False Impression

31

“Those passengers traveling to onward destinations...”

“That’s all I need,” muttered Jack.

“What do you need, sir?” asked an attentive stewardess.

“Transit.”

“Where is your final destination, sir?”

“I have no idea,” said Jack. “What’s the choice?”

The stewardess laughed. “Are you still hoping to travel east?”

“That makes sense.”

“Then it has to be Tokyo, Manila, Sydney, or Auckland.”

“Thank you,” said Jack, thinking, that doesn’t help, but adding out loud, “If I decided to spend the night in Hong Kong, I would have to go through passport control, whereas if I wanted transit...”

The stewardess continued to humor him, “When you disembark, sir, there are clear signs directing you to baggage claim or transit. Is your luggage booked through, sir, or will you be picking it up?”

“I don’t have any luggage,” Jack admitted.

The stewardess nodded, smiled, and left to attend to some of her more sane passengers.

Jack realized that once he disembarked he would have to move quickly if he hoped to locate a concealed vantage point from where he could observe Anna’s next move — and not be observed by her other admirer.

Anna stared distractedly out of the cabin window as the plane descended smoothly into Chek Lap Kok airport.

She would never forget her first experience of flying into Hong Kong some years before. To begin with, it felt like a normal approach, and then at the last moment, without warning, the pilot banked steeply and headed straight for the hills. He then descended between the city high-rises, bringing gasps from first-timers, before finally bumping down the short runway into Kow-loon, as if he were auditioning for a part in a 1944 war movie. When the plane came to a halt, several of the passengers applauded. Anna was glad that the new airport meant she would not have to experience a repeat performance.

She checked her watch. Although the flight was running twenty minutes late, her onward connection wasn’t scheduled for another couple of hours. She would use any spare time to pick up a guide to Tokyo, a city she had never visited before.

Once they’d come to a halt at the terminal gate, Anna progressed slowly down the aisle, waiting for other passengers to rescue their bags from the overhead lockers. She looked around, wondering if Fenston’s man was watching her every move. She tried to remain calm, though in truth her heartbeat must have shot above a hundred every time a man even glanced in her direction. She felt sure he must have already disembarked and would now be lying in wait. Perhaps he even knew her final destination. Anna had already decided on the false piece of information she would drop when she next phoned Tina, one that would send Fenston’s man flying in the wrong direction.

Anna stepped off the aircraft and looked around her for the sign. At the end of a long corridor, an arrow directed transit passengers to the left. She joined a handful of travelers heading for other destinations, while the majority of passengers turned right.

When she walked into the transit area, she was greeted by a neon-lit city, half as old as Swatch, lurking in wait for its imprisoned customers to part with their foreign currency. Anna strolled from shop to shop, admiring the latest fashions, electrical equipment, cell phones, and jewelry. Although she saw several items she would have considered in normal circumstances, because of her pecuniary predicament the only shop she thought about entering was a book store displaying foreign newspapers and all the latest best sellers — in several languages. She strolled across to the travel section, to be faced with row upon row of gazetteers of countries as far afield as Azerbaijan and Zanzibar.

Her eyes settled on the section on Japan, which included a shelf devoted to Tokyo. She picked up the Lonely Planet guide to Japan, along with a Berlitz miniguide to the capital. She began to flick through them.

Jack slipped into an electrical shop on the other side of the mall from where he had a clear sight line of his quarry. All he could make out was that she was standing below a large, multicolored TRAVEL sign. Jack would have liked to get close enough to discover which title was causing her to turn the pages so intently, but he knew he couldn’t risk it. He began to count down the shelves in an attempt to pinpoint which country had monopolized her attention.

“Can I assist you, sir?” asked the young lady behind the counter.

“Not unless you have a pair of binoculars,” said Jack, not taking his eyes off Anna.

“Several,” replied the assistant, “and can I recommend this particular model? They are this week’s special offer, reduced from ninety dollars to sixty, while stocks last.”

Jack looked round as the young girl removed a pair of binoculars from the shelf behind her and placed them on the counter.

“Thank you,” said Jack. He picked them up and focused them on Anna.

She was still turning the pages of the same book but Jack couldn’t make out the title.

“I’d like to see your latest model,” he said, placing the special offer back on the counter. “One that could focus on a street sign at a hundred meters.”

The assistant bent down, unlocked the display cabinet, and extracted another pair.

“These are Leica, top-of-the-line, 12 by 50,” she assured him. “You could identify the label on the coffee they’re serving in the café opposite.”

Jack focused on the bookshop. Anna was replacing the book she had been reading, only to pick up the one next to it. He had to agree with the assistant, they were state-of-the-art. He could make out the word Japan and even the letters TOKYO that were displayed above the shelf Anna was taking so much interest in. Anna closed the book, smiled, and headed across to the counter. She also picked up a copy of the Herald Tribune as she waited in the line.

“They are good, yes?” said the assistant.

“Very good,” said Jack, replacing the binoculars on the counter, “but I’m afraid they’re out of my budget. Thank you,” he added, before leaving the shop.

“Strange,” said the girl to her colleague behind the counter. “I never even told him the price.”

Anna had reached the head of the line and was paying for her two purchases when Jack headed off in the opposite direction. He joined another line at the far end of the concourse.

When he reached the front of the line, he asked for a ticket to Tokyo.

“Yes, sir. Which flight — Cathay Pacific or Japan Airlines?”

“When do they leave?” asked Jack.

“Japan Airlines will be boarding shortly, as the flight departs in forty minutes. Cathay’s Flight three-zero-one is due to take off in an hour and a half.”

“Japan Airlines, please,” said Jack, “business class.”

“How many bags will you be checking in?”

“Hand luggage only.”

The sales assistant printed the ticket, checked his passport, and said, “If you proceed to Gate Seventy-one, Mr. Delaney, boarding is about to commence.”

Jack walked back toward the coffee shop. Anna was sitting at the counter, engrossed in the book she had just purchased. He was even more careful to avoid her gaze, as he felt sure she now realized she was being followed. Jack spent the next few minutes purchasing goods from shops he wouldn’t normally have visited, all made necessary by the woman perched on the corner stool in the coffee shop. He ended up with an overnight bag, which would be allowed on board as hand luggage, a pair of jeans, four shirts, four pairs of socks, four pairs of underpants, two ties (special offer), a packet of razors, shaving cream, aftershave, soap, toothbrush, and toothpaste. He hung around inside the pharmacy, waiting to see if Anna was about to move.

“Last call for passengers on Japan Airways Flight four-one-six to Tokyo. Please proceed immediately to Gate Seventy-one for final boarding.”

Anna turned another page of her book, which convinced Jack that she must be booked onto the Cathay Pacific flight leaving an hour later. This time be would be waiting for her. He tugged at his overnight bag and followed the signs for Gate 71. Jack was among the last to board the aircraft.

Anna checked her watch, ordered another coffee, and turned her attention to the Herald Tribune. The pages were full of stories on the aftermath of 9/11, with a report on the memorial service held in Washington, D.C., attended by the president. Did her family and friends still believe that she was dead, or just missing? Had the news that she’d been seen in London already percolated back to New York? Clearly Fenston still wanted everyone to believe she was dead, at least until he got his hands on the Van Gogh. All that would change in Tokyo, if— Something made her look up, and she spotted a young man with thick, dark hair staring at her. He quickly looked away. She jumped off her stool and walked straight across to him.

“Are you following me, by any chance?” she demanded.

The man gave Anna a startled look. “Non, non, mademoiselle, mais peut-être voulez-vous prendre un verre avec moi?”

“This is the first call for...”

Two more eyes were also watching Anna as she apologized to the Frenchman, settled her bill, and made her way slowly to Gate 71.

Krantz only let her out of her sight after she’d boarded the plane.

Krantz was among the last passengers to board Flight CX 301. On entering the aircraft, she turned left and took her usual window seat in the front row. Krantz knew that Anna was seated at the back of economy, but she had no idea where the American was. Had he missed the flight, or was he roaming around Hong Kong searching for Petrescu?

32

Jack’s flight touched down at Narita international airport, Tokyo, thirty minutes late, but he wasn’t anxious, because he was an hour ahead of both women, who would still be some thirty thousand feet above the Pacific. Once Jack had cleared customs, his first stop was the inquiry desk, where he asked what time the Cathay flight was due to land. In just over forty minutes.

He turned and faced the arrivals gate, then tried to work out in which direction Petrescu would go once she had cleared customs. What would be her first choice of transport into the city: taxi, rail, or bus? She would have to decide after she’d progressed a mere fifty yards. If she was still in possession of the crate, it would surely have to be a taxi. Having checked out every possible exit, Jack handed over five hundred dollars at a Bank of Tokyo booth in exchange for 53,868 yen. He placed the large-denomination notes in his wallet and returned to the arrivals hall, where he watched people assemble as they waited for the most recent arrivals. He looked up. Above him, to his left, was a mezzanine floor, which overlooked the hall. He walked up the stairs and inspected the space. Although the area was cramped, it was nevertheless ideal. There were two telephone booths fixed to the wall, and if he stood behind the second one, he could look down on any new arrivals without being spotted. Jack checked the board. CX 301 was due to land in twenty minutes. Easily enough time for him to carry out his final task.

He left the airport and stood in the taxi line, which was being organized by a man in a light blue suit and white gloves, who not only controlled the taxis but directed the passengers. When he reached the front, Jack climbed into the back of the distinctive green Toyota and instructed a surprised driver to park on the other side of the road.

“Wait here until I return,” he added, leaving his new bag on the back seat. “I should be about thirty minutes, forty at the most.” He removed a five-thousand-yen note from his wallet. “And you can keep the meter running. The driver nodded, but looked puzzled.

Jack returned to the airport to find that Flight CX 301 had just landed. He walked back up to the terrace and took his place behind the second phone booth. He waited to see who would be the first through the door with the familiar green and white Cathay Pacific label attached to their luggage. It had been a long time since Jack had waited to pick up one girl at an airport, let alone two. And would he even recognize his blind date?

The indicator board flicked over once again. Passengers on Flight CX 301 were now in the baggage hall. Jack began to concentrate. He didn’t have long to wait. Krantz was first through the door — she needed to be; she had work to do. She headed for a melee of eagerly waiting locals, who weren’t much taller than her. She nestled in behind them before she risked turning around. From time to time, the patient crowd moved like a slow wave, as some people departed, while others took their place. Krantz moved with the tide so that no one would notice her. But a blonde crew cut standing among a black-haired race made Jack’s task a lot easier. If she then followed Anna, Jack would know for certain whom he was up against.

While Jack kept one eye on the thin, short, muscular woman with the blonde crew cut, he repeatedly turned back to check on the new arrivals that were now swarming through the exit in little clusters, several with green and white labels attached to their luggage. Jack gingerly took a step forward, praying she wouldn’t look up, but her eyes remained doggedly fixed on the new arrivals.

She must have also worked out that there were only three exit routes for Anna to consider, because she was strategically placed to pounce in whichever direction her quarry selected.

Jack slipped a hand into an inside pocket, slowly removed the latest Samsung cell phone, flicked it open, and focused it directly toward the crowd below him. For a moment he couldn’t see her, then an elderly man stepped forward to greet his visitor and she was exposed for a split second. Click, then once again she disappeared. Jack continually switched his attention back to the new arrivals, who were still pouring out into the hall. As he turned back, a mother bent down to pick up an errant child and she was exposed again, click, and just as suddenly disappeared from sight. Jack turned to watch as Anna came striding through the swing doors. He closed his phone, hoping that one of the two images would he enough for the tech guys to identify her.

Jack’s wasn’t the only head to turn when the slim, blonde American strode into the arrivals hall pushing a luggage cart with a suitcase and a wooden crate on board. He stepped back into the shadows the moment Petrescu paused to look up. She was checking the exit boards. She turned right. Taxi.

Jack knew that Petrescu would also have to join a long line before she could hope to get a cab, so he allowed both women to leave the airport before he came down from the balcony. When he eventually descended, Jack took a circuitous route back to his taxi. He walked to the far end of the hall and then out onto the sidewalk. He ducked behind a waiting bus on his way to the underground parking lot, then continued along the second row of cars and out of the far end of the garage. He was relieved to see the green Toyota still waiting for him, engine running, meter ticking. He climbed into the backseat and said to the driver, “See the blonde with a crew cut, seventh in the taxi line? I want you to follow her, but she mustn’t know.”

Jack’s eyes returned to Petrescu, who was fifth in the line. When she reached the front, she didn’t climb into the waiting taxi, but turned round and walked slowly to the back of the line. Clever girl, thought Jack, as he waited to see how Crew Cut would react. Jack tapped his own driver on the shoulder, and said, “Don’t move,” when Crew Cut stepped into the back of a taxi, which drove off and disappeared around the corner. Jack knew she’d be parked in a side turning only a few yards away waiting for Petrescu to reappear. Eventually, Petrescu reached the front again. Jack tapped his driver on the shoulder and said, “Follow that woman, stay well back, but don’t lose her.”

“But it isn’t the same woman,” queried the taxi driver.

“I know,” said Jack. “Change of plan.”

The driver looked perplexed. Japanese don’t understand change of plan.

As Petrescu’s taxi drove past him and onto the freeway, Jack watched an identical vehicle come out of a side road and slip in behind her. At last it was Jack’s turn to be the pursuer and not the pursued.

For the first time, Jack was thankful for the notorious snarl-ups and never-ending traffic jams that are the accepted norm for anyone driving from Narita airport into the city center. He was able to keep his distance while never losing sight of either of them.

It was another hour before Petrescu’s taxi came to a halt outside the Hotel Seiyo in the Ginza district. A bellboy stepped forward to help with her luggage, but the moment he saw the wooden crate he motioned for a colleague to assist him. Jack didn’t consider entering the hotel until some time after Petrescu and the box had disappeared inside. But not Crew Cut. She was already secreted in the far corner of the lobby with a clear view of the staircase and elevators, out of sight of anyone working behind the reception desk.

The moment he spotted her, Jack retreated through the swing doors and back out into the courtyard. A bellboy rushed forward. “Do you want a taxi, sir?”

“No, thank you,” he said, and, pointing to a glass door on the other side of the courtyard, inquired, “What’s that?”

“Hotel health club, sir,” replied the bellboy.

Jack nodded, walked around the perimeter of the courtyard, and entered the building. He strolled up to reception.

“Room number, sir?” he was asked by a young man sporting a hotel tracksuit.

“I can’t remember,” said Jack.

“Name?”

“Petrescu.”

“Ah, yes, Dr. Petrescu,” said the young man looking at his screen. “Room 118. Do you need a locker, sir?”

“Later,” said Jack. “When my wife joins me.”

He took a seat by the window overlooking the courtyard and waited for Anna to reappear. He noted that there were always two or three taxis waiting in line, so following her should not prove too much of a problem. But if she reappeared without the crate, he was in no doubt that Crew Cut, who was still sitting in the lounge, would be working on a plan to relieve his “wife” of its contents.

While Jack sat patiently by the window, he flicked open his cell phone and dialed through to Tom in London. He tried not to think what time it was.

“Where are you?” asked Tom, when he saw the name GOOD COP flash up on his screen.

“Tokyo.”

“What’s Petrescu doing there?”

“I can’t be sure, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she isn’t trying to sell a rare painting to a well-known collector.”

“Have you found out who the other interested party is?”

“No,” said Jack, “but I did manage to get a couple of images of her at the airport.”

“Well done,” said Tom.

“I’m sending the pictures through to you now,” said Jack. He keyed a code into his phone and the images appeared on Tom’s screen moments later.

“They’re a bit blurred,” was Tom’s immediate response, “but I’m sure the tech guys can clean them up enough to try and work out who she is. Any other information?”

“She’s around five foot, slim, with a blonde crew cut and the shoulders of a swimmer.”

“Anything else?” asked Tom, as he made notes.

“Yes, when you’ve finished with the American mug shots, move on to Eastern Europe. I’ve got a feeling she may be Russian or possibly Ukrainian.”

“Or even Romanian?” suggested Tom.

“Oh, God, I’m so dumb,” said Jack.

“Bright enough to get two photos. No one else has managed that, and they may turn out to be the biggest break we’ve had in this case.”

“I’d be only too happy to bask in a little glory,” admitted Jack, “but the truth is that both of them are well aware of my existence.”

“Then I’d better find out who she is pretty fast. I’ll be back in touch as soon as the boys in the basement come up with anything.”

Tina turned on the switch under her desk. The little screen on the corner came on. Fenston was on the phone. She flicked up the switch to his private line and listened.

“You were right,” said a voice, “she’s in Japan.”

“Then she probably has an appointment with Nakamura. All his details are in your file. Don’t forget that getting the painting is more important than removing Petrescu.”

Fenston put the phone down.

Tina was confident that the voice fitted the woman she had seen in the chairman’s car. She must warn Anna.

Leapman walked into the room.

33

Anna stepped out of the shower, grabbed a towel, and began drying her hair. She glanced across at the digital clock in the corner of the TV screen. It was just after twelve, the hour when most Japanese businessmen go to their club for lunch. Not the time to disturb Mr. Nakamura.

Once she was dry, Anna put on the white toweling bathrobe that hung behind the bathroom door. She sat on the end of the bed and opened her laptop. She tapped in her password, MIDAS, which accessed a file on the richest art collectors around the globe: Gates, Cohen, Lauder, Magnier, Nakamura, Rales, Wynn. She moved the cursor across to his name. Takashi Nakamura, industrialist. Tokyo University 1966-70, B.Sc. in engineering. UCLA 1971-73, M.A. Economics. Joined Maruha Steel Company 1974, Director 1989, Chief Executive Officer 1997, Chairman 2001. Anna scrolled down to Maruha Steel. Last year’s annual balance sheet showed a turnover of nearly three billion dollars, with profits of over four hundred million. Mr. Nakamura owned 22 percent of the company and, according to Forbes, was the ninth richest man in the world. Married with three children, two girls and a boy. Under other interests, only two words appeared: golf and art. No details of his fabled high handicap or his valuable Impressionist collection, thought to be among the finest in private hands.

Nakamura had made several statements over the years, saying that the pictures belonged to the company. Although Christie’s never made such matters public, it was well known by those in the art world that Nakamura had been the underbidder for Van Gogh’s Sunflowers in 1987, when he was beaten by his old friend and rival Yasuo Goto, chairman of Yasuda Fire and Marine Insurance Company, whose hammer bid was $39,921,750.

Anna hadn’t been able to add a great deal to Mr. Nakamura’s profile since leaving Sotheby’s. The Degas she had purchased on his behalf, Dancing Class with Mme. Minette, had proved a wise investment, which Anna hoped he would remember. She wasn’t in any doubt that she had chosen the right man to help pull off her coup.

She unpacked her suitcase and selected a smart blue suit with a skirt that fell just below the knees, a cream shirt, and low-heeled navy leather shoes; no makeup, no jewelry. While she pressed her clothes, Anna thought about a man she had met only once, and wondered if she had made any lasting impression on him. When she was dressed, Anna checked herself in the mirror. Exactly what a Japanese businessman would expect a Sotheby’s executive to wear.

Anna looked up his private number on her laptop. She sat on the end of the bed, picked up the phone, took a deep breath, and dialled the eight digits.

“Hai, Shacho-Shitso desu,” announced a high-pitched voice.

“Good afternoon, my name is Anna Petrescu. Mr. Nakamura may remember me from Sotheby’s.”

“Are you hoping to be interviewed?”

“Er, no, I simply want to speak to Mr. Nakamura.”

“One moment please, I will see if he is free to take your call.”

How could she possibly expect him to remember her after only one meeting?

“Dr. Petrescu, how nice to hear from you again. I hope you are well?”

“I am, thank you, Nakamura-san.”

“Are you in Tokyo? Because if I am not mistaken it is after midnight in New York.”

“Yes, I am, and I wondered if you would be kind enough to see me.”

“You weren’t on the interview list, but you are now. I have half an hour free at four o’clock this afternoon. Would that suit you?”

“Yes, that would be just fine,” said Anna.

“Do you know where my office is?”

“I have the address.”

“Where are you staying?”

“The Seiyo.”

“Not the usual haunt for Sotheby’s, who, if I remember correctly, prefer the Imperial.” Anna’s mouth went dry. “My office is about twenty minutes from the hotel. I look forward to seeing you at four o’clock. Good-bye, Dr. Petrescu.”

Anna replaced the receiver and for some time didn’t budge from the end of the bed. She tried to recall his exact words. What had his secretary meant when she asked, “Are you hoping to be interviewed,” and why did Mr. Nakamura say, “You weren’t on the interview list, but you are now?” Was he expecting her call?

Jack leant forward to take a closer look. Two bellboys were coming out of the hotel carrying the same wooden crate that Anna had exchanged with Anton Teodorescu on the steps of the academy in Bucharest. One of them spoke to the driver of the front taxi, who jumped out and carefully placed the wooden crate in the trunk. Jack rose slowly from his chair and walked across to the window, making sure he remained out of sight. He waited in anticipation, realizing it could well be another false alarm. He checked the taxi rank: four cars waiting in line. He glanced toward the entrance of the health club and calculated he could reach the second taxi in about twenty seconds.

He looked back at the hotel’s sliding doors, wondering if Petrescu was about to appear. But the next person who caused the doors to slide open was Crew Cut, who slipped past the doorman and out onto the main road. Jack knew she wouldn’t take one of the hotel taxis and risk being remembered — a chance Jack would have to take.

Jack switched his attention back to the hotel entrance, aware that Crew Cut would now be sitting in a taxi well out of sight, waiting for both of them.

Seconds later, Petrescu appeared, dressed as if she was about to attend a board meeting. The doorman escorted her to the front taxi and opened the back door for her. The driver eased out onto the road and joined the afternoon traffic.

Jack was seated in the back of the second taxi before the doorman had a chance to open the door for him.

“Follow that cab,” said Jack, pointing ahead of him, “and if you don’t lose it, you can double the fare.” The driver shot off. “But,” continued Jack, “don’t make it too obvious,” well aware that Crew Cut would be in one of the numerous green vehicles ahead of them.

Petrescu’s taxi turned left at Ginza and headed north, away from the fashionable shopping area, toward the city’s prestigious business district of Marunouchi. Jack wondered if this could be the appointment with a potential buyer, and found himself sitting on the edge of his seat in anticipation.

Petrescu’s green taxi turned left at the next set of lights and Jack repeated firmly, “Don’t lose her.” The driver switched lanes, moved to within three cars’ length of her car and stuck like a limpet. Both cabs came to a halt at the next red light. Petrescu’s taxi was indicating right and, when the lights turned green, several other cars followed in her wake. Jack knew Crew Cut would be in one of them. As they swung onto the three-lane highway, Jack could see a string of overhead lights awaiting them, all of them on green. He swore under his breath. He preferred red lights; stopping and starting was always better when you needed to remain in contact with a mark.

They all moved safely through the first green and then the second, but when the third light turned amber Jack’s taxi was the last to cross the intersection. As they passed in front of the Imperial Palace gardens, he tapped the driver on the shoulder in appreciation. He leaned forward, willing the next light to remain green. It turned amber just as Petrescu’s taxi crossed the intersection. “Go, go,” shouted Jack, as two of the taxis in front of them followed Anna across, but instead of the driver pressing hard down on his accelerator and running the lights, he came meekly to a halt. Jack was about to explode, when a police patrol car drew up beside them. Jack stared ahead. The green Toyota had come to a halt at the next light. He was still in with a chance. The lights were running in a sequence and all changed within seconds of each other. Jack willed the patrol car to turn right so they could make up any lost ground, but it remained resolutely by their side. He watched as her green taxi swung left onto Eitaidori Avenue. He held his breath, once again willing the green light not to change, but it turned amber and the car ahead of them came to a halt, having no doubt spotted the patrol car in its wake. When the light eventually returned to green, the longest minute Jack could remember, his driver quickly swung left, only to come face-to-face with a sea of green. It was bad enough that he’d lost Petrescu, but the thought that Crew Cut was probably still on her tail caused Jack to turn and curse the patrol car, just as it turned right and drifted away.

Krantz watched attentively as the green taxi edged across to the inside lane and drew up outside a modern, white marble building in Otemachi. The sign above the entrance, MARUHA STEEL COMPANY, was in Japanese and English, as is common with most international companies in Tokyo.

Krantz allowed her taxi to pass the front of the building before she asked the driver to draw into the curb. She turned and watched through the rearview window as Anna stepped out. Her driver walked to the back of the taxi and opened the trunk. Anna joined him as the doorman came running down the steps to assist. Krantz continued to watch as the two men carried the wooden box up the steps and into the building.

Once they were out of sight, Krantz paid her fare, stepped out of the car, and slipped into the shadows. She never kept a cab waiting unless absolutely necessary. That way, they were unlikely to remember her. She needed to think quickly, in case Petrescu suddenly reappeared. Krantz recalled her brief. Her first priority was to repossess the painting. Once she had done that, she was free to kill Petrescu, but as she had just got off a plane she didn’t have a weapon to hand. She was satisfied that the American no longer posed a threat and briefly wondered if he was still roaming around Hong Kong in search of Petrescu, or the picture, or both.

It was beginning to look as if the painting had reached its destination; there had been a full page on Nakamura in the file Fenston had given her. If Petrescu reappeared with the crate, she must have failed, which would make it that much easier for Krantz to carry out both of her assignments. If she walked out only carrying her briefcase, Krantz would need to make an instant decision. She checked to make sure that there was a regular flow of taxis. Several passed her in the next few minutes, half of them empty.

The next person through the door was the taxi driver, who climbed back behind the wheel of his Toyota. She waited for Petrescu to follow, but the empty green cab swung onto the street, in search of its next customer. Krantz had a feeling that this was going to be a long wait.

She stood in the shadows of a department store on the opposite side of the road and waited. She looked up and down a street full of designer label shops, which she despised, until her eyes settled on an establishment that she had only read about in the past and had always wanted to visit: not Gucci, not Burberry, not Calvin Klein, but the Nozaki Cutting Tool Shop, which nestled uneasily among its more recent neighbors.

Krantz was drawn to the entrance as a filing is to a magnet. As she crossed the road, her eyes remained fixed on the front door of the Maruha Steel Company in case Petrescu made an unscheduled reappearance. She suspected that Petrescu’s meeting with Mr. Nakamura would last some considerable time. After all, even he didn’t spend that amount of money without expecting several questions to be answered.

Once across the road, Krantz stared into the window, like a child for whom Christmas had come three months early. Tweezers, nail clippers, left-handed scissors, Swiss Army knives, long-bladed tailor’s shears, a Victorinox machete with a fifteen-inch blade — all played second fiddle to a ceremonial samurai sword (circa 1783). Krantz felt that she had been born in the wrong century.

She stepped inside to be met with row upon row of kitchen knives, for which Mr. Takai, a samurai’s descendant, had become so famous. She spotted the proprietor standing in one corner, sharpening knives for his customers. Krantz recognized him immediately, and would have liked to shake hands with the maestro — her equivalent of Brad Pitt — but she knew she would have to forgo that particular pleasure.

While keeping a wary eye on the Maruha Company’s front door Krantz began to study the hand-forged Japanese implements — razor-sharp and deceptively light, with the name NOZAKI stamped into the shoulder of each blade, as if, like Cartier, they wished to emphasize that a counterfeit was not acceptable.

Krantz had long ago accepted that she could not risk carrying her preferred weapon of death on a plane, so she was left with no choice but to pick up a local product in whichever country Fenston needed a client account closed indefinitely.

Krantz began the slow process of selection while being serenaded by suzumushi — bell crickets — in tiny bamboo cages suspended from the ceiling. She stared back at the entrance door across the road, but there was still no sign of Petrescu. She returned to her task, first testing the different categories of knife — fruit, vegetable, bread, meat — for weight, balance, and size of blade. No more than eight inches, never less than four.

In a matter of minutes, Krantz was down to three, before she finally settled on the award-winning Global GS5 — fourteen centimeters, which, it was claimed, would cut through a rump steak as easily as a ripe melon.

She handed her chosen instrument to an assistant, who smiled — such a thin neck — and wrapped the kitchen knife in rice paper. Krantz paid in yen. Dollars would have drawn attention to her, and she didn’t possess a credit card. One last look at Mr. Takai before she reluctantly left the shop to return to the anonymity of the shadows on the other side of the road.

While she waited for Petrescu to reappear, Krantz removed the rice paper from her latest acquisition, desperate to try it out. She slipped the blade into a sheath that had been tailor-made to fit on the inside of her jeans. It fit perfectly, like a gun in a holster.

34

The receptionist could not hide her surprise when the doorman appeared carrying a wooden crate. She placed her hands in front of her mouth — an unusually animated response for a Japanese.

Anna offered no explanation, only her name. The receptionist checked the list of applicants to be interviewed by the chairman that afternoon and placed a tick next to “Dr. Petrescu.”

“Mr. Nakamura is interviewing another candidate at the moment,” she said, “but should be free shortly.”

“Interviewing them for what?” asked Anna.

“I have no idea,” said the receptionist, seeming equally puzzled that an interviewee needed to ask such a question.

Anna sat in reception and glanced at the crate that was propped up against the wall. She smiled at the thought of how she would go about asking someone to part with sixty million dollars.

Punctuality is an obsession with the Japanese, so Anna was not surprised when a smartly dressed lady appeared at two minutes to four, bowed, and invited Anna to follow her. She too looked at the wooden box, but showed no reaction other than to ask, “Would you like it to be taken to the chairman’s office?”

“Yes, please,” said Anna, again without explanation.

The secretary led Anna down a long corridor, passing several doors that displayed no name, title, or rank. When they reached the last door, the secretary knocked quietly, opened it, and announced, “Dr. Petrescu.”

Mr. Nakamura rose from behind his desk and came forward to greet Anna, whose mouth was wide open. A reaction not caused by the short, slim, dark-haired man who looked as if he had his suits tailored in Paris or Milan. It was Mr. Nakamura’s office that caused Anna to gasp. The room was a perfect square and one of the four walls was a single pane of glass. Anna stared out onto a tranquil garden, a stream winding from one corner to the other, crossed by a wooden bridge and bordered by willow trees, whose branches cascaded over the rails.

On the wall behind the chairman’s desk was a magnificent painting, duplicating exactly the same scene. Anna closed her mouth and turned to face her host.

Mr. Nakamura smiled, clearly delighted with the effect his Monet had created, but his first question equally shocked her.

“How did you manage to survive 9/11, when, if I recall correctly, your office was in the North Tower?”

“I was very lucky,” replied Anna quietly, “although I fear that some of my colleagues...”

Mr. Nakamura raised a hand. “I apologize,” he said. “How tactless of me. Shall we begin the interview by testing your remarkable photographic memory and first ask you the provenance of all three paintings in the room? Shall we begin with the Monet?”

“Willows at Vetheuil,” said Anna. “Its previous owner was a Mr. Clark of Sangton, Ohio. It was part of Mrs. Clark’s divorce settlement when her husband decided to part with her, his third wife, which meant sadly that he had to part with his third Monet. Christie’s sold the oil for twenty-six million dollars, but I had no idea you were the purchaser.”

Mr. Nakamura revealed the same smile of pleasure.

Anna turned her attention to the opposite wall and paused. “I have for some time wondered where that particular painting ended up,” she said. “It’s a Renoir, of course. Madame Duprez and Her Children, also known as The Reading Lesson. It was sold in Paris by Roger Duprez, whose grandfather purchased it from the artist in 1868. I therefore have no way of knowing how much you paid for the oil.” Anna added, as she turned her attention to the final piece. “Easy,” she declared, smiling. “It’s one of Manet’s late Salon works, probably painted in 1871—” she paused “—entitled Dinner at the Café Guerbois. You will have observed that his mistress is seated in the right-hand corner, looking directly out at the artist.”

“And the previous owner?”

“Lady Charlotte Churchill, who, following the death of her husband, was forced to sell it to meet death duties.”

Nakamura bowed. “The position is yours.”

“The position, Nakamura-san?” said Anna, puzzled.

“You are not here to apply for the job as the director of my foundation?”

“No,” said Anna, suddenly realizing what the receptionist had meant when she said that the chairman was interviewing another candidate. “Although I am flattered that you would consider me, Nakamura-san, I actually came to see you on a completely different matter.”

The chairman nodded, clearly disappointed, and then his eyes settled on the wooden box.

“A small gift,” said Anna, smiling.

“If that is the case, and you will forgive the pun, I cannot open your offering until you have left, otherwise I will insult you.” Anna nodded, well aware of the custom. “Please have a seat, young lady.”

Anna smiled.

“Now, what is your real purpose in visiting me?” he asked as he leaned back in his chair and stared at her intently.

“I believe I have a painting that you will be unable to resist.”

“As good as the Degas pastel?” asked Nakamura, showing signs of enjoying himself.

“Oh yes,” she said, a little too enthusiastically.

“Artist?”

“Van Gogh.”

Nakamura smiled an inscrutable smile that gave no sign if he was or wasn’t interested.

“Title?”

“Self-Portrait with Bandaged Ear.”

“With a famous Japanese print reproduced on the wall behind the artist, if I remember correctly,” said Nakamura.

“Geishas in a Landscape,” said Anna, “demonstrating Van Gogh’s fascination with Japanese culture.”

“You should have been christened Eve,” said Nakamura. “But now it’s my turn.” Anna looked surprised, but didn’t speak. “I presume that it has to be the Wentworth Self-Portrait, purchased by the fifth marquis?”

“Earl.”

“Earl. Ah, will I ever understand English titles? I always think of Earl as an American first name.”

“Original owner?” inquired Anna.

“Dr. Gachet, Van Gogh’s friend and admirer.”

“And the date?”

“Eighteen eighty-nine,” replied Nakamura, “when Van Gogh resided at Arles, sharing a studio with Paul Gauguin.”

“And how much did Dr. Gachet pay for the piece?” asked Anna, aware that few people on earth would have considered teasing this man.

“It is always thought that Van Gogh only sold one painting in his lifetime, The Red Vineyard. However, Dr. Gachet was not only a close friend, but unquestionably his benefactor and patron. In the letter he wrote after receiving the picture, he enclosed a check for six hundred francs.”

“Eight hundred,” said Anna, as she opened her briefcase and handed over a copy of the letter. “My client is in possession of the original,” she assured him.

Nakamura read the letter in French, requesting no assistance with a translation. He looked up and smiled. “What figure do you have in mind?” he asked.

“Sixty million dollars,” said Anna without hesitation.

For a moment, the inscrutable face appeared puzzled, but he didn’t speak for some time. “Why is such an acknowledged masterpiece so underpriced?” he asked eventually. “There must be some conditions attached.”

“The sale must not be made public,” said Anna in reply.

“That has always been my custom, as you well know,” said Nakamura.

“You will not resell the work for at least ten years.”

“I buy pictures,” said Nakamura. “I sell steel.”

“During the same period of time, the painting must not be displayed in a public gallery.”

“Who are you protecting, young lady?” asked Nakamura without warning: “Bryce Fenston or Victoria Wentworth?”

Anna didn’t reply, and now understood why the chairman of Sotheby’s had once remarked that you underestimate this man at your peril.

“It was impertinent of me to ask such a question,” said Nakamura. “I apologize,” he added, as he rose from his place. “Perhaps you would be kind enough to allow me to consider your offer overnight.” He bowed low, clearly indicating that the meeting was over.

“Of course, Nakamura-san,” she said, returning the bow.

“Please drop the san, Dr. Petrescu. In your chosen field, I am not your equal.”

She wanted to say, Please call me Anna; in your chosen field, I know nothing — but she lost her nerve.

Nakamura walked across to join her, and glanced at the wooden box. “I will look forward to finding out what is in the box. Perhaps we can meet again tomorrow, Dr. Petrescu, after I’ve had a little more time to consider your proposition.”

“Thank you, Mr. Nakamura.”

“Shall we say ten o’clock? I’ll send my driver to pick you up at nine forty.”

Anna gave a farewell bow and Mr. Nakamura returned the compliment. He walked to the door and as he opened it, added, “I only wish you had applied for the job.”

Krantz was still standing in the shadows when Petrescu came out of the building. The meeting must have gone well because a limousine was waiting for her with a chauffeur holding open the back door, and, more significant, there was no sign of the wooden box. Krantz was left with two choices. She was confident that Petrescu would be returning to the hotel for the night, while the painting must still be in the building. She made her choice.

Anna sat back in the chairman’s car and relaxed for the first time in days, confident that even if Mr. Nakamura didn’t agree to sixty million, he would still make a realistic offer. Otherwise why put his car at her disposal and invite her to return the following day?

When Anna was dropped outside the Seiyo, she went straight to the reception desk and picked up her key before heading toward the elevator. If she had turned right instead of left, she would have walked straight past a frustrated American.

Jack’s eyes never left her as she stepped into an empty elevator. She was on her own. No sign of the package and, perhaps more significant, no sign of Crew Cut. She must have made the decision to stay with the painting rather than with its courier. Jack had to quickly decide what he would do if Petrescu reappeared with her bags and left for the airport. At least he hadn’t unpacked this time.

Krantz had been standing in different shadows for nearly an hour, only moving with the sun, when the chairman’s car returned and parked outside the entrance to Maruha Steel. A few moments later, the front doors slid open and Mr. Nakamura’s secretary appeared with a man in a red uniform who was carrying the wooden crate. The driver opened the trunk, while the doorman placed the painting in the back. The driver listened as the secretary passed on the chairman’s instructions. The chairman needed to make several calls to America and England overnight, and would therefore be staying in the company flat. He had seen the picture and wanted it to be delivered to his home in the country.

Krantz checked the traffic. She knew she’d get one chance, and then only if the lights were red. She was thankful it was a one-way street. She already knew that the lights at the far end of the road would remain on green for forty-five seconds. During that time, Krantz calculated about thirteen cars crossed the intersection. She stepped out of the shadows and moved stealthily down the sidewalk, like a cat, aware that she was about to risk one of her nine lives.

The chairman’s black limousine emerged onto the street and joined the early evening traffic. The light was green, but there were fifteen cars ahead of him. Krantz stood exactly opposite where she thought the vehicle would come to a halt. When the light turned red, she walked slowly toward the limousine; after all, she had another forty-five seconds. When she was only a pace away, Krantz fell on to her right shoulder and rolled under the car. She gripped the two sides of the outer frame firmly and, spread-eagled, pulled herself up. One of the advantages of being four foot eleven and weighing less than a hundred pounds. When the lights turned green and the chairman’s car moved off, she was nowhere to be seen.

Once, in the Romanian hills when escaping from the rebels, Krantz had stuck like a limpet to the bottom of a two-ton truck as it traveled for miles across rough terrain. She survived for fifty-one minutes, and when the sun finally set, she fell to the ground, exhausted. She then trekked across country to safety, jogging the last fourteen miles.

The limousine drove at an uneven pace through the city, and it was another twenty minutes before the driver turned off the highway and began to climb into the hills. A few minutes later, another turn, a much smaller road, and far less traffic. Krantz wanted to fall off, but knew that every minute she could cling on would be to her advantage. The car came to a halt at a crossroads, turned sharp left, and continued along what appeared to be a wide, uneven path. When they stopped at the next crossroads, Krantz listened attentively. A passing lorry was holding them up.

She slowly released her right arm, which was almost numb, unsheathed the knife from her jeans, turned to one side and thrust the blade into the right-hand rear tire, again and again, until she heard a loud hissing sound. As the car moved off, she fell to the ground and didn’t move an inch until she could no longer hear the engine. She rolled over to the side of the road and watched the limousine as it drove higher into the hills. She didn’t attempt to get up until the car was out of sight.

Once the limousine had disappeared over the hill, she pushed herself up and began to carry out a series of stretching exercises. She wasn’t in a hurry. After all, it would be waiting for her on the other side of the hill. Once Krantz had recovered, she began jogging slowly toward the brow of the hill. Some miles ahead of her, she could see a magnificent mansion nestling in the hills that dominated the surrounding landscape.

When Krantz came over the rise, she saw the chauffeur in the distance, on one knee, staring at the flat tire. She checked up and down what was clearly a private road that probably led only to the Nakamura residence. As she approached, the driver looked up and smiled. Krantz returned the smile and jogged up to his side. He was about to speak when, with one swift movement of her left leg, Krantz kicked him in the throat, then in the groin. She watched as he collapsed on the ground, like a puppet whose strings had been cut. For a moment, she considered slitting his throat, but now she had the painting, why bother, when she would have the pleasure of cutting someone else’s throat tonight. And in any case, she wasn’t being paid for this one.

Once again Krantz looked up and down the road. Still clear. She ran to the front of the limousine and removed the keys from the ignition, before returning to unlock the trunk. The lid swung up and her eyes settled on the wooden crate. She would have smiled, but first she needed to make sure that she’d earned the first million dollars.

Krantz grabbed a heavy screwdriver from the tool kit in the trunk and wedged it into a crack in the top right-hand corner of the crate. It took all of her strength to wrench the lid open, only to find her prize was covered in bubble wrap. She tore at it with her bare hands. When the last remnant had been removed, she stared down at the prize-winning painting by Danuta Sekalska, entitled Freedom.

Jack waited for another hour, one eye on the door for Crew Cut, the other on the elevator for Petrescu, but neither appeared. Yet another hour passed, by which time Jack was convinced Anna must be staying overnight. He walked wearily up to reception and asked if they had a vacant room.

“Name, sir,” asked the booking clerk.

“Fitzgerald,” Jack replied.

“Your passport, please?”

“Certainly,” said Jack, taking a passport out of an inside pocket and handing the document over.

“How many nights will you be staying with us, Mr. Fitzgerald?”

Jack would have liked to be able to answer that question.