by Emma Lathen
But, if hopscotching around Europe all day had failed to ruffle the facade, it had apparently taken its toll on the inner man. Thatcher had to step aside in the act of shaking hands as a waiter rolled a service cart into the room. Von Hennig had taken the precaution of bringing coffee and brandy with him. His first act was to pour himself a healthy tot as he waved Thatcher and Gabler toward the tray.
“I needed that,” he announced after his first sip.
“Discord in Bonn?” Thatcher inquired delicately.
“The canal accident has been seized on as a platform by both the developers and the conservationists. We had to waste two hours listening to them. You would not believe the nonsense we heard, from making the industrial Baltic rival the Pacific Rim to prophecies of an ecological Armageddon if one more smokestack comes into the area.”
“You’re lucky some endangered species isn’t nesting right by the canal locks.”
“No doubt one will be found,” von Hennig replied acerbically. “Finally the powers of reason were permitted to address the problem actually at hand and some progress was made. You know, John, it is always a privilege to see intelligence in action. The older I get the more I seem to be surrounded by nincompoops. In politics, here at BADA, even in my own bank! To discover someone who knows what to do and how to do it is a genuine tonic.”
Thatcher made a stab at extracting facts from this dithyramb. “Are you referring to the current chancellor of the German Federal Republic?”
After a hearty guffaw, von Hennig said, “That twit? Not likely. No, I’m talking about Madame Nordstrom.”
“You mean she was in Bonn too?”
But Madame Nordstrom had not left Gdansk. “She doesn’t have to move around. She can play the telephone like a violin,” said von Hennig.
“And exactly what miracle has Madame Nordstrom wrought?” Thatcher asked dubiously.
“She has convinced the German government to do everything she wants,” von Hennig announced, “exactly as she wants to have it done.”
Given Germany’s notorious intransigence, this was impressive.
“Would you care to be a little more specific?”
“Germany is handing full responsibility for the investigation into the disaster at Kiel over to BADA. Not only that, BADA will act as clearinghouse for all insurance claims.”
There was a stunned silence. While Thatcher inwardly grappled with the implications of this news, Gabler derived some satisfaction from restating the obvious. “Good heavens, John, that means BADA will take charge of at least some aspects of a German problem within Germany.”
“I had no idea BADA was such a force,” Thatcher said at last.
Peter produced a schoolboy grin. “You’re not the only one. You should have seen the faces of the other delegates when Annamarie and I broke it to them tonight.”
That certainly told Thatcher who was orchestrating the loftier reaches of BADA policy. But it left quite a remarkable number of unanswered questions.
“I see of course that Germany will gain several advantages from this arrangement,” he began probing cautiously. “An impartial outside arbiter will carry more weight than a national panel of investigators and that could be handy when the claims for negligence start pouring in, which they will any day now.”
“Just what I told them myself,” von Hennig admitted. Carefully he poured himself a cup of coffee before continuing. “And it goes without saying that Annamarie not only increases BADA’s prestige immeasurably but also gains worldwide publicity for the organization.”
Following his host’s example Thatcher also engaged in delaying tactics with the coffeepot. Why was Peter so satisfied by Annamarie’s success? It was clear that the two of them had been working in league today, but there was an element of detachment in Peter’s account suggesting a pro tem alliance rather than a long established partnership. Thatcher began to look forward to meeting the redoubtable Annamarie. If she could maintain her independence with von Hennig, she was a major force.
“This seems to have been an overnight conversion in Bonn. Now I wonder what made them see the light,” he mused, the glimmer of an idea forming.
With elaborate indifference von Hennig began: “You yourself just said—”
But as Thatcher swept over this interruption Gabler was nodding in comprehension. “It’s certainly something more important than a few negligence suits. Let’s see . . . could it be that Germany is thinking of using BADA as bait to help attract international financing for your inevitable canal project?”
“The notion may have occurred.”
Thatcher chuckled. If it had not, von Hennig would certainly have brought it to everybody’s attention. This was jump-starting with a vengeance.
In the midst of all political complexity there often lurks a beautiful simplicity, at least to a banker’s way of thinking. Here the line was so paper-thin that Thatcher proceeded delicately. “I’m sure your contribution to these decisions was invaluable, Peter.”
Von Hennig was blandness itself. “Naturally, since the bank may be commercially involved, I felt it necessary to confine myself rigorously. I did recommend Madame Nordstrom’s practical grasp of affairs and her chief of staff’s technical expertise. Zabriski may be an idiot in geopolitics, but he is competent and he does employ some marine specialists who may be useful for more than the accident investigation.”
“Useful in what way?” asked Gabler.
“Bonn has just okayed an engineering study for modernization of the Kiel.”
“That’s earlier than you anticipated, isn’t it?” Gabler pressed.
“There was really no alternative.”
The brisk note of finality indicated that von Hennig had come to the end of his disclosures, but Thatcher remained convinced that a major factor had been left unexplored. No doubt Peter would expand in his own good time.
“So that means everything is back on track, does it?”
“Not exactly.” For some reason von Hennig was obscurely amused. “Annamarie is not wasting a golden photo opportunity. Tomorrow the BADA council is making a pilgrimage to Mecca. We’re all leaving for Kiel in the morning.”
“Under the circumstances that’s a very reasonable decision,” Thatcher said temperately.
“Yes, indeed,” von Hennig replied with hearty cordiality. “But, John, now is the time for the Sloan to appear Baltic-minded. I strongly recommend that you join us.”
“Oh, damn!”
Chapter 5
First Class Passengers
The faceless men and women photographed at polished horseshoe tables cannot always delude themselves. They know they look dull as dishwater to the man in the street. All of them yearn for a theater of action where they can deplore extensive damage and console bloodied casualties. When the Kiel Canal offered BADA its first great opportunity, the delegates reached for overnight cases. Annamarie Nordstrom endorsed the enthusiasm, welcoming the showcase that Kiel offered. BADA would not only act, it would be seen acting.
To give the performance additional substance her office was instructed to pad the cast, filling extra space on the charter flight with available auxiliaries. As a result, when John Thatcher and Peter von Hennig arrived, they found all window seats occupied.
Their search for accommodation did not proceed far.
“Herr von Hennig! Good to see you again.”
“Ah, good morning, Herr Bach,” replied von Hennig with more courtesy than enthusiasm. Then he deftly inserted himself in the seat across the aisle.
Thatcher, left with no choice, sat down by the chunky, round-eyed unknown, whom he examined with interest. Could this be the Leonhard Bach recently puffed by Der Spiegel?
“. . . a bold newcomer from an ancient Hanseatic town,” the magazine had gushed. “With gambler’s nerves and a zest for trade, Bach reminds stodgy eastern Germans that the genius of capitalism is part of their birthright.”
When the introductions confirmed this identification, Thatcher wondered why a bu
ffer was so desirable between von Hennig and the wunderkind.
From the way he pumped hands to the way he plunged into conversation, Bach gave every evidence of adapting to the modern world. His English lacked von Hennig’s aristocratic precision, but he knew the vernacular.
After the mandatory preliminaries, he plunged ahead. “. . . there’s probably a silver lining to the whole screwup. At least this is real life, not a lot of theories. Now, no matter how much the foot-draggers keep yelling, people will finally understand we’re running out of time to overhaul the Kiel Canal.”
With von Hennig apparently absorbed by the instructions for exiting from the plane in case of emergency, Thatcher said mildly, “But disagreements about a starting date still exist, don’t they?”
This evoked a snort. “I can see you’ve been getting fed the official line,” said Bach, with cheerful disdain. “Believe me, though I’m sorry to say it, Germany’s as bad as BADA. Hanging back, delaying decisions, ducking the inevitable. A new Kiel’s got to be built, everybody knows that. So let’s do it.”
When this failed to detach von Hennig from flotation pillows, Bach grinned and carried on the debate alone.
“We need a canal that’s ready for the 21st century. And that doesn’t just mean handling increased traffic and cutting passage time. It means guaranteeing our outlet to the North Sea, no matter what happens. Look where we are now. One lousy accident and the whole Baltic’s bottled up.”
Von Hennig was almost forced to reply. “The decisions are not quite that simple,” he said frostily. “We aren’t talking about right and wrong, but about how much to do and when. You speak about benefits, Herr Bach. Well there are costs too, and other factors as well. Take the matter of risk. This accident is truly unfortunate, I grant you. But it is only prudent to ask how often the canal has been closed in peacetime.”
Leonhard Bach was not conceding an inch. “One closing is more than enough,” he said flatly. Unexpectedly he received support.
“You can say that again,” said the man sitting beyond von Hennig. “The Kiel’s too damned important for all these ifs, ands or buts. By the way, my name is Jaan Hroka.”
“I’ve heard of you,” said Bach. “You sail out of Tallinn, right?”
‘Yeah,” said Hroka, “and without the canal I’m out of business, like plenty of other people.”
“God knows you’re right about that. Estonia’s showing more sense than Bonn.”
Hroka’s face tightened. “Who knows about Estonia?” he growled. “I talk for Hroka Shipping, and I’ve got a perishable cargo trapped in the canal.”
“Lord, that’s tough, Hroka,” Bach replied. “Thank God Valhalla won’t take any hits if they get things moving fast enough.”
“That’s luck for you,” Hroka complained sourly. “I’ve got two stinking little freighters and one of them gets caught. And with your six or seven, you manage to squeak by. You probably cleared the canal at the last possible moment.”
“As a matter of fact the Fricka made it by three hours,” Bach said without apology.
“I don’t need this right now.” Hroka continued his lament. “Not with the harbor grant still up for grabs.”
Bach remained tactlessly optimistic. “Looks as if I’m going to get a break there too.
“Rostock’s chances are getting better and better. Isn’t that right, Herr von Hennig?”
Peter opted for evasion in the grand manner. “I never predict the outcome of elections.”
The snub did not seem to surprise Bach. Shrugging it off, he confined his attention to Hroka until they landed in Kiel.
“Louts, both of them!” declared von Hennig as they strolled through the airport.
The shipping industry, Thatcher could have reminded him, is not a hotbed of perfect gentlemen. Instead he said, “According to Der Spiegel Bach is a countryman to be proud of.”
“The man’s a menace. Oh, I admit he was quick off the mark when East Germany fell. He was buying privatized freighters from their government even as the Berlin Wall was crumbling. By the time he asked BADA for an expansion loan he was head and shoulders above the competition. But he’s still small potatoes. He cornered me yesterday for an hour with foolish suggestions while displaying utterly no conception of the larger issues.”
“You’ve heard sales pitches before,” Thatcher pointed out. “I’m sure you’re able to cope.”
“Naturally,” said von Hennig with irritation. “But Bach’s been running around Gdansk for two months now pestering every delegate he can find. He operates out of Rostock and he’s convinced he has valuable counsel to offer.”
“On what basis?” Meddlesome individuals often tackle their own governments, but they rarely have the temerity to thrust themselves on others.
“Because he’s been made into a celebrity by the press. He’s been interviewed on television so often he now thinks he really is a role model for every would-be entrepreneur in the East. On top of that,” said von Hennig acidly, “he’s an expert on BADA. They tell me he drops by Gdansk regularly to discuss policy and, just because he meets his payments, he doesn’t get kicked out.”
Thatcher could not picture a cozy exchange between the brash Leonhard Bach and the Madame Nordstrom who could hold her own with Peter. When he said as much, von Hennig amplified. “No, no, not Annamarie. It’s Stefan Zabriski who’s adopted him.”
“The chief of staff?” said Thatcher, conning his memory.
“Yes,” said von Hennig, “and he and Bach are two of a kind. They share a romantic vision of the Baltic’s future. Bach of course has rosy dreams of commerce expanding, while Zabriski foresees BADA presiding over a Nordic renaissance.”
“What in practical terms does that mean?” asked Thatcher prosaically.
“Among other things that they are both fervent, mindless advocates of a new Kiel Canal. They want some impossible megalithic project and they want it started today. You should see Annamarie’s face when Zabriski lets loose on the subject. She—” He broke off abruptly because they had emerged outdoors to find Madame Nordstrom directly before them, busy organizing the division of her party into vanloads.
Thanks to Gabler, Thatcher had been equipped with a brief resume of her professional career. It was typical of Everett that he had failed to mention, if indeed he had ever noticed, that she was still a very attractive woman looking a good ten years younger than her age. Very tall and long-legged, she could have been an advertisement for the Scandinavian way of life. The blond hair, blue eyes, and fair skin all glowed with a vitality that conjured up ski slopes and sailboats.
As soon as the first vehicle pulled away from the curb, with the second still waiting in the wings, von Hennig introduced his companion. Responding warmly, Annamarie looked expectantly over Thatcher’s shoulder. “Mr. Gabler is not with you? I was so sorry to be forced to defer our meeting.”
“He quite understood the necessity and he appreciated the material you supplied. In fact, he’s now proposing such an intensive study of BADA that he stayed behind to hire himself a bilingual secretary.”
“Good luck to him!” snorted von Hennig, raising sardonic eyebrows.
Madame Nordstrom was sedateness itself. “Finding English-speaking help in Gdansk can be a problem,” she admitted. “Nonetheless I’m delighted that he’s taking time from his schedule.”
Her eyes, however, were not shining because of Everett’s employment plans. She had not so much as glanced at von Hennig while she was addressing Thatcher, but she was obviously alive to many implications in this conjunction of Finanzbank and the Sloan Guaranty Trust. In fact, thought Thatcher resentfully, more alive than he was himself. Peter would have to come clean very soon.
“And it goes without saying,” she continued, “how pleased I am that you were able to join us on this inspection tour.”
“I’m curious to see conditions for myself,” Thatcher said truthfully.
What met his eyes was the same desolation that dawn had first revealed 24
hours earlier. Like the autobahn after a serious accident, the Kiel Canal was clotted with traffic going nowhere. For those desiring a closer look, BADA was ferrying delegates and the press out to the wreckage. For those remaining ashore, the chairman of the council was providing a running commentary.
“. . . yes, in cooperation with German authorities, BADA is assembling several special units from our member states,” said Madame Nordstrom. “Of course, our own staff of marine engineers is already engaged.”
Backgrounding is an art and one that Madame Nordstrom had mastered. The dignitaries hung on her every word; the journalists scribbled furiously. “. . . and bad as the situation is here,” she continued, “you will see at our next stop the true dimensions of the challenge.”
The next stop came after a short bus ride to Holtenau, the Baltic entrance to the canal. Disembarking, Thatcher beheld a sight he would never forget. The waters of Kiel harbor were hopelessly tangled by naval vessels, tankers, trawlers, and barges.
Madame Nordstrom raised her voice above the steady lament of horns and sirens. “And the congestion at the southern end of the canal is, if anything, worse.”
“Had BADA been prepared for a disaster of this magnitude?”
“Not this kind,” said Madame Nordstrom. “As most of you know, we do have contingency plans. Data’s already being fed into our central computer from everyone with dislocated schedules and stranded cargoes. But the situation here at Kiel is truly extraordinary, and we’re still working out arrangements with the German government.”
This steely determination to present BADA at its operational best led her to continue. “. . . rationalizing information from so many agencies would have been impossible if the experts on BADA’s staff had not had procedures in place,” she declared. “For everything we’re able to accomplish, great credit is due to Stefan Zabriski, who’s been working day and night. Stefan, would you like to add anything to what I’ve said?”
She was tall enough to look over surrounding heads to a satellite group where Stefan Zabriski was the center of a clamoring horde. He would engage in a brief exchange, then pivot to dictate instructions to his secretary before repeating the whole process. Madame Nordstrom’s summons brought him forward, blinking at the ring of expectant faces. Only after prompting from Wanda did he brighten.
