A Shark Out of Water

by Emma Lathen

  “Come now, Peter,” she argued, “how else could Stefan have spared BADA real embarrassment?”

  The response came from Eric Andersen, not von Hennig. “But who elected Zabriski to do anything at all?” he asked at his blandest.

  To John Thatcher, one thing seemed obvious. Stefan Zabriski was claiming more attention from BADA’s council than any chief of staff should.

  Chapter 7

  Full Steam Ahead

  Whatever the faults of the BADA contingent, they had inherited enough Baltic hardiness to tumble out of bed early the next morning. Leonhard Bach was unwontedly subdued, Jaan Hroka’s eyes were bloodshot and Casimir Radan winced at every movement, but they were all on time for Madame Nordstrom’s media event.

  Immediately after dawn, the small vessels planning to join the Danish convoy had begun to struggle free from the strangled mass clotting the inner roadstead. With busy hootings and tootings, one after the other edged its way through the available gaps. Crews lining the decks of stationary craft watched critically, helicopters hovering overhead barked instructions, and the canal authority maintained anxious radio contact with everything that moved.

  In the outer harbor an air of fiesta prevailed. Pennants were flying from every mast, new arrivals were greeted with fanfare, and a small power launch darted about with men entering data on clipboards. At nine o’clock a blast from the horn of the pilot ship sounded the official start and the raggle-taggle fleet set forth to resounding cheers.

  Glorious as the moment was, it represented the peak of Stefan Zabriski’s popularity, destined now to sink steadily. “My warmest congratulations,” said Peter von Hennig. “It went exactly as planned.”

  “Yes, but it’s only a stopgap. There is still so much for us to do,” Zabriski replied soberly. Von Hennig thought they were talking about the same thing.

  “I assure you Germany understands the pressing need to repair all damage.”

  Zabriski barely allowed him to finish. “But even while that is proceeding we must be thinking about the greater damage, to the Baltic’s reputation for reliable shipping.”

  “A never-to-be sufficiently respected ideal,” said von Hennig evasively. “And one that will be receiving serious attention from all parties.”

  “Attention that will be swiftly translated into action, I hope,” Zabriski said earnestly, “now that we all realize that a major canal project cannot wait much longer.”

  But von Hennig had no intention of being towed into a policy debate. Drawing himself up, he conveyed the formal appreciation of the city of Kiel, then skillfully directed the conversation back to the flotilla. Before Zabriski knew it, his quarry had slipped away.

  Not everyone was as adroit as von Hennig. Jaan Hroka, finding himself next to Zabriski, followed up felicitations with an attempt to ingratiate himself. “Everybody says they couldn’t have done it without you.”

  “It’s all due to my people,” Zabriski demurred. “They’ve performed wonders. I now have no hesitation about returning to Gdansk.”

  “Yeah, but conducting operations from there will still mean a lot of work for you.”

  Zabriski shook his head. “Not so much. Of course I’ll have to review the computer readouts, but only to assure myself that the system is functioning properly.”

  “Boy, you stay on top of the smallest detail, don’t you?” said Hroka, shoveling it on.

  “The whole reason for a contingency plan is to handle an emergency while continuing ordinary routine. I do not anticipate any delays in council business.”

  Hroka knew that one item awaiting BADA was the vote on Rostock and Tallinn. Too bad,” he muttered under his breath.

  Still mentally reveling in the picture of a BADA working with two hands, Zabriski forgot that he was addressing an Estonian.

  “BADA must not be deflected from its high purpose. This is the ideal moment to demonstrate that delinquency will not be rewarded.” Hopelessness silenced Jaan Hroka. It was painfully obvious that anything he said would be dismissed as naked self-interest.

  Eric Andersen, however, represented the sovereign state of Denmark. Later in the morning, after he too had produced the mandatory compliments about the flotilla, he was not surprised to hear Zabriski sound the theme of canal construction. A noncommittal rejoinder received short shrift.

  “Oh, I’m not talking about more discussion. Now that we’re all agreed,” Zabriski said serenely, “real planning can begin.”

  “But differences are bound to arise when ten countries are considering action. Only yesterday your own representative told me of his misgivings about costly undertakings.” References to Poland were not going to do Andersen any good.

  “Some members had trouble understanding the urgency of the situation,” Zabriski conceded. “But that’s all changed. Casimir Radan will speak very differently on the flight back. I honestly do not see how any legitimate divergence can remain.”

  The other delegates had fled at the sound of that last preposterous statement. But a lifetime in the vanguard of environmentalism had made Andersen a teacher. “As long as members have varying internal problems, there will be varying responses,” he said slowly.

  Zabriski’s hand brushed aside this argument. “Internal problems are not proper concerns of BADA.”

  “They are factors in every delegate’s consideration of any BADA proposal.”

  “You’re not saying you’re against a canal proposal, are you?” Zabriski demanded, his eyes widening with incredulity.

  “My decision will be based on a host of considerations. Furthermore, as no specific proposal is on the table, it’s premature to talk about votes.”

  Zabriski had not listened to anything beyond the first sentence. “But none of these internal problems affect Denmark. So there is absolutely no excuse for you to support further delay.”

  “I do not need any excuse for consulting my country’s best interests.” If Andersen’s refusal to pledge himself to the cause had been an unwelcome shock, his lofty tone was even worse. After hours of congratulations, flattery, and agreement, Zabriski was encountering his first intransigence. He did not like it.

  Too quickly he shot back: “Denmark had no qualms about supporting the Aland project. But, of course, BADA employed a Danish firm for that cleanup.” The firm in question was not only Danish, it was owned by Eric Andersen’s in-laws.

  “And just what do you mean by that?” he demanded, stiffening.

  Zabriski, intent on seizing the moral high ground, was oblivious. “BADA’s decisions cannot be made on the basis of immediate gain to individual members.”

  “Who the hell do you think you are?” Andersen roared. “Running around impugning my motives? It’s high time somebody told you that the council runs things. The staff takes orders. If I can’t make you understand that, maybe Madame Nordstrom can!”

  * * *

  There was no rush to occupy the seat adjacent to Stefan Zabriski and Leonhard Bach sat exactly where he wanted on the flight back to Gdansk.

  It was an unfortunate time for BADA’s chief of staff to be cheek by jowl with an uncritical supporter. Here was proof positive that his views were endorsed by reasonable men. Leonhard Bach was not mired in the past; he was facing the future. As the German’s jovial tones rang through the cabin, everybody could follow the tenor of his remarks.

  “. . . there’s bound to be consensus now . . . with two separate canals this can never happen again.”

  Those sitting to the rear could see both heads bobbing in accord and were not surprised, later in the trip, to hear that same booming voice say: “It would almost be a pat on the back for Estonia . . . Fat chance of anybody paying attention to BADA regulations after that. . .”

  * * *

  Wanda Jesilko was delayed leaving Kiel in order to prepare lists of BADA personnel and equipment for transfer to the damage site. She was barely across the threshold of her office at eleven the next morning before she was on the receiving end of a spurt of complaints fro
m Zabriski.

  “Would you believe it? Even after seeing conditions at Kiel, even after hearing of dislocation all over the Baltic, even after listening to people from the shipping companies, some of these idiots still do not admit the necessity for an immediate canal project.”

  Laying down her portfolio she examined him with tolerant amusement. “Hello, dear. How are you? And did you have a good trip home?” she inquired in artificially dulcet tones.

  Momentarily puzzled, he finally realized his duty. “Oh, sorry, Wanda. I’m glad you’re back. Were there any problems?”

  “No, everything’s straightened out,” she admitted as she sauntered forward in all the glory of a brilliantly patterned batik dress. “But it’s nice to be asked.”

  He felt he had already done all that was required in that line. “What does it take to make them face facts?” he demanded histrionically. “I was so sure this would do it.”

  “Now, Stefan,” she murmured automatically. “You can’t expect overnight results.”

  He shook his head. “It’s not just that. There are some of them,” he intoned darkly, “who are deliberately trying to stem the tide of progress, probably out of naked self-interest.”

  “Pooh!” she said, deliberately puncturing his high-flown rhetoric. One of the games Stefan regularly played was to despair at the monumental dimensions of any obstacle, however picayune. Probably, she suspected, so that his ultimate success was proportionately great. “You’ve always known there would be some resistance.”

  “Before yes, but not now. Nobody can have doubts any longer, nobody with an open mind.”

  “Like you?” she asked, her lips twisted by a half smile.

  Zabriski saw no irony. “Yes. Like me and like others. Just ask the people who are really involved, the ones who use the canal or depend on it. You should have heard Leonhard Bach on the plane.”

  “Oh, no!” she burst forth. “You didn’t sit with him, Stefan, not after all I said.”

  “I didn’t choose him. He sat down next to me,” Zabriski replied. “What was I supposed to do? Tell him to go away?”

  She sighed. However ill-judged Zabriski’s rescue of Bach at the Maritim might have been, his subsequent entertainment of the crowd had more than recovered lost ground. In fact, Wanda had been pleased as punch at the rare opportunity for other people to see Stefan as she saw him. For once he had laid aside the mande of official reserve and allowed some humanity to surface. But apparently there was a price to pay. “I might have known Bach would exploit the situation,” she grumbled.

  “What is there to exploit?”

  “He’s not only creating intimacy, he’s flaunting it. I’ll bet it’s all Leonhard and Stefan now.”

  “You’re prejudiced,” he accused. “At least he’s open and aboveboard about his position. Not like some of those others.”

  Wanda grinned. Once Stefan had a bee in his bonnet he heard only what he wanted to hear. “Come on,” she said with a comforting pat on his shoulder. “You can’t see sinister forces at work every time someone has different ideas.”

  “The hell I can’t. And I told Andersen as much,” he retorted with every sign of satisfaction.

  Wanda’s hand froze in midair but her voice was mild. “You shouldn’t do that, Stefan,” she chided.

  “Somebody has to.”

  “Not necessarily,” she groaned with a final pat. Abandoning him, she scooped some files from her portfolio preparatory to spreading joy among the chosen technical experts. He ignored both her objection and the signs of departure.

  “And I certainly have given up expecting anything from Madam Chairman. Why, she’s so busy playing politics she’s barely abreast of the situation.”

  Briefly Wanda wondered if Stefan had the slightest notion that it was those despised politics that had put him front and center at Kiel. “That’s her job.”

  “Well then, let her get on with it, while I take care of the important problems.”

  Chapter 8

  Pressure Falling

  Industriously working an hour later, Zabriski was at a loss when Annamarie Nordstrom unexpectedly entered his office.

  “I must speak to you, Stefan.”

  Immersed in a printout, he frowned. “Can’t it wait?”

  “I’m afraid not,” she replied, composedly settling herself in a chair.

  The departure from protocol finally registered. His thoughts flying to a new crisis at Kiel, Zabriski asked anxiously: “What’s happened?”

  The chairman looked at him sorrowfully. “You have really done it this time, Stefan,” she began. “First I have had to pacify Anton Vigotis, who’s alarmed by your loose talk with Jaan Hroka. Then, far more serious, Eric Andersen is in a fury and his complaint seems more than justified. I cannot have you trying to pressure the council.”

  Decompressing from the world of ship registries and cargo manifests, Zabriski was momentarily blank. “Oh, Andersen!” he finally said, memory and irritation both returning. “That man is deaf to rational persuasion. Everybody else agrees on the urgency of a canal project.”

  In spite of an intimate acquaintance with Zabriski’s myopia, Madame Nordstrom was astonished at the form his recollection took. Clinically she surveyed her chief of staff. Stefan was growing disturbingly fond of laying down the law. “First let us deal with Vigotis,” she announced, ignoring his remarks. “How can you possibly have given Jaan Hroka the impression that the harbor vote is an opportunity to penalize Estonia? That was settled last week.”

  “Only because you felt that the BADA union was still fragile. I thought at the time you were being unduly alarmist,” he recalled pleasurably. “Anyway, what’s all the fuss about? Rostock is going to get the grant in any event. Now it will simply be unanimous.”

  Annamarie bit down hard. But much as she longed to pierce Zabriski’s complacence, she had no intention of departing from her script. Their head-on collision, when it came, would center on her second point. “All that is irrelevant. As you well know, I gave my personal assurance to Tallinn that no further action would be taken, so the matter is closed,” she said coldly. “Which brings me to Herr Andersen. In order to avoid further complaints of this nature it must be understood that you have no business airing your views, let alone attempting to force them on the members.”

  “But that is nonsense. My staff collects the data for an informed decision,” he retorted. “It is necessary that I make known the conclusions derived from this material.” No matter what the fiction, senior civil servants always have ideas about policy. Their persuasive powers, however, are supposed to be confined to their ministers. Once they start electioneering, they cease to be civil servants. As Annamarie elaborated this thesis, Zabriski’s jaw set tighter and tighter.

  “I cannot agree,” he protested. “The delegates have to be told on what basis to make their decision.” This was pure euphemism. What Zabriski meant was that they had to be told what to do.

  “People are perfectly capable of reaching their own decisions,” she snapped.

  “How can you say that when there are men like Jaan Hroka and yes, like Eric Andersen, who are deflected by their own improper concerns?”

  “Stop right there, Stefan,” she directed crisply. “You cannot assume that opposition to a canal proposal implies corruption.”

  But Zabriski had laid back his ears. “There are those who agree with me,” he insisted. “Like Leonhard Bach?” she asked with open irony.

  “And what’s wrong with Bach? He is worth listening to.”

  She shook her head impatiently. “He’s simply Hroka in reverse. Understand I have nothing against Bach. I am trying to make you understand that everyone has interests.”

  “They should have only one goal—the success of BADA.”

  “And success comes from balancing different interests,” she rejoined.

  “Not at the price of failing to make the correct decision!”

  Annamarie was fast recognizing another one of Zabriski’s wea
knesses. In his eyes there was a right way, ordained from on high; failure to conform to it was betrayal. “I dislike saying this, Stefan, but it has become necessary,” she said, showing steel for the first time. “Unless you make adjustments in your attitude, your very great value to BADA will be severely impaired. I shall say this only once. There are no right decisions or wrong decisions. There are only decisions made by the council after it has considered whatever it chooses. And the delegates from our member states are not going to be submitted to harassment by the staff.”

  Zabriski had never before been subjected to the iron maiden treatment. He goggled at her. “What are you saying?”

  She continued her shock tactics. “The staff, at whatever level, is charged with certain limited duties. Continually overstepping the bounds of your jurisdiction cannot be tolerated.”

  “This is making a mountain out of a molehill,” he said accusingly. “Simply because Andersen chose to take offense at some well-merited criticism.”

  “You are not in a position to criticize anybody, Stefan. I’m the one who’s going to be doing that. I had hoped that we could work together as peers. You force me to remind you that I, acting for the council, hold supreme authority, and I will not have it diminished.”

  “How can you speak for BADA? You’ll be gone as soon as your term expires,” Zabriski said, revealing his scorn for birds of passage.

  She rose to her feet and began to leave. “At which time I will be replaced by a different chairman with similar authority.” At the door she paused for a parting shot. “You will have only yourself to blame if you are not here to witness that succession.”

  Zabriski, white with anger, followed her into the hallway. “You’re simply looking for an excuse to get rid of me so that you can install some spineless yes-man,” he charged.

  With glacial precision she replied, “I will get rid of anyone who imperils the continued progress of BADA.”

  “The main reason for BADA’s progress is me!” Zabriski ranted. “All you’ve done is pander to one group after another!”