firmly.
“But you are also not English, comrade?”
“I’m more English than the English,” replied Armstrong, which seemed to silence his guest. A plate of smoked salmon was placed in front of him.
Valchek had finished his first course, and was cutting into a rare steak before he began to reveal the real purpose of his visit.
“The National Science Institute want to publish a book commemorating their achievements in space exploration,” he said, after selecting a Dijon mustard. “The chairman feels that President Kennedy is receiving far too much credit for his NASA program when, as everyone knows, it was the Soviet Union that put the first man in space. We have prepared a document detailing the achievements of our program from the founding of the Space Academy to the present day. I am in possession of a 200,000-word manuscript compiled by the leading scientists in the field, over a hundred photographs taken as recently as last month, and detailed diagrams and specifications for Luna IV and V.”
Armstrong made no attempt to stop Valchek’s flow. The messenger had to be aware that such a book would be out of date even before it was published. Clearly there had to be another reason why he had traveled all the way from Moscow to have lunch with him. But his guest chatted on, adding more and more irrelevant details. Finally he asked Armstrong for his opinion of the project.
“How many copies does General Tulpanov expect to be printed?”
“One million in hardback, to be distributed through the usual channels.”
Armstrong doubted whether such a book would have a worldwide readership of even a fraction of that figure. “But my print costs alone…” he began.
“We fully understand the risks you would be taking with such a publication. So we will be advancing you a sum of five million dollars, to be distributed among those countries in which the book will be translated, published and sold. Naturally there will be an agent’s commission of 10 percent. I should add that it will come as no great surprise to General Tulpanov if the book does not appear on any best-seller list. Just as long as you are able to show in your annual report that a million copies were printed, he will be content. It’s the distribution of the profits that really matters,” added Valchek, sipping his vodka.