False Impression

46

One of Anna’s golden rules when she woke in the morning was not to check the messages on her cell phone until she had showered, dressed, had breakfast, and read The New York Times. But as she had broken every one of her golden rules over the last two weeks, she checked her messages even before she got out of bed. One from Stalker asking her to call, which made her smile, one from Tina — no message, and one from Mr. Nakamura, which made her frown — only four words: “Urgent, please call. Nakamura.”

Anna decided to take a cold shower before she returned his call. As the jets of water cascaded down on her, she thought about Mr. Nakamura’s message. The word urgent always made her assume the worst — Anna fell into the half-empty-glass category rather than the half-full.

She was wide awake by the time she stepped out of the shower. Her heart was pounding at about the same pace as when she’d just finished her morning run. She sat on the end of the bed and tried to compose herself.

Once Anna felt her heartbeat had returned to as near normal as it was likely to, she dialed Nakamura’s number in Tokyo.

“Hai, Shacho-Shitso desu,” announced the receptionist.

“Mr. Nakamura, please.”

“Who shall I say is calling?”

“Anna Petrescu.”

“Ah yes, he is expecting your call.” Anna’s heartbeat quickened.

“Good morning, Dr. Petrescu.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Nakamura,” said Anna, wishing she could see his face and more quickly learn her fate.

“I’ve recently had a most unpleasant conversation with your former boss, Bryce Fenston,” continued Nakamura. “Which I’m afraid” — Anna could hardly breathe — “has made me reassess” — was she about to be sick? — “my opinion of that man. However, that’s not the purpose of this call. I just wanted to let you know that you are currently costing me around five hundred dollars a day as I have, as you requested, deposited five million dollars with my lawyers in London. So I would like to view the Van Gogh as soon as possible.”

“I could fly to Tokyo in the next few days,” Anna assured him, “but I would first have to go to England and pick up the painting.”

“That may not prove necessary,” said Nakamura. “I have a meeting with Corus Steel in London scheduled for Wednesday, and would be happy to fly over a day earlier, if that was convenient for Lady Arabella.”

“I’m sure that will be just fine,” said Anna. “I’ll need to contact Arabella and then call your secretary to confirm the details. Wentworth Hall is only about thirty minutes from Heathrow.”

“Excellent,” said Nakamura. “Then I’ll look forward to seeing you both tomorrow evening.” He paused. “By the way, Anna, have you given any more thought to becoming the director of my foundation? Because Mr. Fenston did convince me of one thing: you are certainly worth five hundred dollars a day.”

Although it was the third time Fenston had read the article, a smile never left his face. He couldn’t wait to share the news with Leapman, though he suspected he’d already seen the piece. He glanced at the clock on his desk, just before ten. Leapman was never late. Where was he?

Tina had already warned him that Mr. Jackson, an insurance assessor from Lloyd’s of London, was in the waiting room, and the front desk had just called to say that Chris Savage of Christie’s was on his way up.

“As soon as Savage appears,” said Fenston, “send them both in and then tell Leapman to join us.”

“I haven’t seen Mr. Leapman this morning,” said Tina.

“Well, tell him I want him in here the moment he arrives,” said Fenston. The smile returned to his face when he reread the headline, KITCHEN KNIFE KILLER ESCAPES.

There was a knock on the door, and Tina ushered both men into the office.

“Mr. Jackson and Mr. Savage,” she said. From their dress, it would not have been difficult to fathom which was the insurance broker and which one spent his life in the art world.

Fenston stepped forward and shook hands with a short, balding man in a navy pin-striped suit and crested blue tie, who introduced himself as Bill Jackson. Fenston nodded at Savage, whom he had met at Christie’s on several occasions over the years. He was wearing his trademark bow tie.

“I wish to make it clear from the outset,” began Fenston, “that I only want to insure this one painting,” he said, gesturing toward the Van Gogh, “for twenty million dollars.”

“Despite the fact that it might fetch five times that amount were it to come under the hammer?” queried Savage, who turned to study the picture for the first time.

“That would, of course, mean a far lower premium,” interjected Jackson. “That’s assuming our security boys consider the painting is adequately protected.”

“Just stay where you are, Mr. Jackson, and you can decide for yourself if it’s adequately protected.”

Fenston walked to the door, entered a six-digit code on the keypad next to the light switch, and left the room. The moment the door closed behind him, a metal grille appeared from out of the ceiling and eight seconds later was clamped to the floor, covering the Van Gogh. At the same time, an alarm emitted an ear-piercing sound that would have caused even Quasimodo to seek another vocation.

Jackson quickly pressed the palms of his hands over his ears and turned around to see that a second grille had already barred his exit from the only door in the room. He walked across to the window and looked down at the midgets hurrying along the sidewalk below. A few seconds later, the alarm stopped and the metal grilles slid up into the ceiling. Fenston marched back into the room, looking pleased with himself.

“Impressive,” said Jackson, the sound of the alarm still reverberating in his ears. “But there are still a couple of questions I will need answered,” he added. “How many people know the code?”

“Only two of us,” said Fenston, “my chief of staff and myself, and I change the sequence of numbers once a week.”

“And that window,” said Jackson, “is there any way of opening it?”

“No, it’s double-glazed bulletproof glass, and even if you could break it, you’d still be thirty-two stories above the ground.”

“And the alarm...”

“Connected directly to Abbott Security,” said Fenston. “They have an office in the building and guarantee to be on this floor within two minutes.”

“I’m impressed,” said Jackson. “What we in the business call triple-A, which usually means the premium can be kept down to one percent or, in real terms, around two hundred thousand dollars a year.” He smiled. “I only wish the Norwegians had your foresight, Mr. Fenston, and then perhaps we wouldn’t have had to pay out so much on The Scream.”

“But can you also guarantee discretion in these matters?” Fenston asked.

“Absolutely,” Jackson assured him. “We insure half the world’s treasures, and you wouldn’t find out who our clients are, were you to break into our headquarters in the City of London. Even their names are coded.”

“That’s reassuring,” said Fenston. “Then all that needs to be done is for you to complete the paperwork.”

“I can do that,” said Jackson, “just as soon as Mr. Savage confirms a value of twenty million for the painting.”

“That shouldn’t be too difficult,” said Fenston, turning his attention to Chris Savage, who was staring intently at the picture. “After all, he’s already assured us that the Wentworth Van Gogh is worth nearer one hundred million.”

“The Wentworth Van Gogh most certainly is,” said Savage, “but not this particular piece.” He paused before turning round to face Fenston. “The only part of this work of art that’s original is the frame.”

“What do you mean?” said Fenston, staring up at his favorite painting as if he’d been informed that his only child was illegitimate.

“I mean just that,” said Savage. “The frame is original, but the painting is a fake.”

“A fake?” repeated Fenston, hardly able to get the words out. “But it came from Wentworth Hall.”

“The frame may well have come from Wentworth Hall,” said Savage, “but I can assure you that the canvas did not.”

“How can you be so sure,” demanded Fenston, “when you haven’t even carried out any tests?”

“I don’t need to carry out any tests,” said Savage emphatically.

“Why not?” barked Fenston.

“Because the wrong ear is bandaged,” came back the immediate reply.

“No it’s not,” insisted Fenston, as he stared up at the painting. “Every schoolchild knows that Van Gogh cut off his left ear.”

“But not every schoolchild knows that he painted the self-portrait while looking in a mirror, which is why the right ear is bandaged.”

Fenston slumped down into the chair behind his desk, with his back to the painting. Savage strolled forward and began to study the picture even more closely. “What puzzles me,” he added, “is that although the painting is undoubtedly a fake, someone has put it into the original frame.” Fenston’s face burned with anger. “And I must confess,” continued Savage, “that whoever painted this particular version is a fine artist.” He paused. “However, I could only place a value of ten thousand on the work, and perhaps—” he hesitated “—a further ten thousand on the frame, which would make the suggested premium of two hundred thousand seem somewhat excessive.” Fenston still didn’t respond. “I am sorry to be the bearer of such bad news,” concluded Savage, as he walked away from the picture and came to a halt in front of Fenston. “I can only hope that you haven’t parted with a large sum, and, if you have, you know who is responsible for this elaborate deception.”

“Get me Leapman,” Fenston screamed at the top of his voice, causing Tina to come running into the room.

“He’s just arrived,” she said. “I’ll tell him you want to see him.”

Neither the man from Lloyd’s nor the Christie’s expert felt this was the moment to hang around, hoping to be offered a cup of coffee. They discreetly left, as Leapman came rushing in.

“It’s a fake,” shouted Fenston.

Leapman stared up at the picture for some time before offering an opinion. “Then we both know who’s responsible,” he eventually said.

“Petrescu,” said Fenston, spitting out the name.

“Not to mention her partner, who has been feeding Petrescu with information since the day you fired her.”

“You’re right,” said Fenston, and turning toward the open door he hollered “Tina” at the top of his voice. Once again, she came running into the room.

“You see that picture,” he said, unable even to turn around and look at the painting. Tina nodded, but didn’t speak. “I want you to put it back in its box, and then immediately dispatch it to Wentworth Hall, along with a demand for—”

“Thirty-two million, eight hundred and ninety-two thousand dollars,” said Leapman.

“And once you’ve done that,” said Fenston, “you can collect all your personal belongings and make sure you’re off the premises within ten minutes, because you’re fired, you little bitch.”

Tina began shaking as Fenston rose from behind his desk and stared down at her. “But before you leave, I have one last task for you.” Tina couldn’t move. “Tell your friend Petrescu that I still haven’t removed her name from the ‘missing, presumed dead’ list.”

47

Anna felt her lunch with Ken Wheatley could have gone better. The deputy chairman of Christie’s had made it clear that the unfortunate incident that had caused her to resign from Sotheby’s was not yet considered by her colleagues in the art world to be a thing of the past. And it didn’t help that Bryce Fenston was telling anyone who cared to listen that she had been fired for conduct unworthy of an officer of the bank. Wheatley admitted that no one much cared for Fenston. However, they felt unable to offend such a valuable customer, which meant that her reentry into the auction house arena wasn’t going to prove that easy.

Wheatley’s words only made Anna more determined to help Jack secure a conviction against Fenston, who didn’t seem to care whose life he ruined.

There wasn’t anything suitable at the moment for someone with her qualifications and experience, was how Ken had euphemistically put it, but he promised to keep in touch.

When Anna left the restaurant, she hailed a cab. Perhaps her second meeting would prove more worthwhile. “Twenty-six Federal Plaza,” she told the driver.

Jack was standing in the lobby of the New York field office waiting for Anna some time before she was due to arrive. He was not surprised to see her appear a couple of minutes early. Three guards watched Anna carefully as she descended the dozen steps that led to the entrance of 26 Federal Plaza. She gave her name to one of the guards, who requested proof of identity. She passed over her driver’s license, which he checked before ticking off her name on his clipboard.

Jack opened the door for her.

“Not my idea of a first date,” said Anna, as she stepped inside.

“Nor mine,” Jack tried to reassure her, “but my boss wanted you to be in no doubt how important he considers this meeting.”

“Why, is it my turn to be arrested?” asked Anna.

“No, but he is hoping that you will be willing to assist us.”

“Then let’s go and bell the cat.”

“One of your father’s favorite expressions,” said Jack.

“How did you know that?” asked Anna. “Have you got a file on him as well?”

“No,” said Jack, laughing, as they stepped into the elevator. “It was just one of the things you told me on the plane during our first night together.”

Jack whisked Anna to the nineteenth floor, where Dick Macy was waiting in the corridor to greet her.

“How kind of you to come in, Dr. Petrescu,” he said, as if she’d had a choice. Anna didn’t comment. Macy led her through to his office and ushered her into a comfortable chair on the other side of his desk.

“Although this is an off-the-record meeting,” began Macy, “I cannot stress how important we at the Bureau consider your assistance.”

“Why do you need my assistance?” asked Anna. “I thought you had arrested Leapman and he was safely under lock and key.”

“We released him this morning,” said Macy.

“Released him?” said Anna. “Wasn’t two million enough?”

“More than enough,” admitted Macy, “which is why I became involved. My specialty is plea bargaining, and just after nine o’clock this morning, Leapman signed an agreement with the Southern District federal prosecutor to ensure that if he fully cooperates with our investigation, he’ll end up with only a five-year sentence.”

“But that still doesn’t explain why you’ve released him,” said Anna.

“Because Leapman claims he can show a direct financial link between Fenston and Krantz, but he needs to return to their Wall Street office so he can get his hands on all the relevant documents, including numbered accounts, and several illegal payments into different bank accounts around the world.”

“He could be double-crossing you,” said Anna. “After all, most of the documents that would implicate Fenston were destroyed when the North Tower collapsed.”

“True,” said Macy, “but if he is, I’ve made it clear he can look forward to spending the rest of his life in Sing Sing.”

“That’s quite an incentive,” admitted Anna.

“Leapman’s also agreed to appear as a government witness,” said Jack, “should the case come to trial.”

“Then let’s be thankful that Krantz is safely locked up, otherwise your star witness wouldn’t even make it to the courthouse.”

Macy looked across at Jack, unable to mask his surprise. “You haven’t read today’s final edition of The New York Times?” he asked, turning to face Anna.

“No,” said Anna, having no idea what they were talking about.

Macy opened the file, extracted an article, and passed the clipping across to Anna.

Olga Krantz, known as the “kitchen knife killer” because of the role she played as an executioner in Ceauşescu’s brutal regime, disappeared from a high-security hospital in Bucharest last night. Krantz is thought to have escaped down a waste-disposal shaft dressed in the clothes of a hospital porter. One of the policemen who had been guarding her was later discovered with his...

“I’m going to be looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life,” said Anna, long before she’d reached the last paragraph.

“I don’t think so,” said Jack. “Krantz won’t be in a hurry to return to America, now that she’s joined nine men on the FBI’s most wanted list. She’ll also realize that we’ve circulated a detailed description of her to every port of entry, as well as Interpol. If she were to be stopped and searched, she’d have some trouble explaining the bullet wound in her right shoulder.”

“But that won’t stop Fenston seeking revenge.”

“Why should he bother?” asked Jack. “Now that he’s got the Van Gogh, you’re history.”

“But he hasn’t got the Van Gogh,” said Anna, bowing her head.

“What do you mean?” asked Jack.

“I had a call from Tina, just before I left to come to this meeting. She warned me that Fenston had called in an expert from Christie’s so that he could have the painting valued for insurance. Something he’s never done before.”

“But why should that cause any problems?” asked Jack.

Anna raised her head. “Because it’s a fake.”

“A fake?” both men said in unison.

“Yes, that’s why I had to fly to Bucharest. I was having a copy made by an old friend who’s a brilliant portrait artist.”

“Which would explain the drawing in your apartment,” said Jack.

“You’ve been in my apartment?” said Anna.

“Only when I believed that your life was in danger,” said Jack quietly.

“But—,” began Anna.

“And that also explains,” jumped in Macy, “why you sent the red box back to London, even allowing it to be intercepted by Art Locations and delivered on to Fenston in New York.”

Anna nodded.

“But you must have realized that you’d be found out in time?” queried Jack.

“In time, yes,” repeated Anna. “That’s the point. All I needed was enough time to sell the original, before Fenston discovered what I was up to.”

“So while your friend Anton was working on the fake, you flew on to Tokyo to try and sell the original to Nakamura.”

Anna nodded.

“But did you succeed?” asked Macy.

“Yes,” said Anna. “Nakamura agreed to purchase the original Self-Portrait for fifty million dollars, which was more than enough for Arabella to clear her sister’s debts with Fenston Finance while still holding on to the rest of the estate.”

“But now that Fenston knows that he’s in possession of a fake, he’s bound to get in touch with Nakamura and tell him what you’ve been up to,” said Jack.

“He already has,” said Anna.

“So you’re back to square one,” suggested Macy.

“No,” said Anna with a smile. “Nakamura has already deposited five million dollars with his London solicitors and has agreed to pay the balance once he’s inspected the original.”

“Have you got enough time?” asked Macy.

“I’m flying to London this evening,” said Anna, “and Nakamura plans to join us at Wentworth Hall tomorrow night.”

“It’s going to be a close-run thing,” said Jack.

“Not if Leapman delivers the goods,” said Macy. “Don’t forget what he has planned for tonight.”

“Am I allowed to know what you’re up to?” asked Anna.

“No, you are not,” said Jack firmly. “You catch your plane to England and close the deal, while we get on with our job.”

“Does your job include keeping an eye on Tina?” asked Anna quietly.

“Why would we need to do that?” asked Jack.

“She was fired this morning.”

“For what reason?” inquired Macy.

“Because Fenston found out that she was keeping me informed of everything he was up to while I was chasing halfway around the world, so I fear that I’ve ended up putting her life in danger as well.”

“I was wrong about Tina,” admitted Jack, and looking across at Anna added, “and I apologize. But I still can’t make out why she ever agreed to work for Fenston in the first place.”

“I have a feeling I’ll find out this evening,” said Anna. “We’re meeting up for a drink just before I leave for the airport.”

“If you have any time before takeoff, give me a call. I’d be fascinated to know the answer to that particular mystery.”

Anna nodded.

“There’s another mystery I’d like to clear up before you leave, Dr. Petrescu,” said Macy.

Anna turned to face Jack’s boss.

“If Fenston is in possession of a fake, where’s the original?” he demanded.

“At Wentworth Hall,” Anna replied. “Once I’d retrieved the painting from Sotheby’s, I grabbed a cab and took it straight back to Arabella. The only thing I came away with was the red box and the painting’s original frame.”

“Which you took on to Bucharest so that your friend Anton could put his fake into the original frame, which you hoped would be enough to convince Fenston that he’d got his hands on the real McCoy.”

“And it would have stayed that way if he hadn’t decided to have the painting insured.”

No one spoke for some time, until Macy said, “And you carried out the whole deception right in front of Jack’s eyes.”

“Sure did,” said Anna with a smile.

“So let me finally ask you, Dr. Petrescu,” continued Macy, “where was the Van Gogh while two of my most experienced agents were having breakfast with you and Lady Arabella at Wentworth Hall?”

“Plead the Fifth Amendment,” begged Jack.

“In the Van Gogh bedroom,” replied Anna, “just above them on the first floor.”

“That close,” said Macy.

Krantz waited until the tenth ring, before she heard a click and a voice inquired, “Where are you?”

“Over the Russian border,” she replied.

“Good, because you can’t come back to America while you’re still regularly appearing in The New York Times.”

“Not to mention on the FBI’s Most Wanted list,” added Krantz.

“Fifteen minutes of fame,” said Fenston. “But I do have another assignment for you.”

“Where?” asked Krantz.

“Wentworth Hall.”

“I couldn’t risk going back there a second time—”

“Even if I doubled your fee?”

“It’s still too much of a risk.”

“You may not think so when I tell you whose throat I want you to cut.”

“I’m listening,” she said, and when Fenston revealed the name of his next victim, all she said was, “You’ll pay me two million dollars for that?”

“Three, if you manage to kill Petrescu at the same time — she’ll be staying there overnight.”

Krantz hesitated.

“And four, if she’s a witness to the first throat being cut.”

A long silence followed, before Krantz said, “I’ll need two million in advance.”

“The usual place?”

“No,” she replied, and gave him a numbered account in Moscow.

Fenston put the phone down and buzzed through to Leapman.

“I need to see you — now.”

While he waited for Leapman to join him, Fenston began jotting down headings for subjects he needed to discuss: Van Gogh, money, Wentworth estate, Petrescu. He was still scribbling when there was a knock on the door.

“She’s escaped,” said Fenston, the moment Leapman closed the door.

“So The New York Times report was accurate,” said Leapman, hoping he didn’t appear anxious.

“Yes, but what they don’t know is that she’s on her way to Moscow.”

“Is she planning to return to New York?”

“Not for the moment,” said Fenston. “She can’t risk it while security remains on such high alert.”

“That makes sense,” agreed Leapman, trying not to sound relieved.

“Meanwhile, I’ve given her another assignment,” said Fenston.

“Who is it to be this time?” asked Leapman.

Leapman listened in disbelief as Fenston revealed who he had selected as Krantz’s next victim, and why it would be impossible for her to cut off their left ear.

“And has the impostor been dispatched back to Wentworth Hall?” asked Fenston, as Leapman stared up at the blown-up photograph of the chairman shaking hands with George W. Bush following his recent visit to Ground Zero, which had been returned to its place of honor on the wall behind Fenston’s desk.

“Yes. Art Locations picked the canvas up this afternoon,” replied Leapman, “and will be returning the fake to Wentworth Hall sometime tomorrow. I also had a word with our lawyer in London. The sequestration order is being heard before a judge in chambers on Wednesday, so if she doesn’t return the original by then, the Wentworth estate automatically becomes yours, and then we can start selling off the rest of the collection until the debt is cleared. Mind you, it could take years.”

“If Krantz does her job properly tomorrow night, the debt will never be cleared,” said Fenston, “which is why I called you in. I want you to put the rest of the Wentworth collection up for auction at the earliest possible opportunity. Divide the pictures equally between Christie’s, Sotheby’s, Phillips, and Bonhams, and make sure you sell them all at the same time.”

“But that would flood the market and be certain to bring the prices down.”

“That’s exactly what I want to do,” said Fenston. “If I remember correctly, Petrescu valued the rest of the collection at around thirty-five million, but I’ll be happy to raise somewhere between fifteen and twenty.”

“But that would still leave you ten million short.”

“How sad,” said Fenston, smiling. “In which case I will be left with no choice but to put Wentworth Hall on the market and dispose of everything, right down to the last suit of armor.” Fenston paused. “So be sure you place the estate in the hands of the three most fashionable agents in London. Tell them they can print expensive color brochures, advertise in all the glossy magazines, and even take out the odd half-page in one or two national newspapers, which will be bound to cause further editorial comment. By the time I finish with Lady Arabella, she’ll not only be penniless but, knowing the British press, humiliated.”

“And Petrescu?”

“It’s just her bad luck that she happens to be in the wrong place at the wrong time,” said Fenston, unable to hide a smirk.

“So Krantz will be able to kill two birds with one stone,” said Leapman.

“Which is why I want you to concentrate on bankrupting the Wentworth estate, so that Lady Arabella suffers an even slower death.”

“I’ll get on to it right away,” said Leapman, as he turned to leave. “Good luck with your speech, Chairman,” he added as he reached the door.

“My speech?” said Fenston.

Leapman turned back to face the chairman. “I thought you were addressing the annual bankers’ dinner at the Sherry Netherland tonight.”

“Christ, you’re right. Where the hell did Tina put my speech?”

Leapman smiled, but not until he had closed the door behind him. He returned to his room, sat down at his desk, and considered what Fenston had just told him. Once the FBI learned the full details of where Krantz would be tomorrow night, and who her next intended victim was, he felt confident that the district attorney’s office would agree to reduce his sentence by even more. And if he was able to deliver the vital piece of evidence that linked Fenston to Krantz, they might even recommend a suspended sentence.

Leapman removed a tiny camera, supplied by the FBI, from an inside pocket. He began to calculate how many documents he would be able to photograph while Fenston was delivering his speech at the annual bankers’ dinner.

48

At 7:16 P.M., Leapman switched the light off in his office and stepped into the corridor. He closed his door but didn’t lock it. He walked toward the bank of elevators, aware that the only office light still shining was coming from under the chairman’s door. He stepped into an empty elevator and was quickly whisked to the ground floor. He walked slowly across to reception and signed out at 7:19 P.M. A woman standing behind him stepped forward to sign herself out as Leapman took a pace backward, his eyes never leaving the two guards behind the desk. One was supervising the steady flow of people exiting the building, while the other was dealing with a delivery that required a signature. Leapman kept retreating until he reached the empty elevator. He backed in and stood to one side so that the guards could no longer see him. He pressed button 31. Less than a minute later, he stepped out into another silent corridor.

He walked to the far end, opened the fire exit door, and climbed the steps to the thirty-second floor. He pushed the door slowly open, not wanting to make the slightest sound. He then tiptoed down the thickly carpeted corridor until he was back outside his own office. He checked to confirm that the only light came from under the chairman’s door. He then opened his own door, stepped inside, and locked it. He sat down in the chair behind his desk and placed the camera in his pocket, but did not turn on the light.

He sat alone in the darkness and waited patiently.

Fenston was considering a loan application from a Michael Karraway, who wanted to borrow fourteen million to invest in a group of provincial theaters. He was an out-of-work actor with few stage credits to his name. But to his credit he had an indulgent mother, who had left him a Matisse, View from the Bedroom, and a thousand-acre farm in Vermont. Fenston studied a transparency of a young nude looking out of a bedroom window and decided that he would instruct Leapman to draw up a contract.

Fenston tossed the application to one side and began thumbing through the latest Christie’s catalog. He paused at a reproduction of Matisse’s Dancer Before a Mirror, but turned the page once he had seen the low estimate. After all, Pierre de Rochelle had supplied him with a Degas, The Dancing Instructor, at a far more reasonable price.

He continued to study the prices of each picture, a smile regularly appearing on his lips, when he realized how much his own collection was increasing in value. He glanced up at the clock on the corner of his desk: 7:43 P.M. “Shit,” he said, aware that if he didn’t hurry he was going to be late for his own speech at the bankers’ dinner. He picked up the catalogue and walked quickly to the door. He entered a six-digit code on the pad next to the light switch, stepped out into the corridor, and closed his door. Eight seconds after he’d locked it, he heard the security grilles slam into place.

On the ride down in the elevator, Fenston was fascinated to see the low estimate for Caillebotte’s Street Sweepers. He had acquired the larger version for half that price from a client he had recently bankrupted. When the doors slid open, he walked quickly across to reception and signed himself out: 7:48 P.M.

As he strolled through the lobby, he could see his driver waiting for him at the bottom of the steps. He kept his thumb stuck in the catalog as he climbed into the backseat. He was annoyed when he turned the next page and came across Van Gogh’s Reapers in the Field, low estimate, $27 million. He swore. It wasn’t in the same class as the Self-Portrait with Bandaged Ear.

“Excuse me, sir,” said the driver, “but are you still going to the bankers’ dinner?”

“Yes, so we’d better get a move on,” said Fenston, and he turned another page of the catalog.

“It’s just that...,” said the driver, picking up a gold-embossed card from the passenger seat.

“That what?” said Fenston.

“That the invitation says dinner jacket.” He turned and passed the card back to his boss.

“Shit,” said Fenston, dropping the catalog onto the seat beside him. Tina would normally have put out his dinner jacket rather than leave it hanging in the closet. He jumped out of the car, even before his driver could open the back door, and took the steps up to the entrance of the building two at a time, quickly bypassing reception, not bothering to sign back in. He hurried toward a waiting elevator and pushed the button for the thirty-second floor.

When he stepped out of the elevator, the first thing he noticed as he walked down the corridor was a beam of light coming from under his office door. He could have sworn he’d switched the light off after he’d set the alarm, or had he become so engrossed in the catalog that he simply forgot? He was about to enter the code on the pad by his door, when he heard a noise coming from inside.

Fenston hesitated, wondering who it could be. He didn’t move as he waited to find out if the intruder was aware of his presence. They didn’t stir, so he retraced his steps, slipped into the adjoining office, and quietly closed the door. He sat down in his secretary’s chair and began to look for the switch; Leapman had alerted him to the fact that Tina could observe everything that was taking place in his office. After searching for some time, he located the switch under the desk. He flicked it across and the little screen in the corner lit up, giving him a clear view of the interior of his office. Fenston stared in disbelief.

Leapman was sitting at his desk, a thick file open in front of him. He was slowing turning the pages, sometimes stopping to study an entry more carefully, while occasionally extracting a sheet, laying it on the table, and photographing it with what looked like a high-tech camera.

Several thoughts flashed through Fenston’s mind. Leapman must be collecting material so that he could at some later date blackmail him. He was peddling information to a rival bank. The IRS had finally put the squeeze on him, and he’d made a deal to sacrifice his boss in exchange for immunity. Fenston settled for blackmail.

It soon became clear that Leapman was in no hurry. He had obviously chosen this particular time with some thought. Once he had finished one file, he methodically returned it to its place and selected another. His routine didn’t alter: search slowly through the contents of the file, select certain items to study more carefully, and then occasionally extract a page to be photographed.

Fenston considered his alternatives before finally settling on something he considered worthy of Leapman.

He first wrote down the sequence of events that would be required to ensure he wasn’t caught. Once he was confident that he had mastered the order, he flicked up a switch to stop all outgoing or incoming calls from his office. He sat patiently at his secretary’s desk until he saw Leapman open another thick file. He then slipped back into the corridor, coming to a halt in front of his office. Fenston went over the order in his mind and, once he was satisfied, stepped forward. He first entered the correct code, 170690, on the pad by the door, as if he was leaving. He then turned his key in the lock and silently pushed open the door no more than an inch. He then immediately pulled it closed again.

The deafening alarm was automatically set off, but Fenston still waited for eight seconds until the security grilles had clamped firmly into place. He then quickly entered last week’s code, 170680, opened the door a second time, and immediately slammed it closed.

He could hear Leapman running across the room, clearly hoping that by entering the correct code he could stop the alarm and cause the grilles to slide back into the ceiling. But it was too late, because the iron grilles remained resolutely in place and the overpowering cacophony continued unabated.

Fenston knew that he had only seconds to spare if he was to complete the sequence without being caught. He ran back to the adjoining office and quickly scanned the notes he’d left on his secretary’s desk. He dialed the emergency number for Abbott Security.

A voice announced, “Duty officer, security.”

“My name is Bryce Fenston, chairman of Fenston Finance.” He spoke slowly, but with authority. “The alarm has been triggered in my office on the thirty-second floor. I must have entered last week’s code by mistake, and I just wanted to let you know that it’s not an emergency.”

“Can you repeat your name, sir?”

“Bryce Fenston,” he shouted above the noise of the alarm.

“Date of birth?”

“Twelve six fifty-two.”

“Mother’s maiden name?”

“Madejski.”

“Home zip code?”

“One zero zero two one.”

“Thank you, Mr. Fenston. We’ll get someone up to the thirty-second floor as quickly as possible. The engineers are currently responding to an incident on the seventeenth floor, where we have someone stuck in an elevator, so it might be a few minutes before they get to you.”

“No hurry,” said Fenston casually, “there’s no one else working on this floor at the moment, and the office won’t open again until seven tomorrow.”

“It’s sure not going to take us that long,” the guard promised him, “but with your permission, Mr. Fenston, we’ll change your category from emergency to priority.”

“Okay by me,” shouted Fenston above the deafening noise.

“But there will still be an out-of-hours call-out charge of five hundred dollars.”

“That sounds a bit steep,” said Fenston.

“It’s standard in a case like this, sir,” came back the duty officer’s reply. “However, if you were able to report to the front desk in person, Mr. Fenston, and sign our alarm roster, the charge is automatically cut to two fifty.”

“I’m on my way,” said Fenston.

“But I have to point out, sir,” continued the duty officer, “that should you do that, your status will be lowered to routine, in which case we couldn’t come to your assistance until we’ve dealt with all other priority and emergency calls.”

“That won’t be a problem,” said Fenston.

“But you can be confident that whatever other calls we have outstanding, we still guarantee that yours will be sorted out within four hours.”

“Thank you,” said Fenston. “I’ll come straight down and report to the front desk.”

He replaced the receiver and walked back into the corridor. As he passed his office, he could hear Leapman pounding on the door like a trapped animal, but he could only just make out his voice above the shrill scream of the alarm. Fenston continued on toward the elevators. Even at a distance of some fifty feet he still found the piercing drone intolerable.

Once he’d stepped out of the elevator on the ground floor, he went straight to the front desk.

“Ah, Mr. Fenston,” said the security guard. “If you’ll sign here, it will save you another two hundred and fifty bucks.”

Fenston slipped him a ten-dollar note. “Thanks,” he said. “No need to rush. I’m the last one out,” he assured them as he hurried out of the front door and back down the steps.

As he stepped into his waiting car, Fenston glanced up at his office. He could see a tiny figure banging on the window. The driver closed the door behind him and returned to the front seat, puzzled. His boss still wasn’t wearing a dinner jacket.

49

Jack Delaney parked his car on Broad Street just after nine thirty He switched on the radio and listened to Cousin Brucie on 101.1 FM, as he settled back to wait for Leapman. The venue for their meeting had been Leapman’s choice, and he’d told the FBI man to expect him some time between ten and eleven, when he would hand over their camera containing enough damning evidence to ensure a conviction.

Jack was suspended in that unreal world somewhere between half awake and half asleep when he heard the siren. Like all law-enforcement officers, he could identify the different decibel pitch between police, ambulance, and fire department in a split second. This was an ambulance, probably coming from St. Vincent’s.

He checked his watch: 11:15 P.M. Leapman was running late, but then he had warned Jack that there could be over a hundred documents to photograph, so not to keep him to the minute. The FBI technical boys had spent some considerable time showing Leapman how to operate the latest high-tech camera so he could be sure to deliver the best results. But that was before the phone call. Leapman had rung Jack’s office a few minutes after seven to say that Fenston had told him something that would prove far more damning than any document. But he didn’t want to reveal the information over the phone. The line went dead before Jack could press him. He would have been more responsive if it hadn’t been his experience that plea bargainers always claim they have new information that will break the case wide open, and therefore the FBI should reconsider the length of their sentence. He knew his boss wouldn’t agree to that unless the new evidence clearly showed an unbreakable link in the chain between Fenston and Krantz.

The sound of the siren was getting louder.

Jack decided to get out of the car and stretch his legs. His raincoat felt crumpled. He’d bought it from Brooks Brothers in the days when he wanted everyone to know that he was a G-man, but the higher up the ranks he climbed, the less he wished it to be that obvious. If he was promoted to run his own field office, he might even consider buying a new coat, one that would make him look more like a lawyer or a banker — that would please his father.

His mind switched to Fenston, who by now would have delivered his speech on Moral Responsibility for Modern Bankers, and then to Anna, who was halfway across the Atlantic on her way to meet up with Nakamura. Anna had left a message on his cell phone, saying she now knew why Tina had taken the job as Fenston’s P.A., and the evidence had been staring her in the face. The line had been busy when she called, but Anna said she’d phone again in the morning. It must have been when Leapman was on the line. Damn the man. Jack was standing on a New York sidewalk in the middle of the night, tired and hungry, while he waited for a camera. His father was right. He should have been a lawyer.

The siren was now only a couple of blocks away.

Jack strolled down to the end of the road and peered up at the building in which Leapman was working, somewhere on the thirty-second floor. There was a row of blazing lights about halfway up the skyscraper, otherwise the windows were mostly dark. Jack began to count the floors, but by the time he’d reached eighteen he couldn’t be sure, and when he counted thirty-two, it just might have been the floor that was blazing with lights. But that didn’t make any sense, because on Leapman’s floor, there should only have been a single light. The last thing he would have wanted was to draw attention to himself.

Jack looked across the road to watch an ambulance come to a screeching halt in front of the building. The back door burst open and three paramedics, two men and a woman dressed in their familiar dark blue uniforms, jumped out onto the sidewalk. One pushed a stretcher, the second carried an oxygen cylinder, while the third held a bulky medical bag. Jack watched them as they charged up the steps and into the building.

He turned his attention to the reception desk, where one guard — pointing to something on his clipboard — was talking to an older man dressed in a smart suit, probably his supervisor, while the second guard was occupied on the telephone. Several people strolled in and out of the elevators, which wasn’t surprising, as they were in the heart of the city where finance is a twenty-four-hour occupation. Most Americans would be asleep while money was changing hands in Sydney, Tokyo, Hong Kong, and now London, but there always had to be a group of New Yorkers who lived their lives on other people’s time.

Jack’s train of thought was interrupted when an elevator door opened and the three paramedics reappeared, two of them wheeling their patient on the stretcher, while the third was still holding onto the oxygen cylinder. As they walked slowly but purposefully toward the entrance, everyone in their path stood aside. Jack strolled up the steps to take a closer look. Another siren blared in the distance, on this occasion the droning pitch of the NYPD, but it could be going anywhere at that time of night, and in any case Jack was now concentrating on the stretcher. He stood by the door as the paramedics came out of the building and carried their patient slowly down the steps. He stared at the pallid face of a stricken man, whose eyes were glazed over as if they’d been caught in the blaze of a headlight. It wasn’t until he’d passed him that Jack realized who it was. He had to make an instant decision. Did he pursue the ambulance back to St Vincent’s or head straight for the thirty-second floor? The police siren now sounded as if it could be heading in their direction. One look at that face and Jack didn’t need to be told that Leapman wasn’t going to be speaking to anyone for a very long time. He ran into the building with the sound of the police siren no more than a block or two away. He knew he had only a few minutes before the NYPD’s finest would be on the scene. He paused at the reception desk for a moment to show them his FBI badge.

“You got here quickly,” said one of the guards, but Jack didn’t comment as he headed for the bank of elevators. The guard wondered how he knew which floor to go to.

Jack squeezed through the elevator doors just as they were about to close and jabbed at the button marked 32. When the doors opened again, he looked quickly up and down the corridor to see where the lights were coming from. He turned and ran toward some offices at the far end to find a security guard and two engineers in red overalls, along with a cleaner, standing by an open door.

“Who are you?” demanded the security guard.

“FBI,” said Jack, producing his badge but not revealing his name as he strode into the room. The first thing he saw was a blown-up photograph of Fenston shaking hands with George W. Bush, which dominated the wall behind the desk. His eyes moved quickly around the room until they settled on the one thing he was looking for. It was in the center of the desk, resting on a pile of spread-out papers beside an open file.

“What happened?” demanded Jack authoritatively.

“Some guy got himself trapped in this office for over three hours and must have set the alarm off.”

“It wasn’t our fault,” jumped in one of the engineers, “we were told to downgrade the call, and we’ve got that in writing, otherwise we would have been here a lot sooner.”

Jack didn’t need to ask who had set off the alarm and then left Leapman to his fate. He walked over to the desk, his eyes quickly scanning the papers. He glanced up to find all four men staring at him. Jack looked directly at the security guard. “Go to the elevator, wait for the cops, and the minute they turn up bring them straight back to me.” The guard disappeared into the corridor without question and headed quickly toward the elevators. “And you three, out,” was Jack’s next command. “This may be a crime scene, and I don’t want you disturbing any evidence.” The men turned to leave, and in the split second their backs were turned, Jack grabbed the camera and dropped it into one of the baggy pockets of his trench coat.

He picked up the phone on Fenston’s desk. There was no dial tone, only a continuous buzzing noise. Someone had disconnected the line. The same person who triggered the alarm, no doubt. Jack didn’t touch anything else in the room. He stepped back into the corridor and slipped into the adjoining office. A screen was fixed to the corner of the desk and was still relaying images from inside Fenston’s office. Fenston had clearly not only witnessed Leapman’s actions but had enough time to set in motion the most diabolical revenge.

Jack’s eyes moved across to the switchboard. One lever was up, illuminating a flickering orange light, indicating that the line was busy. He must have cut Leapman off from any hope of contacting the outside world. Jack looked down at the desk where Fenston would have been sitting when he planned the whole operation. He’d even written out a list to make sure he didn’t make a mistake. All the clues were there for the NYPD to gather and evaluate. If this had been a Columbo investigation, the switch, the handwritten list left on the desk, and the timing of the alarm going off would have been quite enough for the great detective to secure a conviction, with Fenston breaking down and confessing following the last commercial break. Unfortunately, this wasn’t a made-for-TV movie, and one thing was certain: Fenston wasn’t going to break down and would never consider confessing. Jack grimaced. The only thing he had in common with Columbo was the crumpled raincoat.

Jack heard the elevator doors open and the words, “Follow me.” He knew it had to be the cops. He turned his attention back to the screen on the desk as two uniformed officers marched into Fenston’s office and began to question the four witnesses. The plainclothes men wouldn’t be far behind. Jack walked out of the adjoining office and headed silently toward the elevator. He’d reached the doors when one of the cops came out of Fenston’s office and shouted, “Hey, you.” Jack jabbed at the down button and turned sideways, so the officer couldn’t see his face. The moment the doors opened, he quickly slipped inside. He kept his finger pressed on the button marked L and the doors immediately closed. When they opened on the ground floor thirty seconds later, he jogged past reception, out of the building, down the steps, and headed in the direction of his car.

Jack jumped in and started the engine, just as a cop came running around the corner. He swung the car in a circle, mounted the sidewalk, drove back onto the road, and headed for St. Vincent’s Hospital.

“Good afternoon, Sotheby’s.”

“Lord Poltimore, please.”

“Who shall I say is calling, madam?”

“Lady Wentworth.” Arabella didn’t have to wait long before Mark came on the line.

“How nice to hear from you, Arabella,” said Mark. “Dare I ask,” he teased, “are you a buyer or a seller?”

“A seeker after advice,” replied Arabella. “But if I were to be a seller...”

Mark began to make notes as he listened to a series of questions that Arabella had obviously prepared carefully.

“In the days when I was a dealer,” Mark replied, “before I joined Sotheby’s, the standard commission was 10 percent up to the first million. If the painting was likely to fetch more than a million, I used to negotiate a fee with the seller.”

“And what fee would you have negotiated, had I asked you to sell the Wentworth Van Gogh?”

Mark was glad Arabella couldn’t see the expression on his face. Once he’d recovered, he took his time before suggesting a figure, but quickly added, “If you were to allow Sotheby’s to put the picture up for auction, we would charge you nothing, Arabella, guaranteeing you the full hammer price.”

“So how do you make a profit?” asked Arabella.

“We charge a buyer’s premium,” explained Mark.

“I already have a buyer,” said Arabella, “but thank you for the advice.”