Kane and Abel/Sons of Fortune

by Jeffrey Archer

  “So be it,” said William, turning his eyes away. “This board must decide whether it wishes to end my career in disgrace now, after nearly a quarter of a century’s service, or to yield to the threats of a convicted criminal.”

  Jake Thomas nodded to the company secretary, and voting slips were passed around to every board member. It looked to William as if everything had been decided before the meeting. He glanced around the crowded table at the twenty-nine men. Many of them he had chosen himself. He had once heard that a small group of the younger directors openly supported the Democratic party and John Kennedy. Some of them wouldn’t let Rosnovski beat him. Not now. Please let me finish my term as chairman, he said to himself. Then I’ll go quietly and without any fuss—but not this way.

  He watched the members of the board as they passed their voting slips back to the secretary. He was opening them slowly. The room was silent and all eyes were turned toward the secretary as he began opening the last few slips, noting down each aye and nay meticulously on a piece of paper placed in front of him that revealed two columns. William could see that one list of names was considerably longer than the other, but his eyesight did not permit him to decipher which was which. He could not accept that the day could have come when there would be a vote in his own boardroom between himself and Abel Rosnovski.

  The secretary was saying something. William couldn’t believe what he heard. By seventeen votes to twelve he had lost the confidence of the board. He managed to stand up. Abel Rosnovski had beaten him in the final battle. No one spoke as William left the boardroom. He returned to the chairman’s office and picked up his coat, stopping only to look at the portrait of Charles Lester for the last time, and then walked slowly down the long corridor and out the front entrance.

  The doorman said, “Nice to have you back again, Mr. Chairman. See you tomorrow, sir.”

  William realized he would never see him again. He turned around and shook hands with the man who had directed him to the boardroom twenty-three years before.

  The rather surprised doorman said, “Good night, sir,” as he watched William climb into the back of his car for the last time.

  His chauffeur took him home and when he reached East Sixty-eighth Street, William collapsed on his front door step. The chauffeur and Kate helped him into the house. Kate could see he was crying and she put her arms around him.

  “What is it, William? What’s happened?”

  “I’ve been thrown out of my own bank,” he wept. “My own board no longer have confidence in me. When it mattered, they supported Abel Rosnovski.”

  Kate managed to get him up to bed and sat with him through the night. He never spoke. Nor did he sleep.

  The announcement in The Wall Street Journal the following Monday morning said simply: “William Lowell Kane, the President and Chairman of Lester’s Bank, resigned after yesterday’s board meeting.”

  No mention of illness or any explanation was given for his sudden departure, and there was no suggestion that his son would take his place on the board. William knew that rumors would sweep through Wall Street and that the worst would be assumed. He sat in bed alone, caring no longer for this world.

  Abel read the announcement of William Kane’s resignation in The Wall Street Journal the same day. He picked up the phone, dialed Lester’s bank and asked to speak to the new chairman. A few seconds later Jake Thomas came on the line. “Good morning, Mr. Rosnovski.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Thomas. I’m just phoning to confirm that I shall release all my Interstate Airways shares to the bank at the market price this morning and my eight percent holding in Lester’s to you personally for two million dollars.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Rosnovski, that’s most generous of you.”

  “No need to thank me, Mr. Chairman, it’s no more than we agreed on when you sold me your two percent of Lester’s,” said Abel Rosnovski.

  PART SEVEN

  1963–1967

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Abel was surprised to find how little satisfaction his final triumph had given him.

  George tried to persuade him to go to Warsaw to look over sites for the new Baron, but Abel didn’t want to. As he grew older, he became fearful of dying abroad and never seeing Florentyna again, and for months Abel showed no interest in the group’s activities. When John F. Kennedy was assassinated on November 22, 1963, Abel became even more depressed and feared for America. Eventually George did convince him that a trip abroad could do no harm, and that things would perhaps seem a little easier for him when he returned.

  Abel traveled to Warsaw, where he obtained a highly confidential agreement to build the first Baron in the Communist world. His command of the language impressed the Warszawians and he was pleased to beat Holiday Inn and Intercontinental behind the Iron Curtain. He couldn’t help thinking … and it didn’t help when Lyndon Johnson appointed John Gronowski to be the first Polish-American ambassador to Warsaw. But now nothing seemed to give him any satisfaction. He had defeated Kane and lost his own daughter and he wondered if the man felt the same way about his son. After Warsaw, he roamed the world, staying in his old hotels, watching the construction of new ones. He opened the first Baron in Cape Town, South Africa, and flew back to Germany to open one in Düsseldorf.

  Abel then spent six months in his favorite Baron, in Paris, roaming the streets by day, and attending the opera and the theater at night, hoping to revive happy memories of Florentyna.

  He eventually left Paris and returned to America, after his long exile. As he descended the metal steps of an Air France 707 at Kennedy International Airport, his back hunched and his bald head covered with a black hat, nobody recognized him. George was there to greet him, loyal, honest George, looking quite a bit older. On the ride to the New York Baron, George, as always, brought him up to date on group news. The profits, it seemed, were even higher as his keen young executives thrust forward in every major country in the world. Seventy-two hotels run by a staff of 22,000. Abel didn’t seem to be listening. He only wanted news of Florentyna.

  “She’s well,” said George, “and coming to New York early next year.”

  “Why?” said Abel, suddenly excited.

  “She’s opening one of her shops on Fifth Avenue.”

  “Fifth Avenue?”

  “The eleventh Florentyna,” said George.

  “Have you seen her, George?”

  “Yes,” he admitted.

  “Is she well, is she happy?”

  “Both of them are very well and happy, and so successful. Abel, you should be very proud of them. Your grandson is quite a boy, and your granddaughter’s beautiful. The image of Florentyna when she was that age.”

  “Will she see me?”

  “Will you see her husband?”

  “No, George. I can never meet that boy, not while his father is still alive.”

  “What if you die first?”

  “You mustn’t believe everything you read in the Bible.”

  Abel and George drove in silence back to the hotel and Abel dined alone in his suite that night.

  For the next six months, he never left the penthouse.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  When Florentyna Kane opened her new boutique on Fifth Avenue in March 1967, everyone in New York seemed to be there, except William Kane and Abel Rosnovski.

  Kate and Lucy had left William in bed muttering to himself while they went off to the opening of Florentyna’s.

  George left Abel in his suite so that he could attend the celebrations. He had tried to talk Abel into going along with him. Abel grunted that his daughter had opened ten shops without him and one more wouldn’t make any difference. George told him he was a stubborn old fool and left for Fifth Avenue on his own. When he arrived at the shop, a magnificent modern boutique with thick carpets and the latest Swedish furniture—he was reminded of the way Abel used to do things. He found Florentyna wearing a long blue gown with the now famous F on the high collar. She gave George a glass of champagne a
nd introduced him to Kate and Lucy Kane, who were chatting with Zaphia. Kate and Lucy were clearly happy and they surprised George by inquiring after Abel Rosnovski.

  “I told him he was a stubborn old fool to miss such a good party. Is Mr. Kane here?” he asked.

  George was surprised by Kate Kane’s reply.

  William was still muttering angrily at The New York Times, something about Johnson’s pulling his punches in Vietnam, when he folded the newspaper and got himself out of bed. He started to dress slowly, staring at himself in the mirror when he had finished. He looked like a banker. He scowled. How else should he look? He put on a heavy black overcoat and his old Homburg hat, picked up his black walking stick with the silver handle, the one Rupert Cork-Smith had left him, and somehow got himself out onto the street. The first time he had been out on his own, he thought, for the best part of three years, since that last serious heart attack. The maid was surprised to see him leaving the house unaccompanied.

  It was an unusually warm spring evening, but William felt the cold after being in the house so long. It took him a considerable time to reach Fifth Avenue and Fifty-sixth Street, and when he eventually did arrive, the crowd was so large outside Florentyna’s that he felt he didn’t have the strength to fight his way through it. He stood at the curb, watching the people enjoying themselves. Young people, happy and excited, thrusting their way into Florentyna’s beautiful shop. Some of the girls were wearing the new mini skirts from London. What next, thought William, and then he saw his son talking to Kate. He had grown into such a fine-looking man—tall, confident and relaxed; he had an air of authority about him that reminded William of his own father. But in the bustle and continual movement, he couldn’t quite work out which one was Florentyna. He stood there for nearly an hour enjoying the comings and goings, regretting the stubborn years he had thrown away.

  The wind was beginning to race down Fifth Avenue. He’d forgotten how cold that March wind could be. He turned his collar up. He must get home, because they were all coming to dinner that night, and he was going to meet Florentyna and the grandchildren for the first time. His grandson and little Annabel and their father, his beloved son. He had told Kate what a fool he’d been and begged her forgiveness. All he remembered her saying was “I’ll always love you.” Florentyna had written to him. Such a generous letter. She had been so understanding and kind about the past. She had ended with “I can’t wait to meet you.”

  He must get home. Kate would be cross with him if she ever discovered he’d been out on his own in that cold wind. But he had to see the opening of the shop and in any case tonight he would be with them all. He must leave now and let them enjoy their celebrations. They could tell him all about the opening tonight. He wouldn’t tell them he’d been there—that would always be his secret.

  He turned to go home and saw an old man standing a few yards away in a black coat, with a hat pulled way down on his head, and a scarf around his neck. He, too, was cold. Not a night for old men, thought William, as he walked toward him. And then he saw the silver band on his wrist, just below his sleeve. In a flash it all came back to him, fitting into place for the first time. First the Plaza, then Boston, then Germany, and now Fifth Avenue. The man turned and started to walk toward him. He must have been standing there for a long time because his face was red from the wind. He stared at William out of those unmistakable blue eyes. They were now only a few yards apart. As they passed, William raised his hat to the old man. He returned the compliment, and they continued on their separate ways without a word.

  I must get home, thought William, before they do. The joy of seeing Richard and his two grandchildren would make everything worthwhile again. He must come to know Florentyna, ask for her forgiveness, and trust that she would understand what he could scarcely understand himself now. Such a fine girl, they all told him.

  When he reached East Sixty-eighth Street, he fumbled for his key and opened the front door. Must turn on all lights, he told the maid, and build the fire up to make them feel welcome. He was very contented and very, very tired.

  “Draw the curtains,” he said, “and light the candles on the dining room table. There’s so much to celebrate.”

  William couldn’t wait for them all to return. He sat in the old crimson leather chair by a blazing fire and thought happily of the evening that lay ahead of him. Grandchildren around him, the years he had missed. When had his little grandson first said “three”? A chance to bury the past and earn forgiveness in the future. The room was so nice and warm after that cold wind, but the journey had been well worthwhile.

  A few minutes later there was an excited bustle downstairs and the maid came in to tell William that his son had arrived. He was in the hall with his mother and his wife and two of the loveliest children the maid had ever seen. And then she ran off to be sure that dinner would be ready on time. He would want everything to be perfect for them that night.

  When Richard came into the room, Florentyna was by his side. She looked quite radiant.

  “Father,” he said. “I would like you to meet my wife.”

  William Lowell Kane would have turned to greet them, but he could not. He was dead.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Abel placed the envelope on the table by the side of his bed. He hadn’t dressed yet. Nowadays he rarely rose before noon. He tried to remove his breakfast tray from his knees onto the floor—a bending movement that demanded too much dexterity for his stiff body to accomplish. He inevitably ended by dropping the tray with a bang. It was no different today. He no longer cared. He picked up the envelope once more and read the covering note for a second time.

  “We were instructed by the late Mr. Curtis Fenton, sometime manager of the Continental Trust Bank, LaSalle Street, Chicago, to send you the enclosed letter when certain circumstances had come about. Please acknowledge receipt of this letter by signing the enclosed copy, returning it to us in the stamped addressed envelope supplied herewith.”

  “Goddamn lawyers,” said Abel, and tore open the letter.

  Dear Mr. Rosnovski:

  This letter has been in the keeping of my lawyers until today for reasons that will become more apparent to you as you read on.

  When in 1951 you closed your accounts at the Continental Trust after a period of over twenty years with the bank, I was naturally very unhappy and very concerned. My concern was engendered not by losing one of the bank’s most valued customers, sad though that was, but because I know you felt that I had acted in a dishonorable fashion. What you were not aware of at the time was that I had specific instructions from your backer not to reveal certain facts to you.

  When you first visited me at the bank in 1929, you requested financial help to clear the debt incurred by Mr. Davis Leroy, in order that you might take possession of the hotels which then formed the Richmond Group. I was unable to find a backer, despite approaching several leading financiers myself. I took a personal interest, as I believed that you had an exceptional flair for your chosen career. It has given me a great deal of satisfaction to observe in old age that my confidence was not misplaced. I might add at this point that I also felt some responsibility, having advised you to buy twenty-five percent of the Richmond Group from my client, Miss Amy Leroy, when I did not know the financial predicament that was facing Mr. Leroy at that time. I digress.

  I did not succeed in finding a backer for you and had given up all hope when you came to visit me on that Monday morning. I wonder if you remember that day. Only thirty minutes before your appointment I had a call from a financier who was willing to put up the necessary money, who, like me, had great confidence in you personally. His only stipulation was, as I advised you at the time, that he insisted on remaining anonymous because of a potential conflict between his professional and private interests. The terms he offered, allowing you to gain eventual control of the Richmond Group, I considered at the time to be extremely generous, and you rightly took full advantage of them. Indeed, your backer was delighted when you
found it possible, through your own diligence, to repay his original investment.

  I lost contact with you both after 1951, but soon after I retired from the bank, I read a distressing story in the newspapers concerning your backer, which prompted me to write this letter, in case I died before either of you.

  I write not to prove my good intentions in this whole affair, but so that you should not continue to live under the illusion that your backer and benefactor was Mr. David Maxton of the Stevens Hotel. Mr. Maxton was a great admirer of yours, but he never approached the bank in that capacity. The gentleman who made the Baron Group possible, by his foresight and personal generosity, was William Lowell Kane, the Chairman of Lester’s Bank, New York.

  I begged Mr. Kane to inform you of his personal involvement, but he refused to break the clause in his trust deed that stipulated that no benefactor should be privy to the investments of the family trust. After you had paid off the loan and he later learned of Henry Osborne’s personal involvement with the Baron Group he became even more adamant that you should never be informed.

  I had left instructions that this letter is to be destroyed if you die before Mr. Kane. In those circumstances, he will receive a letter, explaining your total lack of knowledge of his personal generosity.

  Whichever one of you receives a letter from me, it was a privilege to have served you both.

  As ever,

  Your faithful servant,

  Curtis Fenton

  Abel picked up the phone by the side of his bed. “Find George for me,” he said. “I need to get dressed.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  William Lowell Kane’s funeral was well attended. Richard and Florentyna stood on one side of Kate; Virginia and Lucy were on the other. Grandmother Kane would have approved of the turnout. Three senators, five congressmen, two bishops, most of the leading banks’ chairmen, and the publisher of The Wall Street Journal were all there. Jake Thomas and every director of the Lester board was also present, their heads bowed in prayer to the God whom William had never really needed.