The following day, Benjamin knocked again on his friend’s door, without success.
“I’m worried,” Elisabeth said when he came back to their room.
Benjamin only nodded 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 in 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 Sullivan 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 French government.
“Benjamin Cooker!” exclaimed the representative of the foreign ministry.
“Mr. Ambassador,” the winemaker replied, a bit embarrassed by the exuberant greeting.
“It’s a pleasure,” said the ambassador, clearly delighted to be rubbing shoulders with a French national whose reputation in winemaking spanned the globe.
“The pleasure is ours, sir. Let me introduce my wife, Elisabeth.”
As the hulking driver looked 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 this situation…”
“Yes?” said the winemaker.
“I should say a more unfortunate 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 scandalous 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 extermination camps.”
Benjamin slowed down and looked at the diplomat, waiting for the moment 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 then in Toulouse.”
“I knew it,” Elisabeth said. “I told you she had a Toulouse 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 quite good at it.”
“Yes, that’s how she 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 lack of evidence.”
Benjamin remained silent. He was thinking of Claude, madly in love with the gorgeous brunette who had set his corazón 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 imagine 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 meet 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, and delusion.’”
“Yes, they made a lot of money on the suffering of those people,” the diplomat said. “Human nature can be quite base.”
“Was Consuela in on the thefts?” Elisabeth asked. “Did she plan to fleece us from 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 her on the boat.”
“What about Zoltán? Is he connected to Viktor and Attila?” Elisabeth 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 Claude’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 looked 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 were 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 perfectly oiled caps.
“You smoke cigars, Mr. Ambassador?” 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 having 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 from the shutter.