False Impression

38

When Anna woke, Sergei was sitting on the hood of the car, smoking a cigarette. Anna stretched, blinked, and rubbed her eyes. It was the first time she’d slept in the backseat of a car — a definite improvement on the back of a van, somewhere on the way to the Canadian border, with no one to protect her.

She got out of the car and stretched her legs. The red box was still in place.

“Good morning,” said Sergei. “I hope you slept well?”

She laughed. “Better than you, it seems.”

“After twenty years in the army, sleep becomes a luxury,” said Sergei. “But please do join me for breakfast.” He returned to the car and retrieved a small tin box from under the driver’s seat. He removed the lid and revealed its contents: two bread rolls, a boiled egg, a hunk of cheese, a couple of tomatoes, an orange, and a thermos of coffee.

“Where did all of this come from?” asked Anna, as she peeled the orange.

“Last night’s supper,” explained Sergei, “prepared by my dear wife.”

“How will you explain why you didn’t go home?” Anna asked.

“I’ll tell her the truth,” said Sergei. “I spent the night with a beautiful woman.” Anna blushed. “But I fear I am too old for her to believe me,” he added. “So what do we do next? Rob a bank?”

“Only if you know one with fifty million dollars in loose change,” said Anna, laughing. “Otherwise I have to get that” — she pointed to the crate — “into the cargo hold on the next flight to London, so I’ll need to find out when the freight depot opens.”

“When the first person turns up,” said Sergei, as he removed the shell from the egg. “Usually around seven.” He added, before handing the egg across to Anna.

Anna took a bite. “Then I’d like to be there by seven, when they open,” she said, “so I can be sure the crate is definitely on board.” She looked at her watch. “So we’d better get moving.”

“I don’t think so.”

“What do you mean?” asked Anna, sounding anxious.

“When a woman like you has to spend the night in a car, not a hotel, there has to be a reason. I have a feeling that is the reason,” said Sergei, pointing to the crate. “So perhaps it would be unwise for you to be seen checking in a red box this morning.” Anna continued to stare at him, but didn’t speak. “Could there possibly be something inside the box that you don’t want the authorities to take an interest in?” He paused, but Anna still didn’t comment. “Just as I thought,” said Sergei. “You know, when I was a colonel in the army, and I needed something done that I didn’t want anyone else to know about, I always chose a corporal to carry out the task. That way, I found, no one took the slightest interest. I think today I will have to be your corporal.”

“But what if you’re caught?”

“Then I’ll have done something worthwhile for a change. Do you think it’s fun being a taxi driver when you’ve commanded a regiment? Do not concern yourself, dear lady. One or two of my boys work in the customs shed, and if the price is right, they won’t ask too many questions.”

Anna flicked open her briefcase, took out the envelope Anton had given her and passed Sergei five twenty-dollar bills.

“No, no, dear lady,” he said, throwing his hands in the air. “We are not trying to bribe the chief of police, just a couple of local boys,” he added, taking one of the twenty-dollar notes. “And in any case, I may be in need of their services again at some time in the future, so we don’t want expectations to exceed their usefulness.”

Anna laughed. “And when you sign the manifest, Sergei, be sure your signature is illegible.”

He looked at her closely. “I understand, but then I do not understand,” he said, pausing. “You stay here and keep out of sight. All I’ll need is your plane ticket.”

Anna opened her bag again, placed the eighty dollars back in the envelope, and handed over her ticket to London.

Sergei climbed into the driver’s seat, turned on the engine, and waved good-bye.

Anna watched as the car disappeared around the corner with the painting, her luggage, her ticket to London, and twenty dollars. All she had as security was a cheese and tomato roll and a thermos of cold coffee.

Fenston picked up the receiver on the tenth ring.

“I’ve just landed in Bucharest,” she said. “The red crate you’ve been looking for was loaded onto a flight to London, which will be landing at Heathrow around four this afternoon.”

“And the girl?”

“I don’t know what her plans are, but when I do—”

“Just be sure to leave the body in Bucharest.”

The phone went dead.

Krantz walked out of the airport, placed the recently acquired cell phone under the front wheel of an articulated truck, and waited for it to move off before she slipped back into the terminal.

She checked the departures board, but this time she didn’t assume Petrescu would be traveling to London; after all, there was also a flight to New York that morning. If Petrescu was booked on that one, she’d have to kill her at the airport. It wouldn’t be the first time — at this particular airport.

Krantz tucked herself in behind a large drinks machine and waited. She made sure she had an unimpeded view of any taxis dropping off their customers. She was only interested in one taxi and one customer. Petrescu wouldn’t fool her a second time, because on this occasion, she intended to take out some insurance.

After thirty minutes, Anna began to feel anxious. After forty minutes, worried. After fifty, close to panic. An hour after he’d left, Anna even wondered if Sergei worked for Fenston. A few minutes later, an old yellow Mercedes, driven by an even older man, came trundling around the bend.

Sergei smiled. “You look relieved,” he said, as he opened the front door for her and handed back her ticket.

“No, no,” said Anna, feeling guilty.

Sergei smiled. “The package is booked for London, and it’s on the same flight as you,” he said, once he’d climbed back behind the wheel.

“Good,” said Anna. “Then perhaps it’s time for me to be on my way as well.”

“Agreed,” said Sergei, turning the key in the ignition. “But you’ll have to be careful, because the American is already there waiting for you.”

“He’s not interested in me,” said Anna, “only the package.”

“But he saw me take it into the cargo depot, and for another twenty dollars he’ll know exactly where it’s going.”

“I don’t care any longer,” said Anna without explanation.

Sergei looked puzzled but didn’t question her as he eased the Mercedes back onto the highway and continued to follow the signs for the airport.

“I owe you so much,” said Anna.

“Four dollars,” said Sergei, “plus gourmet meal. I’ll settle for five.”

Anna opened her bag, took out Anton’s envelope, removed all but five hundred dollars, and resealed it. When Sergei came to a halt at the taxi rank outside the main terminal, Anna passed him the envelope.

“Five dollars,” she said.

“Thank you, ma’am,” he replied.

“Anna,” she said, and kissed him on the cheek. She didn’t look back, otherwise she would have seen an old soldier crying.

Should he have told her that Colonel Sergei Slatinaru was standing by her father’s side when he was executed?

When Tina stepped out of the elevator, she spotted Leapman leaving her office. She slipped into the washroom, her heart beating frantically as she considered the consequences. Did he now know that she could overhear every phone conversation Fenston had, while at the same time being able to watch everything that was going on in the chairman’s office? But worse, had he found out that she had been e-mailing confidential documents to herself for the past year? Tina tried to remain calm as she stepped back into the corridor and walked slowly toward her office. One thing she was certain about, there would be no clue that Leapman had even entered the room.

She sat at her desk and flicked on the screen. She felt ill. Leapman was in the chairman’s office, talking to Fenston. The chairman was listening intently.

Jack watched as Anna kissed the driver on the cheek and couldn’t forget that this was the same man who had extracted twenty dollars from him — a sum that wouldn’t be appearing on his expense sheet. He thought about the fact that the two of them had stayed awake all night while she had slept. If he’d dozed off, even for a moment, Jack feared that Crew Cut would have moved in and stolen the crate, although he hadn’t spotted her since she boarded the plane for London. He wondered where she was now. Not far away, he suspected. As each hour had passed, Jack became more aware that he wasn’t just dealing with a taxi driver, but someone willing to risk his life for the girl, perhaps without even knowing the significance of what was in that crate. There had to be a reason.

Jack knew it would be a waste of time to try and bribe the taxi driver, as he had already discovered to his own cost, but the cargo manager had beckoned him into his private office and even printed out the relevant page of the manifest. The crate was booked on the next flight to London. Already loaded on board, he assured him. Not a bad investment for fifty dollars, even if he couldn’t read the signature. But would she be on the same flight? Jack remained puzzled. If the Van Gogh was in the red box on its way back to London, what was in the box that Petrescu had taken to Japan and delivered to Nakamura’s office? He had no choice but to wait and see if she boarded the same plane.

Sergei watched as Anna walked toward the airport entrance, pulling her suitcase. He would call Anton later, to let him know he had delivered her safely. Anna turned to wave, so he didn’t notice a customer climb into the back of the car, until he heard the door close. He glanced up at his rearview mirror.

“Where to, madam?” he asked.

“The old airport,” she said.

“I didn’t realize it was still in service,” he ventured, but she didn’t reply. Some customers don’t.

When they reached the second traffic island, Sergei took the next exit. He checked once again in the mirror. There was something familiar about her — had she been in the back of his cab before? At the crossroads, Sergei turned left onto the old airport road. It was deserted. He’d been right, nothing had flown out of there since Ceauşescu had attempted to escape in November 1989. He glanced up at the mirror again, while trying to maintain a steady speed, and suddenly it all came back to him. He now remembered exactly where he’d last seen her. The hair had been longer, and blonde, and although it was over a decade ago, those eyes hadn’t changed — eyes that registered nothing when she killed, eyes that bore into you when you died.

His platoon had been surrounded on the border with Bulgaria. They were quickly rounded up and marched to the nearest prisoner-of-war camp. He could still hear the cries of his young volunteers, some of whom had only just left school. And then, once they had told her everything they knew, or nothing at all, she would slit their throats while staring into their eyes. Once she was certain they were dead, with one more sweeping movement of her knife she would hack off the head, then dump it in the middle of an overcrowded cell. Even the most hardened of her henchmen had to avert their eyes.

Before leaving, she would spend a little time looking around at those who had survived. Each night she left with the same parting words, “I still haven’t decided which one of you will be next.”

Three of his men had survived, and only because a new set of prisoners, with more up-to-date information, had recently been captured. But for thirty-seven sleepless nights, Colonel Sergei Slatinaru could only wonder when it would be his turn. Her last victim had been Anna’s father, one of the bravest men he’d ever known, who, if he had to die, deserved to go to his grave fighting the enemy — not at the hands of a butcher.

When they were finally repatriated, one of his first duties as commanding officer was to tell Anna’s mother how Captain Petrescu had been killed. He lied, assuring her that her husband died bravely on the battlefield. Why should he pass his nightmare on to her? And then Anton phoned to say he’d had a call from Captain Petrescu’s daughter; she was coming to Bucharest, and would he... someone else he didn’t pass his secret on to.

Once the hostilities had ceased, rumor concerning Krantz was rife. She was in jail, she had escaped to America, she’d been killed. He prayed that she was still alive, as he wanted to be the one to kill her. But he feared that she would never show her face in Romania again, because so many former comrades would recognize her and line up for the privilege of cutting her throat. But why had she returned? What could possibly be in that crate to make her take such a risk?

Sergei slowed down when he reached a barren stretch of land, where the runway had once been but was now covered in weeds and potholes. He kept one hand on the wheel, while the other moved slowly down his left side and reached underneath the seat for a gun he hadn’t used since Ceauşescu had been executed.

“Where do you want me to drop you, madam?” he asked, as if they were in the middle of a busy street. He placed his fingers around the handle of the gun. She didn’t reply. His eyes glanced up into the rearview mirror, realizing that any sudden movement would alert her. Not only did she have the advantage of being behind him, but she was now watching his every move. He knew one of them would be dead in the next sixty seconds.

Sergei placed his index finger round the trigger, eased the gun from under his seat and began to raise his arm slowly, inch by inch. He was about to hit the brakes when a hand grabbed his hair and jerked back his head in one sharp movement. His foot came off the accelerator and the car slowed to a halt in the middle of the runway. He raised the gun another inch.

“Where is the girl going?” she demanded, pulling his head even farther back so that she could look into his eyes.

“What girl?” he managed to say as he felt the knife touch his skin just below the Adam’s apple.

“Don’t play games with me, old man. The girl you dropped at the airport.”

“She didn’t say.” Another inch.

“She didn’t say, even though you drove her everywhere? Where?” she shouted, the edge of the blade now piercing the skin.

One more inch.

“I’ll give you one last chance,” she screamed as the blade broke the skin and warm blood began to trickle down his neck. “Where — was — she — going?” Krantz demanded.

“I don’t know,” Sergei screamed, as he raised the gun, pointed it toward her head, and pulled the trigger.

The bullet ripped into Krantz’s shoulder and threw her backward, but she never let go of his hair. Sergei pulled the trigger again, but there was a full second between the two shots. Just long enough for her to slit his throat in a single movement.

Sergei’s last memory before he died was staring into those cold, gray eyes.

39

Leapman wasn’t asleep when his phone rang. But then he rarely slept, although he knew there was only one person who would consider calling him at such an ungodly hour.

He picked up the phone, and said, “Good morning, Chairman,” as if he was sitting at his desk in the office.

“Krantz has located the painting.”

“Where is it?” asked Leapman.

“It was in Bucharest, but it’s now on its way back to Heathrow.”

Leapman wanted to say, I told you so, but confined himself to, “When does the plane land?”

“Just after four, London time.”

“I’ll have someone standing by to pick it up.”

“And they should put it on the first available flight to New York.”

“So where’s Petrescu?” asked Leapman.

“No idea,” said Fenston, “but Krantz is at the airport waiting for her. So don’t expect her to be on the same flight.”

Leapman heard the click. Fenston never said good-bye. He climbed out of bed, picked up his phone book, and thumbed through until he reached the Ps. He checked his watch and dialed her office number.

“Ruth Parish.”

“Good morning, Ms. Parish. It’s Karl Leapman.”

“Good morning,” replied Ruth cautiously.

“We’ve found our painting.”

“You have the Van Gogh?” said Ruth.

“No, not yet, but that’s why I’m calling.”

“How can I help?”

“It’s in the cargo hold of a flight on its way from Bucharest, due to land outside your front door just after four o’clock this afternoon.” He paused. “Just make sure you’re there to pick it up.”

“I’ll be there. But whose name is on the manifest?”

“Who gives a fuck? It’s our painting and it’s in your crate. Just be sure you don’t mislay it a second time.” Leapman put the phone down before she had a chance to protest.

Ruth Parish and four of her carriers were already on the tarmac when Flight 019 from Bucharest landed at Heathrow. Once the aircraft had been cleared for unloading, the little motorcade of a customs official’s car, Ruth’s Range Rover, and an Art Locations security van drove up and parked within twenty meters of the cargo hold.

If Ruth had looked up, she would have seen Anna’s smiling face in her tiny window at the back of the aircraft. But she didn’t.

Ruth stepped out of her car and joined the customs officer. She had earlier informed him that she wished to transfer a painting from an incoming flight to an onward destination. The customs official had looked bored, and wondered why she had chosen such a senior officer to carry out such a routine task, until he was told, in confidence, the value of the painting. His promotion board was due in three weeks’ time. If he screwed up this simple exercise, he could forget the extra silver stripe he promised his wife she would be sewing on his sleeve before the end of the month. Not to mention the pay raise.

When the hold eventually opened, they both walked forward together, but only the customs officer addressed the chief loader. “There’s a red wooden crate on board” — he checked his file — “three foot by two, and three or four inches deep. It’s stamped with an Art Locations logo on both sides, and the number forty-seven stenciled in all four corners. I want it unloaded before anything else is moved.”

The chief loader passed on the instructions to his two men in the hold, who disappeared into the darkness. By the time they reappeared, Anna was heading toward passport control.

“That’s it,” said Ruth, when the two loaders reappeared on the edge of the hold, carrying a red crate. The customs official nodded. A forklift truck moved forward, expertly extracted the crate from the hold and lowered it slowly to the ground. The customs man checked the manifest, followed by the logo and even the stenciled forty-sevens.

“Everything seems to be in order, Ms. Parish. If you’ll just sign here.”

Ruth signed the form but couldn’t make out the signature on the original manifest. The customs officer’s eyes never left the forklift truck as the package was driven across to the Art Locations van, where two of Ruth’s carriers loaded the crate on board.

“I’ll still have to accompany you to the outgoing aircraft, Ms. Parish, so I can confirm that the package has been loaded for its onward destination. Not until then can I sign a clearance certificate.”

“Of course,” said Ruth, who carried out the same procedure two or three times a day.

Anna had reached the baggage area by the time the security van began its circuitous journey from terminal three to terminal four. When the driver came to a halt, he parked beside a United Airlines plane bound for New York.

The security van waited on the tarmac for over an hour before the cargo hold was opened, by which time Ruth knew the life history of the customs official, even which school he intended to send his third child to if he was promoted. Ruth then watched the process in reverse. The back door of the security van was unlocked, the painting placed on a forklift truck, driven to the side of the hold, raised, and accepted on board by two handlers before it disappeared into the bowels of the aircraft.

The customs official signed all three copies of the dispatch documents and bade farewell to Ruth before returning to his office. In normal circumstances, Ruth would also have gone back to her office, filed the relevant forms, checked her messages, and then left for the day. However, these were not normal circumstances. She remained seated in her car and waited until all the passengers’ bags had been loaded on board and the cargo doors had been locked. Still she didn’t move, even after the aircraft began to taxi toward the north runway. She waited until the plane’s wheels had left the ground before she phoned Leapman in New York. Her message was simple: “The package is on its way.”

Jack was puzzled. He had watched Anna stroll into the arrivals hall, exchange some dollars at Travelex, and then join the long line for a taxi. Jack’s cab was already waiting on the other side of the road, two sets of luggage on board, engine running, as he waited for Anna’s cab to pass him.

“Where to, guv?” asked the driver.

“I’m not sure,” admitted Jack, “but my first bet would be cargo.”

Jack assumed that Anna would drive straight to the cargo depot and retrieve the package the taxi driver had dispatched from Bucharest.

But Jack was wrong. Instead of turning right, when the large blue sign indicating cargo loomed up in front of them, Anna’s taxi swung left and continued to drive west down the M25.

“She’s not going to cargo, guv, so what’s your next bet — Gatwick?”

“So what’s in the crate?” asked Jack.

“I’ve no idea, sir.”

“I’m so stupid,” Jack said.

“I wouldn’t want to venture an opinion on that, sir, but it would help if I knew where we was goin’.”

Jack laughed. “I think you’ll find it’s Wentworth.”

“Right, guv.”

Jack tried to relax, but every time he glanced out of the rear window he could have sworn that another black cab was following them. A shadowy figure was seated in the back. Why was she still pursuing Anna, when the painting must have been deposited in cargo?

When his driver turned off the M25 and took the road to Wentworth, the taxi Jack had imagined was following them continued on in the direction of Gatwick.

“You’re not stupid, after all, guv, because it looks as if it could be Wentworth.”

“No, but I am paranoid,” admitted Jack.

“Make up your mind, sir,” the driver said, as Anna’s taxi swung through the gates of Wentworth Hall and disappeared up the drive.

“Do you want me to keep followin’ her, guv?”

“No,” said Jack. “But I’ll need a local hotel for the night. Do you know one by any chance?”

“When the golf tournament is on, I drop a lot of my customers off at the Wentworth Arms. They ought to be able to fix you up with a room at this time of year.”

“Then let’s find out,” said Jack.

“Right you are, guv.”

Jack sat back and dialed a number on his cell phone.

“American Embassy.”

“Tom Crasanti, please.”

40

When Krantz came round following the operation, the first thing she felt was a stabbing pain in her right shoulder. She managed to raise her head a couple of inches off the pillow as she tried to focus on the small, white-walled, unadorned room: just the bare necessities — a bed, a table, a chair, one sheet, one blanket, and a bedpan. It could only be a hospital, but not of the private variety, because the room had no windows, no flowers, no fruit, no cards from well-wishers, and an exit that had bars clamped across the door.

Krantz tried to piece together what had happened to her. She could remember spotting the taxi driver’s gun pointing at her heart, and that was where the memory faded. She’d had just enough time to turn — an inch, no more — before the bullet ripped into her shoulder. No one had been that close before. The next bullet missed completely, but by then he’d given her another second, easily enough time to cut his throat. He had to be a pro, an ex-policeman, perhaps, possibly a soldier. But then she must have passed out.

Jack checked himself into the Wentworth Arms for the night and booked a table for dinner at eight. After a shower and a change of clothes, he looked forward to devouring a large, juicy steak.

Even though Anna was safely ensconced at Wentworth Hall, he didn’t feel he could relax while Crew Cut might well be hovering somewhere nearby. He had already asked Tom to brief the local police, while he continued to carry out his own surveillance.

He sat in the lounge enjoying a Guinness and thinking about Anna. Long before the hall clock struck eight, Tom walked in, looked around, and spotted his old friend by the fire. Jack rose to greet him, and apologized for having to drag him down to Wentworth when he could have been spending the evening with Chloe and Hank.

“As long as this establishment can produce a decent Tom Collins, you’ll not hear me complain,” Tom assured him.

Tom was explaining to Jack how Hank had scored a half century — whatever that was — when they were joined by the head waiter, who took their orders for dinner. They both chose steaks, but as a Texan, Tom admitted he hadn’t got used to the English version that was served up looking like a lamb chop.

“I’ll call you through,” said the head waiter, “as soon as your table is ready.”

“Thank you,” said Jack, as Tom bent down to open his briefcase. He extracted a thick file and placed it on the table between them. Small talk had never been his forte.

“Let’s begin with the important news,” said Tom, opening the file. “We’ve identified the woman in the photograph you sent through from Tokyo.” Jack put his drink down and concentrated on the contents of the file. “Her name is Olga Krantz, and she has something in common with Dr. Petrescu.”

“And what’s that?” asked Jack.

“The agency was also under the illusion that she was missing, presumed dead. As you can see from Krantz’s profile,” Tom added, pushing a sheet of paper across the table, “we lost contact with her in nineteen eighty-nine, when she ceased being a member of Ceauşescu’s personal bodyguard. But we’re now convinced that she works exclusively for Fenston.”

“That’s one hell of a leap of logic,” suggested Jack, as a waiter appeared with a Tom Collins and another half pint of Guinness.

“Not if you consider the facts logically,” said Tom, “and then follow them step by step,” he added, before sipping his drink. “Urn, not bad. After all, she and Fenston worked for Ceauşescu at the same time.”

“Coincidence,” said Jack. “Wouldn’t stand up in court.”

“It might, when you learn what her job description was.”

“Try me,” said Jack.

“She was responsible for removing anyone who posed a threat to Ceauşescu.”

“Still circumstantial.”

“Until you discover her chosen method of disposal.”

“A kitchen knife?” suggested Jack, not looking down at the sheet of paper in front of him.

“You’ve got it,” said Tom.

“Which, I fear, means that there is yet another undeniable link in your chain of logic.”

“What’s that?” asked Tom.

“Anna is being lined up as her next victim.”

“No — there, fortunately, the logic breaks down, because Krantz was arrested in Bucharest this morning.”

“What?” said Jack.

“By the local police,” added Tom.

“It’s hard to believe they got within a mile of her,” said Jack. “I kept losing her even when I knew where she was.”

“The local police were the first to admit,” said Tom, “that she was unconscious at the time.”

“Fill me in on the details,” said Jack impatiently.

“It seems, and reports were still coming through when I left the embassy, that Krantz was involved in a quarrel with a taxi driver, who was found to have five hundred dollars in his possession. The driver had his throat cut, while she ended up with a bullet in her right shoulder. We don’t yet know what caused the fight, but as he was killed only moments before your flight took off, we thought you might be able to throw some light on it.”

“Krantz would have been trying to find out which plane Anna was on, after she made such a fool of herself in Tokyo, but that man would never have told her. He protected her more like a father than a taxi driver, and the five hundred dollars is a red herring. Krantz doesn’t bother to kill people for that sort of money, and that was one taxi driver who never kept the meter running.”

“Well, whatever, Krantz is safely locked up and with a bit of luck will spend the rest of her life in jail, which may not prove to be that long, as we’re reliably informed that half the population of Romania would be happy to strangle her.” Tom glanced back down at his file. “And it turns out that our taxi driver, one Colonel Sergei Slatinaru, was a hero of the resistance.” Tom took another sip of his drink before he added, “So there’s no longer any reason for you to worry about Petrescu’s safety.”

The waiter reappeared to accompany them into the dining room.

“In common with most Romanians, I won’t relax until Krantz is dead,” said Jack. “Until then, I’ll remain anxious for Anna.”

“Anna? Are you two on first-name terms?” asked Tom, as he took his seat opposite Jack in the dining room.

“Hardly, though we may as well be. I’ve spent more nights with her than any of my recent girlfriends.”

“Then perhaps we should have invited Dr. Petrescu to join us?”

“Forget it,” said Jack. “She’ll be having dinner with Lady Arabella at Wentworth Hall, while we have to settle for the Wentworth Arms.”

A waiter placed a bowl of leek and potato soup in front of Tom and served Jack a Caesar salad.

“Have you found out anything else about Anna?”

“Not a lot,” admitted Tom, “but I can tell you that one of the calls she made from Bucharest airport was to the New York Police Department. She asked them to take her name off the missing list, said she’d been in Romania visiting her mother. She also called her uncle in Danville, Illinois, and Lady Arabella Wentworth.”

“Then her meeting in Tokyo must have gone belly-up,” said Jack.

“You’re going to have to explain that one to me,” said Tom.

“She had a meeting in Tokyo with a steel tycoon called Nakamura, who has one of the largest collections of Impressionist paintings in the world, or so the concierge at the Seiyo informed me.” Jack paused. “She obviously failed to sell Nakamura the Van Gogh, which would explain why she sent the painting back to London and even allowed it to be forwarded to New York.”

“She doesn’t strike me as someone who gives up that easily,” said Tom, extracting another piece of paper from his file. “By the way, the Happy Hire Company is also looking for her. They claim she abandoned one of their vehicles on the Canadian border, minus its front mudguard, front and rear bumpers, with not one of its lights in working order.”

“Hardly a major crime,” said Jack.

“Are you falling for this girl?” asked Tom.

Jack didn’t reply as a waiter appeared by their side. “Two steaks, one rare, one medium,” he announced.

“Mine’s the rare,” said Tom.

The waiter placed both plates on the table and added, “Enjoy.”

“Another Americanism we seem to have exported,” grunted Tom.

Jack smiled. “Did you get any further with Leapman?”

“Oh yes,” said Tom. “We know a great deal about Mr. Leapman.” He placed another file on the table. “He’s an American citizen, second generation, and studied law at Columbia. Not unlike you,” Tom said with a grin. “After graduating, he worked for several banks, always moving on fairly quickly, until he became involved in a share fraud. His specialty was selling bonds to widows who didn’t exist.” He paused. “The widows existed, the bonds didn’t.” Jack laughed. “He served a two-year sentence at Rochester Correctional Facility in upstate New York and was banned for life from working at a bank or any other financial institution.”

“But he’s Fenston’s right hand?”

“Fenston’s possibly, but not the bank’s. Leapman’s name doesn’t appear on their books, even as a cleaner. He pays taxes on his only known income, a monthly check from an aunt in Mexico.”

“Come on—,” said Jack.

“And before you say anything else,” added Tom, “my department has neither the financial resources nor the backup to find out if this aunt even exists.”

“Any Romanian connection?” Jack asked, as he dug into his steak.

“None that we’re aware of,” said Tom. “Straight out of the Bronx and into a Brooks Brothers suit.”

“Leapman may yet turn out to be our best lead,” said Jack. “If we could only get him to testify—”

“Not a hope,” said Tom. “Since leaving jail, he hasn’t even had a parking ticket, and I suspect he’s a lot more frightened of Fenston than he is of us.”

“If only Hoover was still alive,” said Jack with a grin.

They both raised their glasses, before Tom added, “So when do you fly back to the States? I only ask, as I want to know when I can return to my day job.”

“Tomorrow, I suppose,” said Jack. “Now Krantz is safely locked up, I ought to get back to New York. Macy will want to know if I’m any nearer to linking Krantz with Fenston.”

“And are you?” asked Tom.

Neither of them noticed the two men talking to the maître d’. They couldn’t have been booking a table, otherwise they would have left their raincoats in reception. Once the maître d’ had answered their question, they walked purposefully across the dining room.

Tom was placing the files back in his briefcase by the time they reached their table.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” said the taller of the two men. “My name is Detective Sergeant Frankham, and this is my colleague, Detective Constable Ross. I’m sorry to disturb your meal, but I need to have a word with you, sir,” he said, touching Jack on the shoulder.

“Why, what have I done?” asked Jack, putting down his knife and fork. “Parked on a double yellow line?”

“I’m afraid it’s a little more serious than that, sir,” said the detective sergeant, “and I must therefore ask you to accompany me to the station.”

“On what charge?” demanded Jack.

“I think it might be wiser, sir, if we were not to continue this conversation in a crowded restaurant.”

“And on whose authority—,” began Tom.

“I don’t think you need to involve yourself, sir.”

“I’ll decide about that,” said Tom, as he removed his FBI badge from an inside pocket. He was about to flick the leather wallet open, when Jack touched him on the elbow and said, “Let’s not create a scene. No need to get the Bureau involved.”

“To hell with that, who do these people think—”

“Tom, calm down. This is not our country. I’ll go along to the police station and sort this all out.”

Tom reluctantly placed his FBI badge back in his pocket, and although he said nothing, the look on his face wouldn’t have left either policeman in any doubt how he felt. As Jack stood up, the sergeant grabbed his arm and quickly handcuffed him.

“Hey, is that really necessary?” demanded Tom.

“Tom, don’t get involved,” said Jack in a measured tone.

Tom reluctantly followed Jack out of the dining room, through a room full of guests, who studiously carried on chatting and eating their meals as if nothing unusual was going on around them.

When they reached the front door, Tom said, “Do you want me to come with you to the station?”

“No,” said Jack, “Why don’t you stick around. Don’t worry, I’m sure I’ll be back in time for coffee.”

Two women stared intently at Jack from the other side of the corridor.

“Is that him, madam?”

“Yes it is,” one of them confirmed.

When Tina heard her door open, she quickly flicked off the screen. She didn’t look up, as only one person never bothered to knock before entering her office.

“I presume you know that Petrescu is back in New York?”

“I’d heard,” said Tina, as she continued typing.

“But had you also heard,” said Leapman, placing both hands on her desk, “that she tried to steal the Van Gogh?”

“The one in the chairman’s office?” said Tina innocently.

“Don’t play games with me,” said Leapman. “You think I don’t know that you listen in on every phone conversation the chairman has?” Tina stopped typing and looked up at him. “Perhaps the time has come,” Leapman continued, “to let Mr. Fenston know about the switch under your desk that allows you to spy on him whenever he’s having a private meeting.”

“Are you threatening me, Mr. Leapman?” asked Tina. “Because if you are, I might find it necessary to have a word with the chairman myself.”

“And what could you possibly tell him that I would care about?” demanded Leapman.

“About the weekly calls you receive from a Mr. Pickford, and then perhaps we’ll discover who’s playing games.”

Leapman took his hands off the table and stood up straight.

“I feel sure your probation officer will be interested to learn that you’ve been harassing staff at a bank you don’t work for, don’t have an office in, and don’t receive a salary from.”

Leapman took a pace backward.

“When you come to see me next time, Mr. Leapman, make sure you knock, like any other visitor to the bank.”

Leapman took another pace backward, hesitated, then left without another word.

When the door closed, Tina was shaking so much she had to grip the armrests of her chair.

41

When the police car arrived at the station, Jack was bundled out. Once he’d been checked in by the desk sergeant, the two detectives accompanied him downstairs to an interview room. Detective Sergeant Frankham asked him to take a seat on the other side of the table. Something else Jack hadn’t experienced before. Detective Constable Ross stood quietly in one corner.

Jack could only wonder which one of them was going to play the good cop.

Detective Sergeant Frankham sat down, placed a file on the table, and extracted a long form.

“Name?” began Frankham.

“Jack Fitzgerald Delaney,” Jack replied.

“Date of birth?”

“Twenty-second November, “sixty-three.”

“Occupation?”

“Senior investigating officer with the FBI, attached to the New York field office.”

The detective sergeant dropped his pen, looked up, and said, “Do you have some ID?”

Jack produced his FBI badge and identity card.

“Thank you, sir,” said Frankham after he’d checked them. “Can you wait here for a moment?” He stood and turned to his colleague. “Would you see that Agent Delaney is offered a coffee? This may take some time.” When he reached the door he added, “And make sure he gets his tie, belt, and laces back.”

DS Frankham turned out to be right, because it was another hour before the heavy door was opened again and an older man with a weathered, lined face entered the room. He was dressed in a well-tailored uniform, with silver braid on his sleeve, epaulette, and the peak of his cap, which he removed to reveal a head of gray hair. He took the seat opposite Jack.

“Good evening, Mr. Delaney. My name is Renton, Chief Superintendent Renton, and now that we have been able to confirm your identity, perhaps you’d be kind enough to answer a few questions.”

“If I can,” said Jack.

“I feel sure you can,” said Renton. “What interests me is whether you will.”

Jack didn’t respond.

“We received a complaint from a usually reliable source that you have, for the past week, been following a lady without her prior knowledge. This is an offence in England under the 1997 Protection from Harassment Act, as you are no doubt aware. However, I feel sure you have a simple explanation.”

“Dr. Petrescu is part of an ongoing investigation, which my department has been involved in for some time.”

“Would that investigation have anything to do with the death of Lady Victoria Wentworth?”

“Yes,” replied Jack.

“And is Dr. Petrescu a suspect in that murder?”

“No,” replied Jack firmly. “Quite the opposite. In fact, we had thought she might be the next victim.”

“Had thought?” repeated the chief superintendent.

“Yes,” replied Jack. “Fortunately the murderer has been apprehended in Bucharest.”

“And you didn’t feel able to share this information with us?” said Renton. “Despite the fact that you must have been aware that we were conducting a murder inquiry.”

“I apologize, sir,” said Jack. “I only found out myself a few hours ago. But I’m sure our London office planned to keep you informed.”

“Mr. Tom Crasanti has briefed me, but I suspect only because his colleague was under lock and key.” Jack didn’t comment. “But he did go on to assure me,” continued Renton, “that you will keep us fully informed of any developments that might arise in the future.” Once again, Jack didn’t respond. The chief superintendent rose from his place. “Good night, Mr. Delaney. I have authorized your immediate release and can only hope you have a pleasant flight home.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Jack, as Renton replaced his cap and left the room.

Jack had some sympathy with the chief superintendent. After all, the NYPD, not to mention the CIA, rarely bothered to let the FBI know what they were up to. A few moments later, DS Frankham returned.

“If you’ll accompany me, sir,” he said, “we have a car waiting to take you back to your hotel.”

“Thank you,” said Jack, as he followed the detective sergeant out of the room and up the stairs into reception.

The desk sergeant lowered his head as Jack left the building. Jack shook hands with an embarrassed DS Frankham before climbing into a police car that was parked outside the front door. Tom was waiting for him in the back.

“Just another case study for Quantico to add to its curriculum,” suggested Tom. “This time on how to cause a major diplomatic incident while visiting one’s oldest ally.”

“I must have brought a new meaning to the words special relationship,” commented Jack.

“However, the condemned man is to be given a chance to redeem himself,” said Tom.

“What do you have in mind?” asked Jack.

“We’ve both been invited to join Lady Arabella and Dr. Petrescu for breakfast at Wentworth Hall tomorrow morning — and by the way, Jack, I see what you mean about Anna.”