To Save a Son (31 page)

“We're drinking martinis,” Franks said to Tina when Maria left the room with the children.

“Thanks.” A skein of hair had fallen away from her chignon while she was helping the nanny, and there was a damp patch from the bath on the sleeve of her dress.

“I've told Maria,” Franks announced, “about there being a trial. I didn't go into detail.”

“I didn't think anybody was supposed to be told.”

“I thought she deserved it. I've asked her not to tell your mother and father.”

Tina took her drink. “What did she say?”

“That she wanted somebody to go to jail for Nicky's killing.”

Maria had walked back into the room as Franks was speaking. “I also said that I thought it was a brave thing to do.”

“Seems a long time ago that I thought the same thing,” said Tina.

“Don't you now?” said Maria. She looked around expectantly for her drink and Franks refilled the glass she'd left empty. He still felt completely in control but wondered about Maria; she had sounded to him quite barbed.

“I'd like to be able to think objectively about anything,” said Tina.

“Maybe it would be a good thing if you did remain objective,” said Maria. “I'm not sure what it is you've lost; at the moment, I've lost a husband.” She hesitated, looking to Franks and then back to Tina. “You weren't here when I told Eddie that things weren't good between Nicky and me. What I didn't tell Eddie was that I didn't know—and now I never will—whether it would have ended in divorce or in something different. I'd have liked to know.”

“Meaning?” demanded Tina, responding to the challenge.

“Meaning don't fall backward into a trough of self-pity until you've got good and proper reason.”

“Thanks!” said Tina.

Maria purposely misunderstood the sarcasm. “If it helps, I'm glad,” she said.

Tina's glass was certainly empty and his could have done with topping up, but Franks held back, not wanting to contribute anything that might exacerbate a situation he hadn't expected. Nor wanted. He actually looked at his watch, calculating the time before the plane took off the following morning.

Tina saw the gesture, and said, “You got an appointment? Or expecting a call?”

“No,” said Franks. Tina and Maria were sitting side by side on a facing couch, as if they were inviting comparison. Franks began to make it because it was so obvious and then determinedly stopped. Too much was being eroded too quickly, he thought.

“Eddie's anxious to leave tomorrow. He's told me so,” said Tina with childlike petulance.

“Can you tell me where you're going?” asked Maria.

“You're not supposed to know,” said Tina.

“Europe,” said Franks.

“There!” said Tina. “See how secret everything is?”

“I don't mind Maria knowing,” said Franks. “Why should I?”

“You made the rules,” reminded Tina. “I didn't.”

“Shall I tell you something?” asked Maria.

“What?” said Tina.

“I can close my eyes listening to you both and hear Nicky and me.”

“Except you didn't have the pressure,” said Franks at once.

“Not your pressure,” said Maria. She made an embarrassed shrug and said, “I'm not proving myself to be the ideal houseguest, am I?”

“I'm not sure we're proving ourselves ideal hosts.”

“You might, if you gave me another drink,” said Maria.

Franks took the pitcher to Maria but Tina shook her head against a refill. He added to his own glass.

A loud silence settled in the room, no one knowing whether to speak or remain silent to make way for someone else. As he replaced the martini pitcher, Franks realized there was less than one glass left. To make more would give him some activity, putting the responsibility for conversation upon the women. But it might also provoke Tina into a fresh assault, perhaps with good reason. How many was it he had drunk already? Franks thought it was five, but conceded it might have been more. Not more than seven. Seven martinis—strong ones, too—and he was still in absolute control, thinking good, speaking good, behaving good. It was good to know how well he could hold his drink. Why was good a recurring word? Why couldn't he think of another one? Not important. Didn't indicate anything. It
was
good. Proper word then.

Dinner was announced. The women made a more determined effort in the dining room, and Franks responded to it. Recognizing it was fatuous to attempt anything but the one conversation between them, he talked further—but still generally, so that Tina remained the knowledgeable one of the two—giving Maria only a broad indication of how the case was to be made against Pascara and Flamini and Dukes. When Maria asked outright what Europe had to do with it and why he was going, Franks still remained vague, talking about how long he'd been away and how it was necessary to remain in some sort of control. By the end of the meal Franks decided again that it was good that Maria had come, although he'd been uncertain immediately before dinner. They had two bottles of wine and Franks set himself a private challenge, knowing he'd passed because at the end of the meal he was sure he was still sober. As they left the table he was thinking how glad he was that Maria would be with Tina during his absence. Franks didn't have any doubts that had she stayed in the house alone, with only the children and staff and the constant FBI protectors, her unhappiness would have deepened. They went back to the small drawing room, where Maria refused anything more to drink. Franks nursed a brandy, more to prove that he could still manage it without difficulty than because he needed it, happy to hear them talking eagerly to each other, all antagonism gone. It was practically like it had been before, he thought, when Nicky had been alive and they had spent so much time together.

When they finally went to bed Franks remembered the earlier bedroom conversation with David—surely another indication that booze didn't cause any impairment to his control?—and told Tina about it.

“You should have talked to Gabby, as well as David,” she said at once.

“I didn't want to make it seem more of an issue—a big deal—than it really is,” he said. “You're not talking to her about the bed-wetting; you're pretending it isn't happening.”

Ignoring the logic—and truth—of his response, Tina said, “They're obviously aware of more that's going on around them than we thought they were.”

“Maybe that'll make it easier later.”

“How?”

“We're still going to have to go through this false identity piece.”

“Are you sure that's absolutely necessary?” she said.

“I'm not sure,” said Franks. “They are: Ronan and Rosenberg and the FBI people.”

“It's going to seem so ridiculous.”

Franks hoped so. The alternative—for them to be convinced it was necessary to protect their lives—would be far worse than ridiculous. “I thought you should know about the kids,” he said. “There might be a right moment when you could talk to her about it; reassure her.”

Tina looked at him sharply and Franks waited for some accusation, but it didn't come. Instead she said, “Something registered with me tonight about what Maria said.”

“What?”

“That I was wallowing in self-pity; that I hadn't lost a husband.”

“I keep trying to convince you of that.”

“All those people outside, with their stupid guns, protecting us from some outside attack. We're destroying ourselves, aren't we?”

Franks tried to think of the precise moment when he'd decided to stop and mentally examine every word and sentence—tasting them before speaking. It seemed like a long time ago but he knew it couldn't be. “Yes, we are,” he said. “Surely—by knowing it—we can stop it happening.”

Later they lay side by side, and Franks knew that Tina expected him to make the first move, to make love. He didn't. Before all this she'd initiated their lovemaking as much as he had; he'd enjoyed her being the aggressor—far better than the sort of aggressor she was now—finding it an exciting part of the act. Beside him Tina stayed rigid in the same attitude of stubborn refusal. She went to sleep before he did. Franks found himself thinking of Maria, farther along the corridor, and wished that he didn't.

24

Waldo and Schultz weren't as extreme as Tomkiss, but they were still protective. Franks realized that the departure for England was his first outing in anything like public for days—weeks. His feeling was one of acute, head-down embarrassment; the way he was surrounded made him feel like a criminal and he supposed averting his face from public scrutiny made him look just that. The departure from Kennedy was a full FBI operation, a front and back car escort to the airport and all the departure formalities carried out in a private room outside of which two men were posted. The same men made up the escort onto the plane, in advance of the normal passenger embarkation. Their seats backed against the bulkhead, so that it was impossible for anyone to sit behind them; it also meant that the seats would not recline and that for the entire flight they had to sit stiffly upright. That wasn't the only discomfort. Franks had no difficulty from the slim, neatly compact Schultz to his left, but Waldo overflowed from the other bordering seat, legs apart, reducing Franks' space. Franks refused the in-flight food but maintained a steady supply of drinks from the attentive cabin staff to whom he knew he was the object of curiosity. Because of the drinks Franks needed to use the lavatory before they landed and Schultz insisted upon going with him there and remaining outside; Franks emerged, face blazing, to find everyone in the first-class section staring at him. Before the London arrival every one of the flight crew had come out to look, and the captain asked if everything was all right. Waldo said it was fine.

The London arrival was similar. The Americans had enlisted embassy police and immigration help and Franks was led off ahead of all the other passengers, through side corridors to a small office where the formalities were completed; when he emerged to the waiting line of cars assembled in a strictly no-waiting area, Franks saw that their luggage was already loaded.

“This is bloody ridiculous!” he protested as the car picked up the motorway for the trip into London.

“I think so, too,” said Waldo, who was sitting in the front. “I don't think you should have been allowed to come.”

“That wasn't what I meant and you know it!” said Franks, further angered. “And who the hell could say if I'd be
allowed
or not!”

“We could, Mr. Franks,” said Schultz. “You're a material witness in a major crime trial.”

“A material witness,” said Franks. “Not a bloody criminal! Did you see what it was like on that plane?”

“We didn't enjoy it any more than you did.”

“It was preposterous.”

“Do you know something, Mr. Franks? Organized crime has got more control and influence at Kennedy Airport than the New York Port Authority, who is supposed to run it. Already Pascara and Flamini and Dukes know what flight you caught, what seat number you occupied, and probably how much gin you drank on the way over,” said Waldo.

“Am I supposed to be impressed?” said Franks.

“No,” said Schultz. “You're supposed to understand why we imposed the sort of cover on you that we did.”

“That was New York,” said Franks. “This is England.”

“Where we're still going to be as careful as we think is necessary,” said Waldo. “Before we came here today our embassy had several discussions with the Home Office. The British have assigned members of the antiterrorist police as additional backup.”

Franks twisted in his seat and saw two cars in tight formation behind them. He slumped back in his corner of the vehicle, trying to control the anger, because he knew it was pointless. It was still difficult. They should have given him some indication of what it was going to be like, not waited for him to be paraded like some freak. It was fortunate that Tina hadn't come with him. It had been difficult to judge this morning, but his impression had been that Tina and Maria were maintaining the truce of the previous night's dinner. It
was
a good thing that Maria was there, beyond the obvious advantage of companionship while he was away. Maria had adjusted more quickly and far better than Tina to the constant surveillance. It bothered her, but not to the degree of paranoia that Tina seemed to be developing. Franks wondered what Maria had meant by the personal difficulties that she and Nicky had experienced. Perhaps it was better that he didn't wonder; didn't think of her at all.

Franks had designated the Dorchester, where the precautions continued. He entered through a side door, bypassed the reception completely, and found a man already in position outside the door of his suite. It was a corner set of rooms, which meant there was only one adjoining suite. Schultz occupied that, and Waldo's rooms were opposite.

“I don't know what you planned to do about eating,” said Waldo. “We'd like you to use room service.”

At least the man appeared to be asking rather than insisting, thought Franks. He said, “Do you actually think I want the embarrassment of being the performing bear in a restaurant?” He still wasn't hungry, anyway. He called room service, though, and made arrangements for a mobile bar to be installed. He saw Waldo and Schultz exchange looks and he thought, fuck them.

As soon as he unpacked, Franks made contact with his London offices, arranging meetings with the managers the following day. He then telephoned the accountants and lawyers who held the nonvoting directorships of his companies. He'd warned them of his arrival, and found they were all waiting; seeing no purpose in delaying, he arranged a conference for that afternoon. Still with time to spare before the meeting, he called David's and Gabby's schools. The headmaster and headmistress both agreed to the appointments he suggested.