A Shark Out of Water

by Emma Lathen

  “It’s called compromise, Stefan, and without it we wouldn’t have lasted a year,” she said, rather pleased at his loss of control. At least she had gotten through to him.

  “A meaningless word to cover what amounts to a bunch of payoffs. People don’t know half of what’s been going on here.”

  “They not only know, they understand. Which is more than I can say for you,” she replied. There was an ugly glitter in Zabriski’s eyes.

  “That’s what you think. Do you really believe I’ve been blind to what you’ve been up to? Just remember this: I can blow BADA apart any time I want!”

  * * *

  Even disagreements conducted behind closed doors at BADA surfaced on the grapevine within hours. A blazing row in a public corridor made its way to the employee cafeteria in a matter of minutes.

  “. . . stalked out of his office yelling that he was fired . . .”

  “You know he had a fight in Kiel with Mr. Andersen. I’ll bet that’s what got her going. . . .”

  “. . . Herr Zabriski was literally foaming at the mouth, they say.”

  “. . . official complaint from the Estonian delegate.”

  “I heard Mr. Andersen had to be held back from punching him.”

  Arriving for lunch after two hours with the engineers, Wanda could scarcely believe her ears. Nothing else was being discussed on the line at the steam tables. And when Wanda carried her tray to a far corner the snatches from surrounding tables merely increased her confusion. Most of what she heard was obviously the colorful embroidery of people hungry for melodrama.

  Unfortunately she could not dismiss the account of Andersen’s secretary who joined her after a few minutes. Karen was totally absorbed in her forthcoming wedding. All her spare time was spent either writing long letters to her fiancé at some remote archeological site or discussing with her mother every detail of her future ménage from saucepans to curtains. Karen’s work was at BADA, but the real drama in her life lay elsewhere.

  “Oh, yes,” she replied to a hesitant question from Wanda. “Something happened all right, but I don’t know what. I do know I’ve never seen Mr. Andersen like that before. When he’s angry he usually gets cold and distant. But not this time. He was really boiling when he stormed up to Madame Nordstrom’s office.”

  Nor was there any doubt that the encounter with Annamarie, whatever its content, must have been extraordinarily heated. For Stefan to throw away the formality of a lifetime and allow their dispute to spill into public argued hostilities on an unprecedented level.

  And everything had been going so well. For once Zabriski had been working in perfect harmony with the chairman, proving his worth every moment. And now just because she, Wanda, had been elsewhere he had destroyed all that budding goodwill. But a moment’s reflection persuaded her that the catalyst had not been her absence. Starting with that predawn phone call the last few days had been a triumphal march for Zabriski. Far better than Madame Nordstrom, Wanda realized that the canal disaster had been viewed by Stefan as a miracle from on high, expressly designed to allow him to fulfill his dreams and emerge as the savior of the Baltic. He had reigned supreme at his command post in Gdansk, then he had been the man of the hour beside the canal. Intoxicated by his victories, he must have lost his wits and started hectoring the wrong people.

  Without knowing any of the details, Wanda, a veteran of office politics, feared he was in deep trouble. It was one thing to flick somebody on the raw occasionally; it was entirely different to raise a powerful anti-Zabriski party. And any combination of Annamarie, Vigotis, and Andersen spelled danger.

  Abruptly she rose. Culling more tidbits in the cafeteria was a waste of time. She needed to learn exactly what had taken place, particularly with Annamarie, and only one person could tell her. Fortunately there was no doubt where Stefan would take his overflowing emotions. She was right about his activity, but wrong about its location. He had left the computer room and was back in his office, glued to his own terminal. One look was enough to tell Wanda she was not dealing with an artificially contrived minidrama. This time things were so bad even Stefan realized that he had created a crisis. His posture told the whole story. Normally he faced the screen with eager anticipation. Today he was slumped in his chair, defeated and inert.

  “For heaven’s sake, Stefan,” she began urgently. “What happened with Annamarie?”

  “What difference does it make?” he replied in a bleak monotone. “She’s been waiting for an excuse to fire me.” Oh God, she thought, some of the gossip had not been exaggerated.

  “She actually threatened that?”

  He did not bother to look up. “She’ll say I’m incompetent,” he muttered.

  “And Herr Andersen?”

  “Him too. They’ll gang up on me.”

  Wanda’s frustration was mounting with every exchange. Long practice had made her adept at extracting facts from one of Stefan’s biased tirades against his adversaries. But she could learn nothing from these fragmented doomsday responses. “Listen to me, Stefan. I have to know what’s going on. Was it about the canal?”

  “None of this would have happened if it hadn’t been for the canal.”

  She thought she could guess the rest. Inflated with his achievements, Stefan had stormed at opposition to his grand plans with shot and shell.

  “It’s not certain yet,” he said, listlessly returning from some silent reverie. “I could be mistaken.”

  Relief flooded Wanda. Madame Nordstrom must have issued an ultimatum. Reform or go! That was a lot better than instant dismissal. “Then it’s simple,” she announced. “You’ll just have to back down.”

  Finally he raised his head and she was appalled. The only time she had ever seen that expression was in the pain-filled bewilderment of a stricken animal. “Nothing can undo the past,” he half-whispered.

  Worst of all there was not one single word in his own defense. And this from Stefan, who never admitted the slightest flaw in his conduct. But at least that frozen inertia was beginning to thaw. Ever so slightly he was shifting his position.

  “It will all have to come out, you know, and they’ll blame me,” he continued in dreary acceptance. “They’ll probably claim I lack integrity, that I was going to benefit myself.” Wanda could imagine many possible charges being levied against him. Arrogance, egotism and pig-headedness were the ones that sprang to mind. But incompetence? Lack of integrity? Slowly she was being forced to a hideous conclusion. Stefan was not talking about something that had already happened. The quarrels had merely made him vulnerable to some future discovery. What, in God’s name, had he done?

  “But how was I to tell?” he suddenly exclaimed with a flicker of his old self-justification. “My only fault was believing what I was told.”

  Hailing this sign of recovery, Wanda leaned forward. “Look, Stefan, things can’t be that bad. Tell me what’s wrong and we’ll come up with a plan.”

  “As if that were all it took,” he said with a spasm of racked laughter that chilled her blood.

  “That’s not going to do any good,” she rapped out sharply. “Stop feeling sorry for yourself and let me help you.”

  His lips set in a stubborn line. “There are other things I have to do first.”

  “Such as?”

  To her surprise he produced a specific answer. “I’m leaving tonight on an inspection tour of Baltic ports.”

  “Good!” she said, endorsing this program instantly. “That will give everybody time to cool off.” And, she thought to herself, it eliminated the possibility of Stefan antagonizing anybody else important. Let him vent his despair and frustration on hapless dock officials a long way from headquarters.

  “In the meantime,” she coaxed. “I could be shoring up your position. Just tell me what the difficulty is and I’ll do my best. You know that.”

  “WILL YOU JUST LEAVE ME ALONE!” he suddenly exploded.

  She backed a pace in alarm. A spasm of irritation would have signaled the old Stefan,
but this sounded more like a scream for mercy.

  “If that’s the way you want it, Stefan,” she said sadly, already in full retreat. But back at her own desk she was at a loss. Throughout the ups and downs of official life for the last ten years he had unfailingly turned to her for assistance. He had not asked for her support, he had demanded it. Stefan had never before turned to stone, never shut her out, never acted as if he were carrying a burden of such shame and mortification that he was actually afraid to tell her.

  Chapter 9

  Dead Reckoning

  Serenely unaware of the smoldering grapevine at BADA, of Madame Nordstrom’s withdrawal into her own quarters, of Stefan Zabriski’s blitzkrieg strikes from St. Petersburg to Stockholm, John Thatcher and Everett Gabler had at last succeeded in pinning down Peter von Hennig. For 48 hours they exploited this situation, immured in Peter’s office on BADA’s fourth floor. But even three men of steel can negotiate the complex details of a proposed bond issue only so long. At six o’clock they were more than ready to move across the hall to the delegates’ lounge.

  As their drinks were being served Gabler shifted aside for the waiter. “Good heavens!” he exclaimed. “Who’s that?”

  Thatcher turned his head toward the entrance to see a Stefan Zabriski who was a far cry from the bustling, vindicated figure at Kiel. BADA’s chief of staff, lines of fatigue etched deeply into his face, was sagging against the doorjamb as he scanned the crowded room.

  “Excuse me,” said Peter von Hennig, pushing back his chair. “I’ve been wanting a word with him.” Since six o’clock was a busy time in the lounge, with waiters and busboys scurrying in all directions, progress across the floor was impeded.

  “Just a minute, Zabriski!” Von Hennig called over various obstacles.

  But the chief of staff had sighted his own objective. “Not now,” he grunted, veering away. Von Hennig was sputtering when he returned to the table. “What unbelievable effrontery!” The incident had attracted the attention of Madame Nordstrom, who immediately hurried over.

  “I saw that, Peter, and it was absolutely inexcusable,” she said, sinking into the chair Thatcher had pulled out. “All I can do is apologize on BADA’s behalf.”

  But von Hennig’s gaze remained fixed on the culprit. “My God, he’s going from bad to worse.”

  On the far side of the lounge Eric Andersen and Leonhard Bach had been deep in conversation. But Zabriski, ignoring the Dane’s existence, fastened on the man he wanted. After some kind of protest, Bach shrugged helplessly and followed Zabriski to the bar. The party at Thatcher’s table watched the two men collect drinks, then leave the room.

  “Now Eric will feel insulted too,” Madame Nordstrom predicted. To Thatcher’s ear, she did not sound entirely regretful. There was, however, no denying von Hennig’s sincerity.

  “Bach, of all people!” he choked. His indignation echoed from the next table where Jaan Hroka spoke loud and clear.

  “That’s what I’ve been beefing about all along. When it’s me asking Zabriski for an interview, he puts me off until next week. But he’s got plenty of time for a drink with Bach.”

  The complaint had been delivered in English to the room at large but Annamarie, feigning deafness, replied to von Hennig’s last outburst. “There’s nothing I can say, Peter, after Stefan’s been openly offensive to one delegate after another.”

  “BADA,” he replied, “can dispense with a chief of staff who is incapable of controlling himself in public.”

  Nodding solemnly she said, “I quite agree.”

  Von Hennig was now willing to dismiss the matter. Turning to topics worthier of the table, he said, “You’ll be interested in what I was going to tell Thatcher about my call from Bonn.”

  “Yes, indeed,” she admitted.

  For a quarter of an hour von Hennig described the latest German response to the canal disaster. Despite minority cries for an accelerated pace, no further action had been taken beyond approval of the technical study. “That should please you, Annamarie,” he concluded. “The engineers will define the feasible options. When BADA is finally ready to start talking, the sillier suggestions will have been winnowed out.”

  Yes,” she agreed with a gleam in her eye, “and with all the preliminaries done at Germany’s expense.” Restored to good humor, von Hennig was chaffing her on her parsimony when they were interrupted.

  “I hope I’m not butting in.”

  “Of course not, Herr Bach,” said Annamarie with automatic courtesy. “Do join us.”

  “Only for a few minutes,” Bach promised. “You see, I’m worried about Stefan.”

  “If you mean his unfortunate conduct toward Herr Andersen, then I wouldn’t. . .” Her voice died away as Bach shook his head vigorously.

  “No, no, this is far worse. Stefan is behaving oddly because he’s half out of his mind with worry. In fact, I’ve never seen him spinning like this.”

  But Madame Nordstrom was through talking about her chief of staff. “He’s probably overtired.”

  “Then it’s taking a weird form,” Bach said bluntly. “He claims he’s come across something fishy at BADA.”

  “It won’t be the first time,” she replied with a tight smile. “Stefan’s an idealist. We all fall short of his standards.”

  Von Hennig snorted contemptuously.

  “This isn’t his usual line,” Bach insisted. “Stefan’s talking about fraud.”

  “Wonderful! Now he’s trying to start another scandal,” von Hennig jibed.

  Like a frustrated bull Bach swung his head from one member of his audience to another.

  “I’m not getting through to you. Maybe I shouldn’t even be trying but I thought you and Herr Andersen would want to know.”

  “If Stefan was discussing something in confidence,” she observed, “perhaps you should not be telling us.” Thatcher was not surprised to see this reproof brushed aside.

  “No, that’s not what worries me,” Bach assured her. “The thing is, he may not realize how much he let out. Half the time he didn’t remember I was there. The poor guy was so charged up he had to let off steam. But what it comes down to is this, Stefan thinks somebody is ripping off BADA in a big way, to the tune of millions.”

  Annamarie sounded almost indulgent. “You can’t be serious.”

  “Like hell I can’t!” he shot back. “Stefan’s damn near frantic about it; says it’s the last thing he expected his review of the Kiel dislocations to bring to light.”

  “And what exactly did he discover?” asked von Hennig skeptically.

  Bach lifted his solid shoulders. “He refused to go into any detail. That’s one of the reasons I thought this was important for you all to hear about.” Half-apologetically he continued. “When it’s a simple case of Stefan’s being on his high horse, he doesn’t hold things back.”

  Another thought occurred to Annamarie. “Does that mean you’ve already discussed this with other people?” she asked in dismay.

  “Only in broad terms.” Defensively Bach went on. “I just tried to make Herr Andersen understand why Stefan acted the way he did. But I didn’t say anything about the scam. Besides, Stefan is going home to write a report for the council. By tomorrow morning it will all be out in the open.”

  He was protesting too much. John Thatcher would have bet good money that, in the first flush of excitement, Bach had told Andersen the whole sorry story.

  Peter von Hennig, however, felt that the blame for indiscretion lay elsewhere. “If Zabriski really has something serious to say, why this roundabout approach?” he asked Madame Nordstrom. “He should have come to you the moment he returned.”

  This at least she could explain. “You’ve been out of touch, Peter. I had to dress him down just before he left. Stefan may be avoiding me right now.”

  Leonhard Bach addressed von Hennig’s unspoken criticism. “And the only reason he grabbed me was that he wanted my input on trade usage. Of course by the time we got to his office he was on such a rol
l he never asked me anything. In the end he probably regretted approaching me because he said he had things to do. I’ve been racking my brains to figure out how he thought I could help him, but I haven’t come up with a damn thing.”

  “As Stefan did not make himself clear, there’s no point trying to guess what he meant. We’ll just have to wait until morning,” said Madame Nordstrom. Then, glancing at her watch, she reached for her purse. “I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me. My husband is arriving for a visit tonight and I’m already running late.”

  After her departure, von Hennig continued the good work, snubbing attempts at speculation with enough vigor so that Bach also took his leave.

  As soon as the coast was clear Thatcher lofted inquiring eyebrows. “So? Do you think Zabriski really has stumbled across something?”

  “Possibly,” von Hennig conceded with patrician distaste. “It is far more likely that he has come across some minor derelictions. Zabriski is not a person of balanced judgment.”

  Gabler found this inadequate as the last word on the contretemps they had just witnessed. “Fraud,” he began, rolling the word around his tongue like a connoisseur.

  Hastily Thatcher intervened. “There isn’t much to be gained from speculating on the forms that might take, Ev. Tomorrow morning Zabriski will present his report and we’ll know all about it. Don’t you agree, Peter?”

  But von Hennig’s thoughts were elsewhere. “I seem to have lost touch with BADA while the three of us have been closeted together,” he murmured. “I’m beginning to wonder whether Zabriski himself may not be the major problem.”

  Thatcher considered and dismissed the possibility that Peter was still annoyed by Zabriski’s rudeness. “Because Madame Nordstrom said she had to reprimand him?”

  Von Hennig shook his head, not in disagreement but as an aid to ordering his thoughts. With a precision that Gabler, for one, approved, he began ticking off items. “There was more than that. First he seems to have had a row with Annamarie. Then he apparently had some kind of tiff with Andersen. Furthermore, whatever excuse there may have been for coming to Bach’s aid at the Maritim, there is none for prominently singling him out here in the lounge. And finally there is gross discourtesy to two delegates right now.”