The Prodigal Daughter

by Jeffrey Archer

  When George had closed the door behind him, Richard turned to Florentyna. “Jesus, whose side does he think he’s on?”

  “Ours,” replied Florentyna. “Now I know why my father happily trusted him to run the Group while he went off to fight the Germans.”

  A statement in The Wall Street Journal the following day confirming that the Baron Group had underwritten Lester’s loans caused the bank’s stocks to rise again, and Richard settled down to what he called “my five years of drudgery.”

  “What are you going to do about Jake Thomas?”

  “Ignore him,” said Richard. “Time is on my side. No bank in New York will employ him once it’s known he is willing to run to the press whenever he has a disagreement with his past employers.”

  “But how will anyone ever find out?”

  “Darling, if The Wall Street Journal knows, everybody knows.”

  Richard turned out to be right; the whole story was repeated back to him over a lunch he had with a director of Bankers Trust only a week later. The director went on to remark, “That man’s broken the golden rule of banking. From now on, he’ll find it hard to open a checking account.”

  William recovered from his burns far more quickly than Florentyna had expected and returned to school a few days later with a scar on his hand too small to impress his friends. For the first few days after the accident Annabel looked away every time she saw the scar and seemed genuinely contrite.

  “Do you think he’s forgiven me?” she asked her mother.

  “Of course, my darling. William is just like his father—forgets any quarrel by the next morning.”

  Florentyna considered that the time had come for her to make a tour of the Baron hotels in Europe. Her staff worked out a detailed itinerary that took in Rome, Paris, Madrid, Lisbon, West Berlin, Amsterdam, Stockholm, London and even Warsaw. She felt a new confidence in leaving George in control, she told Richard as they were driven to the airport. He agreed and then reminded Florentyna that they had never been apart for as long as three weeks since the day they had met.

  “You’ll survive, darling.”

  “I’ll miss you, Jessie.”

  “Now, don’t you get all sentimental. You know that I have to work for the rest of my life to make sure that my husband can continue posing as chairman of a New York bank.”

  “I love you,” said Richard.

  “I love you too,” said Florentyna. “But you still owe me forty-five million and fifty-six dollars.”

  “Where does the fifty-six come from?” said Richard.

  “From our days in San Francisco. You’ve never repaid me that fifty-six dollars I lent you before we were married.”

  “You said it was a dowry.”

  “No, you said it was a dowry. I said it was a loan. I think I’ll have to take George’s advice about how it should be repaid as soon as I return. Perhaps fifteen percent over five years would seem reasonable, Mr. Kane, which means you must now owe me around four hundred dollars.” She leaned up and kissed him goodbye.

  Richard was driven back to New York by the chauffeur and on arrival at his office he immediately phoned Cartier’s in London. He gave clear instructions as to what he required and said it had to be ready in eighteen days.

  When the time had come for Richard to prepare his annual general report for the bank, the red African figure maddened him. Without it, Lester’s would have shown a healthy profit: so much for hoping he would beat Jake Thomas’s figures in his first year. All that the stockholders would remember was a thumping loss compared with 1970.

  Richard followed Florentyna’s detailed schedule with interest every day and made sure he caught up with her by phone at least once in every capital. She seemed pleased by most of what she had seen, and although she had a few ideas for changes, she had to admit that the hotels on the Continent were well run by the Group’s European directors. Any excess expenditure had been caused by her own demands for higher standards of architecture. When she phoned from Paris, Richard passed on the news that William had won the class mathematics prize and that he was now confident that his son would be accepted by St. Paul’s. And since the hot water incident Annabel had tried a little harder at school and had even scraped herself off the bottom of the class. It was the best news Richard had given her.

  “Where’s your next stop?” Richard asked.

  “London,” she replied.

  “Great. I’ve got a feeling I know someone you’ll want to call when you’re there,” he said with a chuckle, and went to bed feeling better than he had for some days.

  He heard from Florentyna much earlier than he had expected. Around six o’clock the next morning, Richard was in a deep sleep, dreaming that he and Major Abanjo were having a shoot-out: Richard pulled the trigger, the bullet fired off. Then the phone rang. He woke up and lifted the receiver, expecting to hear Major Abanjo’s last words.

  “I love you.”

  “What?” he said.

  “I love you.”

  “Jessie, do you know what time it is?”

  “A few minutes after twelve.”

  “It’s eight minutes past six in New York.”

  “I only wanted to tell you how much I love my diamond brooch.”

  Richard smiled.

  “I’m going to wear it to lunch with Sir Colin and Lady Emson. They’re due any minute to take me to the Mirabelle, so I must say goodbye. Talk to you tomorrow—my today.”

  “You’re a nut.”

  “By the way, I don’t know if it’s of any interest to you, but there’s a reporter on the midday news here in England saying something about a certain Major Abanjo being killed in a countercoup in some Central African state and the old king returning home tomorrow to a hero’s welcome.”

  “What?”

  “The king is just being interviewed now so I’ll repeat what he’s saying. ‘My government intends to honor all the debts it has incurred with our friends in the Western world.’”

  “What?” repeated Richard, once again.

  “He looks like such a nice fellow now that he’s got the crown back on his head. Good night, Mr. Kane. Sleep well.”

  As Richard was leaping up and down on his bed, there was a knock on Florentyna’s door, and Sir Colin and Lady Emson came into her suite.

  “Are you ready, young lady?” asked Sir Colin.

  “I am,” said Florentyna.

  “You look very pleased with yourself. No doubt the reinstatement of King Erobo has brought the roses back to your cheeks.”

  “Well informed as you are, Sir Colin, that is not the reason,” said Florentyna as she glanced down at the card that lay on the table in front of her and read the words again.

  I hope that this will be acceptable security until I can return the fifty-six dollars, plus interest.

  Mr. Kane

  “What a lovely brooch you’re wearing,” said Lady Emson. “It’s a donkey, isn’t it? Does that signify anything in particular?”

  “It certainly does, Lady Emson. It means the giver intends to vote for Nixon again.”

  “Then you have to give him elephant cuff links in return,” said Sir Colin.

  “You know, Richard was right: it doesn’t pay to underestimate the British,” said Florentyna.

  After lunch, Florentyna phoned Miss Tredgold at her school. The school secretary put her through to the staff room. Miss Tredgold, it turned out, did not need to be informed about the late Major Abanjo but seemed more interested in all the news about William and Annabel. Florentyna’s second call was to Sotheby’s—this time in person. On arrival she asked to see one of the department heads.

  “It may be many years before such an item will come under the hammer, Mrs. Kane,” the expert told her.

  “I understand,” said Florentyna. “But please let me know the moment it does.”

  “Certainly, madam,” said the expert as he wrote down Florentyna’s name and address.

  When Florentyna returned to New York after her three weeks she s
ettled down to implementing the changes she had been considering on her European tour. By the end of 1972, with her energy, George’s wisdom and Gianni di Ferranti’s genius, she was able to show an increased profit. Thanks to King Erobo, who proved as good as his word, Richard was not far behind her.

  On the night of the annual stockholders’ meeting, Richard, Florentyna and George went out for a celebration dinner. Even though George had officially retired on his sixty-fifth birthday, he still came into the office every morning at eight o’clock. It had taken only twenty-four hours for everyone at the Baron to realize that “retirement party” had been a misnomer. Florentyna began to appreciate how lonely George must be now that he had lost most of his contemporaries and how close he had been to her father. She never once suggested that he should slow down, because she knew it was pointless, and it gave her particular happiness whenever George took Annabel and William on an outing. Both the children called him “Grandpapa,” which brought tears to his eyes and always guaranteed them a double-scoop ice cream cone.

  Florentyna thought she knew how much George did for the Group, but the truth came home to her only after his retirement could no longer be postponed. George died peacefully in his sleep in October 1973. In his will, he left everything to the Polish Red Cross and a short note addressed to Richard, asking him to act as his executor.

  Richard carried out George’s every wish to the letter and even traveled to Warsaw accompanied by Florentyna to meet the president of the Polish Red Cross and discuss how George’s donation could best be put to use. When they returned to New York, Florentyna sent a directive to all managers in the Group that the finest suite in each hotel was no longer to be the Presidential Suite but was to be renamed the “George Novak Suite.”

  When Richard woke the morning after they had returned from Warsaw, Florentyna, who had been waiting impatiently for him to open his eyes, told her husband that although George had taught her so much in life, he had now added to her learning even in death.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “George left everything he had to charity but never once referred to the fact that my father rarely made charitable contributions other than the occasional gift to Polish or political causes. I’m every bit as remiss myself, and if you hadn’t added a footnote to the Group’s annual general report concerning tax relief for charitable donations, I would never have given the matter a second thought.”

  “Well, I’m sure you’re not planning for something after your death. What do you have in mind?”

  “Why don’t we set up a foundation in memory of both our fathers? Let’s bring the two families together. What they failed to do in their lifetime, let us do in ours.”

  Richard sat up and stared at his wife as she got out of bed and continued to talk as she walked toward the bathroom.

  “The Baron Group should donate two million dollars a year to the foundation,” she said.

  “Spending only the income, never the capital,” he interjected.

  Florentyna closed the bathroom door, which gave Richard a few moments to consider her proposal. He could still be surprised by her bold, sweeping approach to any new venture, even if, as he suspected, she had not thought through who would handle the day-to-day administration of such a vast enterprise once it had taken off. He smiled to himself when the bathroom door reopened.

  “We could spend the income derived from such a trust on first-generation immigrants who are not getting the chance of a decent education.”

  “And also create scholarships for exceptionally gifted children whatever their background,” said Richard, getting out of bed.

  “Brilliant, Mr. Kane, and let us hope that occasionally the same person will qualify for both.”

  “You father would have,” said Richard as he disappeared into the bathroom.

  Thaddeus Cohen insisted on coming out of retirement to draw up the deeds of the foundation to cover the wishes of both Kanes. It took him over a month. When the trust fund was launched, the national press welcomed the financial commitment as another example of how Richard and Florentyna Kane were able to combine bold originality with common sense.

  A reporter from the Chicago Sun-Times phoned Thaddeus Cohen to inquire why the foundation was so named. Cohen explained that the choice of “Remagen” arose because it was the battlefield on which Colonel Rosnovski had unknowingly saved the life of Captain Kane.

  “I had no idea they had met on a battlefield,” said a young voice.

  “Neither did they,” said Thaddeus Cohen. “It was only discovered after their deaths.”

  “Fascinating. Tell me, Mr. Cohen, who is going to be the first director of the Remagen Foundation?”

  “Professor Luigi Ferpozzi.”

  Both Lester’s Bank and the Baron Group set new records the following year as Richard established himself as a force on Wall Street and Florentyna visited her hotels in the Middle East and Africa. King Erobo held a banquet in Florentyna’s honor when she arrived in Nambawe, and although she promised to build a hotel in the capital city she wouldn’t be drawn into an explanation of why Lester’s had not been among the banks involved with the king’s latest international loan.

  William had a good first year at St. Paul’s, showing the same flair for math which his father had before him. As they had been taught by the same master, both father and son avoided asking for any comparison. Annabel did not progress as quickly as William, although her teacher had to admit she had improved even if she had fallen in love with Bob Dylan.

  “Who’s he?” asked Florentyna.

  “I don’t know,” said Richard, “but I’m told he’s doing for Annabel what Sinatra did for you twenty-five years ago.”

  When Florentyna started her sixth year as chairman of the Group she found she was beginning to repeat herself. Richard seemed to find new challenges all the time, while Gianni di Ferranti appeared to be well in control of the chain of shops without bothering to ask her anything other than where to send the checks. The Baron Group was now so efficient, and her management team so competent, that no one showed a great deal of concern one morning when Florentyna didn’t come into the office.

  That evening, when Richard was sitting in the crimson leather chair by the fire reading The Billion Dollar Sure Thing, she expressed her thoughts out loud.

  “I’m bored.”

  Richard made no comment.

  “It’s time I did something with my life other than build on my father’s achievements,” she added.

  Richard smiled but didn’t look up from his book.

  Chapter

  Twenty-Five

  “You’re allowed three guesses who this is.”

  “Am I given any clues?” asked Florentyna, annoyed that she knew the voice but couldn’t quite place it.

  “Good-looking, intelligent and a national idol.”

  “Paul Newman.”

  “Feeble. Try again.”

  “Robert Redford.”

  “Worse still. One more chance.”

  “I need another clue.”

  “Appalling at French, not much better at English and still in love with you.”

  “Edward. Edward Winchester. A voice from the past—only you don’t sound as if you’ve changed a bit.”

  “Wishful thinking. I’m over forty, and by the way, so will you be next year.”

  “How can I be when I’m only twenty-four this year?”

  “What, again?”

  “No, I have been on ice for the last fifteen years.”

  “Not from what I’ve read about you. You go from strength to strength.”

  “And how about you?”

  “I’m a partner in a law firm in Chicago, Winston and Strawn.”

  “Married?”

  “No, I’ve decided to wait for you.”

  Florentyna laughed. “If you’ve taken this long to phone and propose, I should warn you that I’ve been married for fifteen years and I have a son of fourteen and a daughter of twelve.”

&nb
sp; “All right then, I won’t propose, but I would like to see you. It’s a private matter.”

  “A private matter? Sounds intriguing.”

  “If I were to fly to New York one day next week, would you have lunch with me?”

  “I’d enjoy that.” Florentyna flicked over the pages of her calendar. “How about next Tuesday?”

  “Suits me. Shall we say the Four Seasons, one o’clock?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Florentyna put down the phone and sat back in her chair. Other than Christmas cards and the odd letter, she hadn’t had much contact with Edward for sixteen years. She walked across to the mirror and studied herself. A few small lines were beginning to appear around the eyes and mouth. She turned sideways to confirm that she had kept her slim figure. She didn’t feel old. There was no denying that she had a daughter who could already make young men stop in the street for a second glance, and a teenage son she now had to look up to. It wasn’t fair; Richard didn’t look forty: a few white tufts appearing at the sides of the temples and the hair perhaps a shade thinner than it had been, but he was every bit as slim and vigorous as the day they had met. She admired the fact that he still found time to play squash at the Harvard Club twice a week and practice the cello most weekends. Edward’s phone call made her think of middle age for the first time; how morbid. She would be thinking of death next. Thaddeus Cohen had died the previous year; only Kate Kane and Zaphia remained of that generation.

  Florentyna tried to touch her toes and couldn’t, so she returned to the monthly statements of the Baron Group for reassurance. London was still not paying its way, even though the hotel occupied one of the finest sites in Mayfair. Somehow the English seemed to combine impossible wage demands with high unemployment and staff shortages all at the same time. In Riyadh they had had to clear out almost the entire management because of theft, and in Poland the government would still not allow the Group to take any exchangeable currency out of the country. But despite these minor problems, all of which could be ironed out by her management team, the company was in good shape.