reading and immersion among the famous at Bilderberg, Black assumed that he possessed unique insight. Black confused, suggested Saul, proximity and scholarship with understanding, and mistook bombastic proclamations for wisdom: ‘The driving force of his personality and his brilliant sense of applied historical perspectives will impress all who meet him. Only with time may they feel that the driving force deforms the perspective so that the masterful conclusions are wrong.’ Considering the fate of Conrad Black’s shareholders, his brother and the Argus widows, Saul concluded: ‘One searches for the spirit of sacrifice in Mr Black’s career and finds self-help.’12
Black was outraged. There was too much truth in Saul’s assessment for comfort. Personal denigration normally provoked an instant writ for defamation, but on this occasion Black was urged by Knight to be cautious. Media owners in Britain did not issue writs, he was told, and if, just days after his coup, his first reaction to criticism was nuclear, people would become suspicious. Accepting the advice, Black confined himself to a letter to the Spectator which, he preened himself, would alert London to his erudition. Saul was accused of being ‘dishonest and malicious’, and possessed of ‘sniggering, puerile, defamatory and cruelly limited talents’. By contrast, in a sanitised version of his own past, Black presented himself as ‘unaware of any minority shareholder discontent’. He continued, ‘I have never had any difficulty with … any regulatory authority.’ No one in London, he assumed, would know about the SEC’s ‘consent’ terms linked to his bid for Hanna, or about the complaints from Argus shareholders. London tasted, for the first time, Black’s ‘truth’.
Charles Moore did not regard Saul’s analysis as anything more than a provocative and forgettable point of view which entirely failed to prove Black’s dishonesty. Those who did ask Knight about Black’s ‘sketchy reputation in Canada’ were reassured, ‘It’s in the past and isn’t relevant.’ There seemed every reason to accept that endorsement. David Montagu was less sanguine. ‘There are all sort of strains arising,’ he told Black, ‘not least the Spectator article. We must take care. Here’s a list of how to stay clean.’ Radler was to have nothing to do with the Telegraph; Black was to restrict himself to two visits a year to London until he was given the all-clear; and he was to limit himself to 60 per cent ownership of the Telegraph. In return, Montagu had negotiated blue-blooded seal of approval. Cazenove’s, the London establishment’s stockbrokers, would represent the Telegraph, and Sir Martin Jacomb, a respected City personality, had accepted a directorship. Altogether, said Montagu, the Telegraph’s new ownership was blessed with ‘a clean bill of health’. Black congratulated him, relieved that Saul’s warning had been ignored. ‘Am I doing all right?’ he asked Montagu, Jacomb and Hambro individually, reflecting his lack of self-confidence; and they, pleased by his civility, his care for Hartwell’s feelings and their impression of Shirley as ‘a perfectly nice, unambitious wife’, agreed that Black could be trusted.
John Ralston Saul’s warning also made no impression among the Telegraph’s staff. As Black walked for the first time through the rabbit warren of dusty, dimly lit offices, he was reassured by the blank faces that confirmed his anonymity. ‘I’ve just seen a very sinister man in the corridor,’ said a breathless journalist, diving into the cartoonist Nicholas Garland’s office. ‘He looks like a mass murderer. Do you think we should tell security?’ ‘Oh, no,’ replied Garland. ‘That’s the new proprietor.’13 The few who met Black, including Hastings and Worsthorne, were intrigued by a proprietor who enjoyed discussion, was intelligent and informed and, at Knight’s insistence, promised to make them rich. The senior executives were given share options, chauffeurs and generous expense accounts. ‘It’s like the heavens opening,’ proclaimed Worsthorne. Black could afford to be generous. During the night of 25 January 1986, Rupert Murdoch had moved his entire newspaper operation to Wapping. Confronted with barbed wire and an army of aggressive police, the trade unions’ grip was shattered. Instead of 2,000 printers, Murdoch’s newspapers would now be produced by 570 electricians. With government support, Murdoch was certain to succeed eventually, and Conrad Black would be one of the beneficiaries, although Murdoch’s new strength as a competitor added urgency to Black’s task.
The Telegraph’s circulation was sliding, and the finances were precarious. To attract new and younger readers, Max Hastings introduced features about rock music and fashion, and special pages for women readers. Dozens of older journalists were fired. ‘Max is good at drowning kittens,’ smiled Black, appreciative of his editor’s ruthlessness in his quest to improve the newspaper and earn profits. One of Black’s early contributions was a suggestion to consider employing a Canadian journalist who had recently arrived in London. ‘I think you ought to take a look at her,’ he told Andrew Knight. ‘What’s her name?’ asked Knight. ‘Barbara Amiel.’ ‘I’ll see her,’ Knight replied, but he discovered that Amiel was not interested, and the suggestion came to nothing.
More importantly, Black was concerned about Hastings’s politics. ‘Rupert Murdoch called,’ he told Knight. ‘He told me I was crazy to appoint Hastings as editor.’ ‘He told me the same,’ replied Knight, ‘but I’m ignoring him.’ Hastings’s unpopularity with Thatcherites like Murdoch and the Spectator columnist Paul Johnson justified his appointment, said Knight. Under Hastings, the newspaper would cease to be the Conservative Party’s mouthpiece, and would become more combative and original. ‘One more thing, Conrad,’ said Knight. ‘When you’re unhappy about something in the papers, don’t telephone the editor. Write a letter for publication.’
‘CAN YOU ARRANGE IT?’ Conrad Black repeatedly asked Andrew Knight during March 1986. Impatient to reap the prizes due to the Telegraph’s proprietor, Black yearned to meet Margaret Thatcher, one of his idols.
During the few weeks since he had become recognised as the Telegraph’s owner, Black’s lifestyle had changed markedly. Friends had begun introducing him to London society. Jennifer d’Abo, a successful businesswoman, hosted pizza dinners in her kitchen. Witty and light-hearted, Black amused d’Abo’s guests with his endless insights and information apparently gleaned from many sources – either his newspaper editors or politicians. The word spread that the Telegraph’s new owner was a desirable social catch. David Metcalfe, an insurance broker, grandson of Lord Curzon, was another eager host. At a succession of cocktail receptions, dinners and weekend parties, Black’s warmth and intelligence were noted and he was embraced. ‘A loyal and good friend,’ concluded Metcalfe and others who accepted Black at face value. ‘Conrad believed,’ Metcalfe would tell a friend, ‘that the world was his oyster, and London society reassured him that his performance was acceptable.’ Since the City establishment had been joined by Max Hastings, Peregrine Worsthorne and the veteran former Telegraph editor Bill Deedes in endorsing their employer, there seemed no reason to dig into his past.
When Black was in London countless invitations to parties, dinners and opening nights at the theatre and Covent Garden began arriving, flattering his self-esteem. His lust for more than ‘a ringside seat at everything’ grew, inflating his opinion of himself and validating his importance in Canada. The opportunities to meet British and foreign politicians in London fed his hunger to consort with the mega-rich and the powerful in the White House, Buckingham Palace and Downing Street. The Telegraph was not merely the means to earn an income and propagate his ideas, but had become his passport to social climbing. ‘Who’s that?’ Black asked Paul Johnson’s wife Marigold when they met at a party in the French Embassy. ‘And who’s that? And that person, is he important?’ Marigold Johnson was shocked. ‘I realise the allegation is about that I am somewhat of a seeker of celebrities,’ Black later admitted, ‘and in one sense I suppose that’s true. But my purpose is that celebrities who are justly celebrated can be very useful to you.’1 The casualties were the celebrities’ wives, including those of Jacob Rothschild and the Duke of Marlborough. ‘I