To Save a Son (37 page)

“Some of the documentation has already been prepared,” said Dulac. “The access document can be prepared while we go through what is already available.”

The man gave brief instructions in German through an intercom and then moved with Franks to another part of the office, where there was a settee and a low table in front of it. They sat side by side while Dulac took him through all the clauses and conditions of the hidden account and companies. Franks initialed each page and signed a total of three. He provided the sample signature and took the forms necessary for Tina, and by the time they finished, the papers giving the London boards access were ready, as Dulac had promised. They remained on the couch and went painstakingly through the newest documents. Again each page had to be initialed and finally signed. Again, there were three copies.

“I will deal with you direct?” queried Dulac.

Franks shook his head. “Through Mr. Rosenberg.”

“There are laws in this country to which I have to comply,” said Dulac. “Are you the subject of criminal proceedings?”

“I am involved in criminal proceedings,” said Franks. “I am not a defendant, nor am I likely to be accused of any crime.”

“Mr. Rosenberg will provide an affidavit attesting to that?”

“If you feel it necessary.”

“I think it would keep and maintain things in correct order,” said the lawyer. He looked through the window, from which the escorting police car was still visible. “It is not usual for clients to come
with
the police,” he said.

“The affidavit will come from Mr. Rosenberg with everything else that you've asked for,” promised Franks.

They were back in London—Franks still unable to adjust to what Waldo and Schultz felt necessary protection—by early evening. He called and arranged the final directors' meeting for the following day. Just that, and he could return to America, Franks realized. He'd looked forward to the trip, to escaping the Scarsdale imprisonment, but it hadn't felt like an escape at all. At least the continued relaxation with Waldo had remained throughout the day. Deciding to eat in his suite—he didn't feel like going out anyway—he invited the two FBI men to join him. Schultz was the one who accepted for both of them. There was a slight uneasiness at the transition from a strictly business to partially social situation, but Schultz, the chosen mediator, worked hard to relax the group. He told stories on himself for mistakes in investigations—but, considerately, nothing of the sort in which Franks was involved—and then Waldo emerged to do the same, showing the same consideration. Waldo showed pictures of his wife and family—two boys the same ages as David and Gabby—and said he'd promised his wife a going-home present of a tartan skirt, and Schultz hesitatingly disclosed his hobby of campanology and said he regretted that he hadn't been able to visit any of England's famous cathedrals to hear the bells being rung. The meal was very good and the wine was excellent, and as Franks poured the brandies, Waldo finally said, “I'm extremely sorry about yesterday. I was way out of line.”

Franks indicated Schultz with his brandy goblet, and said, “John explained a lot. It's forgotten.”

“Thanks,” said Waldo.

Franks decided he was enjoying himself; for the first time since he couldn't remember when. He'd had a lot to drink—they all had—but be wasn't drunk. None of them were. It had been a convivial, relaxed, pleasant evening, and he'd unwound. As the thought came, Franks knew just how much he'd
needed
to unwind. He asked, “What happens afterward, when it's all over?” He spread his hands. “Does it go on, like this?”

“Usually, for the first few weeks. Kind of settling down; making sure people understand what to do. The scale down is gradual. You've always got contact numbers to call any time, not just for emergencies. But eventually you're on your own.”

Franks found it difficult to imagine what it had ever been like for him and Tina and the kids to be on their own. “You personally?” he said.

“I shouldn't think so,” said Schultz. “The FBI is involved, of course. Runs the operation. But the marshals are usually the people who do it. It's their job.”

“It's going to be difficult for you,” declared Waldo abruptly.

“I've already realized that,” said Franks.

“That's not what I mean,” said Waldo. “For
you
, personally. Normally it's punks; people who don't know any different. They usually end up with a house better than they had in the first place and they're grateful for the pension.…” The FBI man looked around the suite. “This isn't our standard,” he said. “It's yours. The adjustment for you is going to be a bastard.”

He'd unwound; now it was winding-up time again, thought Franks. “I'll learn,” he said, unwilling to face reality too quickly.

“I think you've got a lot to learn,” said Waldo. “An awful lot.”

“I will,” insisted Franks stubbornly.

The meeting with the directors was a formality. They'd drawn the agreements as promised, and he produced the access documents as promised, and the formalities were over very quickly.

“We're now effectively running the companies?” said Podmore.

“Yes,” agreed Franks. He had the inescapable feeling of being cast adrift.

“Knowing—as you did—that it was going to happen, I'm somewhat surprised you made the salary and advantage agreements that you did with the managers who are being elevated,” said the man.

Franks bristled at the lecturing tone but knew it would be wrong to respond angrily to it, like it would have been wrong to have met Waldo's anger with anger. “Extra responsibilities are being imposed upon them, just as they are upon you. Shouldn't that be recognized?”

“Shouldn't we have been the people to recognize it?” came back Podmore.

Fuck the man, thought Franks, the recurring reaction; fuck them all. “Two days ago I was in control of these companies,” he said. “I still am, although distanced. Within six months, I shall be back, running them again. I'm grateful for your support but I don't think it would be wise for anyone to imagine a situation anything different from what it actually is, do you?”

Waldo and Schultz seemed surprised by his early emergence from the conference room.

“All through?” said Schultz.

“All through,” agreed Franks. “It's time to get back to America.” To get it over and then get back to something else: normality.

“What now?” asked Waldo.

Franks checked his watch, unnecessarily because he'd already timed the suggestion out. “The last plane,” he said, abandoning the thought of the Concorde. “That gives us time to go from here to St. Paul's, which is very close, so that John can hear the bells. And then to Knightsbridge so that you can buy the tartan for your wife. The Scotch Shop is there. Harrod's, too. You can get presents for the kids, as well.”

Which is what they did. Franks took them to lunch at Scott's after getting their assurance that the protection wouldn't be too obvious, and back at the hotel he had time enough after packing to call Tina to say he was returning.

“I'm glad it hasn't taken as long as you thought,” she said.

“So am I,” he said, pleased there was no challenge in her voice.

“Not for that reason,” said the woman. “Poppa had a heart attack during the night.”

25

Enrico Scargo refused to go to the hospital, with an old man's conviction that hospitals were places where people went to die. Private nurses and resuscitation and monitoring equipment were installed in the house. At first both Tina and Maria moved in. Neither of them got any rest because Mamma insisted on sitting up practically throughout the night as well as day with her husband. So they evolved a routine of alternating between Scars-dale and the Scargos'. When Franks arrived from Kennedy airport, the old man was hooked up to a respirator. Although there was nothing practical he could do, Franks stayed for two days before going into Manhattan to brief Rosenberg on the arrangements he'd made in England and Switzerland and instructing the lawyer what he wanted done. On the way back from the city, Franks decided that although it was an improper thought—certainly not one he'd consider expressing—her father's collapse meant that Tina now had something to fully distract her from the unreality of how they were living. She'd signed the bank papers dismissively—not bothering to ask what they were—and had been quite disinterested in hearing what he'd done on the trip. In fact, reflected Franks, disinterest in him was an accurate description of Tina's current attitude.

Franks went back to the Scarsdale house from Manhattan for the first time since his return from England. David and Gabriella were subdued by their grandfather's illness and there was none of the usual boisterousness of a homecoming or excitement about the presents he brought: a make-it-yourself tank model kit for David and what he belatedly realized was an inappropriate wetting doll for Gabriella. Franks was back early enough in the evening to be with them for their evening meal, and toward the end of it David looked soberly at him and said, “Why did you tell me a lie?”

“What lie?” said Franks, not immediately remembering.

“About Uncle Nicky. You said he might come, but I know he can't because he's dead. Aunty Maria told me.”

Franks sighed. He said, “It wasn't a lie to cheat you. I just wanted to talk to Maria about it first, but I didn't have time. What did she tell you?”

“I asked her when he was coming,” said the boy. “She said there had been a bad accident and that he'd died.”

“Did she say what sort of accident?” asked Franks.

David shook his head. “Just that it was an accident.”

“What did happen?” said Gabriella.

Franks hesitated, unwilling to lie a second time, but even more unwilling to talk about shooting, conscious of David's fascination with guns. “Something happened with a car,” he said, aware at once of the inadequacy.

“Were other people killed as well?” asked the boy.

“No, only Uncle Nicky,” said Franks. The question had been easier than he expected.

“Why doesn't Aunty Maria cry?” asked the girl.

“She has,” said Franks. He was beginning to wish he hadn't joined them for their meal.

“I haven't seen her,” insisted the child.

“She cries by herself. In her room,” groped Franks.

“Does that mean she's brave?” said Gabriella.

“Yes,” said Franks.

“I'd cry if you died,” she said.

“Let's stop talking about people dying,” said Franks. “I'm not going to die.”

“Promise!” said David, more urgency than usual in the familiar demand.

“I promise,” said Franks gently.

“You didn't tell the truth about Uncle Nicky,” accused the boy.

Franks leaned across the table for David's hand. “I didn't tell you about Uncle Nicky because I didn't want to upset you; in case you started thinking silly things like that it
could
happen to me. It isn't going to. I'm not going to die, and nothing is going to happen to me.”

“Are those men who are here all the time now going to see that it doesn't?” said Gabriella with innocent accuracy. “I thought it was to guard treasure.”

Franks tried desperately to remember the explanation he'd given to David. He said. “They're men who are helping me; it's to do with Daddy's job.”

“You said there were some bad men who didn't want you to tell on them,” said David.

“That's it!” said Franks. “I've got to tell the truth about some bad things and the people here with us now are going to help me do that.” He looked up gratefully at Elizabeth's arrival and said, “Bath time!”

Franks escaped at once into the small sitting room. He examined the drinks, momentarily undecided, and then chose the usual martini. He mixed a small pitcher, thinking how well he'd done over the last few days: hardly anything at the Scargos'—certainly never approaching drunkenness—and this the first today. He knew he should call to see how things were up there. Time enough later. He carried the drink with him to an easy chair, thinking of the conversation with the children. Not good, he decided; bloody awful, in fact. It was inconceivable to talk about shotgun murders to kids that young, so to lie was unavoidable, but he didn't like risking his relationship with them. Was it at risk? Or was he magnifying something out of proportion? He wished he could talk to someone about it, but couldn't think who. Tina? She'd gone to her parents' that afternoon. Besides, if he mentioned it, he and Tina wouldn't talk; in minutes they would be arguing.

Franks was at the drinks table refilling his glass when he heard the sound of the car in the driveway outside, and through the window saw that it was Maria. He answered the door for her himself, knowing that she'd sat up most of the previous night with Mamma Scargo and surprised that she didn't look more tired than she did. He kissed her platonically on the cheek and said he had drinks already mixed, and she said, “Terrific!”

Maria sat in the chair he'd earlier occupied and stretched her legs out straight in front of her, kicking off her shoes. He gave her the drink, sat opposite, and said, “How it is up there?”

She pulled down the corners of her mouth and said, “Nothing happening at all, really. Doctor says he's stable, whatever that means. He could be off the respirator by the weekend. This morning the doctor prescribed some tranquilizers and sleeping pills for Mamma but she says she won't take them. Insists she wants to be awake, in case he needs her.” She raised her glass and said, “Cheers, if that's an appropriate thing to say.”

“I'd better call Tina soon,” said Franks. “I told her I was coming back here but I'm not sure if she'll remember.”