Paper Money by Ken Follett Page A

the newsroom powerhouse for the purpose of giving less essential personnel a quick rundown on what was going on in really important departments. But then, he always thought of these things too late: he was no good at office politics. It would be interesting to watch how other executives made their entrance into the morning conference.
    The editor’s office was trendy. The desk was white and the easy chairs came from Habitat. Vertical venetian blinds shaded the blue carpet from sunlight, and the aluminum-and-melamine bookcases had smoked-glass doors. On a side table were copies of all the morning papers, and a pile of yesterday’s editions of the Evening Post.
    He sat behind the white desk, smoking a thin cigar and reading the Mirror. The sight made Cole yearn for a cigarette. He popped a peppermint into his mouth as a substitute.
    The others came in in a bunch: the picture editor, in a tight-fitting shirt, with shoulder-length hair many women would envy; the sports editor, in a tweed jacket and lilac shirt; the features editor, with a pipe and a permanent slight grin; and the circulation manager, a young man in an immaculate gray suit who had started out selling encyclopedias and risen to this lofty height in only five years. The dramatic last-minute entrance was made by the chief subeditor, the paper’s designer: a short man with close-cropped hair, wearing suspenders. There was a pencil behind his ear.
    When they were all seated, the editor tossed the Mirror onto the side table and pulled his chair closer to his desk. He said: “No first edition yet?”
    “No.” The chief sub looked at his watch. “We lost eight minutes because of a web break.”
    The editor switched his gaze to the circulation manager. “How does that affect you?”
    He, too, was looking at his watch. “If it’s only eight minutes, and if you can catch up by the next edition, we can wear it.”
    The editor said: “We seem to have a web break every bloody day.”
    “It’s this bog-paper we’re printing on,” the chief sub said.
    “Well, we have to live with it until we start to make a profit again.” The editor picked up the list of news stories Cole had put on his desk. “There’s nothing here to start a circulation boom, Arthur.”
    “Its a quiet morning. With luck we’ll have a Cabinet crisis by midday.”
    “And they’re two-a-penny, with this bloody government.” The editor continued to read the list. “I like this Stradivarius story.”
    Cole ran down the list, speaking briefly about each item. When he had finished, the editor said: “And not a splash among ’em. I don’t like to lead all day on politics. We’re supposed to cover ‘every facet of the Londoner’s day,’ to quote our own advertising. I don’t suppose we can make this Strad a million-pound violin?”
    “It’s a nice idea,” Cole said. “But I don’t suppose it’s worth that much. Still, we’ll try it on.”
    The chief sub said: “If it won’t work in Sterling, try the million- dollar violin. Better still, the million-dollar fiddle.”
    “Good thinking,” the editor said. “Let’s have a library picture of a similar fiddle, and interviews with three top violinists about how they would feel if they lost their favorite instrument.” He paused. “I want to go big on the oil field license, too. People are interested in this North Sea oil—it’s supposed to be our economic salvation.”
    Cole said: “The announcement is due at twelve thirty. We’re getting a holding piece meanwhile.”
    “Careful what you say. Our own parent company is one of the contenders, in case you didn’t know. Remember that an oil well isn’t instant riches—it means several years of heavy investment first.”
    “Sure.” Cole nodded.
    The circulation manager turned to the chief sub. “Let’s have street placards on the violin story, and this fire in the East End—”
    The door opened noisily, and the circulation manager stopped speaking. They all looked up to