Dine and Die on the Danube Express (33 page)
“I think it was wonderful the way you two fought to save them,” said Eva Zilinsky, and proposed a toast to Kramer and me. “
Pofta buna
,” she said, and we all echoed it in a variety of bad accents. She went on to Kramer, “I missed something when I was watching it on television. When you answered your phone, what was being said?”
“I had to keep Conti from knowing,” Kramer explained, “so I kept my answers simple. Thomas—in charge of the communication center, had alerted Herr Brenner that something was wrong. Herr Brenner’s first question was—‘Is there a problem?’ I answered ‘yes.’ Then he asked, ‘Should we take any action?’ and I said ‘No.’ As I hoped, these satisfied Conti.”
Kramer turned to me. “One thing you have not explained to me,” he said, lowering his voice, “is that cryptic message to Switzerland. I gave you a reply this morning that Thomas had received, so I suppose you can now clarify?”
“Ah, yes,” I said. “The message went to an old friend who is an authority on wine. Emil is retired now but acts as a consultant, and little happens in the wine business that escapes him. First, I said in the message, ‘Before you drink your next glass of Pinot Noir—’ That’s sort of a code, Emil doesn’t like Pinot Noir, so he knows the message is really from me. Then I asked for a physical description of
ADU
121. ‘
ADU
’ means
Amici della Uva,
of course, and 121 are the numbers on the badge on Conti’s jacket. Emil’s message said the agent who carries that number weighs sixty-six kilos, is 170 centimeters tall, has gray eyes, and gray hair—that converts to 145 pounds and five feet eight inches tall.”
“Obviously not Conti!” said Kramer.
“That’s right.”
“A pity that message did not arrive earlier,” Kramer said drily.
“It is,” I agreed.
“So you were suspicious of him?”
“Not especially, but when Elisha Tabor was found poisoned with the same drug as Svarovina, I began to wonder more about the attempt on Conti. The poisoner was so efficient in killing the two women—why was he was so inefficient with Conti and didn’t give him enough to kill him?”
“Logical,” Kramer nodded. He liked logic. “Now what does the second part of the answering message mean?”
“The second question I asked was ‘Potential cargo buyer besides original?’ That meant ‘Is there someone else who might want the cargo of vines on board the Danube Express?’”
“This Emil knew where you were?”
“Point of origin would be shown on the e-mail, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes, of course,” Kramer admitted. “And the answer was—?”
“Emil gave me the name of a vineyard that is large and well-known worldwide but has had recent weather problems. They have been involved in a few shady deals and would be likely to pay someone like Conti handsomely to steal these vines. They are wealthy as well as unscrupulous.”
“I see,” said Kramer. “That is the opposite of what we were thinking, is it not? We were pondering the possibility of another country wanting to prevent the shipment arriving.”
“Yes, and the more I thought about that, the less reasonable it seemed. So I turned the question around—it then became, not who wanted to stop the shipment arriving but who would want to get hold of the shipment.”
“Logical again,” Kramer said. “What will you do about it? Should I—”
“Let me pull a few strings through the
Amici della Uva.
This is their kind of problem. Let them see what connections they might be able to find between this vineyard and Conti. The
ADU
will probably contact you for further information.”
“Very good,” Kramer said. “I fear that the part of the investigation that we must continue will reveal that the real Conti is dead—killed by this man who took his place.”
“I am afraid that must be so.”
“Now,” said Kramer, “I will have another glass of this excellent—what is it?” He waved to the wine waiter and examined the label. “Ah, yes,
Feteasca Alba
.”
“One of the best of our Romanian white wines,” the waiter told him.
“The country is about to make great efforts to improve the quality of its wines,” said Erich Brenner. “Under the Soviet regime, they were obliged to concentrate their vineyard production on the sweet wines—which the Russians prefer. Now they are going to be producing drier wines, and I anticipate that they will make real progress in the world wine market.”
Irena leaned toward me. “I heard your discussion with Herr Kramer. I thought these were just a bunch of vines—are they really so special?”
“Yes, they are. They had to have been very carefully selected as resistant to
Phylloxera,
and they would need resistance to every known disease and virus as well as insects. They would have been grafted on to traditional vinifera vines, and this hybridization process would require time and skill. They must be very special.”
When we left the palace, I managed to arrange to move near Irena. “I suppose you are going home now. Are you glad to be back in Bucharest?”
“Oh, yes, but it has been a wonderful journey. I didn’t expect that much excitement though.”
“None of us did.”
Her eyes sparkled in the orange streetlamps. Taxis came and went. We stood there.
“You remember when I said I wasn’t sure which direction my compartment was in the train?” she asked. “You said you would walk me there.”
“I will never forget it.”
“So don’t you think it is only fair if I walk you to your hotel?”
“I’m all for fairness,” I assured her.
She linked her arm through mine. “Let’s go.”
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
copyright © 2003 by Peter King
cover design by Connie Gabbert
ISBN: 978-1-4532-7730-0 (ePub)
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