The ball was interrupted by the entrance of John F. Kennedy and his beautiful wife, Jacqueline. They stayed about fifteen minutes, chatted with a few carefully selected people and then moved on. Although Abel didn’t actually speak with the President, even though he had left his table and placed himself strategically in Kennedy’s path, he did manage to have a word with Vincent Hogan as he was leaving with the Kennedy entourage.
“Mr. Rosnovski, what a fortuitous meeting.”
Abel would have liked to explain to the boy that with him nothing was fortuitous, but now was neither the time nor the place. Hogan took Abel’s arm and guided him quickly behind a large marble pillar.
“I can’t say too much at the moment, Mr. Rosnovski, as I must stick with the President, but I think you can expect a call from us in the near future. Naturally, the President has rather a lot of appointments to deal with at the moment.”
“Naturally,” said Abel.
“But I am hoping,” continued Vincent Hogan, “that in your case everything will be confirmed by late March or early April. May I be the first to offer my congratulations, Mr. Rosnovski? I am confident you will serve the President well.”
Abel watched Vincent Hogan literally run off to be sure he caught up with the Kennedy party, which was already climbing into a fleet of open-doored limousines.
“You look pleased with yourself,” said one of Abel’s Polish friends as he returned to his table and sat down to attack a tough steak, which would not have been allowed inside a Baron. “Did Kennedy invite you to be his new Secretary of State?”
They all laughed.
“Not yet,” said Abel. “But he did tell me the accommodation in the White House was not in the same class as the Barons.”
Abel flew back to New York the next morning after first visiting the Polish Chapel of Our Lady of Czestochowa in the National Shrine. It made him think of both Florentynas. Washington National airport was chaos and Abel eventually arrived at the New York Baron three hours later than planned. George joined him for dinner and knew that all had gone well when Abel ordered a magnum of Dom Pérignon.
“Tonight we celebrate,” said Abel. “I saw Hogan at the ball and my appointment will be confirmed in the next few weeks. The official announcement will probably be made soon after I get back from the Middle East.”
“Congratulations, Abel. I know of no one who deserves the honor more.”
“Thank you, George. I can assure you your reward will not be in heaven, because when it’s all official, I’m going to appoint you acting president of the Baron Group in my absence.”
George drank another glass of champagne. They were already halfway through the bottle.
“How long do you think you’ll be away this time, Abel?”
“Only three weeks. I want to check that those Arabs aren’t robbing me blind and then go on to Turkey to open the Istanbul Baron. I think I’ll take in London and Paris on the way.”
George poured more champagne.
Abel spent three more days in England than he had originally planned, trying to sort out the London Baron’s problems with a manager who seemed to blame everything on the British unions. The London Baron had turned out to be one of Abel’s few failures, although he never could put his finger on why the hotel continually lost money. He would have considered closing it, but the Baron Group had to have a presence in England’s capital city, so once again he fired the manager and made a new appointment.
Paris presented a striking contrast. The hotel was one of his most successful in Europe and he’d once admitted to Florentyna, as reluctantly as a parent admits to having a favorite child, that the Paris Baron was his favorite hotel. Abel found everything on the Boulevard Raspail well organized and spent only two days in Paris before flying on to the Middle East.
Abel now had sites in five of the Persian Gulf States, but only the Riyadh Baron had actually started construction. If he’d been a younger man, Abel would have stayed in the Middle East for a couple of years himself and straightened the Arabs out. But he couldn’t abide the sand or the heat or the uncertainty of the availability of a whiskey. He couldn’t stand the natives either. He left them to one of his young assistant vice presidents, who had been told that he would be allowed to return and manage the infidels in America only when Abel was sure he had proved a success with the holy and blessed ones in the Middle East.
He left the poor assistant vice president in the richest private hell in the world and flew on to Turkey.
Abel had visited Turkey several times during the past few years to watch the progress of the Istanbul Baron. For Abel, there would always be something special about Constantinople, as he remembered the city. He was looking forward to opening a new Baron in the country he had finally left to start a new life in America.
While he was unpacking his suitcase in yet another Presidential Suite, Abel found fifteen invitations awaiting his reply. There always were several invitations about the time of a hotel opening; a galaxy of freeloaders who wanted to be invited to any opening night party appeared on the scene as if by magic. On this occasion, however, two of the dinner invitations came as an agreeable surprise to Abel from men who certainly could not be classified as freeloaders: namely, the ambassadors of America and Britain. The invitation to the old British embassy was particularly irresistible as he had not been inside the building for nearly forty years.
That evening, Abel dined as the guest of Sir Bernard Burrows, Her Majesty’s Ambassador to Turkey. To his surprise he found that he had been placed at the right of the Ambassador’s wife, a privilege Abel had never been afforded in any other embassy in the past. When the dinner was over he observed the quaint English tradition by which the ladies left the room while the gentlemen sat together to smoke cigars and drink port or brandy. Abel was invited to join the American ambassador, Fletcher Warren, for port in Sir Bernard’s study. Sir Bernard was taking the American Ambassador to task for allowing him to have The Chicago Baron to dinner before he had.
“The British have always been a presumptuous race,” said the American Ambassador, lighting a large Cuban cigar.
“I’ll say one thing for the Americans,” said Sir Bernard, “they don’t know when they’re fairly beaten.”
Abel listened to the two diplomats’ banter, wondering why he had been included in such a private gathering. Sir Bernard offered Abel some vintage port, and the American Ambassador raised his glass.
“To Abel Rosnovski,” he said.
Sir Bernard also raised his glass. “I understand that congratulations are in order,” he said.
Abel reddened and looked hastily toward Fletcher Warren, hoping he would help him out.
“Oh, have I let the cat out of the bag, Fletcher?” said Sir Bernard, turning to the American Ambassador. “You told me the appointment was common knowledge, old chap.”
“Fairly common,” said Fletcher Warren. “Not that the British could ever keep a secret for very long.”
“Is that why your lot took such a devil of a time to discover we were at war with Germany?” said Sir Bernard.
“And then moved in to make sure of the victory?”
“And the glory,” said Sir Bernard.
The American Ambassador laughed. “I’m told the official announcement will be made in the next few days.”
Both men looked at Abel, who remained silent.
“Well then, may I be the first to congratulate you, Your Excellency,” said Sir Bernard. “I wish you every happiness in your new appointment.”
Abel flushed to hear aloud the appellation he had whispered so often to his shaving mirror during the past few months. “You’ll have to get used to being called Your Excellency, you know,” continued the British Ambassador, “and a whole lot of worse things than that. Particularly all the damned functions you’ll be made to attend one after another. If you have a weight problem now, it will be nothing compared to the one you’ll have when you finish your term of office. You may yet live to be grateful for the Co
ld War. It’s the one thing that might keep your social life within bounds.”
The American Ambassador smiled. “Well done, Abel, and may I add my best wishes for your continued success. When were you last in Poland?” he inquired.
“I’ve only been back home once, for a short visit a few years ago,” said Abel. “I’ve wanted to return ever since.”
“Well, you will be returning in triumph,” said Fletcher Warren. “Are you familiar with our embassy in Warsaw?”
“No, I’m not,” admitted Abel.
“Not a bad building,” said Sir Bernard. “Remembering you colonials couldn’t get a foothold in Europe until after the Second World War. But the food is appalling. I shall expect you to do something about that, Mr. Rosnovski. I’m afraid the only thing for it is that you’ll have to build a Baron hotel in Warsaw. As ambassador, that’s the least they’ll expect from an old Pole.”
Abel sat in a state of euphoria, laughing and enjoying Sir Bernard’s feeble jokes. He found he was drinking a little more wine than usual and felt at ease with himself and the world. He couldn’t wait to return to America and tell Florentyna his news, now that the appointment seemed to be official. She would be so proud of him. He decided then and there that the moment he arrived back in New York he would reserve a seat for San Francisco, where he would make everything up with her. It was what he had wanted to do all along and now he had an excuse. Somehow he’d force himself to like the Kane boy. He must stop referring to him as the Kane boy. What was his name—Richard? Yes, Richard. Abel felt a sudden rush of relief at having made the decision.
After the three men had returned to the ladies in the main reception room, Abel reached up and touched the British Ambassador on the shoulder. “I should be getting back, Your Excellency.”
“Back to the Baron,” said Sir Bernard. “Allow me to accompany you to your car, my dear fellow.”
The Ambassador’s wife bade Abel good night at the door.
“Good night, Lady Burrows, and thank you for a memorable evening.”
She smiled. “I know I’m not meant to know, Mr. Rosnovski, but many congratulations on your appointment. You must be so proud to be returning to the land of your birth as your country’s senior representative.”
“I am,” Abel said simply.
Sir Bernard accompanied him down the marble steps of the British embassy to the waiting car. The chauffeur opened the door.
“Good night, Rosnovski,” said Sir Bernard, “and good luck in Warsaw. By the way, I hope you enjoyed your first meal in the British embassy.”
“My second actually, Sir Bernard.”
“You’ve been here before, old boy? When we checked through the guest book we couldn’t find your name.”
“No,” said Abel. “Last time I had dinner in the British embassy, I ate in the kitchen. I don’t think they keep a guest book down there, but the meal was the best I’d had in years.”
Abel smiled as he climbed into the back of the car. He could see that Sir Bernard wasn’t sure whether to believe him or not.
As Abel was driven back to the Baron, his fingers tapped on the side windows and he hummed to himself. He would have liked to return to America the next morning, but he couldn’t cancel the invitation to dine with Fletcher Warren at the American embassy the following evening. Hardly the sort of thing a future ambassador does, old fellow, he could hear Sir Bernard saying.
Dinner with the American Ambassador turned out to be another pleasant occasion. Abel was made to explain to the assembled guests how he had come to eat in the kitchen of the British Embassy. When he told them the truth, they looked on in surprised admiration. He wasn’t sure if many of them believed the story of how he had nearly lost his hand, but they all admired the silver band, and that night, everyone called him “Your Excellency.”
The next day, Abel was up early, ready for his flight to America. The DC-8 flew into Belgrade, where he was grounded for sixteen hours, waiting for the plane to be serviced. Something wrong with the landing gear, they told him. He sat in the airport lounge, sipping undrinkable Yugoslavian coffee. The contrast between the British embassy and the snack bar in a Communist-controlled country was not entirely lost on Abel. At last. the plane took off, only to be delayed again in Amsterdam. This time the passengers were made to change planes.
When he finally arrived at Idlewild, Abel had been traveling for nearly thirty-six hours. He was so tired he could hardly walk. As he left the Customs area, he suddenly found himself surrounded by newsmen, and the cameras started flashing and clicking. Immediately he smiled. The announcement must have been made, he thought; now it’s official. He stood as straight as he could and walked slowly and with dignity, disguising his limp. There was no sign of George as the cameramen jostled each other unceremoniously to be sure of a picture.
Then he saw George standing at the edge of the crowd, looking like death. Abel’s heart lurched as he passed the barrier, and a journalist, far from asking him what it felt like to be the first Polish-American to be appointed ambassador to Warsaw, shouted: “Do you have any answers to the charges?”
The cameras went on flashing and so did the questions.
“Are the accusations true, Mr. Rosnovski?”
“How much did you actually pay Congressman Osborne?”
“Do you deny the charges?”
“Have you returned to America to face trial?”
They wrote down Abel’s replies although he had not spoken.
Then he shouted above the crowd: “Get me out of here!”
George squeezed forward and managed to reach Abel and then pushed his way back through the crowd and bundled him into the waiting Cadillac. Abel bent over and hid his head in his hands as the cameras’ flashbulbs kept popping. George shouted at the chauffeur to get moving.
“To the Baron, sir?” he asked.
“No, to Miss Rosnovski’s apartment on East Fifty-seventh Street.”
“Why?” said Abel.
“Because the press is crawling all over the Baron.”
“I don’t understand,” said Abel. “In Istanbul they treat me as if I were the ambassador-elect and I return home to find I’m a criminal. What the hell is going on, George?”
“Do you want to hear it all from me or wait until you’ve seen your lawyer?” asked George.
“My lawyer? You got someone to represent me?” asked Abel.
“H. Trafford Jilks, the best.”
“And the most expensive.”
“I didn’t think you would be worrying about money at a time like this, Abel.”
“You’re right, George. I’m sorry. Where is he now?”
“I left him at the courthouse, but he said he’d come to the apartment as soon as he was through.”
“I can’t wait that long, George. For God’s sake, put me in the picture. Tell me the worst.”
George drew a deep breath. “There’s a warrant out for your arrest,” he said.
“What the hell’s the charge?”
“Bribery of government officials.”
“I’ve never been directly involved with a government official in my whole life,” protested Abel.
“I know, but Henry Osborne has, and what he did seems to have been in your name or on your behalf.”
“Oh my God!” said Abel. “I should never have employed the man. I let the fact that we both hated Kane cloud my judgment. But I still find it hard to believe Henry has told everything, because he would only end up implicating himself.”
“But Henry has disappeared,” said George, “and the big surprise is that suddenly, mysteriously, all his debts have been cleared up.”
“William Kane,” said Abel, spitting the words out.
“We’ve found nothing that points in that direction,” said George. “There’s no proof he’s involved in this at all.”
“Who needs proof? You tell me how the authorities got hold of the details.”
“We do know that much,” said George. “It seems an anonymous pac
kage containing a file was sent direct to the Justice Department in Washington.”
“Postmarked New York, no doubt,” said Abel.
“No. Chicago.”
Abel was silent for a few moments. “It couldn’t have been Henry who sent the file to them,” he said finally. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
“How can you be so sure?” asked George.
“Because you said all his debts have been cleared up and the Justice Department wouldn’t pay out that sort of money unless they thought they were going to catch Al Capone. Henry must have sold his file to someone else. But who? The one thing we can be certain of is that he would never have released any information directly to Kane.”
“Directly?” said George.
“Directly,” repeated Abel. “Perhaps he didn’t sell it directly. Kane could have arranged for an intermediary to deal with the whole thing if he already knew that Henry was heavily in debt and the bookmakers were threatening him.”
“That might be right, Abel. And it certainly wouldn’t take an ace detective to discover the extent of Henry’s financial problems. They were common knowledge to anyone sitting on a bar stool in Chicago, but don’t jump to hasty conclusions just yet. Let’s find out what your lawyer has to say.”
The Cadillac came to a halt outside Florentyna’s former home, which Abel had retained and maintained in the hope that his daughter would one day return. George saw H. Trafford Jilks waiting in the foyer and opened the apartment door to let them all in. Once they had settled down, George poured Abel a large whiskey. He drank it in one gulp and gave the empty glass back to George, who refilled it.
“Tell me the worst, Mr. Jilks. Let’s get it over with.”
“I am sorry, Mr. Rosnovski,” he began. “Mr. Novak told me about Warsaw.”
“That’s all over now, so we may as well forget ‘Your Excellency.’ You can be sure if Vincent Hogan were asked, he wouldn’t even remember my name. Come on, Mr. Jilks, what am I facing?”
“You’ve been indicted on seventeen charges of bribery and corruption of officials in fourteen different states. I’ve made provisional arrangements with the Justice Department for you to be arrested here at the apartment tomorrow morning, and they will make no objection to the granting of bail.”
Kane and Abel/Sons of Fortune Page 52
