False Impression

22

Leapman was awake long before the limousine was due to pick him up. This was not a day for oversleeping.

He climbed out of bed and headed straight for the bathroom. However closely he shaved, Leapman knew he would still have stubble on his chin long before he went to bed. He could grow a beard over a long weekend. Once he’d showered and shaved, he didn’t bother with making himself breakfast. He’d be served coffee and croissants later by the company stewardess on the bank’s private jet. Who in this run-down apartment building in such an unfashionable neighbourhood would believe that in a couple of hours Leapman would be the only passenger on a Gulfstream V on its way to London.

He walked across to his half-empty closet and selected his most recently acquired suit, his favorite shirt, and a tie that he would be wearing for the first time. He didn’t need the pilot to look smarter than he was.

Leapman stood by the window, waiting for the limousine to appear, aware that his little apartment was not much of an improvement on the prison cell where he’d spent four years. He looked down on Forty-third Street as the incongruous limousine drew up outside the front door.

Leapman climbed into the back of the car, not speaking to the driver as the door was opened for him. Like Fenston, he pushed the button in the armrest and watched as the smoke-gray window slid up, cutting him off from the driver. For the next twenty-four hours, he would live in a different world.

Forty-five minutes later the limousine turned off the Van Wyck Expressway and took the exit to JFK. The driver swept through an entrance that few passengers ever discover and drew up outside a small terminal building that served only those privileged enough to fly in their own aircraft. Leapman stepped out of the car and was escorted to a private lounge, where the captain of the company’s Gulfstream V jet was waiting for him.

“Any hope of taking off earlier than planned?” Leapman asked, as he sank into a comfortable leather armchair.

“No, sir,” the captain replied, “planes are taking off every forty-five seconds, and our slot is confirmed for seven twenty.”

Leapman grunted and turned his attention to the morning papers.

The New York Times was leading on the news that President Bush was offering a fifty-million-dollar reward for the capture of Osama bin Laden, which Leapman considered to be no more than the usual Texan approach to law and order over the past hundred years. The Wall Street Journal listed Fenston Finance off another twelve cents, a fate suffered by several companies whose headquarters had been based in the World Trade Center. Once he got his hands on the Van Gogh, the company could ride out a period of weak share prices while he concentrated on consolidating the bottom line. Leapman’s thoughts were interrupted by a member of the cabin crew.

“You can board now, sir. We’ll be taking off in around fifteen minutes.”

Another car drove Leapman to the steps of the aircraft, and the plane began to taxi even before he’d finished his orange juice, but he didn’t relax until the jet reached its cruising altitude of thirty thousand feet and the FASTEN SEAT BELT sign had been turned off. He leaned forward, picked up the phone, and dialed Fenston’s private line.

“I’m on my way,” he said, “and I can’t see any reason why I shouldn’t be back by this time tomorrow—” he paused “—with a Dutchman sitting in the seat next to me.”

“Call me the moment you land,” was the chairman’s response.

Tina flicked off the extension to the chairman’s phone.

Leapman had been dropping into her office more and more recently — always without knocking. He made no secret of the fact that he believed Anna was still alive and in touch with her.

The chairman’s jet had taken off from JFK on time that morning, and Tina had listened in on his conversation with Leapman. She realized that Anna only had a few hours’ start on him, and that was assuming she was even in London.

Tina thought about Leapman returning to New York the following day, that sickly grin plastered on his face as he handed over the Van Gogh to the chairman. Tina continued to download the latest contracts, having earlier e-mailed them to her private address — something she only did when Leapman was out of the office and Fenston was fully occupied.

The first available flight to London Gatwick that morning was due out of Schiphol at ten o’clock. Anna purchased a ticket from British Airways, who warned her that the flight was running twenty minutes late as the incoming plane had not yet landed. She took advantage of the delay to have a shower and change her clothes. Schiphol was accustomed to overnight travelers. Anna selected the most conservative outfit from her small wardrobe for her meeting with Victoria.

As she sat in Caffè Nero sipping coffee, Anna turned the pages of the Herald Tribune: 50-MILLION-DOLLAR-REWARD, read a headline on the second page — less of a bounty than the Van Gogh would fetch at any auction house. Anna didn’t waste any time reading the article as she needed to concentrate on her priorities once she came face-to-face with Victoria.

First she had to find out where the Van Gogh was. If Ruth Parish had the picture in storage, then she would advise Victoria to call Ruth and insist that it be returned to Wentworth Hall without delay, and add that she’d be quite happy to advise Ruth that Fenston Finance couldn’t hold onto the painting against Victoria’s wishes, especially if the only contract in existence were to disappear. She had a feeling Victoria would not agree to that, but if she did, Anna would get in touch with Mr. Nakamura in Tokyo and try to find out if — “British Airways flight eight-one-one-two to London Gatwick is now ready for boarding at Gate D-fourteen,” announced a voice over the public-address system.

As they crossed the English Channel, Anna went over her plan again and again, trying to find some fault with her logic, but she could think of only two people who would consider it anything other than common sense. The plane touched down at Gatwick thirty-five minutes late.

Anna checked her watch as she stepped onto English soil, aware that it would only be another nine hours before Leapman landed at Heathrow. Once she was through passport control and had retrieved her baggage, Anna went in search of a rental car. She avoided the Happy Hire Company desk and stood in line at the Avis counter.

Anna didn’t see the smartly dressed young man who was standing in the duty-free shop whispering into a cell phone, “She’s landed. I’m on her tail.”

Leapman settled back in the wide leather chair, far more comfortable than anything in his apartment on Forty-third Street. The stewardess served him a black coffee in a gold-rimmed china cup on a silver tray. He leaned back and thought about the task ahead of him. He knew he was nothing more than a bagman, even if the bag today contained one of the most valuable paintings on earth. He despised Fenston, who never treated him as an equal. If Fenston just once acknowledged his contribution to the company’s success and responded to his ideas as if he was a respected colleague rather than a paid lackey — not that he was paid that much... If he just occasionally said thank you — it would be enough. True, Fenston had picked him up out of the gutter but only to drop him into another.

He had served Fenston for a decade and watched as the unsophisticated immigrant from Bucharest climbed up the ladder of wealth and status — a ladder he had held in place, while remaining nothing more than a sidekick. But that could change overnight. She only needed to make one mistake, and their roles would be reversed. Fenston would end up in prison, and he would have a fortune at his disposal that no one could ever trace.

“Would you care for some more coffee, Mr. Leapman?” asked the stewardess.

Anna didn’t need a map to find her way to Wentworth Hall, although she did have to remember not to go the wrong way around the numerous traffic islands en route.

Forty minutes later, she drove through the gates of Wentworth Hall. Anna had no special knowledge of the Baroque architecture that dominated the late seventeenth- and early eighteenth-century homes of aristocratic England before she stayed at Wentworth Hall. The pile — Victoria’s description of her home — had been built in 1697 by Sir John Vanbrugh. It was his first commission before he moved on to create Castle Howard and, later, Blenheim Palace, for another triumphant soldier — after which he became the most sought-after architect in Europe.

The long drive up to the house was shaded by fine oaks of the same vintage as the hall itself, although gaps were now visible where trees had succumbed to the violent storms of 1987. Anna drove by an ornate lake full of Magoi Koi carp — immigrants from Japan — and on past two tennis courts and a croquet lawn, sprinkled with the first leaves of autumn. As she rounded the bend, the great hall, surrounded by a thousand green English acres, loomed up to dominate the skyline.

Victoria had once told Anna that the house had sixty-seven rooms, fourteen of them guest bedrooms. The bedroom she had stayed in on the first floor, the Van Gogh room, was about the same size as her apartment in New York.

As she approached the hall, Anna noticed that the crested family flag on the east tower was fluttering at half-mast. As she brought the car to a halt, she wondered which of Victoria’s many elderly relatives had died.

The massive oak door was pulled open even before Anna reached the top step. She prayed that Victoria was at home, and that Fenston still had no idea she was in England.

“Good morning, madam,” the butler intoned. “How may I help you?”

It’s me, Andrews, Anna wanted to say, surprised by his formal tone. He had been so friendly when she stayed at the hall. She echoed his formal approach. “I need to speak to Lady Victoria, urgently.”

“I’m afraid that will not be possible,” replied Andrews, “but I will find out if her ladyship is free. Perhaps you would be kind enough to wait here while I inquire.”

What did he mean, that will not be possible, but I will find out if her ladyship...

As Anna waited in the hall, she glanced up at Gainsborough’s portrait of Catherine, Lady Wentworth. She recalled every picture in the house, but her eye moved to her favorite at the top of the staircase, a Romney of Mrs. Siddons as Portia. She turned to face the entrance to the morning room, to be greeted with a painting by Stubbs of Actaeon, Winner of the Derby, Sir Harry Wentworth’s favorite horse — still safely in his paddock. If Victoria took her advice, at least she could still save the rest of the collection.

The butler returned at the same even pace.

“Her ladyship will see you now,” he said, “if you would care to join her in the drawing room.” He gave a slight bow before leading her across the hall.

Anna tried to concentrate on her six-point plan, but first she would need to explain why she was forty-eight hours late for their appointment, although surely Victoria would have followed the horrors of Tuesday and might even be surprised to find that she had survived.

When Anna entered the drawing room, she saw Victoria, head bowed, dressed in mourning black, seated on the sofa, a chocolate Labrador half asleep at her feet. She couldn’t remember Victoria having a dog and was surprised when she didn’t jump up and greet her in her usual warm manner. Victoria raised her head, and Anna gasped, as Arabella Wentworth stared coldly up at her. In that split second, she realized why the family’s crest had been flying at half mast. Anna remained silent as she tried to take in the fact that she would never see Victoria again and would now need to convince her sister, whom she had never met before. Anna couldn’t even remember her name. The mirror image did not rise from her place or offer to shake her hand.

“Would you care for some tea, Dr. Petrescu?” Arabella asked in a distant voice that suggested she hoped to hear her reply, No, thank you.

“No, thank you,” said Anna, who remained standing. “May I ask how Victoria died?” she said quietly.

“I assumed you already knew,” replied Arabella dryly.

“I have no idea what you mean,” said Anna.

“Then why are you here,” asked Arabella, “if it’s not to collect the rest of the family silver?”

“I came to warn Victoria not to let them take away the Van Gogh before I had a chance to—”

“They took the painting away on Tuesday,” said Arabella, pausing. “They didn’t even have the good manners to wait until after the funeral.”

“I tried to call, but they wouldn’t give me her number. If only I’d got through,” Anna mumbled incoherently, and then added, “And now it’s too late.”

“Too late for what?” asked Arabella.

“I sent Victoria a copy of my report recommending that—”

“Yes, I’ve read your report,” said Arabella, “but you’re right, it’s too late for that now. My new lawyer has already warned me that it could be years before the estate can be settled, by which time we’ll have lost everything.”

“That must have been the reason he didn’t want me to travel to England and see Victoria personally,” Anna said without explanation.

“I’m not sure I understand,” said Arabella, looking more closely at her.

“I was fired by Fenston on Tuesday,” said Anna, “for sending a copy of my report to Victoria.”

“Victoria read your report,” said Arabella quietly. “I have a letter confirming that she was going to take your advice, but that was before her cruel death.”

“How did she die?” asked Anna gently.

“She was murdered in a vile and cowardly fashion,” said Arabella. She paused and, looking directly at Anna, added, “And I have no doubt that Mr. Fenston will be able to fill in the details for you.” Anna bowed her head, unable to think of anything to say, her six-point plan in tatters. Fenston had beaten both of them. “Dear Victoria was so trusting, and, I fear, so naïve,” continued Arabella, “but no human being deserved to be treated in that way, let alone someone as good-natured as my sweet sister.”

“I am so sorry,” said Anna, “I didn’t know. You have to believe me. I had no idea.”

Arabella looked out of the window across the lawn and didn’t speak for some time. She turned back to see Anna, trembling.

“I believe you,” Arabella eventually said. “I originally assumed that it was you who was responsible for this evil charade.” She paused again. “I see now that I was wrong. But, sadly, it’s all too late. There’s nothing we can do now.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” said Anna, looking at Arabella with a fierce determination in her eyes. “But if I’m to do anything, I’ll have to ask you to trust me, as much as Victoria did.”

“What do you mean, trust you?” said Arabella.

“Give me a chance,” said Anna, “to prove that I wasn’t responsible for your sister’s death.”

“But how can you hope to do that?” asked Arabella.

“By retrieving your Van Gogh.”

“But as I told you, they’ve already taken the painting away.”

“I know,” said Anna, “but it still has to be in England, because Fenston has sent a Mr. Leapman to pick up the picture.” Anna checked her watch. “He’ll be landing at Heathrow in a few hours’ time.”

“But even if you managed to get your hands on the painting, how would that solve the problem?”

Anna outlined the details of her plan and was pleased to find Arabella nodding from time to time. Anna ended by saying, “I’ll need your backing, otherwise what I have in mind could get me arrested.”

Arabella remained silent for some time, before she said, “You’re a brave young woman, and I wonder if you even realize just how brave. But if you’re willing to take such a risk, so am I, and I’ll back you to the hilt,” she added.

Anna smiled at the quaint English expression, and said, “Can you confirm who collected the Van Gogh?”

Arabella rose from the sofa and crossed the room to the writing desk, with the dog following in her wake. She picked up a business card. “A Ms. Ruth Parish,” she read, “of Art Locations.”

“Just as I thought,” said Anna. “Then I’ll have to leave immediately, as I only have a few hours before Leapman arrives.”

Anna stepped forward and thrust out her hand, but Arabella didn’t respond. She simply took her in her arms and said, “If I can do anything to help you avenge my sister’s death...”

“Anything?”

“Anything,” repeated Arabella.

“When the North Tower collapsed, all the documentation concerning Victoria’s loan was destroyed,” said Anna, “including the original contract. The only copy is in your possession. If—”

“You don’t have to spell it out,” said Arabella.

Anna smiled. She wasn’t dealing with Victoria any longer.

She turned to leave and had reached the hall long before the butler had time to open the front door.

Arabella watched from the drawing-room window as Anna’s car disappeared down the drive and out of sight. She wondered if she would ever see her again.

“Petrescu,” said a voice, “is just leaving Wentworth Hall. She’s heading back in the direction of central London. I’m following her and will keep you briefed.”

23

Anna drove out of Wentworth Hall and headed back toward the M25, looking for a sign to Heathrow. She checked the clock on the dashboard. It was almost 2 P.M., so she had missed any chance of calling Tina, who would now be at her desk on Wall Street. But she did need to make another call if there was to be the slightest chance of her coup succeeding.

As she drove through the village of Wentworth, Anna tried to recall the pub where Victoria had taken her to dinner. Then she saw the familiar crest flapping in the wind, also at half-mast.

Anna swung into the forecourt of the Wentworth Arms and parked her car near the entrance. She walked through the reception and into the bar.

“Can you change five dollars?” she asked the barmaid. “I need to make a phone call.”

“Of course, love,” came back the immediate reply. The barmaid opened the cash register and handed Anna two pound coins. Daylight robbery, Anna wanted to tell her, but she didn’t have time to argue.

“The phone’s just beyond the restaurant, to your right.”

Anna dialed a number that she could never forget. The phone rang only twice before a voice announced, “Good afternoon, Sotheby’s.”

Anna fed a coin into the slot, and said, “Mark Poltimore, please.”

“I’ll put you through.”

“Mark Poltimore.”

“Mark, it’s Anna, Anna Petrescu.”

“Anna, what a pleasant surprise. We’ve all been anxious about you. Where were you on Tuesday?”

“Amsterdam,” she replied.

“Thank God for that,” said Mark. “Terrible business. And Fenston?”

“Not in the building at the time,” said Anna, “and that’s why I’m calling. He wants your opinion on a Van Gogh.”

“Authenticity or price?” asked Mark. “Because when it comes to provenance, I bow to your superior judgment.”

“There’s no discussion on its provenance,” said Anna, “but I would like a second opinion on its value.”

“Is it one we would know?”

“Self-Portrait with Bandaged Ear,” said Anna.

“The Wentworth Self-Portrait?” queried Mark. “I’ve known the family all my life and had no idea they were considering selling the painting.”

“I didn’t say they were,” said Anna without offering further explanation.

“Are you able to bring the painting in for inspection?” asked Mark.

“I’d like to, but I don’t have secure enough transport. I was hoping you might be able to help.”

“Where is it now?” asked Mark.

“In a bonded warehouse at Heathrow.”

“That’s easy enough,” said Mark. “We have a daily pickup from Heathrow. Would tomorrow afternoon be convenient?”

“Today, if possible,” said Anna. “You know what my boss is like.”

“Hold on. I’ll just need to find out if they’ve already left.” The line went silent, although Anna could hear her heart thumping. She placed the second pound coin in the slot — the last thing she needed was to be cut off. Mark came back on the line. “You’re in luck. Our handler is picking up some other items for us around four. How does that suit you?”

“Fine, but could you do me another favor and ask them to call Ruth Parish at Art Locations, just before the van is due to arrive?”

“Sure. And how long do we have to value the piece?”

“Forty-eight hours.”

“You’d come to Sotheby’s first if you ever considered selling the Self-Portrait, wouldn’t you, Anna?”

“Of course.”

“I can’t wait to see it,” said Mark.

Anna replaced the receiver, appalled by how easily she could now lie. She was also becoming aware just how simple it must have been for Fenston to deceive her.

She drove out of the Wentworth Arms car park, aware that everything now depended on Ruth Parish being in her office. Once she reached the orbital road, Anna remained in the slow lane as she went over all the things that could go badly wrong. Was Ruth aware that she had been fired? Had Fenston told her she was dead? Would Ruth accept her authority to make such a crucial decision? Anna knew that there was only one way she was going to find out. She even considered calling Ruth, but decided any prior warning would only give her more time to check up. If she was to have any chance at all, she needed to take Ruth by surprise.

Anna was so deep in thought as she considered every possibility that she nearly missed her exit for Heathrow. Once she had turned off the M25, she drove on past the signs for terminals one, two, three and four, and headed for the cargo depots just off the Southern Perimeter Road.

She parked her car in a visitor’s space directly outside the offices of Art Locations. She sat in the car for some time, trying to compose herself. Why didn’t she just drive off? She didn’t need to become involved or even consider taking such a risk. She then thought about Victoria and the role she had unwittingly played in her death. “Get on with it, woman,” Anna said out loud. “They either know or they don’t, and if they’ve already been tipped off, you’ll be back in the car in less than two minutes.” Anna looked in the mirror. Were there any giveaway signs? “Get on with it,” she admonished herself even more firmly, and finally opened the car door. She took a deep breath as she strolled across the tarmac toward the entrance of the building.

She pushed through the swing doors and came face-to-face with a receptionist she’d never seen before. Not a good start.

“Is Ruth around?” Anna asked cheerily, as if she popped by the office every day.

“No, she’s having lunch at the Royal Academy to discuss the upcoming Rembrandt exhibition.”

Anna’s heart sank.

“But I’m expecting her back at any moment.”

“Then I’ll wait,” Anna said with a smile.

She took a seat in reception. She picked up an out-of-date copy of Newsweek, with Al Gore on the cover, and flicked through the pages. She found herself continually looking up at the clock above the reception desk, watching the slow progress of the minute hand: 3:10, 3:15, 3:20.

Ruth finally walked through the door at 3:22 P.M. “Any messages?” she asked the receptionist.

“No,” replied the girl, “but there is a lady waiting to see you.”

Anna held her breath as Ruth swung around.

“Anna,” she exclaimed. “It’s good to see you.” First hurdle crossed. “I wondered if you’d still be on this assignment after the tragedy in New York.” Second hurdle crossed. “Especially when your boss told me that Mr. Leapman would be coming across to collect the picture personally.” Third hurdle crossed. No one had told Ruth she was missing, presumed dead.

“You look a bit pale,” continued Ruth. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” said Anna, stumbling over the fourth hurdle, but at least she was still on her feet, even if there were another six hurdles to cross before the finish line.

“Where were you on the eleventh?” asked Ruth with concern. “We feared the worst. I would have asked Mr. Fenston, but he never gives you a chance to ask anything.”

“Covering a sale in Amsterdam,” Anna replied, “but Karl Leapman called me last night and asked me to fly over and double-check that everything was in place, so that when he arrives all we have to do is load the picture onto the plane.”

“We’re more than ready for him,” said Ruth testily, “but I’ll drive you across to the warehouse and you can see for yourself. Just hang on for a minute. I need to see if I’ve had any calls and let my secretary know where I’m going.”

Anna paced anxiously up and down, wondering if Ruth would call New York to check her story. But why should she? Ruth had never dealt with anyone else in the past.

Ruth was back within a couple of minutes. “This just arrived on my desk,” she said, handing Anna an e-mail. Anna’s heart sank. “Confirming that Mr. Leapman is scheduled to land around seven, seven thirty, this evening. He expects us to be waiting on the runway, ready to load the painting, as he’s hoping to turn round in less than an hour.”

“That sounds like Leapman,” said Anna.

“Then we’d better get moving,” said Ruth, as she began walking toward the door.

Anna nodded her agreement, followed her out of the building, and jumped into the passenger seat of Ruth’s Range Rover.

“Terrible business, Lady Victoria,” said Ruth, as she swung the car around and headed for the south end of the cargo terminal. “The press are making a real meal of the murder — mystery killer, throat cut with a kitchen knife — but the police still haven’t arrested anyone.”

Anna remained silent, the words throat cut and mystery killer reverberating in her mind. Was that why Arabella told her that she was a brave woman?

Ruth pulled up outside an anonymous-looking concrete building, which Anna had visited several times in the past. She checked her watch: 3:40 P.M.

Ruth flashed a security pass to the guard, who immediately unlocked the three-inch steel door. He accompanied them both down a long, gray concrete corridor that always felt like a bunker to Anna. He stopped at a second security door, this time with a digital pad. Ruth waited for the guard to stand back before she entered a six-digit number. She pulled open the heavy door, allowing them to enter a square concrete room. A thermometer on the wall indicated a temperature of 20 degrees centigrade.

The room was lined with wooden shelves, which were stacked with pictures waiting to be transported to different parts of the world, all packed in Art Locations’s distinctive red boxes. Ruth checked her inventory before walking across the room and looking up at a row of shelves. She tapped a crate showing the number 47 stenciled in all four corners.

Anna strolled across to join her, playing for time. She also checked the inventory: number forty-seven, Vincent Van Gogh, Self-Portrait with Bandaged Ear, 24 by 18 inches.

“Everything seems to be in order,” said Anna, as the guard reappeared at the door.

“Sorry to interrupt you, Ms. Parish, but there are two security men from Sotheby’s outside, say they’ve been instructed to pick up a Van Gogh for valuation.”

“Do you know anything about this?” asked Ruth, turning to face Anna.

“Oh, yes,” said Anna, not missing a beat, “the chairman instructed me to have the Van Gogh valued for insurance purposes before it’s shipped to New York. They’ll only need the piece for about an hour, and then they will send it straight back.”

“Mr. Leapman didn’t mention anything about this,” said Ruth. “It wasn’t in his e-mail.”

“Frankly,” said Anna, “Leapman’s such a philistine, he wouldn’t know the difference between Van Gogh and Van Morrison.” Anna paused for a moment. Normally she never took risks, but she couldn’t afford to let Ruth call Fenston and check. “If you’re in any doubt, why don’t you call New York and have a word with Fenston?” she said. “That should clear the matter up.”

Anna waited nervously as Ruth considered her suggestion.

“And have my head bitten off again?” said Ruth eventually. “No, thank you. I think I’ll take your word for it. That’s assuming you will take responsibility for signing the release order?”

“Of course,” said Anna, adding, “That’s no more than my fiduciary duty as an officer of the bank,” hoping her reply sounded suitably pompous.

“And you’ll also explain the change of plan to Mr. Leapman?”

“That won’t be necessary,” said Anna. “The painting will be back long before his plane lands.”

Ruth looked relieved and, turning to the guard, said, “It’s number forty-seven.”

They both accompanied the guard as he removed the red packing case from the shelf and carried it out to the Sotheby’s security van.

“Sign here,” said the driver.

Anna stepped forward and signed the release document.

“When will you be bringing the picture back?” Ruth asked the driver. “I don’t know anything about—”

“I asked Mark Poltimore to return the painting within a couple of hours,” interjected Anna.

“It had better be back before Mr. Leapman lands,” said Ruth, “because I don’t need to get on the wrong side of that man.”

“Would you be happier if I accompanied the painting to Sotheby’s?” asked Anna innocently. “Then perhaps I can speed up the whole process.”

“Would you be willing to do that?” asked Ruth.

“It might be wise given the circumstances,” said Anna, and she climbed up into the front of the van and took the seat between the two men.

Ruth waved as the van disappeared through the perimeter gate and joined the late-afternoon traffic on its journey into London.

24

Bryce Fenston’s Gulfstream V executive jet touched down at Heathrow at 7:22 P.M., and Ruth was standing on the tarmac waiting to greet the bank’s representative. She had already alerted customs with all the relevant details so that the paperwork could be completed just as soon as Anna returned.

For the past hour, Ruth had spent more and more time looking toward the main gate, willing the security van to reappear. She had already rung Sotheby’s and was assured by the girl in their Impressionist department that the painting had arrived. But that was more than two hours ago. Perhaps she should have called the States to double-check — but why question one of your most reliable customers. Ruth turned her attention back to the jet and decided to say nothing. After all, Anna was certain to turn up in the next few minutes.

The fuselage door opened and the steps unfolded onto the ground. The stewardess stood to one side to allow her only passenger to leave the plane. Karl Leapman stepped onto the tarmac and shook hands with Ruth before joining her in the back of an airport limousine for the short journey to the private lounge. He didn’t bother to introduce himself, just assumed she would know who he was.

“Any problems?” asked Leapman.

“None that I can think of,” replied Ruth confidently, as the driver pulled up outside the executive building. “We’ve carried out your instructions to the letter, despite the tragic death of Lady Victoria.”

“Yeah,” said Leapman, as he stepped out of the car. “The company will be sending a wreath to her funeral,” and without pausing, added, “Is everything ready for a quick turnaround?”

“Yes,” said Ruth. “We’ll begin loading the moment the captain has finished refueling — shouldn’t be more than an hour. Then you can be on your way.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” said Leapman, pushing through the swing doors. “We have a slot booked for eight thirty and I don’t want to miss it.”

“Then perhaps it might be more sensible if I left you to oversee the transfer,” said Ruth, “but I’ll report back the moment the painting is safely on board.”

Leapman nodded and sank back in a leather chair. Ruth turned to leave.

“Can I get you a drink, sir?” asked the barman.

“Scotch on the rocks,” said Leapman, scanning the short dinner menu.

As Ruth reached the door, she turned and said, “When Anna comes back, would you tell her I’ll be over at customs, waiting to complete the paperwork?”

“Anna?” exclaimed Leapman, jumping out of his chair.

“Yes, she’s been around for most of the afternoon.”

“Doing what?” Leapman demanded, as he advanced toward Ruth.

“Just checking over the manifest,” Ruth said, trying to sound relaxed, “and making sure that Mr. Fenston’s orders were carried out.”

“What orders?” barked Leapman.

“To send the Van Gogh to Sotheby’s for an insurance valuation.”

“The chairman gave no such order,” said Leapman.

“But Sotheby’s sent their van, and Dr. Petrescu confirmed the instruction.”

“Petrescu was fired three days ago. Get me Sotheby’s on the line, now.”

Ruth ran across to the phone and dialed the main number.

“Who does she deal with at Sotheby’s?”

“Mark Poltimore,” Ruth said, handing the phone across to Leapman.

“Poltimore,” he barked, the moment he heard the word Sotheby’s, then realized he was addressing an answering machine. Leapman slammed down the phone. “Do you have his home number?”

“No,” said Ruth, “but I have a mobile.”

“Then call it.”

Ruth quickly looked up the number on her palm pilot and began dialing again.

“Mark?” she said.

Leapman snatched the phone from her. “Poltimore?”

“Speaking.”

“My name is Leapman. I’m the—”

“I know who you are, Mr. Leapman,” said Mark.

“Good, because I understand you are in possession of our Van Gogh.”

“Was, would be more accurate,” replied Mark, “until Dr. Petrescu, your art director, informed us, even before we’d had a chance to examine the painting, that you’d had a change of heart and wanted the canvas taken straight back to Heathrow for immediate transport to New York.”

“And you went along with that?” said Leapman, his voice rising with every word.

“We had no choice, Mr. Leapman. After all, it was her name on the manifest.”

25

“Hi, it’s Vincent.”

“Hi. Is it true what I’ve just heard?”

“What have you heard?”

“That you’ve stolen the Van Gogh.”

“Have the police been informed?”

“No, he can’t risk that, not least because our shares are still going south and the picture wasn’t insured.”

“So what’s he up to?”

“He’s sending someone to London to track you down, but I can’t find out who it is.”

“Maybe I won’t be in London by the time they arrive.”

“Where will you be?”

“I’m going home.”

“And is the painting safe?”

“Safe as houses.”

“Good, but there’s something else you ought to know.”

“What’s that?”

“Fenston will be attending your funeral this afternoon.”

The phone went dead. Fifty-two seconds.

Anna replaced the receiver, even more concerned about the danger she was placing Tina in. What would Fenston do if he were to discover the reason she always managed to stay one step ahead of him?

She walked over to the departures desk.

“Do you have any bags to check in?” asked the woman behind the counter. Anna heaved the red box off the luggage cart and onto the scales. She then placed her suitcase next to it.

“You’re quite a bit over weight, madam,” she said. “I’m afraid there will be an excess charge of thirty-two pounds.” Anna took the money out of her wallet while the woman attached a label to her suitcase and fixed a large FRAGILE sticker on the red box. “Gate forty-three,” she said, handing her a ticket. “They’ll be boarding in about thirty minutes. Have a good flight.”

Anna began walking toward the departures gate.

Whoever Fenston was sending to London to track her down would be landing long after she had flown away. But Anna knew that they only had to read her report carefully to work out where the picture would be ending up. She just needed to be certain that she got there before they did. But first she had to make a phone call to someone she hadn’t spoken to for over ten years to warn him that she was on her way. Anna took the escalator to the first floor and joined a long line waiting to be checked through security.

“She’s heading toward gate forty-three,” said a voice, “and will be departing on flight BA two-seven-two to Bucharest at eight forty-four...”

Fenston squeezed himself into a line of dignitaries as President Bush and Mayor Giuliani shook hands with a select group who were attending the latest service at Ground Zero.

He hung around until the president’s helicopter had taken off and then walked across to join the other mourners. He took a place at the back of the crowd and listened as the names were read out. Each one was followed by the single peal of a bell.

Greg Abbot.

He glanced around the crowd.

Kelly Gullickson.

He studied the faces of the relations and friends who had gathered in memory of their loved ones.

Anna Petrescu.

Fenston knew that Petrescu’s mother lived in Bucharest and wouldn’t be traveling to the service. He looked more carefully at the strangers who were huddled together and wondered which one of them was Uncle George from Danville, Illinois.

Rebecca Rangere.

He glanced across at Tina. Tears were filling her eyes, certainly not for Petrescu.

Brulio Real Polanco.

The priest bowed his head. He delivered a prayer, then closed his Bible and made the sign of a cross. “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost,” he declared.

“Amen,” came back the unison reply.

Tina looked across at Fenston, not a tear shed, just the familiar movement from one foot to the other — the sign that he was bored. While others gathered in small groups to remember, sympathize, and pay their respects, Fenston left without commiserating with anyone. No one else joined the chairman as he strode off purposefully toward his waiting car.

Tina stood among a little group of mourners, although her eyes remained fixed on Fenston. His driver was holding open the back door for him. Fenston climbed into the car and sat next to a woman Tina had never seen before. Neither spoke until the driver had returned to the front seat and touched a button on the dashboard to cause a smoked-glass screen to rise behind him. Without waiting, the car eased out into the road to join the midday traffic. Tina watched as the chairman disappeared out of sight. She hoped it wouldn’t be long before she called again — so much to tell her, and now she had to find out who the waiting woman was. Were they discussing Anna? Had Tina put her friend in unnecessary danger? Where was the Van Gogh?

The woman seated next to Fenston was dressed in a gray trouser suit. Anonymity was her most important asset. She had never once visited Fenston at either his office or his apartment, even though she had known him for almost twenty years. She’d first met Nicu Munteanu when he was bagman for President Nicolae Ceauşescu.

Fenston’s primary responsibility during Ceauşescu’s reign was to distribute vast sums of money into countless bank accounts across the world — bribes for the dictator’s loyal henchmen. When they ceased to be loyal, the woman seated next to Fenston eliminated them, and he then redistributed their frozen assets. Fenston’s speciality was money laundering, to places as far afield as the Cook Islands and as close to home as Switzerland. Her speciality was to dispose of the bodies — her chosen instrument a kitchen knife available in any hardware store in any city and, unlike a gun, not requiring a licence.

Both knew, literally, where the bodies were buried.

In 1985, Ceauşescu decided to send his private banker to New York to open an overseas branch for him. For the next four years, Fenston lost touch with the woman seated next to him, until in 1989 Ceauşescu was arrested by his fellow countrymen, tried, and finally executed on Christmas Day. Among those who avoided the same fate was Olga Krantz, who crossed seven borders before she reached Mexico, from where she slipped into America to become one of the countless illegal immigrants who do not claim unemployment benefits and live off cash payments from an unscrupulous employer. She was sitting next to her employer.

Fenston was one of the few people alive who knew Krantz’s true identity. He’d first watched her on television when she was fourteen years old and representing Romania in an international gymnastics competition against the Soviet Union.

Krantz came second to her teammate Mara Moldoveanu, and the press were already tipping them for the gold and silver at the next Olympics. Unfortunately, neither of them made the journey to Moscow. Moldoveanu died in tragic, unforeseen circumstances, when she fell from the beam attempting a double somersault and broke her neck. Krantz was the only other person in the gymnasium at the time. She vowed to win the gold medal in her memory.

Krantz’s exit was far less dramatic. She pulled a hamstring warming up for a floor exercise, only days before the Olympic team was selected. She knew she wouldn’t be given a second chance. Like all athletes who don’t quite make the grade, her name quickly disappeared from the headlines. Fenston assumed he would never hear of her again, until one morning he thought he saw her coming out of Ceauşescu’s private office. The short, sinewy woman may have looked a little older, but she had lost none of her agile movement, and no one could forget those steel gray eyes.

A few well-placed questions and Fenston learned that Krantz was now head of Ceauşescu’s personal protection squad. Her particular responsibility: breaking selected bones of those who crossed the dictator or his wife.

Like all gymnasts, Krantz wanted to be number one in her discipline. Having perfected all the routines in the compulsory section — broken arms, broken legs, broken necks — she moved on to her voluntary exercise, “cut throats,” a routine at which no one could challenge her for the gold medal. Hours of dedicated practice had resulted in perfection. While others attended a football match or went to the movies on a Saturday afternoon, Krantz spent her time at a slaughterhouse on the outskirts of Bucharest. She filled her weekend cutting the throats of lambs and calves. Her Olympic record was forty-two in an hour. None of the slaughtermen reached the final.

Ceauşescu had paid her well. Fenston paid her better. Krantz’s terms of employment were simple. She must be available night and day and work for no one else. In a space of twelve years, her fee had risen from $250,000 to $1 million. Not for her the hand-to-mouth existence of most illegal immigrants.

Fenston extracted a folder from his briefcase and handed it across to Krantz without comment. She turned the cover and studied five recent photographs of Anna Petrescu.

“Where is she at the moment?” asked Krantz, still unable to disguise her mid-European accent.

“London,” replied Fenston, before he passed her a second file.

Once again she opened it and this time extracted a single color photograph. “Who’s he?” she inquired.

“He’s more important than the girl,” replied Fenston.

“How can that be possible?” Krantz asked, as she studied the photo more carefully.

“Because he’s irreplaceable,” Fenston explained, “unlike Petrescu. But whatever you do, don’t kill the girl until she’s led you to the painting.”

“And if she doesn’t?”

“She will,” said Fenston.

“And my payment for kidnapping a man who has already lost an ear?” inquired Krantz.

“One million dollars. Half in advance, the other half on the day you deliver him to me, unharmed.”

“And the girl?”

“The same tariff, but only after I have attended her funeral for the second time.” Fenston tapped the screen in front of him and the driver pulled up to the curb. “By the way,” said Fenston, “I’ve already instructed Leapman to deposit the cash in the usual place.”

Krantz nodded, opened the door, stepped out of the car, and disappeared into the crowd.