Dine and Die on the Danube Express (32 page)

This man had had more practice at entering trains from the roof, and he swung his legs inside the coach and let his body weight propel him into the coach. He was wearing dark brown army fatigues like his unfortunate predecessor, and, as he hit the floor of the coach, he uncoiled and was on his feet like an acrobat. His movement brought him near to Kramer who, despite the speed at which everything was happening, was lightning quick in his reaction. As the man reached in a pocket for a weapon, Kramer leapt at him.

Conti moved to one side, wanting to get a clear shot at Kramer without hitting his ally. That brought Conti closer to me, and, in a rare moment of bravery, I grabbed for the gun in his hand. My knowledge of hand-to-hand combat was limited to watching episodes of
The Avengers
, and I lacked both Mrs. Peel’s agility and Steed’s umbrella.

Instead of getting hold of the automatic, in my eagerness I hit it with both groping hands, but the impact knocked it out of his grasp. It bounced and slid along the floor and lay too far away for either of us to risk going for it. We eyed each other warily

The same thought hit both Conti and me at the same split second—Conti had taken Kramer’s short-barreled pistol and dropped it into his pocket, and it was still there.

Two hands rammed simultaneously into that jacket pocket, one mine and one Conti’s. It was like the monkey trap, where the monkey, having grasped the banana inside the cage, does not know enough to release the banana in order to extricate its hand through the bars. Both Conti and I knew enough, though, to be vitally aware that whichever of us failed to pull out the gun would be shot immediately.

Both of us strained. The fabric held. Conti brought up a knee to jab me, but I twisted away and took it on the thigh. He followed it instantly, swinging his other arm wildly at me, and his fist connected with the side of my head. I saw stars for a second or two but managed to keep pressure on my hand to keep it in his pocket. The fist changed into two stiff fingers—Conti was probing, poking over my face, trying to jab his fingers into my eyes.

He had all the advantages—height, weight, and training. The longer the struggle lasted, the more likely he was to be the victor. I knew I had to end it and end it fast. We were both straining to get a grip on the gun and pull it out of the pocket. If the gun wouldn’t come out of the pocket—so be it, I’d use it right there.

Instead of trying to pull my hand out, I simply plunged it deeper. My fingers slid over the beveled surface of the butt, the middle finger drove on, inside the trigger guard. I felt the trigger and made a supreme effort to slip my finger around it. I pulled, again and again and again.

I had no idea whether Kramer had released the safety catch when he and I had entered the coach. If he hadn’t then … but he had. As I pulled the trigger, I tried to turn the gun as much as I could in the general direction of Conti’s body. I felt his frame jerk violently as three bullets went into the lower part of his torso.

He gurgled horribly and let out a screeching moan as the bullets plowed into him. His hand in the pocket relinquished its grip and I jerked the pistol free as he fell away from me.

I had completely lost track of Kramer’s struggle with the other man, but now I saw that they were standing toe-to-toe, gasping and swaying as they fought for mastery of the automatic that was still in the brown-clad man’s hand. Kramer had a firm grip with both hands, one on the wrist, one on the gun hand.

“Drop it!” I shouted. “Drop it, or I’ll shoot!”

The man had a dark face and glaring eyes. I firmly believe that he sized me up as an amateur with a gun and therefore unpredictable and more dangerous than a professional. He dropped the gun, and Kramer scooped it up. Conti was writhing and moaning piteously, clutching his lower abdomen, which was seeping blood.

A blast of air made us all stagger—the pilot of the attacking helicopter had evidently decided that he had completed his mission, and it was time to go. Hearing the gunshots must have helped his decision. The aircraft bounced once on the roof and soared away, filling the view out of the train doorway for just a few seconds, then dwindling swiftly as it raced out of sight.

The television network helicopter still hovered a short distance away. With the other aircraft gone, it now moved in closer. The crew must have been filming all of this and been highly pleased that they had enough exciting footage to take up at least a half-minute of prime-time news. Their final shot had to be Kramer on his cell phone, rapping out orders for police, an ambulance, and an alert to intercept a dark gray, unmarked helicopter heading north—without a payload.

T
HE BANQUET WAS A
subdued affair, though all the assemblage made a creditable effort to make it a successful farewell occasion. Everyone was present except Gerhardt Vollmer, who had to continue his journey to the oil fields on the Black Sea.

Bucharest does not have major hotels in the same quantity and quality as other European capitals. Those of us who were staying over were at the Athenee Palace Hilton, but it lacks a suitable banquet room. Herr Brenner had used his considerable influence to obtain one of the vast chambers in the
Palatul Parlamentalui
, the Parliament buildings. He told us that the arrival of the Danube Express on its twenty-fifth anniversary was providing a lot of publicity for the city, and this had clinched his proposal to them.

From the outside, it is a hot contender for the ugliest building in Europe. This is despite its enormous size—“much bigger than the Pentagon” the guide told us proudly. It is a massive, dull gray edifice that the dictator Nicolae Ceausescu had built as a fortress-palace. “We were on the ground floor, but the guide said that five underground stories contained lead-lined bunkers and a train station with an electric train that ran to an undisclosed location elsewhere in the city.

An attempt had been made to lighten the mood in our room with flags and banners and even some tapestries depicting scenes from Romanian history. Two new chandeliers were a start toward proper lighting, and gleaming white tablecloths and shining crystal glasses helped, as did bouquets of fresh flowers.

The passengers were avid for details of the desperate struggle that took place in the freight coach and of all the associated data that contributed to it. The television station showed clips of the action throughout the day, but naturally everyone wanted to hear from the participants.

Karl Kramer was the star of the evening. He kept trying to drag me into the limelight, but I tried to play down my role. If the London newspapers reprinted the story and referred to me as “the man from Scotland Yard,” I could expect a polite knock on my door when I returned home, followed by some less polite questions regarding impersonation of a police officer.

The exposure of Elisha Tabor as the infamous Mikhel Czerny was, fortunately for me, a story that was much more important to the Hungarians. The name of Elisha Tabor meant nothing but the fact that the well-known—even hated—columnist was really a woman, coupled with ripping off the mask of anonymity, appealed to the Hungarian love of intrigue.

The day’s editions of the Bucharest newspapers played up the story, savoring the chance to take a front-page crack at their neighboring rivals. They implied that the Hungarians placed too much emphasis on sensational exposé types of story, conveniently failing to mention their own predilection for similar “news.”

We were all seated at one large oval table which made it easier to converse with most of the guests. I was located between Eva Zilinsky and Irena Koslova. Almost opposite was Magda Malescu, who had received enough attention that one might suppose she had personally struggled hand-to-hand with the villains. Karl Kramer, as a hero of the struggle with Conti and a savior of the day, was there. Erich Brenner was also close by, and so were Doctor Stolz, Helmut Lydecker, and Franz Reingold—the balance of male and female had been thrown out of synchronization by the two deaths. However, they and my other companions on the journey were all enjoying the caviar being served as an appetizer.

“Some Romanians eat as much as half a kilo—that’s a pound—of caviar at a sitting,” Irena told me, and I resisted a plebeian urge to ask how much that would cost.

“Bucharest’s famous ‘
Ikra
Bar’—‘
Ikra
’ means ‘caviar,’ it’s a Russian word—serves over forty different kinds of this most precious of all appetizers,” explained Erich Brenner. “They have selected the best of the forty kinds for us this evening,” he went on. He was in a more jovial mood now that the strain of the past days was removed, and he was determined to make the occasion memorable. “‘Fish eggs,’ it may be called by the critics,” he said, “but served chilled with slices of lemon, chopped onion, thin crackers, and champagne, it is a superb dish.”

All of those accompaniments were on the table, and the starter was proving extremely popular. “I think this table is trying to beat that half-kilo record,” I commented to Irena. “By the way, where does this caviar come from?”

Erich Brenner heard the question and cut in with the answer. “The Caspian and the Black Sea provide almost all of our caviar today. The Baltic and the Atlantic used to be suppliers, but dredging and poisonous discharges from factories along the shores have caused the total disappearance from those regions.”

“That one,” said Irena, determined not to be left out as knowledgeable about caviar and indicating a dish of a light reddish color, “is called red caviar, but it is actually lumpfish. Many people like it better, though its color has tempted some suppliers to blend in salmon, which is much cheaper.”

Eva Zilinsky joined in the discussion. “Worse than that is the stuff they sell as ‘Romanian Caviar.’ It is actually eggplant, flavored with paprika.”

“Some people serve that at home for parties,” added Irena. “It impresses their friends.”

“I’ve heard of that.” I had to make a contribution, and that was as good a time as any. “The trick is to bake the eggplant first, un-peeled, for at least an hour. Then it’s peeled, pureed, and mixed with olive oil, lemon juice, salt, pepper, and paprika. Finely chopped onions are added just before serving.”

“That’s cheating,” said Eva Zilinsky disdainfully.

“I know,” I agreed. “I was involved in a case once where a group of food enthusiasts put on a monthly dinner at each of their houses in turn. The hosts had to serve one dish that was not what it seemed. This was one of them.”

“Why were you involved?” asked Eva Zilinsky.

“Because one of the group was murdered.”

“Speaking of murder—” Eva Zilinsky began, then looked around the table at a few reproving glances. “Well, I’m sorry,” she said, not sounding sorry at all, “but we have all been through a harrowing time—not to mention two murders. Who’d have thought that nice young Italian man was responsible?”

“That ‘nice young man’ murdered two women,” commented Dr. Stolz acerbically.

“How is he, by the way?” asked Magda Malescu. “I watched him being shot again this afternoon on television.”

“He has a 20 percent chance of living and a 95 percent chance of losing his manhood,” said the doctor, forgetting his bedside manner in favor of statistics. Several eyes turned in my direction. As the one who pulled the trigger, it was inevitable that some comment was expected.

“I didn’t have time to do much thinking,” I said. “I just did whatever I could to protect myself against a man with a gun.”

“You did it very bravely, too,” said Magda firmly, and Irena led a minichorus of approval.

“Killing those two poor girls was unforgivable,” added Mrs. Walburg.

“Mikhel Czerny was not a ‘poor girl,’” stated Eva Zilinsky loudly. “Many in Hungary are not sorry to have him removed from the pages of the Budapest
Times
.”

“A harsh way to go,” said Friedlander, reaching for more caviar. “So that story about Conti being poisoned was not true?”

It was not a story that had received wide circulation on the train, and the details had to be explained. “We had investigated him,” said Kramer, “and found many gaps in his background—”

“But it wasn’t really him,” objected Henri Larouge. “Hadn’t he taken the identity of a real agent of the
Amici della Uva
?” I realized that as a Frenchman and involved in the wine business, Larouge might well be one of the few who knew anything about that organization.

“He must have realized that the identity he had assumed made him suspicious,” said Kramer. “Taking a reduced dose of the poisonous herb himself was, he hoped, a way of removing suspicion.”

A phalanx of white-uniformed waiters approached, and a concert group struck up some cheerful music that sounded like Georg Enesco, the Romanian composer. Several of Bucharest’s top restaurants had combined to present the meal, and, when the next course appeared, my advisor on matters Romanian, Irena Koslova, explained. “The Greeks introduced this dish to the region. They are called
Mezes,
and a similar word is found in many other languages.” It consisted of a bean salad, baked aubergine, raw carrots, and tomatoes, various cheeses, ham, and small sausages.

“It is not very different,” said Irena apologetically, “but then cooking in Bucharest cannot be compared to Paris.”

We were given a choice of main courses. Irena chose
Ratusca
, roast duck. It looked superb, cooked to a golden brown and with a crispy skin. It was served with dumplings—”very popular in Romania,” said Irena. Magda Malescu ordered grilled trout. “I know it’s not specifically Romanian,” she said, “but I like it.”

“I will have something Romanian,” declared Kramer and asked for the Chicken Givech. It was cooked with onions, garlic, red peppers, mushrooms, and zucchini. I chose the lamb marinated in vinegar and red wine. It was served with noodles in garlic sauce.

We had a discussion on Romanian wine and everyone knew enough to agree that it was time some official backing was given to wine development.

“Our delivery of the vines today may well be the first step in such a program,” stated Brenner.