A Shark Out of Water Page 12

  That Rostock needed all the financial help it could get was self-evident to this group. “BADA may help us renovate the harbor,” said the mayor.

  “And pigs can fly,” retorted a constituent. “When you say things like that you sound as bad as our friend Bach. By the way, where is he?”

  “He’s in Gdansk, Magnus.”

  “Oh sure, right in the thick of things,” Magnus grunted. “Probably having the time of his life.”

  Germans have a term for the joy to be derived from the misfortunes of others, but there is a reverse to that coin. In grubby, depressed Rostock, Leonhard Bach’s prosperity stood out like a bright shining star, as eye-catching as the fresh paint on his spanking Valhalla vessels.

  The mayor thoughtlessly compounded his error. “Leonhard’s got a lot of faith that BADA can give Rostock a shot in the arm,” he said, quoting from memory. “It makes sense to me.” The argument was familiar to them all. Promote Baltic traffic, construct modern facilities, revitalize trade, and some of the goodies would trickle down into local hands.

  “But if you believe BADA can do that, you believe in miracles,” Magnus insisted. “All they do over there in Gdansk is draw up rules and regulations, more forms to fill out, more make-work. Show me something I can take to the bank.”

  “Leonhard says—”

  “Leonhard says that BADA is the White House, the Kremlin, and the Vatican all rolled into one, just because he wangled that loan out of them, God alone knows how.”

  With tongues loosed by beer and Bach’s absence, his townsmen let fly. The mayor gave them five minutes, then called for order. “Still, you’ve got to admit BADA does some good. Look at the Kiel Canal. This Pole who got murdered organized the relief efforts, and you can’t deny they helped.”

  Magnus wiped foam from his upper lip with a vicious swipe. “Who needed him? The German authorities could have coped very well. We don’t need outsiders telling us what to do.” The Chamber of Commerce was no longer the only game in town. Other voices were being raised, advocating alien doctrines.

  “Save the fish! Plant trees! Control emissions! Do they ever stop to think that people need protection too?” blustered the lawyer.

  As soon as subversive precepts began to circulate in Rostock, Magnus attributed them to BADA. “Stirring up trouble,” he fulminated. “No wonder somebody got driven to desperation.”

  “Well, you can’t accuse Leonhard of that,” said the mayor to lighten the atmosphere. “When it comes to real priorities, he’s got his head screwed on right. That’s why he’s over in Gdansk now, lobbying for the harbor, for a new and better canal.”

  “Pie in the sky,” said Magnus, unwilling to give the devil his due.

  But interest had shifted back to the troublemakers. “Funny about this killing, though,” said a stolid building contractor. “You’d think that, if someone was out to damage BADA, they’d go after Madame Nordstrom. She’s the one who calls the shots.”

  Latent anti-feminism surfaced. “She’s the one who does all the talking, and too damned much of it too. But I understand Zabriski really ran the show.”

  “Besides, nobody could be anti-BADA enough to commit murder.”

  “Except Magnus!” quipped the local wit.

  “Not me,” said Magnus. “One of those back-to-nature nuts, maybe. You’ll have to ask Bach about it. He’s the big expert on BADA.”

  Somebody had seen Leonhard Bach on the late-night news roundup. “And he didn’t have much to say about BADA or anything else.”

  “That’s a switch!”

  * * *

  Leonhard Bach’s uncharacteristic restraint and the discretion displayed by Annamarie Nordstrom won warm approval in Berlin. However, doubts were entertained about Colonel Oblonski. “He doesn’t look very intelligent,” said one of the administration’s spin doctors. “You know we offered our assistance to the Polish authorities, but they refused.”

  “That’s not surprising, Heino. They’re always so touchy, these Poles,” said his counterpart. The phone lines linking these experts had been humming steadily without effecting a true meeting of minds.

  “Not only touchy, but inconvenient,” said Heino. This outrage could not have occurred at a worst time, speaking in terms of public perception. Peter von Hennig was on the line to the minister just now—”

  “Saying that Zabriski stumbled over something unsavory at BADA? Yes, he called here too.”

  “Which further complicates matters that are already complicated enough,” Heino lamented. All official spokesmen for all governments want to keep things simple. It was not for this pair to ask why their masters were worried about murder or any other crimes at BADA. Their job was to neutralize any troublesome fallout from the coverage in Gdansk.

  “However, with the police trudging around uselessly and little hard information available, this unfortunate spurt of publicity will die down of its own accord. Who cares about what’s happening at BADA?”

  Wishful thinking had led him astray as his colleague was quick to remind him. “Peter von Hennig, for one, and the finance minister. And the chancellor himself was recently photographed shaking hands with Madame Nordstrom.”

  Since a picture is worth a thousand words, this evoked a long-suffering sigh, then a revision. “Let me rephrase myself. How many people are deeply concerned with an obscure Pole named Zabriski? Frankly, I’m sure we can trust the forgetfulness of the general population.”

  Heino disagreed. “Think of the land mines out there,” he said fussily. Think of the uproar if large-scale deliberate plundering is brought to light.”

  “Short of armed robbery, it will not matter a bit,” said his comforter. “The only reason for all this negative publicity is the murder. And, I repeat, that will soon pass—unless of course Madame Nordstrom struck down Zabriski.”

  “Is that meant to be a joke?” yelped Heino.

  “Of course it is. Compose yourself, Heino. There may be discoveries embarrassing to the people involved with BADA, but they can be contained. Once this immediate uproar dies down Stefan Zabriski will be consigned to oblivion.”

  * * *

  Not if Warsaw could help it. “An international civil servant who happens to be a Polish citizen! Murdered on Polish soil! How could such a thing happen?”

  The minister’s secretary was his liaison to Gdansk. By now Ignace knew more than he wanted to about BADA, but relaying that knowledge was uphill work. “Serious dissensions have developed within the organization,” he began again. “It is feared that Zabriski may have roused the enmity of one faction. Either that or he discovered serious wrongdoing—”

  Jerzy Witzold had a short attention span and a politician’s sensitivity to TV. Buffing a manicured nail on his lapel, he ignored the backgrounding. “And Oblonski? Is he telling you more than the little he says to the public?”

  Here Ignace had less to offer. “He is interrogating witnesses and looking into Zabriski’s past. But it is early days, Minister.”

  “In other words, no progress.” Ignace agreed, then the minister went further. “And another black eye for Poland.” On one level his reasoning was impeccable. Viewers all over Europe were being treated to glimpses of run-down Gdansk neighborhoods as well as reconstructed historic mansions. But the minister was operating on a higher plane.

  “Justice,” he said reverently, casting Poland as a champion of human rights. “Swift, impartial, and conducted under the rule of law.” Unfortunately reality, in the form of Colonel Oblonski, was not cooperating. Until the police identified the perpetrator, Poland’s reputation would suffer. And then, God forbid, Zabriski’s murderer could turn out to be a fellow Pole.

  “And it would be more than tourists who’d be turned off,” said the minister broodingly. “Who wants to invest in a crime-ridden slum? Pride alone dictates that we cannot allow this to happen.” Appeals to Polish pride were not as effective as the administration liked to think but they were frequently made, often in the name of a martyr or a fallen he
ro.

  “Hmm,” said the minister, thinking aloud. “A martyr.”

  “Zabriski?” gasped Ignace.

  With considerable exasperation Witzold rounded on him. “You lack vision, Ignace. A martyr to the cause of international harmony. A martyr to Poland’s contribution to the free new world. A martyr to the rebirth of Baltic greatness.”

  It was Ignace’s turn to vent impatience. “And what exactly do we do for a Polish martyr?”

  Smiling like the cat who swallowed the canary, Minister Witzold said, “Need you ask?”

  Chapter 13

  Consigned to the Deep

  Oh, my God, they’re having a state funeral,” Thatcher announced after scanning the hand-delivered message.

  Gabler looked up alertly. “Very proper.”

  Thatcher realized he should have expected this response. Funerals constituted the only known form of social gathering that Everett was willing, nay eager, to attend. All the atmospherics appealed to him, the sonorous voices, the decorous attire, the time-honored ritual. At the Sloan, unless obsequies absolutely demanded the tower suite, Gabler was regularly seconded for duty. “But it’s down in Warsaw,” Thatcher said in a last bid for sympathy.

  “Naturally we will wish to pay our respects.” As always this sentence sparked the desire to ask why. Until two weeks ago Thatcher had never heard of Stefan Zabriski, and in the interval since had only exchanged a few words with him. Unfortunately, with Finanzbank lurking in the shadows, this was the ideal time to stress the Sloan’s sensitivity to all things Baltic.

  “I guess we’ll both have to go.” Everett nodded serenely. He had never contemplated any other possibility.

  The BADA party that arrived in Warsaw was gratifyingly substantial. Nevertheless, when a program of the day’s schedule was presented to Madame Nordstrom, she gasped with dismay. Recovering, she said apologetically: “I think we should plan on being here longer than we expected.”

  Peter von Hennig took the bull by the horns. “You’d better tell us the bad news, Annamarie.”

  Gallantly she complied. “Stefan’s body is lying in state at the Royal Castle of the Kings. That’s where we start. We then go to the Church of Saint Alexander for a high requiem mass. The funeral procession from church to cemetery runs along the Royal Road to Wilanowski Palace for the interment ceremony at Dowazki Cemetery. After that there will be a reception at the Palace Lazienkowski.”

  The drill sounded basically familiar to Thatcher. He and half of Wall Street had recently bade farewell to a governor of the Federal Reserve Bank in roughly the same way. Of course good old Gerry had departed without a backdrop of ancient castles, basilicas, and palaces.

  Casimir Radan, as the resident expert, felt it necessary to amplify Annamarie’s warning. “These sites are not next door to each other. It will probably take most of the day.” And, as BADA soon realized, it was going to be one ordeal after another. Among the last to arrive at the castle, they found the proceedings well under way. The bier, guarded by four soldiers at rigid attention, stood under the vaulted ceiling of the great classical library. An endless line moved forward to one side of the casket for a last moment, then circled to the other side where a group of figures in deep mourning waited.

  “The family,” someone whispered. Thatcher was relieved to see that Polish tradition did not require conversation with the bereaved. While some people murmured a few words of condolence, most simply halted in their tracks, and sketched a ceremonial bow, thereby avoiding the awkwardness of speaking about the unknown to the unknown. It was a practice that Thatcher intended to adopt himself.

  As it developed his precaution was unnecessary. Madame Nordstrom brought BADA’s delegates forward as a unit, conveyed their solemn regrets and smoothly flowed on. In her wake came Wanda Jesilko. Instantly one of the women in the family group stepped forward with open arms. She and Wanda embraced, sobs emerged from the entangled long veils, and a man in a black armband took up a protective position at their side. In the confusion Thatcher shuffled by unnoticed. With Wanda now incorporated into the Zabriski family the rest of the line passed without incident, until Leonhard Bach held things up by addressing lengthy remarks to the man with the armband.

  “Herr Bach is speaking to Stefan’s son,” Madame Nordstrom murmured. “I don’t believe they’ve ever met.”

  Being the last in, the BADA party was among the first to be ferried to the Church of Saint Alexander. As mere auxiliaries Thatcher and Gabler were directed to the rear amidst strangers. “A sad occasion,” said the roly-poly man at Thatcher’s side, after ascertaining that English was the language of the day.

  “Indeed, yes. My meetings with Herr Zabriski all took place at BADA where he was a very respected figure.”

  “Ah, I lost touch with Stefan when he moved to Gdansk, but we knew each other for many years in Warsaw where we were close neighbors. When the children were young our families often went on picnics together. Later there were the merry evenings we spent playing cards with him and Wanda. I was glad to see Pauline and Adam do the right thing.”

  Nodding agreement, Thatcher acknowledged the younger Zabriskis had gracefully handled a situation that many families fumble.

  As they waited for the pews to fill with politicians and prelates, resident diplomats and emissaries from abroad, Roly-Poly continued his recollections of Stefan Zabriski through the decades. He did not fall silent until the first dolorous notes of the organ signaled the beginning of the mass. Thatcher did his best to remain attentive to the service, to the priests coming forward to greet the casket, to the disciplined responses from the congregation, to the soothing harmonies of the choir. But then, during two lengthy eulogies in Polish, one from the cardinal and one from the president, he had plenty of time to think.

  Merry? Picnics and card playing? This was not the Stefan Zabriski of Gdansk, notorious for working late into the night seven days a week. Somehow BADA had transformed normalcy into obsession. Once outside the church Thatcher saw that organizing the procession would be a lengthy business. In addition to the limousines for the official party there were military units, marching bands, and delegations from many civic groups. Gabler used the delay to report his own insights.

  “The man sitting next to me was from the marine bureau and he remembered Zabriski as a fervent soccer fan.” Stranger and stranger, Thatcher reflected. Even Everett, apostle of dedication and unremitting toil, compared the Zabriski of Gdansk unfavorably with the Zabriski of Warsaw.

  “He didn’t antagonize people at the marine bureau. Perhaps his power at BADA went to his head.”

  “Peter is convinced Zabriski was going crazy.”

  When they were finally summoned to their conveyance, they found they were sharing it with Eric Andersen, who was making the best of things. “It’s all running smoothly, isn’t it?” he said as they inched forward.

  “Do you happen to know where we’re going?”

  “The other side of the city. Wilanowski was the historic summer palace, out in the country once, but of course now it’s all built up. My God, just look ahead. Now that is pageantry.” They had entered a broad avenue, straight as an arrow, that allowed them to assimilate the cavalcade of which they were the tail. Contingent after contingent marched to the muffled drums and muted brass of Chopin’s Funeral March while the limousines crawled behind. For Poland’s sake Thatcher was pleased to spot television trucks at strategic intervals. “And some of those military units are well worth photographing,” he remarked.

  The sun was doing full justice to the occasion, reflecting off the polished brass buttons and buckles of soldiers, the gleaming jackboots of officers, the gold-threaded embroidery of regimental flags. In somber contrast, the casket on its low caisson was draped in unrelieved black. As it passed before the crowds lining the sidewalks, men bared their heads and many women crossed themselves.

  “Now we’re coming to an interesting area,” Andersen offered. Thatcher examined the stretch of ample, but ill-assorted buildings,
many of them set in spacious grounds surrounded by fences.

  “Embassy Row,” he said, identifying it without difficulty. Here the architecture of the twentieth century had displaced the reminders of the past. The American Embassy presented itself to the world wrapped in the usual glass and concrete. But, a block later, the French had done even worse. Their giant bunker had apparently been designed to withstand mechanized assault.

  Everett, of course, was trying to turn the occasion to some educational use. “Look at the Yugoslavian Embassy,” he directed. They were moving so slowly they could read the large signs posted by the republics into which that country had fragmented. “BADA was wise to choose Poland for its headquarters,” Everett continued. “No ethnic problems, no worry that the country will disintegrate.” Thatcher had to admit that Gabler had a point. Poland, in spite of constant partitions, in spite of losing national independence regularly for over a 120 years, remained one homogeneous people unified by one church and one history.

  After what seemed like endless miles in second gear, even Gabler began shifting restively and Thatcher was near rebellion. The ornate churches, the high-rise office buildings, the modern apartments had long since been left behind. Now they were crawling through a residential landscape with detached single homes, terraced row houses, and more and more open space occupied by garden allotments.

  “When you said ‘built up,’ Andersen, this was not quite what I expected,” Thatcher observed. The only onlookers now were small children, attendant mothers, and the odd pensioner. The children often downed balls and toys to prance beside the bands and soldiers. They were if anything moving more slowly than before. While the military units marched inexorably forward, some of the civilian groups on foot were beginning to flag. Time dragged. Thatcher was reduced to comparing one allotment with another. This one had been tidied up for the winter, while that one remained bedraggled. Some had brave displays of chrysanthemums while others eschewed anything but edibles.

  Finally Andersen straightened. “Here we are,” he announced, peering ahead to the merger of their boulevard with another. “This is where Jan Sobieskiego and Wilanowski come together. We’re on the home stretch.”