Kane and Abel

by Jeffrey Archer

  The press had expected Florentyna Rosnovski, the daughter of the Chicago Baron, to perform the opening ceremony, and a gossip columnist on the Sunday Express hinted at a family rift and reported that Abel had not been his usual exuberant, bouncy self. Abel denied the suggestion unconvincingly, retorting that he was over fifty - not an age for bouncing, his public relations man had told him to say. The press remained unconvinced, and the following day the Daily Mail printed a photograph of a discarded engraved bronze plaque discovered in a dumpster at the back of the hotel, that read:

  The Edinburgh Baron

  opened by Florentyna Rosnovski

  October 17, 1956

  Abel flew on to Cannes. Another splendid hotel, this time overlooking the Mediterranean, but it didn’t help him get Florentyna out of his mind. Another discarded plaque, this one in French.

  Abel was beginning to dread the thought that he might spend the rest of his life without seeing his daughter again. To kill the loneliness, he slept with some very expensive and some rather cheap women. None of them helped. William Kane’s son now possessed the only person Abel Rosnovski truly cared for.

  France no longer held any excitement for him, and once he had finished his business there, he flew on to Bonn, where he completed negotiations for the site on which he would build the first Baron in Germany. He kept in constant touch with George by phone, but Florentyna had not been found. And there was some disturbing news concerning Henry Osborne.

  ‘He’s got himself in heavy debt with the bookmakers again,’ said George.

  ‘I warned him last time that I was through bailing him out,’ said Abel. ‘He’s been no damn use to anyone since he lost his seat in Congress. I’ll deal with the problem when I get back.’

  ‘He’s making threats,’ said George.

  ‘What’s new about that? I’ve never let them worry me in the past,’ said Abel. ‘Tell him whatever it is he wants, it will have to wait until my return.’

  ‘When do you expect to be back?’

  ‘Three weeks, four at the most. I want to look at some sites in Turkey and Egypt. Hilton and Marriott have started building there, and I need to find out why.’

  Abel spent more than three weeks looking at sites for hotels in the Arab states. His advisors were legion, most of them claiming the title of Prince and assuring him that they had real influence as a cousin, or a very close personal friend, of the key minister. However, it always turned out to be the wrong minister or too distant a cousin. Abel had no objection to bribery, as long as it ended up in the right hands and in the Middle East baksheesh seemed to be accepted as part of the business culture. In America, it was a little more discreet but Henry Osborne had always known which officials needed to be taken care of. The only solid conclusion Abel reached, after twenty-three days in the dust, sand and heat with a glass of soda but no whiskey, was that if his advisors’ forecasts about the future importance of the Middle East’s oil reserves were accurate, the Gulf States were going to want a lot of hotels, and the Baron Group needed to start planning immediately if it was not going to be left behind.

  Abel flew on to Istanbul, where he immediately found the perfect site to build a hotel, overlooking the Bosphorus, only a hundred yards from the old British Consulate. As he stood on the barren ground of his latest acquisition he recalled when he had last been there. He clung onto the silver band that had saved his life. He could hear once again the cries of the mob - it still made him feel frightened and sick although more than thirty years had passed.

  Exhausted from his travels, Abel flew home to New York. During the interminable flight he thought of little but Florentyna. As always, George was waiting outside the customs gate to meet him. His expression indicated nothing.

  ‘What news?’ asked Abel as he climbed into the back of the Cadillac while the chauffeur put his bags in the trunk.

  ‘Some good, some bad,’ said George, touching a button which caused a sheet of glass to glide up between the driver and passenger sections of the car. ‘Florentyna has been in touch with Zaphia. She’s living in a small house in San Francisco with some old friends from Radcliffe days.’

  ‘Married?’ asked Abel.

  ‘Yes.’

  Neither spoke for some time.

  ‘And the Kane boy?’

  ‘He’s found a job in a bank. It seems a lot of places turned him down, partly because word got around that he didn’t complete his course at the Harvard Business School, but mainly because they were afraid that by employing him they’d antagonize his father. He was finally hired as a teller with the Bank of America. Far below what he might have expected with his qualifications.’

  ‘And Florentyna?’

  ‘She’s working as the assistant manager in a fashion shop called Wayout Columbus near Golden Gate Park. She’s also trying to borrow money from several banks.’

  ‘Why? Is she in any sort of trouble?’ asked Abel anxiously.

  ‘No, she’s looking for capital to open her own shop.’

  ‘How much has she been asking for?’

  ‘She needs thirty-four thousand dollars for the lease on a small building on Nob Hill.’

  Abel thought about George’s news, his short fingers tapping on the car window. ‘See that she gets the money, George. Make it look as if it’s an ordinary bank loan, and be sure it’s not traceable back to me.

  ‘Anything you say, Abel.’

  ‘And keep me informed of every move she makes, however insignificant.’

  ‘What about the boy?’

  ‘I’m not interested in him,’ said Abel. ‘Now, what’s the bad news?’

  ‘More trouble with Henry Osborne. It seems he’s running up debts all over town. I’m also fairly certain his only source of income is now you. He’s still making threats - about letting the authorities know that you condoned bribes in the early days when you first took over the group, and that he fixed an extra payment after the fire at the old Richmond in Chicago. Says he’s kept all the details from the day he met you, and he now has a file three inches thick.’

  ‘I’ll deal with him in the morning,’ said Abel.

  George spent the remainder of the drive into Manhattan bringing Abel up to date on the rest of the group’s affairs. Everything was satisfactory, except that there had been a takeover of the Lagos Baron after yet another coup. Coups never worried Abel. Revolutionaries quickly discover they aren’t hoteliers, and they need visitors if they hope to put any money into their own pockets.

  The next morning Henry Osborne called in to see Abel. He looked old and dishevelled, and his once smooth and handsome face was now heavily lined. He made no mention of the three-inch-thick file.

  ‘I need a little help to get me through a tricky period,’ said Osborne. ‘Been a bit unlucky.’

  ‘Again, Henry? You should know better at your age. You’re a born loser with horses and women. How much do you need this time?’

  ‘Ten thousand would see me through,’ said Henry.

  ‘Ten thousand!’ said Abel, spitting out the words. ‘What do you think I am, a gold mine? It was only five thousand last time.’

  ‘Inflation,’ said Henry, trying to laugh.

  ‘This is the last time, do you understand me?’ said Abel as he took out his cheque book. ‘Come begging once more, Henry, and I’ll remove you from the board and turn you out without a penny.’

  ‘You’re a real friend, Abel. I swear I’ll never ask you for another penny. Never again.’ He plucked a Romeo y Julieta from the humidor on Abel’s desk. ‘Thanks, Abel. You’ll never regret this.’

  Osborne left, puffing away on his cigar. Abel waited for the door to close, then buzzed for George. He appeared moments later.

  ‘How much did he want this time?’ asked George.

  ‘Ten thousand,’ said Abel, ‘but I told him that it was the last time.’

  ‘He’ll be back,’ said George. ‘I’d be willing to bet on that.’

  ‘He’d better not,’ said Abel. ‘I’m through with h
im. Whatever he’s done for me in the past, it’s quits now. Anything new about my girl?’

  ‘She’s fine, but it looks as if you were right about Zaphia. She’s been making regular trips to the West Coast to see them.’

  ‘Bloody woman,’ said Abel.

  ‘Mrs Kane has also been out a couple of times,’ added George.

  ‘And Kane?’

  ‘No sign that he’s relenting.’

  ‘That’s one thing he and I have in common,’ said Abel.

  ‘I’ve set up a facility for Florentyna with the Crocker National Bank of San Francisco,’ continued George. ‘She has an appointment next Monday with the loan officer. The agreement will look to her like one of the bank’s regular loan transactions, with no special favours. In fact, they’re charging her half a per cent more than usual, so there’ll be no reason for her to become suspicious. She won’t be told the loan’s covered by your guarantee.’

  ‘Thanks, George, that’s perfect. I’ll bet you ten dollars she pays it off within two years and never needs to ask for another loan.’

  ‘I’d want odds of five to one on that,’ said George. ‘Why don’t you try Henry; he’s more of a sucker.’

  Abel laughed. ‘Keep me briefed, George, on everything she’s up to. Everything.’

  51

  WILLIAM REMAINED PUZZLED after he’d read Thaddeus Cohen’s quarterly report. Why was Rosnovski doing nothing with his holdings in Lester’s? With just another 2 per cent of the stock he could invoke Article Seven of Lester’s bylaws and demand a place on his board. He shuddered at the thought. It was hard to believe that he was afraid of the SEC regulations, especially as the Eisenhower Administration hadn’t shown any interest in pursuing the original inquiry.

  William was fascinated to read that Henry Osborne was once again in financial trouble and that Rosnovski kept bailing him out. He could only wonder how much longer that would go on, and what Osborne had on Rosnovski that made it possible for him to keep asking for more. Did Rosnovski have problems of his own? Had his daughter insisted that he drop the feud once and for all, or had he also cut his child off without a penny? Cohen’s file also included an update on the affairs of the Baron Group. The London Baron was losing money and the Lagos Baron was out of commission; otherwise, the company continued to grow in strength, while Rosnovski was building eight new hotels around the world. William reread the clipping from the Sunday Express, reporting that Florentyna Rosnovski had not opened the Edinburgh Baron, and thought about his son. He closed the report and locked it in his safe.

  William regretted his loss of temper with Richard. Although he did not want the Rosnovski girl to be his wife, he wished he had not turned his back so irrevocably on his only son. Kate had pleaded on Richard’s behalf, and they’d had a long and bitter argument, and time hadn’t helped resolve it. Kate had tried every tactic, from gentle persuasion to tears, but nothing had moved William. Virginia and Lucy didn’t need to remind him that they were missing their brother.

  ‘There’s no one else who’s critical of my paintings,’ said Virginia.

  ‘Don’t you mean rude?’ asked her mother. Virginia tried to smile.

  Lucy had taken to locking herself in the bathroom and writing secret letters to Richard, who could never figure out why they always gave the appearance of being damp. Neither of them dared to mention his name in front of their father, and the strain was creating a rift within the family.

  William had tried spending more time at the bank, working late into the night in the hope that it might help. It didn’t. The bank was once again making heavy demands on his energies at the very time when he most felt like he should be slowing down. He had appointed six new vice presidents in the previous two years, hoping they would take some of the load off his shoulders. The reverse had turned out to be the case. They had created more work, and more decisions for him to make. The brightest of them, Jake Thomas, who’d recently joined him on the board, was already looking like the most likely candidate to take William’s place as chairman if Richard didn’t give up the Rosnovski girl and come home.

  Although the bank’s profits continued to rise each year, William found he was no longer interested in making money for money’s sake. Perhaps he now faced the same problem Charles Lester had encountered: he had no son to leave his fortune and the chairmanship of the bank to.

  In the year of their silver wedding anniversary, William decided to take Kate and the girls for a long vacation to Europe in the hope that it might help put Richard out of their minds. They flew to London in a jet for the first time, a Boeing 707, and stayed at the Savoy, which brought back many happy memories of William’s first trip to Europe with Kate.

  They made a sentimental journey to Oxford, and went to Stratford-on-Avon to see Richard III with Laurence Olivier. They might have wished for a king by any other name.

  On the return journey from Stratford they stopped at the church in Henley-on-Thames where William and Kate had been married. This time the church needed a new organ. They would have stayed at the Bell Inn, but once again it had only one vacant room. An argument started between William and Kate in the car on the way back to London as to whether it had been the Reverend Tukesbury or the Reverend Dukesbury who had married them. They came to no satisfactory conclusion before reaching the Savoy. On one thing they had been able to agree; the new roof on the parish church had proved a good investment.

  William kissed Kate gently as he climbed into bed that night.

  ‘Best five hundred pounds I ever spent,’ he said.

  They flew to Italy a week later, having seen everything any self-respecting American tourist in England is meant to see, and many they usually miss. In Rome the girls drank a little too much Italian wine on the night of Virginia’s birthday and made themselves ill, while William ate too much good pasta and put on seven pounds. All of them would have been much happier if Richard had been with them, and although the girls never mentioned it to their father, they were desperate to meet Florentyna as she must be very special. Virginia cried one night, and Kate tried to comfort her. ‘Why doesn’t someone tell Daddy that some things are more important than pride?’

  When they returned to New York, William was refreshed and eager to plunge back into his work. He lost the seven pounds within weeks.

  As the months passed, he felt life was returning to normal, however much he missed his son. Normality disappeared when Virginia, just out of Sweet Briar, announced that she was engaged to be married to a student from the University of Virginia Law School. The news shook William.

  ‘She’s not old enough,’ he said.

  ‘She’s twenty-two,’ said Kate. ‘She’s not a child any longer, William. How do you feel about the prospect of becoming a grandfather?’ she added, regretting her words as soon as she had spoken them.

  ‘What do you mean?’ said William, horrified. ‘She isn’t pregnant, is she?’

  ‘Good gracious, no,’ said Kate, and then she spoke more softly, as if she had been found out. ‘Richard and Florentyna have had a baby.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Richard wrote to tell me the good news,’ replied Kate. ‘And Richard has been made a vice-president at the Bank of America. Hasn’t the time come for you to forgive him, William?’

  ‘Never,’ said William, and left the room without another word.

  Kate sighed wearily. He hadn’t even asked if his grandchild was a boy or a girl.

  Virginia’s wedding took place in Trinity Church, Boston, on a beautiful spring afternoon in March of the following year. William thoroughly approved of David Telford, the young lawyer with whom she had chosen to spend the rest of her life.

  Virginia had wanted Richard to be an usher, and Kate had begged William to invite him to the wedding, but he had steadfastly refused. Although it was meant to be the happiest day of Virginia’s life, she would have given back all her presents to have her father and Richard standing together in the family photograph that was taken outside the church. W
illiam had wanted to say yes, but he knew that Richard would never agree to coming without the Rosnovski girl.

  On the day of the wedding, Richard sent Virginia a present and a telegram. William placed the unopened present in the boot of her car, and would not allow the telegram to be read at the reception.

  52

  ABEL WAS sitting at his desk in the New York Baron, waiting to see a fund-raiser for the Kennedy campaign. The man was already twenty minutes late. Abel was tapping his fingers impatiently on his desk when his secretary came in.

  ‘Mr Frank Hogan to see you, sir.’

  Abel sprang out of his chair. ‘Come in, Mr Hogan,’ he said, slapping the conservatively dressed young man on the back. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Sorry I’m late, Mr Rosnovski,’ said the unmistakably Bostonian voice.

  ‘I didn’t notice,’ said Abel. ‘Would you care for a drink?’

  ‘No, thank you, Mr Rosnovski. I try not to drink when I have so many appointments in one day.’

  ‘Absolutely right. I hope you won’t mind if I have one,’ said Abel. ‘I’m not planning on seeing a lot of people today.’

  Hogan laughed like a man who knew he was in for a day of listening to other people’s jokes.

  Abel poured himself a whiskey. ‘Now, what can I do for you, Mr Hogan?’

  ‘Well, Mr Rosnovski, we were hoping the Party could count on your support once again.’

  ‘I’ve always been a Democrat, as you know, Mr Hogan. I supported Franklin D. Roosevelt, Harry Truman and Adlai Stevenson, although I couldn’t understand what Stevenson was talking about half the time.’ Both men laughed falsely. ‘I also helped my old friend Dick Daley in Chicago, and I’ve been backing young Ed Muskie - the son of a Polish immigrant, you know - since his campaign for Governor of Maine back in fifty-four.’