by Emma Lathen
The situation was so grave that von Hennig had removed his jacket to reveal a pair of suspenders that, in some mysterious fashion, reeked of money. It had never before occurred to Thatcher that this humble item of attire could do so. Clearly these suspenders had not been picked up in any old haberdashery. Constructed of heavy-shot silk, they were probably the specialty of some little Italian boutique known only to the select few.
“Not half as shocked as Everett and I were,” Thatcher said, setting the record straight. While some people were dining in comfort, others had been finding dead bodies.
But von Hennig, putting yesterday’s horrors behind, was now focused on their aftermath. “In fact, the more I think about it, the worse it becomes,” he said. “Take this tale by Bach about Stefan Zabriski’s ravings. At the time I instinctively discounted them.” Was it Leonhard Bach or Zabriski who had roused his skepticism?
“Oh Zabriski, always Zabriski,” replied von Hennig, barely emerging from his internal stream of thought. “De mortuis and all that, but Zabriski was a fanatic. A clerk taking office stationery would be enough to set him off, and with a sympathetic listener like Bach he could really let himself go. But murder? That seems to imply he actually did uncover something serious.”
Nobody was inclined to believe in coincidence, Thatcher noted. Did this argue a widespread subliminal cynicism about BADA? Von Hennig’s next comment gave him more food for thought. “And how are we supposed to launch a major bond issue under BADA’s aegis if they’re sitting on top of a financial irregularity of unknown proportions?”
Following this transition from crime to business, Thatcher said, “It’s not as if we’re operating against a tight deadline. And we haven’t been trapped by any public statements. If BADA is not viable as an issuing agency, then it can be scrapped. That was only one possibility and I’ve never understood why you regard it as so much more attractive than a straight German issue.”
“Poland,” said von Hennig succinctly. “European integration requires the broadening of NATO and the European Union, and it’s proving to be enormously difficult. The Russians are uniformly hostile, the so-called ‘new Communists’ are getting paranoid and attitudes in the West leave much to be desired. After generations of looking anywhere but East, we’re locked into outmoded notions. We make allowance for the weakness of Greece and Turkey, then dither about Poland, which is absurd. BADA is one mechanism for returning attention to where it rightfully belongs.”
“At least Madame Nordstrom, and Bonn, are taking steps in the right direction,” Thatcher pointed out. With the Kiel Canal closed, marine interests were affected all over the world. Shippers from France and Holland, from Spain and England, would all become necessarily aware of Poland in the forthcoming weeks. Their insurance claims would be processed in Gdansk, the conclusions of the accident investigation announced there. “You could say you’ve already made your first moves,” Thatcher concluded.
Von Hennig supplied the cloud for this silver lining. “Yes, by turning world attention to BADA just as a scandal erupts, one that would never have been noticed otherwise. Damn Zabriski! The man was bad enough when he was alive. But he’s managed to leave us this poisonous legacy. If he’d exercised a modicum of common sense, all this could have been avoided.”
“Just how?”
“What would any normal chief of staff do upon discovering a fraud in his organization?” von Hennig demanded. “He’d go straight to his superior, that’s what. You do realize that if Zabriski had marched over to Annamarie and spilled the beans last night, he’d still be alive and we’d know what we were dealing with. Instead he has to play games because he enjoys the melodrama of denouncing moral lapses.”
If Peter was willing to overlook reality, Thatcher was not. “Come now, you’ve forgotten what Zabriski looked like in the doorway last night. Whatever was going on in his mind, he was not enjoying himself.”
Stopped in midtrack, Peter reconsidered. “You’re right about that,” he finally conceded. “I’d forgotten that he’s the one who established all the financial systems at BADA. This was a different kettle of fish than claiming all Estonia was responsible for Hroka’s dumping. If Zabriski himself created a gigantic loophole that made BADA vulnerable to embezzlement, that would explain his reaction.”
Thatcher nodded. “It might also explain his reluctance to speak to Madame Nordstrom.”
“Together with that civil service mentality Zabriski had in spades,” Peter said contemptuously. “Anything important would have to be enshrined in a proper memorandum, particularly if it required a good deal of self-exculpation.”
“And there’s still another possibility.” Thatcher advanced tentatively. “What if Madame Nordstrom were the embezzler? Bach said the report was going to the full council.”
Von Hennig looked startled but he repressed the automatic protest that sprang to his lips. Only after due deliberation did he continue. “I scarcely think that’s likely. Annamarie is quite wealthy in her own right and, God knows, she’s ambitious. I don’t think she’d endanger her future for personal gain.” The reserve in this assessment had not escaped Thatcher.
“Tell me, Peter,” he asked curiously. “Do you like the woman?”
“She’s a joy to work with. She’s intelligent, reasonable, and, above all, capable of defining goals with a nice balance between prudence and progress.”
“That scarcely answers the question.”
“Oh, all right,” Peter grumbled. “If you must know, she’s too much all things to all men for me. Every delegate who goes to her gets a sympathetic hearing. She understands his particular difficulties, she appreciates his unique goals. Then, when the smoke has cleared, BADA is doing exactly what she intended all along. I favor a more straightforward approach.”
“You don’t have to tell me that.”
Uncomfortably von Hennig felt obliged to continue. “I do realize that my position is indefensible. While I object to her methods I admit they are the only ones that would be so effective.”
“At least you’re on the same side at the present,” Thatcher offered.
“We almost always are. In many ways,” Peter said wryly, “that makes it even more irritating.”
“For starters you both want the Kiel project delayed,” Thatcher went on. “Then as a concomitant, you want the motive for Zabriski’s murder determined.”
“That would certainly be a help. But the killing was probably designed to prevent disclosure.”
Here at least Thatcher could extend some comfort “I don’t want to raise false hopes, but Everett has agreed to establish himself in Gdansk for several weeks to go through BADA’s records with a fine-tooth comb. If anybody can find an irregularity, it’s Gabler.”
Von Hennig looked up hopefully. “You think he’ll pull it off?”
“If it’s a fraud within BADA, that’s quite possible. But Bach was not sure of that If Zabriski came across something in which BADA’s role was peripheral to the fleecing of someone else, then the odds are not so good.”
Just then there was a perfunctory knock and the door opened to admit Everett Gabler. For once he came as a breath of fresh air. “A very satisfactory morning,” he announced robustly. “You know, von Hennig, although our discussions convinced me that the Sloan should open an office to monitor developments here, I had grave doubts about the feasibility of doing so. However, it has been easier than I expected.”
“An office and a staff?” von Hennig queried. “Finding good help here is difficult. I make it a habit to bring my own with me.”
Gabler went him one better. “That has been taken care of. You recall, John, that I hired Mrs. Gomulka to assist me? Well, she’s proving to be invaluable. Indeed it was she who brought these quarters to my attention, and I think they will fit our needs nicely.”
Tributes flowing from Gabler’s lips were unusual and so was his omission of a formal request for Thatcher’s approval. “Perhaps we could drop by to inspect them on our way to lunch,”
said Gabler, bursting with pride.
“Lead the way, Ev,” said Thatcher, wondering what to expect. Minutes later, within two short blocks of the Hevelius, they contemplated a mini-skyscraper emblazoned with the name of its prime tenant.
“If it’s good enough for Nissan, it’s good enough for the Sloan, Ev,” Thatcher congratulated him.
In the elevator Gabler continued to bask in his achievement. “Mrs. Gomulka assures me that we will have computer and fax capability within a day or two.”
“Then she may not know as much about Poland as she claims,” von Hennig warned.
Gabler was at his most nonchalant. “Perhaps, perhaps. Did I mention that she spent three years at the Bank of America?”
The two-room suite awaiting them on the eighth floor was reassuringly modern and Gabler discoursed happily on its advantages, breaking off only at the sound of a scuffle by the door. “Ah, there you are,” he said genially when it opened. “John, I’d like you to meet Mrs. Gomulka.”
Thatcher blinked as the apparition deposited the packages with which she was encumbered.
“Carol,” she amplified, shaking hands heartily. “Carol Gomulka.”
Unconsciously Thatcher had pictured a gray-haired matron, wise in the ways of an alien society. Instead he was presented with a slip of a girl, still in her twenties, clad in blue jeans and running shoes, speaking in the unmistakable accents of Texas. “This is just the first load,” she announced, “but I managed to get everything. So Bill should have the equipment hooked up tonight.”
Eyeing the mass of cables and connectors spilling onto the desk, Thatcher said that he understood finding technical equipment was difficult. “You have to be a scrounger and none of this is new,” she disclaimed with a gesture encompassing computer and ramifications. “But even if these things are used, they’re in good working condition.”
“I see.”
A true daughter of the USA, she interpreted his expression at once. “Oh, it’s not hot,” she reassured him. “We rented it from people willing to do without for the price Mr. Gabler offered.”
She and Everett beamed at each other in celebration of their team effort, then she plunged off to retrieve the rest of her loot.
“But she’s an American,” von Hennig said accusingly. “What on earth is she doing in Gdansk?”
It was, at least in one respect, an all-too-familiar story. Two years ago Bill Gomulka had lost his job in Silicon Valley, then inherited a farm from Polish grandparents. In the process of arranging the sale he had decided his talents had more scarcity value in Gdansk than in California.
“But while he waits for the computer tide to arrive,” Gabler concluded, “they’re both scratching a living with any employment they can find.”
“Well, if the husband performs as well as the wife,” Thatcher decided, “we are very fortunate.”
Four hours with Carol Gomulka had succeeded in erasing reservations that Gabler usually entertained for years. After proclaiming that the Gomulkas could be relied on to fulfill their promises, he swept on to the general maxims so dear to his heart.
“. . . always a mistake to lower reasonable standards. With sufficient fixity of purpose . . .”
Demonstrating those cardinal virtues, Colonel Oblonski and Alex had meanwhile slogged up the coast to the Mirador. It stood on a pebbly beach, an island of summer fun now shuttered against the icy Baltic breezes. After parking the car, they trooped into the badly lit lobby where Anton Vigotis stood waiting.
“Dreadful, dreadful,” he said of the circumstances that brought them together. “There is a small sitting room or my suite upstairs . . . after you, Colonel.” But as he padded ahead of them, he demonstrated more concern than grief at Stefan Zabriski’s sudden death. By the time he sat facing Oblonski, Vigotis’s piety had disappeared altogether. Leonhard Bach’s exchange in the lounge with Chairman Nordstrom still rankled.
“We could hear every word. Bach didn’t even bother to lower his voice,” he said censoriously. “As if more scurrilous innuendoes and allegations are in any way helpful!”
With everybody advocating a conspiracy of silence, Oblonski could only thank God for Leonhard Bach and his loose lips. Without them, Stefan Zabriski’s last hours on earth would have remained a total blank. As it was, certain outlines were taking shape.
“I’m told that Herr Bach advanced an opinion about why Zabriski was so upset,” he suggested slyly.
“That I cannot say,” Vigotis rejoined. “We left the lounge almost immediately after Madame Nordstrom.”
Like nearly everybody else, he showed a strong desire to disassociate himself from the whole sorry episode, but Oblonski had no reason to disbelieve him. “‘We’?” he said, consulting his notebook. “That would be you and Jaan Hroka who left together?”
“That is correct,” said Vigotis, relaxing visibly. Then, with belated thoughts of hospitality, he rose and ambled gently around the room in search of something to offer his guests. Finding a box of cigars, he extended it to Oblonski, adding, “We didn’t part company until I turned off in the lobby, to have the desk call me a taxi.”
Oblonski stiffened. “And Herr Hroka did not?”
Vigotis remained placid. “Why, no,” he said, fussing over his Havana. “He has a car so he used the other exit.”
“To the parking lot?” asked Oblonski, grateful he had avoided specifying the scene of the crime.
With dawning reluctance Vigotis replied, “Yes, that door in the rear, past the mechanic’s workshop. Why do you ask?”
When Oblonski told him, he winced.
Chapter 12
Scuttlebutt
Early news bulletins from Gdansk listlessly reported the murder of Stefan Zabriski. Then, through the magic of television, he was transformed into a prominent member of the international community, a world-renowned activist and, without explanation, a symbol. “No comment,” said Madame Nordstrom, running a media gauntlet.
When her example spread through the ranks of BADA, veteran reporters fell back on barroom philosophy and taxi-driver wisdom. Their satellite transmissions were strong on human interest and weak on specifics. Nevertheless the coverage was followed avidly, especially in Copenhagen, where there was a personal connection.
“How I wish Eric were here to explain what’s really happening at BADA,” said the acting chairman of the Nordic Wildlife Coalition, one of Denmark’s flourishing advocacy groups.
“Andersen misses a lot of our meetings,” remarked a dissident, wearing his academic scruffiness like a uniform.
The chairman of NWC was Denmark’s delegate to BADA and the list of his affiliations did not stop there. The luster of Eric Andersen’s celebrity was much sought after.
“Sometimes I’m afraid he spreads himself too thin,” quavered an elderly admirer.
But Andersen also had critics. “Besides, what makes you think he knows what’s going on?” demanded a young intellectual. The implication that Andersen was a mere figurehead was heretical.
“A foolish remark, Hans,” said the acting chairman like the schoolmistress she was. “Remember his last lecture. Eric proved that he knows all about BADA, down to the last detail.”
“He also said that BADA’s the only way we can encourage environmental responsibility in the East,” said Hans, imitating Andersen’s familiar accents. “A lot of crap. What is BADA actually doing? Damned little, if you ask me. They’re just another bunch of concrete pourers.”
Before the acting chairman could retaliate with every green achievement she remembered, a peacemaker intervened.
“International cooperation, Hans,” said Reverend Dr. Jacobsen. “Hands across the Baltic.” Hans was opposed to the established church too.
“And sweetness and light, I suppose. But look at BADA. People are killing each other.”
His exaggeration elicited sighs, but tolerance is a national characteristic. “You make it sound like mass slaughter,” said Dr. Jacobsen. “It is one heinous crime, tragic indeed. But I
agree with you, Hans, that it is a cause for anxiety, and I’m sure Eric feels the same. We can only hope and pray that it was the act of a madman.”
“According to the internet,” said Hans, stunning everybody with science, “that would mean somebody at BADA is the lunatic. Apparently the cops have been grilling all the delegates.”
“Among others,” said a TV viewer.
Ignoring this contribution, Hans swept on. “Well, if Andersen is sticking to his usual line, he won’t be a lot of help.”
Much as she wanted to get back to the agenda, the acting chairman could not let this pass. “His usual line?” she asked sharply. “Do you refer to Eric’s tireless campaigning to save the Baltic?”
“I refer to these fairy tales he peddles about BADA and all its promise,” responded Hans impudently. That wonderful, efficient staff! All those right-minded people dedicated to doing good. If Andersen’s sticking to that garbage, the police will laugh in his face. Obviously there’s something pretty rotten at BADA and apparently Andersen’s never noticed. He’s certainly never bothered to mention it.”
“Then you haven’t been listening,” said the acting chairman. “Eric is much too wise to attack his colleagues in public, however much he may oppose them. But he certainly does not underestimate them. He is fighting the good fight for all of us and he will not let this brutal act interrupt his good work.”
“Amen,” said Dr. Jacobsen with paralyzing sincerity while Hans rolled his eyes.
* * *
BADA was coming under fire from another quarter, the Chamber of Commerce in Rostock. Their weekly luncheons were heavy affairs, with smoky portraits of bygone Hanseatic merchants looking down from the wall, and mountains of cholesterol on the table. The staple of all conversation among the members was the D-mark.
“So Germany sends them money, which is crazy in the first place,” said a well-padded lawyer. “We could put it to better use here. And what do we get in return? Murder, for God’s sake, and not much more.”