Lonrho: Life upstairs, in the secret empire that time forgot

TINY ROWLAND expects that Dieter Bock will join the Lonrho board when 'his commitments permit him to do so'. Until then, the mysterious German investor will presumably remain a closely interested watcher of Mr Rowland's fiefdom, writes Chris Blackhurst.

It is to be hoped that he is granted more access than the rest of us. No company guards its secrets as jealously or is run so idiosyncratically as Lonrho.

From the outside, all the observer sees is a featureless, squat, office block on Cheapside, in the heart of the City (Lonrho is one of the few industrial companies to have its headquarters in the Square Mile, possibly because Mr Rowland cannot resist reminding his many critics there of his considerable presence). There are two doors, one on Cheapside, one, more discreetly, at the back. Mr Rowland, his boardroom colleagues and their frequent high-powered foreign visitors, use the back.

The place to be is upstairs on the seventh floor, where Mr Rowland and his directors have their offices. Visitors are greeted by a pair of glass-panelled wooden doors. Beyond them is what can be best described as a land that time forgot.

Drab and dark, the decor has not changed in years. Despite Mr Rowland's use of an executive jet, Lonrho prides itself on tight cost controls, with head office setting an example. The switchboard operator doubles as a receptionist. It is by this reception desk that chauffeurs line up each evening, ready to take the directors home in their company Audis (until a few days ago Lonrho owned the Volkswagen-Audi franchise).

Twice a day, an old-fashioned tea trolley travels the corridor. From mid-morning onwards, the place reeks of cooking as lunch is prepared for the boardroom adjacent to Mr Rowland's own office.

Mr Rowland arrives early and even now, at 75, often works late into the evening. There is no break for lunch, which is normally taken with fellow directors and occasional guests in the boardroom. The Lonrho board is a curious amalgam of aggressive corporate expertise, as represented by Mr Rowland, Philip Tarsh and, until he left suddenly recently, Terry Robinson, and long-time Rowland servants and old Africa hands like Sir Peter Youens, Robert Dunlop and Robin Whitten.

Lunch with Mr Rowland present has the air of ritual. When he speaks, his colleagues remain silent. They drink wine, he sips Malvern water. They eat steak and kidney pud, he picks at a salad. The conversation is led by, and normally ended by, Mr Rowland. More often than not, the subject of the Fayeds and what he sees as their betrayal (he sold them his House of Fraser shares, they promptly turned round and bought the company) is raised.

Mainly, though, the talk is of faraway lands and presidents and potentates. Names crop up that surely are rarely mentioned in any other British boardroom: Adnan Khashoggi; Muammar Gaddafi; Frederick Chiluba; Daniel arap Moi; Robert Mugabe; Ali Hassan Nyerere and Dr Hastings Banda. Mr Rowland talks about deals that never happened, projects that may never see the light of day, political overtures - such as his peace-broking before the Falklands war and his attempts at securing the release of the Lebanon hostages - that even now remain secret.

Sometimes, his world comes to the table. When he is especially busy or expecting an important call, a telephone - old- fashioned, not a mobile - is placed on the table at his side. Once when it rang, it was President arap Moi of Kenya. The room fell silent. Mr Rowland said he would see him in Nairobi in a few days. Another time, it was Lonrho's head in East Africa. The talk then was of pipelines and oil, and permits.

If he can spare the time, Mr Bock is in for quite an experience.

(Photograph omitted)