False Impression by Jeffrey Archer
The caretaker looked up from his sedentary position and, when he saw who it was, nodded—the most energetic thing he’d done all day—then turned his attention back to the racing page. Leapman placed the packet of Marlboros on the counter, knowing they would disappear before he turned around. Every man has his price.
He peered into the gloom of a corridor lit only by a naked forty-watt bulb. He sometimes wondered if he was the only person who advanced beyond the counter.
Despite the darkness of the corridor, he knew exactly where her box was located. Not that you could read the number on the door—like everything else, it had faded over the years. He looked back up the corridor; one of his cigarettes was already glowing in the darkness.
He took the key out of his tracksuit pocket, placed it in the lock, turned it, and pulled open the door. He unzipped the bag before looking back in the direction of the old man. No interest. It took him less than a minute to empty the contents of the box, fill the bag, and zip it back up.
Leapman closed the door and locked it for the last time. He picked up the bag, momentarily surprised by how heavy it was, and walked back down the corridor. He placed the key on the counter. “I won’t be needing it again,” he told the old man, who didn’t allow this sudden break in routine to distract him from his study of the odds for the four o’clock at Belmont. He’d been fifty feet from a racing certainty for the past twelve years and hadn’t even checked the odds.
Leapman walked out of the door, climbed back up the steps and into the light of Lincoln Street. At the top of the steps, he once again glanced up and down the road. He felt safe. He began to walk quickly down the street, gripping the handle of the bag tightly, relieved to see the cab was still waiting for him on the corner.
He had covered about twenty yards when, out of nowhere, he was surrounded by a dozen men dressed in jeans and blue-nylon windbreakers, FBI printed in bold yellow letters on their backs. They came running toward him from every direction. A moment later, two cars entered Lincoln, one from each end—despite its being a one-way street—and came to a screeching halt in a semicircle around the suspect. This time passersby did stop to stare at the tracksuited man carrying a sports bag. The taxi sped away, minus fifty dollars, plus one squash racket.
“Read him his rights,” said Joe, as another officer clamped Leapman’s arms firmly behind his back and handcuffed him, while a third relieved him of his gym bag.
“You have the right to remain silent . . .,” which Leapman did.
Once his Miranda rights had been recited to him—not for the first time—Leapman was led off to one of the cars and unceremoniously dumped in the back, where Agent Delaney was waiting for him.
Anna was at the Whitney Museum, standing in front of a Rauschenberg canvas entitled Satellite, when her cell phone vibrated in her jacket pocket. She glanced at the screen to see that Stalker was trying to contact her.
“Hey,” said Anna.
“I was wrong.”
“Wrong about what?” asked Anna.
“It was more than two million.”
The clock on a nearby church struck four times.
Krantz heard one of the guards say, “We’re off for our supper. We’ll be back in about twenty minutes.” The chain smoker coughed but didn’t respond. Krantz lay still in her bed until she could no longer hear their departing footsteps. She pressed the buzzer by the side of her bed and a key turned in the lock immediately. Krantz didn’t have to guess which one of them would be standing in the doorway, eager to accompany her to the washroom.
“Where’s your mate?” Krantz asked.
“He’s having a drag,” said the guard. “Don’t worry, I’ll see that he gets his share.”
She rubbed her eyes, climbed slowly out of bed, and joined him in the corridor. Another guard was lolling in a chair, half asleep, at the other end of the corridor. The smoker and the philanderer were nowhere to be seen.
The guard held on to her elbow as he led her quickly down the passage. He accompanied her into the bathroom, but remained outside while she disappeared into the cubicle. Krantz sat on the toilet, extracted the condom, peeled off two more twenty-dollar bills, folded them, and hid them in the palm of her right hand. She then slowly pushed the condom back into a place even the least squeamish guards didn’t care to search.
Once she’d pulled the chain, her guard unlocked the door. He smiled in anticipation as she walked back out into the corridor. The guard seated at the far end didn’t stir, and her personal minder seemed as pleased as she was to discover that there was no one else around.
Krantz nodded toward the linen closet. He pulled open the door and they both slipped inside. Krantz immediately opened the palm of her hand to reveal the two twenty-dollar bills. She passed them over to the guard. Just as he went to grab them, she dropped one on the floor. He bent down to pick it up—only a matter of a second—but long enough for him to feel the full force of her knee as it came crashing up into his groin. As he fell forward, grasping his crotch, Krantz grabbed him by the hair and in one swift movement sliced open his throat with the doctor’s scissors. Not the most efficient of instruments, but the only thing she could lay her hands on. She let go of his hair, grabbed him by the collar, and, with all the strength she could muster, bundled him into the laundry chute. With a heave she helped him on his way, then dived in behind him.
They both bounced down the spacious metal tube, and a few seconds later landed with a thud on a pile of sheets, pillowcases, and towels in the laundry room. Krantz leapt up, grabbed the smallest overall from a peg on the wall, pulled it on, and ran across to the door. She opened it slowly and peered out through the crack into the corridor. The only person in sight was a cleaner, on her knees polishing the floor. Krantz walked quickly past her and pushed open the fire-exit door to be greeted by the word Subsol on the wall in front of her. She ran up one flight of steps, pulled up a window on the ground floor, and climbed out onto a flower bed. It was pouring with rain.
She looked around, expecting at any moment to hear the raucous sound of a siren followed by floodlights illuminating every inch of the hospital grounds.
Krantz had covered nearly two miles by the time the philanderer required the privacy of the linen closet for a second time that night. The nurse screamed when she saw the blood all over the white walls. The guard ran back into the corridor and charged toward the prisoner’s room. The chair-bound guard at the end of the passage leaped up from his seat as the smoker came rushing in from the fire escape. The philanderer reached her room first. He pulled open the door, switched on the light, and let out a tirade of expletives, while the smoker smashed the glass covering the alarm and pressed the red button.
9/24
46
ONE OF ANNA’S golden rules when she woke in the morning was not to check the messages on her cell phone until she had showered, dressed, had breakfast, and read The New York Times. But as she had broken every one of her golden rules over the last two weeks, she checked her messages even before she got out of bed. One from Stalker asking her to call, which made her smile, one from Tina—no message, and one from Mr. Nakamura, which made her frown—only four words: “Urgent, please call. Nakamura.”
Anna decided to take a cold shower before she returned his call. As the jets of water cascaded down on her, she thought about Mr. Nakamura’s message. The word urgent always made her assume the worst—Anna fell into the half-empty-glass category rather than the half-full.
She was wide awake by the time she stepped out of the shower. Her heart was pounding at about the same pace as when she’d just finished her morning run. She sat on the end of the bed and tried to compose herself.
Once Anna felt her heartbeat had returned to as near normal as it was likely to, she dialed Nakamura’s number in Tokyo.
“Hai, Shacho-Shitso desu,” announced the receptionist.
“Mr. Nakamura, please.”
“Who shall I say is calling?”
“Anna Petrescu.”
“Good morning, Dr. Petrescu.”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Nakamura,” said Anna, wishing she could see his face and more quickly learn her fate.
“I’ve recently had a most unpleasant conversation with your former boss, Bryce Fenston,” continued Nakamura. “Which I’m afraid”—Anna could hardly breathe—“has made me reassess”—was she about to be sick?—“my opinion of that man. However, that’s not the purpose of this call. I just wanted to let you know that you are currently costing me around five hundred dollars a day as I have, as you requested, deposited five million dollars with my lawyers in London. So I would like to view the Van Gogh as soon as possible.”
“I could fly to Tokyo in the next few days,” Anna assured him, “but I would first have to go to England and pick up the painting.”
“That may not prove necessary,” said Nakamura. “I have a meeting with Corus Steel in London scheduled for Wednesday, and would be happy to fly over a day earlier, if that was convenient for Lady Arabella.”
“I’m sure that will be just fine,” said Anna. “I’ll need to contact Arabella and then call your secretary to confirm the details. Wentworth Hall is only about thirty minutes from Heathrow.”
“Excellent,” said Nakamura. “Then I’ll look forward to seeing you both tomorrow evening.” He paused. “By the way, Anna, have you given any more thought to becoming the director of my foundation? Because Mr. Fenston did convince me of one thing: you are certainly worth five hundred dollars a day.”
Although it was the third time Fenston had read the article, a smile never left his face. He couldn’t wait to share the news with Leapman, though he suspected he’d already seen the piece. He glanced at the clock on his desk, just before ten. Leapman was never late. Where was he?
Tina had already warned him that Mr. Jackson, an insurance assessor from Lloyd’s of London, was in the waiting room, and the front desk had just called to say that Chris Savage of Christie’s was on his way up.
“As soon as Savage appears,” said Fenston, “send them both in and then tell Leapman to join us.”
“I haven’t seen Mr. Leapman this morning,” said Tina.
“Well, tell him I want him in here the moment he arrives,” said Fenston. The smile returned to his face when he reread the headline, KITCHEN KNIFE KILLER ESCAPES.
There was a knock on the door, and Tina ushered both men into the office.
“Mr. Jackson and Mr. Savage,” she said. From their dress, it would not have been difficult to fathom which was the insurance broker and which one spent his life in the art world.
Fenston stepped forward and shook hands with a short, balding man in a navy pin-striped suit and crested blue tie, who introduced himself as Bill Jackson. Fenston nodded at Savage, whom he had met at Christie’s on several occasions over the years. He was wearing his trademark bow tie.
“I wish to make it clear from the outset,” began Fenston, “that I only want to insure this one painting,” he said, gesturing toward the Van Gogh, “for twenty million dollars.”
“Despite the fact that it might fetch five times that amount were it to come under the hammer?” queried Savage, who turned to study the picture for the first time.
“That would, of course, mean a far lower premium,” interjected Jackson. “That’s assuming our security boys consider the painting is adequately protected.”
“Just stay where you are, Mr. Jackson, and you can decide for yourself if it’s adequately protected.”
Fenston walked to the door, entered a six-digit code on the keypad next to the light switch, and left the room. The moment the door closed behind him, a metal grille appeared from out of the ceiling and eight seconds later was clamped to the floor, covering the Van Gogh. At the same time, an alarm emitted an ear-piercing sound that would have caused even Quasimodo to seek another vocation.
Jackson quickly pressed the palms of his hands over his ears and turned around to see that a second grille had already barred his exit from the only door in the room. He walked across to the window and looked down at the midgets hurrying along the sidewalk below. A few seconds later, the alarm stopped and the metal grilles slid up into the ceiling. Fenston marched back into the room, looking pleased with himself.
“Impressive,” said Jackson, the sound of the alarm still reverberating in his ears. “But there are still a couple of questions I will need answered,” he added. “How many people know the code?”
“Only two of us,” said Fenston, “my chief of staff and myself, and I change the sequence of numbers once a week.”
“And that window,” said Jackson, “is there any way of opening it?”
“No, it’s double-glazed bulletproof glass, and even if you could break it, you’d still be thirty-two stories above the ground.”
“And the alarm . . .”
“Connected directly to Abbott Security,” said Fenston. “They have an office in the building and guarantee to be on this floor within two minutes.”
“I’m impressed,” said Jackson. “What we in the business call triple-A, which usually means the premium can be kept down to one percent or, in real terms, around two hundred thousand dollars a year.” He smiled. “I only wish the Norwegians had your foresight, Mr. Fenston, and then perhaps we wouldn’t have had to pay out so much on The Scream.”
“But can you also guarantee discretion in these matters?” Fenston asked.
“Absolutely,” Jackson assured him. “We insure half the world’s treasures, and you wouldn’t find out who our clients are, were you to break into our headquarters in the City of London. Even their names are coded.”
“That’s reassuring,” said Fenston. “Then all that needs to be done is for you to complete the paperwork.”
“I can do that,” said Jackson, “just as soon as Mr. Savage confirms a value of twenty million for the painting.”
“That shouldn’t be too difficult,” said Fenston, turning his attention to Chris Savage, who was staring intently at the picture. “After all, he’s already assured us that the Wentworth Van Gogh is worth nearer one hundred million.”
“The Wentworth Van Gogh most certainly is,” said Savage, “but not this particular piece.” He paused before turning round to face Fenston. “The only part of this work of art that’s original is the frame.”
“What do you mean?” said Fenston, staring up at his favorite painting as if he’d been informed that his only child was illegitimate.
“I mean just that,” said Savage. “The frame is original, but the painting is a fake.”
“A fake?” repeated Fenston, hardly able to get the words out. “But it came from Wentworth Hall.”
“The frame may well have come from Wentworth Hall,” said Savage, “but I can assure you that the canvas did not.”
“How can you be so sure,” demanded Fenston, “when you haven’t even carried out any tests?”
“I don’t need to carry out any tests,” said Savage emphatically.
“Why not?” barked Fenston.
“Because the wrong ear is bandaged,” came back the immediate reply.
“No it’s not,” insisted Fenston, as he stared up at the painting. “Every schoolchild knows that Van Gogh cut off his left ear.”
“But not every schoolchild knows that he painted the self-portrait while looking in a mirror, which is why the right ear is bandaged.”
Fenston slumped down into the chair behind his desk, with his back to the painting. Savage strolled forward and began to study the picture even more closely. “What puzzles me,” he added, “is that although the painting is undoubtedly a fake, someone has put it into the original frame.” Fenston’s face burned with anger. “And I must confess,” continued Savage, “that whoever painted this particular version is a fine artist.” He paused. “However, I could only place a value of ten thousand on the work, and perhaps—”he hesitated “—a further ten thousand on the frame, which w
“Get me Leapman,” Fenston screamed at the top of his voice, causing Tina to come running into the room.
“He’s just arrived,” she said. “I’ll tell him you want to see him.”
Neither the man from Lloyd’s nor the Christie’s expert felt this was the moment to hang around, hoping to be offered a cup of coffee. They discreetly left, as Leapman came rushing in.
“It’s a fake,” shouted Fenston.
Leapman stared up at the picture for some time before offering an opinion. “Then we both know who’s responsible,” he eventually said.
“Petrescu,” said Fenston, spitting out the name.
“Not to mention her partner, who has been feeding Petrescu with information since the day you fired her.”
“You’re right,” said Fenston, and turning toward the open door he hollered “Tina” at the top of his voice. Once again, she came running into the room.
“You see that picture,” he said, unable even to turn around and look at the painting. Tina nodded, but didn’t speak. “I want you to put it back in its box, and then immediately dispatch it to Wentworth Hall, along with a demand for—”
“Thirty-two million, eight hundred and ninety-two thousand dollars,” said Leapman.
“And once you’ve done that,” said Fenston, “you can collect all your personal belongings and make sure you’re off the premises within ten minutes, because you’re fired, you little bitch.”
Tina began shaking as Fenston rose from behind his desk and stared down at her. “But before you leave, I have one last task for you.” Tina couldn’t move. “Tell your friend Petrescu that I still haven’t removed her name from the ‘missing, presumed dead’ list.”