“Is this to be a one-off?” asked Armstrong.
“If you make a success of this—” Valchek paused before choosing the right word “—project, we would want a paperback edition to be published a year later, which we of course appreciate would require a further advance of five million. After that there might have to be reprints, revised versions…”
“Thus ensuring a continuous flow of currency to your operatives in every country where the KGB has a presence,” said Armstrong.
“And as our representative,” said Valchek, ignoring the comment, “you will receive 10 percent of any advance. After all, there is no reason why you should be treated differently from any normal literary agent. And I’m confident that our scientists will be able to produce a new manuscript that is worthy of publication every year.” He paused. “Just as long as their royalties are always paid on time and in whichever currency we require.”
“When do I get to see the manuscript?” asked Armstrong.
“I have a copy with me,” Valchek replied, lowering his eyes to the briefcase by his side. “If you agree to be the publisher, the first five million will be paid into your account in Liechtenstein by the end of the week. I understand that is how we’ve always conducted business with you in the past.”
Armstrong nodded. “I’ll need a second copy of the manuscript to give to Forsdyke.”
Valchek raised an eyebrow as his plate was whisked away.
“He has an agent seated on the far side of the room,” said Armstrong. “So you should hand over the manuscript just before we leave, and I’ll walk out with it under my arm. Don’t worry,” he continued, sensing Valchek’s anxiety. “He knows nothing about publishing, and his department will probably spend months searching for coded messages among the Sputniks.”
Valchek laughed, but made no attempt to look across the room as the dessert trolley was wheeled over to their table, but simply stared at the three tiers of extravagances before him.
In the silence that followed, Armstrong caught a single word drifting across from the next table—“presses.” He began to listen in to the conversation, but then Valchek asked him for his opinion of a young Czech called Havel, who had recently been put in jail.
“Is he a politician?”
“No, he’s a…”
Armstrong put a finger to his lips to indicate that his colleague should continue talking but shouldn’t expect an answer. The Russian needed no lessons in this particular deceit.
Armstrong concentrated on the three people seated in the adjoining alcove. The thin, softly-spoken man with his back to him could only be an Australian, but although the accent was obvious, Armstrong could hardly pick up a word he was saying. Next to him sat the young woman who had so distracted him when she first entered the room. At a guess, he would have said she was mid-European, and had probably originated not that far from his own birthplace. On her right, facing the Australian, was a man with an accent from the north of England and a voice that would have delighted his old regimental sergeant major. The word “confidential” had obviously never been fully explained to him.
As Valchek continued talking softly in Russian, Armstrong removed a pen from his pocket and began to jot down the odd word on the back of the menu—not an easy exercise, unless you have been taught by a master of the profession. Not for the first time, he was thankful for Forsdyke’s expertise.
“John Shuttleworth, WRG chairman” were the first words he scribbled down, and a moment later, “owner.” Some time passed before he added “Huddersfield Echo” and the names of six other papers. He stared into Valchek’s eyes and continued to concentrate, then scribbled down four more words: “Leeds, tomorrow, twelve o’clock.” While his coffee went cold there followed “120,000 fair price.” And finally “factories closed for some time.”
When the subject at the next table turned to cricket, Armstrong felt that although he had several pieces of a jigsaw in place, he now needed to return to his office as soon as possible if he was to have any hope of completing the picture before twelve o’clock the following day. He checked his watch, and despite having only just been served with a second helping of bread and butter pudding, he called for the bill. When it appeared a few moments later, Valchek removed a thick manuscript from his briefcase and handed it ostentatiously across the table to his host. Once the bill had been settled, Armstrong rose from his place, tucked the manuscript under his arm and talked to Valchek in Russian as they strolled past the next alcove. He glanced at the woman, and thought he detected a look of relief on her face when she heard them speaking in a foreign language.
When they reached the door, Armstrong passed a pound note to the head waiter. “An excellent lunch, Mario,” he said. “And thank you for seating such a stunning young woman in the next booth.”
“My pleasure, sir,” said Mario, pocketing the money.
“Dare I ask what name the table was booked in?”
Mario ran a finger down the booking list. “A Mr. Keith Townsend, sir.”
That particular piece of the jigsaw had been well worth a pound, thought Armstrong as he marched out of the restaurant in front of his guest.
When they reached the pavement, Armstrong shook hands with the Russian and assured him that the publication process would be set in motion without delay. “That is good to hear, comrade,” said Valchek, in the most refined English accent. “And now,” he said, “I must hurry if I’m not to be late for an appointment with my tailor.” He quickly melted into the stream of people crossing the Strand, and disappeared in the direction of Savile Row.
As Benson drove him back to the office, Armstrong’s mind was not on Tulpanov, Yuri Gagarin, or even Forsdyke. Once he had reached the top floor he ran straight into Sally’s office, where he found her talking on the phone. He leaned across the desk and cut the caller off. “Why should Keith Townsend be interested in something called WRG?”
Sally, still holding the receiver, thought for a moment then suggested, “Western Railway Group?”
“No, that can’t be right—Townsend’s only interested in newspapers.”
“Do you want me to try and find out?”
“Yes,” said Armstrong. “If Townsend’s in London to buy something, I want to know what. Allow only the Berlin team to work on this one, and don’t let anyone else in on it.”
It took Sally, Peter Wakeham, Stephen Hallet and Reg Benson a couple of hours to supply several more pieces of the jigsaw, while Armstrong called his accountant and banker and warned them to be on twenty-four–hour standby.
By 4:15 Armstrong was studying a report on the West Riding Publishing Group which had been hand-delivered to him by Dunn & Bradstreet a few minutes earlier. After he had been through the figures a second time, he had to agree with Townsend that £120,000 was a fair price. But of course that was before Mr. John Shuttleworth knew he would be receiving a counter-offer.
The team were all seated around Armstrong’s desk ready to reveal their findings by six o’clock that evening.
Stephen Hallet had discovered who the other man at the table was, and which firm of solicitors he belonged to. “They’ve represented the Shuttleworth family for over half a century,” he told Armstrong. “Townsend has a meeting with John Shuttleworth, the present chairman, in Leeds tomorrow, but I couldn’t find out where or the precise time.” Sally smiled.
“Well done, Stephen. What have you got to offer, Peter?”
“I have Wolstenholme’s office and home numbers, the time of the train he’ll be catching back to Leeds, and the registration number of the car his wife will be driving when she meets him at the station. I managed to convince his secretary that I’m an old schoolfriend.”
“Good, you’ve filled in a couple of corners of the jigsaw,” said Armstrong. “What about you, Reg?” It had taken him years to stop addressing him as Private Benson.
“Townsend’s staying at the Ritz, and so is the girl. She’s called Kate Tulloh. Twenty-two years old, works on the Sunday Chronicle.??
?
“I think you’ll find it’s the Sydney Chronicle,” interrupted Sally.
“Bloody Australian accent,” said Reg in a cockney twang. “Miss Tulloh,” he continued, “the head porter assures me, is not only booked into a separate room from her boss, but is two floors below him.”
“So she’s not his mistress,” said Armstrong. “Sally, what have you come up with?”
“The connection between Townsend and Wolstenholme is that they were undergraduates at Oxford at the same time, as the Worcester College secretary confirmed. But the bad news is that John Shuttleworth is the sole shareholder of the West Riding Group, and virtually a recluse. I can’t find out where he lives, and he’s not on the telephone. In fact, no one at the group’s headquarters has seen him for several years. So the idea of making a counter-offer before twelve o’clock tomorrow is just not realistic.”
Sally’s news caused a glum silence, finally broken by Armstrong.
“Right then. Our only hope is somehow to stop Townsend attending the meeting in Leeds, and to take his place.”
“That won’t be easy if we don’t know where the meeting’s going to be held,” said Peter.
“The Queen’s Hotel,” said Sally.
“How can you be sure of that?” asked Armstrong.
“I rang all the large hotels in Leeds and asked if they had a reservation in Wolstenholme’s name. The Queen’s said he’d booked the White Rose Room from twelve to three, and would be serving lunch for a party of four at one o’clock. I can even tell you what’s on the menu.”
“I don’t know what I’d do without you, Sally,” said Armstrong. “So now, let’s take advantage of the knowledge we have. Where is Wolst…”
“Already on his way back to Leeds,” interrupted Peter, “on the 6:50 from King’s Cross. He’s expected to be at his desk by nine tomorrow morning.”
“What about Townsend and the girl?” asked Armstrong. “Reg?”
“Townsend has ordered a car to take them to King’s Cross at 7:30 tomorrow, so they can catch the 8:12 which arrives at Leeds Central at 11:47, giving them enough time to reach the Queen’s Hotel by midday.”
“So between now and 7:30 tomorrow we somehow have to stop Townsend getting on that train to Leeds.” Armstrong glanced around the room, but none of them looked at all hopeful. “And we’ll have to come up with something good,” he added, “because I can tell you, Townsend is a lot sharper than Julius Hahn. And I have a feeling Miss Tulloh is no fool either.”
There followed another long silence before Sally said, “I don’t have a particular brainwave, but I did find out that Townsend was in England when his father died.”
“So what?” said Armstrong.
21.
Daily Mirror
17 October 1964
WILSON’S FIRST PLEDGE: “IT’S OUR JOB TO GOVERN, AND WE WILL”
Keith had agreed to meet Kate in the Palm Court for breakfast at seven o’clock. He sat at a table in the corner reading The Times. He wasn’t surprised that it made so little money, and couldn’t understand why the Astors didn’t close it down, because no one else would want to buy it. He sipped a black coffee, and stopped concentrating on the lead story as his mind drifted back to Kate. She remained so distant and professional that he began to wonder if there was some other man in her life, and whether he had been foolish to ask her to accompany him.
Just after seven she joined him at the table. She was carrying a copy of the Guardian. Not the best way to start the day, Keith thought, although he had to admit he still felt the same excitement as he had the first moment he saw her.
“How are you this morning?” she asked.
“Never better,” said Keith.
“Does it feel like a day for taking something over?” she asked with a grin.
“Yes,” he said. “I have a feeling that by this time tomorrow, I will own my first paper in England.”
A waiter poured Kate a cup of white coffee. She was impressed that after only one day at the hotel he didn’t need to ask whether she took milk.
“Henry Wolstenholme telephoned last night just before I went to bed,” said Keith. “He’d already spoken to Shuttleworth, and by the time we arrive in Leeds the lawyers will have all the contracts ready to sign.”
“Isn’t it all a bit risky? You haven’t even seen the presses.”
“No, I’m only signing subject to a ninety-day due diligence clause, so you’d better be prepared to spend some time in the north of England. At this time of year it will be what they call ‘parky’.”
“Mr. Townsend, paging Mr. Townsend,” A bellboy, carrying a sign with Keith’s name on it, walked straight over to them. “Message for you, sir,” he said, handing him an envelope.
Keith ripped it open to find a note scribbled on a sheet of paper embossed with the crest of the Australian High Commissioner. “Please call urgently. Alexander Downer.”
He showed it to Kate. She frowned. “Do you know Downer?” she asked.
“I met him once at the Melbourne Cup,” said Keith, “but that was long before he became High Commissioner. I don’t suppose he’ll remember me.”
“What can he want at this time in the morning?” asked Kate.
“No idea. Probably wants to know why I turned down his invitation for dinner this evening,” he said, laughing. “We can always pay him a visit when we get back from the north. Still, I’d better try and speak to him before we leave for Leeds in case it’s something important.” He rose from his chair. “I look forward to the day when they have phones in cars.”
“I’ll pop up to my room and see you back in the foyer just before 7:30,” said Kate.
“Right,” said Keith, and left the Palm Court in search of a phone. When he reached the foyer, the hall porter pointed to a little table opposite the reception desk. Keith dialed the number at the top of the sheet of paper, and a woman’s voice answered almost immediately. “Good morning, Australian High Commission.”
“Can I speak to the High Commissioner?” Keith asked.
“Mr. Downer’s not in yet, sir,” she replied. “Would you like to call back after 9:30?”
“It’s Keith Townsend. I was asked to phone him urgently.”
“Oh, yes, sir, I was told that if you called, I was to put you through to the residence. Please hold on.”
As Keith waited to be connected, he checked his watch. It was 7:20.
“Alexander Downer speaking.”
“It’s Keith Townsend, High Commissioner. You asked me to call urgently.”
“Yes, thank you, Keith. We last met at the Melbourne Cup, but I don’t suppose you remember.” His Australian accent sounded far more pronounced than Townsend recalled.
“I do remember actually,” said Townsend.
“I’m sorry to say it’s not good news, Keith. It seems that your mother has had a heart attack. She’s at the Royal Melbourne Hospital. Her condition’s stable, but she’s in intensive care.”
Townsend was speechless. He had been out of the country when his father had died, and he wasn’t going to …
“Are you still there, Keith?”
“Yes, yes,” he said. “But I had dinner with her the night before I left, and I’ve never seen her looking better.”
“I’m sorry, Keith. It’s damned bad luck that it happened while you’re abroad. I’ve arranged to hold two first class seats on a Qantas flight to Melbourne that takes off at nine this morning. You can still make it if you leave at once. Or you could catch the same flight tomorrow morning.”
“No, I’ll leave immediately,” said Townsend.
“Would you like me to send my car over to the hotel to take you to the airport?”
“No, that won’t be necessary. I already have a car booked to drive me to the station. I’ll use that one.”
“I’ve alerted the Qantas staff at Heathrow, so you won’t have any delays, but don’t hesitate to call me if there’s anything else I can do to help. I hope we meet again in happier circum
stances.”
“Thank you,” said Townsend. He put the phone down and ran across to the reception desk.
“I’ll be checking out immediately,” he said to the man standing behind the counter. “Please have my bill ready as soon as I come back down.”
“Certainly, sir. Do you still need the car that’s waiting outside?”
“Yes, I do,” said Townsend. He turned quickly and ran up the stairs to the first floor, and jogged along the passageway checking the numbers. When he reached 124, he banged on the door with his fist. Kate opened it a few moments later, and immediately saw the anxiety in his face.
“What’s happened?” she asked.
“My mother’s had a heart attack. Bring your bags straight down. We’re leaving in five minutes.”
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “Would you like me to call Henry Wolstenholme and tell him what’s happened?”
“No. We can do that from the airport,” said Townsend, rushing off down the corridor.
A few minutes later he emerged from the lift on the ground floor. While his luggage was being placed in the boot, he settled the bill, walked quickly to the car, tipped the bellboy and joined Kate in the back. He leaned forward and said to the driver, “Heathrow.”
“Heathrow?” said the driver. “My day sheet says I’m to take you to King’s Cross. There’s nothing here about Heathrow.”
“I don’t give a damn what your day sheet says,” said Townsend. “Just get me to Heathrow.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I’ve got my instructions. You see, King’s Cross is an inner-city booking whereas Heathrow is an outer-city journey, and I can’t just…”