The first bullet hit him in the side of the head, and as he sank to his knees he continued to wave and to shout a frantic warning to his advancing comrades. The second bullet hit him in the neck, and a third in the chest. He lay still in the German mud and waited to die, never having even seen the enemy - a dirty, unheroic death.
The next thing William remembered was being carried on a stretcher, but he couldn’t hear or see anything, and wondered whether it was night, or he was blind. It seemed a long journey, and then his eye opened and focused on a colonel who saluted before limping out of the tent. There was something familiar about the man, but he couldn’t think what. The medical orderlies took him into the tent and placed him on an operating table. He tried to fight off sleep, for fear it might be death.
He was conscious that two people were trying to move him. They turned him over as gently as they could, and then one of them stuck a needle into him. He sank into a deep sleep, and dreamed of Kate, his mother, and then of Matthew playing football with his son Richard. He slept.
He woke. They must have moved him to another bed; a glimmer of hope replaced the thought of inevitable death. He lay motionless, his one eye fixed on the canvas roof of the tent, unable to move his head. A nurse came over to study a chart, and then him. He slept.
He woke. How much time had passed? Another nurse. This time he could see a little more, and he could now move his head, if only with great pain. He lay awake as long as he possibly could; he wanted to live. He slept.
He woke. Four doctors were studying him. Deciding what? He could not hear them speak, so he learned nothing. He was moved once again, this time to an ambulance. The doors closed behind him, the engine started up and the ambulance began to move over rough ground while a new nurse sat by his side holding him steady. The journey felt like an hour, but he could no longer be certain of time. The ambulance reached smoother ground, and finally came to a halt. Once again he was moved, this time across a flat surface and then up a slope into a dark room. After another wait the room began to move, another ambulance perhaps. The room took off. A nurse stuck another needle into him, and he remembered nothing until he felt the plane landing and taxiing to a halt. They moved him once again. Another ambulance, another nurse, another smell, another city. New York. There’s no smell like New York. The latest ambulance drove him over a smoother surface, continually stopping and starting until it finally arrived at its destination.
They carried him out once again, up some more steps and into a small, white-walled room, where they placed him in a comfortable bed. He felt his head touch a soft pillow, and when he next woke he thought he was alone. But then his eye focused and he saw Kate standing beside him. He tried to lift his hand and touch her, to speak, but no words came. She smiled, but he knew she could not see his smile, and when he woke again she was still there, but wearing a different dress. How many times had she come and gone? She smiled again. He tried to move his head a little, and saw his son Richard. He had grown so tall, so good-looking. He wanted to see his daughters, but couldn’t turn his head any further. They moved into his line of vision. Virginia - she couldn’t be that old, surely? And Lucy - it wasn’t possible. Where had the years gone? He slept.
He woke. He could now move his head from side to side; some bandages had been removed, and he could see more clearly. He tried to say something, but no words came. Kate was watching him, her fair hair shorter now, no longer falling to her shoulders, her soft brown eyes and unforgettable smile, looking beautiful, so beautiful. He said her name. She smiled. He slept.
He woke. Fewer bandages than before. This time his son spoke.
‘Hello, Daddy.’ His voice had broken.
He heard him and replied, ‘Hello, Richard,’ but didn’t recognize the sound of his own voice. A nurse helped him to sit up. He thanked her. A doctor touched his shoulder.
‘The worst is over, Mr Kane. It won’t be long now before you’re able to go home.’
He smiled as Kate came into the room, followed by Virginia and Lucy. So many questions to ask them. Where should he begin? There were gaps in his memory that demanded filling. Kate told him he had nearly died. He knew that, but had not realized that over a year had passed since his division had been ambushed in the forest at Remagen.
Where had the months of unawareness gone, life lost, resembling death? Richard was now twelve, already preparing for St Paul’s. Virginia was nine and Lucy nearly seven. He would have to get to know them all over again.
Kate was somehow even more beautiful than he remembered her. She told him how she had never accepted the possibility that he would die, how well Richard was doing at school, and how Virginia and Lucy were quite a handful. She braced herself to tell him about the scars on his face and chest; they would take time to heal. She thanked God that the doctors were confident there was nothing wrong with his mind, and that, given time, his sight would be fully restored. All she wanted to do was to assist that recovery. When he could finally speak, his first question was, Who won the war?’
Each member of the family played a part in the recovery process. Richard helped his father to walk until he no longer needed crutches. Lucy helped him with his food until he could once again hold a knife and fork. Virginia read Mark Twain to him - William wasn’t sure if the reading was for her benefit or his, they both enjoyed it so much. Kate stayed awake at night when he could not sleep. And then, at last, the doctors allowed him to return home for Christmas.
Once William was back in East Sixty-Eighth Street, his recovery accelerated, and the doctors were predicting that he would be able to return to work within six months. A little scarred, but very much alive, he was finally allowed to see visitors.
The first was Ted Leach, somewhat taken aback by William’s appearance - something he hadn’t been prepared for. William learned from him that Lester’s had flourished in his absence, and that his colleagues looked forward to welcoming him back to work. He also told him that Rupert Cork-Smith had passed away. His next visitor, Tony Simmons, also had sad news: Alan Lloyd too was dead. William would miss their prudent wisdom. Thomas Cohen called by to say how glad he was to learn of William’s recovery, and to confirm, as if it were necessary, that time had marched on by informing him that he was now semi-retired, and had turned over most of his clients to his son Thaddeus, who had opened an office in New York. William remarked on both the Cohens being named after apostles.
‘By the way, I have one piece of information you ought to be aware of.’
William listened to the old lawyer in silence, and became angry, very angry.
41
GENERAL ALFRED JODL signed Germany’s unconditional surrender at Rheims on May 7, 1945. The war in Europe was over. Three months later Abel arrived back in a New York preparing for victory celebrations to mark the end of the war.
Once again the streets were filled with young people in uniform, but this time their faces showed relieved elation, not forced gaiety. Abel was saddened by the sight of so many men with one leg, one arm, blind or badly scarred. For them the war would never be over, no matter what pieces of paper had been signed on the other side of the world.
He walked into the Baron in his colonel’s uniform, but no one recognized him. When they had last seen him in civilian clothes more than three years ago, there had been no lines on his then youthful face. He now looked older than his thirty-nine years, and the deep furrows on his forehead showed that the war had left its mark. He took the elevator to his 42nd floor office, where a security guard told him firmly that he was on the wrong floor.
‘Where’s George Novak?’ asked Abel.
‘He’s in Chicago, Colonel,’ the guard replied.
‘Then get him on the phone.’
‘Who shall I say is calling him?’
‘Abel Rosnovski.’
The guard moved quickly.
George’s familiar voice crackled down the line. Abel immediately realized just how good it was to be back - and how much he now wanted to go home.
When Abel arrived at Midway Airport, George was standing by the gate waiting to greet him. He had hardly changed - he’d put on a little weight, and lost a little hair perhaps - and after an hour of swapping stories and bringing each other up to date on the past three years, it was almost as though Abel had never been away. Abel would always be thankful to the Black Arrow for introducing him to his senior vice president.
George commented on Abel’s limp, which seemed more pronounced than when he had gone away. ‘The Hopalong Cassidy of the hotel business,’ he said mockingly. ‘Soon you won’t have a leg to stand on.’
‘Only a Pole would make such a dumb crack,’ replied Abel.
George grinned at him, looking like a puppy that had been scolded by its master.
‘Thank God I had a dumb Polack to take care of everything while I was away searching for Germans,’ said Abel.
‘Did you find any?’
‘No. The moment they heard I was coming, they ran away.’
‘They must have sampled your cooking,’ suggested George.
Abel couldn’t resist walking once around the Chicago Baron before he drove home. The veneer of luxury had worn rather thin because of wartime shortages. He could see several things that needed renovation if not replacement, but that would have to wait; right now all he wanted to do was see his wife and daughter. But when he arrived home the first shock came. In George there had been little change in three years, but Florentyna was now eleven, and had blossomed into a beautiful young girl, while Zaphia, although only thirty-eight, had grown plump, dowdy and prematurely middle-aged.
To begin with, she and Abel were not quite sure how to treat each other, and after only a few weeks Abel began to realize that their relationship could never be the same again. Zaphia made little effort to make him feel she had missed him, and appeared to take no pride in his achievements. Her lack of interest saddened him, and when he tried to get her involved in his life and work, she simply didn’t respond, but seemed content to remain at home and have as little involvement with the Baron Group as possible. He began to wonder how long he could remain faithful. On the rare occasions when they made love, he found himself thinking of other women. Soon he began to find any excuse to flee Chicago and Zaphia’s silently accusing face.
He spent much of the first six months following his return to America visiting every hotel in the Baron Group in the same way he had when he had first taken over the Richmond Group after Davis Leroy’s death. If a trip fell during the school vacation, Florentyna would often accompany him. Within a year, all the hotels were back to the high standards he expected of them, and Abel was ready to move forward again. He informed Curtis Fenton at the group’s quarterly meeting that his market research team was now advising him to build a hotel in Mexico and another in Brazil, while looking for other new sites.
‘The Mexico City Baron and the Rio de Janeiro Baron,’ said Abel. Who would have believed it?
‘Well, you have adequate funds to cover the building costs,’ said Fenton. ‘The cash has certainly been accumulating in your absence. In fact, you could build a Baron almost anywhere you choose. Heaven knows where you’ll stop, Mr Rosnovski.’
‘One day, Mr Fenton, I’ll build a Baron in Warsaw. Only then will I think about stopping. I might have played a small part in licking the Germans, but I still have a little score to settle with the Russians.’
Fenton laughed. That evening, when he repeated the story to his wife, she said, ‘Then why not the Moscow Baron?’
‘So what’s my position with Lester’s bank?’ demanded Abel.
The sudden change in tone bothered Fenton. It worried him that Abel still clearly held William Kane responsible for Davis Leroy’s premature death. He opened an unmarked file and started to read from it.
‘Lester, Kane and Company’s stock is divided among fourteen members of the Lester family and six past and present employees. Mr William Kane is the largest stockholder, with eight per cent in his family trust.’
‘Are any of the Lester family willing to sell their stock?’ asked Abel.
‘Perhaps, if we were to 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 shown some interest.’
‘What percentages do they hold?’
‘Susan Lester holds six per cent. Parfitt has two per cent.’
‘How much do they want?’
While Fenton checked his file, Abel glanced at Lester’s latest annual report. His eyes came to a halt at Article Seven, which had been underlined. He smiled.
‘Miss Lester wants two million dollars for her six per cent, and Mr Parfitt one million dollars for his two per cent.’
‘Mr Parfitt is greedy,’ said Abel. ‘We’ll wait until he’s hungry. Buy Susan Lester’s stock immediately, without revealing who you represent, and keep me briefed on any change of heart by Parfitt.’
Curtis Fenton coughed.
‘Is something bothering you, Mr Fenton?’
Fenton hesitated. ‘No, nothing,’ he said unconvincingly.
‘Good, because I’m putting someone else in overall charge of that particular account whom you may know. Henry Osborne.’
‘Congressman Osborne?’
‘Yes - do you know him?’
‘Only by reputation,’ said Fenton, with a faint note of disapproval.
Abel ignored the implied comment. He was only too aware of Osborne’s reputation, but he had the ability to cut through bureaucracy and take quick political decisions, making him in Abel’s opinion a worthwhile risk. And they had something else in common. They both loathed William Kane.
‘I shall also be inviting Mr Osborne to become a director of the Baron Group.’
‘As you wish,’ said Fenton unhappily, wondering if he should express his personal misgivings about Osborne.
‘Let me know as soon as you’ve closed the deal with Miss Lester.’
‘Yes, Mr Rosnovski,’ said Fenton, closing the file.
Abel returned to the Baron to find Henry Osborne waiting in the lobby.
‘Congressman,’ said Abel as they shook hands. ‘Why don’t you join me for lunch?’
‘Thank you, Baron,’ said Osborne. They laughed, and went arm in arm into the dining room, where they sat at a corner table. Abel chastised a waiter when he noticed that a button was missing from his tunic.
‘How’s your wife, Abel?’
‘Swell. And yours, Henry?’
‘Just great.’ They both knew they were both lying.
‘Anything of interest to report?’
‘That concession you needed in Seattle has been taken care of,’ said Henry in hushed tones. ‘The documents will be pushed through the local council some time in the next few days. You should be able to start building the new Seattle Baron next month.’
‘We’re not doing anything too illegal, are we?’
‘Nothing your competitors aren’t up to,’ Henry assured him. ‘That I can promise you.’
‘I’m glad to hear it, Henry. I don’t want any trouble with the law.’
‘No, no,’ said Osborne. ‘Only you and I know exactly what’s going on.’
‘Good. 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,’ replied the Congressman.
�
��Don’t overdo it, Henry. After all, you’ve been angling for it for some time.’ Both men laughed. ‘But to be fair, you’ve been invaluable with those state and city building permits. I’m far too busy 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 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 a rather trickier problem. It concerns our mutual friend from Boston.’
42
THE LETTER lay on a table by William’s chair in the living room. He picked it up and read it for the third time, trying to figure out why Abel Rosnovski would want to buy so heavily into Lester’s, and why he had appointed Henry Osborne as a director of the Baron Group. He dialled a number he didn’t need to look up.
When Thaddeus Cohen arrived at East Sixty-Eighth Street, he had no need to introduce himself. He was the spitting image of his father; his hair was beginning to go grey and thin in exactly the same places, and the tall, spare frame was encased in a similar suit. Perhaps it was even the same suit.
‘You don’t remember me, Mr Kane,’ said the lawyer.
‘Of course I do,’ said William as he rose to shake hands. ‘The great debate at Harvard. Nineteen twenty …’
‘Eight. You won the debate, but sacrificed your membership of the Porcellian.’
William burst out laughing. ‘Maybe we’ll do better if we’re on the same team. Assuming your brand of socialism will allow you to act for an unashamed capitalist.’
For a moment they might both have been undergraduates again.
William smiled. ‘You never did get that drink at the Porcellian. What would you like?’
Thaddeus Cohen declined the offer. ‘I don’t drink,’ he said, blinking in the same disarming way that William recalled so well. ‘And I’m afraid I’m now an unashamed capitalist, as well.’
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