To Save a Son (48 page)

The precautions seemed greater than they had been at the CIA house, although Franks realized they probably weren't; here everything was concentrated into a far smaller area than it had been at Kingston. He tried, and he knew Maria tried even harder, to recapture what existed for them in the Catskills hideaway. They swam in the pool and Franks—Isaacs—bought a car, and they drove under discreet escort to Naples and to Tampa and one day took an expedition into the Everglades. They made plans to drive around the Gulf and up to New Orleans, which Maria knew and said he'd like and Franks said he wanted to see. The marshals advised against engaging staff during the initial months because anyone they employed would have to know them as Isaacs and would need an explanation for the initial tight security. Maria said she didn't want any help anyway but preferred to keep house by herself. She did it very well. Franks began putting on weight because he was doing absolutely nothing except telephoning. He did that constantly, to Rosenberg in New York and to Podmore in London, desperately trying to keep the businesses intact. The Italian authorities finally closed two of the hotels down. The publicity that the case attracted severely affected everything, according to the pessimistic Podmore. Certainly the figures justified pessimism. The following year's prebookings were down seventy percent—an indicator that had proved reliable in the past—and the New York court case encouraged the English insurers of the liner to query a clause in the policy that excluded willful sabotage; Podmore assured Franks he was initiating court proceedings but it was likely to be a year before a hearing, and in the meantime the Amsterdam repairers had to be paid out of company resources, which were in overdraft because of me non-working of the liner anyway. The revised profit forecast was for a reduction of six million pounds from the previous year. There was never a conversation with Podmore when the English lawyer didn't remind Franks of his committed time limit for a return, and Franks got the impression that the man was sitting in his London office ticking off the dates day by day on a calender constantly in front of him. Franks came to rely absolutely upon Rosenberg, talking everything through with the man, and within a month of their being installed in Florida Rosenberg said, “They're running scared. I don't think they're doing a goddamned thing to keep anything operating as it should be. They just want out, as soon as possible.”

“It's not going to happen; but what if they have to offer the companies publicly? It doesn't make sense to run them down,” protested Franks. “What price would they get?”

“What price do they want to get?” argued Rosenberg. “They're salaried directors; all they need is enough money left over to pay themselves a salary. They're your companies; you're the loser.”

“I always seem to be,” said Franks, unhappy at the quickness of the self-pity.

“I could go across, if you want,” offered Rosenberg. “I could go with your power of attorney. Kick ass a little.”

“Let's leave it run for a while,” said Franks. “But thanks.” He paused and said, “And I want to kick all the ass myself. You can't imagine how much I'm looking forward to it.”

“You're paying for my advice,” reminded Rosenberg. “And my advice is that in England everything is fouling up badly.”

“I know,” said Franks. “I'm going to fix it. Soon.”

Franks created a den in a small room off the main sitting room for his business contacts, and Maria respected his privacy. He was grateful, because the calls he made from there weren't all business. He told her about calling Scarsdale, because it was entirely understandable that he would want to retain contact with the children, but he didn't tell her of the sort of conversations he was having with Tina or the increasing dilemma they were creating for him, to go with everything else. Tina fluctuated from the coquettish to the openly sexual and then further demanding. She repeated during every conversation how sorry she was for the breakup, which was entirely her fault, and pleaded with him to make up. As Franks' response to her grew, so did his guilt about Maria. Franks decided that he didn't want to hurt her, and he didn't want to leave her, but he didn't want to stay apart from Tina either, and he was completely fucked up. The strain stretched their relationship. They both recognized it and both tried to pretend that it wasn't happening. They spent evenings like they had at Kingston, wrapped in each other's arms watching television or listening to the music on the elaborate stereo system that Franks installed. He lavished presents upon her, a diamond ring which she studiously avoided putting on her engagement finger, and three weeks later a matching necklace. The gifts were not all ostentatious. He bought her flowers—from street stalls as well as from gift-wrapping florists—and once a T-shirt with the message “I Love You” and on another occasion, during a trip to Tampa, a troll doll from a street vendor that cost him only ninety cents.

It was Maria who brought things out into the open. They'd eaten and she'd cleared away, and they'd decided they didn't want either television or music. She said, head against his chest so that she didn't have to look at him, “Don't you think you should try to see the kids sometime?”

“I've been thinking that,” said Franks. Why was he always using David and Gabby?

“And Tina,” added the woman.

Franks didn't reply at once. She deserved honesty as much as—if not more than—she deserved jewelry and intentionally cute toys, Franks thought. He said, “I did see her, in New York. During the trial.”

“You told me.”

“Not how it really was. We weren't called for quite a long time. We ate together, talked about things.”

“I guessed,” said Maria.

“We didn't sleep together,” protested Franks urgently.

“She's your wife.”

“We
didn't!”
insisted Franks. “You've got to believe me about that.”

“If you tell me then I believe you,” said the woman. “Did you want to?”

“Yes,” he said, determined on the honesty at last. “But I didn't. I didn't because it would have meant cheating on you.” He pulled her around so that she had to look at him. She was serious-faced and her eyes were filmed. “I
mean
that,” he said.

“I do believe you,” said Maria. “You been speaking a lot to her?”

“Quite a lot.”

“I've never made any demands upon you, Eddie.”

“You didn't,” he said.

“And I'm not now, not really. I just want to know. I think I've a right to know.”

“Yes,” he said.

“I tried to invent funny rules in talking about love. It was because I was frightened and because I was nervous. Just like I'm frightened and nervous now. But that's not why I'm saying that I love you. I do. I love you so much that when I'm in one part of this house and you're in another part I ache for you, and if you go out by yourself in the car I spend all the time in the window, waiting to catch the first sight of your car coming back, and at night sometimes I wake up and I watch you sleeping and I think what it would be like not to be able to wake up and find you next to me and I cry because the hurt is an actual pain. And I'm not talking about any of the danger that all this protection is supposed to be about. I'm talking about your being alive and not having you; of having you drive away one morning and my standing there until it gets dark and not seeing your car come back.”

Franks closed his eyes against the words, overwhelmed by them. How, in God's name, could he choose? And wasn't even to think of it in terms of choice offensive? Obscene even?

Maria's head was back against his chest now, her voice muffled again. “I know, from all the stories, that at times like these the other woman is supposed to do anything and everything to win. But I'm not going to fight, darling. I'm not going to force you into a corner and try to make you choose me and spend the rest of our life together uncertain whether you did it because you wanted to or because you felt—for whatever reason—that you
had
to. I'll accept whatever decision you make.…” She trailed away and was silent for a long time, but Franks knew she hadn't finished. At last she started again. “And if you decide that you want to go back to Tina and the children but that you still want me as well, then I'll accept whatever arrangement you want to make. You understand?”

“I understand,” said Franks, his voice choked. “Christ, darling!”

“That's how much I love you,” she said.

Franks knew he should respond and what that response should be, but he'd decided upon honesty and so he didn't speak. Then he said, “I don't know.”

“I know you don't, my darling,” she said.

“How
can
you know? And still say what you've just said!”

“I was talking of me. Not you.”

“I think I love you, Maria.”

“And Tina, too?”

“That's what I don't know.”

“What would you say if it were Tina here, in your arms, and she asked the same question about me?”

“I said I don't know,” said Franks.

“You've got to make the choice, Eddie. Not between us; I've told you already what I'm prepared to do about that. You owe it to Tina to choose. Not just to me. Or yourself.”

She was right, Franks knew; he'd known for a long time. “I think you're stronger than me,” he said.

“No, I'm not,” she said. “It's easier for me; it always has been.” She was silent for a moment and then she said, “I
haven't
made any demands on you, have I, Eddie?”

“Never,” he said at once.

“I am now,” she said. “Let me know soon; very soon.”

The following day Rosenberg called Franks; appeals had been lodged by both Dukes and Pascara. When Franks asked how long the legal process could take, Rosenberg said up to five years, and Franks said he couldn't possibly consider such a period away from England, and Rosenberg said he knew that. Franks asked if he was a necessary participant in any appeal and Rosenberg said that normally it would not have been a requirement but in this case he considered it was. Franks repeated that the European businesses couldn't continue uncontrolled, as they were at present, and Rosenberg repeated that he knew that, too. Within an hour there was a call from Ronan, requesting his guarded presence at any appeal but saying that he wanted another meeting to review all the evidence that had been presented at the first trial to anticipate the tricks that the defense lawyers might try to pull before the court of appeals. Franks agreed to the meeting that Ronan wanted. He contacted Rosenberg again, asking him to be present at the conference, and then telephoned Tina and said he was coming up to Manhattan and wanted to talk to her.

“About what?” she demanded at once.

“I would have thought that was obvious.”

“I want you to tell me.”

“Us.”

“It's taken long enough.”

“Don't start!”

“I'm not starting,” said Tina in immediate capitulation. “How?”

“I'll speak to Waldo. Is Tomkiss still at the house?”

“He's teaching David baseball.”

“Tell him to liaise with Waldo; he'll know when I'm coming up and we can meet.”

“I love you, Eddie,” said Tina.

Oh Christ! he thought. “It'll be soon,” he said. “This week.”

“I said I loved you.”

“I know what you said. Stop pushing!”

“That's the decision, is it?”

Franks sighed, knuckles against his teeth to stop the outburst. “If that—whatever ‘that' means—was it, I wouldn't be coming up to see you, would I?” he said. Yes, he thought. His future with Tina or Maria had nothing to do with his going to Manhattan.

“I want you to know …” started the woman. But Franks stopped her. “I
know
, Tina,” he said. “Believe me, I know.” He hesitated, realizing he was shouting and confirming whatever fear she had. He added, “This week. I'll see you this week.”

Although Berenson, who was in charge of the marshal protection, had left his number, it was Waldo whom Franks called. The FBI supervisor knew about the appeals, obviously, and also about the conference with Ronan. He'd liaise, to see that everything was organized; Franks wasn't to worry. The incoming calls over the next two days were constant, from Ronan and Rosenberg and Waldo. Wednesday was chosen for the day.

“You'll come back, won't you?” said Maria when Franks told her. “I mean, whatever decision you make, you'll come back?”

“Don't be silly.”

“It
is
silly,” said the woman. “You're going up about an appeal, and all I'm worrying about is us.”

“No,” said Franks. “That's not what's silly. Worrying about my not coming back is silly.”

“Don't make promises you can't keep,” said Maria.

“I'm not,” said Franks.

Franks tried to make love to her the last night, because he knew she would expect him to, and Maria tried to respond, because she knew he would expect her to, and it was awful. In her exasperation she actually punched his shoulder and said, “Oh, shit! Shit! Shit! Shit!”

In the morning he said he didn't know how long he would be away. She said she understood. He said he would be back as soon as he could, and she let the pause into the conversation and said she hoped he would. Franks traveled in the car with two marshals. The traffic across the bridge was lighter than they anticipated, so they reached the Tampa airport in sufficient time to check in and go to the bar for a drink. The relaxation was intentional, explained the guards. This way they weren't attracting attention; making a drama of the departure would be counterproductive because there was no way that Flamini or Pascara or Dukes could have learned of the Florida location. Franks remembered the stupidity of the Kennedy flight and arrival in London and all the pavement-and-alley vigilance of Tomkiss and Sheridan in Manhattan and said he preferred it this way.