Kane and Abel/Sons of Fortune

by Jeffrey Archer

  The details of the merger took nearly a year to negotiate and lawyers were kept at work into the small hours to complete the necessary paperwork. In the exchange of shares, William ended up as the largest stockholder with 8 percent of the new company and was appointed the new bank’s president and chairman. Tony Simmons remained in Boston as one vice chairman and Ted Leach in New York as the other. The new merchant bank was renamed Lester, Kane and Company but continued to be referred to as Lester’s.

  William decided to hold a press conference in New York to announce the successful merger of the two banks, and he chose Monday, the eighth of December, 1941, to inform the financial world at large. The press conference had to be canceled because the morning before, the Japanese had launched an attack on Pearl Harbor.

  The prepared press release had already been mailed to the newspapers some days before, but the Tuesday-morning financial pages understandably allocated the announcement of the merger only a small amount of space. This lack of coverage was, however, far from foremost in William’s mind.

  He couldn’t quite work out how or when he was going to tell his wife that he intended to enlist. When Kate heard the news she was horrified by its implications and immediately tried to talk him out of the decision.

  “What do you imagine you can do that a million others can’t?” she demanded.

  “I’m not sure,” William replied, “but all I can be certain of is that I must do what my father or grandfather would have done given the same circumstances.”

  “They undoubtedly would have done what was in the best interest of the bank.”

  “No,” William said firmly. “They would have done what was in the best interest of America.”

  PART FIVE

  1941-1952

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Abel studied the news item on Lester, Kane and Company in the financial section of the Chicago Tribune. With all the space devoted to the probable consequences of the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, he would have missed the brief article had it not been accompanied by a small out-of-date photograph of William Kane, so out of date that Kane looked much as he had when Abel had visited him in Boston more than ten years before. Certainly Kane appeared too young in this photograph to fit the journal’s description of him as the brilliant chairman of the newly formed Lester, Kane and Company. The article went on to predict: “The new bank, a joining together of Lester and Company of New York and Kane and Cabot of Boston, two old established family banks, could well become one of the most important financial institutions in America. As far as the Trib could ascertain, the stock would be in the hands of about twenty people related to, or closely associated with, the two families.”

  Abel was delighted by this particular piece of information, realizing that Kane must have sacrificed overall control. He read the news item again. Even so, William Kane had obviously risen even higher in the world since they had crossed swords, but then so had Abel, and he still had an old score to settle with the newly designated chairman of Lester, Kane.

  So handsomely had the Baron Group’s fortunes prospered over the decade that Abel had repaid all the loans to his backer and honored every original letter of the agreement, thus securing 100 percent ownership of the company within the stipulated ten-year period.

  By the last quarter of 1939, not only had Abel paid off the loan, but the profits for 1940 had passed the half-million mark. This milestone coincided with the opening of two new Barons, one in Washington, the other in San Francisco.

  Though Abel had become a less devoted husband during this period, caused as much by Zaphia’s unwillingness to keep pace with his ambitions as by anything else, he could not have been a more doting father. Zaphia, longing for a second child to occupy her more fully, finally goaded him into seeing his doctor. When Abel learned that, because of a low sperm count, probably caused by sickness and malnutrition in his days under the Germans and Russians, Florentyna would almost certainly be his only child, he gave up all hope for a son and proceeded to lavish everything on her.

  Abel’s fame was now spreading across America, and the press had taken to referring to him as “The Chicago Baron.” He no longer cared about jokes behind his back. Wladek Koskiewicz had arrived and, more important, he was here to stay. The profits from his thirteen hotels for the last fiscal year were just short of $1 million and, with his new surplus of capital, he decided the time had come for even further expansion.

  Then the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor.

  Since the dreadful day of September 1, 1939, on which the Nazis had marched into Poland, later to meet the Russians at Brest Litovsk and once again divide his homeland between them, Abel had been sending considerable sums of money to the British Red Cross for the relief of his homeland. He had waged a fierce battle, both within the Democratic party and in the press, to push an unwilling America into the war even if now it had to be on the side of the Russians. His efforts so far had been fruitless, but on that December Sunday, with every radio station across the country blaring out the details of the Japanese attack to an incredulous nation, Abel knew that America must now be committed to the war. On December 11 he listened to President Roosevelt tell the nation that Germany and Italy had declared war on the United States. Abel had every intention of joining up, but first he had a private declaration of war he wished to make, and to that end he placed a call to Curtis Fenton at the Continental Trust Bank. Over the years Abel had grown to trust Fenton’s judgment and had kept him on the board of the Baron Group after he gained overall control in order to keep a close link between the Baron group and Continental Trust.

  Curtis Fenton came on the line, his usual formal and always polite self.

  “How much spare cash am I holding in the group’s reserve account?” asked Abel.

  Curtis Fenton picked out the file marked “Number 6 Account,” remembering the days when he could put all Mr. Rosnovski’s affairs into one file. He scanned some figures.

  “A little under two million dollars,” he said.

  “Good,” said Abel. “I want you to look into a newly formed bank called Lester, Kane and Company. Find out the name of every shareholder, what percentage they control and if there are any conditions under which they would be willing to sell. All this must be done without the knowledge of the bank’s chairman, Mr. William Kane, and without any mention of my name.”

  Curtis Fenton held his breath and said nothing. He was glad that Abel Rosnovski could hot see his surprised face. Why did Abel Rosnovski want to put money into anything to do with William Kane? Fenton had also read in The Wall Street Journal about the merging of the two famous family banks. What with Pearl Harbor and his wife’s headache, he too had nearly missed the item. Rosnovski’s request jogged his memory—he must send a congratulatory wire to William Kane. He penciled a note on the bottom of the Baron Group file while listening to Abel’s instructions.

  “When you have a full rundown, I want to be briefed in person, nothing on paper.”

  “Yes, Mr. Rosnovski.”

  I suppose someone knows what’s going on between those two, Curtis Fenton thought to himself, but I’m damned if I do.

  Abel continued. “I’d also like you to add to your quarterly reports the details of every official statement issued by Lester’s and which companies they are involved with.”

  “Certainly, Mr. Rosnovski.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Fenton. By the way, my market research team is advising me to open a new Baron in Montreal.”

  “The war doesn’t worry you, Mr. Rosnovski?”

  “Good God, no. If the Germans reach Montreal we can all close down, Continental Trust included. In any case, we beat the bastards last time and we’ll beat them again. The only difference is that this time I’ll be able to join the action. Good day, Mr. Fenton.”

  Will I ever understand what goes on in the mind of Abel Rosnovski? Curtis Fenton wondered as he hung up the phone. His thoughts switched back to Abel’s other request, for the details on Lester’s stock. This
worried him even more. Although William Kane no longer had any connection with Rosnovski, Fenton feared where this might all end if his client obtained a substantial holding in Lester’s. He decided against expressing those fears to Rosnovski for the time being, supposing the day would come when one of them would explain what they were both up to.

  Abel also wondered if he should tell Curtis Fenton why he wanted to buy stock in Lester’s but came to the conclusion that the fewer the number of people who were privy to his plan, the better.

  He put William Kane temporarily out of his mind and asked his secretary to find George, who had been recently appointed a vice president of the Baron Group. He had grown along with Abel and was now his most trusted lieutenant. Sitting in his office on the forty-second floor of the Chicago Baron, Abel looked down on Lake Michigan, on what was known as the Gold Coast, and his thoughts returned to Poland. He wondered if he would ever live to see his castle again, now well inside the Russian borders under Stalin’s control. Abel knew he could never settle in Poland, but he still wanted his castle restored to him. The idea of the Germans or Russians once again occupying his magnificent home made him want to … His thoughts were interrupted by George.

  “You wanted to see me, Abel?”

  George was the only member of the group who called the Chicago Baron by his first name.

  “Yes, George. Do you think you could keep the hotels ticking along for a few months if I were to take a leave of absence?”

  “Sure I can,” said George. “Why, are you finally going to take a vacation?”

  “No,” replied Abel. “I’m going to war.”

  “What?” said George. “What?”

  “I’m going to New York tomorrow morning to enlist in the Army.”

  “You’re crazy—you could get yourself killed.”

  “That isn’t what I had in mind,” replied Abel. “Killing some Germans is what I plan to do. The bastards didn’t get me the first time around and I have no intention of letting them get me now.”

  George continued to protest that America could win the war without Abel. Zaphia protested too; she hated the very thought of war. Florentyna, almost eight years old, did not quite know what war meant, but she did understand that Daddy would have to go away for a very long time and she burst into tears.

  Despite their combined protests, Abel took his first plane flight to New York the next day. All America seemed to be going in different directions, and he found the city full of young men in khaki or Navy blues saying their farewells to parents, sweethearts and wives, all assuring one another—but not believing—that the war would be over in a few weeks.

  Abel arrived at the New York Baron in time for dinner. The dining room was packed with young people, girls clinging desperately to soldiers, sailors, and airmen, while Frank Sinatra crooned to the rhythms of Tommy Dorsey’s big band. As Abel watched the young people on the dance floor, he wondered how many of them would ever have a chance to enjoy an evening like this again. He couldn’t help remembering Sammy’s explanation of how he had become maître d’ at the Plaza. The three men senior to him had returned from the western front with one leg among them. None of the young people dancing now could begin to know what war was really like. He couldn’t join in the celebration—if that’s what it was. He went to his room instead.

  In the morning he dressed in a plain dark suit and went down to the recruiting office in Times Square. He had chosen to enlist in New York because he feared someone might recognize him in Chicago and he would end up with a swivel chair. The office was even more crowded than the dance floor had been the night before, but here no one was clinging to anyone else. He couldn’t help noticing that the other recruits looked fitter than he. The entire morning had passed before Abel was given and filled out one form—a task he estimated would have taken ten minutes in his own office. He then stood in line for two more hours, waiting to be interviewed by a recruiting sergeant, who asked him what he did for a living.

  “Hotel management,” said Abel, and went on to tell the officer of his experiences during the first war. The sergeant stared in silent incredulity at the five foot seven, 190-pound man before him. If Abel had told him he was The Chicago Baron, the officer would not have doubted his stories of imprisonment and escape, but Abel chose to keep this information to himself so that he would not be given any special treatment.

  “You’ll have to take a full physical tomorrow morning” was all the recruiting sergeant said at the end of Abel’s monologue, adding, as though he felt the comment was no less than his duty, “Thank you for volunteering.”

  The next day Abel had to wait several more hours for his physical examination. The doctor in charge was fairly blunt about Abel’s general condition. He had been protected from such comments for several years by his position and success. It came as a rude awakening when the doctor classified him 4F.

  “You’re overweight, your eyes are not too good and you limp. Frankly, Rosnovski, you’re, plain unfit. We can’t take soldiers into battle who are likely to have a heart attack even before they find the enemy. That doesn’t mean we can’t use your talents; there’s a lot of paperwork to be done in this war if you are interested.”

  Abel wanted to hit him, but he knew that wouldn’t help him to get him into uniform.

  “No, thank you—sir,” he said. “I want to fight the Germans, not send them letters.”

  He returned to his hotel that evening depressed—until he decided he wasn’t licked yet. The next day he tried again, going to another recruiting office, but he came back to the Baron with the same result. The second doctor had been a little more polite, but he was every bit as firm as the first one about Abel’s condition, and once again Abel ended up with a 4F. It was obvious to Abel that he was not going to be allowed to fight anybody in his present state of health.

  The next morning, he found a gymnasium on West Fifty-seventh Street where he engaged a private instructor to do something about his physical condition. For three months he worked every day on his weight and general fitness. He boxed, wrestled, ran, jumped, skipped, pressed weights and starved. When he was down to 155 pounds, the instructor assured him he was never going to be much fitter or thinner. Abel returned to the first recruiting office and filled in the same form under the name of Wladek Koskiewicz. Another recruiting sergeant was a lot more hopeful this time and the medical officer who gave him several tests finally accepted him as a reserve, waiting to be called up.

  “But I want to go to war now,” said Abel. “I want to fight the bastards.”

  “We’ll be in touch with you, Koskiewicz,” said the sergeant. “Please keep yourself fit. You can never be sure when we’ll need you.”

  Abel left, furious as he watched younger, leaner Americans being readily accepted for active service, and as he barged through the door, not sure what his next ploy should be, he walked straight into a tall, gangling man wearing a uniform adorned with stars on the shoulders.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” said Abel, looking up and backing away.

  “Young man,” said the general.

  Abel walked on, not thinking that the officer could be addressing him, as no one had called him young man for—he didn’t want to think for how long, even though he was still only thirty-five.

  The general tried again. “Young man,” he said a little louder.

  This time Abel turned around. “Me, sir?” he asked. “Yes, you, sir.”

  Abel walked over to the general.

  “Will you come to my office please, Mr. Rosnovski?”

  Damn, thought Abel, the man knows who I am and now nobody’s going to let me fight. The general’s temporary office turned out to be at the back of the building, a small room with a desk, two wooden chairs, peeling green paint and an open door. Abel would not have allowed the most junior member of his staff at a Baron to work in such conditions.

  “Mr. Rosnovski,” the general began, exuding energy, “my name is Mark Clark and I command the U.S. Fifth Army. I’m over from
Governors Island for the day on an inspection tour, so literally bumping into you is a pleasant surprise. I’ve been an admirer of yours for a long time. Your story is one to gladden the heart of any American. Now, tell me what you are doing in a recruiting office.”

  “What do you think?” said Abel, not thinking. “I’m sorry, sir,” he corrected himself quickly. “I didn’t mean to be rude, it’s only that no one wants to let me into this damn war.”

  “What do you want to do in this damn war?” asked the general.

  “Sign up and fight the Germans.”

  “As a foot soldier?” inquired the incredulous general.

  “Yes,” said Abel. “Don’t you need every man you can get?”

  “Naturally,” said the general, “but I can put your particular talents to a far better use than as a foot soldier.”

  “I’ll do anything,” said Abel. “Anything.”

  “Will you, now?” said the general. “Anything? If I asked you to place your New York hotel at our disposal as Army headquarters here, how would you react to that? Because frankly, Mr. Rosnovski, that would be of far more use to us than if you personally managed to kill a dozen Germans.”

  “The Baron is yours,” said Abel. “Now will you let me go to war?”

  “You know you’re mad, don’t you?” said General Clark.

  “I’m Polish,” said Abel, and they both laughed. “You must understand,” Abel continued, his tone once again serious, “I was born near Slonim, in Poland. I saw my home taken over by the Germans, my sister raped by the Russians. I later escaped from a Russian labor camp and was lucky enough to reach America. I’m not mad. This is the only country in the world where you can arrive with nothing and become a millionaire through damned hard work, regardless of your background. Now those same bastards want another war. I’m not mad, General—I’m human.”