False Impression

26

“Good-bye, Sam,” said Jack, as his cell phone began to play the first few bars of “Danny Boy.” He let it go on ringing until he was back out on East Fifty-fourth Street because he didn’t want Sam to overhear the conversation. He pressed the green button as he continued walking toward Fifth Avenue. “What have you got for me, Joe?”

“Petrescu landed at Gatwick,” said Joe. “She rented a car and drove straight to Wentworth Hall.”

“How long was she there?”

“Thirty minutes, no more. When she came out, she dropped into a local pub to make a phone call before traveling on to Heathrow, where she met up with Ruth Parish at the offices of Art Locations.” Jack didn’t interrupt. “Around four, a Sotheby’s van turns up, picks up a red box—”

“Size?”

“About three foot by two.”

“No prizes for guessing what’s inside,” said Jack. “So where did the van go?”

“They delivered the painting to their West End office.”

“And Petrescu?”

“She goes along for the ride. When the van turned up in Bond Street, two porters unloaded the picture and she followed them in.”

“How long before she came back out?”

“Twenty minutes, and this time she was on her own, except she was carrying the red box. She hailed a taxi, put the painting in the back, and disappeared.”

“Disappeared?” said Jack, his voice rising. “What do you mean, disappeared?”

“We don’t have too many spare agents at the moment,” said Joe. “Most of our guys are working round the clock trying to identify terrorist groups that might have been involved in Tuesday’s attacks.

“Understood,” said Jack, calming down.

“But we picked her up again a few hours later.”

“Where?” asked Jack.

“Gatwick airport. Mind you,” said Joe, “an attractive blonde carrying a red box does have a tendency to stand out in a crowd.”

“Agent Roberts would have missed her,” said Jack, as he hailed a cab.

“Agent Roberts?” queried Joe.

“Another time,” said Jack, climbing into the back of a cab. “So where was she heading this time?”

“Bucharest.”

“Why would she want to take a priceless Van Gogh to Bucharest?” asked Jack.

“On Fenston’s instructions, would be my bet,” said Joe. “After all, it’s his hometown as well as hers, and I can’t think of a better place to hide the picture.”

“Then why send Leapman to London if it wasn’t to pick up the painting?”

“A smokescreen?” said Joe. “That would also explain why Fenston attended her funeral when he knows only too well that she’s alive and still working for him.”

“There is an alternative we have to consider,” said Jack.

“What’s that, boss?”

“That she’s no longer working for him, and she’s stolen the Van Gogh.”

“Why would she risk that,” asked Joe, “when he wouldn’t hesitate to come after her?”

“I don’t know, but there’s only one way I’m going to find out.” Jack touched the red button on his phone, and gave the taxi driver an address on the West Side.

Fenston switched off the recorder and frowned. Both of them had listened to the tape for a third time.

“When are you going to fire the bitch?” was all Leapman asked.

“Not while she’s the one person who can still lead us to the painting, Fenston replied.

Leapman scowled. “And did you pick up the only word in their conversation that matters?” he asked. Fenston raised an eyebrow. “Going,” said Leapman. Fenston still didn’t speak. “If she’d used the word coming. ‘I’m coming home’ — it would have been New York.”

“But she used the word going,” said Fenston, “so it has to be Bucharest.”

Jack sat back in the cab seat and tried to work out what Petrescu’s next move might be. He still couldn’t make up his mind if she was a professional criminal or a complete amateur. And where did Tina Forster fit into the equation? Was it possible that Fenston, Leapman, Petrescu, and Forster were all working together? If that was the case, why did Leapman only spend a few hours in London before returning to New York? Because he certainly didn’t meet up with Petrescu or take the painting back to New York.

But if Petrescu had branched out on her own, surely she realized that it would only be a matter of time before Fenston caught up with her. Although, Jack had to admit, Petrescu was now on her own ground and didn’t seem to have any idea how much danger she was in.

But Jack remained puzzled as to why Petrescu would steal a painting worth millions when she couldn’t hope to dispose of such a well-known work without one of her former colleagues finding out. The art world was so small and the number of people who could afford that sort of money even smaller. And even if she succeeded, what could she hope to do with the money? The FBI would trace such a large amount within hours, wherever she tried to hide it, especially after Tuesday’s events. It just didn’t add up.

But if she did take her audacious act to its obvious conclusion, Fenston was in for a nasty surprise, and no doubt would react in character.

As the taxi swung into Central Park, Jack tried to make some sense of all that had happened during the past few days. He had even wondered if he would be taken off the Fenston case after 9/11, but Macy insisted that not all his agents should be following up terrorist leads while other criminals got away with murder.

Jack hadn’t found it difficult to obtain a search warrant for Anna’s apartment while she remained on the missing list. After all, relatives and friends needed to be contacted to find out if she had been in touch with them. And then there was the outside possibility, Jack had argued in front of a judge, that she might be locked in her apartment, recovering from the ordeal. The judge signed the order without too many questions.

“I hope you find her,” he said, a sentiment His Honor had cause to repeat several times that day.

Sam had burst into tears at just the mention of Anna’s name. He told Jack that he’d do anything to assist, accompanied him up to her apartment, and even opened the door.

Jack walked around the small, tidy apartment while Sam remained in the hallway. He didn’t learn a great deal more than he already knew. An address book confirmed her uncle’s number in Danville, Illinois, and an envelope showed her mother’s address in Bucharest. Perhaps the only real surprise was a small Picasso drawing hanging in the hallway, signed in pencil by the artist. He studied the matador and the bull more closely, and it certainly wasn’t a print. He couldn’t believe she’d stolen it and then left the drawing in the hall for everyone to admire. Or was the drawing a bonus from Fenston for helping him to acquire the Van Gogh? If it was, it would at least explain what she was up to now. And then he walked into the bedroom and saw the one clue that confirmed that Tina had been in the apartment on the evening of 9/11. By the side of Anna’s bed was a watch. Jack checked the time: 8:46.

Jack returned to the main room and glanced at a photograph on the corner of the writing desk of what must have been Anna with her parents. He opened a box file to discover a bundle of letters that he couldn’t read. Most of them were signed “Mama,” although one or two were from someone called Anton. Jack wondered if he was a relation or a friend. He looked back up at the photograph and couldn’t help thinking that if his mother had seen the picture, she would have invited Anna back to sample her Irish stew.

“Damn,” said Jack, loud enough for the cab driver to ask, “What’s the problem?”

“I forgot to phone my mother.”

“Then you’re in big trouble,” said the driver. “I should know, I’m Irish too.”

Hell, is it that obvious, thought Jack. Mind you, he should have called his mother to let her know that he wouldn’t be able to make “Irish stew night,” when he usually joined his parents to celebrate the natural superiority of the Gaelic race over all God’s other creatures. It didn’t help that he was an only child. He must try to remember to call her from London.

His father had wanted Jack to be a lawyer, and both his parents had made sacrifices to make it possible. After twenty-six years with the NYPD, Jack’s father had come to the conclusion that the only people who made a profit out of crime were the lawyers and the criminals, so he felt his son ought to make up his mind which he was going to be.

Despite his father’s cryptic advice, Jack signed up for the FBI only days after he had graduated from Columbia with a law degree. His father continued to grumble every Saturday about him not being a lawyer, and his mother kept asking if he was ever going to make her a grandmother.

Jack enjoyed every aspect of the job, from the first moment he arrived at Quantico for training, to joining the New York field office, to being promoted to senior investigating officer. He seemed to be the only person who was surprised when he was the first among his contemporaries to be promoted. Even his father begrudgingly congratulated him before he added, “Only proves what a damn good lawyer you would have made.”

Macy had also made it clear that he hoped Jack would take over from him once he was transferred back to Washington, D.C. But before that could happen, Jack still had to put in jail a man who was turning any such thoughts of promotion into fantasies. And so far, Jack had to admit, he hadn’t so much as landed a glove on Bryce Fenston, and was now having to rely on an amateur to deliver the knockout punch.

He stopped daydreaming and put a call through to his secretary.

“Sally, book me on the first available flight to London with an onward connection to Bucharest. I’m on my way home to pack.”

“I ought to warn you, Jack,” his secretary replied, “that JFK is stacked solid for the next week.”

“Sally, just get me on a plane to London, and I don’t care if I’m sitting next to the pilot.”

The rules were simple. Krantz stole a new cell phone every day. She’d phone the chairman once, only speak in their native tongue, and when the conversation was finished dispose of the phone. That way, no one could ever trace her.

Fenston was sitting at his desk when the little red light flashed on his private line. Only one person had that number. He picked up the phone.

“Where is she?”

“Bucharest,” was all he said, and then replaced the receiver.

Krantz dropped today’s cell phone into the Thames and hailed a cab.

“Gatwick.”

When Jack came down the steps at Heathrow, he wasn’t surprised to find Tom Crasanti standing on the runway waiting for him. A car was parked behind his old friend, engine running, the back door held open by another agent.

Neither of them spoke until the door was closed and the car was on the move.

“Where’s Petrescu?” was Jack’s first question.

“She’s landed in Bucharest.”

“And the painting?”

“She wheeled it out of customs on a baggage trolley,” said Tom.

“That woman’s got style.”

“Agreed,” said Tom, “but then perhaps she has no idea what she’s up against.”

“I suspect she’s about to find out,” said Jack, “because one thing’s for sure, if she stole the painting, I won’t be the only person out there looking for her.”

“Then you’ll have to keep an eye out for them as well,” said Tom.

“You’re right about that,” said Jack, “and that’s assuming I get to Bucharest before she’s moved on to her next destination.”

“Then there’s no time to waste,” said Tom, before adding, “We’ve got a helicopter standing by to take you to Gatwick, and they’re holding up the flight to Bucharest for thirty minutes.”

“How did you manage that?” asked Jack.

“The helicopter is ours; the holdup is theirs. The ambassador called the Foreign Office. I don’t know what he said,” admitted Tom, as they came to a halt beside the helicopter, “but you’ve only got thirty minutes.”

“Thanks for everything,” said Jack, as he stepped out of the car and began to walk toward the helicopter.

“And try not to forget,” Tom shouted above the noise of the whirring blades, “we don’t have an official presence in Bucharest, so you’ll be on your own.”

27

Anna stepped onto the concourse of Otopeni, Bucharest’s international airport, in the early hours of the morning, pushing a trolley laden with a wooden crate, a large case, and a laptop. She stopped in her tracks when she saw a man rushing toward her.

Anna stared at him suspiciously. He was around five nine, balding, with a ruddy complexion and a thick black moustache. He must have been over sixty. He wore a tight-fitting suit, which suggested he’d once been slimmer. He came to a halt in front of Anna.

“I’m Sergei,” he announced in his native tongue. “Anton told me you’d called and asked to be picked up. He has already booked you into a small hotel downtown.” Sergei took Anna’s trolley and pushed it toward his waiting taxi. He opened the back door of a yellow Mercedes that already had three hundred thousand miles on the clock, and waited until Anna had stepped in before he loaded her luggage into the trunk and took his place behind the wheel.

Anna stared out of the taxi window and thought how the city had changed since her birth — it was now a thrusting, energetic capital, demanding its place at the European table. Modern office buildings and a fashionable shopping center had replaced the drab Communist gray-tiled façade of only a decade before.

Sergei drew up outside a small hotel tucked away down a narrow street. He lifted the red crate out of the trunk while Anna took the rest of the luggage and headed into the hotel.

“I’d like to visit my mother first thing,” said Anna, once she’d checked in. Sergei looked at his watch. “I’ll pick you up around nine. That will give you the chance to grab a few hours’ sleep.”

“Thank you,” said Anna.

He watched as she disappeared into the lift carrying the red box.

Jack had first spotted her when he was standing in line to board the plane. It is a basic surveillance technique: hang back, just in case you are being followed. The trick, then, is not to let the pursuer realize that you are on to them. Act normal, never look back. Not easy.

His class supervisor at Quantico would carry out a surveillance detection run every evening after class, when he would follow one of the new recruits home. If you managed to lose him, you were singled out for a commendation. Jack went one better. Having lost him, he then carried out an SDR on his supervisor and followed him home without being spotted.

Jack climbed the steps of the plane. He didn’t look back.

When Anna strolled out of her hotel a few minutes after nine, she found Sergei standing by his old Mercedes, waiting for her.

“Good morning, Sergei,” she said, as he opened the back door for her.

“Good morning, madam. Do you still wish to visit your mother?”

“Yes,” replied Anna. “She lives at—”

Sergei waved a hand to make it clear that he knew exactly where to take her.

Anna smiled with pleasure as he drove through the center of town past a magnificent fountain that would have graced a lawn at Versailles. But once Sergei had reached the outskirts of the city, the picture quickly changed from color to black-and-white. By the time her driver had reached the neglected outpost of Berceni, Anna realized that the new regime still had a long way to go if they were to achieve the prosperity-for-all program they had promised the voters following the downfall of Ceauşescu. Anna had, in the space of a few miles, returned to the more familiar scenes of her youth. She found many of her countrymen downcast, looking older than their years. Only the young lads playing soccer in the street seemed unaware of the degradation that surrounded them. It appalled Anna that her mother was still so adamant about remaining in her birthplace after her father had been killed in the uprising. She had tried so many times to convince her to join them in America, but she wouldn’t be budged.

In 1987, Anna had been invited to visit Illinois by an uncle she had never met. He’d even sent her two hundred dollars to assist with her passage. Her father told her to leave, and leave quickly, but it was her mother who predicted that she would never come back. She purchased a one-way ticket, and her uncle promised to pay for the return journey whenever she wanted to go home.

Anna was seventeen at the time, and she had fallen in love with America even before the boat had docked. A few weeks later, Ceauşescu began his crackdown on any individual who dared to oppose his draconian regime. Her father wrote to warn Anna that it was not safe for her to come home.

That was his last letter. Three weeks later he joined the rebels and was never seen again.

Anna missed her mother dreadfully and repeatedly begged her to join them in Illinois. But her response was always the same. “This is my homeland, where I was born, and where I shall die. I am too old to begin a new life.” Too old, Anna had remonstrated. Her mother was only sixty-one, but they were sixty-one stubborn Romanian years, so Anna reluctantly accepted that nothing would change her mind. A month later, her uncle George enrolled Anna in a local school. While civil unrest in Romania continued unabated, Anna graduated from college and later accepted the opportunity to study for a Ph.D. at Penn, in a discipline that had no language barriers.

Dr. Petrescu still wrote to her mother every month, only too aware that most of her letters were not reaching her because the spasmodic replies often asked questions she had already answered.

The first decision Anna made after she left college and joined Sotheby’s was to open a separate bank account for her mother in Bucharest, to which she transferred $400 by standing order on the first day of every month. Although she would rather have—

“I’ll wait for you,” said Sergei, as the taxi finally came to a halt outside a dilapidated block of flats in Piazza Resitei.

“Thank you,” said Anna, as she looked out at the prewar estate where she was born, and where her mother still lived. Anna could only wonder what Mama had spent the money on. She stepped out onto the weed-covered path that she had once thought so wide because she couldn’t jump across it.

The children playing soccer in the road watched suspiciously as the stranger in her smart linen jacket, jeans with fashionable tears, and fancy sneakers walked up the worn, potholed path. They also wore jeans with tears. The elevator didn’t respond to Anna’s button-pressing — nothing changes — which was why, Anna recalled, the most sought-after flats were always those on the lower floors. She couldn’t understand why her mother hadn’t moved years ago. Anna had sent more than enough money for her to rent a comfortable apartment on the other side of town. Anna’s feeling of guilt grew the higher up she climbed. She had forgotten just how dreadful it was, but like the children playing soccer in the street, it had once been all she knew.

When Anna eventually reached the sixteenth floor, she stopped to catch her breath. No wonder her mother so rarely left the flat. On the floors above her resided sixty-year-olds who were housebound. Anna hesitated before she knocked on a door that hadn’t seen a splash of paint since she’d last stood there.

She waited for some time before a frail, white-haired lady, dressed from head to toe in black, pulled the door open, but by only a few inches. Mother and daughter stared at each other, until suddenly Elsa Petrescu flung open the door, threw her arms around her daughter, and shouted in a voice as old as she looked, “Anna, Anna, Anna.” Both mother and daughter burst into tears.

The old lady continued to cling to Anna’s hand as she led her into the flat in which she had been born. It was spotless, and Anna could still remember everything, because nothing had changed. The sofa and chairs her grandmother had left them, the family photographs, all black-and-white and unframed, a coal scuttle with no coal, a rug that was so worn it was hard to make out the original pattern. The only new addition to the room was a magnificent painting that hung on otherwise blank walls. As Anna admired the portrait of her father, she was reminded where her love of art had begun.

“Anna, Anna, so many questions to ask,” her mother said. “Where do I begin?” she asked, still clutching her daughter’s hand.

The sun was setting before Anna had responded to every one of her mother’s questions, and then she begged once again, “Please, Mama, come back with me and live in America.”

“No,” she replied defiantly, “all my friends and all my memories are here. I am too old to begin a new life.”

“Then why not move to another part of the city? I could find you something on a lower—”

“This is where I was married,” her mother said quietly, “where you were born, where I lived for over thirty years with your beloved father, and where, when God decrees it is my time, I shall die.” She smiled up at her daughter. “Who would tend your father’s grave?” she asked, as if she’d never asked the question before. She looked into her daughter’s eyes. “You know he was so pleased to see you settled in America with his brother—” she paused “—and now I can see that he was right.”

Anna looked around the room. “But why haven’t you spent some of the money I’ve been sending to you each month?”

“I have,” said her mother firmly, “but not on myself,” she admitted, “because I want for nothing.”

“Then what have you spent it on?” Anna queried.

“Anton.”

“Anton?” repeated Anna.

“Yes, Anton,” said her mother. “You knew that he’d been released from jail?”

“Oh, yes,” said Anna, “he wrote to me soon after Ceauşescu was arrested to ask if I had a photo of Papa that he could borrow.” Anna smiled as she looked up at the painting of her father.

“It’s a good likeness,” said her mother.

“It certainly is,” said Anna.

“They gave him back his old job at the academy. He’s now the Professor of Perspective. If you’d married him, you would be a professor’s wife.”

“Is he still painting?” she asked, avoiding her mother’s next inevitable question.

“Yes,” she replied, “but his main responsibility is to teach the graduates at the Universitatea de Arte. You can’t make a living as an artist in Romania,” she said sadly. “You know, with his talent, Anton should also have gone to America.”

Anna looked up again at Anton’s magnificent portrait of her father. Her mother was right; with such a gift, he would have flourished in New York. “But what does he do with the money?” she asked.

“He buys canvases, paints, brushes, and all those materials that his pupils can’t afford, so you see, your generosity is being put to good use.” She paused. “Anton was your first love, Anna, yes?”

Anna wouldn’t have believed that her mother could still make her blush. “Yes,” she admitted, “and I suspect I was his.”

“He’s married now, and they have a little boy called Peter.” She paused again. “Do you have a young man?”

“No, Mama.”

“Is that what brings you back home? Are you running away from something, or someone?”

“What makes you ask that?” Anna asked defensively.

“There is a sadness in your eyes, and fear,” she said, looking up at her daughter, “which you could never hide as a child.”

“I do have one or two problems,” admitted Anna, “but nothing that time won’t sort out.” She smiled. “In fact, I rather think that Anton might be able to help me with one of them, and I’m hoping to join him at the academy for a drink. Do you have any message you want passed on?” Her mother didn’t reply. She had quietly dozed off. Anna rearranged the rug on her mother’s lap and kissed her on the forehead. “I’ll be back again tomorrow morning, Mama,” she whispered.

She slipped silently out of the room. As she walked back down the littered staircase, she was pleased to see the old yellow Mercedes was still parked by the curb.

28

Anna returned to her hotel, and after a quick shower and change of clothes, her newly acquired chauffeur took her to the Academy of Art on Piata Universitatii.

The building had lost none of its elegance or charm with the passing of time, and when Anna climbed the steps toward the massive sculptured doors, memories came flooding back of her introduction to the great works of art hanging in galleries she thought she would never see. Anna reported to the front desk and asked where Professor Teodorescu’s lecture was taking place.

“In the main theater on the third floor,” said the girl behind the counter, “but it has already started.”

Anna thanked the young student and, without asking for any directions, climbed the wide marble staircase to the third floor. She stopped to glance at a poster outside the hall:

She didn’t require the arrow to point her in the right direction. Anna gingerly pushed open the door, pleased to find that the lecture theater was in darkness. She walked up the steps at the side of the hall and took a seat toward the back.

A slide of Guernica filled the screen. Anton was explaining that the massive canvas was painted in 1937, at the time of the Spanish Civil War, when Picasso was at the height of his powers. He went on to say that the depiction of the bombing and the resulting carnage had taken Picasso three weeks, and the image was unquestionably influenced by the artist’s hatred of the Spanish dictator, Franco. The students were listening attentively, several taking notes. Anton’s bravura performance reminded Anna why she’d had a crush on him all those years ago, when she not only lost her virginity to an artist, but began a lifelong love affair with art.

When Anton’s presentation came to an end, the rapturous applause left Anna in no doubt how much the undergraduates enjoyed his lecture. He’d lost none of his skill in motivating and nurturing the young’s enthusiasm for their chosen subject.

Anna watched her first love as he collected together his slides and began to put them in an old briefcase. Tall and angular, his mop of curly, dark hair, ancient brown corduroy jacket, and open-neck shirt gave him the air of a perpetual student. She couldn’t help noticing that he had put on a few pounds, but she didn’t feel it made him any less attractive. When the last student had filed out, Anna made her way to the front of the hall.

Anton glanced up over his half-moon spectacles, apparently anticipating a question from the student who was approaching him. When he first saw Anna, he didn’t speak, just stared.

“Anna,” he finally exclaimed. “Thank God I didn’t realize you were in the audience, as you probably know more about Picasso than I do.”

Anna kissed him on both cheeks and said with a laugh, “You’ve lost none of your charm or ability to flatter.”

Anton held up his hands in mock defeat, grinning widely. “Was Sergei at the airport to pick you up?”

“Yes, thank you,” said Anna. “Where did you meet him?”

“In jail,” admitted Anton. “He was lucky to survive the Ceauşescu regime. And have you visited your sainted mother?”

“I have,” replied Anna, “and she’s still living in conditions not much better than a jail.”

“I agree, and don’t think I haven’t tried to do something about it, but at least your dollars, and her generosity, allow some of my best students to—”

“I know,” said Anna, “she’s already told me.”

“You can’t begin to know,” continued Anton. “So let me show you some of the results of your investment.”

Anton took Anna by the hand, as if they were still students, and guided her down the steps to the long corridor on the first floor, where the walls were crammed with paintings in every medium.

“This year’s prize-winning students,” he told her, holding out his arms like a proud father. “And every entry has been painted on a canvas supplied by you. In fact, one of the awards is in your name — the Petrescu Prize.” He paused. “How appropriate if you were to select the winner, which would make not only me, but one of my students, very proud.”

“I’m flattered,” said Anna with a smile, as she walked toward a long row of paintings. She took her time as she strolled slowly up and down the canvas-filled corridor, pausing occasionally to study an image more closely. Anton had clearly taught them the importance of drawing before he allowed them to move on to other media. Don’t bother with the brush if you can’t first handle the pencil, he liked to repeat. But the range of subjects and bold approach showed that he had also let them express themselves. Some didn’t quite come off, while others showed considerable talent. Anna finally stopped in front of an oil entitled Freedom, depicting the sun rising over Bucharest.

“I know a certain gentleman who’ll appreciate that,” she said.

“You haven’t lost your touch,” said Anton, smiling. “Danuta Sekalska is this year’s star pupil, and she’s been offered a place at the Slade in London to continue her studies, if only we can raise enough money to cover her expenses.” He looked at his watch. “Do you have time for a drink?”

“I certainly do,” replied Anna, “because I confess there’s a favor I need to ask of you—” she paused “—in fact, two favors.”

Anton once again took her by the hand and led her back down the corridor toward the staff refectory. When they entered the senior common room, Anna was greeted by the sound of good-humored chatter as tutors swapped anecdotes while they sat around in groups enjoying nothing stronger than a coffee. They didn’t seem to notice that the furniture, the cups, the saucers, and probably even the cookies would have been rejected by any self-respecting hobo visiting a Salvation Army hostel in the Bronx.

Anton poured two cups of coffee. “Black, if I remember. Not quite Starbucks,” he mocked, “but we’re getting there slowly.” Heads turned as Anton guided his former pupil to a place by the fire. He took a seat opposite her. “Now, what can I do for you, Anna,” he asked, “because I am unquestionably in your debt.”

“It’s my mother,” she said quietly. “I need your help. I can’t get her to spend a cent on herself. She could do with a new carpet, sofa, a TV, and even a telephone, not to mention a splash of fresh paint on that front door.”

“You think I haven’t tried?” Anton repeated. “Where do you imagine you get your stubborn streak from? I even suggested she move in with us. It’s not palatial, but it’s a damn sight better than that dump she’s living in now.” Anton took a long draft of his coffee. “But I promise I’ll try again—” he paused “—even harder.”

“Thank you,” said Anna, who remained silent while Anton rolled a cigarette. “And I see I failed to convince you to give up smoking.”

“I don’t have the bright lights of New York to distract me,” he said with a laugh. He lit his hand-rolled cigarette before adding, “And what’s the second favor?”

“You’ll need to think long and hard about it,” she said in an even tone.

Anton put down his coffee, inhaled deeply, and listened carefully as Anna explained in detail how he could help her.

“Have you discussed the idea with your mother?”

“No,” Anna admitted. “I think it’s best she doesn’t find out why I really came to Bucharest.”

“How much time have I got?”

“Three, perhaps four days. Depends how successful I am while I’m away,” she added without explanation.

“And if I’m caught?” he asked, once again dragging deeply on his cigarette.

“You’d probably go back to jail,” admitted Anna.

“And you?”

“The canvas would be shipped to New York and used as evidence against me. If you need any more money for—”

“No, I’m still holding over eight thousand dollars of your mother’s money, so—”

“Eight thousand?”

“A dollar goes a long way in Romania.”

“Can I bribe you?”

“Bribe me?”

“If you’ll take on the assignment, I’ll pay for your pupil, Danuta Sekalska, to go to the Slade.”

Anton thought for a moment. “And you’ll be back in three days,” he said, stubbing out his cigarette.

“Four at the most,” said Anna.

“Then let’s hope I’m as good as you think I am.”

“It’s Vincent.”

“Where are you?”

“Visiting my mother.”

“Then don’t hang about.”

“Why?”

“The stalker knows where you are.”

“Then I’m afraid he’ll miss me again.”

“I’m not even convinced the stalker’s a man.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I saw Fenston talking to a woman in the back of his car while I was attending your funeral.”

“That doesn’t prove—”

“I agree, but it worries me that I’ve never seen her before.”

“She could be one of Fenston’s girlfriends.”

“That woman was nobody’s girlfriend.”

“Describe her.”

“Five foot, slim, dark-haired.”

“There will be a lot of people like that where I’m going.”

“And are you taking the painting with you?”

“No, I’ve left it where no one can give it a second look.”

The phone went dead.

Leapman pressed the off button. “Where no one can give it a second look,” he repeated.

“Can, not will?” said Fenston. “It must still be in the box.”

“Agreed, but where’s she off to next?”

“To a country where the people are five foot, slim, and dark-haired.”

“Japan,” said Leapman.

“How can you be so sure?” asked Fenston.

“It’s all in her report. She’s going to try and sell your painting to the one person who won’t be able to resist it.”

“Nakamura,” said Fenston.