False Impression

50

Krantz turned the corner of the street, relieved to find the pavement so crowded. She walked for about another hundred yards before stopping outside a small hotel. She glanced up and down the road, confident that she was not being followed.

She pulled open the swing doors that led into the hotel and, looking straight ahead, walked past reception, ignoring the concierge, who was talking to a tourist who sounded as if he might come from New York. Her gaze remained focused on a wall of deposit boxes to the left of the reception desk. Krantz waited until all three receptionists were fully occupied before she moved.

She glanced behind her to make sure no one had the same purpose in mind. Satisfied, she moved quickly, extracting a key from her hip pocket as she reached box 19. She turned the key in the lock and opened the door. Everything was exactly as she had left it. Krantz removed all the notes and two passports, and stuffed them in a pocket. She then locked the door, walked out of the hotel and was back on Herzen Street without having spoken to anyone.

She hailed a taxi, something she couldn’t have done in the days when the communists were teaching her her trade. She gave the driver the name of a bank in Cheryomushki, sat in the back, and thought about Colonel Sergei Slatinaru — but only for a moment. Her one regret was that she hadn’t succeeded in cutting off his left ear. Krantz would like to have sent Petrescu a little memento of her visit to Romania. Still, what she had in mind for Petrescu would more than make up for the disappointment.

But first she had to concentrate on getting out of Russia. It might have been easy to escape from those amateurs in Bucharest, but it was going to be far more difficult finding a safe route into England. Islands always cause a problem; mountains are so much easier to cross than water. She’d arrived in the Russian capital earlier that morning exhausted, having been constantly on the move since discharging herself from the hospital.

Krantz had reached the highway by the time the siren went off. She turned to see the hospital grounds bathed in light. A truck driver who made love to her twice and didn’t deserve to die, smuggled her across the border. It took a train, a plane, another three hundred dollars, and seventeen hours before she eventually made it to Moscow. She immediately headed for the Isla Hotel with no intention of staying overnight. Her only interest was in a safety deposit box that contained two passports and a few hundred rubles.

While she was marooned in Moscow, Krantz had planned to earn a little cash, moonlighting while she waited until it was safe to return to America. The cost of living was so much cheaper in the Russian capital than New York, and that included the cost of death: $5,000 for a wife, $10,000 for a husband. The Russians hadn’t yet come to terms with equal rights. A KGB colonel could fetch as much as $50,000, while Krantz could charge $100,000 for a mafia boss. But if Fenston had transferred the promised two million dollars, tiresome wives and husbands would have to wait for her return. In fact, now that Russia had embraced free enterprise, she might even attach herself to one of the new oligarchs and offer him a comprehensive service.

She felt sure one of them could make use of the three million dollars stashed away in a safety deposit box in Queens, in which case she would never need to return to the States.

The taxi drew up outside the discreet entrance of a bank that prided itself on having few customers. The letters G and Z were chiseled in the white marble cornice. Krantz stepped out of the cab, paid the fare, and waited until the taxi was out of sight before she entered the building.

The Geneva and Zurich Bank was an establishment that specialized in catering to the needs of a new breed of Russians, who had reinvented themselves following the demise of communism. Politicians, mafia bosses (businessmen), footballers, and pop stars were all small change compared to the latest superstars, the oligarchs. Although everybody knew their names, they were a breed that could afford the anonymity of a number when it came to finding out the details of what they were worth.

Krantz walked up to an old-fashioned wooden counter, no lines, no grilles, where a row of smartly dressed men in gray suits, white shirts, and plain silk ties waited to serve. They wouldn’t have looked out of place in either Geneva or Zurich.

“How may I assist you?” asked the clerk Krantz had selected. He wondered which category she fell into — the wife of a mafia boss, or the daughter of an oligarch. She didn’t look like a pop star.

“One zero seven two zero nine five nine,” she said.

He tapped the code into his computer, and when the figures flashed up on the screen he showed a little more interest.

“May I see your passport?” was his next question.

Krantz handed over one of the passports she had collected from the Isla Hotel.

“How much is there in my account?” she asked.

“How much do you think there should be?” he replied.

“Just over two million dollars,” she said.

“And what amount do you wish to withdraw?” he asked.

“Ten thousand in dollars, and ten thousand in rubles.”

He pulled out a tray from under the counter and began to count out the notes slowly. “We haven’t dealt in this account for some time,” he ventured, looking up at his screen.

“No,” she agreed, “but you will be seeing a lot more activity now that I’m back in Moscow,” she added without explanation.

“Then I look forward to being of service, madam,” the clerk said, before passing across two bundles of notes neatly sealed in plastic wallets, with no hint of where they had come from and certainly no paperwork to suggest a transaction had even taken place.

Krantz picked up the two wallets, placed them in an inside pocket, and walked slowly out of the bank. She hailed the third available taxi.

“The Kalstern,” she said, and climbed into the back of the cab in preparation for the second part of her plan.

Fenston had kept his part of the bargain. Now she would have to keep hers if she hoped to collect the second two million. She had given a moment’s thought to keeping the two million and not bothering to travel to England. But only a moment’s thought because she knew that Fenston had kept up his contacts with the KGB, and that they would have been only too happy to dispose of her for a far smaller amount.

When the taxi came to a halt ten minutes later, Krantz handed over four hundred rubles and didn’t wait for any change. She stepped out of the cab and joined a group of tourists who were peering in at a window, hoping to find some memento to prove to the folks back home that they had visited the wicked communists. In the center of the window was displayed their most popular item: a four-star general’s uniform with all the accessories — cap, belt, holster, and three rows of campaign medals. No price tag attached, but Krantz knew the going rate was $20. Next to the general stood an admiral, $15, and behind him a KGB colonel, $10. Although Krantz had no interest in proving to the folks back home that she had visited Moscow, the kind of person who could lay their hands on the uniforms of generals, admirals, and KGB colonels could undoubtedly acquire the outfit she required.

Krantz entered the shop and was greeted by a young assistant. “Can I help you?” she asked.

“I need to speak to your boss on a private matter,” said Krantz.

The young girl looked uncertain, but Krantz just stared at her until she finally said, “Follow me,” and led her customer to the back of the shop, where she tentatively knocked before opening the door to a small office.

Sitting behind a large wooden desk, littered with papers, empty cigarette cartons, and a half-eaten salami sandwich, sat an overweight man in a baggy brown suit. He was wearing an open-necked red shirt that looked as if it hadn’t been washed for several days. His bald head and thick mustache made it difficult for Krantz to guess his age, although he was clearly the proprietor.

He placed both hands on the desk and looked wearily up at her. He offered a weak smile, but all Krantz noticed was the double-chinned neck. Always tricky to negotiate.

“How can I help?” he asked, not sounding as if he was convinced she was worth the effort.

Krantz told him exactly what she required. The proprietor listened in astonished silence and then burst out laughing.

“That wouldn’t come cheap,” he eventually said, “and could take some considerable time.”

“I need the uniform by this afternoon,” said Krantz.

“That’s not possible,” he said with a shrug of his heavy shoulders.

Krantz removed a wad of cash from her pocket, peeled off a hundred-dollar bill, and placed it on the desk in front of him. “This afternoon,” she repeated.

The proprietor raised his eyebrows, although his eyes never left Benjamin Franklin.

“I may just have a possible contact.”

Krantz placed another hundred on the desk.

“Yes, I think I know the ideal person.”

“And I also need her passport,” said Krantz.

“Impossible.”

Another two hundred dollars joined the Franklin twins.

“Possible,” he said, “but not easy.”

Krantz placed a further two hundred on the table, making sextuplets.

“But I feel sure some arrangement could be made,” he paused, “at the right price.” He looked up at his customer while resting his hands on his stomach.

“A thousand if everything I require is available by this afternoon.”

“I’ll do my best,” said the proprietor.

“I feel sure you will,” said Krantz. “Because I’m going to knock off a hundred dollars for every fifteen minutes after” — she looked at her watch — “two o’clock.”

The proprietor was about to protest, but thought better of it.

51

When Anna’s taxi drove through the gates of Wentworth Hall, she was surprised to see Arabella waiting on the top step, a shotgun under her right arm and Brunswick and Picton by her side. The butler opened the taxi door as his mistress and the two Labradors walked down the steps to greet her.

“How nice to see you,” said Arabella, kissing her on both cheeks. “You’ve arrived just in time for tea.”

Anna stroked the dogs as she accompanied Arabella up the steps and into the house, while an underbutler removed her suitcase from the front of the taxi. When Anna stepped into the hall, she paused to allow her eyes to move slowly around the room, from picture to picture.

“Yes, it is nice to still have one’s family around one,” said Arabella, “even if this might be their last weekend in the country.”

“What do you mean?” asked Anna apprehensively.

“Fenston’s lawyers delivered a letter by hand this morning, reminding me that should I fail to repay their client’s loan in full by midday tomorrow, I must be prepared to pension off all the family retainers.”

“He plans to dispose of the entire collection?” said Anna.

“That would appear to be his purpose,” said Arabella.

“But that doesn’t make sense,” said Anna. “If Fenston were to place the entire collection on the market at the same time he wouldn’t even clear his original loan.”

“He would, if he then put the hall up for sale,” said Arabella.

“He wouldn’t—,” began Anna.

“He would,” said Arabella. “So we can only hope that Mr. Nakamura remains infatuated with Van Gogh, because frankly he’s my last hope.”

“Where is the masterpiece?” asked Anna, as Arabella led her through to the drawing room.

“Back in the Van Gogh bedroom, where he’s resided for the past hundred years—” Arabella paused — “except for a day’s excursion to Heathrow.”

While Arabella settled herself in her favorite chair by the fire, a dog on each side of her, Anna strolled around the room, reminding herself of the Italian collection, assembled by the fourth earl.

“Should my dear Italians also be forced to make an unexpected journey to New York,” said Arabella, “they shouldn’t grumble. After all, that appears to be no more than an American tradition.”

Anna laughed as she moved from Titian to Veronese and to Caravaggio. “I’d forgotten just how magnificent the Caravaggio was,” she said, standing back to admire The Marriage at Cana.

“I do believe that you are more interested in dead Italians than living Irishmen,” said Arabella.

“If Caravaggio was alive today,” said Anna, “Jack would be following him, not me.”

“What do you mean?” asked Arabella.

“He murdered a man in a drunken brawl. Spent his last few years on the run, but whenever he arrived in a new city, the local burghers turned a blind eye as long as he went on producing magnificent portraits of the Virgin Mother and the Christ child.”

“Anna, you’re an impossible guest, now come and sit down,” said Arabella as a maid entered the drawing room carrying a silver tray. She began to set up for tea by the fire.

“Now, my dear, will you have Indian or China?”

“I’ve always been puzzled,” said Anna taking the seat opposite Arabella, “why it isn’t “Indian or Chinese,” or “India or China”?”

For a moment, Arabella was silenced, saved only by the entry of the butler.

“M’lady,” said Andrews, “there’s a gentleman at the door with a package for you. I told him to take it around to the tradesman’s entrance, but he said he couldn’t release it without your signature.”

“A sort of modern-day Viola,” suggested Arabella. “I shall have to go and see what this peevish messenger brings,” she added. “Perhaps I will even throw him a ring for his troubles.”

“I feel sure the fair Olivia will know just how to handle him,” rejoined Anna.

Arabella gave a little bow and followed Andrews out of the room.

Anna was admiring Tintoretto’s Perseus and Andromeda when Arabella returned, the cheerful smile of only moments before replaced by a grim expression.

“Is there a problem?” asked Anna, as she turned around to face her host.

“The peevish fellow has sent back my ring,” replied Arabella. “Come and see for yourself.”

Anna followed her into the hall, where she found Andrews and the underbutler removing the casing of a red crate that Anna had hoped she had seen for the last time.

“It must have been sent from New York,” said Arabella, studying a label attached to the box, “probably on the same flight as you.”

“Seems to be following me around,” said Anna.

“You appear to have that effect on men,” said Arabella.

They both watched as Andrews neatly removed the bubble wrap to reveal a canvas that Anna had last seen in Anton’s studio.

“The only good thing to come out of this,” said Anna, “is that we can transfer the original frame back onto the masterpiece.”

“But what shall we do with him?” asked Arabella, gesturing toward the impostor. The butler gave a discreet cough. “You have a suggestion, Andrews?” inquired Arabella. “If so, let’s hear it.”

“No, m’lady,” Andrews replied, “but I thought you would want to know that your other guest is proceeding up the drive.”

“The man clearly has a gift for timing,” said Arabella, as she quickly checked her hair in the mirror. “Andrews,” she said, reverting to her normal role, “has the Wellington Room been prepared for Mr. Nakamura?”

“Yes, m’lady. And Dr. Petrescu will be in the Van Gogh room.”

“How appropriate,” said Arabella, turning to face Anna, “that he should spend his last night with you.”

Anna was relieved to see Arabella so quickly back into her stride and had a feeling that she might prove a genuine foil for Nakamura.

The butler opened the front door and walked down the steps at a pace that would ensure he reached the gravel just as the Toyota Lexus came to a halt. Andrews opened the back door of the limousine to allow Mr. Nakamura to step out. He was clutching a small square package.

“The Japanese always arrive bearing a gift,” whispered Anna, “but under no circumstances should you open it in their presence.”

“That’s all very well,” said Arabella, “but I haven’t got anything for him.”

“He won’t expect something in return. You have invited him to be a guest in your house, and that is the greatest compliment you can pay any Japanese.”

“That’s a relief,” said Arabella, as Mr. Nakamura appeared at the front door.

“Lady Arabella,” he said, bowing low, “it is a great honor to be invited to your magnificent home.”

“You honor my home, Mr. Nakamura,” said Arabella, hoping she’d said the correct thing.

The Japanese man bowed even lower, and when he rose came face-to-face with Lawrence’s portrait of Wellington.

“How appropriate,” he said. “Did the great man not dine at Wentworth Hall the night before he sailed for Waterloo?”

“Indeed he did,” said Arabella, “and you will sleep in the same bed that the Iron Duke slept in on that historic occasion.”

Nakamura turned to Anna and bowed. “How nice to see you again, Dr. Petrescu.”

“And you too, Nakamura-san,” said Anna. “I hope you had a pleasant journey.”

“Yes, thank you. We even landed on time, for a change,” said Nakamura, who didn’t move as his eyes roamed around the room. “You will please correct me, Anna, should I make a mistake. It is clear that the room is devoted to the English school. Gains borough?” he queried, as he admired the full-length portrait of Catherine, Lady Wentworth. Anna nodded, before Nakamura moved on “Landseer, Morland, Romney, Stubbs, but then, I am stumped — is that the correct expression?”

“It most certainly is,” confirmed Arabella, “although our American cousins wouldn’t begin to understand its significance. And you were stumped by Lely.”

“Ah, Sir Peter, and what a fine-looking woman—” he paused “—a family trait,” he said, turning to face his host.

“And I can see, Mr. Nakamura, that your family trait is flattery,” teased Arabella.

Nakamura burst out laughing. “With the risk of being taken to task a second time, Lady Arabella, if every room is the equal of this, it may prove necessary for me to cancel my meeting with those dullards from Corus Steel.” Nakamura’s eyes continued to sweep the room, “Wheatley, Lawrence, West, and Wilkie,” he said, before his gaze ended up on the portrait propped up against the wall.

Nakamura offered no opinion for some time. “Quite magnificent,” he finally said. “The work of an inspired hand—” he paused “—but not the hand of Van Gogh.”

“How can you be so sure, Nakamura-san?” asked Anna.

“Because the wrong ear is bandaged,” replied Nakamura.

“But everyone knows that Van Gogh cut off his left ear,” said Anna.

Nakamura turned and smiled at Anna. “And you know only too well,” he added, “that Van Gogh painted the original while looking in a mirror, which is why the bandage ended up on the wrong ear.”

“I do hope that someone is going to explain all this to me later,” said Arabella as she led her guests through to the drawing room.

52

Krantz returned to the shop at 2 P.M., but there was no sign of the proprietor. “He’ll be back at any moment,” the assistant assured her without conviction.

“Any moment” turned out to be thirty minutes, by which time the assistant was nowhere to be seen. When the owner did eventually show up, Krantz was pleased to see that he was carrying a bulky plastic bag. Without a word being spoken, Krantz followed him to the back of the shop and into his office. Not until he’d closed the door did a large grin appear on his fleshy lips.

The proprietor placed the carrier bag on his desk. He paused for a moment, then pulled out the red outfit Krantz had requested.

“She may be a little taller than you,” he said with a half apology, “but I can supply a needle and thread at no extra charge.” He began to laugh but ceased when his customer didn’t respond.

Krantz held the uniform up against her shoulders. The previous owner was at least three or four inches taller than Krantz but only a few pounds heavier; nothing — as the proprietor had suggested — that a needle and thread wouldn’t remedy.

“And the passport?” asked Krantz.

Once again the proprietor’s hand dipped into the carrier bag, and, like a conjuror producing a rabbit out of a hat, he offered up a Soviet passport. He handed over the prize to Krantz and said, “She has a three-day layover, so she probably won’t discover that it’s missing until Friday.”

“It will have served its purpose long before then,” Krantz said, as she began to turn the pages of the official document.

Sasha Prestakavich, she discovered, was three years younger than her, and eight centimeters taller with no distinguishing marks. A problem that a pair of high-heeled shoes would solve, unless an overzealous official decided to carry out a strip search and came across the recent wound on her right shoulder.

When Krantz reached the page where Sasha Prestakavich’s photo had once been, the proprietor was unable to disguise a satisfied smirk. For his next trick, he produced from under the counter a Polaroid camera.

“Smile,” he said. She didn’t.

A few seconds later an image spewed out. A pair of scissors appeared next, and the proprietor began to cut the photograph down to a size that would comply with the little dotted rectangle on page three of the passport. Next, a dollop of glue to fix the new holder in place. His final act was to drop a needle and thread into the carrier bag. Krantz was beginning to realize that this was not the first occasion he had supplied such a service. She placed the uniform and the passport back in the carrier bag, before handing over eight hundred dollars.

The proprietor checked the wad of notes carefully.

“You said a thousand,” he protested.

“You were thirty minutes late,” Krantz reminded him, as she picked up the bag and turned to leave.

“Do come and visit us again,” suggested the proprietor as she retreated, “whenever you’re passing through.”

Krantz didn’t bother to explain to him why, in her profession, she never saw anyone twice, unless it was to make sure they couldn’t see her a third time.

Once she was back on the street, she only had to walk for a couple of blocks before she came across the next shop she required. She purchased a pair of plain, black high-heeled shoes — not her style, but they would serve their purpose. She paid the bill in rubles and left the shop carrying two bags.

Krantz next hailed a taxi, gave the driver an address, and told him the exact entrance where she wished to be dropped off. When the cab drew up by a side door marked STAFF ONLY, Krantz paid the fare, entered the building, and went straight to the ladies’ room. She locked herself in a cubicle, where she spent the next forty minutes. With the aid of the needle and thread supplied by the proprietor, she raised the hemline of the skirt by a couple of inches and made a couple of tucks in the waist, which wouldn’t be visible under the jacket. She then stripped off all her outer garments before trying on the uniform — not a perfect fit, but fortunately the company she was proposing to work for was not known for its sartorial elegance. Next she replaced her sneakers with the recently acquired high heels, before dropping her own clothes into the carrier bag.

When she finally left the ladies’ room, she went in search of her new employers. Her walk was a little unsteady, but then she wasn’t used to high heels. Krantz’s eyes settled on another woman who was dressed in an identical uniform. She walked across to the counter and asked, “Have you got a spare seat on any of our London flights?”

“That shouldn’t be a problem,” she replied. “Can I see your passport?” Krantz handed over the recently acquired document. The company’s representative looked up Sasha Prestakavich’s details on the company database. According to their records, she was on a three-day layover. “That seems to be in order,” she eventually said, and handed her a crew pass. “Be sure that you’re among the last to check in, just in case we have any latecomers.”

Krantz walked across to the international terminal, and once she’d been checked through customs, hung around in duty-free until she heard the final boarding call for Flight 413 to London. By the time she arrived at the gate, the last three passengers were checking in. Once again her passport was checked against the company database before the gate officer studied his screen and said, “We’ve got seats available in every class, so take your pick.”

“Back row of economy,” Krantz said unhesitatingly.

The gate official looked surprised, but printed out a boarding card and handed the little slip over to her. Krantz walked through the gate, and boarded Aeroflot’s Flight 413 to London.

53

Anna walked slowly down the wide, marble staircase, pausing for a moment at every two or three steps to admire another master. It didn’t matter how often she saw them... she heard a noise behind her, and looked back toward the guest corridor to see Andrews coming out of her bedroom. He was carrying a picture under his arm. She smiled as he hurried away in the direction of the backstairs.

Anna continued to study the paintings on her slow progress down the staircase. As she stepped into the hall she gave Catherine, Lady Wentworth another admiring look, before she walked slowly across the black-and-white marbled-square floor toward the drawing room.

The first thing Anna saw as she entered was Andrews placing the Van Gogh on an easel in the center of the room.

“What do you think?” said Arabella, as she took a step back to admire the self-portrait.

“Don’t you feel that Mr. Nakamura might consider it a little...,” ventured Anna, not wishing to offend her host.

“Crude, blatant, obvious? Which word were you searching for, my dear?” asked Arabella, as she turned to face Anna. Anna burst out laughing. “Let’s face it,” said Arabella, “I’m strapped for cash and running out of time, so I don’t have a lot of choice.”

“No one would believe it, looking at you,” said Anna, as she admired the magnificent long rose silk-taffeta gown and diamond necklace Arabella was wearing, making Anna feel somewhat casual in her short black Armani dress.

“It’s kind of you to say so, my dear, but if I had your looks and your figure, I wouldn’t need to cover myself from head to toe with other distractions.”

Anna smiled, admiring the way Arabella had so quickly put her at ease.

“When do you think he’ll make a decision?” asked Arabella, trying not to sound desperate.

“Like all great collectors,” said Anna, “he’ll make up his mind within moments. A scientific survey has recently shown that men decide whether they want to sleep with a woman in about eight seconds.”

“That long?” said Arabella.

“Mr. Nakamura will take about the same time to decide if he wants to own this painting,” she said, looking directly at the Van Gogh.

“Let’s drink to that,” said Arabella.

Andrews stepped forward on cue, proffering a silver tray that held three glasses.

“A glass of champagne, madam?” he inquired.

“Thank you,” said Anna, removing a long-stemmed flute. When Andrews stepped back, her gaze fell on a turquoise and black vase that she had never seen before.

“It’s quite magnificent,” said Anna.

“Mr. Nakamura’s gift,” said Arabella. “Most embarrassing. By the way,” she added, “I do hope I haven’t committed a faux pas by putting it on display while Mr. Nakamura is still a guest in my home.” She paused. “If I have, Andrews can remove it immediately.”

“Certainly not,” said Anna. “Mr. Nakamura will be flattered that you have placed his gift among so many other maestros.”

“Are you sure?” asked Arabella.

“Oh yes. The piece survives, even shines in this room. There is only one certain rule when it comes to real talent,” said Anna. “Any form of art isn’t out of place as long as it’s displayed among its equals. The Raphael on the wall, the diamond necklace you are wearing, the Chippendale table on which you have placed the vase, the Nash fireplace, and the Van Gogh have all been created by masters. Now I have no idea who the craftsman was who made this piece,” continued Anna, still admiring the way the turquoise appeared to be running into the black, like a melting candle, “but I have no doubt that in his own country, he is considered a master.”

“Not exactly a master,” said a voice coming from behind them.

Arabella and Anna turned at the same time to see that Mr. Nakamura had entered the room. He was dressed in a dinner jacket and bow tie that Andrews would have approved of.

“Not a master?” queried Arabella.

“No,” said Nakamura. “In this country, you honor those who ‘achieve greatness,’ to quote your Bard, by making them knights or barons, whereas we in Japan reward such talent with the title ‘national treasure.’ It is appropriate that this piece has found a home in Wentworth Hall because, of the twelve great potters in history, the experts acknowledge that eleven have been Japanese, with the sole exception of a Cornishman, Bernard Leach. You failed to make him a lord or even give him a knighthood, so we declared him to be an honorary national treasure.”

“How immensely civilized,” said Arabella, “as I must confess that recently we have been giving honors to pop stars, footballers, and vulgar millionaires.” Nakamura laughed, as Andrews offered him a glass of champagne. “Are you a national treasure, Mr. Nakamura?” inquired Arabella.

“Certainly not,” replied Nakamura. “My countrymen do not consider vulgar millionaires worthy of such an honor.”

Arabella turned scarlet, while Anna continued to stare at the vase, as if she hadn’t heard the remark. “But am I not right in thinking, Mr. Nakamura, that this particular vase is not symmetrical?”

“Quite brilliant,” replied Nakamura. “You should have been a member of the diplomatic corps, Anna. Not only did you manage to deftly change the subject, but at the same time you raised a question that demands to be answered.”

Nakamura walked straight past the Van Gogh as if he hadn’t noticed it and looked at the vase for some time before he added, “If you ever come across a piece of pottery that is perfect, you can be confident that it was produced by a machine. With pottery, you must seek near perfection. If you look carefully enough, you will always find some slight blemish that serves to remind us that the piece was crafted by a human hand. The longer you have to search, the greater the craftsman, for it was only Giotto who was able to draw the perfect circle.”

“For me, it is perfection,” said Arabella. “I simply love it, and whatever Mr. Fenston manages to pry away from me during the coming years, I shall never allow him to get his hands on my national treasure.”

“Perhaps it won’t be necessary for him to prize anything else away,” said Mr. Nakamura, turning to face the Van Gogh as if he’d seen it for the first time. Arabella held her breath while Anna studied the expression on Nakamura’s face. She couldn’t be sure.

Nakamura glanced at the picture for only a few seconds before he turned to Arabella and said, “There are times when it is a distinct advantage to be a vulgar millionaire, because although one may not aspire to being a national treasure oneself, it does allow one to indulge in collecting other people’s national treasures.”

Anna wanted to cheer but simply raised her glass. Mr. Nakamura returned the compliment, and they both turned to face Arabella. Tears were flooding down her cheeks.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” she said.

“Not me,” said Nakamura, “Anna. Because without her courage and fortitude, this whole episode would not have been brought to such a worthwhile conclusion.”

“I agree,” said Arabella, “which is why I shall ask Andrews to return the self-portrait to Anna’s bedroom, so that she can be the last person to fully appreciate the painting before it begins its long journey to Japan.”

“How appropriate,” said Nakamura. “But if Anna were to become the CEO of my foundation, she could see it whenever she wished.”

Anna was about to respond when Andrews reentered the drawing room and announced, “Dinner is served, m’lady.”

“Would you like to go up front, Sasha?” Nina asked, once the captain had instructed the crew to take their seats and prepare for landing. “Then you can disembark immediately after the doors are opened.”

Krantz shook her head. “It’s my first visit to England,” she said nervously, “and I’d prefer to be with you and the rest of the crew.”

“Of course,” said Nina. “And: If you’d like to, you can also join us on the minibus.”

“Thank you,” said Krantz.

Krantz remained in her seat until the last passenger had left the aircraft. She then joined the crew as they disembarked and headed in the direction of the terminal. Krantz never left the chief stewardess’s side during the long walk down endless corridors, while Nina offered her opinion on everything from Putin to Rasputin.

When the Aeroflot crew finally reached passport control, Nina guided her charge past the long line of passengers and on toward the exit marked CREW ONLY. Krantz tucked in behind Nina, who didn’t stop chatting even when she’d handed over her passport to the official. He slowly turned the pages, checked the photograph, and then waved Nina through. “Next.”

Krantz handed over her passport. Once again, the official looked carefully at the photograph and then at the person it claimed to represent. He even smiled as he waved her through. Krantz suddenly felt a stab of pain in her right shoulder. For a moment, the excruciating feeling made it difficult for her to move. She tried not to grimace. The official waved again, but she still remained fixed to the spot.

“Come on, Sasha,” cried Nina, “you’re holding everyone up.”

Krantz somehow managed to stumble unsteadily through the barrier. The official continued to stare at her as she walked away. Never look back. She smiled at Nina, and linked her arm in hers as they headed toward the exit. The official finally turned his attention to the second officer, who was next in line.

“Will you be joining us on the bus?” asked Nina, as they strolled out of the airport and onto the pavement.

“No,” said Krantz. “I’m being met by my boyfriend.”

Nina looked surprised. She said good-bye, before crossing the road in the company of the second officer.

“Who was that?” her colleague asked, before climbing onto the Aeroflot bus.

Krantz had chosen to sit in the back of the aircraft so that few of the passangers would notice her, only the crew. She needed to be adopted by one of them long before they touched down at Heathrow. Krantz took her time as she tried to work out which of her new colleagues would fulfill that purpose.

“Domestic or international?” asked the senior stewardess, soon after the aircraft had reached its cruising height.

“Domestic,” replied Krantz with a smile.

“Ah, that’s why I haven’t seen you before.”

“I’ve only been with the company for three months,” said Krantz.

“That would explain it. My name’s Nina.”

“Sasha,” said Krantz, giving her a warm smile.

“Just let me know if you need anything, Sasha.”

“I will,” said Krantz.

Trying to relax when she couldn’t lean on her right shoulder meant that Krantz remained awake for most of the flight. She used the hours getting to know Nina, so that by the time they landed, the senior stewardess would unwittingly play a role in the most crucial part of her deception. By the time Krantz finally fell asleep, Nina had become her minder.

54

“Wasn’t there anything on the film that would assist us?” asked Macy.

“Nothing,” replied Jack, as he looked across the desk at his boss. “Leapman had only been in the office long enough to photograph eight documents before Fenston’s unscheduled appearance.”

“And what do those eight documents tell us?” Macy demanded.

“Nothing we didn’t already know,” admitted Jack, as he opened a file in front of him. “Mainly contracts confirming that Fenston is still fleecing customers in different parts of the world, who are either naïve or greedy. But should any of them decide it would be in their best interests to sell their assets and clear the debt with Fenston Finance, I suspect that’s when we’ll end up with another body on our hands. No, my only hope is that the NYPD has gathered enough evidence to press charges in the Leapman case, because I still don’t have enough to slap a parking ticket on him.”

“It doesn’t help,” said Macy, “that when I spoke to my opposite number this morning, or to be more accurate he spoke to me, the first thing he wanted to know was did we have an FBI agent called Delaney, and if so, was he on the scene of the crime before his boys arrived.”

“What did you tell him?” asked Jack, trying not to smile.

“I’d look into the matter and call him back.” Macy paused. “But it might placate them a little if you were willing to trade some information,” he suggested.

“But I don’t think they have anything we aren’t already aware of,” responded Jack, “and they can’t be that optimistic about pressing charges while Leapman is still out for the count.”

“Any news from the hospital about his chances of recovery?” asked Macy.

“Not great,” admitted Jack. “While he was in Fenston’s office he suffered a stress stroke caused by high blood pressure. The medical term is aphasia.”

“Aphasia?”

“The part of Leapman’s brain that affects his speech has been irreparably damaged, so he can’t speak. Frankly, his doctor is describing him as a vegetable and warned me that the only decision the hospital will have to make is whether to pull the plug and let him die peacefully.”

“The NYPD tells me that Fenston is sitting solicitously by the patient’s bedside.”

“Then they’d better not leave them alone for more than a few moments,” said Jack, “because if they do, the doctors won’t need to make the decision as to who should pull the plug.”

“The police also want to know if you removed a camera from the crime scene.”

“It was FBI property.”

“Not if it was evidence in a criminal investigation, as you well know, Jack. Why don’t you send them a set of the photos Leapman took and try to be more cooperative in the future? Remind them that your father served twenty-six years with the force — that should do the trick.”

“But what do they have to offer in exchange?” asked Jack.

“A copy of a photograph with your name on the back. They want to know if it meant anything to you, because it sure didn’t to them, or me,” admitted Macy.

The supervisor pushed two prints across his desk and allowed Jack a few moments to consider them. The first was a picture of Fenston shaking hands with George W. Bush when he visited Ground Zero. Jack recalled the blown-up version that was hanging on the wall behind Fenston’s desk. He held up the picture and asked, “How come the NYPD has a copy of this?”

“They found it on Leapman’s desk. He was obviously going to hand it over to you yesterday evening, along with an explanation of what he’d written on the back.”

Jack looked at the second print and was considering the words, Delaney, this is all the evidence you need, when the phone on Macy’s desk buzzed.

He picked it up and listened. “Put him on,” said Macy, as he replaced the receiver and flicked a switch that would allow them both to follow the conversation. “It’s Tom Crasanti, calling from London,” said Macy. “Hi, Tom, it’s Dick Macy. Jack’s in the office with me. We were just discussing the Fenston case, because we’re still not making much headway.”

“That’s why I’m calling,” said Tom. “There’s been a development at this end, and the news is not good. We think Krantz has slipped into England.”

“That’s not possible,” said Jack. “How could she hope to get through passport control?”

“By posing as an Aeroflot stewardess, it would seem,” said Tom. “My contact at the Russian embassy called to warn me that a woman had entered Britain using a fake passport under the name of Sasha Prestakavich.”

“But why should they assume Prestakavich is Krantz?” asked Jack.

“They didn’t,” said Tom. “They had no idea who she was. All they could tell me was that the suspect befriended Aeroflot’s chief stewardess while on their daily flight to London. She then fooled her into accompanying her through passport control. That’s how we got to hear of it. It turns out that the copilot asked who the woman was, and when he was told that her name was Sasha Prestakavich, he said that wasn’t possible because he traveled with her regularly, and it certainly wasn’t Prestakavich.”

“That still doesn’t prove it’s Krantz,” pressed Macy.

“I’ll get there, sir, just give me time.”

Jack was glad his friend couldn’t see the look of impatience on the boss’s face.

“The copilot,” continued Tom, “reported to his captain, who immediately alerted Aeroflot’s security. It didn’t take them long to discover that Sasha Prestakavich was on a three-day layover, and her passport had been stolen, along with her uniform. That set alarm bells ringing.” Macy began tapping his fingers on the desk. “My contact at the Russian embassy called me in the new entente-cordiale spirit of post-9/11,” said Tom, “having already briefed Interpol.”

“We are going to get there, aren’t we, Tom?”

“Any moment, sir.” He paused. “Where was I?”

“Taking calls from your contact in the Russian embassy,” said Jack.

“Oh, yes,” said Tom. “It was after I’d given him a description of Krantz, about five foot, around a hundred pounds, crew cut, that they asked me to fax over a photograph of her, which I did. He then forwarded a copy of the photograph to the copilot at his London hotel, who confirmed that it was Krantz.”

“Good work, Tom,” said Macy, “thorough as always, but have you come up with any theory as to why Krantz would chance going to England at this particular time?”

“To kill Petrescu would be my bet,” said Tom.

“What do you think?” asked Macy, looking across his desk at Jack.

“I agree with Tom” replied Jack. “Anna has to be the obvious target.” He hesitated. “But what I can’t work out is why Krantz would take such a risk right now.”

“I agree,” said Macy, but I’m not willing to put Petrescu’s life at risk while we try to second-guess Krantz’s motives.” Macy leant forward. “Now listen carefully, Tom, because I’m only going to tell you this once.” He quickly began to turn the pages of his Fenston file. “I need you to get in touch with — just give me a moment,” said Macy, as he turned over even more pages. “Ah, yes, here it is, Chief Superintendent Renton of the Surrey CID. After reading Jack’s report, I got a clear impression that Renton is a man used to making tough decisions, even taking responsibility when one of his subordinates has screwed up. I know you’ve already briefed him on Krantz, but warn him that we think she’s about to strike again, and the target could well be someone else at Wentworth Hall. He won’t want that to happen twice on his watch, and rub in that the last time Krantz was captured, she escaped. That will keep him awake at night. And if he wants to have a word with me at any time, I’m always on the end of a line.”

“And do pass on my best wishes,” added Jack.

“That should settle it,” said Macy. “So, Tom, step it up a notch.”

“Yes, sir,” came back the reply from London.

Macy flicked off the speaker phone. “And, Jack, I want you to take the next flight to London. If Krantz is even thinking about harming Petrescu, let’s make sure we’re waiting for her, because if she were to escape a second time, I’ll be pensioned off and you can forget any thoughts of promotion.”

Jack frowned but didn’t respond.

“You look apprehensive,” said Macy.

“I can’t see why a photo of Fenston shaking hands with the president is all the evidence you need—” he paused “—although I think I’ve worked out why Krantz is willing to risk returning to Wentworth Hall a second time.”

“And why’s that?” asked Macy.

“She’s going to steal the Van Gogh,” said Jack, “then somehow get it to Fenston.”

“So Petrescu isn’t the reason Krantz has returned to England.”

“No, she isn’t,” said Jack, “but once Krantz discovers she’s there, you can assume that she’ll consider killing Anna a bonus.”

55

Lighting-up time was 7:41 P.M. on September 25th. Krantz didn’t appear on the outskirts of Wentworth until just after eight.

Arabella was at the time accompanying her guests through to the dining room.

Krantz, dressed in a black skintight tracksuit, circled the estate twice before she decided where she would enter the grounds. It certainly wasn’t going to be through the front gates. Although the high stone walls that surrounded the estate had proved impregnable when originally built to keep invaders out, particularly the French and Germans, by the beginning of the twenty-first century wear and tear, and the minimum wage, meant that there were one or two places where entry would have been simple enough for a local lad planning to steal apples.

Once Krantz had selected her point of entry, she easily climbed the weakened perimeter in a matter of seconds, straddled the wall, fell and rolled over, as she had done a thousand times following a bad dismount from the high bar.

Krantz remained still for a moment as she waited for the moon to disappear behind a cloud. She then ran thirty or forty yards to the safety of a little copse of trees down by the river. She waited for the moon to reappear so that she could study the terrain more carefully, aware that she would have to be patient. In her line of work, impatience led to mistakes, and mistakes could not be rectified quite as easily as in some other professions.

Krantz had a clear view of the front of the house, but it was another forty minutes before the vast oak door was opened by a man in a black tailcoat and white tie, allowing the two dogs out for their nightly frolic. They sniffed the air, immediately picking up Krantz’s scent, and began barking loudly as they bounded toward her. But then she had been waiting for them — patiently.

The English, her instructor had once told her, were an animal-loving nation, and you could tell a person’s class by the dogs they chose to share their homes with. The working class liked greyhounds, the middle classes Jack Russells and cocker spaniels, while the nouveau riche preferred a Rottweiler or German shepherd to protect their newly made wealth. The upper classes traditionally chose Labradors, dogs quite unsuited for protection, as they were more likely to lick you than take a chunk out of you. When Krantz was told about these dogs, it was the first time she had come across the word soppy. Only the Queen had Corgis.

Krantz didn’t move as the two dogs bounded toward her, occasionally stopping to sniff the air, now aware of another smell that made their tails wag even faster. Krantz had earlier visited Curnick’s in the Fulham Road and selected the most tender pieces of sirloin steak, which would have been appreciated by those guests now dining at Wentworth Hall. Krantz felt no expense should be spared. After all, it was to be their last supper.

Krantz laid the large juicy morsels around her in a circle and remained motionless in the center, like a dumb waiter. Once Brunswick and Picton came across the meat, they quickly tucked into their first course, not showing a great deal of interest in the human statue in the center of the circle. Krantz crouched slowly down on one knee and began to lay out a second helping, wherever she saw a gap appear in the circle. Occasionally the dogs would pause between mouthfuls, look up at her with doleful eyes, tails wagging if anything more enthusiastically, before they returned to the feast.

Once she had laid before them the final delicacy, Krantz leant forward and began to stroke the silky head of Picton, the younger of the two dogs. He didn’t even look up when she drew the kitchen knife from its sheath. Sheffield steel, also purchased from the Fulham Road that afternoon.

Once again, she gently stroked the head of the chocolate Labrador, and then suddenly, without warning, grabbed Picton by the ears, jerked his head away from the last succulent morsels and, with one slash of the blade, sliced into the animal’s throat. A loud bark was quickly followed by a shrill yelp, and in the darkness Krantz could not see the large black eyes giving her a pained expression. The black Labrador, older but not wiser, looked up and growled, which took him a full second. More than enough time for Krantz to thrust her left forearm under the dog’s jaw, causing Brunswick to raise his head just long enough for Krantz to slash out at his throat, though not with her usual skill and precision. The dog sank to the ground, whimpering in pain. Krantz leant forward, pulled up his silken ears and with one final movement finished off the job.

Krantz dragged both dogs into the copse and dumped them behind a fallen oak. She then washed her hands in the stream, annoyed to find her brand-new tracksuit was covered in blood. She finally wiped the knife on the grass before replacing it in its sheath. She checked her watch. She had allocated two hours for the entire operation, so she reckoned she still had over an hour before those in the house, occupied with either serving or being served, would notice the dogs had not returned from their evening constitutional.

The distance between the copse and the north end of the house Krantz estimated to be 100, perhaps 120 yards. With the moon throwing out such a clear light, if only intermittently, she knew that there was only one form of movement that would go unobserved.

She fell to her knees before lying flat on the grass. She first placed one arm in front of her, followed by one leg, the second arm, then the second leg, and finally she eased her body forward. Her record for a hundred yards as a human crab was seven minutes and nineteen seconds. Occasionally, she would stop and raise her head to study the layout of the house so that she could consider her point of entry. The ground floor was ablaze with light, while the first floor was almost in darkness. The second floor, where the servants resided, had only one light on. Krantz wasn’t interested in the second floor. The person she was looking for would be on the ground floor, and later the first.

When Krantz was within ten yards of the house, she slowed each movement down until she felt a finger touch the outer wall. She lay still, cocked her head to one side, and used the light of the moon to study the edifice more carefully. Only great estates still boasted drainpipes of that size. When you’ve performed a somersault on a four-inch-wide beam, a drainpipe that prominent is a ladder.

Krantz next checked the windows of the large room where the most noise was coming from. Although the heavy curtains were drawn, she spotted one affording a slight chink. She moved even more slowly toward the noise and laughter. When she reached the window, she pushed herself up onto her knees until one eye was in line with the tiny gap in the curtain.

The first thing she saw was a man dressed in a dinner jacket. He was on his feet, a glass of champagne in one hand as if proposing a toast. She couldn’t hear what he was saying, but then she wasn’t interested. Her eyes swept that part of the room she could see. At one end of the table sat a lady in a long silk dress with her back to the window, looking intently at the man delivering the impromptu speech. Krantz’s eyes rested on her diamond necklace, but that wasn’t her trade. Her specialty was two or three inches above the sparkling gems.

She turned her attention to the other end of the table. She almost smiled when she saw who was eating pheasant and sipping a glass of wine. When Petrescu retired to bed later that night, Krantz would be waiting for her, hidden in a place Petrescu would least expect to find her.

Krantz glanced toward the man in the black tailcoat who had opened the door to let the dogs out. He was now standing behind the lady wearing the silk gown, refilling her glass with wine, while other servants removed plates and one did nothing more than scrape crumbs from the table into a silver tray. Krantz remained absolutely still while her eyes continued to move around the room, searching for the other throat Fenston had sent her to cut.

“Lady Arabella, I rise to thank you for your kindness and hospitality. I have much enjoyed trout from the River Test, and pheasant shot on your estate, while in the company of two remarkable women. But tonight will remain memorable for me for many other reasons. Not least, that I will leave Wentworth Hall tomorrow with two unique additions to my collection — one of the finest examples of Van Gogh’s work, as well as one of the most talented young professionals in her field, who has agreed to be the CEO of my foundation. Your great-grandfather,” said Nakamura, turning to face his hostess, “was wise enough in eighteen eighty-nine, over a century ago, to purchase from Dr. Gachet the self-portrait of his close friend, Vincent Van Gogh. Tomorrow, that masterpiece will begin a journey to the other side of the world, but I must warn you, Arabella, that after only a few hours in your home, I have my eye on another of your national treasures, and this time I would be willing to pay well over the odds.”

“Which one, may I ask?” said Arabella.

Krantz decided that it was time to move on.

She crept slowly toward the north end of the building, unaware that the massive cornerstones had been an architectural delight to Sir John Vanbrugh; to her they formed perfectly proportioned footholds to the first floor.

She climbed up onto the first-floor balcony in less than two minutes and paused for a moment to consider how many bedrooms she might have to enter. She knew that while there were guests in the house there was no reason to think any of the rooms would be alarmed, and because of the age of the building, entry wouldn’t have caused much difficulty for a burglar on his first outing. With the aid of her knife, Krantz slipped the bolt on the window of the first room. Once inside, she didn’t fumble around for a light but switched on a slimline pen flashlight, which illuminated an area about the size of a small television screen. The square of light moved across the wall, illuminating picture after picture, and although Hals, Hobbema, and Van Goyen would have delighted most connoisseurs’ eyes, Krantz passed quickly over them in search of another Dutch master. Once she had given cursory consideration to every painting in the room, she switched off the torch and headed back to the balcony. She entered the second guest bedroom as Arabella rose to thank Mr. Nakamura for his gracious speech.

Once again Krantz studied each canvas, and once again none brought a smile to her lips. She quickly returned to the parapet, as the butler offered Mr. Nakamura a port and opened the cigar box. Mr. Nakamura allowed Andrews to pour him a Taylor’s 47. When the butler returned to his mistress at the other end of the table, Arabella declined the port, but rolled several cigars between her thumb and forefinger before she selected a Monte Cristo. As the butler struck a match for his mistress, Arabella smiled. Everything was going to plan.

56

Krantz had covered five bedrooms by the time Arabella invited her guests to join her in the drawing room for coffee. There were still another nine rooms left to consider, and Krantz was aware that not only was she running out of time, but she wouldn’t be given a second chance.

She moved swiftly to the next room, where someone who believed in fresh air had left a window wide open. She switched on her flashlight, to be greeted by a steely glare from the Iron Duke. She moved on to the next picture, just as Mr. Nakamura placed his coffee cup back on the side table and rose from his place. “I think it is time for me to retire to bed, Lady Arabella,” he said, “in case those dull men of Corus Steel feel I have lost my edge.” He turned to Anna. “I look forward to seeing you in the morning, when we might discuss over breakfast any ideas you have for developing my collection, and perhaps even your remuneration.”

“But you have already made it clear what you think I am worth,” said Anna.

“I don’t recall that,” said Nakamura, looking puzzled.

“Oh yes,” said Anna, with a smile. “I well remember your suggestion that Fenston had convinced you that I was worth five hundred dollars a day.”

“You have taken advantage of an old man,” said Nakamura with a smile, “but I shall not go back on my word.”

Krantz thought she heard a door close, and without giving Wellington a second look returned quickly to the balcony. She needed the use of her knife to secure entry into the next room. She moved stealthily across the floor, coming to a halt at the end of another four-poster bed. She switched on the flashlight, expecting to be greeted by a blank wall. But not this time.

The insane eyes of a genius stared at her. The insane eyes of an assassin stared back.

Krantz smiled for the second time that day. She climbed up onto the bed and crawled slowly toward her next victim. She was within inches of the canvas when she unsheathed her knife, raised it above her head, and was about to plunge the blade into the neck of Van Gogh, when she remembered what Fenston had insisted on if she hoped to collect four million rather than three. She switched off her flashlight, climbed down from the bed onto the thick carpet, and crawled under the four-poster. She lay flat on her back and waited.

As Arabella and her guests strolled out of the drawing room and into the hallway, she asked Andrews if Brunswick and Picton had returned.

“No, m’lady,” the butler replied, “but there are a lot of rabbits about tonight.”

“Then I shall go and fetch the rascals myself,” muttered Arabella and, turning to her guests, added, “Sleep well. I’ll see you both at breakfast.”

Nakamura bowed before accompanying Anna up the staircase, again stopping occasionally to admire Arabella’s ancestors, who gazed back at him.

“You will forgive me, Anna,” he said, “for taking my time, but I may not be given the opportunity of meeting these gentlemen again.”

Anna smiled as she left him to admire the Romney of Mrs. Siddons.

She continued on down the corridor, coming to a halt outside the Van Gogh room. She opened the bedroom door and switched on the light, stopping for a moment to admire the portrait of Van Gogh. She took off her dress and hung it in the wardrobe, placing the rest of her clothes on the sofa at the end of the four-poster. She then turned on the light by the side of the bed and checked her watch. It was just after eleven. She disappeared into the bathroom.

When Krantz heard the sound of a shower, she slid out from under the canopy and knelt beside the bed. She cocked an ear, like an attentive animal sniffing the wind. The shower was still running. She stood up, walked across to the door, and switched off the bedroom light, while leaving on the reading light by the side of the bed. She pulled back the covers on the other side of the bed away from the lamp and climbed carefully in. She took one last look at the Van Gogh, before neatly replacing the blanket and cover over her head and finally disappearing under the sheet. Krantz lay flat and didn’t move a muscle. She was so slight that she barely made an impression in the half light. Although she remained secreted under the sheets, she heard the shower being turned off. This was followed by silence. Anna must have been drying herself, and then she heard a switch being flicked off — the bathroom light, followed by the sound of a door closing.

Krantz extracted the knife from its tailor-made sheath and gripped the handle firmly as Anna walked back into the bedroom. Anna slipped under the covers on her side of the bed and immediately turned on one side, stretching out an arm to switch off the bedside light. She lowered her head onto the soft goose-feather pillow. As she drifted into those first moments of slumber, her last thought was that the evening could hardly have gone better. Mr. Nakamura had not only closed the deal, but offered her a job. What more could she ask for?

Anna was drifting off to sleep when Krantz leaned across and touched her back with the tip of her forefinger. She ran the finger tip down her spine and onto her buttocks, coming to a halt at the top of her thigh. Anna sighed. Krantz paused for a moment, before placing her hand between Anna’s legs.

Was she dreaming, or was someone touching her, Anna wondered, as she lay in that semiconscious state before falling asleep. She didn’t move a muscle. It wasn’t possible that someone else could be in the bed. She must be dreaming. That was when she felt the cold steel of a blade as it slipped in between her thighs. Suddenly Anna was wide awake, a thousand thoughts rushing through her mind. She was about to throw the blanket back and dive onto the floor, when a voice said quietly but firmly, “Don’t even think about moving, not even a muscle; you have a six-inch knife between your legs, and the blade is facing upward.” Anna didn’t move. “If you as much as murmur, I’ll slit you up from your crotch to your throat, and you’ll live just long enough to wish you were dead.”

Anna felt the steel of the blade wedged between her thighs and tried hard not to move, although she couldn’t stop trembling.

“If you follow my instructions to the letter,” said Krantz, “you might just live, but don’t count on it.”

Anna didn’t, and knew that if she was to have the slightest chance of survival, she would have to play for time. “What do you want?” she asked.

“I told you not to murmur,” repeated Krantz, moving the knife up between Anna’s thighs until the blade was a centimeter from the clitoris. Anna didn’t argue.

“There is a light on your side of the bed,” said Krantz. “Lean across, very slowly, and turn it on.”

Anna leant over and felt the blade move with her as she switched on the bedside light.

“Good,” said Krantz. “Now I’m going to pull back the blanket on your side of the bed, while you remain still. I won’t be removing the knife — yet.”

Anna stared in front of her, while Krantz slowly pulled the covers back on her side of the bed.

“Now pull your knees up under your chin,” said Krantz, “slowly.”

Anna obeyed her order, and once again felt the knife move with her.

“Now push yourself up onto your knees and turn to face the wall.”

Anna placed her left elbow on the bed, pushed herself up slowly onto her knees, and inched around until she was facing the wall. She stared up at Van Gogh. When she saw his bandaged ear, she couldn’t help remembering the last act Krantz had performed on Victoria.

Krantz was now kneeling directly behind her, still gripping firmly onto the handle of the knife.

“Lean slowly forward,” said Krantz, “and take hold of the painting on both sides of the frame.”

Anna obeyed her every word, while every muscle in her body was trembling.

“Now lift the picture off its hook and lower it slowly down onto the pillow.”

Anna managed to find the strength to carry out her command, bringing the portrait to rest on top of the pillows.

“Now I’m going to remove the knife from between your legs very slowly, before placing the tip of the blade on the back of your neck. Don’t even give a second’s thought to any sudden movement once the blade has been removed, because should you be foolish enough to attempt anything, let me assure you that I can kill you in less than three seconds, and be out of the open window in less than ten. I want you to think about that for a moment before I remove the blade.”

Anna thought about it and didn’t move. A few seconds later, she felt the knife slide out from between her legs, and a moment later, as promised, the tip of the blade was pressed against the nape of her neck.

“Lift the picture up off the pillow,” ordered Krantz, “then turn around and face me. Be assured the blade will never be less than a few inches away from your throat at any time. Any movement, and I mean any movement that I consider unexpected, will be your last.”

Anna believed her. She leaned forward, lifted the picture off the pillow, and moved her knees around inch by inch, until she came face-to-face with Krantz. When Anna first saw her, she was momentarily taken by surprise. The woman was so small and slight she even looked vulnerable, a mistake several seasoned men had made in the past — their past. If Krantz had got the better of Sergei, what chance did she have? The strangest thought passed through Anna’s mind as she waited for her next order. Why hadn’t she said yes when Andrews offered to bring her up a cup of cocoa before she retired to bed?

“Now I want you to turn the picture around so that it’s facing me,” said Krantz, “and don’t take your eye off the knife.” She pulled back the blade from her throat and raised it above her head. While Anna turned the picture round, Krantz kept the knife in line with her favorite part of the anatomy.

“Grip the frame firmly,” said Krantz, “because your friend Mr. Van Gogh is about to lose more than his left ear.”

“But why?” cried Anna, unable to remain silent any longer.

“I’m glad you asked,” said Krantz, “because Mr. Fenston’s orders could not have been more explicit. He wanted you to be the last person to see the masterpiece before it was finally destroyed.”

“But why?” Anna repeated.

“As Mr. Fenston couldn’t own the painting himself, he wanted to be sure that Mr. Nakamura couldn’t either,” said Krantz, the blade of the knife still hovering inches from Anna’s neck. “Always a mistake to cross Mr. Fenston. What a pity that you won’t have the chance to tell your friend Lady Arabella what Mr. Fenston has in mind for her.” Krantz paused. “But I have a feeling he won’t mind me sharing the details with you. Once the painting has been destroyed — so unfortunate that she couldn’t afford to insure it, such a false economy, because that’s when Mr. Fenston will set about selling off the rest of the estate until she has finally cleared the debt. Her death, unlike yours, will be a long and lingering one. One can only admire Mr. Fenston’s neat and logical mind.” She paused again. “I fear that time is running out, both for you and Mr. Van Gogh.”

Krantz suddenly raised the knife high above her head and plunged the blade into the canvas. Anna felt the full force of Krantz’s strength as she sliced through Van Gogh’s neck, and with all the power she could muster, Krantz continued the movement until she had completed an uneven circle, finally removing the head of Van Gogh and leaving a ragged hole in the center of the canvas. Krantz leaned back to admire her handiwork and allowed herself a moment of satisfaction. She felt she had carried out her contract with Mr. Fenston to the letter, and now that Anna had witnessed the whole spectacle, the time had come for Krantz to earn the fourth million.

Anna watched as Van Gogh’s head fell onto the sheet beside her, without a drop of blood being spilt. As Krantz sat back to enjoy her moment of triumph, Anna brought the heavy frame crashing down toward her head. But Krantz was swifter than Anna had anticipated and was able to quickly turn, raise an arm, and deflect the blow onto her left shoulder. Anna jumped off the bed as Krantz cast the frame to one side and pushed herself back up. Anna managed to rise and even take a step toward the door before Krantz leaped off the bed and dived at her, thrusting the tip of the blade into her leg as Anna attempted another step. Anna stumbled and fell, only inches from the door, blood spurting in every direction. Krantz was only a pace behind as Anna’s hand touched the handle of the door, but it was too late. Krantz was on her before she could turn the handle. She grabbed Anna by the hair and pulled her back down onto the floor. Krantz raised the knife above her head, and the last words Anna heard her utter were: “This time it’s personal.”

Krantz was about to perform a ceremonial incision when the bedroom door was flung open. Not by a butler carrying a cup of cocoa, but by a woman with a shotgun under her right arm, her hands and shimmering silk gown covered in blood.

Krantz was momentarily transfixed as she looked up at Lady Victoria Wentworth. Hadn’t she already killed this woman? Was she staring at a ghost? Krantz hesitated, mesmerized, as the apparition advanced toward her. Krantz didn’t take her eyes off Arabella, while still holding the knife to Anna’s throat, the blade hovering a centimeter from her skin.

Arabella raised the gun as Krantz eased slowly backward, dragging her quarry across the floor toward the open window. Arabella cocked the trigger. “Another drop of blood,” she said, “and I’ll blow you to smithereens. I’ll start with your legs, and then I’ll save the second cartridge for your stomach. But I won’t quite finish you off. No, I can promise you a slow, painful death, and I will not be calling for an ambulance until I’m convinced there’s nothing they can do to help you.” Arabella lowered her gun slightly and Krantz hesitated. “Let her go,” she said, “and I won’t fire.” Arabella broke the barrel of her gun and waited. She was surprised to see how terrified Krantz was, while Anna remained remarkably composed.

Without warning, Krantz let go of Anna’s hair and threw herself sideways out of the open window, landing on the balcony. Arabella snapped the barrel closed, raised the gun and fired all in one movement, blowing away the Burne-Jones window and leaving a gaping hole. Arabella rushed over to the smouldering gap and shouted, “Now, Andrews,” as if she was ordering a beat at a pheasant shoot to commence. A second later, the security lights floodlit the front lawn so that it looked like a football field with a single player advancing toward goal.

Arabella’s eyes settled on the diminutive black figure as she zigzagged across the lawn. Arabella raised the gun a second time, pulled the butt firmly into her shoulder, took aim, drew a deep breath, and squeezed the trigger. A moment later Krantz fell to the ground, but still somehow managed to crawl on toward the wall.

“Damn,” said Arabella, “I only winged her.” She ran out of the room, down the stairs, and shouted long before she reached the bottom step, “Two more cartridges, Andrews.”

Andrews opened the front door with his right hand and passed her ladyship two more cartridges with his left. Arabella quickly reloaded before charging down the front steps and onto the lawn. She could just about make out a tiny black figure as it changed direction toward the open gate, but Arabella was beginning to make ground on Krantz with every stride she took. Once she was satisfied that Krantz was within range, she came to a halt in the middle of the lawn. She raised her gun and nestled it into her shoulder. She took aim and was about to squeeze the trigger when, out of nowhere, three police cars and an ambulance came speeding through the gates, their headlights blinding Arabella so that she could no longer see her quarry.

The first car screeched to a halt at her feet, and when Arabella saw who it was that climbed out of the car, she reluctantly lowered her gun.

“Good evening, Chief Superintendent,” she said, placing a hand across her forehead as she tried to shield her eyes from the beam that was focused directly on her.

“Good evening, Arabella,” replied the chief superintendent, as if he had arrived a few minutes late for one of her drinks parties. “Is everything all right?” he asked.

“It was until you turned up,” said Arabella, “poking your nose into other people’s business. And how, may I ask, did you manage to get here so quickly?”

“You have your American friend, Jack Delaney, to thank for that,” said the chief superintendent. “He warned us that you might require some assistance. So we’ve had the place under surveillance for the past hour.”

“I didn’t require any assistance,” said Arabella, raising her gun again. “If you’d given me just a couple more minutes, I’d have finished her off and been quite happy to face the consequences.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said the chief superintendent, as he returned to his car and switched off the headlights. The ambulance and the other two police cars were nowhere to be seen.

“You’ve let her get clean away, you fool,” said Arabella, raising her gun for a third time, just as Mr. Nakamura appeared by her side in his dressing gown.

“I think that Anna—”

“Oh, my God,” said Arabella, who turned and, not bothering to wait for the chief superintendent’s response, began running back toward the house. She continued on up the steps, through the open door, before dashing up the staircase, not stopping until she reached the guest bedroom. She found Andrews kneeling on the floor, placing a bandage expertly around Anna’s leg. Mr. Nakamura came running through the door. He stopped for a moment to catch his breath before he said, “For many years, Arabella, I have wondered what took place at an English country-house party.” He paused. “Well, now I know.”

Arabella burst out laughing and turned toward Nakamura, to find him staring at the mutilated canvas on the floor by the side of the bed.

“Oh my God,” repeated Arabella, when she first set eyes on what was left of her inheritance. “That bastard Fenston has beaten us after all. Now I understand why he was so confident that I’d be forced to sell off the rest of my collection, even finally relinquishing Wentworth Hall.”

Anna rose slowly to her feet and sat on the end of the bed. “I don’t think so,” she said, facing her host. Arabella looked puzzled. “But you have Andrews to thank for that.”

“Andrews?” repeated Arabella.

“Yes. He warned me that Mr. Nakamura would be leaving first thing in the morning if he was not to be late for his meeting with Corus Steel and suggested that if I didn’t want to be disturbed at some ungodly hour, perhaps it might be wise for him to remove the painting during dinner. This would not only allow his staff to transfer the frame back onto the original, but also give them enough time to have the picture packed and ready before Mr. Nakamura departed.” Anna paused. “I put it to Andrews that you might not be too pleased to discover that he had flouted your wishes, while I had clearly abused your hospitality. I think I recall Andrews’s exact words,” said Anna. “If you were to allow me to replace the masterpiece with the fake, I feel confident that her ladyship would be none the wiser.”

It was one of the rare occasions during the past forty-nine years that Andrews had witnessed the Lady Arabella rendered speechless.

“I think you should fire him on the spot for insubordination,” said Nakamura, “then I can offer him a job. Were you to accept,” he said, turning to Andrews, “I would be happy to double your present salary.”

“Not a hope,” said Arabella, before the butler was given a chance to respond. “Andrews is one national treasure I will never part with.”