Maxwell: The Final Verdict. Tom Bower

that he had a deal if all nine unions on the paper gave a few concessions for the redundancies which the Tribune company was funding.

      The negotiations followed Maxwell’s favoured pattern. Each union was given its own office so that he could shuttle between the fiefs, playing upon old rivalries. This kind of theatre gave him the opportunity to shine – as a printer, a publisher and a professional. ‘I know newspapers and trade unions better than anyone else,’ he told Robert Pirie, once again advising on behalf of Rothschild Inc. ‘Leave the negotiations to me.’ The banker watched Maxwell and Charlie Wilson, quickly flown from London, moving from office to office in a punishing schedule saying ‘yes and no often to things they didn’t understand’.

      ‘I bet Murdoch couldn’t beat this,’ smirked Maxwell to Hoge for the umpteenth time.

      ‘These are the concessions you need from the unions to make profits,’ warned Hoge. But Maxwell ignored the advice. ‘He doesn’t analyse,’ grimaced Hoge. ‘He wants the newspaper.’

      Maxwell wanted the publicity just as much. Television camera crews and journalists were encouraged to camp in the Macmillan building to await appearances and pronouncements. ‘The progress made was terrific,’ proclaimed a grinning McDonald after the first day. The crisis hit at the weekend when, inevitably, Maxwell reneged on his earlier promises. He said after all that he wanted the ‘management rights’ which the unions had adamantly refused to concede. It was a good moment for Maxwell to play his ace. ‘I’m going back to London now,’ he told the startled negotiators on Saturday evening, 9 March. As he passed through the waiting journalists his parting judgment was intentionally ominous: ‘I’m not so optimistic.’ He added, ‘When I pass a belt, I can’t resist hitting below it.’ This was vintage Maxwell, exhibiting the qualities which a decade earlier had humbled Britain’s print unions.

      Yet his return to London on Saturday night was not really an example of astute tactics. Rather, it was under the orders of Kevin. Maxwell was obliged, said his son, to attend Betty’s seventieth birthday party. For weeks his diary had included the engagement, embellished with an instruction in capitals to ‘KEEP FREE’. He had already missed the family dinner that evening in Oxford.

      One hundred and fifty guests had been invited to ‘Betty Maxwell’s Special Birthday’ in the Dorchester Hotel’s Orchid Room. Included among the throng were the Duke of Bedford and Lords Forte, Sieff, Stevens, Weidenfeld and Young. Other well-known City celebrities were Eric Sheinberg, Richard Branson and Sirs Kit McMahon, Alastair Morton, Frank Roberts and Michael Richardson. Among the more controversial guests were Jean Baddeley, Sir Edward du Cann, Lady Duncan-Sandys, Vivien Duffield, Joe Haines, Lady Porter and Gerald Ronson. The most expensive guest was Boris Pankin, then the Soviet ambassador in Prague. His account for staying overnight at the hotel, paid by MCC, would amount to £2,011.

      The family had attempted to inject humour into the celebration, although others would remark on the gauche taste. Each of the ten tables was named after one of the houses inhabited by the Maxwells in London, Oxford and France, and not forgetting the Lady Ghislaine. The main course was Lamb Meynard (Betty’s maiden name) served with Légumes du Maurier (Maxwell’s adopted name when he met Betty). The wines, costing £95 per bottle, were grand cru. The £250,000 dinner, to be paid for by MCC, was certain to be memorable – but not in the manner Betty’s children had intended.

      Arriving late, Maxwell appeared distinctly uncomfortable. As he mingled with his guests, he made little effort to pretend he was enjoying the occasion. His presents to Betty – jewellery and an elegantly bound book describing their life – had been arranged without his knowledge by someone else. After picking at his food, constantly glancing at his watch and ignoring his wife, Maxwell rose. While his guests were still eating, Maxwell began uttering a short speech about his negotiations in New York, practically forgetting his wife. ‘I’ve now got to leave for New York,’ he ended, already walking towards the door, abandoning his guests and family with their forks in mid-air and their mouths open in astonishment. With barely a farewell, he walked through the exit. He would neither wait for the dance nor see the midnight trumpet fanfare with the champagne toast. His wife could cut her birthday cake without him. She could make her own speech without him. He did not care that she was upset. Betty was his doormat. And she would sleep the night in the hotel – she was not welcome in his penthouse.

      Outside, in Park Lane, Maxwell fumed, not about the wretched affair he had left behind but about his temporary chauffeur. He needed to reach the Battersea heliport before it closed and had no confidence in the man. Cursing, he abandoned the hapless chauffeur on the pavement, heaved himself into the driving seat and sped furiously towards the river. Within the hour he was flying back to New York. The thought that he could have flown on Concorde the following morning and so not have missed anything did not occur to him.

      During that seven-hour flight he could muse on his new adventure. Owning the newspaper would be compensation for other recently failed ambitions. He had considered buying Paramount Pictures, and one year before had even bid for Sears Tower in Chicago. After a weekend’s negotiation, it had become clear that his sole interest was in securing a name-change for one of the world’s tallest buildings. ‘If I buy this,’ he had said, ‘it must be a condition that it will be renamed Maxwell Towers.’ Shortage of money had eventually curtailed the negotiations. But this time he would succeed. Here was a deal made in heaven: he would acquire a newspaper, and not only for nothing – he would actually be paid for assuming the ownership. He knew he would still be losing $1 million every week thereafter but the prize, the fame and $60 million in cash was too great to ignore. He needed that money badly even if he would soon need to pay it to the print workers.

      During his absence, Charlie Wilson had continued the negotiations, alleviating fears that Maxwell might back out. They’re rewriting what we don’t like,’ McDonald reported to his colleagues. Maxwell’s bluff had been called when the union leader had telephoned London: ‘Come back. We’re still talking.’

      Maxwell’s eagerness disturbed Hoge. ‘You’re giving too much away,’ he warned. ‘You’re throwing away money on overtime. If you don’t fight hard now, you’ll lose.’

      Maxwell was uninterested. ‘Yes, yes,’ he smirked condescendingly. ‘Don’t worry. I know my business.’ He would renegotiate later, he reckoned. Getting the newspaper was all that mattered.

      By then, gauging precisely how to impress New York, Maxwell had ordered the Lady Ghislaine to speed from Miami and moor on the marina by New York’s 34th Street, not far from the United Nations building. Ranked as he was by Forbes magazine as Britain’s sixth richest citizen personally worth £1.2 billion, his yacht – like his Oxford mansion – confirmed that Maxwell ‘lived like a king with kings’. In this floating headquarters, Maxwell dreamt of entertaining the emperors of America’s media: men like Steve Ross, Larry Tisch and Ochs Sulzberger. In the event his first guest on board was Jim Hoge, the News’s publisher and president. ‘I am going to buy your newspaper,’ boomed Maxwell standing in stockinged feet to protect the thick-pile white carpet. ‘A whore’s rug,’ mused Hoge, who was nevertheless, like even the most hard-boiled New Yorkers, impressed by the vessel. ‘Maxwell’s walk-out didn’t work,’ he later observed. The Publisher would do anything to get the paper. The unions knew that he wouldn’t walk away.

      On Monday morning, 11 March, the day of his self-imposed deadline, Maxwell sat across the negotiating table from Steve Ratner of Lazards, who had vouched to the Tribune company for his probity after consulting Bob Pirie of Rothschilds. In the Publisher’s absence they had been negotiating the Tribune’s payment to him. Pirie’s demands, made amid paroxysms of emotion, had bounced off Ratner’s array of cold calculations. ‘We want $70 million,’ burbled Pirie. ‘No way. $65 million is final,’ replied Ratner, knowing full well that the Tribune would indeed pay the extra $5 million to clinch a sale. Maxwell agreed to extend the deadline. Two days later, despite his passionate rhetoric, Pirie surrendered. Maxwell always demanded sycophants as advisers, and Pirie, keen to remain on the gravy train, failed to restrain his client’s own excitement. Ratner and the Tribune executives smiled at Pirie’s failure to get the last $5 million. Fed by his regular walks through the Macmillan lobby, surrounded by