False Impression

18

A loud, repeated banging jolted Anna out of a deep sleep. She rubbed her eyes and looked through the windshield. A man with a pot belly hanging out of his jeans was thumping on the hood of the van with a clenched fist. In his other hand he was carrying a can of beer that was frothing at the mouth. Anna was about to scream at him when she realized that someone else was at the same time trying to wrench open the back door. An ice-cold shower couldn’t have woken her any quicker.

Anna scrambled into the driver’s seat and quickly turned the key in the ignition. She looked in her side-view mirror and was horrified to see that another forty-ton truck was now stationed directly behind her, leaving her with almost no room to maneuver. She pressed the palm of her hand on the horn, which only encouraged the man holding the beer can to clamber up onto the hood and advance toward her. Anna saw his face clearly for the first time, as he leered at her through the windshield. She felt cold and sick. He leaned forward, opened his toothless mouth, and began licking the glass, while his friend continued trying to force open the back door. The engine finally spluttered into life.

Anna yanked the steering wheel round to give her the tightest possible turns, but the space between the two trucks only allowed her to advance a few feet before she had to reverse. Power steering was not one of the van’s extras. When she shot back, Anna heard a yell from behind as the second man threw himself to one side. Anna crashed into first gear and pressed her foot back down on the accelerator. As the van leaped forward, the pot-bellied man slid off the hood and onto the ground with a thud. Anna thrust the gearstick back into reverse, praying this time there would be enough room to escape. But before she had pulled the steering wheel fully around, she glanced to the side to see that the second man was now staring at her through the passenger window. He clamped both of his massive hands on the roof and began rocking the van slowly backward and forward. She slammed her foot on the pedal and the van dragged him slowly forward, but she still failed to make it through the gap, if only by inches. Anna rammed the gear into reverse for a third time and was horrified to see the first man’s hands reappear on the front of the hood, as he pulled himself back up onto his feet. He lurched forward, stuck his nose flat against the windshield, and gave her a thumbs-down sign. He then shouted to his buddy, “I get to go first this week.” His buddy stopped rocking the car and burst out laughing.

Anna broke out into a cold sweat when her eyes settled on the potbellied man, walking unsteadily toward his truck. A quick glance in her side-view mirror and she could see his mate climbing up into his cab.

It didn’t take Anna more than a split second to work out exactly what they had in mind. She was about to become the meat in their next sandwich. Anna hit the accelerator so hard that she careered into the truck behind her just as he turned on his full headlights. She crashed the gears back into first as the engine of the front truck roared into life, belching a cloud of black smoke all over the windshield. Anna yanked the steering wheel over with a jerk and once again thrust her foot hard down on the accelerator. The van jumped forward, just as the truck in front of her began to reverse. She collided with the corner of the front truck’s massive mudguard, which tore off her bumper followed by her passenger-side mudguard. She then felt herself being shunted from behind as the rear truck plowed into her, ripping off her rear bumper. The little van came hurtling out of the gap with inches to spare and spun around a full 360 degrees before it came to a halt. Anna looked across to see the two trucks, unable to react in time, crash into each other.

She accelerated across the parking lot, raced past several stationary trucks and out onto the highway. She continued to look in her rearview mirror as the two trucks disentangled themselves. A loud screeching of brakes and a cacophony of horns followed as she narrowly missed colliding with a stream of vehicles coming down the highway, several of which had to career across two lanes to avoid her. The first driver left his hand on the horn for some time, leaving Anna in no doubt of his feelings. Anna waved an apologetic hand to the overtaking vehicle as it shot past her, while she continued to glance into her side-view mirror, dreading seeing either of the trucks pursuing her. She jammed her foot down on the accelerator until it touched the floor, determined to find out the maximum speed the van could manage: sixty-eight miles per hour was the answer.

Anna checked her side-view mirror once again. A vast eighteen-wheeler was coming up behind her on the inside lane. She gripped the steering wheel firmly and jammed her foot back down on the accelerator, but the van had no more to offer. The truck was now eating up the ground, yard by yard, and in moments she knew it would convert itself into a bulldozer. Anna thrust the palm of her left hand down on the horn, and it let out a bleat that wouldn’t have disturbed a flock of starlings from their nests. A large, green sign appeared on the side of the road, indicating the turnoff for the 1-90, one mile.

Anna moved into the middle lane and the massive truck followed her like a magnet hoping to sweep up any loose filings. The truck driver was now so close that Anna could see him in her side-view mirror. He gave her another toothless grin and then honked his horn. It let forth a sound that would have drowned out the last bars of a Wagner opera.

Half a mile to the exit, the new sign promised. She moved across to the fast lane, causing a line of advancing cars to throw on their brakes and slow down. Several pressed their horns this time. She ignored them and slowed down to fifty when they became an orchestra.

The eighteen-wheeler drew up beside her. She slowed down, he slowed down; quarter of a mile to the turnoff, the next sign declared. She saw the exit in the distance, grateful for the first shafts of the morning sun appearing through the clouds, as none of her lights were now working.

Anna knew that she would have only one chance, and her timing had to be perfect. She gripped the steering wheel firmly as she reached the exit for the 1-90 and drove on past the green triangle of grass that divided the two highways. She suddenly jammed her foot back down on the accelerator, and although the van didn’t leap forward, it spurted and managed to gain a few yards. Was it enough? The truck driver responded immediately and also began to accelerate. He was only a car’s length away when Anna suddenly swung the steering wheel to the right and carried on across the middle and inside lanes before mounting the grass verge. The van bounced across the uneven triangle of grass and onto the far exit lane. A car traveling down the inside lane had to swerve onto the hard shoulder to avoid hitting her, while another shot past on the outside. As Anna steadied the van on the inside lane, she looked across to see the eighteen-wheeler heading on down the highway and out of sight.

She slowed down to fifty, although her heart was still beating at three times that speed. She tried to relax. As with all athletes, it is speed of recovery that matters. As she swung onto the 1-90, she glanced in her side-view mirror. Her heartbeat immediately returned to 150 when she saw a second eighteen-wheeler bearing down on her.

Pot-belly’s buddy hadn’t made the same mistake.

19

As the stranger entered the lobby, Sam looked up from behind his desk. When you’re a doorman, you have to make instant decisions about people. Do they fall in the category of “Good morning, sir” or “Can I help you?” or simply “Hi”? Sam studied the tall, middle-aged man who had just walked in. He was wearing a smart but well-worn suit, the cloth a little shiny at the elbows, and his shirt cuffs were slightly frayed. He wore a tie that Sam reckoned had been tied a thousand times.

“Good morning,” Sam settled on.

“Good morning,” replied the man. “I’m from the Department of Immigration.”

That only made Sam nervous. Although he’d been born in Harlem, he’d heard stories of people being deported by mistake.

“How can I help you, sir?” he asked.

“I’m checking up on those people who are still missing, presumed dead, following the terrorist attack on Tuesday.”

“Anyone in particular?” asked Sam cautiously.

“Yes,” said the man. He placed his briefcase on the counter, opened it, and extracted a list of names. He ran a finger down the list and came to a halt at the Ps. “Anna Petrescu,” he said. “This is the last known address we have for her.”

“I haven’t seen Anna since she left for work on Tuesday morning,” said Sam, “though several people have asked about her, and one of her friends came around that night and took away some of her personal things.”

“What did she take?”

“I don’t know,” said Sam. “I just recognized the suitcase.”

“Do you know the girl’s name?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“It might help if we could get in touch with her. Anna’s mother is quite anxious.”

“No, I don’t know her name,” admitted Sam.

“Would you recognize her if I showed you a photograph?”

“Might,” said Sam.

Once again, the man opened his briefcase. This time he extracted a photo and passed it across to Sam. He studied it for a moment.

“Yes, that’s her. Pretty girl,” he paused, “but not as pretty as Anna. She was beautiful.”

As she swung onto the 1-90, Anna noticed that the speed limit was seventy. She would have been happy to break it, but however hard she pressed down on the accelerator she could still only manage sixty-eight miles per hour.

Although the second truck was still some way behind, it was closing on her rapidly, and this time she didn’t have an exit strategy. She prayed for a sign. The truck must have been only fifty yards behind her, and closing by the second, when she heard the siren.

She was delighted at the thought of being pulled over, and didn’t care whether she would be believed when she explained why she had careered across two lanes of the highway and onto the exit ramp, not to mention why her van was missing both bumpers and a mudguard and that none of its lights were working. She began to slow down as the patrol car sped past the truck and slipped in behind her. The officer looked back and indicated that the truck driver should pull over. Anna watched in her passenger-side mirror as both vehicles came to a halt on the hard shoulder.

It was over an hour before she was calm enough to stop looking in her side-view mirror every few minutes.

After another hour she even began to feel hungry and decided to pull into a roadside café for breakfast. She parked the van, strolled in, and took a seat at the far end of the counter. She perused the menu before ordering “the big one” — eggs, bacon, sausage, hash browns, pancakes, and coffee. Not her usual fare, but then not much had been usual about the past forty-eight hours.

Between mouthfuls, Anna checked her route map. The two drunken men who’d pursued her had helped her keep to her schedule. Anna calculated that she had already covered around 380 miles, but there were still at least another fifty to go to reach the Canadian border. She studied the map more closely. Next stop, Niagara Falls, which she estimated would take her another hour.

The television behind the counter was reporting the early morning news. The hope of finding any more survivors was fading. New York had begun mourning its dead and setting about the long and arduous task of cleaning up. A memorial service, attended by the president, was to be held in Washington, D.C., as part of a national day of remembrance. The president then intended to fly on to New York and visit Ground Zero. Mayor Giuliani was next to appear on the screen. He was wearing a T-shirt proudly emblazoned with the letters NYPD and a cap with NYFD printed across the peak. He praised the spirit of New Yorkers and pledged his determination to put the city back on its feet as quickly as possible.

The news camera cut to JFK, where an airport spokesman confirmed that the first commercial flights would resume their normal schedule the following morning. That one sentence determined Anna’s timetable. She knew she had to touch down in London before Leapman took off from New York if she was to have any chance of convincing Victoria... Anna glanced out of the window. Two trucks were pulling into the parking lot. She froze, unable to watch as the drivers climbed out of their cabs. She was checking the fire exit as they entered the café. They both took seats at the counter, smiled at the waitress, and didn’t give Anna a second look. She had never previously understood why people suffered from paranoia.

Anna checked her watch: 7:55 A.M. She drained her coffee, left six dollars on the table, and walked across to the phone booth on the far side of the diner. She dialed a 212 number.

“Good morning, sir, my name is Agent Roberts.”

“Morning, Agent Roberts,” replied Jack, leaning back in his chair, “have anything to report?”

“I’m standing in a vehicle rest stop somewhere between New York and the Canadian border.”

“And what are you doing there, Agent Roberts?”

“I’m holding a bumper.”

“Let me guess,” said Jack. “The bumper was at one time attached to a white van driven by the suspect.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And where is the van now?” asked Jack, trying not to sound exasperated.

“I have no idea, sir. When the suspect drove into the rest stop to take a break, I must admit, sir, I also fell asleep. When I woke, the suspect’s van had left, leaving the bumper with the GPS still attached.”

“Then she’s either very clever,” said Jack, “or she’s been involved in an accident.”

“I agree.” He paused, and then added, “What do you think I should do next, sir?”

“Join the CIA,” said Jack.

“Hi, it’s Vincent, any news?”

“Yep, just as you thought, Ruth Parish has the painting locked up in the secure customs area at Heathrow.”

“Then I’ll have to unlock it,” said Anna.

“That might not prove quite that easy,” said Tina, “because Leapman flies out of JFK first thing tomorrow morning to pick up the painting, so you’ve only got another twenty-four hours before he joins you.” She hesitated. “And you have another problem.”

“Another problem?” said Anna.

“Leapman isn’t convinced you’re dead.”

“What makes him think that?”

“He keeps asking about you, so be especially careful. Never forget Fenston’s reaction when the North Tower collapsed. He may have lost half a dozen staff, but his only interest was the Monet in his office. Heaven knows what he’d do if he lost the Van Gogh as well. Dead artists are more important to him than living people.”

Anna could feel the beads of sweat breaking out on her forehead as the line went dead. She checked her watch: thirty-two seconds.

“Our ‘friend’ at JFK has confirmed we’ve been allocated a slot at seven twenty tomorrow morning,” Leapman said. “But I haven’t informed Tina.”

“Why not?” asked Fenston.

“Because the doorman at Petrescu’s building told me that someone looking like Tina was seen leaving there on Tuesday evening.”

“Tuesday evening?” repeated Fenston. “But that would mean—”

“And she was carrying a suitcase.”

Fenston frowned but said nothing.

“Do you want me to do anything about it?”

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

“Bug the phone in her apartment for a start. Then if Petrescu is in contact with her, we’ll know exactly where she is and what she’s up to.”

Fenston didn’t reply, which Leapman always took to mean yes.

Canadian border 4 miles declared a sign on the side of the road. Anna smiled — a smile that was quickly removed when she swung round the next corner and came to a halt behind a long line of vehicles that stretched as far as the eye could see.

She stepped out onto the road and began to stretch her tired limbs. Anna grimaced as she looked across at what was left of her battered transport. How would she explain that to the Happy Hire Company? She certainly didn’t need to part with any more cash — the first $500 of any damage, if she remembered correctly. While continuing to stretch, she couldn’t help noticing that the other side of the road was empty; no one seemed to be in a rush to enter the United States.

Anna progressed only another hundred yards during the next twenty minutes, ending up opposite a gas station. She made an instant decision — breaking another habit of a lifetime. She swung the van across the road and onto the forecourt, drove past the pumps, and parked the van next to a tree — just behind a large sign declaring SUPERIOR CAR WASH. Anna retrieved her two bags from the back of the van and started out on the four-mile trek to the border.

20

“I’m so sorry, my dear,” said Arnold Simpson, as he looked across his desk at Arabella Wentworth. “Dreadful business,” he added, dropping another sugar lump into his tea. Arabella didn’t comment as Simpson leaned forward and placed his hands on the partners’ desk, as if about to offer up a prayer. He smiled benignly at his client and was about to offer an opinion when Arabella opened the file on her lap and said, “As our family’s solicitor, perhaps you can explain how my father and Victoria managed to run up such massive debts and in so short a period of time?”

Simpson leaned back and peered over his half-moon spectacles. “Your dear father and I,” he began, “had been close friends for over forty years. We were, as I feel sure you are aware, at Eton together.” Simpson paused to touch his dark blue tie with the light blue stripe, which looked as if he’d worn it every day since he’d left school.

“My father always described it as ‘at the same time,’ rather than ‘together,’ retorted Arabella. “So perhaps you could now answer my question.”

“I was just coming to that,” said Simpson, momentarily lost for words as he searched around the scattered files that littered his desk. “Ah, yes,” he declared eventually, picking up one marked LLOYD’S OF LONDON. He opened the cover and adjusted his spectacles. “When your father became a name at Lloyd’s in nineteen seventy-one, he signed up for several syndicates, putting up the estate as collateral. For many years, the insurance industry showed handsome returns and your father received a large annual income.” Simpson ran his finger down a long list of figures.

“But did you point out to him at the time,” asked Arabella, “the meaning of unlimited liability?”

“I confess,” said Simpson, ignoring the question, “that like so many others, I did not anticipate such an unprecedented run of bad years.”

“It was no different from being a gambler hoping to make a profit from a spin at the roulette wheel,” said Arabella. “So why didn’t you advise him to cut his losses and leave the table?”

“Your father was an obstinate man,” said Simpson, “and, having ridden out some bad years, remained convinced that the good times would return.”

“But that didn’t prove to be the case,” said Arabella, turning to another of the numerous papers in her one file.

“Sadly not,” confirmed Simpson, who seemed to have sunk lower in his chair so that he nearly disappeared behind the partners’ desk.

“And what happened to the large portfolio of stocks and shares that the family had accumulated over the years?”

“They were among the first assets your father had to liquidate to keep his current account in surplus. In fact,” continued the solicitor, turning over another page, “at the time of your father’s death, I fear he had run up an overdraft of something over ten million pounds.”

“But not with Coutts,” Arabella said, “as it appears some three years ago he transferred his account to a small bank in New York called Fenston Finance.”

“That is correct, dear lady,” said Simpson. “Indeed, it has always been a bit of a mystery to me how that particular establishment came across—”

“It’s no mystery to me,” retorted Arabella, as she extracted a letter from her file. “It’s clear that they singled him out as an obvious target.”

“But I still can’t work out how they knew—”

“They only had to read the financial pages of any broadsheet. They were reporting the problems faced by Lloyd’s on a daily basis, and my father’s name appeared regularly, along with several others, as being placed with unfortunate, if not crooked, syndicates.”

“That is pure speculation on your part,” said Simpson, his voice rising.

“Just because you didn’t consider it at the time,” replied Arabella, “doesn’t mean it’s speculation. In fact, I’m only surprised that you allowed your close friend to leave Coutts, who had served the family for over two hundred years, to join such a bunch of shysters.”

Simpson turned scarlet. “Perhaps you are falling into the politician’s habit of relying on hindsight, madam.”

“No, sir,” replied Arabella. “My late husband was also offered the opportunity to join Lloyd’s. The broker assured him that the farm would be quite enough to cover the necessary deposit, whereupon Angus showed him the door.”

Simpson was speechless.

“And how, may I ask, with you as her principal advisor, did Victoria manage to double that debt in less than a year?”

“I am not to blame for that,” snapped Simpson. “You can direct your anger at the tax man, who always demands his pound of flesh,” he added as he searched for a file marked DEATH DUTIES. “Ah, yes, here it is. The Exchequer is entitled to 40 percent of any assets on death, unless the assets are directly passed on to a spouse, as I feel sure your late husband would have explained to you. However, I managed, with some considerable skill, even if I do say so myself, to reach a settlement of eleven million pounds with the inspectors, which Lady Victoria seemed well satisfied with at the time.”

“My sister was a naïve spinster who never left home without her father and didn’t have her own bank account until she was thirty,” said Arabella, “but still you allowed her to sign a further contract with Fenston Finance, which was bound to land her in even more debt.”

“It was that or putting the estate on the market.”

“No, it wasn’t,” replied Arabella. “It only took me one phone call to Lord Hindlip, the chairman of Christie’s, to be told that he would expect the family’s Van Gogh to make in excess of thirty million pounds were it to come up for auction.”

“But your father would never have agreed to sell the Van Gogh.”

“My father wasn’t alive when you approved the second loan,” countered Arabella. “It was a decision you should have advised her on.”

“I had no choice, dear lady, under the terms of the original contract.”

“Which you witnessed, but obviously didn’t read. Because not only did my sister agree to go on paying 16 percent compound interest on the loan, but you even allowed her to hand over the Van Gogh as collateral.”

“But you can still demand that they sell the painting, and then the problem will be solved.”

“Wrong again, Mr. Simpson,” said Arabella. “If you had read beyond page one of the original contract, you would have discovered that should there be a dispute, any decision will revert to a New York court’s jurisdiction, and I certainly don’t have the wherewithal to take on Bryce Fenston in his own backyard.”

“You don’t have the authority to do so, either,” retorted Simpson, “because I—”

“I am next of kin,” said Arabella firmly.

“But there is no will to indicate to whom Victoria intended to leave the estate,” shouted Simpson.

“Another duty you managed to execute with your usual prescience and skill.”

“Your sister and I were at the time in the process of discussing—”

“It’s a bit late for that,” said Arabella. “I am facing a battle here and now with an unscrupulous man, who seems to have the law on his side thanks to you.”

“I feel confident,” said Simpson, once again placing his hands on the desk in a prayerlike position as if ready to give the final blessing, “that I can wrap this whole problem up in—”

“I’ll tell you exactly what you can wrap up,” said Arabella, rising from her place, “all those files concerning the Wentworth estate, and send them to Wentworth Hall.” She stared down at the solicitor. “And at the same time, enclose your final account” — she checked her watch — “for one hour of your invaluable advice.”

21

Anna walked down the middle of the road, pulling her suitcase behind her, with the laptop hanging over her left shoulder. With each stride she took, Anna became more and more aware of passengers sitting in their stationary cars, staring at the strange lone figure as she passed them.

The first mile took fifteen minutes, and one of the families who had settled down for a picnic on the grass verge by the side of the road offered her a glass of wine. The second mile took eighteen minutes, but she still couldn’t see the border post. It was another twenty minutes before she passed a 1 MILE TO THE BORDER sign, when she tried to speed up.

The last mile reminded her which muscles ached after a long, tiring run, and then she saw the finish line. An injection of adrenaline caused her to step up a gear.

When Anna was about a hundred yards from the barrier, the staring looks made her feel like a line jumper. She averted her eyes and walked a little more slowly. When she came to a halt on the white line, where each car is asked to turn off its engine and wait, she stood to one side.

There were two customs officials on duty that day, having to deal with an unusually long line for a Thursday morning. They were sitting in their little boxes, checking everyone’s documents much more assiduously than usual. Anna tried to make eye contact with the younger of the two officers in the hope that he would take pity on her, but she didn’t need a mirror to know that after what she’d been through during the past twenty-four hours, she couldn’t have looked a lot better than when she staggered out of the North Tower.

Eventually, the younger of the two guards beckoned her over. He checked her travel documents and stared at her quizzically. Just how far had she trudged with those bags? He checked her passport carefully. Everything seemed to be in order.

“What is your reason for visiting Canada?” he asked.

“I’m attending an art seminar at McGill University. It’s part of my Ph.D. thesis on the pre-Raphaelite movement,” she said, staring directly at him.

“Which artists in particular?” asked the guard casually.

A smart-ass or a fan? Anna decided to play along. “Rossetti, Holman Hunt, and Morris, among others.”

“What about the other Hunt?”

“Alfred? Not a true pre-Raphaelite, but—”

“But just as good an artist.”

“I agree,” said Anna.

“Who’s giving the seminar?”

“Er, Vern Swanson,” said Anna, hoping the guard would not have heard of the most eminent expert in the field.

“Good, then I’ll get a chance to meet him.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, if he’s still the professor of art history at Yale he’ll be coming from New Haven, won’t he, and as there are no flights in and out of the U.S., this is the only way he can cross the border.”

Anna couldn’t think of a suitable response and was grateful to be rescued by the woman behind her, who began commenting to her husband in a loud voice about how long she’d been waiting in line.

“I was at McGill,” said the young officer with a smile, as he handed Anna back her passport. Anna wondered if the color of her cheeks betrayed her embarrassment. “We’re all sorry about what happened in New York,” he added.

“Thank you,” said Anna, and walked across the border. Welcome to Canada.

“Who is it?” demanded an anonymous voice.

“You’ve got an electrical fault on the tenth floor,” said a man standing outside the front door, dressed in green overalls, wearing a Yankee baseball cap, and carrying a toolbox. He closed his eyes and smiled into the security camera. When he heard the buzzer, the man pushed open the door and slipped in without any further questions.

He walked past the elevator and began to climb the stairs. That way there was less chance of anyone remembering him. He stopped when he reached the tenth floor, glancing quickly up and down the corridor. No one in sight; 3:30 P.M. was always a quiet time. Not that he could tell you why, it was simply based on experience. When he reached her door, he pressed the buzzer. No reply. But then he had been assured that she would still be at work for at least another couple of hours. The man placed his bag on the floor and examined the two locks on the door. Hardly Fort Knox. With the precision of a surgeon about to perform an operation, he opened his bag and selected several delicate instruments.

Two minutes and forty seconds later, he was inside the apartment. He quickly located all three telephones. The first was in the front room on a desk, below a Warhol print of Marilyn Monroe. The second was by her bed, next to a photograph. The intruder glanced at the woman in the center of the picture. She was standing between two men who looked so alike they had to be her father and brother.

The third phone was in the kitchen. He looked at the fridge door and grinned; they were both fans of the 49ers.

Six minutes and nine seconds later he was back in the corridor, down the stairs, and out of the front door.

Job completed in less than ten minutes. Fee $1,000. Not unlike a surgeon.

Anna was among the last to step onto the Greyhound bus that was due to leave Niagara Falls at three o’clock.

Two hours later, the bus came to a halt on the western shore of Lake Ontario. Anna was first down the steps, and without stopping to admire the Mies van der Rohe buildings that dominate the Toronto skyline, she hailed the first available cab.

“The airport, please, and as fast as possible.”

“Which terminal?” asked the driver.

Anna hesitated. “Europe.”

“Terminal three,” he said, as he moved off, adding, “Where you from?”

“Boston,” Anna replied. She didn’t want to talk about New York.

“Terrible, what happened in New York,” he said. “One of those moments in history when everyone remembers exactly where they were. I was in the cab, heard it on the radio. How about you?”

“I was in the North Tower,” said Anna.

He knew a smart-ass when he saw one.

It took just over twenty-five minutes to drive the seventeen miles from Bay Street to Lester B. Pearson International Airport, and during that time the driver never uttered another word. When he finally pulled up outside the entrance to terminal three, Anna paid the fare and walked quickly into the airport. She stared up at the departure board as the digital clock flicked over to twenty-eight minutes past five.

The last flight to Heathrow had just closed its gates. Anna cursed. Her eyes scanned the list of cities for any remaining flights that evening: Tel Aviv, Bangkok, Hong Kong, Sydney, Amsterdam. Amsterdam. How appropriate, she thought. Flight KL692 departs 18:00 hours, gate C31, now boarding.

Anna ran to the KLM desk and asked the man behind the counter, even before he’d looked up, “Can I still get on your flight to Amsterdam?”

He stopped counting the tickets. “Yes, but you’ll have to hurry as they’re just about to close the gate.”

“Do you have a window seat available?”

“Window, aisle, center, anything you like.”

“Why’s that?”

“Not many people seem to want to fly today, and it’s not just because it’s the thirteenth.”

“JFK has reconfirmed our slot at seven twenty tomorrow morning,” said Leapman.

“Good,” said Fenston. “Phone me the moment the plane takes off. What time do you touch down at Heathrow?”

“Around seven,” replied Leapman. “Art Locations will be waiting on the runway to load the painting on board. Three times the usual fee seems to have concentrated their minds.”

“And when do you expect to be back?”

“In time for breakfast the following morning.”

“Any news on Petrescu?”

“No,” Leapman said. “Tina’s only had one call so far, a man.”

“Nothing from—”

Tina entered the room.

“She’s on her way to Amsterdam,” said Joe.

“Amsterdam?” repeated Jack, tapping his fingers on the desk.

“Yes, she missed the last flight to Heathrow.”

“Then she’ll be on the first flight into London tomorrow morning.”

“We already have an agent at Heathrow,” said Joe. “Do you want agents anywhere else?”

“Yes, Gatwick and Stansted,” said Jack.

“If you’re right, she’ll be in London only hours before Karl Leapman.”

“What do you mean?” asked Jack.

“Fenston’s private jet has a slot booked out of JFK at seven twenty tomorrow morning, and the only passenger is Leapman.”

“Then they probably plan to meet up,” said Jack. “Call Agent Crasanti at our London embassy and ask him to put extra agents at all three airports. I want to know exactly what those two are up to.”

“We won’t be on our own territory,” Joe reminded him. “If the British were to find out, not to mention the CIA—”

“At all three airports,” Jack repeated, before putting the phone down.

Moments after Anna stepped onto the plane, the door was locked into place. She was guided to her seat and asked to fasten her seat belt, as they were expecting to take off almost immediately. Anna was pleased to find the other seats in her row were unoccupied, and as soon as the seat-belt sign had been turned off, she pulled up the armrests in her row and lay down, covering herself with two blankets before resting her head on a real pillow. She had dozed off even before the plane had reached its cruising height.

Someone was gently touching her shoulder. Anna cursed under her breath. She’d forgotten to mention that she didn’t want a meal. Anna looked up at the stewardess and blinked sleepily. “No thank you,” she said firmly, and closed her eyes again.

“I’m sorry, but I have to ask you to sit up and fasten your seat belt,” said the stewardess politely. “We’re expecting to land in about twenty minutes. If you would like to alter your watch, the local time in Amsterdam is six fifty-five A.M.”