A Shark Out of Water

by Emma Lathen

  And not a moment too soon, thought Thatcher, automatically adjusting his tie. As he did so the sun disappeared behind a cloud and a biting wind came howling in from the east. The graveside ceremonies, protracted by the assembly of so many groups, took place under arctic conditions. Nonetheless the mourners, with sensation rapidly disappearing from all digits, did their duty. They listened to a series of brief remarks in a motley of languages. They heard a last dirge performed by the band. They watched the traditional gun salute fired over the coffin. Finally the first symbolic handful of soil was dropped.

  During the subsequent confusion Eric Andersen disappeared, his place taken by Peter von Hennig. It was to him that Thatcher made a suggestion. “Surely we’ve done all that is absolutely required. We could give the reception a miss,” he whispered, clapping together chilled hands. “If we slipped quietly away now, nobody would miss us.”

  But von Hennig was the German delegate to BADA and Everett was Everett. “Impossible,” said Gabler firmly.

  “It would mean we’ve wasted all our efforts so far,” von Hennig reasoned on a more practical note. “Besides, there is a bright side. We’ll be seeing one of the city’s showplaces and we’ll be more comfortable than we’ve been all day.”

  Thatcher did not find these inducements compelling, but he knew when he was stuck. “Onward and upward,” he said gamely.

  Chapter 14

  Dropping the Pilot

  The Palace Lazienkowski was in the center of Warsaw surrounded by acres of woodland, which was one of the city’s many parks. Despite the chill there were couples strolling about, women gathering beech leaves, and a surprising number of groups heading purposively along the footpaths.

  When the funeral cortege swept into the forecourt, Thatcher realized there was some merit to von Hennig’s decision. Summer lushness had faded but the Palace glowed, a renaissance mansion with terraces on a river graced by swans. Beyond a small bridge they could see an outdoor amphitheater crumbling into picturesque ruins.

  “Very impressive,” said Everett. Thatcher was not ready to commit himself. Indoors, however, he encountered not only staterooms with rich furnishings but life returning. Even the Zabriskis were no longer presenting a tableau of unnatural grief. When Thatcher carelessly placed himself next to Wanda Jesilko at the refreshment table he found he had nothing to fear.

  “No, it’s kind of you to invite me, Pauline,” she was saying, “but I’ve got to return to Gdansk. Stefan’s work has to be organized for transfer. That’s the least I can do.” When Pauline appealed to her husband, he commended Frau Jesilko.

  “Of course you’re welcome any time, Wanda, but I think you’re making the right decision. You’re at a loss right now and some kind of occupation will be best for you,” he advised pompously. “Come to us later.” There were no tears and, within minutes, Wanda was claimed by an old acquaintance. Beyond the immediate vicinity of the family, spirits were also rising. Travel schedules, impressions of Warsaw, and weekend plans provided fodder for small talk, but many of the guests reverted to more pressing concerns.

  By the fireplace Thatcher came upon Leonhard Bach cross-examining a German official about conditions at Kiel.

  “They’re still treating the water and clearing away the sunken hulls.”

  “God! That means they still have to get the navigable ships out.” There was a sober nod.

  “It will all take time.”

  And Eric Andersen was huddled with an unknown, discussing the choice of a replacement for Zabriski. “Of course, there are certain advantages to employing a Pole. In the interests of a fair rotation, however, BADA is unlikely to choose another one.”

  Probably the most intense conversation was that engrossing Madame Nordstrom, Peter von Hennig, and a representative of the ministry of justice. “The sooner the police investigation is successfully terminated, the better for BADA,” she was saying crisply.

  “We understand your anxiety and rest assured, Madame, that Colonel Oblonski has his instructions. He is an officer noted not only for his competence, but his discretion as well.”

  “At the moment I am more interested in results,” she replied with a militant gleam.

  Von Hennig supported her. “There’s no point trying to cover up things,” he declared. “We have over two hundred employees at BADA, with the world press camped out in Gdansk wining and dining every file clerk. They’re probably doing the same with the police force.” All government agencies cling to the illusion that their doings are guarded by impenetrable security.

  “I scarcely think that is possible.”

  “Perhaps not,” von Hennig conceded diplomatically. “But if there is a scandal in BADA, somebody will tell them. Ah, there you are, John.” The ministry man seized on the presence of a stranger to terminate the discussion.

  “This has been a sad day not only for BADA but for Poland,” he declaimed, bowing over Madame Nordstrom’s hand in farewell. “But at least we have the comfort of knowing that Herr Zabriski would have appreciated this recognition of his invaluable services.”

  As soon as he was gone Annamarie’s lips twitched. “This isn’t what Stefan would have wanted. The way he felt about the Baltic, nothing short of a Viking funeral would have sufficed, with a burning pyre pushed out to sea and the rest of us following in barges.”

  “Then we have much to be thankful for,” said Thatcher, glancing out the window at the steel-gray sky.

  “Hard as that is to believe?” she challenged.

  Everett Gabler joined them; he had been looking outdoors to more purpose. “There’s an enormous crowd waiting in front,” he told them.

  “Yes, the environmentalists. Didn’t you see them gathering as we arrived?” Annamarie asked. They smell a plot. All they know about Stefan is that he cracked down on toxic dumping, helped clean up the Kiel Canal mess, and now he’s a bloody corpse.”

  “They’re making speeches and the police presence is growing,” Gabler continued.

  “If those people outside knew how Stefan really felt about ecological improvements, they wouldn’t be so enthusiastic about adopting him as their fallen hero,” she said tardy. Reality, Thatcher reflected, has nothing to do with staged events. By transforming Zabriski into a martyr, the Polish government had in effect encouraged this miscasting.

  Peter von Hennig was less interested in the vagaries of public perception than in what was happening at the other end of the room. “The president is saying good-bye to the cardinal,” he announced with satisfaction. That means they’ll start bringing up the cars.” As soon as the guests began to leave, the constant activity at the door admitted a whole new spectrum of sound. There was somebody exhorting the faithful through a bullhorn; there were official barked commands; there were jeers and catcalls.

  By the time Madame Nordstrom’s car pulled up the disturbance was escalating. “In a few more minutes their audience will disappear. They’re working up to a grand climax,” von Hennig predicted.

  “Then it looks as if we’re going to be part of it,” Thatcher reasoned as von Hennig’s name was called. Emerging onto the portico, they glimpsed the familiar protest scene, a semicircle of angry faces, a sea of placards, a straining police line.

  The signs are in English,” said Everett, always the acute observer.

  “They want international coverage, Ev,” replied Thatcher.

  “And they should get it,” said von Hennig, reminding them of the media in attendance. But when a decaying orange sailed through the air, the three of them abandoned their detachment to hurry down the steps toward the driveway. At the same time an angry command sounded and several mounted police swerved into position to press the crowd further back. The response was immediate.

  The bullhorn blared defiance, the front row of demonstrators linked arms, and one enterprising young man whipped out a handful of marbles that he scattered across the courtyard. The horses deftly sidestepped these hazards but Everett Gabler, eyes on his goal, failed to see the polished agate
in his path. His foot slipped, he crashed to the gravel, and his head skidded into the limousine’s wheel.

  After that it was pandemonium. With the first casualty hitting the ground, the mob’s blood lust was roused. Protesters broke through the lines, additional police rushed into the fray, and a barrage of missiles flew overhead, while Thatcher and von Hennig scrambled to form a protective barrier around Gabler.

  “Everett, are you all right?”

  “. . . what? . . . what’s that?”

  The reply was not reassuring, nor was the sight of Gabler clutching his head and groggily trying to focus his eyes. Fortunately the limousine immediately preceding their own squealed to a halt and Thatcher saw the agitated countenance of Casimir Radan protruding from the rear window. Then the door flung open and, disregarding the banshee wails that rose as the enterprising young man was plucked from the crowd, Radan trotted back down the driveway.

  “Thank God,” breathed von Hennig. “A Polish-speaker.”

  “Is he badly injured?” Radan asked anxiously as soon as he reached their side. Everett rolled over, began to rise, then sank back with a moan of pain.

  Raising his voice to a thunderous pitch, Radan managed to override the background noise level. Two stalwart policemen hurried to take up guard duty while another sped to a radio car. “There will soon be an ambulance.”

  * * *

  Trips to the emergency room are the same all over the world. The afflicted disappears and his companions wait. . . and wait. . . and wait. “But Everett was beginning to sound a little better, didn’t you think?” Thatcher asked, searching for confirmation.

  “In his own inimitable way,” von Hennig replied. Once in the hospital Gabler had recovered enough to direct a flow of incoherent instructions to his stretcher bearers, sublimely indifferent to the fact that not one word was understood. With the victim safely in the hands of medical personnel, Casimir Radan had departed.

  “Unfortunately that means now we can’t even talk to the desk,” Thatcher said gloomily. “It never does any good anyway.” But Radan had continued his efforts on their behalf and these bore fruit an hour and a half later in the shape of a new arrival. After a brief exchange at the desk he made a beeline in their direction.

  “Mr. Thatcher? I’m Dr. Norris Butler. The American embassy got hold of me after Mr. Radan called.” Succinctly Thatcher explained the situation.

  “Well, I’ll see what’s going on,” Butler said before he too disappeared into the inner bowels.

  “I should have thought of the embassy,” Thatcher reproached himself.

  “While I dislike adding to your troubles, there’s something else you might consider,” von Hennig said. “With all those TV cameras at the palace this must have been picked up and no doubt dramatized. By now the news has probably reached New York.”

  Grimly Thatcher acknowledged the accuracy of this statement. After the usual calculations about the time difference, he realized that it was the middle of the working day at the Sloan. George Lancer, the chairman of the board, and Charlie Trinkam were probably frantically on the phone, trying to reach him, trying to locate Gabler, trying to get action from the state department. “They’ll just have to wait,” he decided. “I’m not leaving until Butler has some news for us. Apart from everything else, this may not be the best place for Everett. It certainly doesn’t fill me with confidence.”

  He glanced around their stark surroundings with deep misgiving. “Be reasonable. What hospital does?” Thatcher mused. Thatcher had more than enough time to contemplate imagined deficiencies in Polish health care before, at long last, Dr. Butler reappeared. He was clutching the usual sheaf of X rays.

  “There is a broken bone in one ankle,” he began, pointing vaguely to the film. “But we’ve got a first-class orthopedic surgeon lined up. There shouldn’t be any nasty developments there.” He then came to a full stop, still holding unexamined X rays.

  “And?” Thatcher asked tightly.

  “There is no fracture of the skull, you’ll be glad to hear. But there is a concussion and when the patient displays signs of disorientation and bewilderment, precautions are advisable. They’ll want to keep him for observation. Between that and the ankle, he’ll be here for over 48 hours. Then, assuming concerns about the concussion have been allayed, he’ll be ready to leave.” Thatcher expelled a pent-up breath.

  Those glassy eyes and that thin thread of a voice had made him fear the worst. “That’s a relief,” he admitted.

  “You won’t be able to see him until tomorrow at the earliest, maybe not until the day after. They’ll want to keep him as quiet as possible. But I’ll be monitoring the situation and you can always reach me through the embassy.”

  Dr. Butler then added to his good works by offering the facilities of the embassy for calling New York, a piece of hospitality that Thatcher and von Hennig were glad to accept. When the connection was made, George Lancer sounded ready to dispatch a search-and-destroy mission. The first garbled accounts to reach New York suggested that the mob had made a dead set at Gabler, crushing every bone in his body.

  “Relax, George, it was just an accident. Everett slipped on a marble somebody threw in front of the police.” But even the medical prognosis failed to appease Lancer’s wrath. He was still breathing fire when Thatcher had himself transferred to Trinkam’s office.

  Here the reaction took a different form. “Poor old Ev,” Trinkam responded with sympathy. “He’ll hate it in the hospital. They’ll try to tell him what to do and they won’t have that health food he likes.” But this was mere preamble. While Lancer thought in terms of institutional expeditions, Charlie itched for personal action. “Now this will leave you shorthanded, John. I’ve got a bag packed and there’s a plane for Frankfurt I can catch. I’ll wing it from there to Warsaw.”

  “No!” Thatcher exploded. After the day he had put in he was in no mood to indulge a desire for theatrics.

  “I’m not having the entire sixth floor diverted to BADA,” Thatcher continued on a more moderate note. “Nothing’s happening there until Monday anyway. We’ll see how things go. If necessary you can dispatch Ken Nicolls to hold a watching brief in Gdansk.”

  “With Everett on the wounded list that still leaves plenty for you to do.”

  “I’ll manage,” Thatcher said stoutly.

  Chapter 15

  Running Aground

  Others could take time off for funerals; not so Colonel Oblonski, who had far too much to do. “All right, so I didn’t like Zabriski. Have you found anyone who did?” said a sullen Jaan Hroka for the third time.

  It was a good question. So far only the Finnish delegate claimed brief glimpses of a sunny side to BADA’s chief of staff.

  “Zabriski was usually abrasive and exigent,” he had declared. “But you should have seen him the night we were all in Kiel. When he was playing the accordion, he seemed like a different man. I didn’t think he had it in him.” This was the first that Oblonski had heard of BADA’s assault on the oppressive gentility of the Maritim. It might not illuminate the internal contradictions of Stefan Zabriski, but it did explain something else.

  “So he was not worried that night in Kiel?”

  “Worried? He was in roaring good spirits.”

  “And the next day? Was he still happy?”

  “Oh, yes, he was all smiles on the plane back.”

  At least that established a framework. Zabriski had not been troubled until he reviewed the computer readouts in Gdansk. Unfortunately the police experts had drawn a blank from this same material. Oblonski returned to Jaan Hroka with a growl of dissatisfaction. “Disliking Zabriski is one thing. But your whole future was imperiled by him.”

  “Listen, he was shafting a lot of people besides me. Just ask around.”

  “Maybe. But what was Zabriski doing just before he was murdered? Not only had he studied your application for a BADA loan with all the details on your fleet, he was also checking insurance claims for ships stranded in the canal. If you
rs was phony, he would have nailed you.” This random shot fell short of its mark.

  “Not unless he had second sight,” Hroka retorted.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I haven’t filed yet. I’m still waiting for the engineers to examine my hull.”

  Cursing himself for not having verified this point, Oblonski hastened to recover the offensive. “Then why did you lie about your movements at the murder scene? Because you hoped to hide the fact that you were walking down the corridor to the parking lot at just the right time to grab that tire iron.”

  Hroka’s moment of victory had been short-lived. “That was just a misunderstanding,” he muttered. “You asked if I left BADA with Anton Vigotis. I thought you meant the lounge, not the building.”

  “A very natural error,” the colonel purred. “But now we have that cleared up, you admit you could have gone through the workshop, taken the tire iron, and waited for Zabriski in the parking lot.”

  Alarmed by this sudden affability, the Estonian remained silent.

  “Come now, we have Vigotis’s statement. You have no choice.”

  “Oh, yes, I do.”

  Remorseless in his logic, Oblonski swept on. “You said good-bye. Then Vigotis turned right, you went to the left. It is really quite simple.”

  Squirming under the attack, Hroka refused to make eye contact. “I didn’t leave BADA right away,” he admitted.

  The black eyebrows arched eloquently. “So now we have it! Perhaps you went upstairs for another crack at Herr Zabriski. Perhaps you accompanied him through the shop and out to the lot.”

  “I did not! I was with someone else.”

  Hroka was manifesting restlessness, evasion, defiance. Unfortunately, in Oblonski’s experience, these were signs of shamed reluctance rather than deep-rooted fear.

  “You’ve got to understand that all the delegates act as if they’re real big shots,” Hroka began on a note of self-justification. “You ask them for the simplest information and they start yapping about confidentiality. Lord, even Vigotis won’t talk straight to a little guy like me, and I needed to know what the hell was going on. But Vigotis faxes a lot of stuff back to Tallinn. So, when I said good-bye to him, I wasn’t leaving BADA and I wasn’t heading for the parking lot. I did what anybody else would do. I tracked the fax girl to the cafeteria, then walked back upstairs with her.”