Tainted Tokay (14 page)

37

T
he following day, Benjamin knocked again on his friend's door, w
ithout success.

“I'm worried,” Elisabeth said when he came back
to their room.

Benjamin only nodd
ed in response.

An overnight rainfall had vanquished the suffocating heat that had assaulted Bald Mountain for three days. Ribbons of mist were floating like bridal garlands above the vines. The air, swept in by a capricious cool breeze, was finally breathable. But Benjamin paid it no mind. He paced the balcony. Claude had turned off his cell phone—or had he let it die? Benjamin tried to calm himself. Claude often ignored his phone. The fact that it wasn't working didn't
mean anything.

He was about to go to the Tokaj police station to report the disappearance of the renowned Parisian publisher. But just as he was extinguishing his cigar, a large black sedan with tinted windows pulled up to the inn. The driver stepped out and hastened to open the door for the passenger i
n the backseat.

The slender silhouette of a distinguished-looking man emerged from the car. He had a tanned face and wavy hair, and he was carrying a leather briefcase. He hurried into the lobby of the little inn, his chauffeur on his heels. Apparently, the driver was also
his bodyguard.

To Benjamin, who was watching from his balcony, it looked like a scene from a Gilbert and Sul
livan operetta.

The phone in the room rang, and Benjamin, went back in to pick it up. The innkeeper informed him deferentially that the French ambassador was waiting for the Cookers in the lobby. Benjamin took care to button his collar and smooth his hair before taking his wife's hand and joining the emissary of the Fre
nch government.

“Benjamin Cooker!” exclaimed the representative of the fo
reign ministry.

“Mr. Ambassador,” the winemaker replied, a bit embarrassed by the exub
erant greeting.

“It's a pleasure,” said the ambassador, clearly delighted to be rubbing shoulders with a French national whose reputation in winemaking spa
nned the globe.

“The pleasure is ours, sir. Let me introduce my wi
fe, Elisabeth.”

As the hulking driver looke
d on, the three

shook hands.

“I wanted to personally deliver your emergency passport, Mrs. Cooker,” the ambassador said. “I'm sure the document will ease your concerns in regard to the Hungarian authorities. You should be able to travel with no problems whatsoever. But I also came to discuss one particular aspect of t
his situation…”

“Yes?” said
the winemaker.

“I should say a more unfor
tunate aspect.”

“Meaning?”

“It's about your friend, Claude Nithard. More precisely, it's about the person he brought with him. Your hunch was right, Mr. Cooker. This woman has been known by the Hungarian police for a
few years now.”

“How is that?”
asked Benjamin.

The ambassador ushered the Cookers out to the garden, telling his chauffeur with a nod to stay behind. They began to stroll along a gravel path lined with pink carnations, gentians,
and asclepias.

“Mr. and Mrs. Cooker, Consuela Chavez has, shall we say, a sc
andalous past.”

“What do you mean by that?”
Benjamin asked.

“Let me be clear. This woman is about as South American as I'm Neapolitan. Her family is Eastern European. Actually, they're gypsies. Consuela's grandparents fled the Nazi regime when Himmler ordered a census of the gypsies. In doing that, they managed to avoid the exterm
ination camps.”

Benjamin slowed down and looked at the diplomat, waiting for the m
oment of truth.

“They tried to get to the United States, but they were penniless, so the family settled in the south of France, in Nîmes, and the
n in Toulouse.”

“I knew it,” Elisabeth said. “I told you she had a To
ulouse accent.”

“As I said, they had no money. Consuela's mother was born into poverty. When she was no more than a teenager, she got pregnant and gave birth to Consuela. Her parents had thrown her out, and the baby's father was never in the picture. As a child, Consuela was neglected—her mother was either drinking or turning tricks, and in time, Consuela was turning tricks herself in a seedy hotel near the Matabiau train station. She left her traces in Cannes, too, and then Nice. Her one passion was tango dancing. She frequented the clubs and became qui
te good at it.”

“Yes, that's how s
he met Claude.”

“That was when she put herself under the protection of some unscrupulous Hungarians from Prague and Budapest. Time and again she was taken into custody on suspicion of prostitution, petty theft, or trafficking in false papers. But she was always released for lac
k of evidence.”

Benjamin remained silent. He was thinking of Claude, madly in love with the gorgeous brunette who had set his
c
orazón
on fire.

Sad for his friend, the winemaker sighed. “We had our doubts. There was something about her that didn't add up. But it's quite a leap to imagin
e all of this.”

“I haven't finished,” the ambassador said. “Now we come to Viktor and Attila, the men you met on the Danube. It seems they were buddies with Consuela's protectors. Viktor and Attila run a nice little business stealing wallets, credit cards, passports, and the like. It got even nicer when all hell broke loose in Syria, and Syrians with money began to look for safe ways to make it to Europe. They were willing to pay for doctored French passports, and Viktor and Attila were more than happy to me
et the demand.”

An ancient Buddhist monk's quote came to Benjamin. “‘The human mind, with its infinite afflictions, passions, and evils, is rooted in the three poisons: greed, anger, a
nd delusion.'”

“Yes, they made a lot of money on the suffering of those people,” the diplomat said. “Human nature can b
e quite base.”

“Was Consuela in on the thefts?” Elisabeth asked. “Did she plan to fleece us fr
om the start?”

“We don't believe she had anything to do with the theft of your passport and wallet or with Mr. Nithard's. Our intelligence says they haven't been in contact for a long time. We picked up Viktor and Attila, and they swear they paid her a visit because they knew her, that's all. They recognized he
r on the boat.”

“What about Zoltán? Is he connected to Viktor and Attila?” E
lisabeth asked.

“A known associate. Zoltán and his accomplices were responsible for the thefts, but they were just underlings. It's a surprise to find him so far from Budapest, though. Until now, the authorities thought he was just hanging out around
the basilica.”

“He's an opportunist, and a good one.” It was Elisabeth again. “Do you think he stole Clau
de's passport?”

“He probably had a hand in it, but the ringleaders were Viktor and Attila, who are in custody now. They're charged with engaging in organized crime
and homicide.”

Elisabeth gasped and looke
d at Benjamin.

“Homicide?”
Benjamin asked.

“It seems Interpol had an agent tailing them. He was posing
as an artist.”

“Connor was a spook? Well, what do you know? We met him on the ship. We heard that he met with an unfortunate end. I never would have guessed the incidents w
ere connected.”

“We found his body near the St. Stephen's Basilica in Budapest. He
had been shot.”

Benjamin didn't know how much more news he could take. “He said he was trying to get his fiancée
out of Syria.”

“That was the story he was using to infiltrate the paper-trafficking ring. Those two thugs will pay dearly
for his death.”

The ambassador reached into his jacket and pulled out a leather cigar case. It contained two maduro-wrapped cigars with perfec
tly oiled caps.

“You smoke cigars, Mr. Ambass
ador?” Benjamin

asked.

“It's a habit I picked up during my first diplomatic assignment. I was the French ambassador to Honduras. In that country, how could you resist a puro? There are no vineyards in Honduras, but the country has its finer points. Would you do me the pleasure of havin
g one with me?”

Benjamin accepted the cigar and took out his cutter. He sliced the top from his Havana and handed the highly specialized accessory to the ambassador, who did likewise, with perhaps a little
less elegance.

When Benjamin raised his eyes to savor the first puff of his cigar, with its impeccable cap and aromas of wool and bitter oranges, he noticed that the window in Claude's room was finally open. The Panama hat was no longer hanging fr
om the shutter.

38

C
laude had chosen to fly back to Paris from Debrecen International Airport. He had work to tend to back home, and he had seen quite enou
gh of Hungary.

Benjamin and Elisabeth, however, decided to extend their vacation a few more days. Virgile had gotten things under control at the lab. The estate owners had been appeased, and although the winemaker was eager to see Alexandrine, he couldn't do any more for her than what Virgile was already doing. Elisabeth insisted on taking the train back to Budapest and spending just a little more time in the city. After everything they had been through, he didn't have the heart
to refuse her.

When they arrived in Budapest, the couple checked into the Astor
ia once again.

“So, what shall we do first, dear?” Benjamin asked after a light lunch of duck and sour cabbage strudel with a juniper and paprika sauce in the hotel's restaurant. “Fishermen's Bastion? The Gr
eat Synagogue?”

“Actually, Benjamin, I'd like to go back to
the basilica.”

The winemaker set down his cup of espresso. “Why do you want to go back there, my dear, with everything that's happened? I thought we were putting all our troubles behind us and giving ourselves
a fresh start.”

Elisabeth reached out and took her husband's hand. “I understand how you feel, Benjamin. But it's something I need to do. Ever since we talked with the ambassador in Tokaj, something hasn't seemed right. It's not settled yet, as far as I'm concerned. Maybe going back to the basilica won't answer my questions, but I sti
ll want to go.”

Benjamin sighed. When his wife's mind was made up there was nothing he could d
o but go along.

“All right, sweetheart. We'll go to
the basilica.”

Benjamin paid the bill, and Elisabeth took her husband's arm. The two headed toward the hotel entrance and, once outside
, caught a cab.

“St. Stephen's Basilica,” Benjamin t
old the driver.

“Ah, the monkey paw,” the driver said. “Everyone who comes to Budapest
has to see it.”

Benjamin and Elisabeth didn't respond. A few minutes later they were standing in front of the basilica. They looked at each other and walked up the steps to the entrance. Inside, the basilica was filled with people—tourists, Benjamin assumed. A large group was crowded around the exhibit with the hand. The winemaker took the opportunity to admire the basilica's neo-classical architecture. He wished they had timed their visit better, because he would have loved hearing the six bells, five in the left tower and one
in the right.

Just as he was turning to tell his wife about the organ concerts in this place of worship, something caught his eye. He looked to his left, and there was Zoltán, in his jogging suit and athletic shoes. The boy with the angelic face was staring at the group gathered around the hand. No doubt that he was getting ready to poun
ce on his prey.

Benjamin tapped Elisabeth's arm and nodded in Zoltán's direction. He wanted to leave and contact the authorities. The boy hadn't spotted them yet. But before he could say anything, Elisabeth bolted off toward Zoltán. Benjamin was frozen in his tracks. This was a matter for the police to handle, not them. A second later, the winemaker came to his senses and rushed after his wife. If he couldn't stop her, at least he cou
ld protect her.

“What, in God's name, is she thinking?” he muttered, tryi
ng to catch up.

Zoltán turned away from the crowd and locked eyes with Benjam
in. He grinned.

“Mr. and Mrs. Cooker,” he said when they finally reached him. “What a surprise. I never expected to see y
ou here again.”

“I bet you didn't, Zoltán,” Elisabeth said. “So, you're scouting your next victims? I bet those tourists over there would like to know what
you're up to.”

Zoltán gave Elisabeth a wide-eyed look and put his hands in the pockets of his jogging suit. “I don't know what you mean, Mrs. Cooker. I'm a tour guide.
You know that.”

Benjamin was keeping a close eye on his wife. She was staring angrily at Zoltán, and whenever Elisabeth gave him that look—which wasn't often—Benjamin knew it was best to
watch his step.

“You can act innocent with other people, young man, but not with me,” Elisabeth pressed on. “We know what you did, and it wasn't just stealing wallets and passports, was it? The police have charged your two bosses, Viktor and Attila, with murder, but something about that d
oesn't add up.”

Elisabeth had backed Zoltán against one of t
he stone walls.

“What were they actually doing in Tokaj? They didn't go just to see Consuela, did they? Old friends, my foot. They came after you
, didn't they?”

She was sticking a finger in his chest now. Zoltán seemed too surprised
to even answer.

“They didn't kill that artist, did they? He never approached them for the French passport he needed for his fiancée. He approached you. That's why you disappeared when we saw him in front of the church. This was your chance to make more money than you were getting from your bosses. You usually handed the stolen passports over to them. But now you saw your opportunity to be a di
rect provider.”

Zoltán was fidgeting now. Nerves were getting the better of Benjamin too. He scanned the crowd. Would the boy dare to do anything to them with that many onlookers? And what about Elisabeth? What was s
he capable of?

“Okay, okay,” Zoltán said, clearly trying to appease Elisabeth. “A guy like me has a hard time finding a job these days. So I take money and passports from rich people. No big deal. They
can afford it.”

Elisabeth wasn't g
oing to let up.

“But it is a big deal now, Zoltán, because you crossed the line. You began to get nervous about that artist when you discovered that he had drawn you. And you figured he wasn't who he said he was. Well, he wasn't. He was an undercover agent. You didn't care who he was working for. You needed to be rid of him. And you lost your head, didn't you, Zoltán? You shot him with a gun one of your buddies had gotten on the
black market.”

Now panic was written all over Zoltán's face. He turned and lunged toward the entrance. Without thinking, Benjamin reached out and tried to stop him, but he was too late to grab his arm. At that moment, Elisabeth stuck her leg out. Zoltán tripped and fell to the stone floor, face down. Benjamin pounced on him. Blood was spilling from his forehead, but he would live. By that time, the crowd had gathered around the couple and
their captive.

“One of you, please call the police,” Elisabeth called out to the onlookers. Benjamin couldn't believe what he had just witnessed. But then, he had never sold
his wife short.

Elisabeth stood over the boy she had trusted, the boy who, overnight, had gone from petty thief to murderer. Zoltán struggled to turn over and look at her. She planted her black sling-back low-heel pump on his neck to
keep him still.

“‘If you will forgive me for being personal,'” she said, looking down at him. “‘I do not lik
e your face.'”

She turned to Benjamin and grinned. “You're not the only one who can remember quotes, honey. Agatha Christie,
Murder on the O
rient Express
.”