Kane and Abel

by Jeffrey Archer

  Abel’s reputation as a hotelier was quickly spreading across America, and the press had taken to referring to him as ‘The Chicago Baron’. He no longer cared about the jokes behind his back. Wladek Koskiewicz had arrived and, more importantly, he was here to stay. The profits from his fourteen hotels for the last fiscal year were just short of a million dollars, and with this new surplus of capital, he decided the time had come for even further expansion.

  Then the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor.

  Since that dreadful day of September 1, 1939, when the Nazis had marched into Poland, later to meet the Russians at Brest-Litovsk and once again divide his homeland between them, Abel had been sending large sums of money to the British Red Cross for the relief of his countrymen. He had waged a fierce battle, both within the Democratic Party and in the press, to push an unwilling America into the war, even if it meant being on the side of the Russians. His efforts so far had been fruitless, but on that Sunday in December, with every radio station across the country blaring out the details of the Japanese attack to an incredulous nation, Abel knew that America could no longer sit on the fence.

  The following day he listened to President Roosevelt inform the nation that America was at war with Japan, and three days later, on December 11th, Hitler told the world that Germany and Italy had declared war on the United States.

  Abel had every intention of assisting the Allied effort, but first he had a private declaration of war he wished to make, and to that end he placed a call to Curtis Fenton at the Continental Trust Bank. Over the years Abel had grown to trust Fenton’s judgement, and he had kept him on the board of the Baron Group long after he gained overall control, as he wished to retain a close link with the Continental Trust.

  Fenton came on the line, with his usual formal but cautious manner.

  ‘How much spare cash am I holding in the group’s reserve account?’ asked Abel.

  Fenton extracted the file marked ‘Number 6 Account’, recalling the days when he could have put all Mr Rosnovski’s affairs into one small file. He scanned some figures.

  ‘A little under two million dollars.’

  ‘Good,’ said Abel. ‘I want you to start taking an interest in a bank called Lester, Kane and Company. Find out the name of every shareholder, what percentage they hold, and if there are any conditions under which they’d be willing to sell. All this must be done without the knowledge of the bank’s chairman, Mr William Kane, and without any mention of my name.’

  Fenton took a deep breath, but said nothing. He was glad that Abel could not see the look of anguish on his face. Why would he want to put money into anything to do with William Kane? Fenton had also read in The Wall Street Journal about the merging of the two famous family banks, although what with Pearl Harbor and his wife’s birthday, he had nearly missed the announcement. Rosnovski’s request jogged his memory - he must send a congratulatory wire to William Kane. He pencilled a note on the bottom of the Baron Group file while listening to Abel’s instructions.

  ‘When you have a full breakdown, I want to be briefed in person, nothing on paper.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Rosnovski.’

  ‘I’d also like you to add to your quarterly reports the details of every official statement issued by Lester’s, and to find out which companies they do business with.’

  ‘Certainly, Mr Rosnovski.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Fenton. By the way, my market research team is advising me to open a new Baron in Montreal.’

  ‘The war doesn’t worry you, Mr Rosnovski?’

  ‘Good God, no. If the Germans reach Montreal we can all close down, Continental Trust included. In any case, we beat the bastards last time, and we’ll beat them again. The only difference is that this time I intend to be part of the action. Good day, Mr Fenton.’

  Will I ever understand what goes on in the mind of Abel Rosnovski? Curtis Fenton wondered as he hung up the phone. His thoughts switched back to Mr Rosnovski’s other request, for the details on Lester’s stock. This worried him even more than his attitude to the Germans, as clearly he considered both as the enemy. Although William Kane no longer had any connection with Rosnovski, Fenton feared where it might end if Rosnovski obtained a substantial holding in the new bank. He decided against expressing his fears to Rosnovski for the time being, supposing the day would come when one of them would explain what they were up to.

  Abel had wondered if he should tell Fenton why he wanted to buy stock in Lester’s, but came to the conclusion that the fewer people who knew, the better.

  He put William Kane temporarily out of his mind and asked his secretary to find George, who he’d recently appointed a vice president of the Baron Group in charge of new acquisitions. George had progressed under Abel’s wing, and was now his most trusted lieutenant. Sitting in his office on the 42nd floor of the Chicago Baron, Abel looked down on Lake Michigan, but his thoughts were on Poland. He knew he could never live in his homeland again, but he still wanted his castle restored to him. He feared that he would never see the castle again, now that it was well inside Russian territory and under Stalin’s control. The idea of the Germans or the Russians once again occupying his magnificent castle made him want to— His thoughts were interrupted by George.

  ‘You wanted to see me, Abel?’

  George was the only member of the group who called the Chicago Baron by his first name.

  ‘Yes, George. Do you think you could keep the hotels ticking over for a few months if I were to take a leave of absence?’

  ‘Sure can,’ said George. ‘Does this mean you’re finally going to take that vacation?’

  ‘No. I’m going to war.’

  ‘What?’ said George. ‘Who with?’

  ‘I’m flying to New York tomorrow morning to enlist in the army.’

  ‘You’re crazy - you could get yourself killed.’

  ‘That isn’t what I had in mind,’ replied Abel. ‘Killing some Germans is what I plan to do. The bastards didn’t get me the first time around, and I have no intention of letting them get me now.’

  George continued to protest that America could win the war without Abel’s help. Zaphia protested too; she hated the very thought of war. Florentyna, almost eight years old, wasn’t quite sure what war meant, but she did understand that Daddy would have to go away for a very long time. She burst into tears.

  Despite their combined protests, Abel took the first flight to New York the following day. All America seemed to be travelling in different directions, and he found the city full of young men in khaki or navy blue bidding farewell to parents, sweethearts and wives, assuring them - but not always believing - that now America had joined the war, it would be over in a few weeks.

  He arrived at the New York Baron in time for dinner. The dining room was packed, with girls clinging desperately to soldiers, sailors and airmen, while Frank Sinatra crooned to the rhythms of Tommy Dorsey’s big band. As Abel watched the young people on the dance floor, he wondered how many of them would ever have a chance to enjoy an evening like this again. He couldn’t help remembering Sammy’s explanation of how he had become maitre d’ at the Plaza. The three men senior to him had returned from the western front with one leg between them. None of the kids dancing tonight could begin to know what war was really like. He couldn’t join in the celebration - if that’s what it was. He went up to his room instead.

  In the morning he dressed in a plain dark double-breasted suit and reported to the recruiting office in Times Square. Abel signed in as Wladek Koskiewicz, painfully aware that if they knew it was the Chicago Baron who was trying to enlist he would end up in a swivel chair with gold braid on his sleeve.

  The recruiting office was even more crowded than the hotel dance floor had been the night before, but here no one was clinging on to anyone. Abel couldn’t help noticing that the other recruits appeared to be a great deal younger and fitter than him. The entire morning had passed before he was handed and had filled out one form - a task he estimated would have taken his secre
tary ten minutes. He then stood in line for two more hours, waiting to be interviewed by a recruiting sergeant, who asked him what he did for a living.

  ‘Hotel management,’ said Abel, and went on to tell the officer of his experiences during the first war. The sergeant stared in silent disbelief at the five foot seven, 190-pound man standing in front of him.

  ‘You’ll have to take a full physical tomorrow morning,’ the recruiting sergeant said when Abel’s monologue had come to an end, adding, as if it was no less than his duty, ‘Thank you for volunteering, Mr Koskiewicz.’

  The next day Abel had to wait several more hours for his physical examination. The doctor in charge was fairly blunt about his general condition. He had been protected from such comments for several years by his position and success, and it came as a rude awakening when he was classified as 4F.

  ‘You’re overweight, your eyes aren’t too good and you have a limp. Frankly, Koskiewicz, you’re plain unfit. We can’t take soldiers into battle who are likely to have a heart attack even before they find the enemy. That doesn’t mean we can’t use your talents; there’s a lot of admin work to be done in this war, if you’re interested.’

  ‘No, thank you - sir. I want to fight the Germans, not send them letters.’

  He returned to his hotel that evening depressed, but decided he wasn’t licked yet. The next day he tried another recruiting office, but he slumped back to the Baron after the same result. The second doctor had been a little more polite, but he was every bit as firm about Abel’s condition, and once again he ended up with a 4F classification. It was obvious to Abel that he was not going to be allowed to fight anybody in his present state of health.

  At seven o’clock the next morning he enrolled in a gymnasium on West Fifty-Seventh Street, where he engaged a private instructor to do something about his physical condition. For three months he worked every day on reducing his weight and improving his general fitness. He boxed, wrestled, ran, jumped, skipped, pressed weights and starved. When he was down to 155 pounds, the instructor told him he was never going to be much fitter or thinner. Abel returned to the first recruiting office and filled in the same form, once again signing it Wladek Koskiewicz. Another recruiting sergeant was a lot more responsive this time, and the medical officer put him on the reserve list.

  ‘But I want to go to war now,’ said Abel. ‘Before it’s all over.’

  ‘We’ll be in touch with you, Koskiewicz,’ said the sergeant. ‘Just keep yourself fit. There’s no telling when we’ll need you.’

  Abel left, furious, as younger, leaner men were signed up without question for active service. As he barged through the door he walked straight into a tall, gangling man wearing a uniform adorned with medals and stars on its shoulders.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ said Abel.

  ‘Young man …’ said the general.

  Abel walked on, not thinking that the general could possibly be addressing him, as no one had called him young man for - he didn’t want to think how long, even though he was still only thirty-five.

  The general tried again. ‘Young man,’ he said a little louder.

  This time Abel turned around. ‘Me, sir?’

  ‘Yes, you, sir. Will you come to my office please, Mr Ros-novski?’

  Damn, thought Abel. Now nobody’s going to let me join in this war.

  The general’s temporary office turned out to be at the back of the building, a small room with a desk, two wooden chairs, peeling green paint and no door. Abel would not have allowed the most junior member of his staff at a Baron to work in such conditions.

  ‘Mr Rosnovski,’ the general began, ‘my name is Mark Clark and I command the US Fifth Army. I’m here on an inspection tour, so literally bumping into you was a pleasant surprise. I’ve been an admirer of yours for a long time. Your story is one to inspire any American. So tell me what you are doing in a recruiting office.’

  ‘What do you think?’ said Abel, not thinking. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he corrected himself quickly. ‘I didn’t mean to be rude, it’s just that no one wants to let me take part in this damn war.’

  ‘What do you want to do in this damn war?’

  ‘Sign up and fight the Germans.’

  ‘As a foot soldier?’ asked the general incredulously.

  ‘Yes, sir. Don’t you need every man you can get?’

  ‘We most certainly do,’ said General Clark, ‘but I can put your particular talents to far better use than as a foot soldier.’

  ‘I’ll do anything,’ said Abel. ‘Anything.’

  ‘Will you, now? Anything? If I asked you to place your hotel at my disposal as our army headquarters in New York, how would you react to that? Because frankly, Mr Rosnovski, that would be far more use to me than if you personally managed to kill a dozen Germans.’

  ‘The Baron is yours. Now will you let me go to war?’

  ‘You know you’re mad, don’t you?’ said General Clark.

  ‘I’m Polish,’ said Abel, and they both laughed. ‘You must understand,’ Abel continued, his tone once again serious, ‘I was born in Poland. I saw my home taken by the Germans, my sister raped by the Russians. I escaped from a Russian labour camp, and was lucky enough to reach the safety of these shores. I’m not mad. This is the only country on earth where you can arrive with nothing and make something of yourself through hard work, regardless of your background. Now those same bastards who tried to stop me the first time round want another war. Well, I’m going to make sure they lose it.’

  ‘Well, if you’re so eager to join up, Mr Rosnovski, I could use you, but not in the way you imagine. General Deniers needs someone to take overall responsibility as quartermaster for the Fifth Army while they’re fighting in the front line. Napoleon was right when he said an army marches on its stomach, so you could play a vital role. The job carries the rank of major. That’s one way in which you could unquestionably help America to win the war. What do you say?’

  ‘I’ll do it, General.’

  ‘Thank you, Major Rosnovski.’

  Abel spent the weekend in Chicago with Zaphia and Florentyna. Zaphia asked him what he wanted her to do with his fifteen suits.

  ‘Hold onto them,’ he replied. ‘I’m not going to war to get killed.’

  ‘I’m pretty confident you won’t be killed in a Baron hotel,’ she said. ‘That wasn’t what I meant. It’s just that your suits are now all three sizes too large for you.’

  Abel laughed, and took all his old clothes to the Polish refugee centre. He then flew back to New York, cancelled any advance reservations for the Baron, and twelve days later handed the building over to the American Fifth Army. The press hailed this act as ‘the selfless gesture of a man who had been a refugee during the First World War’.

  For the next eight months Abel organized the smooth running of the New York Baron for General Clark and only after continual grumbling was he finally called up for active duty. He reported to Fort Benning to complete an officers’ training programme. When he finally received his orders to join General Deniers of the Fifth Army, his destination turned out to be somewhere in North Africa. He began to wonder if he would ever set foot on German soil.

  The day before Abel left to go overseas, he drew up a will, instructing his executors to offer the Baron Group to David Maxton on favourable terms should he not return. He divided the rest of his estate between Zaphia and Florentyna. It was the first time in two decades that he had thought about death - not that he was sure how he could get himself killed in a regimental canteen.

  As his troop ship sailed out of New York harbour, Abel looked across at the Statue of Liberty, remembering how he had felt on seeing the statue for the first time nearly twenty years before. Once the ship had passed the Lady he did not look at her again, but said out loud, ‘Next time I look you in the eye, ma’am, America will have won this war.’

  Abel crossed the Atlantic with two of his top chefs and five kitchen staff who had recently enlisted. The ship docked in Algiers in May 1
942. Abel immediately commandeered the only half-decent hotel in Algiers, and turned it into a headquarters for General Clark. He spent almost a year in the heat and the dust and the sand of the desert, making sure that every member of the division was as well fed as possible.

  ‘We eat badly, but my bet is that we eat a damn sight better than the Germans,’ was General Clark’s comment.

  Although he knew he was playing a valuable role in the war, Abel still itched to get into a real fight, but a quartermaster-major in charge of catering is rarely sent to the front line other than to fill empty billycans.

  He wrote regularly to Zaphia and George, and watched by photograph as his beloved Florentyna grew up. He received the occasional letter from Curtis Fenton, reporting that the Baron Group was making steady progress, as every hotel on the Eastern Seaboard was packed because of the continual movement of troops and civilians. Abel was sad not to have been at the opening of the Montreal Baron, where George had represented him. It was the first time he had missed the launch of a new hotel, but it made him realize just how much he had achieved in America, and how much more he wanted to return to the land he now felt was his home - but not before the war was over.

  Abel soon became bored with Africa and its mess kits, baked beans, blankets and fly swatters. There had been one or two spirited skirmishes out in the western desert, or so the men returning from the front assured him, but he never saw any action himself. He even drove one of the supply trucks to the front so that he could hear the firing, but it only made him even more frustrated.

  One day, to his delight, orders came through that the Fifth Army was to be posted to Italy. Abel hoped this might eventually lead to a chance to see his homeland once again.

  The Fifth Army, led by General Clark, landed in amphibious craft on the southern Italian coast, with aircraft giving tactical cover. They met considerable resistance, first at Anzio and then at Monte Cassino, but the action never involved Abel. His chest was now covered in medals that showed where he’d been, not what he’d done. He began to dread the end of a war in which he’d seen no combat, and would end up decorated for serving a million meals. But he could never come up with a plan that would get him to the front line. His chances were not improved when he was promoted to Lieutenant Colonel and sent to London to await further orders.