A Shark Out of Water

by Emma Lathen

  Bill Gomulka was only too happy to tell him. A small, privatized razor blade company in Poland had done well enough to be bought by a foreign firm. Computerization was the first order of the day and Gomulka’s bid to run a training program had been chosen over sparse competition.

  “Being bilingual has finally paid off. And the course will last for six months with payment in hard currency. But the reps from IBM won’t come for two weeks so I’m free until then.”

  “And now that Bill has his foot in the door,” Carol chimed in, “he’ll be able to get more contracts.”

  He had even bigger ideas. Gazing mistily into a golden future he said, “It doesn’t have to stop with Poland, honey. This is happening all over Eastern Europe. We might end up with offices in Budapest and Prague.” Exhilarated by these possibilities he hoisted the bottle. “Have some champagne.”

  “At this hour?” Gabler replied primly. “I’m not sure I want—”

  “I do,” Thatcher interrupted. While he appreciated the details that made this new attendant available, he was more impressed by Bill Gomulka’s physical contours. Carol’s husband was built like a wrestler. His broad shoulders and thick chest suggested that, in a pinch, he could gallop up a flight of stairs with Gabler tucked under his arm.

  A preliminary cough from Everett alerted Thatcher. “Never mind about that now, Ev. You’ll have plenty of time to talk to Bill about his business problems later. I’m interested in what he was saying about the Eighth Day radicals. You’re familiar with them?”

  “Bill knows all about environmentalists. He was active in Greenpeace,” Carol said proudly.

  “Only for summers while I was in college.”

  Today she was not letting him hide his light under a bushel. “He went to jail. In Russia!” she added impressively.

  Faced with two startled glances, Bill felt obliged to explain. Many years ago he had set sail with a group determined to harass Russian whalers. They had been so effective that the Soviet navy had appeared on the scene. “I was scared to death,” Bill confessed. “It looked as if they were going to blow us out of the water.” Instead the miscreants had been escorted to a cell on land where they were severely lectured for a week before being handed over to their respective embassies.

  “Of course I was a kid then,” Bill apologized with all the gravity of the young. “My thinking has changed in the last ten years.” While still firmly committed to the cause, Gomulka had redirected the focus of his attention. “I’ve learned a lot from living in Europe. Confrontation is fun but it’s a game for dummies. To make progress like Denmark, you’ve got to work through the establishment.” Bill’s transformation, it seemed, had entailed membership in a succession of organizations.

  “By now you must have a fairly accurate overview of the entire movement,” said Thatcher. “Do you think it’s likely that any of them, not just these Eighth Day people, should attack the Kiel Canal?”

  Asked for a serious opinion, Gomulka became cautious. “First off, there are hundreds if not thousands of organizations worldwide. That means you’re dealing with a cross-section of the population. So nothing’s impossible. Still, I wouldn’t expect the canal to be a target. It’s not an obvious source of danger like a nuclear reactor, so you wouldn’t have popular support. Then there’s the risk of causing casualties and, if you ask me, the people ruthless enough for that like to do it up close and personal. That’s what turns them on. Finally, it would be damn tricky to arrange. You’d have to hang around the locks day after day waiting for a sudden thick fog.”

  This lucid analysis was not enough for Everett Gabler. “Obviously some of them did not mind causing casualties at Lazienkowski Palace,” he said acidly. “Who do you think was responsible for that?”

  While her husband debated his choice, Carol recalled the duties of a hostess. Producing a dish of salted nuts, she bent over Thatcher to whisper, “Is it all right about hiring Bill?”

  “Better than all right.”

  She had, indeed, found the perfect driver. Instead of being rendered captious by his dependence on a stranger, Everett would seize the opportunity to instruct young Gomulka. By the time the two weeks were over he would have covered everything from creating a small-business plan to going public. In return for all this tuition, the Sloan would have an environmental expert on tap.

  It was a marriage made in heaven.

  Chapter 19

  Home Port

  Between Poland and Germany lies a shifting border that has always raised hackles. Normally a query from an unknown Gdansk policeman would have been relegated to the bottom of the pile at Kiel. But the harassed Canal Authority, enraged by the specter of terrorism, was in a vindictive mood. If Colonel Oblonski had reason to suspect two small boats in particular then, come hell or high water, Kiel would cooperate.

  Energetically they began to search for a location along the canal that could accommodate a giant crane. While this monster was being maneuvered into position, boarding parties achieved feats of navigation, disentangling the Brigitte and the Pelican, then threading them past every obstacle to a site near the massive concrete pad.

  The Pelican, a 30-foot ketch out of England, arrived first, and it was a sorry sight. The bowsprit had disappeared, leaving the ripped jib to lie in tattered folds over the bow. The vessel’s two-masted silhouette was now wildly out of proportion, with the top third of the mizzenmast canted over the smashed dinghy. And the rain of debris that had pockmarked the superstructure of the cabin littered the deck. “It certainly looks as if it’s been through the wars,” remarked one of the workmen.

  The moment of truth was fast approaching. The crane was in the center of the pad, the Pelican had been swaddled in batting and cables, and the experts had found themselves a coign of vantage. They were, of course, not the only spectators. As all these activities were taking place in the middle of a weekday, the adjacent community could not produce its full complement of residents. But there were at least 20 gray-haired couples, a number of women with baby carriages, and the usual collection of deliverymen whose rounds had put them in the right place at the right time. “Do we know anything about the people who were on board?” an expert asked.

  A local official pointed unenthusiastically at the water. “That’s them. They’re from Oxford.” Four young men had managed to clamber down the steep incline to line up at the very rim of the canal. Clad in grimy jeans and sweatshirts each clutched a large stein. They had watched the swaddling process critically and now they awaited the climax. Movement was perceptible as the hull was raised inch by inch. Then the virtuoso at the crane controls applied power with an ever-so-delicate touch until at last the vessel swung free with water streaming off its sides. The four students raised their beer and, as the Pelican swiveled through the air toward the waiting flatbed truck, produced a ragged cheer.

  “That hull is as clean as a whistle,” said a disappointed expert after a preliminary scan. They were lucky, damned lucky.” Far different was the scene later that afternoon when the same crew and the same crane addressed the Brigitte. A chill, dank drizzle had sent the bystanders back to their homes and only one solitary wayfarer on a bicycle had halted to watch the ascent.

  The official who had identified the Oxford contingent now watched the trim cabin cruiser being coaxed into position and nodded approvingly. “At least these people believe in polishing brass and renewing paint. Who are they?”

  There was no approval at all from the canal inspector who was flourishing a clipboard. “The registered owners are a Mr. and Mrs. Hans Rasmussen of Copenhagen. But the vessel was being piloted by a Miss Dagmar Rasmussen and she had a boyfriend with her.”

  “Then where are they?”

  This time there was a significant pause. “They boarded a plane before the smoke cleared, leaving instructions with a local boatyard.” Now all eyes shifted to the Brigitte. Wallowing low in the water, she had miraculously escaped the rain of debris that had pelted the English sailboat. And the hull, when it was
winched upward, appeared unblemished until the final two feet were exposed.

  “Well,” breathed one of the experts softly, “will you look at that?” He was pointing to a long, raking gash along the port side of the bow.

  Colonel Oblonski began by paraphrasing freely. “Kiel says Pelican is in the clear,” he told Alex.

  “That leaves the Brigitte. And Brigitte is Danish.” But long before he had finished pages of nautical detail, the BADA rumor mill was humming.

  Downstairs Wanda Jesilko listened with apparent indifference, then headed straight for Stefan Zabriski’s office.

  “Sure, take what you want,” said its current occupant. “I think the police have brought everything back.”

  “Just as well or we’d never get anything done around here,” she said lightly.

  Among the delegates to BADA the response took a slightly different form. “The Brigitte you say?” observed Eric Andersen when his secretary relayed the latest. He waited until she left before adding, “Goddamit to hell! Now what am I supposed to do?” But he knew there was only one option open to him.

  “Lili,” he said, striding to the door. “Something unexpected’s come up. I’m spending the night in Copenhagen but I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon.”

  Copenhagen was more than Eric Andersen’s hometown. It was his base of operations, efficiently maintained by his wife no matter how far he roamed. Clara had been busy since his phone call from Gdansk. “Christian’s landlady says he’s away,” she reported the minute Andersen set foot in the front hall. “He left a couple of weeks ago, and she doesn’t know when to expect him.”

  “Just what I was afraid of,” he said, depositing his overnight bag. “Your precious nephew—” “Our nephew!” she insisted.

  “All right, our nephew, “Andersen conceded. “But I am right, aren’t I? About Dagmar Rasmussen and Brigitte?”

  Lowering her voice she said, “The children are upstairs. Come into the kitchen so we can talk. I’ve kept some things hot.”

  Following her, Andersen drew the only conclusion he could. “So the missing boyfriend may well be Christian. My God, how many hours have we wasted talking to him?”

  Clara did her best for the dearly beloved son of a dearly beloved sister. “I still don’t believe it,” she declared. “It’s not like him at all.”

  “For God’s sake, Clara,” he said, goaded by an old argument. “Neither of us knows what Christian is capable of! Relying on him was always a big mistake. But now, with all those casualties and millions of dollars of damage, it’s beginning to look as if we were blind. If Christian’s involved . . .”

  If Christian were involved it would be tragedy for the whole Andersen family. Clara could foresee weeping parents and stricken relatives. Andersen’s crystal ball showed legions of his supporters fleeing from the taint of disgrace. “I suppose you want to talk to Christian,” Clara said dully.

  “That was the general idea,” he replied. “I thought maybe he could convince me that the Brigitte wasn’t involved. But now that he’s disappeared into the blue. . .” His shrug acknowledged defeat.

  “There must be something we can do!” Clara said fiercely. “Anything’s better than sitting here, waiting for the worst!”

  He barely heard her.

  “At least go talk to the Rasmussens,” she said. “Find out what they know. Maybe they can tell you where Christian is. And if you can talk to Christian before anybody else does . . .”

  “Talk is the least I’ll do with Christian once I get hold of him,” promised Andersen. “Still, you’re right. The Rasmussens are the only place I can start.” As a result an hour later he was reversing out of a cul-de-sac.

  “Trust the Rasmussens to live in a hellhole like this,” he grumbled to himself. He was lost in an outlying suburb that was a world apart. The sole reason for its existence was a small cove whose shoreline was so corrugated that almost every home had water frontage. The boating enthusiasts forming its population did not care that this geography required a bewildering jigsaw of sandy tracks. Furthermore, the inhabitants seemed incapable of giving accurate directions. He had already stopped twice. “Let’s see,” the last gasoline station had pondered. “You go straight for about one kilometer and there’s a fork. Take the left and then it’s . . . oh, the third or fourth right.”

  It had been a full three kilometers to the fork and the lane had dead-ended before any turn at all. “I need native guides,” Andersen said with bitter humor. But his third stop was fruitful. The door opened on sounds of cheerful babbling, explained when two small boys and a shaggy dog spilled into the driveway.

  “Oh, the Rasmussens!” exclaimed the comfortable matron behind them. “Why, you’re practically there. Just keep on going to the top of the hill and they’re the first house down on the other side. But I don’t know if they’re back yet. They were loading suitcases into the car when I drove past yesterday.”

  “Many thanks,” he said, firmly suppressing all assumptions. For better or worse this dismal search was coming to an end. Following instructions he crested the hill to sink into a layer of dark ground fog. Even crawling at a snail’s pace he almost missed the looming black shadow barely distinguishable in the surrounding murk. Not a single light shone from the Rasmussen residence. Nonetheless Andersen pulled in and got out. After searching the front porch for any notification about deliveries or mail, he futilely repeated the process at the kitchen door. Stubbornly he continued to the garage. But the doors were locked and the window blacked out. He was still debating further action when the brow of the hill was outlined by approaching fog lights. As the orange glow broadened Andersen experienced a chill of apprehension. It could of course be a late commuter. But there was something about the competence of those probing lights that alarmed him.

  “Lord, that’s all I need,” he thought, hurrying to his car. Then, with more speed than prudence, he backed out of the driveway and swept forward. By the time the police cruiser slowed for the entrance, Andersen’s car had been swallowed by the fog, leaving behind only the muffled red glare of his taillights.

  “I wonder if you might help us. We’re trying to contact the Rasmussens and they’re not at home,” the policeman said. The same cheerful woman had answered her door. With a clear conscience she could think of only one thing.

  “I hope it’s not an accident that has you all looking for the Rasmussens.”

  “All?”

  “Yes, there was a man here a few minutes ago asking the way to their house.”

  The two policemen glanced at each other as the image of those disappearing taillights took on new significance.

  “Did you happen to get his name?”

  No, of course she had not asked his name. But there had been something familiar about his face.

  “I don’t pay much attention to cars,” she admitted, in reply to the inevitable question. Then her face brightened. “But Freddie does and he was in the driveway. That’s my little boy.”

  “I realize it’s late but would you mind if we questioned him? We wouldn’t frighten him.” She grinned broadly. “No, I don’t mind and Freddie’s always game for anything that puts off bedtime.”

  When Freddie appeared, still pink from his bath and wearing a natty bathrobe, he justified her confidence on both counts. “Of course I noticed the car.” Then, with a sideways glance at his mother, he came to a full stop. Freddie was going to drag this out as long as possible. A good deal of give-and-take was necessary to establish that the car had been a 1991 Volvo, a dark green four-door sedan.

  “And the model?” After Freddie reeled off the specifics the policemen beamed at him.

  “I’ll bet you collect license plates,” the older said invitingly.

  But this was a serious mistake. The soft, rosy features collapsed into a disdainful pout. Collecting license plates was only fit for babies, according to Freddie. But when his mother began to rise, he pushed on. Stickers, on the other hand, were a worthy study and he had one of the best
collections in the third grade. He always looked at stickers.

  “Tell me about those on the Volvo.”

  At first they had not seemed hopeful. Slogans about saving the reindeer were common as dirt. Why, even Hansi Brutel had those. But in the lower corner of the rear window Freddie had struck pay dirt. “I’d never seen one before.”

  It had been a circle emblazoned with BADA HEADQUARTERS, GDANSK, POLAND.

  “Thank you, Freddie,” the policeman said sincerely. “Thank you very much.”

  Chapter 20

  Slipping Anchor

  When he returned to Gdansk the following day, Eric Andersen encountered a welcoming committee. “Just a few words, Herr Andersen,” said Colonel Oblonski’s deputy.

  With masterful affability, Andersen smiled at Alex. “Then let’s get it over, whatever it’s about,” he said. There’s important work waiting for me at BADA.”

  His escort remained stolid and, when they reached police headquarters, Oblonski genially greeted his guest. “I knew you’d want to cooperate.”

  “Well, here I am,” said Andersen.

  If anything, Oblonski was pleased by this reserve. “Just let me review some facts. You had several exchanges, acrimonious exchanges, with Zabriski. Then he made some charges about your business ethics. Do I have that right?”

  “Surely I’ve explained all this before.”

  “Yes, but I want to be sure I’ve got it straight. In general, you and Zabriski were opposed to each other.”

  “There has never been any secret of that,” Andersen replied, indicating boredom.

  “He wanted more and more development,” Oblonski drove on. “You’re for protecting the environment.” When Andersen let this pass, Oblonski’s ingratiating twinkle disappeared. “To be more specific, you locked horns over his big ideas for the Kiel Canal.”

  “Quite right, Colonel,” said Andersen, tensing.