‘How much is this going to cost me?’
‘Twenty-five thousand at the outside, but I may be able to pull it off for less.’
‘How will you make sure Rosnovski doesn’t realize I’m involved?’
‘I’ll use a third person as an intermediary, and he won’t even know your name.’
‘And if your information turns out to be accurate, what would you recommend we do with it?’
‘We send all the details to Senator Kennedy’s office, then leak it to the press. That should finish off Rosnovski’s ambitions once and for all. The moment his credibility has been shattered, he’ll be a spent force, and find it impossible to invoke Article Seven of Lester’s bylaws, even if he did control eight per cent of the stock.’
‘Possibly, but only if Kennedy becomes President,’ said William. ‘So what happens if Nixon wins? He’s way ahead in the opinion polls. And can you really imagine America putting a Roman Catholic in the White House?’
‘Who knows?’ said Cohen. ‘But if they do, for an investment of twenty-five thousand, you’d have a real chance of finishing off Rosnovski once and for all.’
‘But only if Kennedy becomes President …’
Cohen nodded, but said nothing.
William opened the drawer of his desk, took out a large cheque book marked ‘Private Account’ and wrote out the figures two, five, zero, zero, zero. It was the first time he’d wanted a Democrat to live in the White House.
Abel’s prediction that when Kennedy opened the Los Angeles Baron it would be on every front page in America turned out to be a little optimistic, as the candidate had dozens of other events in Los Angeles that day before going head to head with Nixon in a televised debate the following evening. Nevertheless, the opening of the hotel gained wide coverage, and Frank Hogan assured Abel privately that Kennedy had not forgotten the other little matter.
While Kennedy made his speech, heaping praise on the Chicago Baron, Abel’s eyes searched the packed audience for his daughter, but he didn’t see her.
53
ONCE THE Illinois returns had been verified, John F. Kennedy looked certain to be the thirty-fifth President of the United States. Abel raised his glass to Mayor Daley when he celebrated at the Democratic National Headquarters in Times Square. He didn’t get home until nearly five in the morning.
‘Hell, I have a lot to celebrate,’ he told George. ‘I’m going to be the next…’ He fell asleep before he finished the sentence. George smiled and put him to bed.
William watched the election results in the peace of his study on East Sixty-Eighth Street. After the Illinois returns, Walter Cronkite declared it was all over bar the shouting. William picked up his phone and dialled Thaddeus Cohen’s home number.
All he said was, ‘It looks as if the twenty-five thousand dollars has turned out to be a wise investment, Thaddeus. Now let’s be sure there’s no honeymoon period for Rosnovski. The best time to make our move would be when he takes his trip to Turkey.’
William placed the phone back on the hook and went to bed. He was disappointed that Nixon had failed to beat Kennedy, and that his cousin Henry Cabot Lodge would not be the vice president. But, he thought, it’s an ill wind …
When Abel received an invitation to be a guest at one of President Kennedy’s inaugural balls in Washington, DC, there was only one person he wanted to share the honour with. But after he had talked the idea over with George, he had to accept that Florentyna would never accompany him unless his feud with Richard’s father was over. So he would have to go alone.
Abel postponed his trip to Europe and the Middle East. He could not afford to miss the Inauguration, but he could always reschedule the opening of the Istanbul Baron.
He had a new, rather conservative dark blue suit made specially for the occasion, and he took over the Davis Leroy Suite at the Washington Baron for the day of the ceremony. He watched the young President deliver his inaugural speech, full of hope and promise for the future.
‘A new generation of Americans, born in this century‘ - Abel only just qualified - ‘tempered by war‘ - Abel certainly qualified - ‘disciplined by a hard and bitter peace‘ - Abel was over-qualified. ‘Ask not what your country can do for you. Ask what you can do for your country.’
The crowd rose to a man, ignoring the snow that had failed to dampen the impact of the new President’s brilliant oratory.
Abel returned to the hotel exhilarated. He showered before changing into white tie and tails, also made specially for the occasion. When he studied his ample frame in the mirror, he had to admit that he was not the last word in sartorial elegance. His tailor had done the best he could (he’d made three new and ever expanding evening suits for Abel in the past five years). Florentyna would have castigated him for the extra inches, and for her he would have done something about it. Why did his thoughts always return to Florentyna? He checked his medals. First, the Polish Veterans’ Medal, next the decorations for his service in the desert and in Europe, and then his cutlery medals, as he called them, for distinguished service with knives and forks.
In all, seven inaugural balls were held in Washington that evening, and Abel’s invitation directed him to the DC Armory. He sat in a corner reserved for Polish Democrats from New York and Chicago. They had a lot to celebrate. Edmund Muskie was in the Senate, and ten more Polish Democrats had been elected to Congress. No one mentioned the two newly elected Polish Republicans. Abel reminisced happily with some old friends who were among his co-founder members of the Polish-American Congress. They all asked after Florentyna.
Suddenly, everyone in the room leapt to their feet and began cheering and shouting. Abel stood up to find out what all the commotion was about, and saw John F. Kennedy and his glamorous wife enter the ballroom. They stayed for about fifteen minutes, chatted with a few carefully selected guests, and then moved on. Although Abel didn’t speak with the President, even though he had left his table and placed himself strategically in his path, he did manage to attract the attention of Frank Hogan as he was leaving with the Kennedy entourage.
‘Mr Rosnovski. What a fortuitous meeting.’
Abel would have liked to explain to the boy that with him nothing was fortuitous, but now was neither the time nor the place. Hogan took his arm and guided him quickly behind a large marble pillar.
‘I can’t say too much at the moment, Mr Rosnovski, as I must stick with the President, but I think you can expect a call from us in the near future. Naturally, the President has rather a lot of appointments to deal with at the moment.’
‘Naturally,’ said Abel.
‘But I’m hoping,’ continued Hogan, ‘that in your case everything will be confirmed by late March or early April. Allow me to be the first to offer my congratulations, Mr Rosnovski. I’m confident you’ll serve the President with distinction.’
Abel watched Hogan literally run off to be sure he caught up with the Kennedy party, which was already climbing into a fleet of open-doored limousines.
‘You look pleased with yourself,’ said one of Abel’s Polish friends as he returned to his table and sat down to attack a tough steak, which would not have been allowed inside a Baron hotel. ‘Did Kennedy invite you to be his new Secretary of State?’
They all laughed.
‘Not yet,’ said Abel. ‘But the Secretary of State could be my new boss,’ he added under his breath.
He flew back to New York the next morning after visiting the Polish Chapel of Our Lady of Czestochowa in the National Shrine. It made him think of both Florentynas.
Washington National airport was chaos, and Abel eventually arrived back at the New York Baron three hours later than planned. George joined him for dinner, and knew that all must have gone well when Abel ordered a magnum of Dom Perignon.
‘Tonight we celebrate,’ said Abel. ‘I saw Hogan at the ball, and my appointment will be confirmed in the next few weeks. The official announcement will probably be made soon after I get back from the Middle East.’
‘Congratulations, Abel. There’s no one who deserves the honour more.’
‘Thank you, George. I can assure you your reward will not be in heaven, because when it’s all official, I’m going to appoint you as acting president of the Baron Group during my absence.’
George poured himself a glass of champagne. They were already halfway through the bottle.
‘How long do you think you’ll be away this time, Abel?’
‘Only three weeks. I want to check that I’m not being robbed blind in the Middle East before I go on to Turkey to open the Istanbul Baron. I think I’ll take in London and Paris on the way.’
George poured Abel another glass of champagne.
Abel spent three more days in England than planned, trying to sort out the problems of the London Baron with a manager who seemed to blame everything that went wrong on the British trade unions. The London Baron had turned out to be one of Abel’s few failures, although he could never put his finger on why the hotel continually lost money. He would have considered closing it, but the Baron Group had to have a presence in England’s capital, even if it was a loss leader. Once again he fired the manager, made a new appointment and flew off to Paris.
The French capital presented a striking contrast. The Paris Baron on the Boulevard Raspail was one of the most successful in the group, and he’d once admitted to Florentyna, as reluctantly as a parent admits to having a favourite child, that it was his favourite hotel. He found everything as he would have wanted it, and spent only two days there before flying on to the Middle East.
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.
