A Shark Out of Water

by Emma Lathen

  “But Swinoujście is a long train trip from Gdansk,” Gabler pointed out. “Surely the police could be waiting for him at the other end.”

  “They can do better than that,” Annamarie chortled. “There’s only one more train today and it doesn’t leave for hours.”

  His heavy eyebrows knotted in furious thought, the colonel said, “If I don’t get him before he boards, I’ve lost him.”

  “But—”

  Oblonski groaned. “Don’t you remember, Madam Chairman? There are many special trains today.”

  “Oh, my God, I forgot the date.” While she and Oblonski stared at each other in rare sympathy, Thatcher tried to make sense of their exchange.

  “Ahem!” he finally said. “There’s something unusual happening?” Both stares swiveled toward him.

  “Football, or soccer if you prefer,” said Annamarie in tones worthy of World War III.

  “Berlin against Gdansk,” Oblonski amplified heavily.

  Taking pity on ignorant Americans, Madame Nordstrom explained the magnitude of the event. “It’s the semifinals. We’ve been building up to this all year. There will be thousands of Germans pouring into the station to go back home.”

  “And thousands of Poles as well.”

  Annamarie was examining her desk clock. “But surely the extra trains don’t start until after the game.”

  “No,” said Oblonski, rising hurriedly, “and that gives me about two hours to persuade the ministry and make my arrangements.” Looking back on a life of police work interrupted by periodic soccer frenzies, he made his parting words into a prayer.

  “God willing, Bach will turn up at the station before the crowds let out.” Ordinarily the station staff would have been consumed by curiosity at the descent of a police colonel, accompanied by a team of uniforms and flanked by two foreign businessmen. But not today.

  There were radios blaring from every nook and cranny, each with its cluster of avid listeners. Not a head raised, not an eye turned. A squad of scuba divers, complete with masks and spear guns, could have minced along in flippers without attracting a single glance.

  After deploying his men, Colonel Oblonski cocked an intelligent ear. “They’re already in the second half,” he explained. Then, remembering that he was speaking to ignoramuses, he went on. “A game half lasts 45 minutes.”

  Alex, at his superior’s side, felt that he had omitted the important part. “Gdansk has one goal and Berlin is scoreless.”

  “Splendid,” said Thatcher unconvincingly.

  With commendable attention to duty, Oblonski dismissed the match and concentrated on the clock. “The first special to Swinoujście leaves in 85 minutes. If Bach is going to make a break for it from here, that’ll probably be the one he goes for.”

  Settling himself by the window of the stationmaster’s office, Thatcher examined the spacious square outside that was the hub of Gdansk’s transportation system. Commuter trains and long-distance services left regularly from within the station but, in the center of the square, a broad island contained the tracks and platforms for the elaborate trolley system linking different sections of the city. Further constricting the free space was a long line of charter buses parked at the far side. In the narrow lanes remaining a constant stream of cars and trucks sped by. Underpasses made it possible for pedestrians to reach the station without encountering the busy traffic above.

  “Are any of those buses for German fans, Colonel?” Thatcher asked. “Would Bach try to board one of them?”

  “I’ve posted some men there, but I doubt it. None of them run near the coast.” Oblonski’s last words were almost drowned by the cheers that erupted around him.

  “Another goal?” Thatcher hazarded.

  “No, just a miraculous save by the goalkeeper.”

  “Almost as good,” said Thatcher politely. But a quarter of an hour later it was impossible for even him to ignore the prevailing tension. The score remained unchanged and there were only five minutes left in the match. The unlikely source of this information had just come hobbling back into the office.

  “You know,” Everett said cheerfully, “they really are amazing athletes. They almost never get a chance to stop because there are no time-outs.” Thatcher stared at him speechlessly.

  “No doubt that’s why soccer’s never become successful on American television. There’s no place for commercials.”

  Hardened as Thatcher was to Gabler’s remorseless thirst for information, this scarcely seemed the time for research. “Where have you been?”

  “Didn’t you know? They have a TV set in the back. Come along.” In the baggage room the crowd was holding its breath and the same seemed to be true in the stadium itself. Earlier the announcer’s voice had been heard over a background of cheers, yells of alarm, appreciative applause. Now there was silence, punctuated every now and then by a mass sigh of relief. At the two-minute mark the packed gallery began chanting a countdown. Then came a sudden interruption!

  The announcer’s voice soared in excitement, rising above a ragged cheer. “All tied up,” Oblonski muttered. “Now they’ll have to go into overtime.” But he was wrong. With only 15 seconds to go, the ball suddenly squirted out of a scrimmage, received a vicious cross kick, and sailed past the exhausted Polish goalkeeper. The Gdansk fans were still reeling when the closing whistle sounded. For a moment there was stillness. Then a vast savage roar swelled into the air.

  “The riot police had better be at their stations. That happened too fast,” Oblonski said sadly. Thatcher thought he understood. The Polish fans had not sat through an afternoon despairing of their team’s performance. They had not even suffered the suspenseful ups and downs of a hard-fought bout. Instead they had gained an early lead and seen that lead defended through two long periods, only to have victory diabolically wrenched from their grasp. And sports enthusiasts all over the world are the same. That sullen roar could be easily translated. “We’ve been robbed!”

  “Fortunately,” Oblonski continued, “Major Wroclav is an experienced man. He’ll clear that stadium fast before any violence can erupt.” The colonel’s prediction was largely accurate but Major Wroclav, arriving a short time later, was not ready to call it a day. After a hasty consultation, he sped off to inspect the station, leaving Oblonski to explain.

  “In a local match, after the game is over, the crowd disperses in different directions. Today they’re all coming to the same place.”

  In view of the fact that Major Wroclav had been the leading edge of a wave of riot police, Black Marias, and ambulances, Thatcher knew where that place was. Fascinated, he returned to the stationmaster’s office to watch the preparations. All doors fronting on the square were closed and bolted. Across the street barricades were being manhandled across the entrance to the underground passage. Major Wroclav was taking no chances that violence would leak into the station and disrupt train service. On the same principle, he had detailed a cordon of police to encircle the center island where the streetcars continued to come and go.

  “But what is the point of keeping the trains operating if nobody can get in or out of the station?” Gabler demanded severely.

  Oblonski shrugged. “This has happened before. Everyone knows the drill and the radio is telling them in case they’ve forgotten. To take a train, people must circle around the square and enter from the rear. That door is easy to control and arriving passengers will be shuttled out that way too.” The sounds of advancing disturbance were already beginning to make themselves heard. The colonel was philosophical. “From my point of view it’s all to the good. Now there’s only one door for my men to keep under observation.” Suddenly he leaned over Thatcher’s shoulder for a better view. “Ah, there they are.”

  The triumphant Germans were returning to the railroad station in parade formation, chanting lustily and raising clenched fists in a sign of victory. A 100 yards from their goal, they halted briefly to allow two heavily burdened young men to struggle to the front. There they raised two lo
ng poles with a banner stretching between. Too excited for prudence, they had daubed their message on the spot and were flaunting it before all of Gdansk. The legend was simplicity itself: WE WON!

  “An open invitation to mayhem,” Oblonski grumbled. Certainly the mob of Poles streaming on either side of the Germans interpreted it that way. There were instant catcalls and jeers. There were insults hurled in both directions. Finally the inevitable happened. A flying wedge from the crowd attacked the offensive banner and the parade formation broke in order to mount a defense. It was impossible to tell who struck the first blow. But what difference did that make? Within seconds the square had become the scene of an enormous melee, with bodies launching themselves into combat, noses blossoming into fountains of blood, and substitutes rushing forward to save the threatened banner. The police for the most part simply watched the fray.

  “Aren’t they going to do anything?” asked Gabler.

  “When several thousand young men want to punch someone, there’s no point in letting them practice on the police,” Oblonski said wearily. “Wroclav will have his men concentrate on rescuing innocent bystanders and protecting vital services. Then, when these hooligans have exhausted themselves, the troops will move in.” Thatcher was unable to tear himself away from the window. One vignette after another emerged from the pandemonium, to be briefly glimpsed, swallowed up, then replaced. A white-haired woman was emitting one eldritch screech after another as she flailed her market bag at everybody in her vicinity. When two policemen appeared to lead her to safety she transferred her attentions to them, belaboring them mercilessly.

  Then there was a decorous young woman with perfect makeup and carefully groomed hair who did not wait for assistance. Assuming an expression of unparalleled ferocity, she pointed two long talons in a menacing V and daintily picked her way to the sidewalk. But Thatcher’s favorite was the dignified elderly man who descended, examined the disorder, then reboarded the trolley where he could be seen unfurling a paper and plunging into the day’s news.

  Everett Gabler, however, was falling prey to the stirrings of a Puritan conscience. “It scarcely seems proper,” he announced, “to stand here and witness this carnage as if it were a spectator sport.”

  “Now, Everett. These people are not early Christians forced into the lion’s den. Every roughneck down there has chosen this method of passing the time. The fault does not lie with us.”

  But Gabler was no longer listening. He had stiffened, peering excitedly through his glasses. “Colonel! There’s Leonhard Bach! He’s on the far side of the square, by the underpass.” Rushing forward, Oblonski double-checked. Leonhard Bach, briefcase in hand, had halted by the barricade. His normally cherubic countenance was etched with strain as he surveyed the disturbance.

  “The train leaves in three minutes,” said Oblonski in a voice creamy with satisfaction. “He’ll miss it if he goes all the way around.” Leonhard Bach had apparently reached the same conclusion. Lowering his head, he hunched his shoulders and charged off the sidewalk into the eye of the storm. For some moments Thatcher followed the stocky figure, bobbing and weaving and sidestepping. But Alex watched Bach’s progress more knowledgeably.

  “He’s played soccer in his time,” he decided before judiciously adding, “probably as a winger.” Then a shout of jubilation distracted them. The attack on the banner had finally overcome the defense. One of the wooden poles was wobbling seriously, its supporters vanishing under a wave of bodies. Germans tried to fight their way forward, Poles moved to block them, the banner dipped to one side, rose again, dipped to the other side. With the second support wavering, the issue was no longer in doubt. Combatants from both sides swarmed upward, the whole superstructure swayed under their weight, and the banner crumpled downward, its ample folds engulfing the struggling figures beneath. It was the moment that Major Wroclav had been waiting for. His whistle sounded a shrill signal and the riot police moved forward.

  Chapter 27

  A Painted Ship

  Leonhard Bach was hit on the head, then trampled,” Oblonski explained. “He’s in the hospital and he won’t be out for another week.”

  “Isn’t it wonderful?” Annamarie said exuberantly. “We managed to attach two of his ships while he was still under sedation.”

  John Thatcher examined his dinner party with indulgence. His duties as host were minimal in view of the general air of fiesta already well established. Tomorrow morning the Kiel Canal, with banners flying and trumpets sounding, would officially reopen. And BADA’s Homeric assistance in this endeavor was so widely recognized that Finanzbank had already reverted to its original plans for the bond issue. As icing on the cake Everett Gabler, having assured himself that BADA would not lose a penny by Bach’s shenanigans, had approved a substantial loan.

  Madame Nordstrom was on top of the world. “And it’s all due to you, Colonel,” she said handsomely. “You produced just the right evidence.”

  “It turned out well from my point of view too,” he acknowledged. Oblonski was now a hero in the eyes of his ministry. With Valhalla plunging into bankruptcy and its owner identified as a killer, Bonn was only too grateful to leave its embarrassing wunderkind in the hands of another government. Tonight the colonel had shed his uniform and, looking remarkably distinguished in civilian attire, was prepared to be expansive. “They not only unearthed all the documents for the fraud in Bach’s office, they even found the typewriter used for the second terrorist note. He was doing his best to spread suspicion in every direction,” he said.

  But probably the happiest person present was Everett Gabler. A free man at last, he had dispensed with cast and canes that morning. “I regard those final moments at the railroad station as providential,” he announced solemnly. “It seemed as if Bach might escape in all the confusion, but there he was under the banner at the bottom of the heap. I have rarely been so pleased as when they carted him off on a stretcher.”

  “Oh, unkind, Everett,” Thatcher chided.

  “Nonsense. It is a matter of simple justice. If Bach had not murdered Zabriski there would have been no funeral. If there had been no funeral, I would not have been injured. The man was directly responsible for my pain and inconvenience.”

  But it was neither pain nor inconvenience that Everett found so hard to forgive. It was, Thatcher knew, the sheer mortification of dependence. Everett would probably never forget requiring assistance to the men’s room on the trip from Warsaw to Gdansk. Fortunately there were other things he remembered as well. “An ordeal rendered far more endurable thanks to the help I received from the Gomulkas,” he ended graciously.

  The Gomulkas, blushing and modest, were moving in their own cloud of elation. Tomorrow would see the beginning of Bill’s new and lucrative career as a computer consultant.

  Only Peter von Hennig evinced mild discontent. “It’s unfair that I missed all the action at the end,” he grumbled. “I still don’t understand how you concluded that Leonhard Bach was the murderer.”

  “I’m more amazed that it took us so long,” Thatcher confessed. “The clarification process started when Perry Samaras was explaining to Colonel Oblonski the fundamentals of fraud. In order to be encouraging I said that fraud is usually simple.”

  “But you spoke only in the most general terms,” Oblonski objected.

  “That should have been enough. Particularly when we pointed out that Bach’s recollection of his talk with Stefan Zabriski was not entirely reliable. There was no way millions could be missing from BADA’s coffers.”

  Madame Nordstrom made no attempt to suppress a snort. “Don’t I wish!”

  Ignoring her dreams of glory, Thatcher continued. “We ought to have taken the next step directly. What if we rejected everything that Leonhard Bach said? Suddenly the whole scene took on a new character. Zabriski returned from his trip so preoccupied he acted abnormally. He was rude to Peter—”

  “The man was always a menace,” von Hennig interjected.

  “Now Peter, try to be
objective. Zabriski had many failings. His judgment may have been poor, his estimate of his own talents overinflated, but his manners were punctiliously civil. Yet that night he was gratuitously offensive, not only to you but to Eric Andersen as well. He was consumed by one overriding goal, to seize Leonhard Bach and sweep him off to a private session. If Zabriski had been found murdered without any intervening red herring, Bach would have been the obvious suspect. That would have been the simple explanation and, in fact, the correct one.”

  Frowning over this new interpretation, Oblonski nodded slowly. “You’re absolutely right.” “Bach was quite shrewd about people. He realized that the police would be very skeptical of any story he produced after the body was discovered. So, before murdering Zabriski, he returned to the delegates’ lounge with a disjointed tale that spread suspicion far and wide.”

  “But surely that was taking an immense gamble,” protested von Hennig. “What if Zabriski had changed his mind and blurted out his news to someone before going home?”

  “Where was the risk? If Zabriski did that, all was lost anyway. But there was still a major problem. Snatches of Zabriski’s remarks had been overheard and Bach had to tailor his version to fit them. I’ll bet he racked his brains trying to remember every word.”

  Colonel Oblonski had reviewed all those statements so often he was letter-perfect. “That’s why Bach didn’t mention Eric Andersen at first,” he added eagerly. “I never bought that business of his being so scrupulous. He’d just forgotten that Wanda Jesilko was present.”

  “Of course he made some mistakes,” Thatcher agreed. “He must have been badly rattled when, without warning, Zabriski confronted him. Probably there was only one thing Bach could cling to. Zabriski had not accused him until they were alone. Even so, Bach wanted suspicions that led someplace else. That’s why he suggested embezzlement within BADA and unspecified doings at the Kiel Canal.”

  “He had to throw in the canal,” the colonel observed. The barman overheard that.”