“We’re considering an unusual situation,” said Kenham. “Bizarre. I don’t think I’d be prepared to continue without the agreements that Podmore has set out.”
“Or me,” came in Hunter.
“I think they’re precautions we’ve got to take,” said Dore.
“The last thing we can sustain—if we can even sustain what’s going to happen when the American situation becomes public—is split boards,” said Phillips. “I agree with the rest.”
“So do I,” concluded Wise.
He was trapped, Franks realized, desperation churning through him. Just like he’d been trapped by the FBI investigation and then by the ultimatum presented by the district attorney. Which was exactly what it was: an ultimatum, not a choice. All he wanted was a fucking choice that didn’t involve him risking everything! He might have promised Tina that he intended to get out—maintain only a token presence—when everything had been resolved, but he’d wanted it to be on his terms; in his way. Not dismissed by these grey-suited, grey-faced, grey-existing upstart clerks whose biggest risk was trying a second glass of punch at the office Christmas party. Jesus, he’d have liked a drink of his own! Franks determined against letting them see how bitterly he felt their insistence. He said, his voice still controlled and even, “I repeat once more what I’ve already made clear: the continuance of the companies is of paramount importance. For me to agree to what you’ve demanded amounts to a concession. I feel justified, then, in seeking undertakings from each of you. We’ve already talked of the period when I am going to be absent. My managers and their managers run efficient enterprises; if they didn’t, they wouldn’t be my managers. But I’ve always—until the last few moments—insisted on the tightest final control; not interference. Control. I am aware of your other interests. I would ask you today to enter with me into the same sort of contractual agreement you are seeking from me—written, binding contracts—that for the period under discussion you are prepared to relegate your other interests so that these companies can become your primary consideration.”
It didn’t amount to much of a demand; it was the sort of posturing of which he’d earlier considered Podmore guilty. But it would be something, if they agreed. And he did want the tight control to be retained in his absence.
“We’re salaried directors,” reminded Podmore quietly.
The man was a bastard, decided Franks. When he was back in control he’d sack the man and replace him with somebody who didn’t peck and pull like some vulture trying to strip clean a carcass. “Ten percent of whatever increase is shown over the previous year’s comparable period,” he said, in further unavoidable concession.
“I’m prepared to enter into such an undertaking on that condition,” accepted Podmore at once, which further upset Franks; the quickness indicated that the man would have done it for less. There was a follow-my-leader acceptance from everyone else in the room.
Headed by Kenham in his role as company secretary, the four lawyers drew up the provisional documentation for immediate agreement while they sat in the conference room, and when Franks gave that, they promised the properly prepared contracts within two days. Franks realized it would mean his having to return from Switzerland to London on his way back to America, but did not consider that a major detour. After he’d initialed the draft agreements, Podmore said, “How are we going to be able to get into contact with you?”
Franks nodded toward the head-bent Kenham. “He’s made the Swiss arrangements. He’s got all the details.…” He hesitated as the thought came to him. “And you will have the name of my attorney in New York,” he added. Would it have been an idea to bring Rosenberg with him? The idea hadn’t occurred until now, but Franks wished he’d thought of it earlier. He didn’t know how Rosenberg would have confronted the demands—there wasn’t anything with which he could logically have resisted them—but Franks would have liked to have had someone on his side. He’d expected more support from Kenham. Why was it—in practically everything he did—he felt increasingly isolated?
Franks made an appointment to see Kenham after the meeting the following day with the managers, and the six men assured him they would be immediately available upon his return from Switzerland.
It was already dark when Franks emerged once more into the embarrassing protective custody of Waldo and Schultz. Franks realized he’d kept the FBI men waiting for more than four hours, and although he knew the feeling to be juvenile Franks hoped they were annoyed at the length of time. Neither gave any indication of being so.
By the time Franks reached the hotel he was at last feeling the tiredness of the journey, so he would have eaten in his rooms anyway. He delayed ordering, first putting in a call to Tina. He asked her how she was, and she said fine and asked him how he was, and he said fine and asked her how the children were, and she said fine. Franks hesitated and decided it would appear strange if he didn’t mention Maria, so he asked how things were working out with her and Tina said that was fine, too. He told her that he’d met the nonvoting directors, and she asked how it had gone, and Franks hesitated once more. The honest answer was that it had gone badly, but there was no point in her knowing that, not yet.
“There have had to be some changes in the arrangements,” he said.
“Like what?”
“Provisions for them to run things more actively when I’m unable to,” said Franks. They were hardly nonvoting directors anymore, he thought. Damn them!
“You don’t intend to be as active in any case,” said Tina, seizing an immediate point. “That’s what you’ve promised. So the changes would have had to be made.”
“You’re right,” conceded Franks, too weary to get into any sort of dispute. Podmore was definitely a change that was going to be made, he thought.
“So everything’s all right, then?” she pressed.
“Sure. Everything’s fine.” Except for a guard outside in the corridor and another next door and another opposite and a contingent of antiterrorist police God knows where, and a perpetual feeling of being a criminal. Franks supposed he should tell her of his appointments with the schools but couldn’t be bothered. Better to wait until after the meetings, when he’d have something positive to talk about. He gave her his suite number in case she needed to contact him, and promised to call again, and put the telephone down gratefully.
Franks poured another drink, looked at the menu, and decided he wasn’t really hungry. When was the last time he’d eaten? Last night, with Tina and Maria. It was too much trouble to calculate in hours just when that had been. What would Maria be doing now? He frowned, concentrating more fully on the menu. Hungry or not, he should eat something. He decided, disinterested, upon steak, paying more attention to the wine list. He picked at the meal and drank the wine and when he went to bed he slept the deep sleep of drunken exhaustion.
Waldo and Schultz were waiting for his call the following morning. Franks emerged from the hotel, blinking in the strong sunlight, regretting the previous day’s intake and hoping the headache would soon go. He was sure it wasn’t just the booze; there was the jet lag to consider, too. They’d conceded to his demands about the hotel; he should have insisted upon the Concorde as well.
There was a following car and Waldo was as attentive as ever, gazing around, never still. As he looked from the front seat into the rear of the vehicle the American said, “I know, Mr. Franks, that you consider all this to be a fatuous waste of time, but do you really think it was such a good idea to give your wife your room number? She knew the hotel, didn’t she?”
“You listened to my call?” demanded Franks, outraged.
“I told you we were going to be as careful as we considered necessary,” said Waldo. I suggested it to the British, because it’s their responsibility, and they agreed.”
Franks came forward on his seat, so that he was very close to the FBI man. “Stop it!” he insisted, red-faced with anger. “I want an assurance—not from you but from Ronan himself—that I will not be spied upo
n. I will not continue any sort of cooperation—any sort whatsoever—unless I have his assurance that I’m going to be properly treated. You got that?”
“It’s my job to protect you,” said Waldo. “You got that?”
Franks wanted to hit the man, to knock the supercilious expression off his face. “As a material witness,” he said, remembering the previous day’s dispute. “Everything will already have been started by now against Pascara and Flamini and Dukes. And without me, you haven’t got a case. That’s why you are protecting me. Stop the spying or I withdraw. Your choice.”
Waldo seemed unmoved, but Franks was sure Schultz shifted in his seat, worried by the threat.
“We’re doing our job, Mr. Franks,” argued Waldo.
“You’re overdoing your job,” said Franks. “Any listening device will be removed from my hotel telephone before I return, today.” And he knew a way to guarantee it, Franks decided.
He allowed them to escort him to the conference room, as they had the previous day, and as they had the previous day Waldo and Schultz settled themselves outside the room. Inside Franks used the internal telephone to delay the managers’ meeting by fifteen minutes and then called Rosenberg, in New York, glad of the man’s home telephone number and careless of waking him because of the time difference. He was surprised that the American lawyer did not regard it as much of an intrusion.
“They’re just nervous, that’s all,” said Rosenberg sleepily.
“I’m not,” said Franks. “I want you to get on to Ronan and tell him. I’m being treated like shit instead of someone who’s helping them. If the tap doesn’t come off, then everything else is off—literally—as far as I am concerned. Tell him that.”
“What if they revert to the prosecution of you?”
It would mean there would be no immediate grand jury hearing—not against Pascara or anyone else at least—and so the six-month time limit to which he’d agreed yesterday wouldn’t apply. But Podmore and those who’d followed him had realized their strength; they’d insist upon six months from some other starting point, if they agreed to remain at all with an actual prosecution against him. Fuck it! thought Franks. He’d got away with the bluff once and he could get away with it again. “We know now how their evidence ties in with the file Nicky left, how it points toward my innocence. If they want to prosecute me, then let them go ahead and lose everything.”
“I’ll tell him,” promised Rosenberg, fully awake now. “How’s it going there?”
“Could be better,” said Franks.
“Big problems?” asked the lawyer.
“Nothing I can’t solve,” said Franks. I hope, he thought.
“Call if you think I can help.”
Franks thought again how much he would have liked the man alongside him the previous day. “I will,” he said.
Franks was still hot with annoyance over the tap, but he tried to put the attitude aside for his meeting with the managers and their immediate subordinates. It was easier than the previous day, but Franks still felt uncomfortable. Franks rigidly maintained the employer-to-employee relationship and this time greatly abbreviated the circumstances of his entrapment, not wanting to diminish himself in their eyes. He devoted more discussion to the company changes, announcing the elevation of the managers to their respective boards and offering his congratulations. Remembering his promise to Tina—and her reminder the previous night—he said that although much of what he had talked about was temporary, their appointment would not be. Determined to prove that he was still absolutely in control and wanting to show it to the awkward bastards who’d backed him into a corner, he said further that their directors’ fees would be five thousand pounds a year but that there would be additional emoluments representing a commission based upon five percent of whatever increase was shown over the previous year’s trading. The decision would irritate Podmore and the others, but there was not a damned thing they would be able to do to reverse it.
The managers’ meeting went on longer than he had anticipated because of the salary increases upon which he’d suddenly decided, which meant the second meeting with Kenham was delayed. Franks welcomed the delay and then indulged himself, actually protracting it. He had never used his office in the building regularly. It was simply a place to be—like a bus shelter was a place to wait for a bus—when he was required to work from the company building. Which hadn’t been often because of his constant involvement in setting up the new enterprises. But the office was there, actually adjoining the conference chamber. Franks was surprised—worried, because it was so inexplicable—that it hadn’t occurred to him to go into it the previous day, but now he did. It was a reasonably expansive room—although, he remembered, not as flamboyant as Nicky’s; but he felt no association or even attachment to it. A plush bus shelter. It was dusted and neat. He sat in the chair—again not as high-backed or chariotlike as Nicky’s—and swiveled left and right and tried to feel some attachment. Nothing came. Deciding he could do with a drink, Franks looked around the room and realized there wasn’t a refrigerator or hospitality bar. Had he needed to look around—this theatricality was becoming ridiculous as well as infectious—to realize that? It was his office, for Christ’s sake. He’d approved the fittings and the design and he knew damned well he hadn’t decreed any sort of booze cabinet. So why was he looking for one now?
Remembering the headachy legacy from last night, Franks welcomed the way he was feeling now. The discomfort had gone and the meeting with the impressed managers—maybe wrongly impressed but nevertheless impressed, some even unashamedly open-mouthed—gave Franks a renewed feeling of confidence. He’d needed—looked for—that sort of confidence for weeks. He realized further that despite every attempt at self-analysis, until now he hadn’t been prepared to accept something that was essential to his survival. So much had happened so quickly—at least something he’d already accepted—that his personal confidence was gone. The awareness worried him; he’d lost too much—how much he didn’t yet know—to lose that. Everything he had achieved had been because of his own unshakable, unassailable confidence. If he couldn’t sustain the belief in himself, then he couldn’t sustain anything. Franks sat at the unaccustomed desk, surveyed the unaccustomed office, and was glad he’d come here because the visit crystallized more empty apprehensions and more positive realities than he’d so far been able—or prepared—to confront. He’d fight, because he was a fighter. A survivor, like his father. In fights people sometimes got beaten—a misstep or a misjudgment—but the champion was the person who recovered from those mistakes to go on to win. He was going to go on to win; to win against the bastards who thought they could manipulate him in America and the bastards who thought they could manipulate him in England. He looked again, reluctantly, around the office, wishing he’d installed some sort of hospitality arrangement; winning was going to be better than the best drink he’d ever imagined.
Franks summoned Kenham at last, remaining behind his desk and not bothering with anything but the most perfunctory greeting when the lawyer entered. His association with the business professionals who comprised his boards had never become social—not that they had a particularly social life—but of them all Franks had hoped there might have been something different between himself and Kenham. The owlish lawyer had been a junior partner to a financial solicitor who had been one of the men with whom his father had forged wartime links, and Kenham had been the man whom his father—and then, very quickly Franks—had drawn forward after the original friend died. Because of their support, Kenham had progressed to other City positions, and Franks felt he could have expected better support from the man than had been evident the previous day.
Kenham entered blink-eyed like the owl he resembled, briefcase before him as a shield. Franks nodded him toward a chair and Kenham sat, smiling hopefully. Franks thought, asshole, and didn’t bother to respond. Resisting any immediate attack about the previous day, Franks said, “You’ve made the Swiss arrangements?”
K
enham nodded hopefully—an owl isolating an unsuspecting mouse, thought Franks—and said, “Everything’s fixed; waiting for you.”
Without the support of the others, Kenham’s demeanor was very different, Franks decided. Double bastard, he thought. “What are the details?”
Kenham went into the briefcase and produced a file. “Everything’s there,” he said, offering it across the desk.
Franks let it lie, refusing the man his escape, conscious as he did so that it wasn’t just to recover from what had happened earlier but to reimpose his own superiority—as he’d reimposed it that morning with the managers—to recover his own flaked confidence. He said, “Set it out for me.”
Kenham smiled again, hopefully. “The establishment is being created by Maitre Francois Dulac. He’s got chambers at Limmatstresse. Number thirty-nine. I’ve arranged for your private bank account to be transferred to Zurich, too. To the Swiss Banking Corporation on the Paradeplatz.” The lawyer gestured toward the unopened file. “The correspondence there will accord with mine to them. Provide the introduction. They’ll need passport identification, in addition. It’s part of the protection, of course, that I don’t know what Dulac will have arranged in the transfer company, in Liechtenstein.”
Conscious of the previous day’s arrangements, Franks said, “When I’m in Switzerland I shall assign authority for Dulac to advise you in the event of anything happening to me.”
“I was going to remind you of the necessity,” said the lawyer.
“There’s no need,” said Franks.
“There wasn’t the opportunity for me to express it yesterday, but I’d like to say how much I regret what’s happened to you. On a personal basis, I mean. And to say that I’m sure everything is going to resolve itself, black though it may look at the moment.”
To Save a Son Page 26