False Impression

by Jeffrey Archer

  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 Nakamu
ra.

  “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.

  9/19

  35

  WHEN ANNA WOKE the next morning, the first thing she did was to phone Wentworth Hall.

  “It’s going to be a close-run thing,” warned Arabella, once Anna had imparted her news.

  “What do you mean?” asked Anna.

  “Fenston has issued a bankruptcy order against the estate, giving me fourteen days to clear the debt or he’ll put Wentworth Hall on the market. So let’s hope Nakamura doesn’t find out, because if he does, it will certainly weaken your bargaining position and might even cause him to have second thoughts.”

  “I’m seeing him at ten o’clock this morning,” said Anna. “I would call you back as soon as I find out his decision, but it will be the middle of the night.”

  “I don’t care what time it is,” said Arabella, “I’ll be awake.”

  Once Anna had put the phone down, she began to go over her tactics for the meeting with Nakamura. In truth, she’d thought of little else for the past twelve hours.

  She knew that Arabella would be happy with a sum that would clear her debts with Fenston Finance and allow her to make sure that the estate was safe from prying creditors, with enough over to cover any taxes. Anna calculated that sum to be around fifty million. She had already decided she would settle for that amount and the chance to return to New York, no longer with the sobriquet missing attached to her name, and be reacquainted with both loops in Central Park. She might even ask Nakamura for more details about the job she wasn’t interviewed for.

  Anna lingered in a bath that went from boiling to tepid—an indulgence she normally only allowed herself at weekends—as she continued to think through her approach to the meeting with Nakamura. She smiled at the thought of Nakamura opening his present. For all serious collectors, it’s as much of a thrill to discover the next master as it is to pay a vast sum for an established one. When Nakamura saw the bold brushwork and the sheer flair, he would surely hang Freedom in his private collection. Always the ultimate test.