A Shark Out of Water

by Emma Lathen

  It did not come until midafternoon when a majestic gray entered the ring as if he owned it. Arching a magnificent neck embellished with a mane that was almost black, he placed each hoof with the balanced precision of a gymnast as he circled the ring. Without a word spoken Thatcher knew that Peter was now in deadly earnest. Poker-faced, he was jerking his rolled-up catalog a scant inch to signal his readiness to meet each new price level. In spite of this unnatural impassivity he had managed, by some mysterious form of ESP, to identify his chief competition.

  That damned Spaniard is serious,” he hissed from between motionless lips. Many rounds were necessary to prove him right. Bidder after bidder fell by the wayside until only Peter and the Spaniard were left. To the outside world von Hennig remained unimpressed by the ongoing duel. But Thatcher, conscious of the tension at his side, watched the white-knuckled grip on that improvised baton, and saw that auction fever had struck. Ten minutes later the gray officially belonged to von Hennig, who slumped back, heaving a vast sigh.

  “A splendid purchase,” Thatcher said sincerely.

  Slightly self-conscious, Peter eschewed all reference to extortionate prices, instead dilating happily on the power, speed, intelligence, and spirit of his acquisition. Thatcher agreed as wholeheartedly as if he had discerned every one of those attributes. And when they moved on to an unfavorable comparison with the flashy chestnut, he was amused to find himself growing quite heated.

  Peter, maintaining his reputation for sangfroid, insisted on remaining for the final sales. Only then did he sweep Thatcher off, first to a desk where the mundane details of payment and transportation were arranged and then, triumphantly, to a hands-on inspection of the gray. Running his palm along the mighty rib cage, fondling a hock strong enough to crush a tank, caressing that rich, burnished mane, he gave grunt after grunt of satisfaction.

  “Just the thing for Trudi,” he finally announced.

  But his day was undeniably capped that evening when they were having drinks in the lounge before a farewell dinner in Janow Podlaski. Surrounded by aficionados, Peter was the target for a rain of felicitations about the gray, about Trudi’s delight, about forthcoming Olympic victories.

  Thatcher’s reward, on the other hand, came when they seated themselves at a large, convivial table and he found himself next to a world-renowned Greek shipping tycoon. “Perry, I didn’t even know you were here,” von Hennig greeted him. “Why weren’t you bidding?”

  With a small, satisfied smile, Pericles Samaras said he had done his buying yesterday. Then he politely tried to include Thatcher in the conversation. When Thatcher explained the real reason for his presence in Poland, the Greek frowned thoughtfully.

  “Ah, BADA. I’m joining my lawyers there next week. Let’s hope this new program of theirs actually does streamline claims. I have three of them and that oil tanker stuck in Malmō will cost a bundle.”

  “You’ll see more than that,” von Hennig said. “Some of our more ambitious plans at BADA could impinge on your own activities.”

  Samaras shrugged. “Revitalizing Baltic harbors? Making those Eastern shipyards competitive? It will be a long time before that comes to pass.”

  “As a matter of fact, our chairman agrees with you. Madame Nordstrom thinks the immediate gains will come from forcing growth among the private shippers.”

  “That too is not on the immediate horizon,” Samaras said comfortably.

  Peter grinned. “Not impressed by Leonhard Bach’s publicity, Perry?” he challenged.

  There was a moment’s blank silence. “Bach? Oh, yes, he’s the one with four or five medium-sized freighters, isn’t he?” asked Samaras, making this inventory sound like a pocketful of candy bars. While Peter continued his comments, it occurred to Thatcher that Samaras’s career had probably familiarized him with every conceivable motive for Stefan Zabriski’s death. Accordingly, at the first break, Thatcher seized the opportunity to describe the murder at BADA and its context.

  “And of course,” added von Hennig, “that leaves the police speculating about the criminal activity that Zabriski might have unearthed.”

  Samaras was censorious. “BADA should never have appointed a Pole to that position. Or anybody from the Eastern Bloc. How could they deal with something like this?” For one dizzy moment Thatcher thought Samaras was implying that the instinct for larceny was unknown under communism. The next words were reassuring.

  “The main feature of a socialist state is that there’s only one entity really worth stealing from.”

  “Ah, I think I understand,” Thatcher murmured.

  “It doesn’t make any difference whether it’s some workman appropriating a plant truck for his own moonlighting or a commissar diverting millions from a state-owned enterprise. After 50 years it’s all standardized. But in a free market,” Samaras said cogently, “there are fresh opportunities opening all the time.”

  “For inspired improvisation to suit changing conditions?” Thatcher suggested.

  “Exactly.”

  Peter wanted more concrete detail. “But what kind of improvisation would be called forth by the canal closure?”

  Pericles Samaras did not even pause to reflect. “Any number. Of course, there are all the changes that can be rung on insurance fraud. There will certainly be people trying to exaggerate damage to their hulls. There could be people forging manifests to recover for cargoes that never existed. I’m not at all sure that you couldn’t expand that concept to include ships that were never in the canal in the first place.”

  “Come, come, Perry,” von Hennig protested. “You’re letting your imagination run away with you.”

  “Don’t be so hasty. With the right documents, with the right contacts, I could do it.”

  There was a muted relish in Samaras’s voice that hinted he was deriving positive pleasure from his imaginative efforts. “Ships, after all, can be moved,” he went on, dreamily elaborating his scheme. “A clever man might be able to show an adjuster the same one twice. Not normally, I grant you. But with this big a disaster, with that many hulls lying over a space of miles, with harried and overworked inspectors, you probably could pull it off.”

  “Anything else?” asked a fascinated Thatcher.

  “Accidents can always bring strange things to the surface. Not all cargoes are what their documents say. Your Zabriski could have stumbled on to gun running or the illegal export of antiques. Maybe a ship that was severely damaged didn’t file a claim. Nobody wants an insurance adjuster finding a major shipment of cocaine.”

  Thatcher was beginning to be depressed by this glib recitation.

  “In fact, there are no limits.”

  “That’s about it. I find it a safe rule to assume that anything I can contemplate, somebody will have figured out how to do.”

  Far from helping, Thatcher thought, this man was stretching the list of possibilities to infinity.

  Peter, meanwhile, had been overcome by his official position as delegate to the general council. “And that doesn’t even get to the problem of chicanery within BADA,” he said ruefully. “Now there’s a field!” crowed Samaras. “Without knowing anything more about Zabriski, I know he wasn’t a hotshot accountant. He probably set up a system for fund withdrawals that required a simple signature.”

  The two bankers knew about the safeguards customarily shoring up those simple signatures. “God, you’re probably right,” groaned von Hennig.

  “Letting this man deal with Danes, Swedes, and Germans was like letting an innocent wade into a pool filled with sharks.”

  Thatcher had reached a decision. “I think it would be more useful to concentrate on the forms of skullduggery that Zabriski was capable of recognizing. That at least would narrow things down.”

  Before Samaras could reply an unknown man sitting nearby succumbed to the temptation to join this intriguing conversation. “Lots of crooks around,” he announced brightly. “Let’s face it. Everybody here in this room has a healthy sense of acquisition.”
>
  “But strictly within the limits of the law,” said Samaras piously.

  Only courtesy prevented Peter von Hennig and John Thatcher from arguing the point.

  Chapter 18

  Still Afloat

  John Thatcher’s foray to Janow Podlaski had exposed him to a spectacular anomaly in contemporary Poland, opulence flourishing in a hardscrabble countryside. It was only fitting that his excursion should end with the offer of a lift back to Warsaw in a private plane, while von Hennig was similarly wafted to Gdansk.

  The medical report that he received over the phone as soon as he checked into the Marriott was encouraging. The operation had gone splendidly, Mr. Gabler’s recovery had been robust, and a late-night visit would be permitted. With this breathing space in hand Thatcher allowed himself a cup of coffee in the mezzanine lounge outside the gambling casino. Here he fell into the maws of a chatty Pole, obviously prospering under present conditions and only too willing to expand on his newfound wealth.

  He had spent ten long years in the ministry of culture, he explained, sending Polish symphonic ensembles anywhere in the world that would receive them with hard currency. Nowadays he was working the other side of the street. “I book big-name rock groups into Poland,” he said proudly. “It’s a gold mine.”

  “And you have no problem filling halls?”

  “Anywhere there are students or young people I can produce a capacity crowd,” the happy impresario boasted. “I’m damned if I know where they get the money.”

  It was, Thatcher had retorted, a phenomenon familiar to the West. But as he walked to the hospital, Thatcher was forced to conclude that there were so many anomalies visible to the naked eye that life in Warsaw seemed composed of them. The swarm of noisy little cars choking traffic had to park on crumbling sidewalks. Street vendors peddling blue jeans from rickety folding tables powered their modern cash registers with electric cords snaking to distant doorways. Across from a department store hordes of Russians conducted an open-air market in an attempt to sell something, anything, to their now wealthier neighbors. And, in a world characterized by rising entrepreneurial sap and restricted capital, every street corner housed clutches of young men busily negotiating into their cellular phones, a pale shadow of their mightier brethren at Janow Podlaski.

  Moods of quiet reflection, however, never survived long in Gabler’s presence. He was sitting up in bed, his eyes gleaming. “Ah, John,” he said, laying aside the Financial Times. “Isn’t this business in Kiel shocking?” It was typical that, flat on his back and under sedation for half the weekend, he should be more current than his colleague.

  “I’ve been out of touch, Ev,” Thatcher said briefly, waiting for an explanatory lecture.

  But Everett had other fish to fry. “Tut, tut, then you’ll have to bring yourself up to date,” he said dismissively. “Now, John, I’ve discussed my condition at some length with the doctor and there is no cogent reason why I should not accompany you to Gdansk tomorrow.”

  The word cogent said it all. That alert gleam was the result of an invigorating set-to with his medical advisers. “Your ankle seems to be in a cast,” Thatcher said mildly.

  “A mere trifle!” Gabler replied at his loftiest.

  “You haven’t forgotten that Poland is the land of nonfunctioning elevators?”

  “Those at the Hevelius and our office are fully operational.” It was clear what was going on. Everett had cast himself in one of his favorite roles, that of the ideal Sloan officer. In this capacity he was ready to brave all discomforts. Thatcher was far too canny to raise any of the problems so grandly ignored. Instead he tried awakening the soldier to a different duty.

  “But you will inevitably be delayed longer than you expected. I know that you have the Mersinger agreement scheduled for final negotiation.”

  “That’s been very much on my mind. So I called Charlie Trinkam several hours ago and he’s agreed to be my proxy,” Gabler reassured him. “He now understands all the points I intended to raise.” Poor Charlie! Yanked away from his weekend to be coached on the responsibilities of a pinch hitter. Everett was on a roll, knocking down opponents like so many ninepins, and he soon received an ally. The orthopedic surgeon, stopping by on his rounds, enthusiastically endorsed Gabler’s program. The ankle injury was minor and another night of observation would take care of the concussion. As for the cast, that was the lightweight variety obviating the need for crutches.

  “Those two canes will be adequate,” the surgeon said, waving to the corner, “and Mr. Gabler has already practiced with them.” Thatcher had witnessed this kind of surrender before. The surgeon simply wanted to see his patient’s backside. Indeed the only oddity was that Gabler had not been released on the spot and that was explained when the surgeon moved to the door. “I’ll say good-bye now, Mr. Gabler. I’m going off duty and you will have left by the time I return tomorrow.”

  Everett followed up the doctor’s departure by announcing that the nurses would have him ready to leave first thing in the morning. “I’ll bet they will!” Anywhere in the United States, mused Thatcher on the steps of the hospital, Miss Corsa would be addressing this predicament for him. She could, however, scarcely be asked to work her magic in Eastern Europe.

  But to think of secretaries was to think of Carol Gomulka. Thus far her typing had proved adequate. Maybe the time had come to test for more immediately useful skills. At least she did not object to being called at her home on Sunday evening. Her first cheerful greeting soon modulated into sympathetic clucking as she heard of Everett’s mishap.

  “He’ll need help getting about,” Thatcher explained. “So, first of all, we’ll need a bigger car. That’s the easy part. Then we’ll have to find somebody who can drive, somebody who can speak fluent English as well as Polish and then, as the two of them will be cheek by jowl all day, somebody who . . .”

  He paused as he searched for a tactful rendition. “Somebody who can handle Mr. Gabler,” Carol supplied kindly.

  “Exactly.” Carol fell into a pensive silence and Thatcher could supply only one form of incentive. “We’ll pay through the nose.”

  “Well, that always helps. I can’t promise anything yet, but I may know just the right person.”

  * * *

  By lunchtime the next day Thatcher devoutly hoped so. In spite of distracting headlines about letters to the Kiel Beobachter he had managed to lay on a chauffeured limousine for portal-to-portal transport. And all had gone well until halfway to Gdansk. But the four steps up to the restaurant and the long narrow corridor to the rest rooms had provided a grim preview of things to come. Everett, tottering on his two sticks, was about as independent as a newborn babe.

  He, of course, still had plenty to say about the morning’s lead story. “It is outrageous that a decent concern for the environment should be perverted into criminal violence.”

  “If, in fact, they really were responsible. There seems to be some doubt on that point,” Thatcher remarked.

  Trying to capitalize on misfortune was, in Gabler’s opinion, as despicable as causing it.

  “Well, it’s not the sort of action I’d expect from even extremists,” Thatcher continued. “After all it resulted in the kind of toxic damage they vociferously deplore.”

  “Ah, but we seem to be dealing with singularly inept and ill-informed people. Look at this elevation of Stefan Zabriski into one of their martyrs when the man was basically on the other side.”

  It was only natural that Everett should take a dim view of the protests at Zabriski’s funeral. Thatcher had no quarrel with that but he did have another objection. “There’s no reason to suppose that the same group was involved on both occasions.”

  “Not on the surface,” Gabler acknowledged. “You cannot, however, ignore the fact that they both sprang into action at the same time.”

  Thatcher frowned. “If we’re talking about the timing of dramatic acts, aren’t you overlooking the biggest one of all?”

  Everett, still pic
turing roiling mobs and sinking ships, was caught off guard. “What do you mean?”

  “Zabriski’s murder.”

  “But that had nothing to do with environmentalists!”

  “How do we know? So far we’ve learned that Zabriski was a man of strong convictions ready to use unconventional methods. He was willing to bring down the government of Estonia without a second thought. In his position he could have been useful to many special interests, including radicals of all sorts.”

  “He was also a lifelong civil servant.”

  “Oh, come off it, Everett. They’ve gone crazy before and the easiest way to do it is by mindlessly embracing a fuzzy ideal.”

  Gabler was not happy with this line of thought but he nodded soberly. “I have to admit that Zabriski displayed erratic judgment. But his bias seemed to be toward economic expansion,” said Gabler, his eyes widening as he considered the implications. “John, you’re not suggesting that protest in Warsaw was a diversionary feint?”

  “I’m not suggesting anything. I just wish I knew more about environmental groups.” His wish was about to be answered. In the course of hauling Everett into the Nissan building, Thatcher forgot everything but the prospect of two chairs. Nonetheless the sight that met his eyes when he flung open the office door stopped him in his tracks.

  Carol Gomulka and a man were facing each other across a desk embellished with a bottle of champagne and an array of plastic glasses. While she quaffed her drink, the unknown was saying heatedly, “It’s all a lot of garbage. That Eighth Day crowd may have written to the Kiel Beobachter but they never took direct action in their lives.”

  Carol, noticing the new arrivals, was exuberant. “You’re here! Great! This is my husband, Bill, and he’s going to be Mr. Gabler’s driver. We were just—” She broke off, overcome by sudden misgivings about the signs of debauchery.

  Her husband, however, suffered no such qualms. “We’re celebrating. They accepted my proposal and I’ve got the job,” he sang out.

  Everett, carefully lowering himself, went straight to essentials. “What job? And how can you drive me if you’ve accepted other employment?”