False Impression

by Jeffrey Archer

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  21

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “What about the other Hunt?”

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

  “But just as good an artist.”

  “I agree,” said Anna.

  “Who’s giving the seminar?”

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

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

  “What do you mean?”

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

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

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

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

  __________

  “Who is it?” demanded an anonymous voice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Which terminal?” asked the driver.

  Anna hesitated. “Europe.”

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

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

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

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

  He knew a smart-ass when he saw one.

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

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

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

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

  “Do you ha
ve a window seat available?”

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

  “Why’s that?”

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

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

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

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

  “And when do you expect to be back?”

  “In time for breakfast the following morning.”

  “Any news on Petrescu?”

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

  “Nothing from—”

  Tina entered the room.

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

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

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

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

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

  “Yes, Gatwick and Stansted,” said Jack.

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

  “What do you mean?” asked Jack.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  9/14

  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.