Kane & Abel (1979) (76 page)

Abel now had sites in five of the Persian Gulf States, but only the Riyadh Baron was under construction. If he’d been a younger man, he would have stayed in the Middle East for a couple of years and sorted things out. But he couldn’t abide the sand or the heat, or the difficulty of getting hold of a double whiskey from someone who wouldn’t get arrested, so he left matters in the hands of one of his young assistant vice presidents, and flew on to Turkey.

Abel had visited Turkey several times during the past few years keeping an eye on the progress of the Istanbul Baron. For him there would always be something special about Constantinople, as he remembered the ancient city. He was looking forward to opening a Baron in the country from which he had sailed to begin his new life in America.

Before he had even started unpacking his suitcase in yet another Presidential Suite, Abel found fifteen invitations awaiting his reply. It was always the same around the time of a hotel opening: a galaxy of freeloaders hoping to be invited to any opening-night party appeared as if by magic. On this occasion, however, two of the invitations came as agreeable surprises to Abel, as they were both from men who certainly could not be classified as freeloaders, namely the ambassadors of America and Britain. The invitation to the old British Consulate was particularly irresistible, as he had not been inside the building for forty years.

That evening Abel dined as the guest of Sir Bernard Burrows, Her Majesty’s Ambassador to Turkey. To his surprise Abel found he’d been placed on the right of the Ambassador’s wife, an honour he had never been granted in the past. When dinner was over he observed the quaint English tradition of the ladies leaving the room while the gentlemen chatted about more weighty matters over cigars and port or brandy.

Abel was invited to join Fletcher Warren, the American Ambassador, in the privacy of Sir Bernard’s study. Sir Bernard took Warren to task for inviting the Chicago Baron to dinner before he’d dined at his own embassy.

‘The British have always been a presumptuous race,’ said Warren, lighting a large Cuban cigar.

‘I’ll say one thing for the Americans,’ said Sir Bernard, ‘they don’t know when they’re fairly beaten.’

Abel listened to the two diplomats’ banter, wondering why he had been included in such a private gathering. Sir Bernard offered him a glass of vintage port, and Warren raised his glass.

‘To Abel Rosnovski.’

Sir Bernard also raised his glass. ‘I understand that congratulations are in order,’ he said.

Abel reddened and looked hastily towards Warren, hoping he would help him out.

‘Oh, have I let the cat out of the bag, Fletcher?’ said Sir Bernard. ‘You told me the appointment was common knowledge, old chap.’

‘Fairly common,’ said Warren. ‘Not that the British can ever keep a secret for long.’

‘Is that why your lot took such a devil of a time to discover we were at war with Germany?’ said Sir Bernard.

‘And then moved in to make sure of the victory?’

‘And grab the glory,’ said Sir Bernard.

The American Ambassador laughed. ‘I’m told the official announcement will be made in the next few days.’

Both men looked at Abel, who remained silent.

‘Well then, may I be the first to congratulate you, Your Excellency,’ said Sir Bernard. ‘I wish you every success in your new appointment.’

Abel flushed to hear aloud the appellation he had whispered so often to his shaving mirror during the past few months. ‘You’ll have to get used to being called Your Excellency, you know,’ continued the British Ambassador. ‘And a whole lot of worse things than that. Particularly all the damned functions you’ll have to attend night and day. If you have a weight problem now, it will be nothing compared to the one you’ll have when you finish your term of office. You may live to be grateful for the Cold War. The food in the Eastern Bloc is so awful you might even end up losing weight.’

The American Ambassador smiled. ‘Well done, Abel, and may I add my best wishes for your continued success. When were you last in Poland?’

‘I’ve only been back once, for a short visit a few years ago,’ said Abel. ‘I’ve wanted to return ever since.’

‘Well, you’ll be returning in triumph,’ said Warren. ‘Are you familiar with our embassy in Warsaw?’

‘No, I’m not,’ admitted Abel.

‘Not a bad location,’ said Sir Bernard, ‘remembering you colonials couldn’t get a foothold in Europe until after the Second World War. But the accommodation is appalling. I shall expect you to do something about that, Mr Rosnovski. The only thing for it is to build a Baron hotel in Warsaw. That’s the least they’ll expect from an expatriate.’

Abel sat in a state of euphoria, laughing and enjoying Sir Bernard’s feeble jokes. He knew he had drunk a little too much port, which made him feel at ease with himself and the world. He couldn’t wait to tell Florentyna the news, now that the appointment would soon be official. She would be so proud of him. He decided there and then, that the moment he touched down in New York he would fly on to San Francisco and make everything up with her. It was what he had wanted to do all along, and at last he had an excuse. Somehow he’d force himself to like the Kane boy. He must stop referring to him as the Kane boy. What was his name - Richard? Yes, Richard. Abel felt a rush of relief at having finally made the decision.

After the three men had joined the ladies in the main reception room, Abel said to his host, ‘I should be getting back, Your Excellency.’

‘Back to the Baron,’ said Sir Bernard. ‘Allow me to accompany you to your car, my dear fellow.’

As Abel said good night to the Ambassador’s wife at the door she smiled and said, ‘I realize I’m not supposed to know, Mr Rosnovski, but many congratulations on your appointment. You must be so proud to be returning to the land of your birth as your adopted country’s senior representative.’

‘I am,’ Abel said simply.

Sir Bernard accompanied him down the marble steps to the waiting car. The chauffeur opened the door.

‘Good night, Rosnovski. And good luck in Warsaw. By the way, I hope you enjoyed your first meal in the British Consulate.’

‘I’ve dined here on many occasions, actually, Sir Bernard.’

‘You’ve been here before, old boy? When we checked through the guest book we couldn’t find your name.’

‘No,’ said Abel. ‘Most of the time I ate in the kitchen with the cook. I don’t think they keep a guest book down there.’

Abel smiled as he climbed into the back of the car. He could see that Sir Bernard wasn’t sure whether to believe him or not.

As he was driven back to the Baron, his fingers tapped on the side window and he hummed to himself. He would have liked to return to America the next morning, but he couldn’t cancel the invitation to dine with Fletcher Warren at the American Consulate the following evening. Hardly the sort of thing a future ambassador does, old fellow, he could hear Sir Bernard saying.

Dinner with the American Ambassador turned out to be another pleasant occasion. Abel was made to explain to the assembled guests how he had come to eat in the kitchen of the British Consulate, and they listened in surprised admiration. He wasn’t sure if many of them believed the story of how he had nearly lost his hand, but they all admired the silver band, and that night everyone called him ‘Your Excellency’.

T
HE NEXT DAY
Abel was up early, impatient to return to America.

The DC-8 flew into Belgrade, where it was grounded for sixteen hours. Something wrong with the landing gear, they told him. He sat in the airport lounge, sipping undrinkable Yugoslavian coffee, searching for any journal that was in English. The contrast between the British Consulate in Istanbul and a snack bar in a Communist-controlled country was not lost on him. At last the DC-8 took off, only to be delayed again in Amsterdam. This time the passengers were made to change planes.

When he finally touched down at Idlewild, Abel had been travelling for nearly thirty-six hours. He was so tired he could hardly walk. As he left the customs area, he suddenly found himself surrounded by newsmen, cameras flashing and clicking. Immediately he smiled. The announcement must have been made, he thought; now it’s official. He stood as straight as he could, and walked slowly and with dignity, disguising his limp. There was no sign of George as the cameramen jostled each other unceremoniously in their efforts to get a picture.

Then he saw George standing at the edge of the crowd, looking as if he were attending a funeral rather than greeting a friend who was returning in triumph. At the barrier a journalist, far from asking him what it felt like to be the first Polish-American to be appointed US Ambassador to Warsaw, shouted, ‘Do you have any answers to the charges?’

The cameras went on flashing, and so did the questions.

‘Are the accusations true, Mr Rosnovski?’

‘How much did you actually pay Congressman Osborne?’

‘Do you deny the charges?’

‘Have you returned to America to face trial?’

He shouted above the crowd to George, ‘Get me out of here!’

George squeezed forward and managed to reach him, then pushed his way back through the crowd and bundled him into the back of the waiting Cadillac. Abel bent down and hid his head in his hands as the cameras’ flashbulbs kept popping. George shouted at the chauffeur to get moving.

‘To the Baron, Mr Novak?’

‘No, to Miss Rosnovski’s apartment on East Fifty-Seventh Street.’

‘Why?’ said Abel.

‘Because the press is crawling all over the Baron.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Abel. ‘In Istanbul they treat me as if I were the ambassador-elect, and I return home to find I’m a criminal. What the hell’s going on, George?’

‘Do you want to hear it all from me, or to wait until you’ve seen your lawyer?’

‘My lawyer? You’ve already got someone to represent me?’

‘H. Trafford Jilks, the best.’

‘And the most expensive.’

‘I don’t think you should be worrying about money at a time like this, Abel.’

‘You’re right. I’m sorry. Where is he now?’

‘I left him at the courthouse, but he said he’d come to the apartment as soon as he was through.’

‘I can’t wait that long, George. For God’s sake, tell me what’s going on.’

George took a deep breath. ‘There’s a warrant out for your arrest.’

‘On what charge?’

‘Bribery of government officials.’

‘I’ve never bribed a government official in my life,’ protested Abel.

‘I know, but Henry Osborne has, and whatever he did, he’s now claiming it was in your name, or on your behalf.’

‘Oh my God,’ said Abel. ‘I should never have employed the man. I let the fact that we both hated Kane cloud my judgement. But I find it hard to believe Henry’s told them anything, because he’d be implicating himself.’

‘Henry’s disappeared,’ said George. ‘And the big surprise is that suddenly, mysteriously, all his debts have been cleared up.’

‘William Kane,’ said Abel, spitting out the words.

‘We’ve found nothing that points to that conclusion,’ said George.

‘Then how did the authorities get hold of the details?’

‘It seems an anonymous package containing a large file was sent direct to the Justice Department in Washington.’

‘Postmarked New York, no doubt,’ said Abel.

‘No. Chicago.’

Abel was silent for a few moments. ‘It couldn’t have been Henry who sent the file,’ he said finally. ‘That doesn’t make any sense.’

‘How can you be so sure?’ asked George.

‘Because you said all his debts have been cleared up. The Justice Department wouldn’t pay out that sort of money unless they thought they were going to catch Al Capone. Henry must have sold his file to someone else. But who? The one thing we can be certain of is that he would never have released any information directly to Kane.’

‘Directly?’ said George.

‘Directly,’ repeated Abel. ‘Perhaps he didn’t sell it directly. Kane could have arranged for an intermediary to deal with the whole matter, if he already knew Henry was heavily in debt and the bookmakers were threatening him.’

‘That could be right, Abel, and it certainly wouldn’t have taken an ace detective to discover the extent of Henry’s financial problems. They were common knowledge to anyone sitting on a bar stool in Chicago. But don’t jump to any conclusions before we hear what your lawyer has to say.’

The Cadillac came to a halt outside Florentyna’s old apartment, which Abel had never sold, in the hope that his daughter would return one day. H. Trafford Jilks was waiting for them in the foyer. Once they had settled down in the apartment, George poured Abel a large whiskey. He drank it in one gulp and gave the empty glass back to George, who refilled it.

‘Tell me the worst, Mr Jilks,’ Abel said. ‘And don’t spare me.’

‘I’m sorry, Mr Rosnovski,’ he began. ‘Mr Novak told me about Warsaw.’

‘That’s history,’ said Abel, ‘so we needn’t bother with “Your Excellency” any longer. You can be sure if Frank Hogan were asked, he wouldn’t even remember my name. Come on, Mr Jilks, what am I facing?’