False Impression

by Jeffrey Archer

  “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 tail
or’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.