Kane and Abel/Sons of Fortune

by Jeffrey Archer

  Curtis Fenton laughed. (Only later that evening when he repeated the story to his wife did he decide that Abel Rosnovski had meant exactly what he had said—a Baron in Warsaw.)

  “Now, where do I stand with Kane’s bank?”

  The sudden change in Abel’s tone bothered Curtis Fenton. It worried him that Abel Rosnovski still clearly held William Kane responsible for Davis Leroy’s premature death. He opened the special file and started reading.

  “Lester, Kane and Company’s stock is divided among fourteen members of the Lester family and six past and present employees, while Mr. Kane himself is the largest stockholder with eight percent in his family trust.”

  “Are any of the Lester family willing to sell their stock?” inquired Abel.

  “Perhaps if we can offer the right price. Miss Susan Lester, the late Charles Lester’s daughter, has given us reason to believe she might consider parting with her stock, and Mr. Peter Parfitt, a former vice chairman of Lester’s, has also showed some interest in our approaches.”

  “What percentage do they hold?”

  “Susan Lester holds six percent. Peter Parfitt has only two percent.”

  “How much do they want?”

  Curtis Fenton looked down at his file again while Abel glanced at Lester’s latest annual report. His eyes came to a halt at Article Seven.

  “Miss Susan wants two million dollars for her six percent and Mr. Parfitt one million dollars for his two percent.”

  “Mr. Parfitt is greedy,” said Abel. “We will therefore wait until he is hungry. Buy Miss Susan Lester’s stock immediately without revealing whom you represent and keep me briefed on any change of heart by Mr. Parfitt.”

  Curtis Fenton coughed.

  “Is something bothering you, Mr. Fenton?” asked Abel.

  Curtis Fenton hesitated. “No, nothing,” he said unconvincingly.

  “Good, because I’m putting someone in overall charge of the account whom you will know or certainly know of—Henry Osborne.”

  “Congressman Osborne?” asked Curtis Fenton.

  “Yes—do you know him?”

  “Only by reputation,” said Fenton, with a faint note of disapproval, his head bowed.

  Abel ignored the implied comment. He was only too aware of Henry’s reputation, but he also had the ability to cut out all the middle men of bureaucracy and ensure quick political decisions, so Abel considered him a worthwhile risk. There was, in addition, the band of common loathing for Kane.

  “I’m also inviting Mr. Osborne to be a director of the Baron Group with special responsibility for the Kane account. This information must, as always, be treated in the strictest confidence.”

  “As you wish,” said Fenton unhappily, wondering if he should express his personal misgivings to Abel Rosnovski.

  “Brief me as soon as you have closed the deal with Miss Susan Lester.”

  “Yes, Mr. Rosnovski,” said Curtis Fenton without raising his head.

  Abel returned to the Baron for lunch, where Henry Osborne was waiting to join him.

  “Congressman,” said Abel as they met in the foyer.

  “Baron,” said Henry, and they laughed and went arm in arm into the dining room and sat at a corner table. Abel chastised a waiter because a button was missing from his tunic.

  “How’s your wife, Abel?”

  “Swell. And yours, Henry?”

  “Just great.” They were both lying.

  “Any news to report?”

  “Yes. That concession you needed in Atlanta has been taken care of,” said Henry in a conspiratorial voice. “The necessary documents will be pushed through sometime in the next few days. You’ll be able to start building the new Atlanta Baron around the first of the month.”

  “We’re not doing anything too illegal, are we?”

  “Nothing your competitors aren’t up to—that I can promise you, Abel.” Henry Osborne laughed.

  “I’m glad to hear that, Henry. I don’t want any trouble with the law.”

  “No, no,” said Henry. “Only you and I know all the facts.”

  “Good,” said Abel. “You’ve made yourself very useful to me over the years, Henry, and I have a little reward for your past services. How would you like to become a director of the Baron Group?”

  “I’d be flattered, Abel.”

  “Don’t give me that. You know you’ve been invaluable with those state and city building permits. I never have had time to deal with politicians and bureaucrats. In any case, Henry, they prefer to deal with a Harvard man—even if he doesn’t so much open doors as simply kick them down.”

  “You’ve been very generous in return, Abel.”

  “It’s no more than you’ve earned. Now, I want you to take on an even bigger job, which should be close to both our hearts. This little exercise will also require complete secrecy, but it shouldn’t take too much of your time while giving us some revenge on our mutual friend from Boston, Mr. William Kane.”

  The maître d’hotel arrived with two large sirloin steaks, medium rare. Henry listened intently as Abel unfolded his plans for William Kane.

  A few days later, on May 8, 1946, Abel traveled to New York to celebrate the first anniversary of V-E day. He had laid out a dinner for more than a thousand Polish veterans at the Baron Hotel and had invited General Kazimierz Sosnkowski, commander in chief of the Polish Forces in France after 1943, to be the guest of honor. Abel had looked forward impatiently to the event for weeks and took Florentyna with him to New York. Zaphia stayed behind in Chicago.

  On the night of the celebration, the banquet room of the New York Baron looked magnificent, each of the 120 tables decorated with the stars and stripes of America and the white, red and white of the Polish national flag. Huge photographs of Eisenhower, Patton, Bradley, Clark, Paderewski and Sikorsky festooned the walls. Abel sat at the center of the head table with the general on his right and Florentyna on his left.

  When General Sosnkowski rose to address the gathering, he announced that Lieutenant Colonel Rosnovski had been made a Life President of the Polish Veterans’ Society, in acknowledgment of the personal sacrifices he had made for the Polish-American cause, and in particular for his generous gift of use of the New York Baron throughout the entire duration of the war. Someone who had drunk a little too much shouted from the back of the room:

  “Those of us who survived the Germans had to survive Abel’s food as well.”

  The thousand veterans laughed and cheered, toasted Abel in Danzig vodka and then fell silent as the general talked of the plight of postwar Poland, in the grip of Stalinist Russia, urging his fellow expatriates to be tireless in their campaign to secure ultimate sovereignty for their native land. Abel wanted to believe that Poland could one day be free again and that he might even live to see his castle restored to him, but doubted if that would ever be possible after Stalin’s success at Yalta.

  The general went on to remind the guests that Polish-Americans had, per capita, sacrificed more lives and given more money to the war than any other single ethnic group in the United States. “ … how many Americans would believe that Poland lost six million of her countrymen while Czechoslovakia lost one hundred thousand? Some observers declare we were stupid not to surrender when we must have known we were beaten. How could a nation that staged a cavalry charge against the might of the Nazi tanks ever believe they were beaten? And, my friends, I tell you we are not beaten now.”

  Abel felt sad to think that most Americans would still laugh at the thought of the Polish war effort, or, funnier still, a Polish war hero. The general then told his intent audience the story of how Abel had led a band of men to rescue troops who had been killed or wounded at the battle of Remagen. When the general had finished his speech and sat down, the veterans stood and cheered the two men resoundingly. Florentyna was very proud of her father.

  Abel was surprised when the story hit the papers the next morning, because Polish achievements were rarely reported in any medium other than Dziennik Zwiazk
iwy. He doubted that the press would have bothered on this occasion had he not been The Chicago Baron. Abel basked in his newfound glory as an unsung American hero and spent most of the day posing for photographers and giving interviews to newsmen.

  By the evening, Abel felt a sense of anticlimax. The general had flown on to Los Angeles and another function, Florentyna had returned to school in Lake Forest, George was in Chicago, and Henry Osborne had gone to Washington. The New York Baron suddenly seemed large and empty to Abel, but he felt no desire to return to Zaphia in Chicago.

  He decided to have an early dinner downstairs, then go over the weekly reports from the other hotels in the group before retiring to the penthouse adjoining his office. He seldom ate alone in his private suite, welcoming instead almost any opportunity of being served in one of the dining rooms—a sure way of keeping in constant contact with hotel operations. The more hotels he acquired and built, the more he feared losing touch with his staff on the ground.

  Abel took the elevator downstairs and stopped at the reception desk to ask how many people were booked for the night, but he was distracted by a striking woman signing a registration form. He could have sworn he knew her, but it was difficult from where he stood. Midthirties, he thought. When she had finished writing, she turned and looked at him.

  “Abel,” she said. “How marvelous to see you.”

  “Good God, Melanie! I hardly recognized you.”

  “No one could fail to recognize you, Abel.”

  “I didn’t know you were in New York.”

  “Only overnight. I’m here on business for my magazine.”

  “You’re a journalist?” asked Abel with a hint of disbelief.

  “No, I’m the economic advisor to a group of magazines with headquarters in Dallas. I’m here on a market research project.”

  “Very impressive.”

  “I can assure you it isn’t,” said Melanie, “but it keeps me out of mischief.”

  “Are you free for dinner by any chance?”

  “What a nice idea, Abel. But I need a bath and a change of clothes if you don’t mind waiting.”

  “Sure, I can wait. I’ll meet you in the main dining room whenever you’re ready. Come to my table, say in about an hour.”

  She smiled in agreement and followed a bellhop to the elevator. Abel noticed her perfume as she walked away.

  Abel checked the dining room to be sure his table had fresh flowers, then went to the kitchen to select the dishes he would order for Melanie. Finally, for lack of anything better to do, he sat down. He found himself glancing at his watch and looking at the dining room door every few moments to see when Melanie would walk in. She took a little over an hour, but it turned out to be worth the wait. When at last she appeared at the doorway, in a long, clinging dress that shimmered and sparkled in the dining room lights in an unmistakably expensive way, she looked ravishing. The maître d’ ushered her to Abel’s table. He rose to greet her as a waiter opened a bottle of vintage Krug and poured them both a glass.

  “Welcome, Melanie,” said Abel as he raised his goblet. “It’s good to see you in the Baron.”

  “It’s good to see the Baron,” she said, “especially on his day of celebration.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Abel.

  “I read all about your big dinner in the New York Post and how you risked your life to save the wounded at Remagen. Fascinating story. They made you sound like a cross between Audie Murphy and the Unknown Soldier.”

  “It’s all exaggerated,” said Abel.

  “I’ve never known you to be modest about anything, Abel, so I can only believe every word must be true.”

  He poured her a second glass of champagne.

  “The truth is, I’ve always been a little frightened of you, Melanie.”

  “The Baron is frightened of someone? I don’t believe it.”

  “Well, I’m no southern gentleman, as you once made very clear, my dear.”

  “And you’ll never stop reminding me.” She smiled, teasingly. “Did you marry your nice Polish girl?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “How did that work out?”

  “Not so well. She’s now fat and forty and no longer has any appeal for me.”

  “You’ll be telling me next that she doesn’t understand you,” said Melanie, the tone of her voice betraying her pleasure at his reply.

  “And did you find yourself a husband?” asked Abel.

  “Oh, yes,” replied Melanie. “I married a real southern gentleman with all the right credentials.”

  “Many congratulations,” said Abel.

  “I divorced him last year—with a large settlement.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” said Abel, sounding pleased. “More champagne?”

  “Are you by any chance trying to seduce me, Abel?”

  “Not before you’ve finished your soup, Melanie. Even first-generation Polish immigrants have some standards, although I must admit it’s my turn to do the seducing.”

  “Then I must warn you, Abel, I haven’t slept with another man since my divorce came through. No lack of offers, but no one’s been quite right. Too many groping hands and not enough affection.”

  After smoked salmon, young lamb, crême brulée and a prewar Mouton Rothschild, they had both thoroughly reviewed their lives since their last meeting.

  “Coffee in the penthouse, Melanie?”

  “Do I have any choice, after such an excellent meal?” she inquired.

  Abel laughed and escorted her out of the dining room and into the elevator. She was teetering very slightly on her high heels as she entered. Abel touched the button marked “42.” Melanie looked up at the numbers as they ticked by. “Why no seventeenth floor?” she asked innocently. Abel couldn’t find the words to reply.

  “The last time I had coffee in your room—” Melanie tried again.

  “Don’t remind me,” said Abel, remembering his own vulnerability. They stepped out of the elevator on the forty-second floor and the bellhop opened the door of the suite.

  “Good God!” said Melanie as her eyes swept around the penthouse for the first time. “I must say, Abel, you’ve learned how to adjust to the style of a multimillionaire. I’ve never seen anything more extravagant in my life.”

  A knock at the door stopped Abel as he was about to reach out for her. A young waiter appeared with a pot of coffee and a bottle of Remy Martin.

  “Thank you, Mike,” said Abel. “That will be all for tonight.”

  “Will it?” Melanie said, smiling.

  The waiter would have turned red if he hadn’t been black. He left quickly.

  Abel poured coffee and brandy. She sipped slowly, sitting cross-legged on the floor. Abel would have sat cross-legged as well, but he couldn’t quite manage the position, so instead he lay down beside her. She stroked his hair and tentatively he began to move his hand up her leg. God, how well he remembered those legs. As they kissed for the first time, Melanie kicked a shoe off and knocked her coffee all over the Persian rug.

  “Oh, hell!” she said. “Your beautiful rug.”

  “Forget it,” said Abel as he pulled her back into his arms and started to unzip her dress. Melanie unbuttoned his shirt, and Abel tried to take it off while he was still kissing her, but his cufflinks stopped him, so he helped her out of her dress instead. Her figure had lost none of its beauty and was exactly as he remembered it, except that it was enticingly fuller. Those firm breasts and long, graceful legs. He gave up the one-handed battle with the cufflinks and released her from his grasp to undress himself, aware what an abrupt physical contrast he must have appeared compared with her beautiful body. He hoped all he had read about women being fascinated by powerful men was true. She didn’t seem to grimace as she once had at the sight of him. Gently, he caressed her breasts and began to part her legs. The Persian rug was proving better than any bed. It was her turn to try to undress completely while they were kissing. She too gave up and finally freed herself to take off everything e
xcept for—at Abel’s request—her garter belt and nylon stockings.

  When he heard her moan, he was aware how long it had been since he had experienced such ecstasy, and then, how quickly the sensation was passed. Neither of them spoke for several moments, both breathing heavily.

  Then Abel chuckled.

  “What are you laughing at?” Melanie asked.

  “Nothing,” said Abel, recalling Dr. Johnson’s observation about the position being ridiculous and the pleasure momentary.

  Abel rolled over and Melaine rested her head on his shoulder. Abel was surprised to find that he no longer found her desirable, and as he lay there wondering how he could get her to leave without actually being rude, she said, “I’m afraid I can’t stay all night, Abel. I have an early appointment tomorrow and I must get some sleep. I don’t want to look as if I spent the night on your Persian rug.”

  “Must you go?” said Abel, sounding desperate, but not too desperate.

  “I’m sorry, darling, yes.” She stood up and walked to the bathroom.

  Abel watched her dress and helped her with her zipper. How much easier the garment was to fasten at leisure than it had been to unfasten in haste. He kissed her gallantly on the hand as she left.

  “I hope we’ll see each other again soon,” he said, lying.

  “I hope so, too,” she said, aware that he did not mean it. He closed the door behind her and walked over to the phone by his bed.

  “Which room was Miss Melanie Leroy booked into?” he asked.

  There was a moment’s pause; he could hear the flicking of the registration cards.

  Abel tapped impatiently on the table.

  “There’s no one registered under that name, sir,” came the eventual reply. “We have a Mrs. Melanie Seaton from Dallas, Texas, who arrived this evening, sir, and checks out tomorrow morning.”

  “Yes, that will be the lady,” said Abel. “See that her bill is charged to me.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Abel replaced the phone and took a long cold shower before preparing for bed. He felt relaxed as he walked over to the fireplace; then, in bed, he turned out the lamp that had illuminated his first adulterous act and noticed that the large coffee stain had now dried on his rug.