by Emma Lathen
Adam looked at her in dawning horror. “You’re asking me to believe that he’d engineer an accident in the canal?”
“No, but I do think he might have become involved with elements that were simply using him. He hadn’t been choosy about his allies lately. If he found out what they’d done and threatened to go public, they might have killed him.”
“He can’t have changed that much!” Adam choked.
Staring straight into his eyes, she went on remorselessly. “Remember, he was murdered. That means somebody was desperate to get him out of the way. I think we’d better find out why, Adam.” Scooping up the tray, she bore it toward the tiny kitchen. As she passed from sight she spoke over her shoulder. “Because if it’s what I’m afraid of, we may have to do something about it.”
Adam thought of his father’s reputation, of all those tributes in Warsaw, of his own political aspirations. Only then did he address the kitchen doorway. “If you learn anything, Wanda, you must come to me first.”
* * *
Two days of blissful insulation on a 32-foot sailboat with her husband had been sufficient to return Annamarie Nordstrom to fighting trim. Even the blaring stories about sabotage at Kiel that awaited her on Sunday night failed to ruffle her. She accorded them exactly the amount of attention she felt they deserved, then got on with business. By Monday morning she was dispatching her agenda with vengeance. “Good morning, Colonel, I was half expecting you,” she said.
“I am fortunate to find you available. I thought you were voting on the harbor project today,” he replied. But he had underestimated the speed with which BADA was proceeding.
“We awarded the grant to Tallinn at ten o’clock this morning after a very short session.”
“So you won?” said Oblonski.
Her smile was rueful. “In a manner of speaking. But the delegates are in an uproar at the idea of somebody deliberately causing that night of havoc in Kiel—, and so am I.”
“Does BADA have anybody who can tell me whether it was physically possible for radicals to do it?”
She was ahead of him. “I have asked one of our experts who’s just back from the canal to join us. But there’s something else you should consider.”
“What’s that?”
“This letter to the Kiel Beobachter was not the only one. There was an earlier message from a different group. That one went to the Kiel Canal authority.”
An angry red tide rose above the colonel’s stiff collar. “And you did not feel you could confide in the Polish police?” he asked with savage irony.
She lofted a placatory hand. “I am as annoyed as you, Colonel. The German government decided to hush it up and only informed me this morning. The point, however, is that we have two separate groups getting into the act.”
“So one of the notes, at least, must be a hoax,” he said. “And I can tell you which one. The first message says they used a small pleasure boat.” Their conversation was cut short by the arrival of BADA’s expert.
“No perpetrator could have anticipated the chemical consequences. That was due to the reaction between two separate cargoes later on,” she explained. “All they could have expected was physical damage and perhaps some comparatively harmless leakage.”
“Then they would have been aiming at a minor disruption of the canal, maybe for a day or so,” Oblonski reasoned. “It was sheer accident that they caused a major spill, not to mention a chain collision.”
“Yes.”
“But surely you can tell us which terrorist letter fits the facts. The pilot on the first ship to be hit must know the approximate size of the other vessel.”
Before the chemical expert could answer, Annamarie cut in. “That’s not how things work in a fog, Colonel. When you’re dependent on sound you can easily be misled. Many small boats, including the one my husband and I own, are equipped with very loud foghorns. When one of those goes off under the bow of a freighter, they assume they’re dealing with a big vessel. My assistant and Wanda Jesilko have the roster of ships in the canal. Let’s check with them.”
She rose and headed for the corridor so energetically that Oblonski had difficulty reaching the door in time to open it for her. Without breaking stride she continued her argument. “The canal records show the order in which vessels paid their tolls. My bet is there won’t be any pleasure craft.”
“Why do you say that?”
She was emphatic. “The weather conditions were frightful, Colonel. Commercial shipping must continue under those circumstances. But someone out for recreation, if he has any sense, finds a safe anchorage and waits for the fog to lift.” Annamarie’s assurance lasted only as long as it took to reach Stefan Zabriski’s suite, where Wanda and the assistant were crouched over a computer monitor.
“Well, Richard?” Annamarie asked impatiently.
“There are two possibles,” he replied.
Two?” Annamarie faltered. Then, recovering, she snapped, “The idiots!”
“So in the fog one of them could have charged around, starting the trouble that then snowballed.”
Richard paused, pleased with his analysis.
“Absurd!”
Richard looked deflated, but Colonel Oblonski had no fear of the chairman. “Why?” he asked stolidly.
“Because it would be suicidal. They haven’t fished any bodies out yet, have they? Here, let me see the specifics on those two boats,” she demanded.
As soon as Wanda’s agile fingers had punched up the details on the screen, Madame Nordstrom snorted.
“Just as I thought. One of them is four tons and the other is three. They’re both midgets compared to a commercial vessel. Someone didn’t just head for a freighter, rev up the engine and charge in!”
Richard’s imagination soared to another peak. “What if they were in it together? The first one was aimed at a target. Then the crew jumped off and were picked up by the second!”
The only experienced sailor in the group was dismissive. “Sheer folly!” she said curtly. “Leaving aside the impossibility of aiming accurately at the sound of a foghorn, you’re saying that they jumped into a sea of propellers, relying on another boat to thread its way through dense fog to pick them up.”
Her blast of scorn was followed by a cool interjection from Wanda Jesilko.
“But the reason you’re here, Colonel, is that Stefan was murdered because of something he uncovered. And that couldn’t have had anything to do with pleasure boating. BADA doesn’t keep records on holiday sailors and Stefan wasn’t interested anyway.”
Oblonski was momentarily silenced. Belabored on the one hand by Annamarie, the authority on small boating, and on the other by Wanda, the authority on Stefan Zabriski, he could not refute their arguments. But he distrusted their vehemence. Five short days ago Wanda had been incoherent. And Annamarie, this morning, was a far cry from the drawn, harassed woman who had set out for Warsaw. It made him wonder exactly how many problems had been solved by Stefan Zabriski’s death.
At least Wanda Jesilko’s last remark, Oblonski finally decided, was vulnerable to attack. “But Herr Zabriski was concerned with insurance recoveries. Maybe that was it. One of the small boats could have put in for suspiciously extensive hull damage.”
Glancing at her keyboard, Wanda scored again. “I’ve already looked and there is no such claim.”
“To hell with that thing!” Oblonski erupted, flicking a contemptuous finger at the monitor. “We don’t need it. The ships are still in the canal, aren’t they?”
Happy to be back on firm ground, Richard assured him that they were.
“Then an examination of the hulls should settle it.”
Madame Nordstrom was not yielding an inch. “Possibly.”
“Well, right now I’d like the two national registrations.”
The sailboat with auxiliary is English out of Ipswich,” Richard replied obligingly. “And the power cruiser is Danish.”
Oblonski rolled on. “I’ll need the names of the owners and
operators as well, so that police investigation into their backgrounds can start.”
This continued rejection of informed advice finally made an impact. While Wanda took refuge in careful impassivity Madame Nordstrom, less accustomed to opposition, glared balefully.
For whatever their reasons both women, Colonel Oblonski suddenly realized, were dismayed by the course he was taking.
Chapter 17
Shore Leave
John Thatcher, a confirmed landsman, had not spent his weekend bouncing around the Baltic in a small sailboat. Nonetheless, for purposes of keeping abreast of world events, he had been just as isolated. Like so much that had contributed to his recent discomfort, it had all been von Hennig’s fault.
“You can’t be planning to stay here when they won’t even let you see Gabler,” Peter had protested after they left the embassy on Friday night. “You’d do much better to join me.”
“And what are you proposing to do?”
Peter regarded the decision as made. “We’ll go to Janow Podlaski for the horse auctions. I’m planning an anniversary present for Heinrich and Trudi.”
Dimly Thatcher remembered there was a connection between the von Hennigs and horses. Peter, who cantered around the countryside for pleasure, had produced a son who was a competition rider. Heinrich, in turn, had been outclassed by his young wife.
“That’s right,” said Thatcher. “Trudi rode in the Olympics, didn’t she?”
“And came away with the silver,” was the prompt rejoinder.
There remained an unanswered question. “But why buy in Poland of all places?”
Von Hennig was shocked. “This is a major international auction. It’s famous around the world.”
Still dubious about his own role in these proceedings, Thatcher pointed out that he knew nothing about horses.
“That doesn’t matter. You will discover many other points of interest.”
* * *
The discoveries began with their trip the next morning. As nearly as Thatcher could tell he was heading into the land that time forgot. Tucked away to the east, smack against the Russian border, the area was devoid of industry, serviced by abysmal roads, and populated sparsely. The first sign that there was a jewel tucked away in these unpromising surroundings came with passage through the town of Janow Podlaski where serried ranks of gourmet restaurants, rivaling anything available in Warsaw, suggested that there were deep pockets to be picked somewhere.
Indifferent to such amenities, von Hennig enlarged on their immediate schedule. “Tomorrow we’ll attend the auction. This afternoon we’re visiting some of the farms I know. That way you can learn the general layout and meet some of the other buyers.” They were soon engulfed by a scene Thatcher had never expected to see in Poland. Although a novice at livestock auctions, he had more than once visited a client with a breeding farm in bluegrass country. The atmospherics here were very familiar. In the pastures brood mares grazed tranquilly, most of them only three or four months gone in their eleven-month period. The foals they had dropped the previous spring frolicked in fields of their own. And in more than one paddock, muscular stallions were being paraded before critical observers.
The variations that were apparent merely emphasized the underlying similarity. The stables might be constructed of masonry, but their sparkling whitewash evoked the fences of Kentucky. The grooms wore tunics and cavalry boots but they were doing and saying the same things to their recalcitrant charges.
There were, however, two fundamental differences. The first took some time to impress itself on Thatcher’s untutored eye. These animals were not American Thoroughbreds. “Arabians,” von Hennig replied to an inquiry. “Some of the finest in the world.” But there was no escaping the second distinction. This landscape was redolent of ancient privilege and ancient preoccupation. The stables were not stripped-down functional buildings. Rich in period detail, topped with crenellated towers, they spoke of an age that lavished time and money on architecture. And those semi military uniforms were merely the contemporary equivalent of the retainer’s livery. Here, Poles had been breeding horses before Kentucky saw its first white man. It all put the mint julep in its proper place.
“I can see that they’ve been doing this steadily for a long time, including the last 50 years,” Thatcher remarked. “It must have been a wonderful source of hard currency for the commissars.”
“Yes, what’s more, it’s an old Polish tradition and they didn’t succeed in uprooting all of them. Oh, good, we’ve arrived at Tadeucz Pilch’s place.” Past the gateposts was a quarter-mile allée lined on both sides with parked cars.
“People certainly pour in,” said Thatcher as they trudged toward the courtyard. “Is this a once-a-year invasion?”
“God, no! This bunch is here for the auction. But the government arranges tours for horse clubs and they come from all over for a full six months.” That explained the restaurants of Janow Podlaski.
As they proceeded Thatcher’s spirits were insensibly rising. No matter how much pomp and circumstance surrounds a funeral it remains an acknowledgment that all flesh is mortal. And hospital waiting rooms tend to reinforce the same theme. Stud farms, however, are a celebration of life.
The best, however, was still ahead. Von Hennig made directly for one of the many groups huddled together in earnest discussion and introduced Thatcher. Then, with a murmured apology, he sped off toward the stables, leaving Thatcher to the horse fanciers. But within 15 minutes he discovered that these people had more in common than Arabians. This was not only a gathering of wealth, but wealth of a particular kind. Oh, there might be a few jaded specimens of the idle rich, but for the most part they were swashbucklers. Regardless of whether they rampaged through manufacturing, real estate or currency exchanges, they formed a fraternity whose common mind-set obliterated race, creed, and color.
For men such as these, Janow Podlaski was more than the site of a horse auction; it was an impromptu marketplace. Preliminary overtures were commonplace while, in a few instances, actual deal-making was in progress. Totally absorbed, Thatcher moved from one clutch to another, barely conscious of the moment when he slipped from being part of the audience to part of the action.
“Well, John, did you manage to occupy yourself?” von Hennig asked when he reappeared over an hour later.
“I seem to have acquired a client for the Sloan.”
“I thought you might,” said von Hennig smugly. “You’ll find it’s the same everywhere.”
And so it was. By the time they left their fourth and final stop, the sun was beginning its descent and Thatcher’s little black book was filled with notes. Next month at the bank he would be receiving a heavy-construction firm from Rio de Janeiro and an electronics manufacturer from Taiwan. The appointments were conventional enough. The only oddity was that they were being made in a stable.
Thatcher found himself marveling at the persistence of the horse as a status symbol. It was all too obvious why the medieval knight on his charger, both caparisoned for war, struck awe into the simple peasantry. And, even in the milder climate of the 19th century, the gentry sweeping by in carriages would have been objects of envy to a weary, foot-slogging population. But why, at the birth of the21st century, did these adventurers still gravitate to stud farms? Probably because in their freewheeling world the image of success was everything.
Only hardheaded bankers like John Thatcher preferred more solid collateral.
* * *
The next morning von Hennig was all business. “Enough fooling around,” he announced as soon as the last drop of coffee was down. “Now, the auction.”
Obediently Thatcher rose. He had always realized that, sooner or later, he would be required to study a horse. They, along with many others, were at the grounds early enough to watch the trailers being unloaded. Thatcher recognized some of his new-made acquaintances, but this morning there was no idle chitchat. Barely a sentence was exchanged as horses balked and swerved, spectators scampered out of
harm’s way, and handlers cursed nonstop. To Thatcher it was simply an immense sea of confusion.
But once the auction began order emerged. Viewed individually these animals were spellbinding. With coats gleaming like silk, hard muscles rippling smoothly, heads held high, they compelled admiration. Finally a sable-brown stallion with four snowy-white stockings pirouetted into the ring and took Thatcher’s breath away.
“Magnificent,” he murmured involuntarily. Von Hennig was so busy with his heavily annotated catalog that he had rarely looked up, but now he cast a measuring glance at the subject of this praise.
“You’ve chosen well,” he congratulated Thatcher.
“But you won’t be bidding on him?”
“Not unless I want to bankrupt myself. He’ll probably be going to another stud farm.”
The sums then elicited by the auctioneer proved his point. Thatcher was not surprised. Plenty of rich men buy paintings and statuary, jade and crystal, because of the sheer aesthetic pleasure derived from these lifeless objects. Was it any wonder that beauty allied to animation should produce the same itch?
It was a full hour before von Hennig bestirred himself. After riding four price rises, he shook his head firmly. “Just testing the waters,” he explained in a brief aside.
There was nothing experimental about his second foray 45 minutes later. It was a full eight rounds of bidding before he finally retired with the bitter observation, “With a world trade recession you’d think prices would be depressed, not inflated.”
“Too bad,” said Thatcher perfunctorily. Yesterday his lack of response would have been owed to the maxim that rich men’s follies always were, and should be, outrageously expensive. But too many horses had come and gone. Now John Thatcher was a critic. He had not cared for the chestnut with the dramatic blaze streaking down his nose. Too garish, he thought disapprovingly. Better to wait for something more deserving.
