False 
Impression
Jeffrey Archer


ALSO BY JEFFREY ARCHER 
NOVELS
Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less
Shall We Tell the President?
Kane & Abel
The Prodigal Daughter
First Among Equals
A Matter of Honour
As the Crow Flies
Honour Among Thieves
The Fourth Estate
The Eleventh Commandment
Sons of Fortune


SHORT STORIES
A Quiver Full of Arrows
A Twist in the Tale
Twelve Red Herrings
The Collected Short Stories
To Cut a Long Story Short

PLAYS
Beyond Reasonable Doubt
Exclusive
The Accused

PRISON DIARIES
Volume One - Belmarsh: Hell
Volume Two - Wayland: Purgatory
Volume Three - North Sea Camp: Heaven

SCREENPLAY
Mallory: Walking off the Map
 
JEFFREY
ARCHER

FALSE
IMPRESSION

MACMILLAN


First published 2005 by Macmillan
an imprint of Pan Macmillan Ltd
Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London Nl 9RR
Basingstoke and Oxford
Associated companies throughout the world
www.panmacmillan.com

ISBN 1 4050 3255 3 (HB)
ISBN 14050 8910 5 (TPB)

Copyright  Jeffrey Archer 2005

The right of Jeffrey Archer to be identified as the
author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance
with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be
reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or
transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written
permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized
act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal
prosecution and civil claims for damages.

35798642

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from
the British library.

Typeset by SetSystems Ltd, Saffron Walden, Essex
Printed and bound in Great Britain by
Mackays of Chatham pic, Chatham, Kent
 
TO TARA


Acknowledgements

I would like to thank the following people for their invaluable help
and advice with this book: Rosie de Courcy, Mari Roberts, Simoi
Bainbridge, Victoria Leacock, Kelley Ragland, Mark Poltimor
(Chairman, nineteenth- and twentieth-century paintings, Sotheby's]
Louis van Tilborgh (Curator of Paintings, Van Gogh Museum), Gregor
DeBoer, Rachel Rauchwerger (director, Art Logistics), the National Ai
Collections Fund, Courtauld Institute of Art, John Power, Jun Nags
and Terry Lenzer.
Jeffrey Archer.
9/10
 
1

Victoria Wentworth sat alone at the table where Wellington had dined with sixteen of his field officers the night before he set out for Waterloo.
General Sir Harry Wentworth sat at the right hand of the Iron Duke that night, and was commanding his left flank when a defeated Napoleon rode off the battlefield and into exile. A grateful monarch bestowed on the general the title Earl of Wentworth, which the family had borne proudly since 1815.
These thoughts were running through Victoria's mind as she read Dr Petrescu's report for a second time. When she turned the last page, she let out a sigh of relief. A solution to all her problems had been found, quite literally at the eleventh hour.
The dining-room door opened noiselessly and Andrews, who from second footman to butler had served three generations of Wentworths, deftly removed her ladyship's dessert plate.
Thank you,' Victoria said, and waited until he had reached the door before she added, 'and has everything been arranged for the removal of the painting?' She couldn't bring herself to mention the artist's name.
Yes, m'lady, Andrews replied, turning back to face his mistress. The picture will have been dispatched before you come down for breakfast.'
'And has everything been prepared for Dr Petrescu's visit?'
Yes, m'lady,' repeated Andrews. 'Dr Petrescu is expected around midday on Wednesday, and I have already informed cook that she will be joining you for lunch in the conservatory.'
"Thank you, Andrews,' said Victoria. The butler gave a slight bow and quietly closed the heavy oak door behind him.
By the time Dr Petrescu arrived, one of the family's most treasured heirlooms would be on its way to America, and although the masterpiece would never be seen at Wentworth Hall again, no one outside the immediate family need be any the wiser.
Victoria folded her napkin and rose from the table. She picked up Dr Petrescu's report and walked out of the dining room and into the hall. The sound of her shoes echoed in the marble hallway.
She paused at the foot of the staircase to admire Gainsborough's full-length portrait of Catherine, Lady Wentworth, who was dressed in a magnificent long silk and taffeta gown, set off by a diamond necklace and matching earrings. Victoria touched her ear and smiled at the thought that such an extravagant bauble must have been considered quite risque" at the time.
Victoria looked steadfastly ahead as she climbed the wide marble staircase to her bedroom on the first floor. She felt unable to look into the eyes of her ancestors, brought to life by Romney, Lawrence, Reynolds, Lely and Kneller, conscious of having let them all down. Victoria accepted that before she retired to bed she must finally write to her sister and let her know the decision she had come to.
Arabella was so wise and sensible. If only her beloved twin had been born a few minutes earlier rather than a few minutes later, then she would have inherited the estate, and undoubtedly handled the problem with considerably more panache. And worse, when Arabella learned the news, she would neither complain nor remonstrate, just continue to display the family's stiff upper lip.
Victoria closed the bedroom door, walked across the room and placed Dr Petrescu's report on her desk. She undid her bun, allowing the hair to cascade onto her shoulders. She spent the next few minutes brushing her hair, before taking off her clothes and slipping on a silk nightgown, which a maid had laid out on the end of die bed. Finally she stepped into her bedroom slippers. Unable to avoid the responsibility any longer, she sat down at her writing desk and picked up her fountain pen. 


Wentworth Hall

September 10th, 2001

My dearest Arabella,
I have put off writing this letter for far too long, as you are the last person who deserves to learn such distressing news. When dear Papa died and I inherited the estate, it was some time before I appreciated the full extent of the debts he
had run up. I fear my lack of business experience, coupled with crippling death duties, only exacerbated the problem.
I thought the answer was to borrow even more, but that has simply made matters worse. At one point I feared that because of my naivety we might even end up having to sell our family's estate. But I am pleased to tell you that a solution has been found.
On Wednesday, I will be seeing--

Victoria thought she heard the bedroom door open. She wondered which of her servants would have considered entering the room without knocking. By the time Victoria had turned to find out who it was, she was already standing by her side. Victoria stared up at a woman she had never seen before. She was young, slim, and even shorter than Victoria. She smiled sweetly, which made her appear vulnerable. Victoria returned her smile, and then noticed she was carrying a kitchen knife in her right hand.
"Who--' began Victoria as a hand shot out, grabbed her by the hair and snapped her head back against the chair. Victoria felt the thin, razor-sharp blade as it touched the skin of her neck. In one swift movement the knife sliced open her throat as if she were a lamb being sent to slaughter.
Moments before Victoria died, the young woman cut off her left ear.

9/11

2

Anna Petrescu touched the button on the top of her bedside clock. It glowed 5.56 a.m. Another four minutes and it would have woken her with the early morning news. But not today. Her mind had been racing all through the night, only allowing her intermittent patches of sleep. By the time she finally woke, Anna had decided exactly what she must do if the chairman was unwilling to go along with her recommendations. She switched off the automatic alarm, avoiding any news that might distract her, jumped out of bed and headed straight for the bathroom. Anna remained under the cold shower a Htde longer than usual, hoping it would fully wake her. Her last lover - heaven knows how long ago that must have been - thought it amusing that she always showered before going out for her morning run.
Once she had dried herself, Anna slipped on a white T-shirt and blue running shorts. Although the sun had not yet risen, she didn't need to open the bedroom curtains of her little room to know that it was going to be another clear, sunny day. She zipped up her tracksuit top, which still displayed a faded T' where the bold blue letter had been unstitched. Anna didn't want to advertise the fact that she had once been a member of the University of Pennsylvania track team. After all, that was nine years ago. Anna finally pulled on her Nike training shoes and tied the laces very tight. Nothing annoyed her more than having to stop in the middle of her morning run to re-tie her laces. The only other thing she wore that morning was her front door key, attached to a thin silver chain that hung around her neck.
Anna double-locked the front door of her four-room apartment, walked across the corridor and pressed the elevator button. While she waited for the little cubicle to travel grudgingly up to the tenth floor, she began a series of stretching exercises that would be completed before the elevator returned to the ground floor.
Anna stepped out into the lobby and smiled at her favourite doorman, who quickly opened the front door so that she didn't have to stop in her tracks.
'Morning, Sam,' Anna said, as she jogged out of Thornton House onto East 54th Street and headed towards Central Park.
Every weekday she ran the Southern Loop. On the weekends she would tackle the longer six-mile loop, when it didn't matter if she was a few minutes late. It mattered today.

Bryce Fenston also rose before six o'clock that morning, as he too
had an early appointment. While he showered, Fenston listened
to the morning news: a suicide bomber who had blown himself up
on the West Bank - an event that had become as commonplace as
the weather forecast, or the latest currency fluctuation - didn't
cause him to raise the volume.
'Another clear, sunny day, with a gentle breeze heading
south-east, highs of 77, lows of 65,' announced a chirpy weather
girl as Fenston stepped out of the shower. A more serious voice
replaced hers, to inform him that the Nikkei in Tokyo was up
fourteen points, and Hong Kong's Hang Seng down one. London's
FTSE hadn't yet made up its mind in which direction to go. He
considered that Fenston Finance shares were unlikely to move
dramatically either way, as only two other people were aware of
his little coup. Fenston was having breakfast with one of them at
seven, and he would fire the other at eight.
By 6.40am, Fenston had showered and dressed. He glanced at
his reflection in the mirror; he would like to have been a couple of
inches taller, and a couple of inches thinner. Nothing that a good
tailor and a pair of Cuban shoes with specially designed insoles
couldn't rectify. He would also like to have grown his hair again, but not while there were so many exiles from his country who might still recognize him. Although his father had been a tram conductor in Bucharest, anyone who gave the immaculately dressed man a second glance as he stepped out of his brownstone on East 79th Street and into his chauffeur-driven limousine would have assumed that he had been born into the upper eastside establishment. Only those who looked more closely would have spotted the small diamond in his left ear - an affectation that he believed singled him out from his more conservative colleagues. None of his staff dared to tell him otherwise.
Fenston settled down in the back of his limousine. 'The office,'
he barked before touching a button in the armrest. A smoked grey
screen purred up, cutting off any unnecessary conversation
between him and the driver. Fenston picked up a copy of the New York Times from the seat beside him. He flicked through
the pages to see if any particular headline grabbed his attention.
Mayor Giuliani seemed to have lost the plot. Having installed his
mistress in Gracie Mansion, he'd left the first lady only too happy
to voice her opinion on the subject to anyone who cared to listen.
This morning it was the New York Times. Fenston was poring over
the financial pages when his driver swung onto FDR Drive, and he
had reached the obituaries by the time the limousine came to a
halt outside the North Tower. No one would be printing the only
obituary he was interested in until tomorrow, but, to be fair, no
one in America realized she was dead.
'I have an appointment on Wall Street at eight thirty,' Fenston
informed his driver as he opened the back door for him. 'So pick
me up at eight fifteen.' The driver nodded, as Fenston marched off
in the direction of the lobby. Although there were ninety-nine
elevators in the building, only one went directly to the restaurant
on the 107th floor.
As Fenston stepped out of the elevator a minute later - he had
once calculated that he would spend a week of his life in elevators
- the maitre d' spotted his regular customer, bowed his head
slightly and escorted him to a table in the corner, overlooking the
Statue of Liberty. On the one occasion Fenston had turned up to find his usual table occupied, he'd turned round and stepped
straight back into the elevator. Since then, the corner table had remained empty every morning - just in case.
Fenston was not surprised to find Karl Leapman waiting for
him. Leapman had never once been late in the ten years he had
worked for Fenston Finance. Fenston wondered how long he
had been sitting there, just to be certain that the chairman didn't
turn up before him. Fenston looked down at a man who had
proved, time and time again, that there was no sewer he wasn't
willing to swim in for his master. But then Fenston was the only
person who had been willing to offer Leapman a job after he'd
been released from jail. Disbarred lawyers with a prison sentence
for fraud don't expect to make partner.
Even before he took his seat, Fenston began speaking. 'Now
we are in possession of the Van Gogh,' he said, 'we only have one
matter to discuss this morning. How do we rid ourselves of Anna
Petrescu without her becoming suspicious?'
Leapman opened a file in front of him, and smiled.
 
Nothing had gone to plan that morning.
Andrews had instructed cook that he would be taking up her
ladyship's breakfast tray just as soon as the painting had been
dispatched. Cook had developed a migraine, so her number two,
not a reliable girl, had been put in charge of her ladyship's
breakfast. The security van turned up forty minutes late, with a
cheeky young driver who refused to leave until he'd been given
coffee and biscuits. Cook would never have stood for such nonsense,
but her number two caved in. Half an hour later, Andrews
found them sitting at the kitchen table, chatting.
Andrews was only relieved that her ladyship hadn't stirred
before the driver finally departed. He checked the tray, refolded
the napkin and left the kitchen to take breakfast up to his
mistress.
Andrews held the tray on the palm of one hand and knocked
quietly on the bedroom door before opening it with the other.
When he saw her ladyship lying on the floor in a pool of blood,
he let out a gasp, dropped the tray and rushed over to the
body.
Although it was clear Lady Victoria had been dead for several
hours, Andrews did not consider contacting the police until the
next in line to the Wentworth estate had been informed of the
tragedy. He quickly left the bedroom, locked the door and ran
downstairs for the first time in his life.

Arabella Wentworth was serving someone when Andrews called.
She put the phone down and apologized to her customer,
explaining that she had to leave immediately. She switched the
open sign to closed and locked the door of her little antiques
shop only moments after Andrews had uttered the word emergency, not an opinion she'd heard him express in the past forty
nine years.
Fifteen minutes later, Arabella brought her mini to a halt on
the gravel outside Wentworth Hall. Andrews was standing on the
top step, waiting for her.
I'm so very sorry, m'lady,' was all he said, before he led his new
mistress into the house and up the wide marble staircase. When
Andrews touched the banister to steady himself, Arabella knew her
sister was dead.
Arabella had often wondered how she would react in a crisis.
She was relieved to find that, although she was violently sick when
she first saw her sister's body, she didn't faint. However, it was a
close thing. After a second glance, she grabbed the bedpost to help
steady herself before turning away.
Blood had spurted everywhere, congealing on the carpet, the
walls, the writing desk and even the ceiling. With a Herculean
effort, Arabella let go of the bedpost and staggered towards the
phone on the bedside table. She collapsed onto the bed, picked up
the receiver and dialled 999. When the phone was answered with
the words, 'Emergency, which service?' she replied, 'Police.'
Arabella replaced the receiver. She was determined to reach
the bedroom door without looking back at her sister's body. She
failed. Only a glance, and this time her eyes settled on the letter
addressed 'My dearest Arabella'. She grabbed the unfinished
missive, unwilling to share her sister's last thoughts with the local
constabulary. Arabella stuffed the epistle into her pocket and
walked unsteadily out of the room.
Anna jogged west along East 54th Street, past the Museum
of Modern Art, crossing 6th Avenue before taking a right on
7th. She barely glanced at the familiar landmarks of the massive
v sculpture that dominated the corner of East 55th Street, or
Carnegie Hall as she crossed 57th. Most of her energy and concentration
was taken up with trying to avoid the early morning
commuters as they hurried towards her or blocked her progress.
Anna considered the jog to Central Park nothing more than a
warm-up and didn't start the stopwatch on her left wrist until she
passed through Artisans' Gate and ran into the park.
Once Anna had settled into her regular rhythm, she tried to
focus on the meeting scheduled with the chairman for eight o'clock
that morning.
Anna had been both surprised and somewhat relieved when
Bryce Fenston had offered her a job at Fenston Finance only days
after she'd left her position as the number two in Sotheby's
Impressionist department.
Her immediate boss had made it only too clear that any thought
of progress would be blocked for some time after she'd admitted
to being responsible for losing the sale of a major collection to
their main rival, Christie's. Anna had spent months nurturing,
flattering and cajoling this particular customer into selecting
Sotheby's for the disposal of their family's estate, and had naively
assumed when she shared the secret with her lover that he would
be discreet. After all, he was a lawyer.
When the name of the client was revealed in the arts section of the New York Times, Anna lost both her lover and her job. It didn't help when, a few days later, the same paper reported that Dr Anna Petrescu had left Sotheby's 'under a cloud' - a euphemism for fired - and the columnist helpfully added that she needn't bother to apply for a job at Christie's.
Bryce Fenston was a regular attendee at all the major Impressionist sales, and he couldn't have missed Anna standing by the side of the auctioneer's podium, taking notes and acting as a spotter. She resented any suggestion that her striking good looks and athletic figure were the reason Sotheby's regularly placed her in so prominent a position, rather than at the side of the auction
room along with the other spotters.
Anna checked her watch as she ran across Playmates Arch: 2 minutes 18 seconds. She always aimed to complete the loop in twelve minutes. She knew that wasn't fast, but it still annoyed her whenever she was overtaken, and it made her particularly mad if it was by a woman. Anna had come ninety-seventh in last year's New York marathon, so on her morning jog in Central Park she was rarely passed by anything on two legs.
Her thoughts returned to Bryce Fenston. It had been known for some time by those closely involved in the art world - auction houses, leading galleries and private dealers - that Fenston was amassing one of the great Impressionist collections. He, along with Steve Wynn, Leonard Lauder, Anne Dias and Takashi Nakamura, was regularly among the final bidders for any major new acquisition.
For such collectors, what often begins as an innocent hobby can quickly become an addiction, every bit as demanding as any drug. For Fenston, who owned an example of all the major Impressionists except Van Gogh, even the thought of possessing a work by the Dutch master was an injection of pure heroin, and once purchased he quickly craved another fix, like a shaking addict in search of a dealer. His dealer was Anna Petrescu.
When Fenston read in the New York Times that Anna was leaving Sotheby's, he immediately offered her a place on his board with a salary that reflected how serious he was about continuing to build his collection. What tipped the balance for Anna was the discovery that Fenston also originated from Romania. He continually reminded Anna that, like her, he had escaped the oppressive Ceauescu regime to find refuge in America. 
Within days of her joining the bank, Fenston quickly put Anna's expertise to the test. Most of the questions he asked her at their first meeting, over lunch, concerned Anna's knowledge of any large collections still in the hands of second- or third-generation families.
After six years at Sotheby's, there was barely a major Impressionist work that came under the hammer that hadn't passed through Anna's hands, or at least been viewed by her and then added to her database.
One of the first lessons Anna learned after joining Sotheby's was that old money was more likely to be the seller and new money the buyer, which was how she originally came into contact with Lady Victoria Wentworth, elder daughter of the seventh earl of Wentworth - old, old money - on behalf of Bryce Fenston nouveau, nouveau riche.
Anna was puzzled by Fenston's obsession with other people's collections, until she discovered that it was company policy to advance large loans against works of art. Few banks are willing to consider 'art', no matter what form, as collateral. Property, shares, bonds, land, even jewellery, but rarely art. Bankers do not understand the market, and are reluctant to reclaim the assets from their
customers, not least because storing the works, insuring them and often ending up having to sell them is not only time-consuming but impractical. Fenston Finance was the rare exception. It didn't take Anna long to discover that Fenston had no real love, or particular knowledge, of art. He fulfilled Oscar Wilde's dictum:
A man who knows the price of everything and the value of nothing. But it was some time before Anna discovered his real motive.

One of Anna's first assignments was to take a trip to England
and value the estate of Lady Victoria Wentworth, a potential customer,
who had applied for a large loan from Fenston Finance.
The Wentworth collection turned out to be a typically English one,
built up by the second earl, an eccentric aristocrat with a great
deal of money, considerable taste and a good enough eye for later
 
generations to describe him as a gifted amateur. From his own countrymen he acquired Romney, West, Constable, Stubbs and
Morland, as well as a magnificent example of a Turner, Sunset
over Plymouth.
The third earl showed no interest in anything artistic, so the
collection gathered dust until his son, the fourth earl, inherited the
estate, and with it his grandfather's discriminating eye.
Jamie Wentworth spent nearly a year exiled from his native land
taking what used to be known as the Grand Tour. He visited Paris,
Amsterdam, Rome, Florence, Venice and St Petersburg before
returning to Wentworth Hall in possession of a Raphael, Tintoretto,
Titian, Rubens, Holbein and Van Dyck, not to mention an Italian
wife. However, it was Charles, the fifth earl, who, for all the wrong
reasons, trumped his ancestors. Charlie was also a collector, not of
paintings, but of mistresses. After an energetic weekend spent in Paris - mainly on the racecourse at Longchamp, but partly in a
bedroom at the Crillon - his latest filly convinced him to purchase
from her doctor a painting by an unknown artist. Charlie Wentworth
returned to England having discarded his paramour but
stuck with a painting that he relegated to a guest bedroom,
although many aficionados now consider Self-portrait with Bandaged
Ear to be among Van Gogh's finest works.
Anna had already warned Fenston to be wary when it came to
purchasing a Van Gogh, because attributions were often more
dubious than Wall Street bankers - a simile Fenston didn't care
for. She told him that there were several fakes hanging in private
collections, and even one or two in major museums, including the
national museum of Oslo. However, after Anna had studied the
paperwork that accompanied the Van Gogh Self-portrait, which
included a reference to Charles Wentworth in one of Dr Gachet's
letters, a receipt for eight hundred francs from the original sale
and a certificate of authentication from Louis van Tilborgh, Curator
of Paintings at the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam, she felt
confident enough to advise the chairman that the magnificent
portrait was indeed by the hand of the master.
For Van Gogh addicts, Self-portrait with Bandaged Ear was
the ultimate high. Although the maestro painted thirty-five self
 
taiyjn

portraits during his lifetime, he attempted only two after cutting
off his left ear. What made this particular work so desirable for
any serious collector was that the other one was on display at the
Courtauld Institute in London. Anna was becoming more and
more anxious about just how far Fenston would be willing to go in
order to possess the only other example.
Anna spent a pleasant ten days at Wentworth Hall cataloguing
and valuing the family's collection. When she returned to New
York, she advised the board - mainly made up of Fenston's cronies
or politicians who were only too happy to accept a handout - that
should a sale ever prove necessary, the assets would more than
cover the bank's loan of thirty million dollars.
Although Anna had no interest in Victoria Wentworth's reasons
for needing such a large sum of money, she often heard Victoria
speak of the sadness of 'dear Papa's' premature death, the retirement
of their trusted estates manager and the iniquity of 40 per
cent death duties during her stay at Wentworth Hall. 'If only
Arabella had been born a few moments earlier...' was one of
Victoria's favourite mantras.
Once she was back in New York, Anna could recall every
painting and sculpture in Victoria's collection without having to
refer to any paperwork. The one gift that set her apart from her
contemporaries at Penn, and her colleagues at Sotheby's, was a
photographic memory. Once Anna had seen a painting, she would
never forget the image, its provenance or its location. Every Sunday
she would idly put her skill to the test, by visiting a new gallery, a
room at the Met, or simply studying the latest catalogue raisonne\
On returning to her apartment, she would write down the name
of every painting she had seen, before checking it against the
different catalogues. Since leaving university, Anna had added the
Louvre, the Prado and the Uffizi, as well as the National Gallery
of Washington, the Phillips Collection and the Getty Museum, to
her memory bank. Thirty-seven private collections and countless
catalogues were also stored in the database of her brain, an asset
Fenston had proved willing to pay over the odds for.
Anna's responsibility did not go beyond valuing the collections
of potential clients and then submitting written reports for the
 

board's consideration. She never became involved in the drawing up of any contract. That was exclusively in the hands of the bank's
in-house lawyer, Karl Leapman. However, Victoria did let slip on
one occasion that the bank was charging her 16 per cent compound
interest. Anna had quickly become aware that debt, naivety and
a lack of any financial expertise were the ingredients on which
Fenston Finance thrived. This was a bank that seemed to relish its
customers' inability to repay their debts.
Anna lengthened her stride as she passed by the carousel. She
checked her watch - off twelve seconds. She frowned, but at least
no one had overtaken her. Her thoughts returned to the Went
worth collection, and the recommendation she would be making to
Fenston that morning. Anna had decided she would have to resign
if the chairman felt unable to accept her advice, despite the fact
that she had worked for the company for less than a year and was
painfully aware that she still couldn't hope to get a job at Sotheby's
or Christie's.
During the past year, she had learnt to live with Fenston's
vanity, and even tolerate the occasional outburst when he didn't
get his own way, but she could not condone misleading a client,
especially one as naive as Victoria Wentworth. Leaving Fenston
Finance after such a short time might not look good on her
resume", but an ongoing fraud investigation would look a lot worse.
 
5


'When will we find out if she's dead?' asked Leapman, as he
sipped his coffee.
'I'm expecting confirmation this morning,' Fenston replied.
'Good, because I'll need to be in touch with her lawyer to
remind him -' he paused - 'that in the case of a suspicious
death -' he paused a second time - 'any settlement reverts to the
jurisdiction of the New York State Bar.'
'Strange that none of them ever query that clause in the
contract,' said Fenston, buttering another muffin.
Why should they?' asked Leapman. 'After all, they have no way
of knowing that they're about to die.'
'And is there any reason for the police to become suspicious
about our involvement?'
'No,' replied Leapman. 'You've never met Victoria Wentworth,
you didn't sign the original contract, and you haven't even seen the
painting.'
'No one has outside the Wentworth family and Petrescu,'
Fenston reminded him. 'But what I still need to know is how much
time before I can safely--'
'Hard to say, but it could be years before the police are willing
to admit they don't even have a suspect, especially in such a high
profile case.'
'A couple of years will be quite enough,' said Fenston. 'By then,
the interest on the loan will be more than enough to ensure that I
can hold onto the Van Gogh and sell off the rest of the collection
without losing any of my original investment.'
 
Then it's a good thing that I read Petrescu's report when I did,' said Leapman, 'because if she'd gone along with Petrescu's recommendation,
there would have been nothing we could do about it.'
'Agreed,' said Fenston, 'but now we have to find some way of
losing Petrescu.'
A thin smile appeared on Leapman's lips. That's easy enough,'
he said, 'we play on her one weakness.'
'And that is?' asked Fenston.
'Her honesty.'

Arabella sat alone in the drawing room, unable to take in what was
happening all around her. A cup of Earl Grey tea on the table
beside her had gone cold, but she hadn't noticed. The loudest
noise in the room was the tick of the clock on the mantelpiece.
Time had stopped for Arabella.
Several police cars and an ambulance were parked on the gravel
outside. People going about their business, dressed in uniforms,
white coats, dark suits and even face masks, came and went without
bothering her.
There was a gentle tap on the door. Arabella looked up to see
an old friend standing in the doorway. The chief superintendent
removed a peaked cap covered in silver braid as he entered the
room. Arabella rose from the sofa, her face ashen, her eyes red
from crying. The tall man bent down and kissed her gently on both
cheeks, and then waited for her to sit back down before he took
his place in the leather wing chair opposite her. Stephen Renton
offered his condolences, which were genuine; he'd known Victoria
for many years.
Arabella thanked him, sat up straight and asked quietly, "Who
could have done such a terrible thing, especially to someone as
innocent as Victoria?'
There doesn't seem to be a simple or logical answer to that
question,' the chief superintendent replied. 'And it doesn't help
that it was several hours before her body was discovered, allowing
the assailant more than enough time to get clean away.' He paused.
'Do you feel up to answering some questions, my dear?'
 
rra9B Tmriuiaaivn

Arabella gave a nod. 'I'll do anything I can to help you track
down the assailant.' She repeated the word with venom.
'Normally, the first question I would ask in any murder enquiry
is do you know if your sister had any enemies, but I confess that
knowing her as I did that doesn't seem possible. However, I must
ask if you were aware of any problems Victoria might have been
facing, because -' he hesitated - 'there have been rumours in the
village for some time that, following your father's death, your sister
was left with considerable debts.'
'I don't know, is the truth,' Arabella admitted. 'After I married
Angus, we only came down from Scotland for a couple of weeks in
the summer, and every other Christmas. It wasn't until my husband
died that I returned to live in Surrey' - the chief superintendent
nodded, but didn't interrupt - 'and heard the same rumours. Local
gossips were even letting it be known that some of the furniture in
my shop had come from the estate, in order that Victoria could
still pay the staff.'
'And was there any truth in those rumours?5 asked Stephen.
'None at all,' replied Arabella. "When Angus died and I sold our
farm in Perthshire, there was more than enough to allow me to
return to Wentworth, open my little shop and turn a life-long
hobby into a worthwhile enterprise. But I did ask my sister on
several occasions if the rumours of Father's financial position were
true. Victoria denied there was any problem, always claiming
that everything was under control. But then she adored Father,
and in her eyes he could do no wrong.'

'Can you think of anything that might give some clue as to
why
Arabella rose from the sofa and, without explanation, walked
across to a writing desk on the far side of the room. She picked up
the blood-spattered letter that she had found on her sister's table,
walked back and handed it across to him.
Stephen read the unfinished missive twice before asking, 'Do
you have any idea what Victoria could have meant by "a solution
has been found"?'
'No,' admitted Arabella, 'but it's possible that I'll be able to
answer that question once I've had a word with Arnold Simpson.'
 
That doesn't fill me with confidence,' said Stephen.
Arabella noted his comment, but didn't respond. She knew that
the chief superintendent's natural instinct was to mistrust all solicitors, who appeared unable to disguise a belief that they were
superior to any police officer.
The chief superintendent rose from his place, walked across
and sat next to Arabella. He took her hand. 'Call me whenever you
want to,' he said gently, 'and try not to keep too many secrets from
me, Arabella, because I'll need to know everything, and I mean
everything, if we're to find who murdered your sister.'
Arabella didn't reply.

'Damn,' muttered Anna to herself when an athletic, dark-haired
man jogged casually past her, just as he'd done several times during
the last few weeks. He didn't glance back - serious runners never
did. Anna knew that it would be pointless to try and keep up with
him, as she would be 'legless' within a hundred yards. She had
once caught a sideways glimpse of the mystery man, but he then
strode away and all she had seen was the back of his emerald
green T-shirt as he continued towards Strawberry Fields. Anna
tried to put him out of her mind and focus once again on her
meeting with Fenston.
Anna had already sent a copy of her report to the chairman's
office, recommending that the bank sell the self-portrait as quickly
as possible. She knew a collector in Tokyo who was obsessed with Van Gogh and still had the yen to prove it. And with this particular
painting there was another weakness she would be able to play on,
which she had highlighted in her report. Van Gogh had always
admired Japanese art, and on the wall behind the self-portrait he
had reproduced a print of Geishas in a Landscape, which Anna felt
would make the painting even more irresistible to Takashi
Nakamura.
Nakamura was chairman of the largest steel company in Japan,
but lately he'd been spending more and more time building up
his art collection, which he'd let it be known was to form part of
a foundation that would eventually be left to the nation. Anna
 
also considered it an advantage that Nakamura was an intensely
secretive individual, who guarded the details of his private collection
with typical Japanese inscrutability. Such a sale would allow
Victoria Wentworth to save face - something the Japanese fully
understood. Anna had once acquired a Degas for Nakamura, Dancing Class with Mme Minette, which the seller had wished to
dispose of privately, a service the great auction houses offer to
those who want to avoid the prying eyes of journalists who hang
around the sale rooms. She was confident that Nakamura would
offer at least sixty million dollars for the rare Dutch masterpiece.
So if Fenston accepted her proposal - and why shouldn't he? everyone
would be satisfied with the outcome.
When Anna passed the Tavern on the Green, she once again
checked her watch. She would need to pick up her pace if she still
hoped to be back at Artisans' Gate in under twelve minutes. As she
sprinted down the hill, she reflected on the fact that she shouldn't
allow her personal feelings for a client to cloud her judgement, but
frankly Victoria needed all the help she could get. When Anna
passed through Artisans' Gate, she pressed the stop button on her
watch: twelve minutes and four seconds. Damn.
Anna jogged slowly off in the direction of her apartment,
unaware that she was being closely watched by the man in the
emerald-green T-shirt.
 
6

Jack Delaney still wasn't sure if Anna Petrescu was a criminal.
The FBI agent watched her as she disappeared into the crowd
on her way back to Thornton House. Once she was out of sight,
Jack resumed jogging through Sheep Meadow towards the lake.
He thought about the woman he'd been investigating for the past
six weeks. An enquiry that was hampered by the fact that he didn't
need Anna to find out that the bureau were also investigating her
boss, who Jack had no doubt was a criminal.
It was nearly a year since Richard W. Macy, Jack's Supervising
Special Agent, had called him into his office and allocated him a
team of eight agents to cover a new assignment. Jack was to
investigate three vicious murders on three different continents
which had one thing in common: each of the victims had been
killed at a time when they also had large outstanding loans with
Fenston Finance. Jack quickly concluded that the murders had
been planned and were the work of a professional killer.
Jack cut through Shakespeare Garden as he headed back
towards his small apartment on the West Side. He had just about
completed his file on Fenston's most recent recruit, although he
still couldn't make up his mind if she was a willing accomplice or a
naive innocent.
Jack had begun with Anna's upbringing and discovered that her
uncle, George Petrescu, had emigrated from Romania in 1972, to
settle in Danville, Illinois. Within weeks of Ceauescu appointing
himself president, George had written to his brother imploring him
to come to America. When Ceauescu declared Romania a socialist
 
republic and made his wife Elena his deputy, George wrote to his
brother renewing his invitation, which included his young niece,
Anna.
Although Anna's parents refused to leave their homeland, they
did allow their seventeen-year-old daughter to be smuggled out of
Bucharest in 1987 and snipped off to America to stay with her
uncle, promising her that she could return the moment Ceauescu
had been overthrown. Anna never returned. She wrote home
regularly, begging her parents to join them in the States, but she
rarely received a response. Two years later she learned that her
father had been killed in a border skirmish while attempting to
oust the dictator. Her mother repeated that she would never leave
her native land, her excuse now being, 'Who would tend to your
father's grave?'
That much, one of Jack's squad members had been able to
discover from an essay Anna had written for her high school
magazine. One of her classmates had also written about the gentle
girl with long fair plaits and blue eyes, who came from somewhere
called Bucharest and knew so few words of English that she
couldn't even recite the Pledge of Allegiance at morning assembly.
By the end of her second year, Anna was editing the magazine,
from where Jack had gathered so much of his information.
From high school, Anna won a scholarship to Williams University
in Massachusetts to study art history. A local newspaper
recorded that she also won the inter-varsity mile against Cornell in
a time of 4 minutes 48 seconds. Jack followed Anna's progress to
the University of Pennsylvania, where she continued her studies
for a PhD, her chosen thesis subject the Fauve Movement. Jack
had to look up the word in Webster's. It referred to a group of
artists led by Matisse, Derain and Vlaminck who wished to break
away from the influence of Impressionism and move towards the
use of bright and dissonant colour. He also learned how the young
Picasso had left Spain to join the group in Paris, where he shocked
the public with paintings that Paris Match described as 'of no
lasting importance'; 'sanity will return,' they assured their readers.
It only made Jack want to read more about Vuillard, Luce and
Camois - artists he'd never heard of. But that would have to wait
 
for an off-duty moment, unless it became evidence that would nail
Fenston.
After Penn, Dr Petrescu joined Sotheby's as a graduate trainee.
Here Jack's information became somewhat sketchy as he could
allow his agents only limited contact with her former colleagues.
However, he did learn of her photographic memory, her rigorous
scholarship and the fact that she was liked by everyone from
the porters to the chairman. But no one would discuss in detail
what 'under a cloud' meant, although he did discover that she
would not be welcome back at Sotheby's under the present management.
And Jack couldn't fathom out why, despite her dismissal,
she considered joining Fenston Finance. For that part of his
enquiry he had to rely on speculation, because he couldn't risk
approaching anyone she worked with at the bank, although it was
clear that Tina Forster, the chairman's secretary, had become a
close friend.
In the short time Anna had worked at Fenston Finance, she
had visited several new clients who had recently taken out large
loans, all of whom were in possession of major art collections. Jack
feared that it could only be a matter of time before one of them
suffered the same fate as Fenston's three previous victims.
Jack ran onto West 86th Street. Three questions still needed
answering. One, how long had Fenston known Petrescu before she
joined the bank? Two, had they, or their families, known each
other in Romania? And three, was she the hired assassin?

Fenston scrawled his signature across the breakfast bill, rose from
his place and, without waiting for Leapman to finish his coffee,
marched out of the restaurant. He stepped into an open elevator,
but waited for Leapman to press the button for the eighty-third
floor. A group of Japanese men in dark blue suits and plain silk ties
joined them, having also had breakfast at Windows on the World.
Fenston never discussed business matters while in an elevator, well
aware that several of his rivals occupied the floors above and below
him.
When the elevator opened on the eighty-third floor, Leapman
 
followed his master out, but then turned the other way and headed
straight for Petrescu's office. He opened her door without knocking
to find Anna's assistant, Rebecca, preparing the files Anna would
need for her meeting with the chairman. Leapman barked out a
set of instructions that didn't invite questions. Rebecca immediately
placed the files on Anna's desk and went in search of a large
cardboard box.
Leapman walked back down the corridor and joined the
chairman in his office. They began to go over tactics for their
showdown with Petrescu. Although they had been through the
same procedure three times in the past eight years, Leapman
warned the chairman that it could be different this time.
What do you mean?' demanded Fenston.
1 don't think Petrescu will leave without putting up a fight,' he
said. 'After all, she isn't going to find it easy to get another job.'
'She certainly won't if I have anything to do with it,' said
Fenston, rubbing his hands.
'But perhaps in the circumstances, chairman, it might be wise if
I--'
A knock on the door interrupted their exchange. Fenston looked
up to see Barry Steadman, the bank's head of security, standing in
the doorway.
'Sorry to bother you, chairman, but there's a FedEx courier out
here, says he has a package for you and no one else can sign for it.'
Fenston waved the courier in and, without a word, penned
his signature in the little oblong box opposite his name. Leapman
looked on, but neither of them spoke until the courier had
departed and Barry had closed the door behind him.
'Is that what I think it is?' asked Leapman quietly.
We're about to find out,' said Fenston as he ripped open the
package and emptied its contents onto the desk.
They both stared down at Victoria Wentworth's left ear.
'See that Krantz is paid the other half million,' said Fenston.
Leapman nodded. 'And she's even sent a bonus,' said Fenston,
staring down at the antique diamond earring.
 
Anna finished packing just after seven. She left her suitcase in the hall, intending to return and pick it up on the way to the airport straight after work. Her flight to London was scheduled for 5.40pm
that afternoon, touching down at Heathrow just before sunrise the
following day. Anna much preferred taking the overnight flight,
when she could sleep and still have enough time to prepare herself
before joining Victoria for lunch at Wentworth Hall. She only hoped
that Victoria had read her report and would agree that selling the
Van Gogh privately was a simple solution to all her problems.
Anna left her apartment building for the second time that
morning, just after 7.20am. She hailed a taxi - an extravagance, but
one she justified by wanting to look her best for her meeting with
the chairman. She sat in the back of the cab and checked her
appearance in her compact mirror. Her recently acquired Anand
Jon suit and white silk blouse would surely make heads turn.
Although some might be puzzled by her black sneakers.
The cab took a right on FDR Drive and speeded up a little as
Anna checked her cellphone. There were three messages, all of
which she would deal with after the meeting: one from her
secretary, Rebecca, needing to speak to her urgently, which was
surprising given they were going to see each other in a few minutes'
time; confirmation of her flight from BA, and an invitation to
dinner with Robert Brooks, the new chairman of Bonhams.
Her cab drew up outside the entrance to the North Tower
twenty minutes later. She paid the driver and jumped out to join a
sea of workers as they filed towards the entrance and through the
bank of turnstiles. She took the shuttle express elevator, and less
than a minute later stepped out onto the dark green carpet of the
executive floor. Anna had once overheard in the elevator that each
floor was an acre in size, and some fifty thousand people worked
in a building that never closed - more than double the population
of her adopted home town of Danville, Illinois.
Anna went straight to her office and was surprised to find that
Rebecca wasn't waiting for her, especially as she knew how important
her eight o'clock meeting was. But she was relieved to see
that all the relevant files had been piled neatly on her desk. She
double-checked that they were in the order she had requested.

3
 
Anna still had a few minutes to spare, so she once again turned to
the Wentworth file and began reading her report. 'The value of the
Wentworth Estate falls into several categories. My department's
only interest is in . ..'

Tina Forster didn't rise until just after seven. Her appointment
with the dentist wasn't until eight thirty and Fenston had made it
clear that she needn't be on time this morning. That usually meant
he had an out-of-town appointment, or was going to fire someone.
If it was the latter, he wouldn't want her hanging around the office,
sympathizing with the person who had just lost their job. Tina
knew that it couldn't be Leapman, because Fenston wouldn't be
able to survive without the man, and although she would have
liked it to be Barry Steadman, she could dream on, because he
never missed an opportunity to praise the chairman, who absorbed
flattery like a beached sea sponge waiting for the next wave.

Tina lay soaking in the bath - a luxury she usually only allowed
herself at weekends - wondering when it would be her turn to be
fired. She'd been Fenston's personal assistant for over a year, and
although she despised the man and all he stood for, she'd still tried
to make herself indispensable. Tina knew that she couldn't consider
resigning until.. .
The phone rang in her bedroom, but she made no attempt to
answer it. She assumed it would be Fenston demanding to know
where a particular file was, a phone number, even his diary. 'On
the desk in front of you' was usually the answer. She wondered for
a moment if it might be Anna, the only real friend she'd made
since moving from the West Coast. Unlikely, she concluded, as
Anna would be presenting her report to the chairman at eight
o'clock, and was probably, even now, going over the finer details
for the twentieth time.
Tina smiled as she climbed out of the bath and wrapped a towel
round her body. She strolled across the corridor and into her
bedroom. Whenever a guest spent the night in her cramped
apartment they had to share her bed or sleep on the sofa. They
had little choice, as she only had one bedroom. Not many takers

3i
 
lately, and not because of any shortage of offers. But after what she'd been through with Fenston, Tina no longer trusted anyone.
Recently she'd wanted to confide in Anna, but this remained the
one secret she couldn't risk sharing.
Tina pulled open the curtains and, despite its being September,
the clear, sparkling morning convinced her that she should wear a
summer dress. It might even make her relax when she stared up at
the dentist's drill.
Once she was dressed and had checked her appearance in the
mirror, Tina went off to the kitchen and made herself a cup of
coffee. She wasn't allowed to have anything else for breakfast, not
even toast - instructions from the ferocious dental assistant - so
she flicked on the television to catch the early morning news.
There wasn't any. A suicide bomber on the West Bank was
followed by a 320-pound woman who was suing McDonald's for
ruining her sex life. Tina was just about to turn off Good Morning
America when the quarterback for the 49ers appeared on the
screen.
It made Tina think of her father.
 
7

Jack Delaney arrived at his office at 26 Federal Plaza just after
seven that morning. He felt depressed as he stared down at the
countless files that littered his desk. Every one of them connected
with his investigation of Bryce Fenston, and a year later he was no
nearer to presenting his boss with enough evidence to ask a judge
to issue an arrest warrant.
Jack opened Fenston's personal file in the vain hope that he
might stumble across some tiny clue, some personal trait, or just a
mistake that would finally link Fenston directly to the three vicious
murders that had taken place in Marseille, Los Angeles and Rio de
Janeiro.
In 1984, the 32-year-old Nicu Munteanu had presented himself
at the American Embassy in Bucharest, claiming that he could
identify two spies working in the heart of Washington, information
he was willing to trade in exchange for an American passport. A
dozen such claims were handled by the embassy every week and
almost all proved groundless, but in Munteanu's case the information
stood up. Within a month, two well-placed officials found
themselves on a flight back to Moscow, and Munteanu was issued
with an American passport.
Nicu Munteanu landed in New York on February 17, 1985.
Jack had been able to find little intelligence on Munteanu's
activities during the following year, but he suddenly re-emerged
with enough money to take over Fenston Finance, a small, ailing
bank in Manhattan. Nicu Munteanu changed his name to Bryce
Fenston - not a crime in itself - but no one could identify his
 
backers, despite the fact that during the next few years the bank
began to accept large deposits from unlisted companies across
Eastern Europe. Then in 1989 the cash flow suddenly dried up,
the same year as Ceauescu and his wife Elena fled from Bucharest
following the uprising. Within days they were captured, tried and
executed.
Jack looked out of his window over lower Manhattan, and
recalled the FBI maxim: never believe in coincidences, but never
dismiss them.
Following Ceauescu's death, the bank appeared to go through
a couple of lean years until Fenston met up with Karl Leapman, a
disbarred lawyer, who had recently been released from prison for
fraud. It was not too long before the bank resumed its profitable
ways.
Jack stared down at several photographs of Bryce Fenston, who
regularly appeared in the gossip columns with one of New York's
most fashionable women on his arm. He was variously described
as a brilliant banker, a leading financier, even a generous benefactor,
and with almost every mention of his name there was a
reference to his magnificent art collection. Jack pushed the photographs
to one side. He hadn't yet come to terms with a man who
wore an earring, and he was even more puzzled why someone
who had a full head of hair when he first came to America would
choose to shave himself bald. Who was he hiding from?
Jack closed the Munteanu/Fenston personal file, and turned his
attention to Pierre de Rochelle, the first of the victims.
Rochelle required seventy million francs to pay for his share
in a vineyard. His only previous experience of die wine industry
seemed to have come from draining the bottles on a regular basis. Even a cursory inspection would have revealed that his investment
plan didn't appear to fulfil the banking maxim of being 'sound'.
However, what caught Fenston's attention when he perused the
application was that the young man had recently inherited a
chateau in the Dordogne, in which every wall was graced with
fine Impressionist paintings, including a Degas, two Pissarros and
a Monet of Argenteuil.
The vineyard failed to show a return for four fruitless years,
 
during which time the chateau began to render up its assets,
leaving only outline shapes where the pictures had once hung.
By the time Fenston had shipped the last painting back to New
York to join his private collection, Pierre's original loan had, with
accumulated interest, more than doubled. When his chateau was
finally placed on the market, Pierre took up residence in a small
flat in Marseille, where each night he would drink himself into a
senseless stupor. That was until a bright young lady, just out of
law school, suggested to Pierre, in one of his sober moments, that
were Fenston Finance to sell his Degas, the Monet and the two
Pissarros, he could not only pay off his debt, but take the chateau
off the market and reclaim the rest of his collection. This suggestion
did not fit in with Fenston's long-term plans.
A week later, the drunken body of Pierre de Rochelle was
found slumped in a Marseille alley, his throat sliced open.
Four years later, the Marseille police closed the file, with the
words 'NON RESOLU' stamped on the cover.
When the estate was finally settled, Fenston had sold off all the
works, with the exception of the Degas, the Monet and the two
Pissarros, and after compound interest, bank charges and lawyers'
fees, Pierre's younger brother, Simon de Rochelle, inherited the
flat in Marseille.
Jack rose from behind his desk, stretched his cramped limbs
and yawned wearily, before he considered tackling Chris Adams Jr.
Although he knew Adams's case history almost by heart.

Chris Adams Senior had operated a highly successful fine art
gallery on Melrose Avenue in Los Angeles. He specialized in the
American School, so admired by the Hollywood glitterati. His
untimely death in a car crash left his son Chris Jr with a collection
of Rothkos, Pollocks, Jasper Johnses, Rauschenbergs and several
Warhol acrylics, including a Black Marilyn.
An old school friend advised Chris that the way to double his
money would be to invest in the dot.com revolution. Chris Jr
pointed out that he didn't have any ready cash, just the gallery, the
paintings and Christina, his father's old yacht - and even that was
half owned by his younger sister. Fenston Finance stepped in and
advanced him a loan of twelve million dollars, on their usual terms.
 
As in so many revolutions, several bodies ended up on the battlefield:
among them, Chris Jr's.
Fenston Finance allowed the debt to continue mounting without
ever troubling their client. That was until Chris Jr read in the Los Angeles Times that Warhol's Shot Bed Marilyn had recently
sold for over four million dollars. He immediately contacted Christie's
in LA, who assured him that he could expect an equally good
return for his Rothkos, Pollocks and Jasper Johnses. Three months
later, Leapman rushed into the chairman's office bearing the latest
copy of a Christie's sale catalogue. He had placed yellow Post-it
notes against seven different lots that were due to come under the
hammer. Fenston made one phone call, then booked himself on
the next flight to Rome.
Three days later, Chris Jr was discovered in the lavatory of a
gay bar with his throat cut.
Fenston was on holiday in Italy at the time, and Jack had a copy
of his hotel bill, plane tickets, and even his credit-card purchases
from several shops and restaurants.
The paintings were immediately withdrawn from the Christie's
sale while the LA police carried out their investigations. After
eighteen months of no new evidence and dead ends, the file joined
the other LAPD cold cases stored in the basement. All Chris's
sister ended up with was a model of Christina, her father's much
loved yacht.
Jack tossed Chris Jr's file to one side, and stared down at the
name of Maria Vasconcellos, a Brazilian widow who had inherited
a house and a lawn full of statues - and not of the garden-centre
variety. Moore, Giacometti, Remington, Botero and Calder were
among Senora Vasconcellos's husband's bequest. Unfortunately,
she fell in love with a gigolo, and when he suggested-- The phone
rang on Jack's desk.
'Our London embassy is on line two,' his secretary informed him.
'Thanks, Sally,' said Jack, knowing it could only be his friend
Tom Crasanti, who had joined the FBI on the same day as he had.
'Hi, Tom, how are you?' he asked even before he heard a voice.
'In good shape,' Tom replied. 'Still running every day, even if
I'm not as fit as you.'
 
'And my godson?'
'He's learning to play cricket.'
'The traitor. Got any good news?'
'No,' said Tom, 'that's why I'm calling. You're going to have to
open another file.'
Jack felt a cold shiver run through his body. "Who is it this
time?' he asked quietly.
'The lady's name, and Lady she was, is Victoria Wentworth.'
'How did she die?'
'In exactly the same manner as the other three, throat cut,
almost certainly with a kitchen knife.'
'What makes you think Fenston was involved?'
'She owed the bank over thirty million.'
'And what was he after this time?'
'A Van Gogh self-portrait.'
'Value?'
'Sixty, possibly seventy million dollars.'
'I'll be on the next plane to London.'
 
8

At 7.56, Anna closed the Wentworth file and bent down to open
the bottom drawer of her desk. She slipped off her sneakers and
replaced them with a pair of black high-heeled shoes. She rose
from her chair, gathered up the files and glanced in the mirror not
a hair out of place.
Anna stepped out of her office and walked down the corridor
towards the large corner suite. Two or three members of staff
greeted her with 'Good morning, Anna', which she acknowledged
with a smile. A gentle knock on the chairman's door - she knew
Fenston would already be seated at his desk. Had she been even a
minute late, he would have pointedly stared at his watch. Anna
waited for an invitation to enter, and was surprised when the
door was immediately pulled open and she came face to face with
Karl Leapman. He was wearing an almost identical suit to the one
Fenston had on, even if it wasn't of the same vintage.
'Good morning, Karl,' she said brightly, but didn't receive a
response.
The chairman looked up from behind his desk and motioned
Anna to take the seat opposite him. He also didn't offer any
salutation, but then he rarely did. Leapman took his place on the
right of the chairman and slightly behind him, like a cardinal in
attendance on the Pope. Status clearly defined. Anna assumed that
Tina would appear at any moment with a cup of black coffee, but
the secretary's door remained resolutely shut.
Anna glanced up at the Monet of Argenteuil that hung on the
wall behind the chairman's desk. Although Monet had painted the
 
peaceful riverbank scene on several occasions, this was one of the
finest examples. Anna had once asked Fenston where he'd acquired
the painting, but he'd been evasive, and she couldn't find any
reference to the sale among past transactions.
She looked across at Leapman, whose lean and hungry look
reminded her of Cassius. It didn't seem to matter what time of day
it was, he always looked as if he needed a shave. She turned her
attention to Fenston, who was certainly no Brutus, and shifted
uneasily in her chair, trying not to appear fazed by the silence,
which was suddenly broken, on Fenston's nod.
'Dr Petrescu, some distressing information has been brought to
the attention of the chairman,' Leapman began. 'It would appear,'
he continued, 'that you sent one of the bank's private and confidential
documents to a client, before the chairman had been given the
chance to consider its implications.'
For a moment Anna was taken by surprise, but she quickly
recovered and decided to respond in kind. 'If, Mr Leapman, you are
referring to my report concerning the loan to the Wentworth Estate,
you are correct. I did send a copy to Lady Victoria Wentworth.'
'But the chairman was not given enough time to read that report
and make a considered judgement before you forwarded it to the
client,' said Leapman, looking down at some notes.
'That is not the case, Mr Leapman. Both you and the chairman
were sent copies of my report on September first, with a recommendation
that Lady Victoria should be advised of her position
before the next quarterly payment was due.'
'I never received the report,' said Fenston brusquely.
'And indeed,' said Anna, still looking at Leapman, 'the chairman
acknowledged such, when his office returned the form I attached
to that report.'
'I never saw it,' repeated Fenston.
Which he initialled,' said Anna, who opened her file, extracted
the relevant form and placed it on the desk in front of Fenston.
He ignored it.
'The least you should have done was wait for my opinion,' said
Fenston, 'before allowing a copy of a report on such a sensitive
subject to leave this office.'
 
Anna still couldn't work out why they were spoiling for a fight.
They weren't even playing good cop, bad cop.
'I waited for a week, chairman,' she replied, 'during which time
you made no comment on my recommendations, despite the fact
that I will be flying to London this evening to keep an appointment
with Lady Victoria tomorrow afternoon. However,' Anna continued
before the chairman could respond, 'I sent you a reminder two
days later.' She opened her file again, and placed a second sheet of
paper on the chairman's desk. Once again he ignored it.
'But I hadn't read your report,' Fenston said repeating himself,
clearly unable to depart from his script.
Stay calm, girl, stay calm, Anna could hear her father whispering
in her ear.
She took a deep breath before continuing. 'My report does no
more, and certainly no less, than advise the board, of which I am a
member, that if we were to sell the Van Gogh, either privately or
through one of the recognized auction houses, the amount raised
would more than cover the bank's original loan, plus interest.'
'But it might not have been my intention to sell the Van Gogh,'
said Fenston, now clearly straying from his script.
Tou would have been left with no choice, chairman, had that
been the wish of our client.'
'But I may have come up with a better solution for dealing with
the Wentworth problem.'
'If that was the case, chairman,' said Anna evenly, 'I'm only
surprised you didn't consult the head of the department concerned,
so that, at least as colleagues, we could have discussed any difference
of opinion before I left for England tonight.'
'That is an impertinent suggestion,' said Fenston, raising his
voice to a new level. 'I report to no one.'
'I don't consider it is impertinent, chairman, to abide by the
law,' said Anna calmly. 'It's no more than the bank's legal requirement
to report any alternative recommendations to their clients.
As I feel sure you realize, under the new banking regulations, as
proposed by the IRS and recently passed by Congress--'
'And I feel sure you realize,' said Fenston, 'that your first
responsibility is to me.'
 
'Not if I believe that an officer of the bank is breaking the law,'
Anna replied, 'because that's something I am not willing to be a
party to.'
'Are you trying to goad me into firing you?' shouted Fenston.
'No, but I have a feeling that you are trying to goad me into
resigning,' said Anna quietly.
'Either way,' said Fenston, swivelling round in his chair and
staring out of the window, 'it is clear you no longer have a role to
play in this bank, as you are simply not a team player - something
they warned me about when you were dismissed from Sotheby's.'
Don't rise, thought Anna. She pursed her lips and stared at
Fenston's profile. She was about to reply when she noticed there
was something different about him, and then she spotted the new
earring. Vanity will surely be his downfall, she thought as he
swivelled back round and glared at her. She didn't react.
'Chairman, as I suspect this conversation is being recorded, I
would like to make one thing absolutely clear. You don't appear to
know a great deal about banking law, and you clearly know nothing
about employment law, because enticing a colleague to swindle a
naive woman out of her inheritance is a criminal offence, as I feel
sure Mr Leapman, with all his experience, of both sides of the law,
will be happy to explain to you.'
'Get out, before I throw you out,' screamed Fenston, jumping
up from his chair and towering over Anna. She rose slowly, turned
her back on Fenston and walked towards the door.
'And the first thing you can do is clear your desk because I want
you out of your office in ten minutes. If you are still on the
premises after that, I will instruct security to escort you from
the building.'
Anna didn't hear Fenston's last remark as she had already
closed the door quietly behind her.
The first person Anna saw as she stepped into the corridor was
Barry, who had clearly been tipped off. The whole episode was
beginning to look as if it had been choreographed long before
she'd entered the building.
Anna walked back down the corridor with as much dignity as
she could muster, despite Barry matching her stride for stride and

4i
 
occasionally touching her elbow. She passed an elevator that was being held open for someone and wondered who. Surely it couldn't be for her. Anna was back in her office less than fifteen minutes
after she'd left it. This time Rebecca was waiting for her. She was
standing behind her desk clutching a large brown cardboard box.
Anna walked across to her desk, and was just about to turn on her
computer when a voice behind her said, 'Don't touch anything.
Your personal belongings have already been packed, so let's go.'
Anna turned round to see Barry still hovering in the doorway.
'I'm so sorry,' said Rebecca. 'I tried to phone and warn you,
but--'
'Don't speak to her,' barked Barry, just hand over the box.
She's outta here.' Barry rested the palm of his hand on the knuckle
of his truncheon. Anna wondered if he realized just how stupid he
looked. She turned back to Rebecca and smiled.
'It's not your fault,' she said as her secretary handed over the
cardboard box.
Anna placed the box on the desk, sat down and pulled open the
bottom drawer.
'You can't remove anything that belongs to the company,' said
Barry.
'I feel confident that Mr Fenston won't be wanting my sneakers,'
said Anna, as she removed her high-heeled shoes and placed
them in the box. Anna pulled on her sneakers, tied the laces,
picked up the box and headed back into the corridor. Any attempt
at dignity was no longer possible. Every employee knew that raised
voices in the chairman's office followed by Barry escorting you
from the premises meant only one thing: you were about to be
handed your pink slip. This time passers-by quickly retreated into
their offices, making no attempt to engage Anna in conversation.
The head of security accompanied his charge to an office at the
far end of the corridor that Anna had never entered before. When
she walked in, Barry once again positioned himself in the doorway.
It was clear that they'd also been fully briefed, because she was
met by another employee who didn't even venture 'good morning'
for fear it would be reported to the chairman. He swivelled a piece
of paper around that displayed the figures $9,116 in bold type.
 
Anna's monthly salary. She signed on the dotted line without
comment.
"The money will be wired through to your account later today,'
he said without raising his eyes.
Anna turned to find her watchdog still prowling around outside,
trying hard to look menacing. When she left the accounts office,
Barry accompanied her on the long walk back down an empty
corridor.
When they reached the elevator, Barry pressed the down arrow,
while Anna continued to cling onto her cardboard box.
They were both waiting for the elevator doors to open when
American Airlines Flight 11 out of Boston crashed into the ninety
fourth floor of the North Tower.
 
Ruth Parish looked up at the departure monitor on the wall
above her desk. She was relieved to see that United's flight 107
bound for JFK had finally taken off at 1.40pm. Forty minutes
behind schedule.
Ruth and her partner Sam had founded Art Locations nearly a
decade before, and when he left her for a younger woman Ruth
ended up with the company - by far the better part of the bargain.
Ruth was married to the job, despite its long hours, demanding
customers and planes, trains and cargo vessels that never arrived
on time. Moving great, and not so great, works of art from one
corner of the globe to the other allowed her to combine a natural
flair for organization with a love of beautiful objects - if sometimes
she saw the objects only for a fleeting moment.
Ruth travelled around the world accepting commissions from
governments who were planning national exhibitions, while also
dealing with gallery owners, dealers and several private collectors,
who often wanted nothing more than to move a favourite painting
from one home to another. Over the years, many of her customers
had become personal friends. Rut not Bryce Fenston. Ruth had
long ago concluded that the words 'please' and 'thank you' were
not in this man's vocabulary, and she certainly wasn't on his
Christmas card list. Fenston's latest demand had been to collect a
Van Gogh from Wentworth Hall and transport it, without delay, to
his office in New York.
Obtaining an export licence for the masterpiece had not proved
difficult, as few institutions or museums could raise the sixty million
 
dollars necessary to stop the painting leaving the country.
Especially after the National Galleries of Scotland had recently
failed to raise the required 7 pounds 5 pencemillion to ensure that Michelangelo's Study of a Mourning Woman didn't leave these shores to
become part of a private collection in the States.

When a Mr Andrews, the butler at Wentworth Hall, had rung
the previous day to say that the painting would be ready for
collection in the morning, Ruth had scheduled one of her high
security air-ride trucks to be at the hall by eight o'clock. Ruth was
pacing up and down the tarmac long before the truck turned up at
her office, just after ten.
Once the painting was unloaded, Ruth supervised every aspect
of its packing and safe dispatch to New York, a task she would
normally have left to one of her managers. She stood over her
senior packer as he wrapped the painting in acid-free glassine
paper and then placed it into the foam-lined case he'd been
working on throughout the night so it would be ready in time. The
captive bolts were tightened on the case, preventing anyone breaking
into it without a sophisticated socket set. Special indicators
were attached to the outside of the case that would turn red if
anyone attempted to open it during its journey. The senior packer
stencilled the word 'FRAGILE' on both sides of the box and the
number '47' in all four corners. The customs officer had raised an
eyebrow when he checked the shipping papers, but as an export
licence had been granted, the eyebrow returned to its natural
position.
Ruth drove across to the waiting 747 and watched as the red
box disappeared into the vast hold. She didn't return to her office
until the heavy door was secured in place. She checked her watch
and smiled. The plane had taken off at 1.40pm.
Ruth began to think about the painting that would be arriving
from the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam later that evening to form
part of the Rembrandt's Women exhibition at the Royal Academy.
But not before she had put a call through to Fenston Finance to
inform them that the Van Gogh was on its way.
She dialled Anna's number in New York, and waited for her to
pick up the phone.
 
There was a loud explosion, and the building began to sway
from side to side.
Anna was hurled across the corridor, ending up flat on the
canvas as if she'd been floored by a heavyweight boxer. The
elevator doors opened and she watched as a fireball of fuel shot
through the shaft, searching for oxygen. The hot blast slapped her
in the face as if the door of an oven had been thrown open. Anna
lay on the ground, dazed.
Her first thought was that the building must have been struck
by lightning, but she quickly dismissed that idea as there wasn't a
cloud in the sky. An eerie silence followed and Anna wondered if
she had gone deaf, but this was soon replaced by screams of 'Oh,
my God!' as huge shards of jagged glass, twisted metal and office
furniture flew past the windows in front of her.
It must be another bomb, was Anna's second thought. Everyone
who had been in the building in 1993 retold stories of what had
happened to them on that bitterly cold February afternoon. Some
of them were apocryphal, others pure invention, but the facts
were simple. A truck filled with explosives had been driven into
the underground garage beneath the building. When it exploded,
six people were killed and over a thousand injured. Five underground
floors were wiped out, and it took several hours for the
emergency services to evacuate the building. Since then, everyone
who worked in the World Trade Center had been required to
participate in regular fire drills. Anna tried to remember what she
was supposed to do in such an emergency.
 
wm ? nmvivii

She recalled the clear instructions printed in red on the exit
door to the stairwell on every floor: 'In case of emergency, do not
return to your desk, do not use the elevator, exit by the nearest
stairwell.' But first Anna needed to find out if she could even stand
up, aware that part of the ceiling had collapsed on her and the
building was still swaying. She tried tentatively to push herself up,
and although she was bruised and cut in several places, nothing
seemed to be broken. She stretched for a moment, as she always
did before starting out on a long run.
Anna abandoned what was left of the contents of the cardboard
box and stumbled towards stairwell C in the centre of the building.
Some of her colleagues were also beginning to recover from the
initial shock, and one or two even returned to their desks to pick
up personal belongings.
As Anna made her way along the corridor, she was greeted with
a series of questions to which she had no answers.
What are we supposed to do?' asked a secretary.
'Should we go up or down?' said a cleaner.
'Do we wait to be rescued?' asked a bond dealer.
These were all questions for the security officer, but Barry was
nowhere to be seen.
Once Anna reached the stairwell, she joined a group of dazed
people, some silent, some crying, who weren't quite sure what to
do next. No one seemed to have the slightest idea what had caused
the explosion or why the building was still swaying. Although
several of the lights on the stairwell had been snuffed out like
candles, the photoluminescent strip that ran along the edge of each
step shone brightly up at her.
Some of those around her were trying to contact the outside world
on their cellphones, but few were succeeding. One who did get
through was chatting to her boyfriend. She was telling him that her
boss had told her she could go home, take the rest of the day off.
Another began to relay to those around him the conversation he was
having with his wife: 'A plane has hit the North Tower,' he announced.
'But where, where?' shouted several voices at once. He asked
his wife the same question. 'Above us, somewhere in the nineties,'
he said, passing on her reply.
 
'But what are we meant to do?' asked the chief accountant, who
hadn't moved from the top step. The younger man repeated the
question to his wife, and waited for her reply. 'The mayor is
advising everyone to get out of the building as quickly as possible.'
On hearing this news, all those in the stairwell began their
descent to the eighty-second floor. Anna looked back through the
glass window and was surprised to see how many people had
remained at their desks, as if they were in a theatre after the
curtain had come down and had decided to wait until the initial
rush had dispersed.
Anna took the mayor's advice. She began to count the steps as
she walked down each flight - eighteen to each floor, which she
calculated meant at least another fifteen hundred before she would
reach the lobby. The stairwell became more and more crowded as
countless people swarmed out of their offices to join them on each
floor, making it feel like a crowded subway during rush hour. Anna
was surprised by how calm the descending line was.
The stairwell quickly separated into two lanes, with the slowest
on the inside while the latest models were able to pass on the
outside. But just like any highway, not everyone kept to the code,
so regularly everything came to a complete standstill before moving
off unsteadily again. Whenever they reached a new stairwell, some
pulled into the hard shoulder, while others motored on.
Anna passed an old man who was wearing a black felt hat. She
recalled seeing him several times during the past year, always
wearing the same hat. She turned to smile at him and he raised his
hat.
On, on, on she trudged, sometimes reaching the next floor in
less than a minute, but more often being held up by those who
had become exhausted after descending only a few floors. The
outside lane was becoming more and more crowded, making it
impossible for her to break the speed limit.
Anna heard the first clear order when she reached the sixty
eighth floor.
'Get to the right, and keep moving,' said an authoritative voice
from somewhere below her. Although the instruction became
louder with each step she took, it was still several more floors
 
before she spotted the first fireman heading slowly towards her.
He was wearing a baggy fireproof suit and sweating profusely
under his black helmet emblazoned with the number 28. Anna
could only wonder what state he'd be in after he'd climbed another
thirty floors. He also appeared to be overloaded with equipment:
coiled ropes over one shoulder and two oxygen tanks on his back,
like a mountaineer trying to conquer Everest. Another fireman
followed closely behind, carrying a vast length of hose, six pole
arms and a large bottle of drinking water. He was dripping so
much sweat that from time to time he removed his helmet and
poured some of the drinking water over his head.
Those who continued to leave their offices and join Anna in her
downward migration were mostly silent, until an old man in front
of her tripped and fell on a woman. The woman cut her leg on the
sharp edge of the step and began to scream at the old man.
'Get on with it,' said a voice behind her. 'I made this journey
after the '93 bombing, and I can tell you, lady, you ain't seen
nothin' yet.'
Anna leant forward to help the old man to his feet, hindering
her own progress, while allowing others to scramble past her.
Whenever she reached a new stairwell, Anna stared through the
vast panes of glass at workers who remained at their desks,
apparently oblivious of those fleeing in front of their eyes. She
even overheard snatches of conversation through the open doors.
One of them, a broker on the sixty-second floor, was trying to close
a deal before the markets opened at nine o'clock. Another was
staring out at her, as if the pane of glass was a television screen
and he was reporting on a football game. He was giving a running
commentary over the phone to a friend in the South Tower.
More and more firemen were now climbing towards her,
turning the highway into two-way traffic, their constant cry: 'Get
to the right, keep moving.' Anna kept moving, her speed often
dictated by the slowest participant. Although the building had
stopped swaying, tension and fear could still be seen on the faces
of all those around her. They didn't know what had happened
above them, and had no idea what awaited them below. Anna felt
guilty as she passed an old woman who was being carried down in
 
a large leather chair by two young men, her legs swollen, her
breathing uneven.
On, on, on, Anna went, floor after floor, until even she began to]
feel tired.
She thought about Rebecca and Tina, and prayed they were
both safe. She even wondered if Fenston and Leapman were still sitting in the chairman's office, believing themselves impervious to
any danger.
Anna began to feel confident that she was now safe and would
eventually wake up from this nightmare. She even smiled at some
of the New York humour that was bouncing around her, until she
heard a voice behind her scream.
'A second plane has hit the South Tower.'
 
11

Jack was appalled by his first reaction when he heard what
sounded like a bomb exploding on the other side of the road. Sally
had rushed in to tell him that a plane had crashed into the North
Tower of the World Trade Center.
'Let's hope it scored a direct hit on Fenston's office,' he said.
His second thoughts were a little more professional, as expressed
when he joined Dick Macy, the Supervising Special Agent, along
with the rest of the senior agents in the command centre. While
other agents hit the phones in an attempt to make some sense of
what was happening less than a mile away, Jack told the SSA that
he was in no doubt that it was a well-planned act of terrorism.
When a second plane crashed into the South Tower at 9.03am, all
Macy said was, 'Yes, but which terrorist organization?'
Jack's third reaction was delayed, and it took him by surprise.
He hoped that Anna Petrescu had managed to escape, but when
the South Tower came crashing down fifty-six minutes later, he
assumed it would not be long before the North Tower followed suit.
He returned to his desk and switched on his computer. Information
was flooding in from their Massachusetts field office, reporting
that the two attack flights had originated out of Boston and two
more were in the air. Calls from passengers in those planes that
had taken off from the same airport suggested they were also under
the terrorists' control. One was heading for Washington.
The President, George W. Bush, was visiting a school in Florida
when the first plane struck, and he was quickly whisked off to
Barksdale Air Force Base in Louisiana. Vice-president Dick Cheney

5i
 
was in Washington. He'd already given clear instructions to shoot
down the other two planes. The order was not carried out. Cheney
also wanted to know which terrorist organization was responsible,
as the President planned to address the nation later that evening
and he was demanding answers. Jack remained at his desk, taking
calls from his agents on the ground, frequently reporting back to
Macy. One of those agents, Joe Corrigan, reported that Fenston
and Leapman had been seen entering a building on Wall Street
just before the first plane crashed into the North Tower. Jack
looked down at the many files strewn across his desk and dismissed
as wishful thinking, 'Case Closed'.
'And Petrescu?' he asked.
'No idea,' Joe replied. 'All I can tell you is that she was seen
entering the building at seven forty-six, and hasn't been seen since.'
Jack looked up at the TV screen. A third plane had crashed
into the Pentagon. The White House must be next, was his only
thought.

'A second plane's hit the South Tower,' a lady on the step above
Anna repeated. Anna refused to believe that kind of freak accident
could happen twice on the same day.
'It's no accident,' said another voice from behind, as if reading
her thoughts. 'The only plane to crash into a building in New York
was in '45. Flew into the seventy-ninth floor of the Empire State
Building. But that was on a foggy day, without any of the sophisticated
tracking devices they've got now. And don't forget, the air
space above the city is a no-fly zone, so it must have been well
planned. My bet is we're not the only folks in trouble.'
Within minutes, conspiracy theories, terrorist attacks and stories
of freak accidents were being bandied about by people who had
no idea what they were talking about. There would have been
a stampede if they could have moved any faster. Anna quickly
became aware that several people on the staircase were now
masking their worst fears by all talking at once.
'Keep to the right, and keep moving,' was the constant cry
emanating from whatever uniform trudged passed them. Some
 
of the migrants on the downward journey began to tire, allowing
Anna to overtake them. She was thankful for all those hours spent
running around Central Park and the shot after shot of adrenaline
that kept her going.
It was somewhere in the lower forties that Anna first smelled
smoke, and she could hear some of those on the floors below her
coughing loudly. When she reached the next stairwell, the smoke
became denser and quickly filled her lungs. She covered her eyes
and began coughing uncontrollably. Anna recalled reading somewhere
that 90 per cent of deaths in a fire are caused by smoke
inhalation. Her fears were only exacerbated when those ahead of
her slowed to a crawl and finally came to a halt. The coughing had
turned into an epidemic. Had they all become trapped, with no
escape route up or down?
'Keep moving,' came the clear order from a fireman heading
towards them. It gets worse for a couple of floors but then you'll
be through it,' he assured those who were still hesitating. Anna
stared into the face of the man who had given the order with such
authority. She obeyed him, confident that the worst must surely
be behind her. She kept her eyes covered and continued coughing
for another three floors, but the fireman turned out to be
right, because the smoke was already beginning to disperse. Anna
decided to listen only to the professionals coming up die stairwell
and to dismiss the opinions of any amateurs going down.
A sudden feeling of relief swept through those emerging from
the smoke, and they immediately tried to speed up their descent.
But sheer numbers prevented swift progress in the one-way traffic
lane. Anna tried to remain calm as she slipped in behind a blind
man, who was being led down the stairs by his guide dog. 'Don't
be frightened by the smoke, Rosie,' said the man. The dog wagged
its tail.
Down, down, down, the pace always dictated by the person in
front. By the time Anna reached the deserted cafeteria on the
thirty-ninth floor, the overloaded firemen had been joined by Port
Authority officers and policemen from the Emergency Service Unit
- the most popular of all New York's cops because they deal only
in safety and rescue, no parking tickets, no arrests. Anna felt guilty
 
about passing those who were willing to continue going up while
she went in the opposite direction.
By the time Anna reached the twenty-fourth floor, several
bedraggled stragglers were stopping to take a rest, a few even
congregating to exchange anecdotes, while others were still refusing
to leave their offices, unable to believe that a problem on the
ninety-fourth floor could possibly affect them. Anna looked around,
desperately hoping to see a familiar face, perhaps Rebecca or Tina,
even Barry, but she could have been in a foreign land.
"We've got a level three up here, possibly level four,' a battalion
commander was saying over his radio, 'so I'm sweeping every floor.'
Anna watched the commander as he systematically cleared every
office. It took him some time because each floor was the size of a
football field.
On the twenty-first floor, one individual remained resolutely at
his desk; he'd just settled a currency deal for a billion dollars and
he was awaiting confirmation of the transaction.
'OUT,' shouted the battalion commander, but the smartly
dressed man ignored the order and continued tapping away on his
keyboard. 'I said OUT,' repeated the senior fire officer, as two of
his younger officers lifted the man out of his chair and deposited
him in the stairwell. The unfulfilled broker reluctantly joined the
exodus.
When Anna reached the twentieth floor, she encountered a new
problem. She had to wade through water that was now pouring in
on them from the sprinklers and leaking pipes on every floor. She
stepped tentatively over fragments of broken glass and flaming
debris that littered the stairwell and were beginning to slow
everyone down. She felt like a football fan trying to get out of a
crowded stadium that had only one turnstile. When she finally
reached the teens, her progress became dramatically faster. All the
floors below her had been cleared, and fewer and fewer office staff
were joining them on the stairs.
On the tenth floor, Anna stared through an open door into a
deserted office. Computer screens were still flickering and chairs had been pushed aside as if their occupants had gone to the
washroom and would be back at any moment. Plastic cups of cold
 
coffee and half-drunk cans of Coke littered almost every surface.
Papers were scattered everywhere, even on the floor, while silver
framed family photographs remained in place. Someone following
closely behind Anna bumped into her, so she quickly moved on.
By the time Anna reached the seventh floor, it was no longer
her fellow workers, but the water and flotsam that were holding
her up. She was picking her way tentatively through the debris
when she first heard the voice. To begin with, it was faint, and
then it became a little louder. The sound of a megaphone was
coming from somewhere below them, urging her on. 'Keep moving,
don't look back, don't use your cellphones - it slows up those
behind you.'
Three more floors had to be negotiated before she found herself
back in the lobby, paddling through inches of water, and on past
the express shuttle elevator that had whisked her up to her office
only a couple of hours before. Suddenly even more sprinklers
jetted down from the ceiling above, but Anna was already drenched
to the skin.
The orders bellowing from the megaphones were becoming
louder and louder by the moment, and their demands even more
strident. 'Keep moving, get out of the building, get as far away as
you possibly can.' Not that easy, Anna wanted to tell them. When
she reached the turnstiles she'd passed through earlier that morning,
she found them battered and twisted. They must have been
brushed aside by wave after wave of firemen when they transported
their heavy equipment into the building.
" Anna felt disorientated and unsure what to do next. Should she
wait for her colleagues to join her? She stood still, but only for a
moment, before she heard another insistent command that she felt
was being addressed directly at her. 'Keep moving, lady, don't use
your cellphone, and don't look back.'
'But where do we go?' someone shouted.
'Down the escalator, through the mall, and then get as far away from the building as possible.'
Anna joined die horde of tired savages as they stepped onto an
overcrowded escalator. She allowed it to carry her down to the
concourse before taking another escalator up to the open promenade,
 
where she often joined Tina and Rebecca for an al fresco lunch
while they enjoyed an open-air concert. No open air now, and
certainly no calming sound of a violin - just another voice bellowing,
'Don't look back, don't look back.' An order Anna disobeyed,
which not only slowed her down, but also caused her to fall on her
knees retching. She watched in disbelief as first one person then
another, who must have been trapped above the ninetieth floor,
jumped out of their office windows to a certain death rather than
face the slow agony of burning. 'Get back on your feet, lady, and
keep movin'.'
Anna picked herself up and stumbled forward, suddenly aware
that none of the officers in charge of the evacuation was making
eye contact with those fleeing from the building or even attempting
to answer any of their individual questions. She assumed this
must be because it would only slow things down and impede the
progress of those still trying to get out of the building.
When Anna passed Borders bookshop, she glanced in the
window displaying the number-one bestseller, Valhalla Rising.
'Keep movin', lady,' a voice repeated, even louder.
Where to?' she asked desperately.
'Anywhere, but just keep goin'.'
'In which direction?'
'I don't care, as long as it's as far away from the tower as
possible.'
Anna spat out the last bits of vomit as she continued to move
away from the building.
When she reached the entrance to the plaza, she came across
firetrucks and ambulances that were tending to the walking
wounded and those who just simply couldn't manage another step.
Anna didn't waste their time. When she finally reached the road,
she looked up to see a sign with an arrow covered in black grime.
She could just make out the words 'City Hall'. Anna began jogging
for the first time. Her jog turned into a run and she started to
overtake some of those who had departed earlier from the lower
floors. And then she heard another unfamiliar noise behind her. It
sounded like a clap of thunder that seemed to grow louder and
louder by the second. She didn't want to look back, but she did.
 
Anna stood transfixed as she watched the South Tower collapse
in front of her eyes, as if it had been constructed of bamboo. In
a matter of seconds, the remnants of the building came crashing
to the ground, throwing up dust and debris that mushroomed
into the sky, causing a dense mountain of flames and fumes that
hovered for a moment, then began to advance indiscriminately
through the crowded streets, engulfing anyone and everyone who
stood in its way.
Anna ran as she had never run before, but she knew it was
hopeless. It could only be a matter of seconds before the grey
ruthless snake was upon her, suffocating all in its progress. Anna
wasn't in any doubt that she was about to die. She only hoped it
would be quick.

Fenston stared across at the World Trade Center from the safety
of an office on Wall Street.
He watched in disbelief as a second plane flew directly into the
South Tower.
While most New Yorkers worried about how they could assist
their friends, relations and colleagues at this tragic time, and others
what it meant for America, Fenston had only one thought on his
mind.
He and Leapman had arrived on Wall Street for their meeting
with a prospective client only moments before the first plane
crashed into the North Tower. Fenston abandoned his appointment
and spent the next hour on a public telephone in the corridor
trying to contact someone, anyone, in his office, but no one
responded to his calls. Others would have liked to use the phone,
but Fenston didn't budge. Leapman was carrying out the same
exercise on his cellphone.
When Fenston heard a second volcanic eruption, he left the
phone dangling and rushed to the window. Leapman walked
quickly across to join him. They both stood in silence as they
watched the South Tower collapse.
It can't be long before the North Tower goes the same way,'
said Fenston.
 
"Then I think we can assume that Petrescu will not survive,' said Leapman, matter-of-factly.
'I don't give a damn about Petrescu,' said Fenston. 'If the North
Tower goes, then I've lost my Monet, and it isn't insured.'
 
12

Anna began running flat out, more and more aware, with
each step she took, that everything around her was becoming
quieter. One by one the screams were dying, and she knew she
had to be next. There no longer seemed to be anyone behind her,
and for the first time in her life Anna wanted someone to overtake
her, anyone, just so she didn't feel like the last person on earth.
She now understood what it must be like to be pursued by an
avalanche at a speed ten times faster than any human could
achieve. This particular avalanche was black.
Anna took deep breaths as she forced her body to achieve
speeds that she had never experienced before. She lifted her white
silk blouse - now black, sodden and crumpled - and placed it over
her mouth, just moments before she was overtaken by the relentless,
all-enveloping grey cloud.
A whoosh of uncontrolled air hurled her forward and threw her
onto the ground, but she still tried desperately to keep moving.
She hadn't managed more than a few feet before she began
choking uncontrollably. She pushed forward for another yard, and
then another, until her head suddenly bumped into something
solid. Anna placed a hand on the surface of a wall and tried to feel
her way along. But was she walking away from, or back into, the
grey cloud? Ash, dirt, dust were in her mouth, eyes, ears, nose
and hair and clinging to her skin. It felt as if she was about to be
burned alive. Anna thought about the people she had seen jumping
because they felt that must be an easier way to die. She now
understood their feelings, but she had no building to jump from
 
and could only wonder how much longer it would be before she
suffocated. She took her last step, knelt down on the ground and began to pray.
Our Father ... She felt peaceful, and was about to close her
eyes and give way to deep sleep when out of nowhere she saw a
flashing police light. Who art in Heaven ... She made one last
effort to get back on her feet and move towards the blue light. Hallowed he thy name.. . but the car drifted past, unaware of
her plaintive cry for help. Thy Kingdom come ... Anna fell once
again and cut her knee on the edge of the sidewalk, Thy will he
done. . . but felt nothing. On earth, as it is in Heaven. She clung
onto the edge of the sidewalk with her right hand and somehow
managed a few more inches. She was about to stop breathing when
she thought she touched something warm. Was it alive? 'Help,' she
murmured feebly, expecting no response.
'Give me your hand,' came back the immediate reply. His grip
was firm. Try and stand.'
With his help, Anna somehow pushed herself up. 'Can you see
that triangle of light coming from over there?' the voice said, but
she couldn't even see where he was pointing. Anna turned a
complete circle, and stared into 360 degrees of black night.
Suddenly she let out a muffled yelp of joy when she spotted a ray
of sunlight trying to break through the heavy overcoat of gloom.
She took the stranger's hand and they began inching towards a
light that grew brighter and brighter with every step, until she
finally walked out of hell and back into New York.
Anna turned to the grey ash-coated figure who had saved her
life. His uniform was so covered in dirt and dust that if he hadn't
been wearing the familiar peaked cap and badge she wouldn't have
known that he was a cop. He smiled and cracks appeared on his
face as if he was daubed in heavy makeup. 'Keep heading towards
the light,' he said, and disappeared back into the murky cloud
before she could thank him. Amen.

Fenston gave up trying to contact his office only when he saw the
North Tower collapse in front of his eyes. He replaced the receiver
 
and rushed back down the unfamiliar corridor to find Leapman
scrawling SOLD on a 'To Rent' board that was attached to the
door of an empty office.
Tomorrow there will be ten thousand people after this space,'
he explained, 'so at least that's one problem solved.'
Tou may be able to replace an office, but what you can't replace
is my Monet,' Fenston said ungraciously. He paused. 'And if I
don't get my hands on the Van Gogh
Leapman checked his watch. 'It should be halfway across the
Atlantic by now.'
'Let's hope so, because we no longer have any documentation
to prove we even own the painting,' said Fenston as he looked out
of the window and stared at a grey cloud that hung above the
ground where the Twin Towers had once proudly stood.

Anna joined a group of fellow stragglers as they emerged out of
the gloom. Her compatriots looked as if they'd already completed
a marathon, but hadn't yet reached the finish line. Coming out
of such darkness, Anna found she couldn't bear to look up at
the glaring sun; even opening her dust-covered eyelids demanded
effort. On, on, she stumbled, inch by inch, foot by foot, coughing
up dirt and dust with every step, wondering how much more
black liquid there could possibly be left in her body. After a few
more paces she collapsed onto her knees, convinced the grey cloud
could no longer overtake her. She continued coughing, spitting.
When Anna looked up, she became aware of a group of startled
onlookers, who were staring at her as if she'd just landed from another planet.
"Were you in one of the towers?' asked one of them. She didn't
have the strength to answer, and decided to get as far away from
their gawping eyes as possible. Anna had only covered a few more
paces before she bumped into a Japanese tourist who was bending
down trying to take a photograph of her. She angrily waved him
away. He immediately bowed even lower, and apologized.
When Anna reached the next intersection, she collapsed on the
sidewalk and stared up at the street sign - she was on the corner
 
of Franklin and Church. I'm only a few blocks from Tina's
apartment, was her first thought. But as Tina was still somewhere
behind her, how could she possibly have survived? Without warning,
a bus came to a halt by her side. Although it was as full as a
San Francisco tram car during rush hour, people edged back to
allow her to clamber on. The bus stopped on the corner of every
block, allowing some to jump off while others got on, with no
suggestion of anyone paying a fare. It seemed that all New Yorkers
were united in wanting to play some part in the unfolding drama.
'Oh my God,' whispered Anna as she sat on the bus, and buried
her head in her hands. For the first time she thought about the
firemen who had passed her on the stairwell, and of Tina and
Rebecca, who must be dead. It's only when you know someone
that a tragedy becomes more than a news item.
When the bus came to a halt in the village near Washington
Square Park, Anna almost fell off. She stumbled over to the
sidewalk, coughing up several more mouthfuls of grey dust that
she'd avoided bringing up while she was on the bus. A woman sat
down on the kerb beside her and offered her a bottle of water.
Anna filled her mouth several times before spitting out dollops of
black liquid. She emptied the bottle without swallowing a drop.
The woman then pointed in the direction of a small hotel where
escapees were trooping in and out in a steady stream. She bent
down and took Anna by the arm, guiding her gently towards the
ladies' room on the ground floor. The room was full of men and
women oblivious of their sex. Anna looked at herself in the mirror
and understood why onlookers had stared at her so curiously. It
was as if someone had poured several bags of grey ash all over her.
She left her hands under a flowing tap until only her nails remained
black. She then tried to remove a layer of the caked dust from her
face - an almost pointless exercise. She turned to thank the stranger,
but she, like the cop, had already disappeared to assist someone else.
Anna limped back onto the road, her throat dry, her knees cut,
her feet blistered and aching. As she stumbled slowly up Waverly
Place, she tried to remember the number of Tina's apartment. She
continued on past an uninhabited Waverly Diner before pausing
outside number 273.
 
Anna grabbed at the familiar wrought-iron balustrade like a lifeline
and yanked herself up the steps to the front door. She ran her
finger down the list of names by the side of the buzzers: Amato,
Kravits, Gambino, O'Rourke, Forster ... Forster, Forster, she
repeated joyfully, before pressing the little bell. But how could
Tina answer her call, when she must be dead, was Anna's only
thought. She left her finger on the buzzer as if it would bring Tina
to life, but it didn't. She finally gave up and turned to leave, tears
streaming down her dust-caked face, when out of nowhere an irate
voice demanded, "Who is it?'
Anna collapsed onto the top step.
'Oh thank God,' she cried, 'you're alive, you're alive.'
'But you can't be,' said a disbelieving voice.
'Open the door,' pleaded Anna, 'and you can see for yourself.'
The click of the entry button was the best sound Anna had
heard that day.
 
13

'You're alive,' repeated Tina as she flung open the front door
and threw her arms around her friend. Anna might resemble a
street urchin who had just climbed out of a Victorian chimney, but
it didn't prevent Tina from clinging to her.
'I was thinking about how you could always make me laugh, and
wondering if I'd ever laugh again, when the buzzer sounded.'
'And I was convinced that even if you'd somehow managed to
get out of the building, you still couldn't have survived once the
tower collapsed.'
'If I had a bottle of champagne, I'd open it so that we could
celebrate,' said Tina, finally letting go of her friend.
'I'll settle for a coffee, and then another coffee, followed by a
bath.'
'I do have coffee,' said Tina, who took Anna by the hand and
led her through to the small kitchen at the end of the corridor. She
left a set of grey footprints on the carpet behind her.
Anna sat down at a small round wooden table and kept her
hands in her lap while a soundless television was showing images
of the other side of the story. She tried to stay still, aware that
anything she touched was immediately smeared with ash and dirt.
Tina didn't seem to notice.
'I know this may sound a little strange,' said Anna, 'but I haven't
a clue what's going on.'
Tina turned up the sound on the television.
'Fifteen minutes of that,' Tina said as she filled the coffee pot,
'and you'll know everything.'
 
rxu<0B imriawinvn

Anna watched the endless replays of a plane flying into the
South Tower, people throwing themselves from the higher floors
to a certain death, and the collapse of first the South and then the
North Tower.
'And another plane hit the Pentagon?' she asked. 'So how many
more are out there?'
'There was a fourth,' said Tina, as she placed two mugs on the
table, 'but no one seems certain where it was heading.'
'The White House, possibly,' suggested Anna, as she looked up
at the screen to see President Bush speaking from Barksdale Air
Force Base in Louisiana: 'Make no mistake, the United States will
hunt down and punish those responsible for these cowardly acts.'
The images flashed back to the second plane flying into the
South Tower.
'Oh my God,' said Anna. 'I hadn't even thought about the
innocent passengers on board those planes. Who's responsible for
all this?' she demanded, as Tina filled her mug with black coffee.
'The State Department is being fairly cautious,' said Tina, 'and
all the usual suspects - Russia, North Korea, Iran and Iraq - have
all been quick to scream, "Not me," swearing they will do everything
they can to track down those responsible.'
'But what are the anchormen saying, because there's no reason
for them to be cautious.'
'CNN is pointing a finger at Afghanistan, and in particular at a
terrorist group called Al-Qaeda - I think that's how you pronounce
it, but I'm not sure as I've never heard of them,' Tina said as she
sat down opposite Anna.
'I think they're a bunch of religious fanatics, who I thought
were only interested in taking over Saudi Arabia so they could get
hold of its oil.' Anna glanced back up at the television and listened
to the commentator, who was trying to imagine what it must have
been like to be in the North Tower when the first plane struck.
How could you possibly know, Anna wanted to ask him. A hundred
minutes telescoped into a few seconds, and then repeated again
and again like a familiar advertisement. When the South Tower
collapsed and smoke billowed up into the sky, Anna started
coughing loudly, shaking ash onto everything around her.
 
'Are you OK?' asked Tina, jumping up from her chair.
'Yes, I'll be fine,' said Anna, draining her coffee. "Would you
mind if I turned the TV off ? I don't think I can face continually
being reminded what it was like to be there.'
'Of course not,' said Tina, who picked up the remote and
touched the off button. The images melted from the screen.
'I can't stop thinking about all our friends who were in the
building,' said Anna, as Tina refilled her mug with coffee. 'I wonder
if Rebecca
'No word from her,' said Tina. 'Barry is the only person who's
reported in so far.'
'Yeah, I can believe Barry was the first down the stairs, trampling
over anyone who got in his way. But who did Barry call?' asked
Anna.
'Fenston. On his mobile.'
'Fenston?' said Anna. 'How did he manage to escape when I
left his office only a few minutes before the first plane hit the
building?'
'He'd arrived on Wall Street by then - he had an appointment with a potential client, whose only asset was a Gauguin. So there
was no way he was going to be late for that.'
'And Leapman?' asked Anna as she took another sip of
coffee.
'One step behind him as usual,' said Tina.
'So that's why the elevator door was being held open.'
'The elevator door?' repeated Tina.
'It's not important,' said Anna. 'But why weren't you at work
this morning?'
'I had a dental appointment,' said Tina. 'It had been in my diary
for weeks.' She paused and looked across the table. 'The moment
I heard the news I never stopped trying to call you on your cell,
but all I got was a ringing tone. So where were you?'
'Being escorted off the premises,' said Anna.
'By a firefighter?' asked Tina.
'No,' replied Anna, 'by that ape, Barry.'
'But why?' demanded Tina.
'Because Fenston had just fired me,' said Anna.
 
'Fired you?' said Tina in disbelief. Why would he fire you, of
all people?'
'Because in my report to the board, I recommended that
Victoria Wentworth should sell the Van Gogh, which would allow
her not only to clear her overdraft with the bank, but hold on to
the rest of the estate.'
'But the Van Gogh was the only reason Fenston ever agreed to
that deal,' said Tina. 'I thought you realized that. He's been after
one for years. The last thing he would have wanted was to sell the
painting and get Victoria off the hook. But that's hardly a reason to
fire you. What excuse--'
'I also sent a copy of my recommendations to the client, which
I considered to be no more than ethical banking practice.'
1 don't think it's ethical banking practice that keeps Fenston awake
at night. But that still doesn't explain why he got rid of you so quickly.'
'Because I was just about to fly to England and let Victoria
Wentworth know that I'd even fined up a prospective buyer. A
well-known Japanese collector, Takashi Nakamura, who I felt
sure would be happy to close the deal quickly, if we were sensible
about the asking price.'
'You picked the wrong man in Nakamura,' said Tina. 'Whatever
the asking price, he's the last person on earth Fenston would
be willing to do business with. They've both been after a Van Gogh
for years, and are regularly the last two bidders for any major
Impressionists.'
"Why didn't he tell me that?' said Anna.
'Because it doesn't always suit him to let you know what he's up
to,' said Tina.
'But we were both on the same team.'
'You're so naive, Anna. Haven't you worked out that there's only
one person on Fenston's team?'
'But he can't make Victoria hand over the Van Gogh unless--'
'I wouldn't be so sure about that,' said Tina.
Why not?'
'Fenston put a call through to Ruth Parish yesterday and
ordered her to pick up the painting immediately. I heard him
repeat the word "immediately".'
 
'Before Victoria was given the chance to act on my recommendations.'
Which
would also explain why he had to fire you before you
could get on that plane and upset his plans. Mind you,' added
Tina, 'you're not the first person to have ventured down that well
trodden path.'
What do you mean?' said Anna.
'Once anyone works out what Fenston is really up to, they're
quickly shown the door.'
Then why hasn't he fired you?'
'Because I don't make any recommendations he isn't willing to
go along with,' said Tina. 'That way, I'm not considered a threat.'
She paused. Well, not for the moment.'
Anna thumped the table in anger, sending up a small cloud of
dust. I'm so dumb,' she said. 'I should have seen it coming, and
now there's nothing I can do about it.'
'I'm not so sure about that,' said Tina. We don't know for
certain that Ruth Parish has picked up the painting from Went
worth Hall. If she hasn't, you'll still have enough time to call
Victoria and advise her to hold onto the picture until you've had a
chance to get in touch with Mr Nakamura - that way she could
still clear her debt with Fenston and he couldn't do anything about
it,' added Tina, as her cellphone began ringing, 'California Here
I Come'. She checked its caller ID: boss flashed up. She put a
finger to her lips. 'It's Fenston,' she warned. 'He probably wants to
find out if you've been in touch with me,' she added, flipping open
the phone.
'Do you realize who got left behind in the rubble?' Fenston
asked before Tina could speak.
'Anna?'
'No,' said Fenston. Tetrescu is dead.'
'Dead?' repeated Tina as she stared across the table at her
friend. 'But--'
'Yes. When Barry reported in, he confirmed that the last time
he saw her she was lying on the floor, so she can't possibly have
survived.'
'I think you'll find--'
 
rniws imriiiroiwn

'Don't worry about Petrescu,' said Fenston. 'I already had plans
to replace her, but what I can't replace is my Monet.'
Tina was shocked into a moment's silence, and was about to tell
him just how wrong he was, when she suddenly realized that she
just might be able to turn Fenston's crassness to Anna's advantage.
'Does that also mean we've lost the Van Gogh?'
'No,' said Fenston. 'Ruth Parish has already confirmed that the
painting is on its way from London. It should arrive at JFK this evening, when Leapman is going to pick it up.'
Tina sank down into the chair, feeling deflated.
'And make sure you're in by six tomorrow morning.'
'Six am?'
'Yes,' said Fenston. 'And don't complain. After all, you've had
the whole of today off.'
'So where do I report?' asked Tina, not bothering to argue.
'I've taken over offices on the thirty-second floor of the Trump
Building at 40 Wall Street, so at least for us it will be business as
usual.' The line went dead.
'He thinks you're dead,' said Tina, 'but he's more fussed about
losing his Monet,' she added as she snapped her cellphone shut.
'He'll find out soon enough that I'm not,' said Anna.
'Only if you want him to,' said Tina. 'Has anyone else seen you
since you got out of the tower?'
'Only looking like this,' said Anna.
'Then let's keep it that way, while we try and work out what
needs to be done. Fenston says the Van Gogh is already on its
way to New York and Leapman will pick it up as soon as it
lands.'
'Then what can we do?'
'I could try and delay Leapman somehow, while you pick up
the painting.'
'But what would I do with it,' asked Anna, 'when Fenston would
be certain to come looking for me?'
'You could get yourself on the first plane back to London, and
return the picture to Wentworth Hall.'
'I couldn't do that without Victoria's permission,' said Anna.
'Good God, Anna, when will you grow up? You've got to stop
 
thinking like a school prefect, and start imagining what Fenston
would do if he were in your position.'
'He'd find out what time the plane was landing,' said Anna. 'So
the first thing I need to do--'

'The first thing you need to do is have a shower, while I find
out what time the plane lands, and also what Leapman's up to,'
said Tina as she stood up. 'Because one thing's for sure, they won't
let you pick up anything from the airport looking like that.'
Anna drained her coffee and followed Tina out into the corridor.
Tina opened the bathroom door and looked closely at her friend.
'See you in about - ' she hesitated - 'an hour.'
Anna laughed for the first time that day.

Anna slowly peeled off her clothes and dropped them in a heap on
the floor. She glanced in the mirror, to see a reflection of someone
she had never met before. She removed the silver chain from
round her neck and placed it on the side of the bath, next to the
model of a yacht. She finally took off her watch. It had stopped at
eight forty-six. A few seconds later, and she would have been in
the elevator.
As Anna stepped into the shower, she began to consider Tina's
audacious plan. She turned on both taps and allowed the water
to cascade down on her for some time before she even thought
about washing. She watched the water turn from black to grey, but
however hard she scrubbed, the water still remained grey. Anna
continued scrubbing until her skin was red and sore, before turning
her attention to a bottle of shampoo. She didn't emerge from the
shower until she'd washed her hair three times, but it was going to
be days before anyone realized that she was a natural blonde. Anna
didn't bother to dry herself; she bent down, put the plug in the
bath and turned on the taps. As she lay soaking, her mind revisited
all that had taken place that day.
She thought about how many friends and colleagues she must
have lost, and realized just how lucky she was to be alive. But
mourning would have to wait, if she was to have any chance of
rescuing Victoria from a slower death.

70
 
Anna's thoughts were interrupted by Tina knocking on the door. She walked in and sat on the end of the bath. 'A definite
improvement,' she said with a smile, as she looked at Anna's newly
scrubbed body.
'I've been thinking about your idea,' said Anna, 'and if I
could--'
'Change of plan,' said Tina. 'It's just been announced by the
FAA that all aircraft across America have been grounded until
further notice and no incoming flights will be allowed to land, so
by now the Van Gogh will be on its way back to Heathrow.'
'Then I'll need to call Victoria immediately,' said Anna, 'and tell
her to instruct Ruth Parish to return the painting to Wentworth
Hall.'
'Agreed,' said Tina, 'but I've just realized that Fenston has lost
something even more important than the Monet.'
'What could be more important to him than the Monet?' asked
Anna.
'His contract with Victoria, and all the other paperwork that
proves he owns the Van Gogh, along with the rest of the Wentworth
estate should she fail to clear the debt.'
'But didn't you keep back-ups?' asked Anna.
Tina hesitated. 'Yes,' she said, 'in a safe in Fenston's office.'
'But don't forget that Victoria will also be in possession of all
the relevant documents.'
Tina paused again. 'Not if she was willing to destroy them.'
'Victoria would never agree to that,' said Anna.

"Why don't you phone her and find out? If she did feel able to,
it would give you more than enough time to sell the Van Gogh and
clear the debt with Fenston, before he could do anything about it.'
'There's only one problem.'
'What's that?' asked Tina.
'I don't have her number. Her file is in my office, and I've lost
everything, including my cellphone and palm pilot, even my wallet.'
'I'm sure international directories can solve that problem,'
suggested Tina. Why don't you dry yourself and put on a bathrobe?
We can sort out some clothes later.'
'Thank you,' said Anna, gripping her by the hand.

7i
 
Tou might not thank me when you find out what you're having
for lunch. Mind you, I wasn't expecting a guest, so you'll have to
make do with leftover Chinese.'
'Sounds great,' said Anna, as she stepped out of the bath and
grabbed a towel, wrapping it tightly round her.
'See you in a couple of minutes,' said Tina, 'by which time the
microwave should have completely finished off my gourmet offering.'
She turned to leave.
'Tina, can I ask you something?'
'Anything.'
"Why do you continue to work for Fenston, when you obviously
detest the man as much as I do?'
Tina hesitated. 'Anything but that,' she eventually replied. She
closed the door quietly behind her.

72
 
14

Ruth Parish picked up her outside line.
'Hi, Ruth,' said a familiar voice, about to deliver an unfamiliar
message. 'It's Ken Lane over at United, just to let you know that
our flight 107, bound for New York, has been ordered to turn
back, and we're expecting it to touch down at Heathrow in about
an hour.'
'But why?' asked Ruth.
'Details are a bit sketchy at the moment,' Ken admitted, 'but
reports coming out of JFK suggest there's been a terrorist attack
on the Twin Towers. All US airports have been ordered to ground
their planes, and won't be allowing any incoming flights until
further notice.'
When did all this happen?'
'Around one thirty our time, you must have been at lunch. You
can get an update on any news station. They're all carrying it.'
Ruth picked up the remote control from her desk and pointed
it towards the TV screen.
Will you be putting the Van Gogh in storage?' asked Ken, 'or
do you want us to return it to Wentworth Hall?'
'It certainly won't be going back to Wentworth,' said Ruth. 'I'll
lock the painting up in one of our customs-free zones overnight,
and then put it on the first available flight to New York once JFK
lifts the restrictions.' Ruth paused. Will you confirm an ETA about
thirty minutes before your plane is due to touch down, so I can
have one of my trucks standing by?'
Will do,' said Ken.

73
 
Ruth replaced the receiver and glanced up at the TV. She
tapped out the number 501 on her remote control. The first image
she saw was a plane flying into the South Tower.
Now she understood why Anna hadn't returned her call.

As Anna dried herself, she began to speculate on what possible
reason Tina could have to go on working for Fenston. She found
herself shaking her head. After all, Tina was bright enough to pick
up a far better job.
She pulled on her friend's bathrobe and slippers, placed the key
on its chain back round her neck and put on her one-time watch.
She looked at herself in the mirror; the outward facade had
considerably improved, but Anna still felt queasy whenever she
thought about what she had been through only a few hours before.
She wondered for how many days, months, years it would be a
recurring nightmare.
She opened the bathroom door and manoeuvred her way down
the corridor, avoiding the ashy footprints she'd left on the carpet.
When she walked into the kitchen, Tina stopped laying the table
and handed over her cellphone.
Time to call Victoria and warn her what you're up to.'

'What am I up to?' asked Anna.
Tor starters, ask her if she knows where the Van Gogh is.'
'Locked up in a customs-free zone at Heathrow would be my
bet, but there's only one way to find out.' Anna dialled 00.
International operator.'
'I need a number in England,' said Anna.

'Business or residential?'
'Residential.'
'Name?'
'Wentworth, Victoria.'
'Address?'
'Wentworth Hall, Wentworth, Surrey.'
There was a long silence before Anna was informed, 'I'm sorry,
ma'am, that number is ex-directory.'
What does that mean?' asked Anna.

74
 
'I can't give out the number.'
'But this is an emergency,' insisted Anna.
I'm sorry, ma'am, but I still can't release that number.'
'But I'm a close personal friend.'
'I don't care if you're the Queen of England, I repeat, I'm unable
to give out that number.' The line went dead. Anna frowned.
'So what's plan B?' asked Tina.
'No choice but to get myself to England somehow and try to
see Victoria so I can warn her what Fenston's up to.'
'Good. Then the next thing to decide is which border you're
going to cross.'
'What chance have I got of crossing any border, when I can't
even go back to my apartment and pick up my things - unless I
want the whole world to know I'm alive and kicking?'
'There's nothing to stop me going to your place,' said Tina. 'Tell
me what you want and I can pack a bag and--'
'No need to pack,' said Anna. 'Everything I want is ready and
waiting in the hallway - don't forget I was expecting to fly to
London this evening.'
'Then all I need is the key to your apartment,' said Tina.
Anna unclasped the chain round her neck and handed over her
key.
'How do I get past the doorman?' asked Tina. 'He's bound to
ask who I've come to see.'
'That won't be a problem,' said Anna. 'His name is Sam. Tell
him you're visiting David Sullivan and he'll just smile and call for
the elevator.'
Who's David Sullivan?' asked Tina.
'He's got an apartment on the fourth floor, and rarely entertains
the same girl twice. He pays Sam a few dollars every week to keep
them all blissfully unaware that they are not the only woman in his
life.'
'But that doesn't solve the cash problem,' said Tina. 'Don't
forget you lost your wallet and credit card in the crash, and all I
have to my name is about seventy dollars.'
'I took three thousand dollars out of my account yesterday,' said
Anna. Whenever you're moving a valuable painting, you can't risk

75
 
any hold-ups, so you have to be prepared to take care of the odd
baggage handler along the way. I've also got another five hundred
in the drawer by the side of my bed.'
'And you'll need to take my watch,' said Tina.
Anna took off her watch and swapped it with Tina's.
Tina studied Anna's watch more closely. 'You're never going to
be allowed to forget what time it was when that plane flew into the
building,' she said as the microwave beeped.
'This may well be inedible,' Tina warned her, as she served up
a dish of yesterday's chicken chow mein and egg fried rice.
Between mouthfuls, the two of them considered the alternatives
for getting out of the city, and which border would be safest to
cross.
By the time they had devoured every last scrap of leftovers
along with another pot of coffee, they had gone over all the
possible routes out of Manhattan, although Anna still hadn't settled
on whether she should head north or south. Tina placed the plates
in the sink and said, "Why don't you decide on which direction you
think would be quickest, while I try to get myself uptown and in
and out of your apartment without Sam becoming suspicious?'
Anna hugged her friend again. 'Be warned,' she said, 'it's hell
on earth out there.'

Tina stood on the top step of her apartment building and waited
for a few moments. Something felt wrong. And then she realized
what it was. New York had changed over day.
The streets were no longer full of bustling, haven't-the-time-to
stop-and-chat people, who made up the most energetic mass on
earth. It felt more like a Sunday to Tina. But not even Sunday.
People stood and stared in the direction of the World Trade
Center. The only background music was the noise of perpetual
sirens, which continually reminded the indigenous population if
they needed reminding - that what they had been watching
on television in their homes, clubs, bars, even shop windows, was
taking place just a few blocks away.
Tina walked down the road in search of a taxi, but the familiar

76
 
yellow cabs had been replaced by the red, white and blue of fire
engines, ambulances and police cars, all heading in one direction.
Little clusters of citizens gathered on street corners to applaud the
three different services as they raced by, as if they were young
recruits leaving their homeland to fight a foreign foe. You no longer
have to travel abroad to do that, thought Tina.
Tina walked on and on, block after block, aware that just like
the weekend, commuters had fled to the hills, leaving the locals to
man the pumps. But now there was another unfamiliar group
roaming around the city in a daze. New York had, over the past
century, absorbed citizens from every nation on earth, and now
they were adding another race to their number. This most recent
group of immigrants looked as if they had arrived from the bowels
of the earth, and like any new race could be distinguished by their
colour - ash grey. They roamed around Manhattan, like marathon
runners limping home hours after the more serious competitors
had departed from the scene. But there was an even more visual
reminder for anyone who looked up that autumn evening. The
New York skyline was no longer dominated by its proud, gleaming
skyscrapers because they were overshadowed by a dense grey haze
that hung above the city like an unwelcome visitor. Occasionally
there were breaks in the ungodly cloud, when Tina noticed for the
first time shards of jagged metal sticking out of the ground - all
that was left of one of the tallest buildings in the world. The dentist
had saved her life.
Tina walked past empty shops and restaurants in a city that
never closed. New York would recover, but would never be the
same again. Terrorists were people who lived in far-off lands: the
Middle East, Palestine, Israel, even Spain, Germany and Northern
Ireland. She looked back at the cloud. They had taken up residence
in Manhattan, and left their calling card.
Tina once again waved unhopefully at the rare sight of a passing
taxi. It screeched to a halt.

77
 
15

Anna strolled back into the kitchen and began washing the
dishes. She was keeping herself occupied in the hope that her
mind wouldn't continually return to those faces coming up the
stairs, faces she feared would remain etched on her memory for
the rest of her life. She had discovered a downside to her unusual
gift.
She tried to think about Victoria Wentworth instead, and how
she might stop Fenston from ruining someone else's life. Would
Victoria believe that Anna hadn't known Fenston always planned
to steal the Van Gogh and bleed her dry? Why should she, when
Anna was a member of the board and had been fooled so easily
herself?
Anna left the kitchen in search of a map. She found a couple
on a bookshelf in the front room above Tina's desk: a copy of Streetwise Manhattan, and The Columbia Gazetteer of North
America, propped up against the recent bestseller on John Adams,
second president of the US. She paused to admire the Rothko
poster on the wall opposite the bookshelf - not her period, but she
knew he must be one of Tina's favourite artists, because she also
had another in her office. No longer, thought Anna, her mind
switching back to the present. She returned to the kitchen and laid
the map of New York out on the table.
Once she'd decided on a route out of Manhattan, Anna folded
up the map and turned her attention to the larger volume. She
hoped that it would help her make up her mind which border to

cross.

78
 
lUHlIlUlT

Anna looked up Mexico and Canada in the index, and then
began making copious notes as if she was preparing a report for
the board to consider; she usually suggested two alternatives, but
always ended her reports with a firm recommendation. When she
finally closed the cover on the thick blue book, Anna wasn't in
any doubt in which direction she had to go if she hoped to reach
England in time.

Tina spent the cab journey to Thornton House considering how
she would get into Anna's apartment and leave with her luggage
without the doorman becoming suspicious. As the cab drew up
outside the building, Tina moved a hand to her jacket pocket. She
wasn't wearing a jacket. She turned scarlet. She'd left the apartment
without any money. Tina stared through the plastic window
at the driver's identity disc: Abdul Affridi - worry beads dangling
from the rear-view mirror. He glanced around, but didn't smile.
No one was smiling today.
'I've come out without any money,' Tina blurted, and then
waited for a string of expletives to follow.
'No problem,' muttered the driver, who jumped out of his
cab to open the door for her. Everything had changed in New
York.
Tina thanked him and walked nervously towards the entrance
door, her opening line well prepared. The script changed the
moment she saw Sam seated behind the counter, head in hands,
sobbing.
"What's the matter?' Tina asked. 'Did you know someone in the
World Trade Center?'
Sam looked up. On the desk in front of him was a photo of
Anna running in the marathon. 'She hasn't come home,' he said.
'All my others who worked at the WTC returned hours ago.'
Tina put her arms round the old man. Yet another victim. How
much she wanted to tell him Anna was alive and well. But not
today.

79
 
is nnMimn

Anna took a break just after eight and began flicking through the TV channels. There was only one story. She found that she couldn't
go on watching endless reports without continually being reminded
of her own small walk-off part in this two-act drama. She was about
to turn off the television when it was announced that President
Bush would address the nation. 'Good evening. Today, our fellow
citizens .. .' Anna listened intently, and nodded when the President
continued: 'The victims were in airplanes, or in their offices;
secretaries, businessmen and women .. .' Anna once again thought
about Rebecca. 'None of us will ever forget this day..." die
President concluded, and Anna felt able to agree with him. She
switched off the television as the South Tower came crashing down
again, like the climax of a disaster movie.
Anna sat back and stared down at the map on the kitchen table.
She double-checked, or was it triple, her route out of New York.
She was writing detailed notes of everything that needed to be
done before she left in the morning when the front door burst
open and Tina staggered in - a laptop over one shoulder, dragging
a bulky case behind her. Anna ran out into the corridor to welcome
her back. She looked exhausted.
'Sorry to have taken so long, honey,' said Tina as she dumped
the luggage in the hallway, and walked down the freshly vacuumed
corridor and into the kitchen. 'Not many buses going in my
direction,' she added, 'especially when you've left your money
behind,' she added as she collapsed into a kitchen chair. 'I'm afraid
I had to break into your five hundred dollars, otherwise I wouldn't
have been back until after midnight.'
Anna laughed. 'My turn to make you coffee,' she suggested.
'I was only stopped once,' continued Tina, 'by a very friendly
policeman who checked through your luggage, and accepted that
I'd been sent back from the airport after being unable to board a
flight. I was even able to produce your ticket.'
'Any trouble at the apartment?' asked Anna, as she filled the
coffee pot for a third time.
'Only having to comfort Sam, who obviously adores you. He
looked as if he'd been crying for hours. I didn't even have to
mention David Sullivan, because all Sam wanted to do was talk

80
 
> Hntiuvaivn

about you. By the time I got into the elevator, he didn't seem to
care where I was going.' Tina stared around the kitchen. She hadn't
seen it so clean since she'd moved in. 'So have you come up with a
plan?' she asked, looking down at the map that was spread across
the kitchen table.
'Yes,' said Anna. 'It seems my best bet will be the ferry to New
Jersey and then to rent a car, because according to the latest news
all the tunnels and bridges are closed. Although it's over four
hundred miles to the Canadian border, I can't see why I shouldn't
make Toronto airport by tomorrow night, in which case I could
be in London the following morning.'
'Do you know what time the first ferry sails in the morning?'
asked Tina.
'In theory, it's a non-stop service,' said Anna, 'but in practice,
every fifteen minutes after five o'clock. But who knows if they'll be
running at all tomorrow, let alone keeping to a schedule.'
'Either way,' said Tina, 'I suggest you have an early night, and
try to snatch some sleep. I'll set my alarm for four thirty.'
'Four,' said Anna. 'If the ferry is ready to depart at five, I want
to be first in line. I suspect getting out of New York may well
prove the most difficult part of the journey.'
'Then you'd better have the bedroom,' said Tina with a smile,
'and I'll sleep on the couch.'
'No way,' said Anna, as she poured her friend a fresh mug of
coffee. 'You've done more than enough already.'
'Not nearly enough,' said Tina.
'If Fenston ever found out what you were up to,' said Anna
quietly, 'he'd fire you on the spot.'
'That would be the least of my problems,' Tina responded
without explanation.

Jack yawned involuntarily. It had been a long day, and he had a
feeling that it was going to be an even longer night.
No one on his team had considered going home, and they were
all beginning to look, and sound, exhausted. The telephone on his
desk rang.

81
 
'Just thought I ought to let you know, boss,' said Joe, 'that Tina
Forster, Fenston's secretary, turned up at Thornton House a
couple of hours ago. Forty minutes later she came out carrying
a suitcase and a laptop, which she took back to her place.'
Jack sat bolt upright. Then Petrescu must be alive,' he said.
'Although she obviously doesn't want us to think so,' said Joe.
'But why?'
'Perhaps she wants us to believe she's missing, presumed dead,'
suggested Joe.
'Not us,' said Jack.
'Then who?'
'Fenston, would be my bet.'
Why?'
1 have no idea,' said Jack, 'but I have every intention of finding
out.'
'And how do you propose to do that, boss?'
'By putting an OPS team on Tina Forster's apartment until
Petrescu leaves the building.'
'But we don't even know if she's in there,' said Joe.
'She's in there,' said Jack, and put the phone down.

82
 
9/12
 
16

During the night, Anna managed to catch only a few minutes
of sleep as she considered her future. She came to the conclusion
that she might as well return to Danville and open a gallery for
local artists while any potential employers could get in touch with
Fenston and be told his side of the story. She was beginning to
feel that her only hope of survival was to prove what Fenston was
really up to, and she accepted that she couldn't do that without
Victoria's full cooperation, which might include destroying all the
relevant documentation, even her report.
Anna was surprised how energized she felt when Tina knocked
on the door just after four.
Another shower, followed by another shampoo, and she felt
almost human.
Over a breakfast of black coffee and bagels, Anna went over her
plan with Tina. They decided on some ground rules they should
follow while she was away. Anna no longer had a credit card or a
cellphone, so she agreed to call Tina only on her home number,
and always from a public phone booth - never the same one
twice. Anna would announce herself as 'Vincent', and no other
name would be used. The call would never last for more than one
minute.
Anna left the apartment at 4.52am, dressed in jeans, a blue
T-shirt, a linen jacket and a baseball cap. She wasn't sure what to
expect as she stepped out onto the sidewalk that cool, dark
morning. Few people were out on the streets, and those that were
had their heads bowed - their downcast faces revealed a city in

85
 
mourning. No one gave Anna a second glance as she strode
purposefully along the sidewalk pulling her suitcase, the laptop bag
slung over her shoulder. It didn't matter in which direction she
looked, a foggy grey haze still hung over the city. The dense cloud
had dispersed, but like a disease it had spread to other parts of
the body. For some reason, Anna had assumed when she woke it
would have gone, but, like an unwelcome guest at a party, it would
surely be the last to leave.
Anna passed a line of people who were already queuing to give
blood in the hope that more survivors would be found. She was a
survivor, but she didn't want to be found.


Fenston was seated behind his desk in his new Wall Street office
by six o'clock that morning. After all, it was already eleven in
London. The first call he made was to Ruth Parish.
Where's my Van Gogh?' he demanded, without bothering to
announce who it was.
'Good morning, Mr Fenston,' said Ruth, but she received no
reply in kind. 'As I feel sure you know, the aircraft carrying your
painting was turned back, following yesterday's tragedy.'

'So where's my Van Gogh?' repeated Fenston.
'Safely locked up in one of our secure vaults in the restricted
customs area. Of course, we will have to reapply for customs
clearance and renew the export licence. But there's no need to do
that before--'
'Do it today,' said Fenston.
'This morning I had planned to move four Vermeers from--'

'Fuck Vermeer. Your first priority is to make sure my painting
is packed and ready to be collected.'
'But the paperwork might take a few days,' said Ruth. 'I'm sure
you appreciate that there's now a backlog following--'
'And fuck any backlog,' said Fenston. 'The moment the FAA lift
their restrictions, I'm sending Karl Leapman over to pick up the
painting.'
'But my staff are already working round the clock to clear the
extra work caused by--'

86
 
I'll only say this once,' said Fenston. 'If the painting is ready for loading by the time my plane touches down at Heathrow, I will
triple, I repeat triple, your fee.'
Fenston put die phone down, confident that the only word
she'd remember would be 'triple'. He was wrong. Ruth was puzzled
by the fact that he hadn't mentioned the attacks on the Twin
Towers, or made any reference to Anna. Had she survived, and if
so, why wasn't she travelling over to pick up the painting?
Tina had overheard every word of Fenston's conversation with
Ruth Parish on the extension in her office - without the chairman
being aware. Tina vainly wished that she could contact Anna and
quickly pass on the information - an eventuality neither of them
had considered. Perhaps Anna would call this evening.
Tina flicked off the phone switch, but left on the screen that
was fixed to the corner of her desk. This allowed her to watch
everything and, more important, everybody who came in contact
with the chairman, something else that Fenston wasn't aware of,
but then he hadn't asked. Fenston would never have considered
entering her office when the press of a button would summon her,
and if Leapman walked into the room - without knocking, as was
his habit - she would quickly flick the screen off.
When Leapman took over the short lease on the thirty-second
floor, he hadn't shown any interest in the secretary's office. His
only concern seemed to be settling the chairman into the largest
space available, while he took over an office at the other end of the
corridor. Tina had said nothing about her IT extras, aware that in
time someone was bound to find out, but perhaps by then she
would have gathered all the information she needed to ensure that
Fenston would suffer an even worse fate than he had inflicted on
her.
When Fenston put the phone down on Ruth Parish, he pressed
the button on the side of his desk. Tina grabbed a notepad and
pencil and made her way through to the chairman's office.
'The first thing I need you to do,' Fenston began, even before
Tina had closed the door, 'is find out how many staff I still have.
Make sure they know where we are relocated, so they can report
for work without delay.'

87
 
'I see that the head of security was among the first to check in
this morning,' said Tina.
Yes, he was,' Fenston replied, 'and he's already confirmed that
he gave the order for all staff to evacuate the building within
minutes of the first plane crashing into the North Tower.'
'And then led by example, I'm told,' said Tina tartly.
Who told you that?' barked Fenston, looking up.
Tina regretted the words immediately, and quickly turned to
leave, adding, I'll have those names on your desk by midday.'
She spent the rest of the morning trying to contact the forty
three employees who worked in the North Tower. Tina was able
to account for thirty-four of them by twelve o'clock. She placed a
provisional list of nine names who were still missing, presumed
dead, on Fenston's desk before he went to lunch.
Anna Petrescu was the sixth name on that list.

By the time Tina had placed the list on Fenston's desk, Anna had
finally made it to Pier 11, by cab, bus, foot and then cab again,
only to find a long queue waiting patiently to board a ferry to New
Jersey. She took her place at the back of the line, put on a pair of
sunglasses and pulled down the peak of her baseball cap so it
nearly covered her eyes. She stood with her arms tightly folded,
the collar of her jacket turned up and her head bowed, so that only
the most insensitive individual would have considered embarking
on a conversation with her.
The police were checking the IDs of everyone leaving Manhattan.
She looked on as a dark-haired, swarthy young man was taken
to one side. The poor man looked bemused when three policemen
surrounded him. One fired questions, while another searched
him.
It was almost an hour before Anna finally reached the front of
the queue. She took off her baseball cap to reveal her long fair hair
and cream skin.
"Why are you going to New Jersey?' enquired the policeman as
he checked her ID.
'A friend of mine was working in the North Tower, and she's

88
 
still missing.' Anna paused. 'And I thought I'd spend the day with
her parents.'
'I'm sorry, ma'am,' said the policeman. 'I hope they find her.'
Thank you,' said Anna, and quickly carried her bags up the
gangway and onto the ferry. She felt so guilty about lying that she
couldn't look back at the policeman. She leaned on the railing and
stared across at the grey cloud that still enveloped the site of the
World Trade Center and several blocks either side. She wondered
how many days, weeks or even months it would be before that
dense blanket of smoke dispersed. What would they finally do with
the desolate site, and how would they honour the dead? She raised
her eyes and stared up at the clear blue sky above her. Something
was missing. Although they were only a few miles from JFK and
La Guardia, there wasn't a plane in the sky, as if they had all,
without warning, migrated to another part of the world.
The old engine juddered into action and the ferry began to drift
slowly away from the pier on its short journey across the Hudson
to New Jersey.
One o'clock struck on the pier tower. Half a day had gone.

The first flights out of JFK won't be taking off for another couple
of days,' said Tina.
'Does that include private aircraft?' asked Fenston.
There are no exceptions,' Tina assured him.
The Saudi royal family are being allowed to fly out tomorrow,'
interjected Leapman, who was standing by the chairman's side,
'but they seem to be the only exception.'
'Meanwhile, I'm trying to get you on what the press are describing
as the priority list,' said Tina, who decided not to mention that
the port authorities didn't consider his desire to pick up a Van Gogh
from Heathrow quite fell into the category of emergency.
'Do we have any friends at JFK?' asked Fenston.

'Several,' said Leapman, 'but they've all suddenly acquired a
whole lot of rich relations.'
'Any other ideas?' asked Fenston, looking up at both of them.
'You might consider driving across the border into Mexico or

89
 
Canada,' suggested Tina, 'and taking a commercial flight from there,' knowing only too well that he wouldn't consider it.
Fenston shook his head and, turning to Leapman, said, Try
and turn one of our friends into a relation - someone will want
something,' he added. 'They always do.'

90
 
17

'I'll take any car you've got,' said Anna.
'I have nothing available at the moment,' said the weary-looking
young man behind the Happy Hire Company desk, whose plastic
badge displayed the name Hank. 'And I don't anticipate anything
being returned until tomorrow morning,' he added, failing to fulfil
the company's motto displayed on the counter top, No one leaves
Happy Hire without a smile on their face. Anna couldn't mask her
disappointment.
'I don't suppose you'd consider a van?' Hank ventured. It's not
exactly the latest model, but if you're desperate.'
I'll take it,' said Anna, well aware of the long queue of
customers waiting in line behind her, all no doubt willing her to
say no. Hank placed a form in triplicate on the counter top and
began filling in the little boxes. Anna pushed across her driver's
licence, which she had packed along with her passport, enabling
him to complete even more boxes. 'How long do you require the
vehicle?' Hank asked.
'A day, possibly two - I'll be dropping it off at Toronto airport.'
Once Hank had completed all the little boxes, he swivelled the
form round for her signature.
That'll be sixty dollars, and I'll need a two-hundred-dollar
deposit.'
Anna frowned, and handed over two hundred and sixty dollars.
'And I'll also need your credit card.'
Anna slipped another hundred-dollar bill across the counter.
The first time she'd ever attempted to bribe someone.

9i
 
Hank pocketed the money. 'It's the white van in bay thirty
eight,' he told her, handing over a key.
When Anna located bay thirty-eight, she could see why the little
two-seater white van was the last vehicle on offer. She unlocked
the back door and placed her case and laptop inside. She then
went to the front and squeezed herself into the plastic-covered
driver's seat. She checked the dashboard. The milometer read
98,617, and the speedometer suggested a maximum of 90, which
she doubted. It was clearly coming to the end of its rental life,
and another 400 miles might well finish it off. She wondered if the
vehicle was even worth three hundred and sixty dollars.
Anna started the engine and tentatively reversed out of the parking
lot. She saw a man in her wing mirror, who quickly stepped out of
the way. It was less than a mile before she discovered the vehicle was
built for neither speed nor comfort. She glanced down at the route
map she'd placed on the passenger seat beside her, then began to
look for signs to the Jersey Turnpike and Del Water Gap. Although
she hadn't eaten since breakfast, Anna decided she needed to put a
few miles on the clock before she started thinking about food.

'You were right, boss,' said Joe, 'she's not going to Danville.'
'So where is she headed?'
'Toronto airport.'
'Car or train?' he asked.
Tan,' replied Joe.
Jack tried to calculate how long the journey would take, and
concluded that Petrescu ought to reach Toronto by late the next
afternoon.
'I've already fixed a GPS on her rear bumper,' Joe added, 'so
we'll be able to track her night and day.'
'And be sure you have an agent waiting for her at the airport.'
'He's already been detailed,' said Joe, 'with instructions to let
me know where she intends to fly.'
'She'll be flying to London,' said Jack.

92
 
By three that afternoon, Tina had been able to remove four more
names from the missing list. Three of them had been voting in the
primary elections for mayor, while the fourth had missed her train.
Fenston studied the list, as Leapman placed a finger on the only
name he was interested in. Fenston nodded when his eyes settled
on the Ps. He smiled.
'Saved having to do it ourselves,' was Leapman's only comment.
What's the latest from JFK?' Fenston asked.
They're allowing a few flights out tomorrow,' said Leapman,
'visiting diplomats, hospital emergencies and some senior politicians
vetted by the State Department. But I've managed to secure
us an early slot for Friday morning.' He paused. 'Someone wanted
a new car.'
Which model?' asked Fenston.
'A Ford Mustang,' replied Leapman.
'I would have agreed to a Cadillac'

Anna had reached the outskirts of Scranton by three thirty that
afternoon, but decided to press on for a couple more hours. The
weather was clear and crisp, and the three-lane highway crowded
with cars heading north, almost all of them overtaking her. Anna
relaxed a little once tall trees replaced skyscrapers on both sides.
Most of the highways had a fifty-five-mile speed limit, which suited
her particular mode of transport. But she still had to hold onto the
steering wheel firmly to make sure the van didn't drift into another
lane. Anna glanced down at the tiny clock on the dashboard. She
would try and make Buffalo by seven, and then perhaps take a
break.
She checked her rear-view mirror, suddenly aware what it must
feel like to be a criminal on the run. You couldn't use a credit card
or a cellphone, and the sound of a distant siren doubled your
heart beat. A life spent wary of strangers, as you looked over your
shoulder every few minutes. Anna longed to be back in New York,
among her friends, doing the job she loved. Her father once said 'Oh
God,' said Anna out loud. Did her mother think she was dead?
What about Uncle George and the rest of the family in Danville?

93
 
Could she risk a phone call? Hell, she wasn't very good at thinking
like a criminal.

Leapman walked into Tina's office unannounced. She quickly
flicked off the screen on the side of her desk.
Wasn't Anna Petrescu a friend of yours?' Leapman asked
without explanation.
'Yes, she is,' said Tina looking up from her desk.
Is?' said Leapman.
Was,' said Tina, quickly correcting herself.
'So you haven't heard from her?'
'If I had, I wouldn't have left her name on the missing list,
would I?'
"Wouldn't you?' said Leapman.
'No, I wouldn't,' said Tina, looking directly at him. 'So perhaps
you'll let me know if she gets in touch with you,' she added.
Leapman frowned and left the room.

Anna pulled off the road and swung into the forecourt of an
uninviting-looking diner. She was pleased to see there were only
two other vehicles in the parking lot, and when she entered the
building just three customers were seated at the counter. Anna
took a seat in a booth with her back to the counter, pulled down
her baseball cap and studied the one-sided greasy plastic menu.
She ordered a tomato soup and the chefs special, grilled chicken.
Ten dollars and thirty minutes later, she was back on the
road. Although she'd drunk nothing but coffee since breakfast, it
wasn't long before she began to feel sleepy. She'd covered three
hundred and ten miles in just over eight hours before stopping to
eat, and now she was having to make an effort to keep her eyes
open.
Feel Tired? Take A Break advised a bold sign on the side of the
highway, which only caused her to yawn again. Ahead of her, she
spotted a twelve-wheeler truck turning off the road into a rest stop.
Anna glanced at the clock on the dashboard - just after eleven.

94
 
She'd been on the road for nearly nine hours. She decided to catch
a couple of hours' rest before tackling the rest of the journey. After
all, she could always sleep on the plane.
Anna followed the articulated truck into the rest stop, and then
drove across to the farthest corner. She parked behind a large
stationary vehicle. She jumped out of the van and made sure all
the doors were locked before climbing into the back, relieved that
there was no other vehicle nearby. Anna tried to make herself
comfortable, using her laptop bag as a pillow. She couldn't have
been more uncomfortable, but fell asleep within minutes.

Tetrescu still worries me,' said Leapman.
Why should a dead woman worry you?' asked Fenston.
'Because I'm not convinced she's dead.'
'How could she have survived that?' asked Fenston, looking out
of the window at the black shroud that refused to lift its veil from
the face of the World Trade Center.
We did.'
'But we left the building early,' said Fenston.
'Perhaps she did. After all, you ordered her off the premises
within ten minutes.'
'Barry thinks otherwise.'
'Barry's alive,' Leapman reminded him.
'Even if Petrescu did escape, she still can't do anything,' said
Fenston.
'She could get to London before I do,' said Leapman.
'But the painting is safely under lock and key at Heathrow.'
'But all the documentation to prove you own it was in your safe
in the North Tower, and if Petrescu was able to convince--'

'Convince who? Victoria Wentworth is dead, and try not to
forget that Petrescu is also missing, presumed dead.'
'But that might prove to be just as convenient for her as it is
for us.'
'Then we'll have to make it less convenient.'

95
 
9/13
 
18

A loud, repeated banging jolted Anna out of a deep sleep.
She rubbed her eyes and looked through the windscreen. A man
with a pot belly hanging out of his jeans was thumping on the
bonnet of the van with a clenched fist. In his other hand he was
carrying a can of beer that was frothing at the mouth. Anna
was about to scream at him when she realized that someone
else was at the same time trying to wrench open the back door.
An ice-cold shower couldn't have woken her any quicker.
Anna scrambled into the driver's seat and quickly turned the
key in the ignition. She looked in her wing mirror and was horrified
to see that another forty-ton truck was now stationed directly
behind her, leaving her with almost no room for manoeuvre. She
pressed the palm of her hand on the horn, which only encouraged
the man holding the beer can to clamber up onto the bonnet and
advance towards her. Anna saw his face clearly for the first time,
as he leered at her through the windscreen. She felt cold and sick.
He leant forward, opened his toothless mouth and began licking
the glass, while his friend continued trying to force open the back
door. The engine finally spluttered into life.
Anna yanked the steering wheel round to give her the tightest
possible lock, but the space between the two trucks only allowed
her to advance a few feet before she had to reverse. Power steering
was not one of the van's extras. When she shot back, Anna heard a
yell from behind as the second man threw himself to one side.
Anna crashed into first gear and pressed her foot back down on
the accelerator. As the van leapt forward, the pot-bellied man slid

99
 
off the bonnet, and onto the ground with a thud. Anna thrust the
gearstick back into reverse, praying this time there would be
enough room to escape. But before she had pulled the steering
wheel fully round, she glanced to the side to see that the second
man was now staring at her through the passenger window. He
clamped both of his massive hands on the roof and began rocking
the van slowly backwards and forwards. She slammed her foot on
the pedal and the van dragged him slowly forward, but she still
failed to make it through the gap, if only by inches. Anna rammed
the gear into reverse for a third time and was horrified to see the
first man's hands reappear on the front of the bonnet, as he pulled
himself back up onto his feet. He lurched forward, stuck his nose
flat against the windscreen, and gave her a thumbs-down sign. He
then shouted to his buddy, 'I get to go first this week.' His buddy
stopped rocking the car and burst out laughing.
Anna broke out into a cold sweat when her eyes settled on the
pot-bellied man, walking unsteadily towards his truck. A quick
glance in her wing mirror and she could see his mate climbing up
into his cab.
It didn't take Anna more than a split second to work out exactly
what they had in mind. She was about to become the meat in their
next sandwich. Anna hit the accelerator so hard that she careered
into the truck behind her just as he turned on his full headlights.
She crashed the gears back into first as the engine of the front
truck roared into life, belching a cloud of black smoke all over the
windscreen. Anna yanked the steering wheel over with a jerk and
once again thrust her foot hard down on the accelerator. The van
jumped forward, just as the truck in front of her began to reverse.
She collided with the corner of the front truck's massive mudguard,
which tore off her bumper followed by her offside mudguard. She
then felt herself being shunted from behind as the rear truck
ploughed into her, ripping off her rear bumper. The little van came
hurtling out of the gap with inches to spare and spun around a full
three hundred and sixty degrees before it came to a halt. Anna
looked across to see the two trucks, unable to react in time, crash
into each other.
She accelerated across the parking lot, raced past several sta
100
 
tionary trucks and out onto the highway. She continued to look in
her rear-view mirror as the two trucks disentangled themselves. A
loud screeching of brakes and a cacophony of horns followed as
she narrowly missed colliding with a stream of vehicles coming
down the highway, several of which had to career across two lanes
to avoid her. The first driver left his hand on the horn for some
time, leaving Anna in no doubt of his feelings. Anna waved an
apologetic hand to the overtaking vehicle as it shot past her, while
she continued to glance into her wing mirror, dreading seeing
either of the trucks pursuing her. She jammed her foot down on
the accelerator until it touched the floor, determined to find out
the maximum speed the van could manage: 68mph was the answer.
Anna checked her wing mirror once again. A vast eighteen
wheeler was coming up behind her on the inside lane. She gripped
the steering wheel firmly and jammed her foot back down on the
accelerator, but the van had no more to offer. The truck was now
eating up the ground, yard by yard, and in moments she knew it
would convert itself into a bulldozer. Anna thrust the palm of her
left hand down on the horn, and it let out a bleat that wouldn't
have disturbed a flock of starlings from their nests. A large green
sign appeared on the side of the road, indicating the turn-off for
the 1-90, one mile.
Anna moved into the middle lane and the massive truck followed
her like a magnet hoping to sweep up any loose filings. The
truck driver was now so close that Anna could see him in her wing
mirror. He gave her another toothless grin and then honked his
horn. It let forth a sound that would have drowned out the last
bars of a Wagner opera.
Haifa mile to the exit, the new sign promised. She moved across to
the fast lane, causing a line of advancing cars to throw on their brakes
and slow down. Several pressed their horns this time. She ignored them
and slowed down to fifty, when they became an orchestra.
The eighteen-wheeler drew up beside her. She slowed down,
he slowed down; quarter of a mile to the turn-off, the next sign
declared. She saw the exit in the distance, grateful for the first
shafts of the morning sun appearing through the clouds, as none of
her lights were now working.

101
 
Anna knew that she would only have one chance and her timing
had to be perfect. She gripped the steering wheel firmly as she
reached the exit for the 1-90 and drove on past the green triangle
of grass that divided the two highways. She suddenly jammed her
foot back down on the accelerator, and although the van didn't
leap forward, it spurted and managed to gain a few yards. Was it
enough? The truck driver responded immediately and also began
to accelerate. He was only a car's length away when Anna suddenly
swung the steering wheel to the right and carried on across the
middle and inside lanes, before mounting the grass verge. The van
bounced across the uneven triangle of grass and onto the far exit
lane. A car travelling down the inside lane had to swerve onto the
hard shoulder to avoid hitting her, while another shot past on the
outside. As Anna steadied the van on the inside lane, she looked
across to see the eighteen-wheeler heading on down the highway
and out of sight.
She slowed down to fifty, although her heart was still beating at
three times that speed. She tried to relax. As with all athletes, it is
speed of recovery that matters. As she swung onto the 1-90, she
glanced in her wing mirror. Her heartbeat immediately returned
to 150 when she saw a second eighteen-wheeler bearing down on
her.
Pot-belly's buddy hadn't made the same mistake.

102
 
19

As the stranger entered the lobby, Sam looked up from
behind his desk. When you're a doorman, you have to make instant
decisions about people. Do they fall in the category of 'Good
morning, sir' or 'Can I help you?' or simply 'Hi'? Sam studied the
tall, middle-aged man who had just walked in. He was wearing a
smart but well-worn suit, the cloth a little shiny at the elbows, and
his shirt cuffs were slightly frayed. He wore a tie that Sam reckoned
had been tied a thousand times.
'Good morning,' Sam settled on.

'Good morning,' replied the man. 'I'm from the Department of
Immigration.'
That only made Sam nervous. Although he'd been born in
Harlem, he'd heard stories of people being deported by mistake.
'How can I help you, sir?' he asked.
'I'm checking up on those people who are still missing, presumed
dead, following the terrorist attack on Tuesday.'
'Anyone in particular?' asked Sam, cautiously.
'Yes,' said the man. He placed his briefcase on the counter,
opened it and extracted a list of names. He ran a finger down the
list and came to a halt at the Ps. 'Anna Petrescu,' he said. 'This is
the last known address we have for her.'
'I haven't seen Anna since she left for work on Tuesday
morning,' said Sam, 'though several people have asked after her,
and one of her friends came round that night and took away some
of her personal things.'
What did she take?'

103
 
'I don't know,' said Sam. 'I just recognized the suitcase.'
'Do you know the girl's name?'
Why do you want to know?'
It might help if we could get in touch with her. Anna's mother
is quite anxious.'
'No, I don't know her name,' admitted Sam.
Would you recognize her, if I showed you a photograph?'
'Might,' said Sam.
Once again, the man opened his briefcase. This time he
extracted a photo and passed it across to Sam. He studied it for a
moment.
'Yes, that's her. Pretty girl,' he paused, 'but not as pretty as
Anna. She was beautiful.'

As she swung onto the 1-90, Anna noticed that the speed limit was
seventy. She would have been happy to break it, but however hard
she pressed down on the accelerator she could still only manage
68mph.
Although the second truck was still some way behind, it was
closing on her rapidly, and this time she didn't have an exit strategy.
She prayed for a sign. The truck must have been only fifty yards
behind her, and closing by the second, when she heard the siren.
She was delighted at the thought of being pulled over, and
didn't care whether she would be believed when she explained
why she had careered across two lanes of the highway and onto
the exit ramp, not to mention why her van was missing both
bumpers and a mudguard and that none of its lights were working.
She began to slow down as the patrol car sped past the truck and
slipped in behind her. The officer looked back and indicated that
the truck driver should pull over. Anna watched in her offside
mirror as both vehicles came to a halt on the hard shoulder.
It was over an hour before she was calm enough to stop looking
in her wing mirror every few minutes.
After another hour she even began to feel hungry, and decided
to pull into a roadside cafe for breakfast. She parked the van,

104
 
strolled in and took a seat at the far end of the counter. She
perused the menu before ordering 'the big one' - eggs, bacon,
sausage, hash browns, pancakes and coffee. Not her usual fare, but
then not much had been usual about the past forty-eight hours.
Between mouthfuls, Anna checked her route map. The two
drunken men who'd pursued her had helped her keep to her
schedule. Anna calculated that she had already covered around
three hundred and eighty miles, but there were still at least another
fifty to go to reach the Canadian border. She studied the map
more closely. Next stop, Niagara Falls, which she estimated would
take her another hour.
The television behind the counter was reporting the early
morning news. The hope of finding any more survivors was fading.
New York had begun mourning its dead and setting about the long
and arduous task of clearing up. A memorial service, attended
by the President, was to be held in Washington DC, as part of
a national day of remembrance. The President then intended to
fly on to New York and visit Ground Zero. Mayor Giuliani was
next to appear on the screen. He was wearing a T-shirt proudly
emblazoned with the letters NYPD, and a cap with NYFD printed
across the peak. He praised the spirit of New Yorkers, and pledged
his determination to put the city back on its feet as quickly as
possible.
The news camera cut to JFK, where an airport spokesman
confirmed that the first commercial flights would resume their
normal schedule the following morning. That one sentence determined
Anna's timetable. She knew she had to touch down in
London before Leapman took off from New York if she was to
have any chance of convincing Victoria ... Anna glanced out of
the window. Two trucks were pulling into the parking lot. She
froze, unable to watch as the drivers climbed out of their cabs.
She was checking the fire exit as they entered the cafe. They both
took seats at the counter, smiled at the waitress and didn't give her
a second look. She had never previously understood why people
suffered from paranoia.
Anna checked her watch: 7.55am. She drained her coffee, left

105
 
six dollars on the table and walked across to the phone booth on
the far side of the diner. She dialled a 212 number.

'Good morning, sir, my name is Agent Roberts.'
'Morning, Agent Roberts,' replied Jack, leaning back in his
chair, 'have you anything to report?'
'I'm standing in a vehicle rest stop, somewhere between New
York and the Canadian border.'
'And what are you doing there, Agent Roberts?'
I'm holding a bumper.'
'Let me guess,' said Jack, 'the bumper was at one time attached
to a white van, driven by the suspect.'
'Yes, sir.'
'And where is the van now?' asked Jack, trying not to sound
exasperated.
'I have no idea, sir. When the suspect drove into the rest stop
to take a break, I must admit, sir, I also fell asleep. When I woke,
the suspect's van had left, leaving the bumper with the GPS still
attached.'
'Then she's either very clever,' said Jack, 'or she's been involved
in an accident.'
1 agree.' He paused, and then added, What do you think I
should do next, sir?'
'Join the CIA,' said Jack.

'Hi, it's Vincent, any news?'
'Yep, just as you thought, Ruth Parish has the painting locked
up in the secure customs area at Heathrow.'
'Then I'll have to unlock it,' said Anna.
'That might not prove quite that easy,' said Tina, 'because
Leapman flies out of JFK first thing tomorrow morning to pick up
the painting, so you've only got another twenty-four hours before
he joins you.' She hesitated. 'And you have another problem.'
'Another problem?' said Anna.
'Leapman isn't convinced you're dead.'

106
 
"What makes him think that?'
'He keeps asking about you, so be especially careful. Never
forget Fenston's reaction when the North Tower collapsed. He may
have lost half a dozen staff, but his only interest was the Monet in
his office. Heaven knows what he'd do if he lost the Van Gogh as
well. Dead artists are more important to him than living people.'
Anna could feel the beads of sweat breaking out on her forehead
as the line went dead. She checked her watch: 32 seconds.

'Our "friend" at JFK has confirmed we've been allocated a slot at
seven twenty tomorrow morning,' Leapman said. 'But I haven't
informed Tina.'
Why not?' asked Fenston.
'Because the doorman at Petrescu's apartment block told me
that someone looking like Tina was seen leaving the building on
Tuesday evening.'
'Tuesday evening?' repeated Fenston. 'But that would mean--'
'And she was carrying a suitcase.'
Fenston frowned, but said nothing.
'Do you want me to do anything about it?'
'What do you have in mind?' asked Fenston.
'Bug the phone in her apartment for a start. Then if Petrescu is
in contact with her, we'll know exactly where she is and what she's
up to.'
Fenston didn't reply, which Leapman always took to mean yes.

Canadian Border 4 miles declared a sign on the side of the road.
Anna smiled - a smile that was quickly removed when she swung
round the next corner and came to a halt behind a long line of
vehicles that stretched as far as the eye could see.
She stepped out onto the road and began to stretch her tired
limbs. Anna grimaced as she looked across at what was left of her
battered transport. How would she explain that to the Happy Hire
Company? She certainly didn't need to part with any more cash the
first $500 of any damage, if she remembered correctly. While

107
 
continuing to stretch, she couldn't help noticing that the other side
of the road was empty; no one seemed to be in a rush to enter the
United States.
Anna progressed only another hundred yards during the next
twenty minutes, ending up opposite a gas station. She made an
instant decision - breaking another habit of a lifetime. She swung
the van across the road and onto the forecourt, drove past the
pumps and parked the van next to a tree - just behind a large sign
declaring Superior Car Wash. Anna retrieved her two bags from
the back of the van and started out on the four-mile trek to the
border.

108
 
20

'I'm so sorry, my dear,' said Arnold Simpson as he looked across
his desk at Arabella Wentworth. 'Dreadful business,' he added,
dropping another sugar lump into his tea. Arabella didn't comment
as Simpson leant forward and placed his hands on the partners'
desk, as if about to offer up a prayer. He smiled benignly at his
client and was about to offer an opinion when Arabella opened the
file on her lap and said, 'As our family's solicitor, perhaps you can
explain how my father and Victoria managed to run up such
massive debts, and in so short a period of time?'
Simpson leaned back and peered over his half-moon spectacles.
'Your dear father and I,' he began, 'had been close friends for over
forty years. We were, as I feel sure you are aware, at Eton together.'
Simpson paused to touch his dark blue tie with the light blue stripe,
which looked as if he'd worn it every day since he'd left school.
'My father always described it as "at the same time", rather than
"together",' retorted Arabella. 'So perhaps you could now answer
my question.'
'I was just coming to that,' said Simpson, momentarily lost for
words as he searched round the scattered files that littered his
desk. 'Ah, yes,' he declared eventually, picking up one marked
'Lloyd's of London'. He opened the cover and adjusted his spectacles.
When your father became a name at Lloyd's in 1971, he
signed up for several syndicates, putting up the estate as collateral.
For many years, the insurance industry showed handsome returns
and your father received a large annual income.' Simpson ran his
finger down a long list of figures.

109
 
'But did you point out to him at the time,' asked Arabella, 'the
meaning of unlimited liability?'
'I confess,' said Simpson, ignoring the question, 'that like so
many others, I did not anticipate such an unprecedented run of
bad years.'
'It was no different from being a gambler hoping to make a
profit from a spin of the roulette wheel,' said Arabella. 'So why
didn't you advise him to cut his losses and leave the table?'
'Your father was an obstinate man,' said Simpson, 'and having
ridden out some bad years, remained convinced that the good
times would return.'
'But that didn't prove to be the case,' said Arabella, turning to
another of the numerous papers in her one file.
'Sadly not,' confirmed Simpson, who seemed to have sunk lower
in his chair so that he nearly disappeared behind the partners'
desk.
'And what happened to the large portfolio of stocks and shares
that the family had accumulated over the years?'
'They were among the first assets your father had to liquidate to
keep his current account in surplus. In fact,' continued the solicitor,
turning over another page, 'at the time of your father's death, I
fear he had run up an overdraft of something over ten million
pounds.'
'But not with Courts,' Arabella said, 'as it appears some three
years ago he transferred his account to a small bank in New York
called Fenston Finance.'
'That is correct, dear lady,' said Simpson. Indeed, it has always
been a bit of a mystery to me how that particular establishment
came across--'
'It's no mystery to me,' retorted Arabella, as she extracted a
letter from her file. 'It's clear that they singled him out as an
obvious target.'
'But I still can't work out how they knew--'
'They only had to read the financial pages of any broadsheet.
They were reporting the problems faced by Lloyd's on a daily basis,
and my father's name appeared regularly, along with several others,
as being placed with unfortunate, if not crooked, syndicates.'

no
 
'That is pure speculation on your part,' said Simpson, his voice
rising.
'Just because you didn't consider it at the time,' replied Arabella,
'doesn't mean it's speculation. In fact, I'm only surprised that you
allowed your close friend to leave Courts, who had served the
family for over two hundred years, to join such a bunch of shysters.'
Simpson turned scarlet. 'Perhaps you are falling into the politician's
habit of relying on hindsight, madam.'
'No, sir,' replied Arabella. 'My late husband was also offered the
opportunity to join Lloyd's. The broker assured him that the farm
would be quite enough to cover the necessary deposit, whereupon
Angus showed him the door.'
Simpson was speechless.
'And how, may I ask, with you as her principal adviser, did
Victoria manage to double that debt in less than a year?'
'I am not to blame for that,' snapped Simpson. Tou can direct
your anger at the tax man, who always demands his pound of flesh,'
he added as he searched for a file marked 'Death Duties'. 'Ah, yes,
here it is. The Exchequer is entitled to 40 per cent of any assets on
death, unless the assets are directly passed on to a spouse, as I feel
sure your late husband would have explained to you. However, I
managed, with some considerable skill, even if I do say so myself,
to reach a settlement of eleven million pounds with the inspectors,
which Lady Victoria seemed well satisfied with at the time.'
'My sister was a naive spinster who never left home without her
father and didn't have her own bank account until she was thirty,'
said Arabella, 'but still you allowed her to sign a further contract
with Fenston Finance, which was bound to land her in even more
debt.'
'It was that, or putting the estate on the market.'
'No, it wasn't,' replied Arabella. It only took me one phone
call to Lord Hindlip, the chairman of Christie's, to be told that he
would expect the family's Van Gogh to make in excess of thirty
million pounds were it to come up for auction.'
'But your father would never have agreed to sell the Van Gogh.'
'My father wasn't alive when you approved the second loan,' countered
Arabella. 'It was a decision you should have advised her on.'

111
 
1 had no choice, dear lady, under the terms of the original
contract.'
Which you witnessed, but obviously didn't read. Because not only
did my sister agree to go on paying 16 per cent compound interest
on the loan, but you even allowed her to hand over the Van Gogh as
collateral.'
'But you can still demand that they sell the painting, and then the
problem will be solved.'
"Wrong again, Mr Simpson,' said Arabella. 'If you had read beyond
page one of the original contract, you would have discovered that
should there be a dispute, any decision will revert to a New York
court's jurisdiction, and I certainly don't have the wherewithal to take
on Bryce Fenston in his own backyard.'
'You don't have the authority to do so, either,' retorted Simpson,
'because I--'
'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 prayer-like 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 die 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.'

112
 
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 queue 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 queue 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

113
 
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.
Tm attending an art seminar at McGill University. It's part of
my PhD 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 US, 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 colour 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.

114
 
"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 tool box. 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; 3.30pm 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 centre 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


115
 
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 Kim 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 have a window seat available?'
Window, aisle, centre, 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.'

116
 
'JFK have 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 what exactly 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.

117
 
Moments after Anna stepped onto the plane, the door was locked
into place. She was guided to her seat and asked to fasten her
seatbelt, 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 seatbelt 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
seatbelt,' 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 6.55am.'

118
 
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 rundown apartment block 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 favourite 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 43rd 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-grey window
slid up, cutting him off from the driver. For the next twenty-four
hours, he would live in a different world.

121
 
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 $50-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'd
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 30,000
feet and the Fasten seatbelt sign had been turned off. He leant
forward, picked up the phone and dialled 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.

122
 
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 emailed 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 travellers. Anna selected the
most conservative outfit from her small wardrobe for her meeting
with Victoria.
As she sat in Caffe Nero sipping coffee, Anna turned the pages
of the Herald Tribune: '$50-miUion-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 was 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

123
 
did, Anna would get in touch with Mr Nakamura in Tokyo and try
to find out if-- 'British Airways flight 8112 to London Gatwick is
now ready for boarding at Gate D14,' 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 cellphone, '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 43rd Street. The stewardess
served him a black coffee in a gold-rimmed china cup on a silver
tray. He leant 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.
He had served Fenston for a decade, and watched as the
unsophisticated immigrant from Bucharest climbed up the ladder
of wealth and status - a ladder he had held in place, while
remaining nothing more than a sidekick. But that could change
overnight. She only needed to make one mistake, and their roles

124
 
would be reversed. Fenston would end up in prison, and he would
have a fortune at his disposal that no one could ever trace.
Would you care for some more coffee, Mr Leapman?' asked
the stewardess.

Anna didn't need a map to find her way to Wentworth Hall,
although she did have to remember not to go the wrong way round
the numerous traffic islands en route.
Forty minutes later, she drove through the gates of the Hall.
Anna had no special knowledge of the Baroque architecture that
dominated the late seventeenth- and early eighteenth-century
homes of aristocratic England before she stayed at Wentworth
Hall. The pile - Victoria's description of her home - had been
built in 1697 by Sir John Vanbrugh. It was his first commission
before he moved on to create Castle Howard and, later, Blenheim
Palace, for another triumphant soldier - after which he became
the most sought-after architect in Europe.
The long drive up to the house was shaded by fine oaks of the
same vintage as the hall itself, although gaps were now visible
where trees had succumbed to the violent storms of 1987. Anna
drove by an ornate lake full of Magoi Koi carp - immigrants from
Japan - and on past two tennis courts and a croquet lawn, sprinkled
with the first leaves of autumn. As she rounded the bend, the great
hall, surrounded by a thousand green English acres, loomed up to
dominate the skyline.
Victoria had once told Anna that the house had sixty-seven
rooms, fourteen of them guest bedrooms. The bedroom she had
stayed in on the first floor, the Van Gogh room, was about the
same size as her apartment in New York.
As she approached the hall, Anna noticed that the crested
family flag on the east tower was fluttering at half mast. As she
brought the car to a halt, she wondered which of Victoria's many
elderly relatives had died.
The massive oak door was pulled open even before Anna
reached the top step. She prayed that Victoria was at home, and
that Fenston still had no idea she was in England.

125
 
'Good morning, madam,' the butler intoned. 'How may I help you?'
It's me, Andrews, Anna wanted to say, surprised by his formal
tone. He had been so friendly when she stayed at the hall. She
echoed his formal approach. 'I need to speak to Lady Victoria,
urgently.'
I'm afraid that will not be possible,' replied Andrews, 'but I will
find out if her ladyship is free. Perhaps you would be kind enough
to wait here while I enquire.'
What did he mean, that will not he possible, but I will find out
if her ladyship . . .
As Anna waited in the hall, she glanced up at Gainsborough's
portrait of Catherine, Lady Wentworth. She recalled every picture
in the house, but her eye moved to her favourite at the top of the
staircase, a Romney of Mrs Siddons as Portia. She turned to face
the entrance to the morning room, to be greeted with a painting
by Stubbs of Actaeon, Winner of the Derby, Sir Harry Wentworth's
favourite horse - still safely in his paddock. If Victoria took her
advice, at least she could still save the rest of the collection.
The butler returned at the same even pace.
'Her ladyship will see you now,' he said, 'if you would care to
join her in the drawing room.' He gave a slight bow, before leading
her across the hall.
Anna tried to concentrate on her six-point plan, but first she
would need to explain why she was forty-eight hours late for their
appointment, although surely Victoria would have followed the
horrors of Tuesday and might even be surprised to find that she
had survived.
When Anna entered the drawing room, she saw Victoria, head
bowed, dressed in mourning black, seated on the sofa, a chocolate
Labrador half asleep at her feet. She couldn't remember Victoria
having a dog, and was surprised when she didn't jump up and great
her in her usual warm manner. Victoria raised her head, and Anna
gasped, as Arabella Wentworth stared coldly up at her. In that split
second, she realized why the family's crest had been flying at half
mast. Anna remained silent, as she tried to take in the fact that she
would never see Victoria again, and would now need to convince

126
 
her sister, whom she had never met before. Anna couldn't even
remember her name. The mirror image did not rise from her
place, or offer to shake her hand.
Would you care for some tea, Dr Petrescu?' Arabella asked in
a distant voice that suggested she hoped to hear her reply, No,
thank you.
'No, thank you,' said Anna, who remained standing. 'May I ask
how Victoria died?' she said quietly.
'I assumed you already knew,' replied Arabella dryly.
'I have no idea what you mean,' said Anna.
'Then why are you here,' asked Arabella, 'if it's not to collect
the rest of the family silver?'
'I came to warn Victoria not to let them take away the Van
Gogh, before I had a chance to--'

'They took the painting away on Tuesday,' said Arabella, pausing.
'They didn't even have the good manners to wait until after
the funeral.'
'I tried to call, but they wouldn't give me her number. If only
I'd got through,' Anna mumbled incoherently, and then added,
'And now it's too late.'
Too late for what?' asked Arabella.
'I sent Victoria a copy of my report recommending that--'
Tes, I've read your report,' said Arabella, 'but you're right, it's
too late for that now. My new lawyer has already warned me that
it could be years before the estate can be settled, by which time
we'll have lost everything.'
'That must have been the reason he didn't want me to travel to
England and see Victoria personally,' Anna said without explanation.
Tm
not sure I understand,' said Arabella, looking more closely
at her.
'I was fired by Fenston on Tuesday,' said Anna, 'for sending a
copy of my report to Victoria.'
'Victoria read your report,' said Arabella quietly. 'I have a letter
confirming that she was going to take your advice, but that was
before her cruel death.'
'How did she die?' asked Anna gently.

127
 
'She was murdered, in a vile and cowardly fashion,' said
Arabella. She paused and, looking directly at Anna, added, 'And I
have no doubt that Mr Fenston will be able to fill in the details for
you.' Anna bowed her head, unable to think of anything to say, her
six-point plan in tatters. Fenston had beaten both of them. 'Dear
Victoria was so trusting, and, I fear, so naive,' continued Arabella,
'but no human being deserved to be treated in that way, let alone
someone as good-natured as my sweet sister.'
'I am so sorry,' said Anna, 'I didn't know. You have to believe
me. I had no idea.'
Arabella looked out of the window across the lawn, and didn't
speak for some time. She turned back to see Anna, trembling.
'I believe you,' Arabella eventually said. 'I originally assumed
that it was you who was responsible for this evil charade.' She
paused again. 'I see now that I was wrong. But, sadly, it's all too
late. There's nothing we can do now.'
'I'm not so sure about that,' said Anna, looking at Arabella with
a fierce determination in her eyes. 'But if I'm to do anything, I'll
have to ask you to trust me, as much as Victoria did.'
What do you mean, trust you?' said Arabella.
'Give me a chance,' said Anna, 'to prove that I wasn't responsible
for your sister's death.'
'But how can you hope to do that?' asked Arabella.
'By retrieving your Van Gogh.'
'But as I told you, they've already taken the painting away.'
'I know,' said Anna, 'but it still has to be in England, because
Fenston has sent a Mr Leapman to pick up the picture.' Anna
checked her watch. 'He'll be landing at Heathrow in a few hours'
time.'
'But even if you managed to get your hands on the painting,
how would that solve the problem?'
Anna outlined the details of her plan, and was pleased to find
Arabella nodding from time to time. Anna ended by saying, 'I'll
need your backing, otherwise what I have in mind could get me
arrested.'
Arabella remained silent for some time, before she said, 'You're
a brave young woman, and I wonder if you even realize just how

128
 
brave. But if you're willing to take such a risk, so am I, and I'll
back you to the hilt,' she added.
Anna smiled at the quaint English expression, and said, 'Can
you confirm who collected the Van Gogh?'
Arabella rose from the sofa and crossed the room to the writing
desk, with the dog following in her wake. She picked up a business
card. 'A Ms Ruth Parish,' she read, 'of Art Locations.'
'Just as I thought,' said Anna. 'Then I'll have to leave immediately,
as I only have a few hours before Leapman arrives.'
Anna stepped forward and thrust out her hand, but Arabella
didn't respond. She simply took her in her arms and said, 'If I can
do anything to help you avenge my sister's death
'Anything?'
'Anything,' repeated Arabella.
When the North Tower collapsed, all the documentation concerning
Victoria's loan was destroyed,' said Anna, 'including die
original contract. The only copy is in your possession. If--'
'You don't have to spell it out,' said Arabella.
Anna smiled. She wasn't dealing with Victoria any longer.
She turned to leave and had reached the hall long before the
butler had time to open the front door.
Arabella watched from the drawing-room window as Anna's car
disappeared down the drive and out of sight. She wondered if she
would ever see her again.

'Petrescu,' said a voice, 'is just leaving Wentworth Hall. She's
heading back in the direction of central London. I'm following her,
and will keep you briefed.'

129
 
23

Anna drove out of Wentworth Hall and headed back towards
the M25, looking for a sign to Heathrow. She checked the clock
on the dashboard. It was almost 2pm, so she had missed any
chance of calling Tina, who would now be at her desk on Wall
Street. But she did need to make another call if there was to be
the slightest chance of her coup succeeding.
As she drove through the village of Wentworth, Anna tried to
recall the pub where Victoria had taken her to dinner. Then she
saw the familiar crest flapping in the wind, also at half mast.
Anna swung into the forecourt of the Wentworth Arms and
parked her car near the entrance. She walked through the reception
and into the bar.
'Can you change five dollars?' she asked the barmaid. 'I need to
make a phone call.'
'Of course, love,' came back the immediate reply. The barmaid
opened the cash register and handed Anna two pound coins.
Daylight robbery, Anna wanted to tell her, but she didn't have
time to argue.
'The phone's just beyond the restaurant, to your right.'
Anna dialled a number that she could never forget. The phone
rang only twice before a voice announced, 'Good afternoon,
Sotheby's.'
Anna fed a coin into the slot, and said, 'Mark Poltimore, please.'
Til put you through.'
'Mark Poltimore.'
'Mark, it's Anna, Anna Petrescu.'

130
 
'Anna, what a pleasant surprise. We've all been anxious about
you. Where were you on Tuesday?'
'Amsterdam,' she replied.
'Thank God for that,' said Mark. 'Terrible business. And
Fenston?'
'Not in the building at the time,' said Anna, 'and that's why I'm
calling. He wants your opinion on a Van Gogh.'
'Authenticity or price?' asked Mark. 'Because when it comes to
provenance, I bow to your superior judgement.'
'There's no discussion on its provenance,' said Anna, 'but I
would like a second opinion on its value.'
'Is it one we would know?'
'Self-portrait with Bandaged Ear,' said Anna.
'The Wentworth Self-portrait?' queried Mark. 'I've known the
family all my life and had no idea they were considering selling
the painting.'
'I didn't say they were,' said Anna, without offering further
explanation.
'Are you able to bring the painting in for inspection?' asked
Mark.
'I'd like to, but I don't have secure enough transport. I was
hoping you might be able to help.'
"Where is it now?' asked Mark.
'In a bonded warehouse at Heathrow.'
'That's easy enough,' said Mark. 'We have a daily pick-up from
Heathrow. Would tomorrow afternoon be convenient?'
'Today, if possible,' said Anna, 'you know what my boss is like.'
'Hold on, I'll just need to find out if they've already left.' The
line went silent, although Anna could hear her heart thumping.
She placed the second pound coin in the slot - the last thing she
needed was to be cut off. Mark came back on the line. 'You're in
luck. Our handler is picking up some other items for us around
four. How does that suit you?'
'Fine, but could you do me another favour, and ask them
to call Ruth Parish at Art Locations, just before the van is due to
arrive?'
'Sure. And how long do we have to value the piece?'

131
 
'Forty-eight hours.'
'You'd come to Sotheby's first if you ever considered selling the Self-portrait, wouldn't you, Anna?'
'Of course.'
'I can't wait to see it,' said Mark.
Anna replaced the receiver, appalled by how easily she could
now lie. She was also becoming aware just how simple it must have
been for Fenston to deceive her.
She drove out of the Wentworth Arms car park, aware that
everything now depended on Ruth Parish being in her office. Once
she reached the orbital road, Anna remained in the slow lane as
she went over all the things that could go badly wrong. Was Ruth
aware that she had been fired? Had Fenston told her she was
dead? Would Ruth accept her authority to make such a crucial
decision? Anna knew that there was only one way she was going to
find out. She even considered calling Ruth, but decided any prior
warning would only give her more time to check up. If she was to
have any chance at all, she needed to take Ruth by surprise.
Anna was so deep in thought as she considered every possibility
that she nearly missed her exit for Heathrow. Once she had turned
off the M25, she drove on past the signs for terminals one, two,
three and four, and headed for the cargo depots just off the
Southern Perimeter Road.
She parked her car in a visitor's space directly outside the
offices of Art Locations. She sat in the car for some time, trying to
compose herself. Why didn't she just drive off? She didn't need
to become involved, or even consider taking such a risk. She then
thought about Victoria, and the role she had unwittingly played
in her death. 'Get on with it, woman,' Anna said out loud. They
either know, or they don't, and if they've already been tipped off,
you'll be back in the car in less than two minutes.' Anna looked in
the mirror. Were there any giveaway signs? 'Get on with it,' she
admonished herself even more firmly, and finally opened the car
door. She took a deep breath as she strolled across the tarmac
towards the entrance of the building.
She pushed through the swing doors and came face to face with
a receptionist she'd never seen before. Not a good start.

132
 
IJ-MWH MT lWWn

'Is Ruth around?' Anna asked cheerily, as if she popped by the
office every day.
'No, she's having lunch at the Royal Academy to discuss the
upcoming Rembrandt exhibition.'
Anna's heart sank.
'But I'm expecting her back at any moment.'
'Then I'll wait,' Anna said with a smile.
She took a seat in reception. She picked up an out-of-date copy
of Newsweek, with Al Gore on the cover, and flicked through the
pages. She found herself continually looking up at the clock above
the reception desk, watching the slow progress of the minute hand:
3.10, 3.15, 3.20.
Ruth finally walked through the door at 3.22pm. 'Any messages?'
she asked the receptionist.
'No,' replied the girl, 'but there is a lady waiting to see you.'
Anna held her breath as Ruth swung around.
'Anna,' she exclaimed. 'It's good to see you.' First hurdle
crossed. 'I wondered if you'd still be on this assignment after the
tragedy in New York.' Second hurdle crossed. 'Especially when
your boss told me that Mr Leapman would be coming across to
collect the picture personally.' Third hurdle crossed. No one had
told Ruth she was missing, presumed dead.
'You look a bit pale,' continued Ruth. 'Are you all right?'
'I'm fine,' said Anna, stumbling over the fourth hurdle, but at
least she was still on her feet, even if there were another six
hurdles to cross before the finishing line.
Where were you on the eleventh?' asked Ruth with concern.
"We feared the worst. I would have asked Mr Fenston, but he
never gives you a chance to ask anything.'
'Covering a sale in Amsterdam,' Anna replied, 'but Karl Leapman
called me last night and asked me to fly over and double
check everything was in place, so that when he arrives all we have
to do is load the picture onto the plane.'
We're more than ready for him,' said Ruth testily, 'but I'll drive
you across to the warehouse and you can see for yourself. Just
hang on for a minute. I need to see if I've had any calls and let my
secretary know where I'm going.'

133
 
Anna paced anxiously up and down, wondering if Ruth would
call New York to check her story. But why should she? Ruth had
never dealt with anyone else in the past.
Ruth was back within a couple of minutes. 'This just arrived on
my desk,' she said, handing Anna an email. Anna's heart sank.
'Confirming that Mr Leapman is scheduled to land around seven,
seven thirty, this evening. He expects us to be waiting on the
runway, ready to load the painting, as he's hoping to turn round
in less than an hour.'
'That sounds like Leapman,' said Anna.
'Then we'd better get moving,' said Ruth, as she began walking
towards the door.
Anna nodded her agreement, followed her out of the building
and jumped into the passenger seat of Ruth's Range Rover.
'Terrible business, Lady Victoria,' said Ruth as she swung the
car round and headed for the south end of the cargo terminal.
The press are making a real meal of the murder - mystery killer,
throat cut with a kitchen knife - but the police still haven't arrested
anyone.'
Anna remained silent, the words 'throat cut' and 'mystery killer'
reverberating in her mind. Was that why Arabella had told her that
she was a brave woman?
Ruth pulled up outside an anonymous-looking concrete building,
which Anna had visited several times in the past. She checked
her watch: 3.40pm.
Ruth flashed a security pass to the guard, who immediately
unlocked the three-inch steel door. He accompanied them both
down a long, grey concrete corridor that always felt like a bunker
to Anna. He stopped at a second security door, this time with a
digital pad. Ruth waited for the guard to stand back before she
entered a six-digit number. She pulled open the heavy door,
allowing them to enter a square concrete room. A thermometer on
the wall indicated a temperature of 20 degrees centigrade.
The room was lined with wooden shelves, which were stacked
with pictures waiting to be transported to different parts of the
world, all packed in Art Locations' distinctive red boxes. Ruth checked her inventory, before walking across die room and looking


134
 
up at a row of shelves. She tapped a crate showing the number 47
stencilled in all four corners.
Anna strolled across to join her, playing for time. She also
checked the inventory, number forty-seven, Vincent Van Gogh, Self-portrait with Bandaged Ear, 24 by 18 inches.
'Everything seems to be in order,' said Anna, as the guard
reappeared at the door.
'Sorry to interrupt you, Ms Parish, but there are two security
men from Sotheby's outside, say they've been instructed to pick up
a Van Gogh for valuation/
'Do you know anything about this?' asked Ruth, turning to face
Anna.
'Oh, yes,' said Anna, not missing a beat, 'the chairman instructed
me to have the Van Gogh valued for insurance purposes before it's
shipped to New York. They'll only need the piece for about an
hour, and then they will send it straight back.'
'Mr Leapman didn't mention anything about this,' said Ruth. 'It
wasn't in his email.'
'Frankly,' said Anna, 'Leapman's such a philistine, he wouldn't
know the difference between Van Gogh and Van Morrison.' Anna
paused for a moment. Normally she never took risks, but she
couldn't afford to let Ruth call Fenston and check. 'If you're in
any doubt, why don't you call New York and have a word with
Fenston?' she said. 'That should clear the matter up.'
Anna waited nervously as Ruth considered her suggestion.
'And have my head bitten off again,' said Ruth eventually. 'No,
thank you, I think I'll take your word for it. That's assuming you
will take responsibility for signing the release order?'
'Of course,' said Anna, adding, 'That's no more than my fiduciary
duty as an officer of the bank,' hoping her reply sounded
suitably pompous.
'And you'll also explain the change of plan to Mr Leapman?'
'That won't be necessary,' said Anna, 'the painting will be back
long before his plane lands.'
Ruth looked relieved, and turning to the guard said, 'It's number
forty-seven.'
They both accompanied the guard as he removed the red

135
 
packing case from the shelf and carried it out to the Sotheby's
security van.
'Sign here,' said the driver.
Anna stepped forward and signed the release document.
When will you be bringing the picture back?' Ruth asked the
driver.
'I don't know anything about--'

'I asked Mark Poltimore to return the painting within a couple
of hours,' interjected Anna.
'It had better be back before Mr Leapman lands,' said Ruth,
'because I don't need to get on the wrong side of that man.'
'Would you be happier if I accompanied the painting to
Sotheby's?' asked Anna innocently. 'Then perhaps I can speed up
the whole process.'
'Would you be willing to do that?' asked Ruth.

'It might be wise given the circumstances,' said Anna, and she
climbed up into the front of the van and took the seat between the
two men.
Ruth waved as the van disappeared through the perimeter gate
and joined the late-afternoon traffic on its journey into London.

136
 
24

Bryce Fenston's Gulfstream V executive jet touched down at
Heathrow at 7.22pm, and Ruth was standing on the tarmac waiting
to greet the bank's representative. She had already alerted customs
with all the relevant details so that the paperwork could be
completed just as soon as Anna returned.
For the past hour, Ruth had spent more and more time looking
towards the main gate, willing die security van to reappear. She
had already rung Sotheby's, and was assured by the girl in their
Impressionist department that the painting had arrived. But that
was more than two hours ago. Perhaps she should have called the
States to double-check, but why question one of your most reliable
customers. Ruth turned her attention back to the jet and decided
to say nothing. After all, Anna was certain to turn up in the next
few minutes.
The fuselage door opened and the steps unfolded onto the
ground. The stewardess stood to one side to allow her only
passenger to leave the plane. Karl Leapman stepped onto the
tarmac and shook hands with Ruth, before joining her in the back
of an airport limousine for the short journey to the private lounge.
He didn't bother to introduce himself, just assumed she would
know who he was.
'Any problems?' asked Leapman.
'None that I can think of,' replied Ruth confidently, as the
driver pulled up outside the executive building. We've carried out
your instructions to the letter, despite the tragic death of Lady
Victoria.'

137
 
'Yeah,' said Leapman as he stepped out of the car. 'The
company will be sending a wreath to her funeral,' and without
pausing, added, 'is everything ready for a quick turnaround?'
'Yes,' said Ruth. We'll begin loading the moment the captain
has finished refuelling - shouldn't be more than an hour. Then you
can be on your way.'
'I'm glad to hear it,' said Leapman, pushing through the swing
doors. We have a slot booked for eight thirty and I don't want to
miss it.'
'Then perhaps it might be more sensible if I left you, to oversee
the transfer,' said Ruth, 'but I'll report back the moment the
painting is safely on board.'
Leapman nodded and sank back in a leather chair. Ruth turned
to leave.
'Can I get you a drink, sir?' asked the barman.
'Scotch on the rocks,' said Leapman, scanning the short dinner
menu.
As Ruth reached the door, she turned and said, When Anna
comes back, would you tell her I'll be over at customs, waiting to
complete the paperwork?'
'Anna?' exclaimed Leapman, jumping out of his chair.
'Yes, she's been around for most of the afternoon.'
'Doing what?' Leapman demanded as he advanced towards Ruth.
'Just checking over the manifest,' Ruth said, trying to sound
relaxed, 'and making sure that Mr Fenston's orders were carried
out.'
What orders?' barked Leapman.
'To send the Van Gogh to Sotheby's for an insurance valuation.'
'The chairman gave no such order,' said Leapman.
'But Sotheby's sent their van, and Dr Petrescu confirmed the
instruction.'
'Petrescu was fired three days ago. Get me Sotheby's on the
line, now.'
Ruth ran across to the phone and dialled the main number.
Who does she deal with at Sotheby's?'
'Mark Poltimore,' Ruth said, handing the phone across to
Leapman.

138
 
Toltimore,' he barked, the moment he heard the word Sotheby's,
then realized he was addressing an answering machine.
Leapman slammed down the phone. 'Do you have his home
number?'
'No,' said Ruth, 'but I have a mobile.'
'Then call it.'
Ruth quickly looked up the number on her palm pilot and
began dialling again.
'Mark?' she said.
Leapman snatched the phone from her. Toltimore?'
'Speaking.'
'My name is Leapman. I'm the--'
'I know who you are, Mr Leapman,' said Mark.

'Good, because I understand you are in possession of our Van
Gogh.'
'Was, would be more accurate,' replied Mark, 'until Dr
Petrescu, your art director, informed us, even before we'd had
a chance to examine the painting, that you'd had a change of
heart and wanted the canvas taken straight back to Heathrow for
immediate transport to New York.'
'And you went along with that?' said Leapman, his voice rising
with every word.
We had no choice, Mr Leapman. After all, it was her name on
the manifest.'

!39
 
25

'Hi, it's Vincent.'
'Hi. Is it true what I've just heard?'
What have you heard?'
'That you've stolen the Van Gogh.'
'Have the police been informed?'
'No, he can't risk that, not least because our shares are still
going south and the picture wasn't insured.'
'So what's he up to?'
'He's sending someone to London to track you down, but I
can't find out who it is.'
'Maybe I won't be in London by the time they arrive.'
Where will you be?'
'I'm going home.'
'And is the painting safe?'
'Safe as houses.'

'Good, but there's something else you ought to know.'
What's that?'
'Fenston will be attending your funeral this afternoon.'
The phone went dead. Fifty-two seconds.

Anna replaced the receiver, even more concerned about the
danger she was placing Tina in. What would Fenston do if he were
to discover the reason she always managed to stay one step ahead
of him?
She walked over to the departures desk.
'Do you have any bags to check in?' asked the woman behind
the counter. Anna heaved the red box off the luggage cart and onto
the scales. She then placed her suitcase next to it.

140
 
'You're quite a bit over weight, madam,' the woman said. I'm
afraid there will be an excess charge of thirty-two pounds.' Anna
took the money out of her wallet while the woman attached a label
to her suitcase and fixed a large 'fragile' sticker on the red box.
'Gate forty-three,' she said, handing her a ticket. 'They'll be
boarding in about thirty minutes. Have a good flight.'
Anna began walking towards the departures gate.
Whoever Fenston was sending to London to track her down
would be landing long after she had flown away. But Anna knew
that they only had to read her report carefully to work out where
the picture would be ending up. She just needed to be certain that
she got there before they did. But first she had to make a phone
call to someone she hadn't spoken to for over ten years, to warn
him that she was on her way. Anna took the escalator to the first
floor and joined a long line waiting to be checked through security.
'She's heading towards gate forty-three,' said a voice, 'and will
be departing on flight BA 272 to Bucharest at eight forty-four

Fenston squeezed himself into a line of dignitaries as President
Bush and Mayor Giuliani shook hands with a selected group who
were attending the latest service at Ground Zero.
He hung around until the President's helicopter had taken off
and then walked across to join the other mourners. He took a place
at the back of the crowd and listened as the names were read out.
Each one followed by the single peal of a bell.
Greg Abbot.
He glanced around the crowd.
Kelly Gullickson.
He studied the faces of the relations and friends who had
gathered in memory of their loved ones.
Anna Petrescu.
Fenston knew that Petrescu's mother lived in Bucharest and
wouldn't be travelling to the service. He looked more carefully at
the strangers who were huddled together, and wondered which
one of them was Uncle George from Danville, Illinois.
Rebecca Rangere.

141
 
He glanced across at Tina. Tears were filling her eyes, certainly
not for Petrescu.
Brulio Real Polanco.
The priest bowed his head. He delivered a prayer, then closed
his Bible and made the sign of a cross. In the name of the Father,
the Son and the Holy Ghost,' he declared.
'Amen,' came back the unison reply.

Tina looked across at Fenston, not a tear shed, just the familiar
movement from one foot to the other - the sign that he was bored.
While others gathered in small groups to remember, sympathize
and pay their respects, Fenston left without commiserating with
anyone. No one else joined the chairman as he strode off purposefully
towards his waiting car.
Tina stood among a little group of mourners, although her eyes
remained fixed on Fenston. His driver was holding open the back
door for him. Fenston climbed into the car and sat next to a
woman Tina had never seen before. Neither spoke until the driver
had returned to the front seat and touched a button on the
dashboard to cause a smoked-glass screen to rise behind him.
Without waiting, the car eased out into the road to join the midday
traffic. Tina watched as the chairman disappeared out of sight. She
hoped it wouldn't be long before Anna called again - so much to
tell her, and now she had to find out who the waiting woman was.
Were they discussing Anna? Had Tina put her friend in unnecessary
danger? Where was the Van Gogh?

The woman seated next to Fenston was dressed in a grey trouser
suit. Anonymity was her most important asset. She had never once
visited Fenston at either his office or his apartment, even though
she had known him for almost twenty years. She'd first met Nicu
Munteanu when he was bagman for President Nicolae Ceauescu.
Fenston's primary responsibility during Ceauescu's reign was
to distribute vast sums of money into countless bank accounts

142
 
across the world - backhanders for the dictator's loyal henchmen.
When they ceased to be loyal, the woman seated next to Fenston
eliminated them, and he then redistributed their frozen assets.
Fenston's speciality was money laundering, to places as far afield
as the Cook Islands and as close to home as Switzerland. Her
speciality was to dispose of the bodies - her chosen instrument a
kitchen knife, available in any hardware store in any city, and
unlike a gun not requiring a licence.
Both knew, literally, where the bodies were buried.
In 1985, Ceaugescu decided to send his private banker to New
York to open an overseas branch for him. For die next four years,
Fenston lost touch with the woman seated next to him, until in
1989 Ceaugescu was arrested by his fellow countrymen, tried and
finally executed on Christmas Day. Among those who avoided the
same fate was Olga Krantz, who crossed seven borders before she
reached Mexico, from where she slipped into America to become
one of the countless illegal immigrants who do not claim unemployment
benefit and live off cash payments from an unscrupulous
employer. She was sitting next to her employer.
Fenston was one of the few people alive who knew Krantz's
true identity. He'd first watched her on television when she was
fourteen years old and representing Romania in an international
gymnastics competition against the Soviet Union.
Krantz came second to her team-mate Mara Moldoveanu, and
the press were already tipping them for the gold and silver at the
next Olympics. Unfortunately, neither of them made the journey
to Moscow. Moldoveanu died in tragic, unforeseen circumstances,
when she fell from the beam attempting a double somersault and
broke her neck. Krantz was the only other person in the gymnasium
at the time. She vowed to win the gold medal in her memory.
Krantz's exit was far less dramatic. She pulled a hamstring
warming up for a floor exercise, only days before the Olympic team
was selected. She knew she wouldn't be given a second chance.
Like all athletes who don't quite make the grade, her name quickly
disappeared from the headlines. Fenston assumed he would never
hear of her again, until one morning he thought he saw her coming

143
 
out of Ceaugescu's private office. The short, sinewy woman might
have looked a little older, but she had lost none of her agile
movement, and no one could forget those steel-grey eyes.
A few well-placed questions and Fenston learned that Krantz
was now head of Ceausescu's personal protection squad. Her
particular responsibility: breaking selected bones of those who
crossed the dictator or his wife.
Like all gymnasts,. Krantz wanted to be number one in her
discipline. Having perfected all the routines in the compulsory
section - broken arms, broken legs, broken necks - she moved on
to her voluntary exercise, 'cut throats', a routine at which no one
could challenge her for the gold medal. Hours of dedicated
practice had resulted in perfection. While others attended a football
match or went to the movies on a Saturday afternoon, Krantz
spent her time at a slaughter house on the outskirts of Bucharest.
She filled her weekend cutting the throats of lambs and calves.
Her Olympic record was forty-two in an hour. None of the
slaughtermen reached the final.
Ceauescu had paid her well. Fenston paid her better. Krantz's
terms of employment were simple. She must be available night
and day, and work for no one else. In a space of twelve years, her
fee had risen from $250,000 to $1 million. Not for her the handto-mouth
existence of most illegal immigrants.
Fenston extracted a folder from his briefcase and handed it
across to Krantz without comment. She turned the cover and
studied five recent photographs of Anna Petrescu.
Where is she at the moment?' asked Krantz, still unable to
disguise her mid-European accent.
'London,' replied Fenston, before he passed her a second file.
Once again she opened it and this time extracted a single colour
photograph. "Who's he?' she enquired.
'He's even more important than the girl,' replied Fenston.
'How can that be possible?' Krantz asked as she studied the
photo more carefully.
'Because he's irreplaceable,' Fenston explained, 'unlike Petrescu.
But whatever you do, don't kill the girl until she's led you to the
painting.'

144
 
'And if she doesn't?'
'She will,' said Fenston.
'And my payment for kidnapping a man who has already lost an
ear?' enquired Krantz.
'One million dollars. Half in advance, the other half on the day
you deliver him to me, unharmed.'
'And the girl?'
'The same tariff, but only after I have attended her funeral for
the second time.' Fenston tapped the screen in front of him and
the driver pulled in to the kerb. 'By the way,' said Fenston, I've
already instructed Leapman to deposit the cash in the usual place.'
Krantz nodded, opened the door, stepped out of the car and
disappeared into the crowd.

145
 
9/15
 
26

'Goodbye, Sam,' said Jack, as his cellphone began to play the
first few bars of 'Danny Boy'. He let it go on ringing until he was
back out on East 54th Street because he didn't want Sam to overhear
the conversation. He pressed the green button as he continued
walking towards 5th Avenue. "What have you got for me, Joe?'
Tetrescu landed at Gatwick,' said Joe. 'She rented a car and
drove straight to Wentworth Hall.'
'How long was she there?'
'Thirty minutes, no more. When she came out, she dropped
into a local pub to make a phone call before travelling on to
Heathrow, where she met up with Ruth Parish at the offices of
Art Locations.' Jack didn't interrupt. 'Around four, a Sotheby's van
turns up, picks up a red box--'

'Size?'
'About three foot by two.'
'No prizes for guessing what's inside,' said Jack. 'So where did
the van go?'
'They delivered the painting to their West End office.'
'And Petrescu?'
'She goes along for the ride. When the van turned up in Bond
Street, two porters unloaded the picture and she followed them
in.'
'How long before she came back out?'
'Twenty minutes, and this time she was on her own, except she
was carrying the red box. She hailed a taxi, put the painting in the
back and disappeared.'

149
 
'Disappeared?' said Jack, his voice rising. "What do you mean,
disappeared?'
"We don't have too many spare agents at the moment,' said Joe.
'Most of our guys are working round the clock trying to identify
terrorist groups that might have been involved in Tuesday's attacks.'
'Understood,' said Jack, calming down.
'But we picked her up again a few hours later.'
'Where?' asked Jack.
'Gatwick airport. Mind you,' said Joe, 'an attractive blonde carrying
a red box does have a tendency to stand out in a crowd.'
'Agent Roberts would have missed her,' said Jack, as he hailed
a cab.
'Agent Roberts?' queried Joe.
'Another time,' said Jack, climbing into the back of a cab. 'So
where was she heading this time?'
'Bucharest.'
cWhy would she want to take a priceless Van Gogh to Bucharest?'
asked Jack.
'On Fenston's instructions, would be my bet,' said Joe. 'After
all, it's his home town as Well as hers, and I can't think of a better
place to hide the picture.'
'Then why send Leapman to London if it wasn't to pick the
painting up?'
'A smokescreen,' said Joe, 'which would also explain why Fenston
attended her funeral when he knows only too well that she's alive
and still working for him.'
'There is an alternative we have to consider,' said Jack.
"What's that, boss?'
'That she's no longer working for him, and she's stolen the Van
Gogh.'
Why would she risk that,' asked Joe, 'when he wouldn't hesitate
to come after her?'
'I don't know, but there's only one way I'm going to find out.'
Jack touched the red button on his phone, and gave the taxi driver
an address on the West Side.

150
 
Fenston switched off the recorder and frowned. Both of them had listened to the tape for a third time.
"When are you going to fire the bitch?' was all Leapman asked.
'Not while she's the one person who can still lead us to the
painting,' Fenston replied.
Leapman scowled. 'And did you pick up the only word in their
conversation that matters?' he asked. Fenston raised an eyebrow. 'Going,' said Leapman. Fenston still didn't speak. 'If she'd used the
word coming, "I'm coming home," it would have been New York.'
'But she used the word going,' said Fenston, 'so it has to be
Bucharest.'

Jack sat back in the cab seat and tried to work out what Petrescu's
next move might be. He still couldn't make up his mind if she was
a professional criminal or a complete amateur. And where did Tina
Forster fit into the equation? Was it possible that Fenston, Leapman,
Petrescu and Forster were all working together? If that was
the case, why did Leapman only spend a few hours in London
before returning to New York? Because he certainly didn't meet
up with Petrescu, or take the painting back to New York.
But if Petrescu had branched out on her own, surely she
realized that it would only be a matter of time before Fenston
caught up with her. Although, Jack had to admit, Petrescu was now
on her own ground, and didn't seem to have any idea how much
danger she was in.
But Jack remained puzzled as to why Petrescu would steal a
painting worth millions when she couldn't hope to dispose of such
a well-known work without one of her former colleagues finding
out. The art world was so small, and the number of people who
could afford that sort of money even smaller. And even if she
succeeded, what could she hope to do with the money? The FBI
would trace such a large amount within hours, wherever she tried
to hide it, especially after Tuesday's events. It just didn't add up.
But if she did take her audacious act to its obvious conclusion,
Fenston was in for a nasty surprise, and no doubt would react in
character.

151
 
As the taxi swung into Central Park, Jack tried to make some
sense of all that had happened during the past few days. He had
even wondered if he would be taken off the Fenston case after
9/11, but Macy insisted that not all of his agents should be following
up terrorist leads while other criminals got away with murder.
Jack hadn't found it difficult to obtain a search warrant for
Anna's apartment while she remained on the missing list. After all,
relatives and friends needed to be contacted to find out if she had
been in touch with them. And then there was the outside possibility,
Jack had argued in front of a judge, that she might be locked
in her apartment, recovering from the ordeal. The judge signed
the order without too many questions.
'I hope you find her,' he said, a sentiment His Honour had
cause to repeat several times that day.
Sam had burst into tears at just the mention of Anna's name.
He told Jack that he'd do anything to assist, and accompanied him
up to her apartment and even opened the door.
Jack had walked around the small, tidy apartment, while Sam
remained in the hallway. Jack hadn't learnt a great deal more than
he already knew. An address book confirmed her uncle's number
in Danville, Illinois, and an envelope showed her mother's address
in Bucharest. Perhaps the only real surprise was a small Picasso
drawing hanging in the hallway, signed in pencil by the artist. He
studied the matador and the bull more closely, and it certainly
wasn't a print. He couldn't believe she'd stolen it and then left the
drawing in the hall for everyone to admire. Or was the drawing a
bonus from Fenston for helping him to acquire the Van Gogh? If
it was, it would at least explain what she was up to now. And then
he walked into the bedroom and saw the one clue that confirmed
that Tina had been in the apartment on the evening of 9/11. By
the side of Anna's bed was a watch. Jack checked the time: 8.46.
Jack returned to the main room and glanced at a photograph
on the corner of the writing desk of what must have been Anna
with her parents. He opened a box file, to discover a bundle of
letters that he couldn't read. Most of them were signed 'Mama'
although one or two were from someone called Anton. Jack wondered
if he was a relation or a friend. He looked back up at the

152
 
photograph and couldn't help thinking that if his mother had seen the picture, she would have invited Anna back to sample her Irish
stew.
'Damn,' said Jack, loud enough for the cab driver to ask, "What's
the problem?'
'I forgot to phone my mother.'
Then you're in big trouble,' said the driver. 'I should know, I'm
Irish too.'
Hell, is it that obvious? thought Jack. Mind you, he should have
called his mother to let her know that he wouldn't be able to make
'Irish stew night', when he usually joined his parents to celebrate
the natural superiority of the Gaelic race over all God's other
creatures. It didn't help that he was an only child. He must try to
remember to call her from London.
His father had wanted Jack to be a lawyer, and both his parents
had made sacrifices to make it possible. After twenty-six years with
the NYPD, Jack's father had come to the conclusion that the only
people who made a profit out of crime were the lawyers and the
criminals, so he felt his son ought to make up his mind which he
was going to be.
Despite his father's cryptic advice, Jack signed up for the FBI,
only days after he had graduated from Columbia with a law degree.
His father continued to grumble every Saturday about him not
being a lawyer, and his mother kept asking if he was ever going to
make her a grandmother.
Jack enjoyed every aspect of the job, from the first moment he
arrived at Quantico for training, to joining the New York field
office, to being promoted to Senior Investigating Officer. He
seemed to be the only person who was surprised when he was the
first among his contemporaries to be promoted. Even his father
begrudgingly congratulated him, before he added, 'Only proves
what a damn good lawyer you would have made.'
Macy had also made it clear that he hoped Jack would take over
from him once he was transferred back to Washington DC. But
before that could happen, Jack still had to put in jail a man who
was turning any such thoughts of promotion into fantasies. And
so far, Jack had to admit, he hadn't so much as landed a glove

153
 
on Bryce Fenston, and was now having to rely on an amateur to
deliver the knock-out punch.
He stopped day-dreaming, and put a call through to his secretary.
'Sally, book me on the first available flight to London, with an
onward connection to Bucharest. I'm on my way home to pack.'
'I ought to warn you, Jack,' his secretary replied, 'that JFK is
stacked solid for the next week.'
'Sally, just get me on a plane to London, and I don't care if I'm
sitting next to the pilot.'

The rules were simple. Krantz stole a new cellphone every day.
She'd call the chairman once, and when the conversation was
finished dispose of the phone. That way, no one could ever trace
her.
Fenston was sitting at his desk when the little red light flashed
on his private line. Only one person had that number. He picked
up the phone.
"Where is she?'
'Bucharest,' was all he said, and then replaced the receiver.
Krantz dropped today's cellphone into the Thames and hailed a cab.
'Gatwick.'

When Jack came down the steps at Heathrow, he wasn't surprised
to find Tom Crasanti standing on the runway waiting for him. A
car was parked behind his old friend, engine running, the back
door held open by another agent.
Neither of them spoke until the door was closed and the car
was on the move.
"Where's Petrescu?' was Jack's first question.
'She's landed in Bucharest.'
'And the painting?'
'She wheeled it out of customs on a baggage trolley,' said Tom.
'That woman's got style.'
'Agreed,' said Tom, 'but then perhaps she has no idea what
she's up against.'

154
 
'I suspect she's about to find out,' said Jack, 'because one thing's for sure: if she stole the painting, I won't be the only person out
there looking for her.'
'Then you'll have to keep an eye out for them as well,' said
Tom.
'You're right about that,' said Jack, 'and that's assuming I get to
Bucharest before she's moved on to her next destination.'
'Then there's no time to waste,' said Tom, before adding, We've
got a helicopter standing by to take you to Gatwick, and they're
holding up the flight to Bucharest for thirty minutes.'
'How did you manage that?' asked Jack.
'The helicopter is ours, the hold-up is theirs. The ambassador
called the Foreign Office. I don't know what he said,' admitted
Tom, as they came to a halt beside the helicopter, 'but you've only
got thirty minutes.'
'Thanks for everything,' said Jack, as he stepped out of the car
and began to walk towards the helicopter.
'And try not to forget,' Tom shouted above the noise of the
whirring blades, 'we don't have an official presence in Bucharest,
so you'll be on your own.'

155
 
27

Anna stepped onto the concourse of Otopeni, Bucharest's
international airport, pushing a trolley laden with a wooden crate,
a large case and a laptop. She stopped in her tracks when she saw
a man rushing towards her.
Anna stared at him suspiciously. He was around five nine,
balding, with a ruddy complexion and a thick black moustache. He
must have been over sixty. He wore a tight-fitting suit, which
suggested he'd once been slimmer. He came to a halt in front of
Anna.
I'm Sergei,' he announced in his native tongue. 'Anton told
me you'd called and asked to be picked up. He has already
booked you into a small hotel downtown.' Sergei took Anna's
trolley and pushed it towards his waiting taxi. He opened the
back door of a yellow Mercedes that already had 300,000 miles
on the clock, and waited until Anna had stepped in before he
loaded her luggage into the trunk and took his place behind the
wheel.
Anna stared out of the taxi window and thought how the city
had changed since her birth - it was now a thrusting, energetic
capital, demanding its place at the European table. Modern office
buildings and a fashionable shopping centre had replaced the drab
Communist grey-tiled facade of only a decade before.
Sergei drew up outside a small hotel tucked away down a
narrow street. He lifted the red crate out of the trunk while Anna
took the rest of the luggage and headed into the hotel.

156
 
I'd like to visit my mother first thing,' said Anna once she'd
checked in.
Sergei looked at his watch. 'I'll pick you up around nine. That
will give you the chance to grab a few hours' sleep.'
'Thank you,' said Anna.
He watched as she disappeared into the lift, carrying the red
box.

Jack had first spotted her when he was standing in line to board
the plane. It's a basic surveillance technique: hang back, just in
case you're being followed. The trick, then, is not to let the pursuer
realize that you're on to them. Act normal, never look back. Not
easy.
His class supervisor at Quantico would carry out a surveillance
detection run every evening after class, when he would follow one
of the new recruits home. If you managed to lose him, you were
singled out for a commendation. Jack went one better. Having lost
him, he then carried out an SDR on his supervisor and followed him home without being spotted.
Jack climbed the steps of the plane. He didn't look back.

When Anna strolled out of her hotel a few minutes after nine, she
found Sergei standing by his old Mercedes waiting for her.
'Good morning, Sergei,' she said as he opened the back door
for her.
'Good morning, madam. Do you still wish to visit your mother?'
Tes,' replied Anna. 'She lives at--'
Sergei waved a hand to make it clear that he knew exactly
where to take her.
Anna smiled with pleasure as he drove through the centre of
town past a magnificent fountain that would have graced a lawn at
Versailles. But once Sergei had reached the outskirts of the city,
the picture quickly changed from colour to black and white. By the
time her driver had reached the neglected outpost of Berceni,
Anna realized that the new regime still had a long way to go if they

157
 
were to achieve the prosperity-for-all programme they had promised
the voters following the downfall of Ceaugescu. Anna had, in
the space of a few miles, returned to the more familiar scenes of
her youth. She found many of her countrymen downcast, looking
older than their years. Only the young kids playing football in the
street seemed unaware of the degradation that surrounded them.
It appalled Anna that her mother was still so adamant about
remaining in her birthplace after her father had been killed in the
uprising. She had tried so many times to convince her to join them
in America, but she wouldn't be budged.
In 1987 Anna had been invited to visit Illinois by an uncle she
had never met. He'd even sent her two hundred dollars to assist
with her passage. Her father told her to leave, and leave quickly,
but it was her mother who predicted that she would never come
back. She purchased a one-way ticket, and her uncle promised to
pay for the return journey whenever she wanted to go home.
Anna was seventeen at the time, and she had fallen in love with
America even before the boat had docked. A few weeks later,
Ceauescu began his crackdown on any individual who dared to
oppose his draconian regime. Her father wrote to warn Anna that
it was not safe for her to come home.
That was his last letter. Three weeks later he joined the rebels,
and was never seen again.
Anna missed her mother dreadfully and repeatedly begged her
to join them in Illinois. But her response was always the same.
'This is my homeland, where I was born, and where I shall die. I
am too old to begin a new life.' Too old, Anna had remonstrated.
Her mother was only fifty-one, but they were fifty-one stubborn
Romanian years, so Anna reluctantly accepted that nothing would
change her mind. A month later, her uncle George enrolled Anna
in a local school. While civil unrest in Romania continued unabated,
Anna graduated from college and later accepted the opportunity to
study for a PhD at Penn, in a discipline that had no language
barriers.
Dr Petrescu still wrote to her mother every month, only too
aware that most of her letters were not reaching her because the
spasmodic replies often asked questions she had already answered.

158
 
The first decision Anna made after she left college and joined Sotheby's was to open a separate bank account for her mother in
Bucharest, to which she transferred $400 by standing order on the first day of every month. Although she would rather have ...
'I'll wait for you,' said Sergei, as the taxi finally came to a halt
outside a dilapidated block of flats in Piazza Resitei.
Thank you,' said Anna, as she looked out at the pre-war estate
where she was born, and where her mother still lived. Anna could
only wonder what Mama had spent the money on. She stepped out
onto the weed-covered path that she had once thought so wide
because she couldn't jump across it.
The children playing football in the road watched suspiciously
as the stranger in her smart linen jacket, jeans with fashionable
tears and fancy sneakers walked up the worn, pot-holed path. They
also wore jeans with tears. The elevator didn't respond to Anna's
button-pressing - nothing changes - which was why, Anna recalled,
the most sought-after flats were always those on the lower floors.
She couldn't understand why her mother hadn't moved years ago.
Anna had sent more than enough money for her to rent a
comfortable apartment on the other side of town. Anna's feeling of
guilt grew the higher up she climbed. She had forgotten just how
dreadful it was, but like the children playing football in the street,
it had once been all she knew.
When Anna eventually reached the sixteenth floor, she stopped
to catch her breath. No wonder her mother so rarely left the flat.
On the floors above her resided sixty-year-olds who were housebound.
Anna hesitated before she knocked on a door that hadn't
seen a splash of paint since she'd last stood there.
She waited for some time before a frail, white-haired lady,
dressed from head to toe in black, pulled the door open, but by
only a few inches. Mother and daughter stared at each other, until
suddenly Elsa Petrescu flung open the door, threw her arms round
her daughter and shouted in a voice as old as she looked, 'Anna,
Anna, Anna.' Both mother and daughter burst into tears.
The old lady continued to cling onto Anna's hand as she led her
into the flat in which she had been born. It was spotless, and Anna
could still remember everything, because nothing had changed.

159
 
The sofa and chairs her grandmother had left them, the family
photographs, all black and white unframed, a coal scuttle with
no coal, a rug that was so worn it was hard to make out the
original pattern. The only new addition to the room was a magnificent
painting that hung on otherwise blank walls. As Anna admired
the portrait of her father, she was reminded where her love of art
had begun.
'Anna, Anna, so many questions to ask,' her mother said. 'Where
do I begin?' she asked, still clutching her daughter's hand.
The sun was setting before Anna had responded to every one of
her mother's questions, and then she begged once again, 'Please,
Mama, come back with me and live in America.'
'No,' she replied defiantly, 'all my friends and all my memories
are here. I am too old to begin a new life.'
'Then why not move to another part of the city? I could find
you something on a lower--'
'This is where I was married,' her mother said quietly, 'where
you were born, where I lived for over thirty years with your
beloved father, and where, when God decrees it is my time, I shall
die.' She smiled up at her daughter. "Who would tend your father's
grave?' she asked as if she'd never asked the question before. She
looked into her daughter's eyes. 'You know he was so pleased to
see you settled in America with his brother -' she paused - 'and
now I can see that he was right.'
Anna looked round the room. 'But why haven't you spent some
of the money I've been sending to you each month?'
'I have,' she said firmly, 'but not on myself,' she admitted,
'because I want for nothing.'
'Then what have you spent it on?' Anna queried.
'Anton.'
'Anton?' repeated Anna.
'Yes, Anton,' said her mother. 'You knew that he'd been released
from jail?'
'Oh yes,' said Anna, 'he wrote to me soon after Ceauescu was
arrested to ask if I had a photo of Papa that he could borrow.'
Anna smiled as she looked up at the painting of her father.
'It's a good likeness,' said her mother.

160
 
'It certainly is,' said Anna.
'They gave him back his old job at the academy. He's now the
Professor of Perspective. If you'd married him, you would be a
professor's wife.'
'Is he still painting?' she asked, avoiding her mother's next
inevitable question.
'Yes,' she replied, 'but his main responsibility is to teach the
graduates at the Universitatea de Arte. You can't make a living as
an artist in Romania,' she said sadly. 'You know, with his talent,
Anton should also have gone to America.'
Anna looked up again at Anton's magnificent portrait of her father.
Her mother was right; with such a gift, he would have flourished in
New York. 'But what does he do with the money?' she asked.
'He buys canvases, paints, brushes and all those materials that
his pupils can't afford, so you see, your generosity is being put to
good use.' She paused. 'Anton was your first love, Anna, yes?'
Anna wouldn't have believed that her mother could still make
her blush. 'Yes,' she admitted, 'and I suspect I was his.'
'He's married now, and they have a little boy called Peter.' She
paused again. 'Do you have a young man?'
'No, Mama.'
'Is that what brings you back home? Are you running away from
something, or someone?'
'What makes you ask that?' Anna asked defensively.
'There is a sadness in your eyes, and fear,' she said, looking up
at her daughter, 'which you could never hide as a child.'
'I do have one or two problems,' admitted Anna, 'but nothing
that time won't sort out.' She smiled. 'In fact, I rather think that
Anton might be able to help me with one of them, and I'm hoping
to join him at the academy for a drink. Do you have any message
you want passed on?' Her mother didn't reply. She had quietly
dozed off. Anna rearranged the rug on her mother's lap and kissed
her on the forehead. Til be back again tomorrow morning, Mama,'
she whispered.
She slipped silently out of the room. As she walked back down
the littered staircase, she was pleased to see the old yellow
Mercedes was still parked by the kerb.

161
 
28

Anna returned to her hotel, and after a quick shower and
change of clothes, her newly acquired chauffeur took her to the
Academy of Art on Piata Universitatii.
The building had lost none of its elegance or charm with
the passing of time, and when Anna climbed the steps towards the
massive sculptured doors, memories came flooding back of her
introduction to the great works of art hanging in galleries she thought she would never see. Anna reported to the front desk and
asked where Professor Teodorescu's lecture was taking place.
'In the main theatre on the third floor,' said the girl behind the
counter, 'but it has already started.'
Anna thanked the young student and, without asking for any
directions, climbed the wide marble staircase to the third floor.
She stopped to glance at a poster outside the hall:

The Influence of Picasso on Twentieth-century Art
Professor Anton Teodorescu
TONIGHT, 7.00PM *

She didn't require the arrow to point her in the right direction.
Anna gingerly pushed open the door, pleased to find that the
lecture theatre was in darkness. She walked up the steps at the
side of the hall and took a seat towards the back.

A slide of Guernica filled the screen. Anton was explaining that
the massive canvas was painted in 1937, at the time of the Spanish
Civil War, when Picasso was at the height of his powers. He went

162
 
on to say that the depiction of the bombing and the resulting
carnage had taken Picasso three weeks, and the image was
unquestionably influenced by the artist's hatred of the Spanish
dictator, Franco. The students were listening attentively, several
taking notes. Anton's bravura performance reminded Anna why
she'd had a crush on him all those years ago, when she not only
lost her virginity to an artist, but began a life-long love affair with
art.
When Anton's presentation came to an end, the rapturous
applause left Anna in no doubt how much the undergraduates had
enjoyed his lecture. He'd lost none of his skill in motivating and
nurturing the young's enthusiasm for their chosen subject.
Anna watched her first love as he collected together his slides
and began to put them in an old briefcase. Tall and angular, his
mop of curly dark hair, ancient brown corduroy jacket and open
neck shirt gave him the air of a perpetual student. She couldn't
help noticing that he had put on a few pounds, but she didn't feel
it made him any less attractive. When the last student had filed
out, Anna made her way to the front of the hall.
Anton glanced up over his half-moon spectacles, apparently
anticipating a question from the student who was approaching him.
When he first saw Anna, he didn't speak, just stared.
'Anna,' he finally exclaimed. Thank God I didn't realize you
were in the audience, as you probably know more about Picasso
than I do.'
Anna kissed him on both cheeks and said with a laugh, Tou've
lost none of your charm, or ability to flatter.'

Anton held up his hands in mock defeat, grinning widely. *Was
Sergei at the airport to pick you up?'
'Yes, thank you,' said Anna. "Where did you meet him?'
'In jail,' admitted Anton. 'He was lucky to survive the Ceaugescu
regime. And have you visited your sainted mother?'
'I have,' replied Anna, 'and she's still living in conditions not
much better than a jail.'
'I agree, and don't think I haven't tried to do something about
it, but at least your dollars, and her generosity, allow some of my
best students

163
 
'I know,' said Anna, 'she's already told me.'
'You can't begin to know,' continued Anton. 'So let me show
you some of the results of your investment.'
Anton took Anna by the hand as if they were still students and
guided her down the steps to the long corridor on the first floor,
where the walls were crammed with paintings in every medium.
'This year's prize-winning students,' he told her, holding out his
arms like a proud father. 'And every entry has been painted on a
canvas supplied by you. In fact, one of the awards is in your name
- the Petrescu Prize.' He paused. 'How appropriate if you were to
select the winner, which would make not only me, but one of my
students, very proud.'
'I'm flattered,' said Anna with a smile, as she walked towards a
long row of paintings. She took her time as she strolled slowly up
and down the canvas-filled corridor, pausing occasionally to study
an image more closely. Anton had clearly taught them the importance
of drawing before he allowed them to move on to other
media. Don't bother with the brush if you can't first handle the
pencil, he liked to repeat. But the range of subjects and bold
approach showed that he had also let them express themselves.
Some didn't quite come off, while others showed considerable
talent. Anna finally stopped in front of an oil entitled Freedom, depicting the sun rising over Bucharest.
'I know a certain gentleman who'll appreciate that,' she said.
'You haven't lost your touch,' said Anton, smiling. 'Danuta
Sekalska is this year's star pupil, and she's been offered a place at
the Slade in London to continue her studies, if only we can raise
enough money to cover her expenses.' He looked at his watch. 'Do
you have time for a drink?'
'I certainly do,' replied Anna, 'because I confess there's a favour
I need to ask of you -' she paused - 'in fact, two favours.'
Anton once again took her by the hand and led her back down
the corridor towards the staff refectory. When they entered the
senior common room, Anna was greeted by the sound of good
humoured chatter as tutors swapped anecdotes while they sat
around in groups enjoying nothing stronger than a coffee. They
didn't seem to notice that the furniture, the cups, saucers and

164
 
probably even the cookies would have been rejected by any self
respecting hobo visiting a Salvation Army hostel in the Bronx.
Anton poured two cups of coffee. 'Black, if I remember. Not
quite Starbucks,' he mocked, 'but we're getting there slowly.'
Heads turned as Anton guided his former pupil to a place by the
fire. He took a seat opposite her. 'Now, what can I do for you,
Anna?' he asked. 'Because I am unquestionably in your debt.'
'It's my mother,' she said quietly. 'I need your help. I can't get
her to spend a cent on herself. She could do with a new carpet,
sofa, a TV and even a telephone, not to mention a splash of fresh
paint on that front door.'
'You think I haven't tried?' Anton repeated. "Where do you
imagine you get your stubborn streak from? I even suggested she
move in with us. It's not palatial, but it's a damn sight better than
that dump she's living in now.' Anton took a long draught of his
coffee. 'But I promise I'll try again - ' he paused - 'even harder.'

'Thank you,' said Anna, who remained silent while Anton rolled
a cigarette. 'And I see I failed to convince you to give up smoking.'
'I don't have the bright lights of New York to distract me,' he
said with a laugh. He lit his hand-rolled cigarette before adding,
'And what's the second favour?'
'You'll need to think long and hard about it,' she said in an even
tone.
Anton put down his coffee, inhaled deeply and listened carefully
as Anna explained in detail how he could help her.
'Have you discussed the idea with your mother?'
'No,' Anna admitted. 'I think it's best she doesn't find out why I
really came to Bucharest.'
'How much time have I got?'
'Three, perhaps four days. Depends how successful I am while
I'm away,' she added without explanation.
'And if I'm caught?' he asked, once again dragging deeply on
his cigarette.
'You'd probably go back to jail,' admitted Anna.
'And you?'
'The canvas would be shipped to New York and used as
evidence against me. If you need any more money for--'

165
 
'No, I'm still holding over eight thousand dollars of your
mother's money, so--'
'Eight thousand?'
'A dollar goes a long way in Romania.'
'Can I bribe you?'
'Bribe me?'
'If you'll take on the assignment, I'll pay for your pupil, Danuta
Sekalska, to go to the Slade.'
Anton thought for a moment. 'And you'll be back in three days,'
he said, stubbing out his cigarette.
'Four at the most,' said Anna.
'Then let's hope I'm as good as you think I am.'

It's Vincent.'
"Where are you?'
"Visiting my mother.'
'Then don't hang about.'
-Why?'
'The stalker knows where you are.'
'Then I'm afraid he'll miss me again.'
'I'm not even convinced the stalker's a man.'
'What makes you say that?'
'I saw Fenston talking to a woman in the back of his car while I
was attending your funeral.'
'That doesn't prove--'
'I agree, but it worries me that I've never seen her before.'
'She could be one of Fenston's girlfriends.'
'That woman was nobody's girlfriend.'
'Describe her.'
'Five foot, slim, dark-haired.'
'There will be a lot of people like that where I'm going.'
'And are you taking the painting with you?'

'No, I've left it where no one can give it a second look.'
The phone went dead.

166
 
Leapman pressed the off button. "Where no one can give it a
second look,' he repeated.
'Can, not will?' said Fenston. 'It must still be in the box.'
'Agreed, but where's she off to next?'
'To a country where the people are five foot, slim and dark
haired.'
'Japan,' said Leapman.
'How can you be so sure?' asked Fenston.
'It's all in her report. She's going to try and sell your painting to
the one person who won't be able to resist it.'
'Nakamura,' said Fenston.


1
167
 
9/16
 
29

Jack had checked in at what was ambitiously described on a
flashing neon sign as the Bucharesti International. He spent most
of the night either turning the radiator up because it was so cold, or
turning it off because it was so noisy. He rose just after 6.00am and
skipped breakfast, fearing it might be as unreliable as the radiator.
He hadn't spotted the woman again since he stepped onto the
plane, so either he'd made a mistake, or she was a professional.
But he was no longer in any doubt that Anna was working independently,
which meant Fenston would soon be dispatching someone
to retrieve the Van Gogh. But what did Petrescu have in mind, and
didn't she realize what danger she was putting herself in? Jack had
already decided the most likely place to catch up with Anna would
be when she visited her mother. This time he'd be waiting for her.
He wondered if the woman he'd seen when he stood in line for the
plane had the same idea, and, if so, was she Fenston's retriever or
did she work for someone else?
The hotel porter offered him a tourist map, which colourfully
detailed the finer parts of the city centre but not the outskirts,
so he walked across to the kiosk and purchased a guidebook
entitled Everything You Need to Know About Bucharest. There
wasn't a single paragraph devoted to the Berceni district where
Anna's mother lived, although they were considerate enough to
include Piazza Resitei on the larger fold-out map at the back. With
the aid of a matchstick placed against the scale at the bottom left
hand corner of the page, Jack worked out that Anna's birthplace
must be about six miles north of the hotel.

171
 
He decided he would walk the first three miles, not least
because he needed the exercise, but also because it would give
him a better chance to discover if he was the target of an SDR.
Jack left the International at 7.30am, and set off at a brisk pace.

Anna also had a restless night, finding it hard to sleep while the
red box was under her bed. She was beginning to have doubts
about Anton taking on such an unnecessary risk to assist her in her
plan, even if it was only for a few days. They'd agreed to meet at
the academy at eight o'clock, an hour no self-respecting student
would admit existed.
When she stepped out of the hotel, the first thing she saw was
Sergei in his old Mercedes parked by the entrance. She wondered
how long he'd been waiting for her. Sergei jumped out of the car.
'Good morning, madam,' he said as he loaded the red box back
into the trunk.
'Good morning, Sergei,' Anna replied. 'I would like to go back
to the academy, where I'll be leaving the crate.' Sergei nodded,
and opened the back door for her.
On the journey over to the Piata Universitatii, Anna learnt that
Sergei had a wife, that they had been married for over thirty years
and had a son who was serving in the army. Anna was about to ask
if he'd ever met her father, when she spotted Anton, standing on
the bottom step of the academy, looking anxious and fidgeting.
Sergei brought the car to a halt, jumped out and unloaded the
crate from the trunk.
'Is that it?' asked Anton, viewing the red box suspiciously. Anna
nodded. Anton joined Sergei as he carried the crate up the steps.
Anton opened the front door for him and they both disappeared
inside the building.
Anna kept checking her watch every few moments and looking
back up the steps towards the entrance. They were only away
for a few minutes, but she never felt alone. Was Fenston's stalker
watching her even now? Had he worked out where the Van Gogh
was? The two men finally reappeared carrying another wooden
box. Although it was exactly the same size, the plain slats of timber

172
 
were unmarked in any way. Sergei placed the new crate in the trunk of the Mercedes, slammed the lid down and climbed back
behind the wheel.
'Thank you,' said Anna, before kissing Anton on both cheeks.
'I won't be getting much sleep while you're away,' Anton
mumbled.
'I'll be back, three, four days at the most,' Anna promised,
'when I'll happily take the painting off your hands and no one will
be any the wiser.' She climbed into the back of the car.
As Sergei drove away, she stared through the rear window at the
forlorn figure of Anton, who was standing on the bottom step of
the academy, looking worried. Was he up to the job? she wondered.

Jack didn't look back, but once he'd covered the first mile, he
slipped into a large supermarket and disappeared behind a pillar.
He waited for her to walk by. She didn't. An amateur would have
strolled past and been unable to resist glancing in, and might even
have been tempted to enter the building. He didn't hang around
for too long, knowing it would make her suspicious. He bought a
bacon and egg baguette and walked back onto the road. As he
munched his breakfast, he tried to work out why he was being
followed. Who did she represent? What was her brief? Was she
hoping he would lead her to Anna, was he a selected target for
counter-surveillance - the unspoken fear of every FBI agent - or
was he just paranoid?
Once he was out of the city centre, Jack stopped to study the
map. He decided to grab a taxi, as he doubted he'd be able to pick
one up in the Berceni district, when he might need to make a
speedy exit. Jumping into a taxi might also make it easier for him
to lose his tail, as a yellow cab would be more conspicuous once
they were no longer in the city centre. He rechecked his map,
turned left at the next corner and didn't look back or even glance
into the shop window with its large plate-glass pane. If she was a
pro, it would be a dead giveaway. He hailed a cab.

173
 
Anna asked her driver - as she now thought of Sergei - to take
her back to the same block of flats they'd visited the previous
day. Anna would have liked to call and warn her mother what
time to expect her, but it wasn't possible because Elsa Petrescu
didn't approve of phones. They were like elevators, she'd once
told her daughter: when they break down, no one comes to repair
them, and in any case they create unnecessary bills. Anna knew
her mother would have risen by six to be sure everything, in her
already spotless flat, had been dusted and polished for a third
time.
When Sergei parked at the end of the weed-strewn path of
the Piazza Resitei, Anna told him that she expected to be about an
hour, and then wanted to go to Otopeni airport. Sergei nodded.

A taxi drew up beside him. Jack strolled round to the driver's side,
and motioned for him to wind down the window.
'Do you speak English?'
'A little,' said the driver hesitantly.
Jack opened his map and pointed to Piazza Resitei, before
taking a seat behind die driver. The taxi driver grimaced in
disbelief, and looked up at Jack to double-check. Jack nodded. The
driver shrugged his shoulders and set out on a journey no tourist
had ever requested before.
The taxi slipped out into the middle lane and both of them
checked the rear-view mirror. Another taxi was following them.
There was no sign of any passenger, but then she wouldn't have
sat in the front. Had he lost her, or was she in one of three taxis
he could now see in the rear-view mirror? She was a pro, she'd be
in one of those taxis, and he had the feeling she knew exactly
where he was going.
Jack knew that every major city has its run-down districts, but
he had never experienced anything quite like Berceni, with its
grim, high-rise concrete blocks that littered every corner of what
could only be described as a desolate slum. Even the graffiti would
have been frowned on in Harlem.
The taxi was already slowing down when Jack spotted another

174
 
yellow Mercedes parked by the kerb a few yards ahead of them, in
a street that hadn't seen two taxis in the same year.
'Drive on,' he said sharply, but the tad continued to slow. Jack
tapped the driver firmly on the shoulder and waved frantically
forward to suggest he should keep going.
'But, this is place you ask for,' insisted the driver.
'Keep moving,' shouted Jack.
The puzzled driver shrugged his shoulders and accelerated past
the stationary taxi.
'Turn at the next corner,' said Jack, pointing left. The driver
nodded, now looking even more perplexed. He awaited his next
instruction. 'Turn back round,' Jack said slowly, 'and stop at the
end of the road.'
The driver carried out his new instruction, continually glancing
back at Jack, the perplexed expression never leaving his face.
Once he'd parked, Jack got out of the car and walked slowly to
the corner, cursing his unforced error. He wondered where the
woman was, because she clearly hadn't made the same mistake.
He should have anticipated that Anna might already be there, and
her only form of transport was likely to be a taxi.
Jack stared up at the grey concrete block where Anna was
visiting her mother, and swore he'd never complain about his
cramped one-bedroom apartment on the West Side ever again. He
had to wait another forty minutes before Anna emerged from the
building. He remained still as she walked back down the path to
her taxi.
Jack jumped back into his own cab and, pointing frantically,
said, 'Follow them, but keep your distance until the traffic is
heavier.' He wasn't even sure that the driver understood what
he said. The taxi drove out of the side road, and although Jack
kept tapping the driver's shoulder and repeating, 'Hold back,'
the two yellow cabs must have looked like camels in a desert
as they drove through the empty streets. Jack cursed again, knowing
he was burnt. Even an amateur would have spotted him by
now.

175
 
'You do realize that someone is following you?' Sergei said, as he
drove off.
'No, but I'm not surprised,' Anna replied, but she still felt cold
and sick now that Sergei had confirmed her worst fear. 'Did you
get a look at them?' she asked.
'Only a glimpse,' Sergei replied. 'A man, around thirty, thirty
five, slim, dark hair, not much else, I'm afraid.' So Tina was wrong
when she thought the stalker was a woman, was Anna's first
reaction. 'And he's a professional,' added Sergei.
"What makes you say that?' asked Anna anxiously.
When the taxi passed me, he didn't look back,' said Sergei.
'Mind you, I can't tell you which side of the law he's on.'

Anna shivered, as Sergei checked his rear-view mirror. 'And I'm
pretty sure he's following us now, but don't look round,' said Sergei
sharply, 'because then he'll know you've spotted him.'
"Thank you,' said Anna.
'Do you still want me to take you to the airport?'
'I don't have any choice,' Anna replied.
'I could lose him,' said Sergei, 'but then he would know that
you were on to him.'
'Not much point,' said Anna. 'He already knows where I'm
going.'

Jack always carried his passport, wallet and credit card with him in
case of just such an emergency. 'Damn,' he said, when he saw the
sign for the airport and remembered his unpacked suitcase sitting
in the hotel room.
Three or four other taxis were also heading in the direction of
Otopeni airport, and Jack wondered which one the woman was in,
whether she was already at the airport and booked on the same
flight as Anna Petrescu.

Anna handed Sergei a twenty-dollar bill, long before they'd reached
Otopeni, and told him which flight she was booked to return on.
"Would you be able to pick me up?' she asked.

176
 
'Of course,' promised Sergei, as he came to a halt outside the international terminal.
'Is he still following us?' Anna asked.
'Yes,' Sergei replied, as he jumped out of the car.
A porter appeared, and helped load the crate and her suitcase
onto a trolley.
'I'll be here when you return,' Sergei assured Anna, before she
disappeared into the terminal.
Jack's cab screeched to a halt behind the yellow Mercedes. He
leapt out and ran towards the driver's window, waving a ten-dollar
bill. Sergei wound the window down slowly and took the proffered
money. Jack smiled.
'The lady in your cab, do you know where she's going?'
'Yes,' replied Sergei, stroking his thick moustache.
Jack peeled off another ten-dollar bill, which Sergei happily
pocketed.
'Well, where?' demanded Jack.
'Abroad,' replied Sergei, put the car into first gear and drove
off.
Jack cursed, ran back to his own cab, paid the fare - three
dollars - and walked quickly into the airport. He stood still while
checking in every direction. Moments later he spotted Anna leaving
the check-in counter and heading towards the escalator. He didn't
move again until she was out of sight. By the time he had reached
the top of the escalator, Anna was already in the cafe. She'd taken
a seat in the far corner from where she could observe everything
and, more important, everybody. Not only was he being followed,
but now the person he was following was also looking out for him.
She had already mastered being a tool, so she could identify
her target. Jack feared that this could end up as a case study at
Quantico on how not to trail a suspect.
He retraced his steps back down to the ground floor and
checked the departure board. There were only five international
flights out of Bucharest that day: Moscow, Hong Kong, New Delhi,
London and Berlin.
Jack dismissed Moscow, as it was due to depart in forty minutes
and Anna was still in the cafe. New Delhi and Berlin weren't

177
 
scheduled to leave until the early evening, and he also considered
Hong Kong unlikely, although it departed in just under two
hours, while the London flight was fifteen minutes later. It had
to be London, he decided, but he still couldn't take the risk. He
would purchase two tickets, one for Hong Kong, and a second for
London. If she didn't appear at the departure gate for Hong Kong,
he would board the flight to Heathrow. He wondered if her other
pursuer was considering the same options, although he had a
feeling she already knew which flight Anna was on.
Once Jack had purchased both tickets, and explained twice that
he had no luggage, he headed straight for Gate 33 to carry out a
point surveillance. When he arrived, he took a seat among those
passengers who were waiting at Gate 31 for the departure of their
flight to Moscow. Jack even gave a moment's thought to going back
to the hotel, packing his bags, paying the bill and then returning to
the airport, but only a moment's thought, because if the choice
was between losing his bags or losing his quarry, it wasn't much of
a choice.
Jack called the hotel manager at the Bucharesti International on
his cellphone, and without going into any detail explained what he
needed doing. He could imagine the puzzled expression on the
manager's face when he asked for his bags to be packed and left in
reception. However, his suggestion that they add twenty dollars to
his bill elicited the response, 'I'll deal with it personally, sir.'
Jack began to wonder if Anna was simply using the airport as a
decoy, while actually planning to return to Bucharest and pick up
the red crate. He certainly couldn't have acted in a more unprofessional
manner when he chased after her driver. But if she had
worked out that someone was following her, as an amateur her first
reaction would have been to try and lose her pursuer as quickly as
possible. Only a professional would consider such a devious ploy
when trying to shake someone off. Was it possible that Anna was a
professional, and still working for Fenston? In which case, was he
the one being pursued?
Flight 3211 to Moscow was already boarding when Anna
strolled by. She looked relaxed as she took her place among those
waiting to board Cathay Pacific flight 017 to Hong Kong. Once she

178
 
was seated in the lounge, Jack slipped back down to the concourse
and kept out of sight while he waited for the final call of flight 017.
Forty minutes later, he ascended the escalator a third time.
All three of them boarded the Boeing 747 bound for Hong
Kong, at different times. One in first class, one in business and one
in economy.

179
 
9/17
 
30


'I'm sorry to interrupt you, m'lady, but a large box of documents
has been delivered by Simpson and Simpson, and I wondered
where you wished me to put it.'
Arabella put down her pen and looked up from the writing
desk. 'Andrews, do you remember when I was a child and you
were second butler?'
'I do, m'lady,' said Andrews, sounding somewhat puzzled.
'And every Christmas we used to play a game called Hunt the
Parcel?'
"We did indeed, m'lady.'
'And one Christmas you hid a box of chocolates. Victoria and I
spent an entire afternoon trying to find them - but we never did.'
'Yes, m'lady. Lady Victoria accused me of eating them and burst
into tears.'
'But you still refused to tell her where they were.'

'That is correct, m'lady, but I must confess your father promised
me sixpence if I didn't reveal where they were hidden.'
Why did he do that?' asked Arabella.
'His lordship hoped to spend a peaceful Christmas afternoon,
enjoying a glass of port and a leisurely cigar, happy in the knowledge
that you were both fully occupied.'
'But we never found them,' said Arabella.
'And I was never paid my sixpence,' said Andrews.
'Can you still recall where you hid them?'

Andrews considered the question for a few moments, before a
smile appeared on his face.

183
 
Tes, m'lady,' he said, 'and for all I know, they are still there.'
'Good, because I should like you to put the box that Simpson
and Simpson have just delivered in the same place.'
'As you wish, m'lady,' said Andrews, trying to look as if he had
some idea what his mistress was talking about.
'And next Christmas, Andrews, should I attempt to find them,
you must be sure not to let me know where they are hidden.'
'And will I receive sixpence on this occasion, m'lady?'
'A shilling,' promised Arabella, 'but only if no one else finds out
where they are.'

Anna settled herself into a window seat at the back of economy. If
the man Fenston had sent to track her down was on the plane, as
she suspected he was, at least Anna now knew what she was up
against. She began to think about him, and how he'd discovered
that she would be in Bucharest. How did he know her mother's
address, and was he already aware that her next stop was Tokyo?
The man she had watched from the check-in counter as he ran
up to Sergei's taxi and tapped on the window wasn't hoping for a
ride, although Sergei had clearly taken him for one. Anna wondered
if it had been her phone calls to Tina that had given her
away. She felt confident her close friend would never have betrayed
her, so she must have become an unwitting accomplice. Leapman
was well capable of tapping her phone, and far worse.
Anna had purposely dropped clues in her last two conversations
to find out if there was an eavesdropper, and they must have been
picked up: going home and there will be a lot of people like that
where I'm going. Next time she would plant a clue that would send
Fenston's man in completely the wrong direction.

Jack sat in business class sipping a Diet Coke and trying to make
some sense of the past two days. If you're out there on your own,
always prepare for the worst-case scenario, his SSA used to repeat
ad nauseam to each new recruit.
He tried to think logically. He was pursuing a woman who had

184
 
stolen a sixty-million-dollar painting, but had she left the picture in
Bucharest, or had it been transferred into the new crate, with the
intention of selling the painting to someone in Hong Kong? Then
he turned his thoughts to the other person who was pursuing
Anna. That was easier to explain. If Petrescu had stolen the
painting, the woman was clearly employed by Fenston to follow
her until she found out where the picture was. But how did she
always know where Anna would be, and did she now realize that
he was also following her? And what were her instructions once
she'd caught up with the Van Gogh? Jack felt the only way he
could redeem himself was to get a step ahead of both of them and
somehow stay there.
He found himself falling into a trap that he regularly warned
his junior officers to be wary of. Don't be lulled into believing that
the suspect is innocent. A jury will make that decision for you.
You must always assume they are guilty, and occasionally, very
occasionally, be surprised. He didn't remember his instructor
saying anything about what to do if you found the suspect attractive.
Although there was a directive in the FBI training manual
that stated: 'Under no circumstances must an agent enter into a
personal relationship with any person under investigation.' In 1999
the guide had been updated following a Congressional directive,
when the words 'male or female' had been added before 'person'.
But it still puzzled Jack what Anna intended to do with the Van
Gogh. If she was about to try and sell the picture in Hong Kong,
where would she deposit such a huge sum of money, and how
could she hope to benefit from the spoils of her crime? Jack
couldn't believe she was willing to live in Bucharest for the rest of
her life.
And then he remembered that she had visited Wentworth Hall.

Krantz sat alone in first class. She always flew first class, because it
allowed her to be the last on, and first off, any flight, especially
when she knew exactly where her victim was travelling.
But now she was aware someone else was following Petrescu,
she would have to be even more cautious. After all, she couldn't

185
 
afford to kill Petrescu with an audience watching, even if it was an audience of one.
Krantz was puzzled by who the tall, dark-haired man could be,
and who he was reporting back to. Had Fenston sent someone else
to check up on her, or was the man working for a foreign
government? If so, which one? It had to be Romanian or American.
He was certainly a professional because she hadn't spotted
him before, or after, his crass mistake with the yellow taxis. She
assumed he must be an American. She hoped so, because if she
had to kill him, that would be a bonus.
Krantz didn't relax on the long flight to Hong Kong. Her
instructor in Moscow was fond of repeating that concentration
usually lapsed on the fourth day. Tomorrow.

186
 

9/18
 
31

'Those passengers travelling 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 humour 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.

189
 
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
Kowloon, 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, 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 travellers 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,
cellphones and jewellery. Although she saw several items she
would have considered in normal circumstances, because of her

190
 
pecuniary predicament the only shop she thought about entering
was a bookmart, displaying foreign newspapers and all the latest
bestsellers - 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 mini guide 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 sightline of his quarry. All he could
make out was that she was standing below a large, multicoloured 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.
Td 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 metres.'
The assistant bent down, unlocked the display cabinet and
extracted another pair.

191
 
"These are Leica, top-of-the-range, 12x50,' she assured him.
Tou could identify the label on the coffee they're serving in the
cafe opposite.'
Jack focused on the bookshop. Anna was replacing the book she
had been reading, only to extract the one next to it. He had to
agree with the assistant, they were top of the range. 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 queue.
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 queue at the far end of the concourse.
When he reached the front of the line, he asked for a ticket to
Tokyo.
Tes, 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 301 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 towards 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

192
 
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 Airlines flight 416 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 he 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 die memorial service held
in Washington DC attended by the President. Did her family and
friends still believe diat 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-etre 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 69.
Krantz only let her out of her sight after she'd boarded the plane.

193
 
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?

194
 
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 30,000
feet above the Pacific. Once Jack had cleared customs, his first
stop was the enquiry desk, where he asked what time the Cathay
flight was due to land. 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 queue, which was being
organized by a man in a light blue suit and white gloves, who not

195
 
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. 1 should be about thirty minutes, forty at the most.' He
removed a 5,000-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 who
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 who 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

196
 
latest Samsung cellphone, flicked it open and focused it directly
towards 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 be 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 queue
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 back seat 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

197
 
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 centre. 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 bell boy 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 bell boy 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, enquired, What's that?'
'Hotel health club, sir,' replied the bell boy.
Jack nodded, walked round 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?5
'Petrescu.'

198
 
'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
cellphone and dialled 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.

199
 
|firi'nui n%^#*MB^

'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.
Tou 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.

200
 
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 towelling 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, BSc in engineering. UCLA
1971-73, MA 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 per cent 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 make such matters public, it was well known by those in the
art world that Nakamura had been the under-bidder for Van Gogh's


201
 
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 make-up, no jewellery. 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 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?'

202
 
'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. Goodbye, 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 bell boys 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 towards 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

203
 
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, towards 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 into 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

204
 
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 Eitai-dori
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 kerb. She turned and watched
through the rear-view 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

205
 
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 neighbours.
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
wouldn'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

206
 
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 a shortlist of three,
before she finally settled on the award-winning Global GS5 fourteen
centimetres, 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 fitted perfectly, like a gun in a holster.

207
 
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

208
 
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. T 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 die 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
209
 
'entitled Dinner at the Cafe 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
leant 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.

210
 
'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?' enquired Anna.
'Dr Gachet, Van Gogh's friend and admirer.'
'And the date?'
'1889,' replied Nakamura, 'when Van Gogh resided at Aries,
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 cheque
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.

211
 
'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 significantly, there was no sign of the wooden
box. Krantz was left with two choices. She was confident that

212
 
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
towards 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,

213
 
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 towards 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, spreadeagled,
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 travelled 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 tyre, 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

214
 
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 towards 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 tyre. She checked up and
down what was clearly a private road and probably led only to the
Nakamura residence. As she approached, die driver looked up and
smiled. Krantz returned die 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 toolkit 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.

215
 
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.
Tour 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.

216
 
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.
Tenston 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

219
 
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 brush work and the sheer flair, he
would surely hang Freedom in his private collection. Always the
ultimate test.
Anna thought long and hard about what she would wear for
their second meeting. She settled on a beige linen dress with a
modest hemline, a wide brown leather belt and a simple gold
necklace - an outfit that would be considered demure in New
York, but almost brash in Tokyo. Yesterday she'd dressed for her
opening move, today for closing.
She opened her bag for a third time that morning to check
that she had included a copy of Dr Gachet's letter to Van Gogh,
along with a simple one-page contract that was standard among
recognized dealers. If she could agree a price with Nakamura,
Anna was going to ask for 10 per cent down, as an act of good
faith, to be returned in full if, after inspecting the masterpiece,
he was not satisfied. Anna felt that once he set his eyes on the
original...
Anna checked her watch. The meeting with the chairman was
at ten, and he had promised to send his limousine to pick her up
at nine forty. She would be waiting in the lobby. The Japanese
quickly lose patience with people who play games.
Anna took the elevator to the lobby and walked across to reception.
'I expect to be checking out later today,' she said, 'and would
like my bill prepared.'
'Certainly, Dr Petrescu,' said the receptionist. 'May I ask if you
have had anything from the mini-bar?'
Anna thought for a moment. 'Two Evian waters.'
'Thank you,' said the clerk and began tapping the information
into his computer as a bell boy came rushing up to her.

220
 
'Chauffeur here to collect you/ was all he said, before leading
Anna out to the waiting car.
Jack was already sitting in a taxi when she appeared at the
entrance. He was determined he wasn't going to lose her a second
time. After all, Crew Cut would be waiting for her, and she even
knew where Anna was going.

Krantz had also spent the night in the centre of Tokyo, but unlike
Petrescu, not in a hotel bed. She had slept in the cab of a crane,
some one hundred and fifty feet above the city. She was confident
that no one would come looking for her there. She stared down on
Tokyo as the sun rose over the Imperial Palace. She checked her
watch. 5.56am. Time to descend, if she were to leave unnoticed.
Once Krantz was back on the ground, she joined the office staff
and early morning commuters as they disappeared underground
and made their way to work.
Seven stops later, Krantz emerged in the Ginza and quickly
retraced her steps to the Seiyo. She slipped back into the hotel, a
regular guest who never booked in, and never stayed overnight.
Krantz positioned herself in the corner of the lounge, where
she had a perfect sightline of the two elevators, while she could be
seen by only the most observant of waiters. It was a long wait, but
then patience was a skill developed over hours of practice - like
any other skill.

The chauffeur closed the back door behind her. Not the same
driver as the night before, Anna noted - she never forgot a face.
He drove off without a word, and she became more and more
confident as each mile passed.
When the chauffeur opened the back door again, Anna could
see Mr Nakamura's secretary waiting for her in the lobby. Sixty
million dollars, Anna whispered to herself as she climbed the steps,
and I won't consider a cent less. The glass doors slid open, and die
secretary bowed low.
'Good morning, Dr Petrescu. Nakamura San is looking forward

221
 
to seeing you.' Anna smiled and followed her down the long corridor of untitled offices. A gentle tap, and the secretary opened
the door to the chairman's room and announced Dr Petrescu.
Once again, Anna was stunned by the effect the room had on
her, but this time managed to keep her mouth closed. Nakamura
rose from behind his desk and bowed. Anna returned the compliment
before he ushered her into a chair on the opposite side of
the desk. He sat down. Yesterday's smile had been replaced by a
grim visage. Anna assumed this was nothing more than a bargaining
ploy.
'Dr Petrescu,' he began as he opened a file on the desk in front
of him, 'it seems that when we met yesterday, you were less than
frank with me.'
Anna felt her mouth go dry, as Nakamura glanced down at
some papers. He removed his spectacles and looked directly at
Anna. She tried not to flinch.
'You did not tell me, for instance, that you no longer work for
Fenston Finance, nor did you allude to the fact that you were
recently dismissed from the board for conduct unworthy of an
officer of the bank.' Anna tried to breathe regularly. 'You also
failed to inform me of the distressing news that Lady Victoria had
been murdered, at a time when she had run up debts with your
bank' - he put his glasses back on - 'of over thirty million dollars.
You also forgot to mention the small matter of the New York police
being under the illusion that you are currently classified as missing,
presumed dead. But perhaps the most damning indictment of all
was your failure to let me know that the painting you were
attempting to sell is, to use police jargon, stolen goods.' Nakamura
closed the file, removed his glasses once more and stared directly
at her. 'Perhaps there is a simple explanation for such a sudden
attack of amnesia?'
Anna wanted to jump up and run out of the room, but she couldn't
move. Her father always told her when you've been found out,
confess. She confessed everything. In fact, she even let him know
where the painting was hidden. Once she finished, Nakamura didn't
speak for some time. Anna sat and waited to be escorted unceremoniously
from a building for the second time in just over a week.

222
 
1 now understand why you didn't wish the painting to be sold
for at least ten years, and certainly wouldn't want it to be put on
public display. But I am bound to ask how you intend to square
the circle with your former boss. It is clear to me that Mr Fenston
is more interested in holding on to such a valuable asset than
having the debt cleared.'
'But that's the point,' said Anna. 'Once the overdraft has been
cleared, the Wentworth Estate can sell the painting to whomever
they wish.'
Mr Nakamura nodded. 'Assuming that I accept your version of
events, and if I was still interested in purchasing the Self-portrait, I would want to make some conditions of my own.'
Anna nodded.
'First, the painting would have to be purchased directly from
Lady Arabella, and only after legal tenure had been properly
established.'
'I can see no objection to that,' said Anna.
'Second, I would expect the work to be authenticated by the
Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam.'
'That causes me no problems,' said Anna.
'Then perhaps my third condition will cause you a problem,'
said Nakamura, 'and that is the price I am willing to pay, as I do
believe that I am, to use that ghastly but appropriate American
expression, in the driving seat.'
Anna nodded her reluctant agreement.
'If, and I repeat if, you are able to meet my other conditions, I
am happy to offer, for the Wentworth Van Gogh Self-portrait with
Bandaged Ear, fifty million dollars, which I have worked out will
not only clear Lady Arabella's debt, but leave enough over to cover
any taxes.'
'But it could come under the hammer for seventy, even eighty
million,' Anna protested.
'That assumes you are not hammered long before then,'
Nakamura replied. 'I apologize,' he added immediately. 'You have
discovered my weakness for bad puns.' He smiled for the first time.
'However, I am advised that Mr Fenston has recently issued a
bankruptcy order against your client, and knowing the Americans

223
 
as I do, it might be years before any legal action can be settled,
and my London lawyers confirm that Lady Arabella is in no
position to consider the crippling legal costs such a lengthy process
would undoubtedly incur.'
Anna took a deep breath. 'If, and I repeat if - Nakamura had
the grace to smile - 'I accept your terms, in return I would expect
some gesture of goodwill.'
'And what do you have in mind?'
'You will place 10 per cent, five million dollars, in escrow with
Lady Arabella's solicitors in London, to be returned if you do not
wish to purchase the original.'
Nakamura shook his head. 'No, Dr Petrescu, I am unable to
accept your gesture of goodwill.'
Anna felt deflated.
'However, I am willing to place five million in escrow with my London lawyers, the full amount to be paid on exchange of
contracts.'
'Thank you,' said Anna, unable to disguise a sigh of relief.
But Nakamura continued. 'Having accepted your terms, I would
also expect some gesture of goodwill in return,' he said as he rose
from behind his desk. Anna rose nervously. 'Should the deal go
through, you will give serious consideration to taking up the
appointment as the CEO of my foundation.'
Anna smiled, but did not bow. She offered her hand and said,
'To use another ghastly but appropriate American expression, Mr
Nakamura, we have a deal.' She turned to leave.
'And one more thing before you go,' said Nakamura, picking up
an envelope from his desk. Anna turned back, hoping she didn't
look apprehensive. 'Would you be kind enough to pass on this
letter to Miss Danuta Sekalska, a huge talent that I can only hope
will be allowed to mature.' Anna smiled as the chairman accompanied
her down the corridor and back to the waiting limousine.
They chatted about the tragic events in New York, and the long
term consequences for America. However, Nakamura made no
reference to why his regular driver was in hospital, recovering from
serious injuries, not least to his pride.

224
 
But then the Japanese have always considered that some secrets
are best kept in the family.

Whenever Jack was in a strange city, he rarely informed the
embassy of his presence. They always asked too many questions
he didn't want to answer. Tokyo was no exception, but he did need
some of his own questions answered, and he knew exactly who to
ask.
A conman, whom Jack had put behind bars for several years,
once told him that whenever you're abroad and in need of information,
book yourself into a good hotel. But don't seek advice from
the manager, and don't bother with the receptionist, only deal with
the head concierge. Information is how he makes his living; his
salary is incidental.
For fifty dollars, Jack learnt everything he needed to know
about Mr Nakamura, even his golf handicap - fourteen.

Krantz watched as Petrescu emerged from the building and
climbed back into the chairman's limousine. She quickly hailed a
taxi and asked to be dropped a hundred yards from the Seiyo hotel.
If Petrescu was about to depart, she would still have to retrieve
her luggage and settle the bill.

Once the temporary chauffeur had dropped Anna back at the
Seiyo, she couldn't wait to check out - she picked up her key from
reception and ran up the stairs to her room on the first floor. She
sat on the end of the bed and called Arabella first. She sounded
wide awake.
'A veritable Portia,' was Arabella's final comment after she had
learned the news. Which Portia, Anna wondered. Shylock's nemesis,
or Brutus's wife? She unclasped her gold chain, unfastened
the leather belt, kicked off her shoes and finally slipped out of her
dress. She exchanged her more formal attire for a T-shirt, jeans

225
 
and sneakers. Although checkout was at noon, she still had enough
time to make one more call. Anna needed to plant the clue.
The ringing tone continued for some time before a sleepy voice
answered.
Who's this?
'Vincent.'
'Christ, what time is it? I must have fallen asleep.'
'You can go back to sleep after you've heard my news.'
'You've sold the painting?'
'How did you guess?'
'How much?'
'Enough.'
'Congratulations. So where are you going next?"
'To pick it up.'
'And where's that?5
"Where it's always been. Go back to sleep.'
The phone went dead.

Tina smiled as she drifted back to sleep. Fenston was going to be
beaten at his own game for once.
'Oh my God,' she said out loud, suddenly wide awake. 'I didn't
warn her that the stalker is a woman, and knows she's in Tokyo.'

226
 
36

Fenston stretched an arm across the bed and fumbled for
the phone as he tried to keep his eyes shut.
"Who the fuck is this?'
'Vincent's just made a call.'
'And where was she calling from this time?' asked Fenston, his
eyes suddenly wide open.
'Tokyo.'
'So she must have seen Nakamura.'
'Sure has,' said Leapman, 'and claims she's sold the painting.'
'You can't sell something that you don't own,' said Fenston, as
he switched on the bedside light. 'Did she say where she was going
next?'
'To pick it up.'
'Did she give any clue as to where that might be?'
'Where it's always been,' replied Leapman.
'Then it has to be London,' said Fenston.
'How can you be so sure?' asked Leapman.
'Because if she had taken the painting to Bucharest, why not
take it on to Tokyo? No, she left the picture in London,' said
Fenston adamantly, 'where it's always been.'
'I'm not so sure,' said Leapman.
'Then where do you think it is?'
'In Bucharest, where it's always been, in the red box.'
'No, the box was just a decoy.'
'Then how can we ever hope to find the painting?' asked Leapman.
'That will be simple enough,' said Fenston. 'Now that Petrescu

227
 
thinks she's sold the painting to Nakamura, her next stop will be to
pick it up. And this time Krantz will be waiting for her, and then
she'll end up having something in common with Van Gogh. But
before then, there's another call I have to make.' He slammed the
phone down before Leapman had a chance to ask to whom.

Anna checked out of the hotel just after twelve. She took a train
to the airport, no longer able to afford the luxury of a cab. She
assumed that once she boarded the shuttle, the same man would
be following her, and she intended to make his task as easy as
possible. After all, he would already have been informed of her
next stop.
What she didn't know was that her pursuer was sitting eight
rows behind her.

Krantz opened a copy of the Shinbui Times, ready to raise it and
cover her face should Petrescu look round. She didn't.
Time to make her call. Krantz dialled the number and waited
for ten rings. On the tenth, it was picked up. She didn't speak.
'London,' was the only word Fenston uttered before the line
went dead.
Krantz dropped the cellphone out of the window, and watched
as it landed in front of an oncoming train.

When her train came to a halt at the airport terminal, Anna jumped
out and went straight to the British Airways desk. She enquired
about an economy fare to London, although she had no intention
of purchasing the ticket. She had only thirty-five dollars to her
name, after all. But Fenston had no way of knowing that. She
checked the departure board. There were ninety minutes between
the two flights. Anna walked slowly towards Gate 91B, making
sure that whoever was following her couldn't lose her. She
window-shopped all the way to the departure gate and arrived just
before they began boarding. She selected her seat in the lounge

228
 
carefully, sitting next to a small child. 'Would those passengers in
rows ..." The child screamed and ran away, a harassed parent
chasing after him.

Jack had only been distracted for a moment, but she was gone. Had
she boarded the plane or turned back? Perhaps she had worked
out that two people were following her. Jack's eyes searched the
concourse below him. They were now boarding business class and
she wasn't anywhere to be seen. He checked all the remaining
passengers who were seated in the lounge, and he wouldn't have
spotted the other woman in his life if she hadn't touched her hair,
no longer a blonde crew cut, now a black wig. She also looked
puzzled.
Krantz hesitated when they invited all first-class passengers to
board. She walked across to the ladies' washroom, which was
directly behind where Petrescu had been sitting. She emerged a
few moments later and returned to her seat. When they called final
boarding, she was among the last to hand over her ticket.

Jack watched as Crew Cut disappeared down the ramp. How
could she be so confident that Anna was on the London flight?
Had he lost both of them again?
Jack waited until the gate closed, now painfully aware that both
women were obviously on the flight to London. But there had
been something about Anna's manner since she'd left the hotel almost
as if, this time, she wanted to be followed.
Jack waited until the last airline official had packed up and
gone. He was about to return to the ground floor and book himself
on the next plane to London, when the door of the men's washroom
opened.
Anna stepped out.

'Put me through to Mr Nakamura.'
"Who shall I say is calling?'
'Bryce Fenston, the chairman of Fenston Finance.
Til just find out if he's available, Mr Fenston.'

229
 
'He'll be available,' said Fenston.
The line went silent and it was some time before another voice
ventured, 'Good morning, Mr Fenston, this is Takashi Nakamura,
how can I help you?'
'I just phoned to warn you--'
Warn me?' said Nakamura.
'I'm told that Petrescu tried to sell you a Van Gogh.'
'Yes, she did,' said Nakamura.
'And how much did she ask for?' said Fenston.
'I think, to use an American expression, an arm and a leg.'
'If you were foolish enough to agree to buy the picture, Mr
Nakamura, it could end up being your arm and your leg,' said
Fenston, 'because that picture belongs to me.'
'I had no idea it belonged to you. I thought that it--'
'Then you thought wrong. Perhaps you were also unaware that
Petrescu no longer works for this bank.'
'Dr Petrescu made that all too clear, in fact--'
'And did she tell you she was fired?'
'Yes, she did.'
'But did she tell you why?'
'In great detail.'
'And you still felt able to do business with her?'
'Yes. In fact I am trying to persuade her to join my board, as
CEO of the company's foundation.'
'Despite the fact that I had to dismiss her for conduct unworthy
of an officer of a bank.'
'Not a bank, Mr Fenston, your bank.'

'Don't bandy words with me,' said Fenston.
'So be it,' said Nakamura, 'then let me make it clear that should
Dr Petrescu join this company, she will quickly discover that we
do not condone a policy of swindling clients out of their inheritance,
especially when they are old ladies.'
Then how would you feel about directors who steal bank assets
worth a hundred million dollars?'
'I am delighted to learn you consider the painting is worth that
amount, because the owner--'
'I am the owner,' bellowed Fenston, 'under New York state law.'

230
 
"Whose jurisdiction does not stretch to Tokyo.'
'But doesn't your company also have offices in New York?'
'At last we've found something on which we can agree,' said
Nakamura.
Then there's nothing to stop me serving you with a writ in New
York, were you foolish enough to attempt to buy my picture.'
'And in which name will the writ be issued?' asked Nakamura.
'What are you getting at?' shouted Fenston.
'Only that my New York lawyers will need to know who
they're up against. Will it be Bryce Fenston, the chairman of
Fenston Finance, or Nicu Munteanu, money launderer to
Ceauescu, the late dictator of Romania?'
'Don't threaten me, Nakamura, or I'E--'

'Break my driver's neck?'
'It won't be your driver next time.'
There was a long pause, before Nakamura said, 'Then perhaps
I ought to reconsider whether it's really worth paying that much
for the Van Gogh.'
'A sensible decision,' said Fenston.
'Thank you, Mr Fenston. You have convinced me that what I
had originally planned might not be the wisest course of action,
after all.'
'I knew you'd come to your senses in the end,' said Fenston,
before putting down the phone.

When Anna boarded the flight for Bucharest an hour later, she felt
confident that she had shaken off Fenston's man. Following her
call to Tina, they would have been convinced that she was on
her way back to London to pick up the painting, where it's always
been. The sort of clue Fenston and Leapman would undoubtedly
have argued over.
She had perhaps overdone it a little by spending so much time
at the British Airways desk and then heading straight for Gate 91B
when she didn't even have a ticket. The little boy turned out to be
a bonus, but even Anna was surprised by how much fuss he made
when she'd pinched him on his calf.

231
 
Anna's only real concern was for Tina. By this time tomorrow,
Fenston and Leapman would realize that Anna had fed them false
information, having obviously worked out that her conversations
were being bugged. Anna feared that losing her job might end up
the least of Tina's problems.
As the wheels lifted off Japanese soil, Anna's mind drifted to
Anton. She only hoped that three days would have proved long
enough.
Fenston's man was chasing her down an alley. At the far end
was a high, jagged stone wall covered in barbed wire. Anna knew
there was no way out. She turned to face her adversary as he came
to a halt only a few feet in front of her. The short, ugly man drew
a pistol from his holster, cocked the trigger, grinned and aimed it
directly at her heart. She turned as she felt the bullet graze her
shoulder ... 'If you would like to adjust your watches, the time in
Bucharest is now three twenty in the afternoon.'
Anna woke with a start. "What day is it? 'she asked the passing
steward.
'Thursday the twentieth, madam.'

232
 
9/20
 
37

Anna rubbed her eyes, and set her watch to the correct time.
She had kept her agreement with Anton to be back within four
days. Now her biggest problem would be to transport the painting
to London, while at the same time ... 'Ladies and gentlemen, the
captain has turned on the Fasten seatbelt sign. We will be landing
in Bucharest in approximately twenty minutes.'
She smiled at the thought that by now Fenston's man would
have landed in Hong Kong, and would be puzzled why this time
he couldn't spot her in duty free. Would he carry on to London, or
risk switching flights for the Romanian capital? Perhaps he would
arrive back in Bucharest just as she set off for London.
When Anna stepped out onto the pavement, she was delighted
to see a smiling Sergei, standing by the door of his yellow
Mercedes. He opened the back door for her. Her only problem
was she barely had enough cash to cover his fare.
Where to?' he asked.
'First, I need to go to the academy,' she told him.
Anna would have liked to share with Sergei all she had been
through, but still didn't feel she knew him well enough to risk it.
Not trusting people was another experience she didn't enjoy.
Sergei dropped her at the bottom of the steps, where she'd left
Anton before going to the airport. She no longer needed to ask
him to wait. The student working at the reception desk told Anna
that Professor Teodorescu's lecture on 'Attribution' was just about
to begin.
Anna made her way to the lecture theatre on the first floor. She

235
 
followed a couple of students in just as the lights were dimmed,
and slipped into a seat at the end of the second row, looking
forward to a few minutes' escape from the real world.
'Attribution and provenance,' began Anton, running a hand
through his hair in that familiar way the students mimicked behind
his back, 'are the cause of more discussion and disagreement
among art scholars than any other subject. Why? Because it's sexy,
open to debate and rarely conclusive. There is no doubt that
several of the world's most popular galleries currently display works
that were not painted by the artists whose names are suggested
on the frame. It is, of course, possible that the master painted
the main figure, the Virgin or Christ for example, while leaving
an assistant to fill in the background. We must consider, therefore,
whether several paintings, all depicting the same subject, can have
been executed by one master, or if it is more likely that one of
them, possibly even more, are the works of his star pupils, which
several hundred years later are mistaken for the master.' Anna
smiled at the words 'star pupil', and remembered the letter she
had to pass on to Danuta Sekalska.
'Now let us consider some examples,' continued Anton, 'and see
if you can detect the hand of a lesser mortal. The first is of a
painting currently on display at the Frick Museum in New York.'
A slide was beamed up on the screen behind Anton. 'Rembrandt,
I hear you cry, but the Rembrandt research project, set up in 1974,
would not agree with you. They believe that The Polish Rider is
the work of at least two hands, one of which may - I repeat, may have
been that of Rembrandt. The Metropolitan Museum, just a
few blocks away from the Frick on the other side of 5th Avenue,
was unable to hide its angst when the same distinguished scholars
dismissed the two portraits of The Beresteyn Family, acquired by
them in 1929, as not executed by the Dutch master.
'Don't lose too much sleep over the problems faced by these
two great institutions, because, of the twelve paintings attributed
to Rembrandt in London's Wallace Collection, only one, Titus,
the Artist's Son, has been pronounced genuine.' Anna became so
engrossed that she began taking notes. 'The second artist I would
ask you to consider is the great Spanish maestro, Goya. Much to

236
 
the embarrassment of the Prado in Madrid, Juan Jose Junquera, the world's leading authority on Goya, has suggested that the "black paintings", which include such haunting visions as Satan
Devouring His Children, cannot have been the hand of Goya, as
he points out that the room for which they were painted as murals
was not completed until after his death. The distinguished Australian
critic Robert Hughes, in his book on Goya, suggests they
are the work of the artist's son.
'And now I turn to the Impressionists. Several examples of
Manet, Monet, Matisse and Van Gogh currently on display in
leading galleries around the world have not been authenticated by
the relevant scholars. Sunflowers, for example, which came under
the hammer at Christie's in 1987 selling for just under forty million
dollars, has yet to be authenticated by Louis van Tilborgh of the
Van Gogh Museum.'
As Anton turned to display the next slide, his eyes rested on Anna.
She smiled, and he put up a Raphael instead of the Van Gogh, which
caused a ripple of laughter among the students. 'As you can see, I
am also capable of attributing the wrong painting to the wrong artist.'
The laughter turned to applause. But then, to Anna's surprise, he
looked back and stared at her. 'This great city,' he said, no longer
referring to his notes, 'has produced its own scholar in the field of
attribution, who currently works out of New York. Some years ago
when we were both students, we used to have long discussions
into the night about this particular painting.' The Raphael returned
to the screen. 'After attending a lecture, we would meet up at our
favourite rendezvous,' - once again he fixed his gaze on Anna 'Koskies,
where I'm reliably informed many of you still congregate.
We always used to meet at nine o'clock, following the evening lecture.'
He turned his attention back to the picture on the screen. 'This is
a portrait known as The Madonna of the Pinks, recently acquired by
the National Gallery in London. Raphael experts are divided, but
many are concerned by how many examples there are of the same
subject, attributed to the same artist. Some argue that this painting
is more likely to be "school of Raphael", or "after Raphael".'
Anton looked back into the audience, to see that the seat on the
end of the second row was no longer occupied.

237
 
Anna arrived at Kosldes a few minutes before the suggested
hour. Only an attentive student would have noticed that the
lecturer had departed from his prepared script for a few moments
to let her know where they should meet. She could not mistake
that look of fear in Anton's eyes, a look that is obvious only to
those who've had to survive in a police state.
Anna glanced around the room. Her old student haunt hadn't
changed that much. The same plastic tables, the same plastic chairs
and probably the same plastic wine that couldn't find an exporter.
Not a natural rendezvous for a Professor of Perspective and a New
York art dealer. She ordered two glasses of the house red.
Anna could still remember when she had considered a night at
Koskies so cool, where she would discuss with her friends the
virtues of Constantin Brancusi and U2, Tom Cruise and John
Lennon, and have to suck a peppermint on the way home so that
her mother wouldn't find out that she'd been smoking and sipping
alcohol. Her father always knew - he'd wink and point to whichever
room her mother was in.
Anna recalled when she and Anton first made love. It was so
cold they both had to keep their coats on, and when it was over,
Anna even wondered if she would bother to do it again. No one
seemed to have explained to Anton that it might take a woman a
little longer to have an orgasm.
Anna looked up to see a tall man coming towards her. For a
moment she couldn't be sure that it was Anton. The advancing
man was dressed in an army greatcoat too big for him, with a
woollen scarf wrapped around his neck, topped off by a fur hat
with flaps that covered his ears. An ideal outfit for a New York
winter, was her immediate thought.
Anton took the seat opposite her and removed his hat, but
nothing else. He knew that the only heater that worked was on the
other side of the room.
'Do you have the painting?' asked Anna, unable to wait a
moment longer to find out.
'Yes,' said Anton. 'The canvas never left my studio the whole
time you were away, as even the least observant of my students
would have noticed it wasn't my usual style,' he added, before

238
 
sipping his red wine. Though I confess I'll be glad to be rid of the
damn man. I went to jail for less, and I haven't slept for the past
four days. Even my wife suspects something is wrong.'
'I'm so sorry,' said Anna, as Anton began to roll a cigarette. 'I
shouldn't have placed you in such danger, and what makes it worse
is I have to ask you for another favour.' Anton looked apprehensive,
but waited to hear what her latest request would be. "You told me
you kept eight thousand dollars of my mother's money hidden in
the house.'
Tes, most Romanians stash the cash under their mattress, in
case there's a change of government in the middle of the night,'
said Anton as he lit his cigarette.
'I need to borrow some of it,' said Anna. 'I'll refund the money
just as soon as I get back to New York.'
It's your money, Anna, you can have every last cent.'
'No, it's my mother's, but don't let her know, or she'll only
assume I'm in some sort of financial trouble and start selling off
the furniture.'
Anton didn't laugh. 'But you are in some sort of trouble, aren't
you?'
'Not as long as I have the painting.'
"Would you rather I held on to it for another dayP he asked as
he took a sip of wine.
'No, that's kind of you,' said Anna, 'but that would only mean
that neither of us was able to get a night's sleep. I think the time
has come to take the canvas off your hands.'
Anna rose without another word, having not touched her
wine.
Anton drained his glass, stubbed out his cigarette and left a few
coins on the table. He pulled his hat back on and followed Anna
out of the bar. She couldn't help remembering the last time they'd
walked out of Koskies together.
Anna looked up and down the street before she joined Anton,
who was whispering intently to Sergei.
Will you have time to visit your mother?' asked Anton as Sergei
opened the back door for her.
'Not while someone is watching my every move.'

239
 
'I didn't see anyone,' said Anton.
'You don't see him,' said Anna. 'You feel him.' She paused. 'And
I was under the illusion that I'd got rid of him.'
'You haven't,' said Sergei as they drove off.
No one spoke for the rest of the short journey to Anton's home.
Once Sergei had brought the car to a halt, Anna jumped out and
followed Anton into the house. He led her quickly up the stairs to
an attic on the top floor. Although Anna could hear the sound of
Sibelius coming from a room below, it was clear that he didn't
want her to meet his wife.
Anna walked into a room crowded with canvases. Her eyes were
immediately drawn to the painting of Van Gogh, his left ear
bandaged. She smiled. The picture was in its familiar frame, inside
the open red box.
'Couldn't be better,' said Anna. 'Now all I have to do is make
sure it ends up in the right hands.'
Anton didn't comment, and when Anna turned round, she found
him on his knees in the far corner of the room, lifting up a
floorboard. He reached inside and extracted a thick envelope,
which he slipped into an inside pocket. He then returned to the
red box, replaced the lid and began to hammer the nails back in
place. It was only too clear that he wanted to be rid of the painting
as quickly as possible. Once the final nail was secured, he lifted up
the box and, without a word, led Anna out of the room and back
down the stairs.
Anna opened the front door to allow Anton to step out onto the
street. She was pleased to see Sergei waiting by the back of the
car, the trunk already open. Anton placed the red box in the trunk
and brushed his hands together, showing how happy he was to be
free of the painting. Sergei slammed the lid closed and returned to
his seat behind the wheel.
Anton extracted the thick envelope from his inside pocket and
handed it over to Anna.
'Thank you,' she said, before passing across another envelope in
exchange, but it was not addressed to Anton.
He looked at the name, smiled and said, 'I'll see she gets it.
Whatever it is you're up to,' he added, 'I hope it works out.'

240
 
He kissed her on both cheeks before disappearing back into the
house.
'Where will you stay tonight?' asked Sergei as Anna joined him
in the front of the car.
Anna told him.

241
 
9/21
 
38

When Anna woke, Sergei was sitting on the bonnet of the car,
smoking a cigarette. Anna stretched, blinked and rubbed her eyes.
It was the first time she'd slept on the back seat of a car - a
definite improvement on the back of a van, somewhere on the way
to the Canadian border, with no one to protect her.
She got out of the car and stretched her legs. The red box was
still in place.
'Good morning,' said Sergei. 'I hope you slept well?'
She laughed. 'Better than you it seems.'
'After twenty years in the army, sleep becomes a luxury,' said
Sergei. 'But please do join me for breakfast.' He returned to the
car and retrieved a small tin box from under the driver's seat.
He removed the lid and revealed its contents: two bread rolls, a
boiled egg, a hunk of cheese, a couple of tomatoes, an orange and
a thermos of coffee.
'Where did all of this come from?' asked Anna as she peeled
the orange.
'Last night's supper,' explained Sergei, 'prepared by my dear wife.'
'How will you explain why you didn't go home?' Anna asked.
'I'll tell her the truth,' said Sergei. 'I spent the night with a
beautiful woman.' Anna blushed. 'But I fear I am too old for her
to believe me,' he added. 'So what do we do next? Rob a bank?'
'Only if you know one with fifty million dollars in loose change,'
said Anna, laughing. 'Otherwise I have to get that,' she pointed to
the crate, 'into the cargo hold on the next flight to London, so I'll
need to find out when the freight depot opens.'

245
 
"When the first person turns up,' said Sergei as he removed
the shell from the egg. 'Usually around seven,' he added before
handing the egg across to Anna.
Anna took a bite. 'Then I'd like to be there by seven, when they
open/ she said, 'so I can be sure the crate is definitely on board.'
She looked at her watch. 'So we'd better get moving.'
1 don't think so.'
What do you mean?' asked Anna, sounding anxious.
'When a woman like you has to spend the night in a car, not a
hotel, there has to be a reason. I have a feeling that is the reason,'
said Sergei, pointing to the crate. 'So perhaps it would be unwise
for you to be seen checking in a red box this morning.' Anna
continued to stare at him, but didn't speak. 'Could there possibly
be something inside the box that you don't want the authorities to
take an interest in?' He paused, but Anna still didn't comment.
'Just as I thought,' said Sergei. "You know, when I was a colonel in
die army, and I needed something done that I didn't want anyone
else to know about, I always chose a corporal to carry out the task.
That way, I found, no one took the slightest interest. I think today
I will have to be your corporal.'
'But what if you're caught?'
'Then I'll have done something worthwhile for a change. Do
you think it's fun being a taxi driver when you've commanded a
regiment? Do not concern yourself, dear lady. One or two of my
boys work in the customs shed, and if the price is right, they won't
ask too many questions.'
Anna flicked open her briefcase, took out the envelope Anton
had given her and passed Sergei five twenty-dollar bills.
'No, no, dear lady,' he said, throwing his hands in the air. We
are not trying to bribe the chief of police, just a couple of local
boys,' he added, taking one of the twenty-dollar notes. 'And in
any case, I may be in need of their services again at some time
in the future, so we don't want expectations to exceed their usefulness.
Anna laughed. 'And when you sign the manifest, Sergei, be sure
your signature is illegible.'
He looked at her closely. 'I understand, but then I do not

246
 
understand,' he said, pausing. 'You stay here, and keep out of sight. All I'll need is your plane ticket.'
Anna opened her bag again, placed the eighty dollars back in
the envelope and handed over her ticket to London.
Sergei climbed into the driver's seat, turned on the engine and
waved goodbye.
Anna watched as the car disappeared round the corner with the
painting, her luggage, her ticket to London and twenty dollars. All
she had as security was a cheese and tomato roll and a thermos of
cold coffee.

Fenston picked up the receiver on the tenth ring.
'I've just landed in Bucharest,' she said. The red crate you've
been looking for was loaded onto a flight to London, which will be
landing at Heathrow around four this afternoon.'
'And the girl?'
'I don't know what her plans are, but when I do--'
'Just be sure to leave the body in Bucharest.'
The phone went dead.
Krantz walked out of the airport, placed the recently acquired
cellphone under the front wheel of an articulated truck and waited
for it to move off before she slipped back into the terminal.
She checked the departures board, but this time she didn't
assume Petrescu would be travelling to London; after all, there
was also a flight to New York that morning. If Petrescu was booked
on that one, she'd have to kill her at the airport. It wouldn't be the
first time - at this particular airport.
Krantz tucked herself in behind a large drinks machine and
waited. She made sure she had an unimpeded view of any taxis
dropping off their customers. She was only interested in one taxi,
and one customer. Petrescu wouldn't fool her a second time,
because on this occasion, she intended to take out some insurance.

After thirty minutes, Anna began to feel anxious. After forty
minutes, worried. After fifty, close to panic. An hour after he'd left,

247
 
Anna even wondered if Sergei worked for Fenston. A few minutes
later, an old yellow Mercedes, driven by an even older man, came
trundling round the bend.
Sergei smiled. Tou look relieved,' he said as he opened the
front door for her and handed back her ticket.
'No, no,' said Anna, feeling guilty.
Sergei smiled. The package is booked for London, and it's on
the same flight as you,' he said once he'd climbed back behind the
wheel.
'Good,' said Anna, 'then perhaps it's time for me to be on my
way as well.'
'Agreed,' said Sergei, turning the key in the ignition. 'But you'll
have to be careful, because the American is already there waiting
for you.'
'He's not interested in me,' said Anna, 'only the package.'
'But he saw me take it into the cargo depot, and for another
twenty dollars he'll know exactly where it's going.'
'I don't care any longer,' said Anna, without explanation.
Sergei looked puzzled, but didn't question her as he eased the
Mercedes back onto the highway and continued to follow the signs
for the airport.
'I owe you so much,' said Anna.
'Four dollars,' said Sergei, 'plus gourmet meal. I'll settle for
five.'
Anna opened her bag, took out Anton's envelope, removed all
but five hundred dollars and resealed it. When Sergei came to a
halt at the taxi rank outside the main terminal, Anna passed him
the envelope.
'Five dollars,' she said.
'Thank you, ma'am,' he replied.
'Anna,' she said, and kissed him on the cheek. She didn't look
back, otherwise she would have seen an old soldier crying.
Should he have told her that Colonel Sergei Slatinaru was
standing by her father's side when he was executed?

248
 
When Tina stepped out of the elevator, she spotted Leapman
leaving her office. She slipped into the washroom, her heart beating
frantically as she considered the consequences. Did he now know
that she could overhear every phone conversation Fenston had,
while at the same time being able to watch everything that was
going on in the chairman's office? But worse, had he found out
that she had been emailing confidential documents to herself
for the past year? Tina tried to remain calm as she stepped back
into the corridor and walked slowly towards her office. One thing
she was certain about, there would be no clue that Leapman had
even entered the room.
She sat at her desk and flicked on the screen. She felt ill.
Leapman was in the chairman's office, talking to Fenston. The
chairman was listening intently.

Jack watched as Anna kissed the driver on the cheek, and couldn't
forget that this was the same man who had extracted twenty
dollars from him - a sum that wouldn't be appearing on his
expense sheet. He thought about the fact that the two of them
had stayed awake all night while she had slept. If he'd dozed off,
even for a moment, Jack feared that Crew Cut would have moved
in and stolen the crate, although he hadn't spotted her since she
boarded the plane for London. He wondered where she was now.
Not far away, he suspected. As each hour had passed, Jack
became more aware that he wasn't just dealing with a taxi driver,
but someone willing to risk his life for the girl, perhaps without
even knowing the significance of what was in that crate. There
had to be a reason.
Jack knew it would be a waste of time to try and bribe the taxi
driver, as he had already discovered to his own cost, but the cargo
manager had beckoned him into his private office and even printed
out the relevant page of the manifest. The crate was booked on the
next flight to London. Already loaded on board, he assured him.
Not a bad investment for fifty dollars, even if he couldn't read the
signature. But would she be on the same flight? Jack remained

M9
 
puzzled. If the Van Gogh was in the red box on its way back to
London, what was in the box that Petrescu had taken to Japan and
delivered to Nakamura's office? He had no choice but to wait and
see if she boarded the same plane.

Sergei watched as Anna walked towards the airport entrance,
pulling her suitcase. He would call Anton later, to let him know he
had delivered her safely. Anna turned to wave, so he didn't notice
a customer climb into the back of the car, until he heard the door
close. He glanced up at his rear-view mirror.
Where to, madam?' he asked.
The old airport,' she said.
'I didn't realize it was still in service,' he ventured, but she
didn't reply. Some customers don't.
When they reached the second traffic island, Sergei took the
next exit. He checked once again in the mirror. There was something
familiar about her - had she been in the back of his cab
before? At the crossroads, Sergei turned left onto the old airport
road. It was deserted. He'd been right, nothing had flown out of
there since Ceaugescu had attempted to escape in November 1989.
He glanced up at the mirror again, while trying to maintain a
steady speed, and suddenly it all came back to him. He now
remembered exactly where he'd last seen her. The hair had been longer, and blonde, and although it was over a decade ago, those
eyes hadn't changed - eyes that registered nothing when she killed,
eyes that bored into you when you died.
His platoon had been surrounded on the border with Bulgaria.
They were quickly rounded up and marched to the nearest
prisoner-of-war camp. He could still hear the cries of his young
volunteers, some of whom had only just left school. And then, once
they had told her everything they knew, or nothing at all, she
would slit their throats while staring into their eyes. Once she was
certain they were dead, with one more sweeping movement of her
knife she would hack off the head, then dump it in the middle of
an overcrowded cell. Even the most hardened of her henchmen
had to avert their eyes.

250
 
Before leaving, she would spend a little time looking around at
those who had survived. Each night she left with the same parting
words, 'I still haven't decided which one of you will be next.'
Three of his men had survived, and only because a new set of
prisoners, with more up-to-date information, had recently been
captured. But for thirty-seven sleepless nights, Colonel Sergei
Slatinaru could only wonder when it would be his turn. Her last
victim had been Anna's father, one of the bravest men he'd ever
known, who, if he had to die, deserved to go to his grave fighting
the enemy - not at the hands of a butcher.
When they were finally repatriated, one of his first duties as
commanding officer was to tell Anna's mother how Captain
Petrescu had been killed. He lied, assuring her that her husband
died bravely on the battlefield. Why should he pass his nightmare
on to her? And then Anton phoned to say he'd had a call from
Captain Petrescu's daughter; she was coming to Bucharest, and
would he ... someone else he didn't pass his secret on to.
Once the hostility had ceased, rumour concerning Krantz was
rife. She was in jail, she had escaped to America, she'd been killed.
He prayed that she was still alive, as he wanted to be the one to
kill her. But he feared that she would never show her face in
Romania again, because so many former comrades would recognize
her and line up for the privilege of cutting her throat. But why had
she returned? What could possibly be in that crate to make her
take such a risk?
Sergei slowed down when he reached a barren stretch of land,
where the runway had once been but was now covered in weeds
and potholes. He kept one hand on the wheel, while the other
moved slowly down his left side and reached underneath the seat
for a gun he hadn't used since Ceaugescu had been executed.
'Where do you want me to drop you, madam?' he asked, as if
they were in the middle of a busy street. He placed his fingers
round the handle of the gun. She didn't reply. His eyes glanced up
into the rear-view mirror, realizing that any sudden movement
would alert her. Not only did she have the advantage of being
behind him, but she was now watching his every move. He knew
one of them would be dead in the next sixty seconds.

251
 
Sergei placed his index finger round the trigger, eased the gun
from under his seat and began to raise his arm slowly, inch by
inch. He was about to throw the brakes on, when a hand grabbed
his hair and jerked back his head in one sharp movement. His foot
came off the accelerator and the car slowed to a halt in the middle
of the runway. He raised the gun another inch.
Where is the girl going?' she demanded, pulling his head even
further back so that she could look into his eyes.
"What girl?' he managed to say as he felt the knife touch his
skin just below the Adam's apple.
'Don't play games with me, old man. The girl you dropped at
the airport.'
'She didn't say.' Another inch.
'She didn't say, even though you drove her everywhere?
Where?' she shouted, the edge of the blade now piercing the skin.

One more inch.
'I'll give you one last chance,' she screamed as the blade broke
the skin and warm blood began to trickle down his neck. 'Where was
- she - going?' Krantz demanded.
'I don't know,' Sergei screamed, as he raised the gun, pointed it
towards her head and pulled the trigger.
The bullet ripped into Krantz's shoulder and threw her backwards,
but she never let go of his hair. Sergei pulled the trigger
again, but there was a full second between the two shots. Just long
enough for her to slit his throat in a single movement.
Sergei's last memory before he died was staring into those cold
grey eyes.

252
 
39

Leapman wasn't asleep when his phone rang. But then he
rarely slept, although he knew there was only one person who
would consider calling him at such an ungodly hour.
He picked up the phone, and said, 'Good morning, chairman,'
as if he was sitting at his desk in the office.
'Krantz has located the painting.'
"Where is it?' asked Leapman.
'It was in Bucharest, but it's now on its way back to Heathrow.'
Leapman wanted to say, I told you so, but confined himself to,
'When does the plane land?'
'Just after four, London time.'
'I'll have someone standing by to pick it up.'
'And they should put it on the first available flight to New York.'
'So where's Petrescu?' asked Leapman.
'No idea,' said Fenston, 'but Krantz is at the airport waiting for
her. So don't expect her to be on the same flight.'
Leapman heard the click. Fenston never said goodbye. He
climbed out of bed, picked up his phonebook and thumbed
through until he reached the Ps. He checked his watch and dialled
her office number.
'Ruth Parish.'
'Good morning, Ms Parish. It's Karl Leapman.'
'Good morning,' replied Ruth, cautiously.
'We've found our painting.'
'You have the Van Gogh?' said Ruth.
'No, not yet, but that's why I'm calling.'

253
 
'How can I help?'
'It's in the cargo hold of a flight on its way from Bucharest, due
to land outside your front door just after four o'clock this afternoon.'
He paused. 'Just make sure you're there to pick it up.'
I'll be there. But whose name is on the manifest?'
Who gives a fuck? It's our painting and it's in your crate. Just
be sure you don't mislay it a second time.' Leapman put the phone
down before she had a chance to protest.

Ruth Parish and four of her carriers were already on the tarmac
when flight 019 from Bucharest landed at Heathrow. Once the
aircraft had been cleared for unloading, the little motorcade of a
customs official's car, Ruth's Range Rover and an Art Locations
security van drove up and parked within twenty metres of the
cargo hold.
If Ruth had looked up, she would have seen Anna's smiling
face in her tiny window at the back of the aircraft. But she
didn't.
Ruth stepped out of her car and joined the customs officer. She
had earlier informed him that she wished to transfer a painting
from an incoming flight to an onward destination. The customs
official had looked bored, and wondered why she had chosen such
a senior officer to carry out such a routine task, until he was told,
in confidence, the value of the painting. His promotion board was
due in three weeks' time. If he screwed up this simple exercise, he
could forget the extra silver stripe he'd promised his wife she
would be sewing on his sleeve before the end of the month. Not
to mention the pay rise.
When the hold eventually opened, they both walked forward
together, but only the customs officer addressed the chief loader.
'There's a red wooden crate on board' - he checked his file 'three
foot by two, and three or four inches deep. It's stamped with
an Art Locations logo on both sides, and the number forty-seven
stencilled in all four corners. I want it unloaded before anything
else is moved.'
The chief loader passed on the instructions to his two men in

254
 
the hold, who disappeared into the darkness. By the time they
reappeared, Anna was heading towards passport control.
'That's it,' said Ruth when the two loaders reappeared on the
edge of the hold, carrying a red crate. The customs official nodded.
A forklift truck moved forward, expertly extracted the crate from
the hold and lowered it slowly to the ground. The customs man
checked the manifest, followed by the logo and even the stencilled
forty-sevens.
'Everything seems to be in order, Ms Parish. If you'll just sign
here.'
Ruth signed the form, but couldn't make out the signature on
the original manifest. The customs officer's eyes never left the
forklift truck as the package was driven across to the Art Locations
van, where two of Ruth's carriers loaded the crate on board.
'I'll still have to accompany you to the outgoing aircraft, Ms
Parish, so I can confirm that the package has been loaded for
its onward destination. Not until then can I sign a clearance
certificate.'
'Of course,' said Ruth, who carried out the same procedure two
or three times a day.
Anna had reached the baggage area by the time the security van
began its circuitous journey from terminal three to terminal four.
When the driver came to a halt, he parked beside a United Airlines
plane bound for New York.
The security van waited on the tarmac for over an hour before
the cargo hold was opened, by which time Ruth knew the life
history of the customs official, even which school he intended to
send his third child to if he was promoted. Ruth then watched the
process in reverse. The back door of the security van was unlocked,
the painting placed on a forklift truck, driven to the side of the
hold, raised and accepted on board by two handlers before it
disappeared into the bowels of the aircraft.
The customs official signed all three copies of the dispatch
documents and bade farewell to Ruth before returning to his
office. In normal circumstances, Ruth would also have gone back
to her office, filed the relevant forms, checked her messages
and then left for the day. However, these were not normal

255
 
circumstances. She remained seated in her car and waited until
all the passengers' bags had been loaded on board and the cargo
doors had been locked. Still she didn't move, even after the
aircraft began to taxi towards the north runway. She waited until
the plane's wheels had left the ground before she phoned Leap
man in New York. Her message was simple. The package is on
its way.'

Jack was puzzled. He had watched Anna stroll into the arrivals hall,
exchange some dollars at Travelex and then join the long queue
for a taxi. Jack's cab was already waiting on the other side of the
road, two sets of luggage on board, engine running, as he waited
for Anna's cab to pass him.
'Where to, guv?' asked the driver.
'I'm not sure/ admitted Jack, 'but my first bet would be cargo.'
Jack assumed that Anna would drive straight to the cargo depot
and retrieve the package the taxi driver had dispatched from
Bucharest.
But Jack was wrong. Instead of turning right, when the large
blue sign indicating cargo loomed up in front of them, Anna's taxi
swung left and continued to drive west down the M25.
'She's not going to cargo, guv, so what's your next bet Gatwick?'

'So what's in the crate?' asked Jack.
'I've no idea, sir.'
I'm so stupid,' Jack said.
'I wouldn't want to venture an opinion on that, sir, but it would
help if I knew where we was goin'.'
Jack laughed. 'I think you'll find it's Wentworth.'
'Right, guv.'
Jack tried to relax, but every time he glanced out of the rear
window he could have sworn that another black cab was following
them. A shadowy figure was seated in the back. Why was
she still pursuing Anna, when the painting must have been deposited
in cargo?
When his driver turned off the M25 and took the road to

256
 
Wentworth, the taxi Jack had imagined was following them continued
on in the direction of Gatwick.
'You're not stupid, after all, guv, because it looks as if it could
be Wentworth.'
'No, but I am paranoid,' admitted Jack.
'Make up your mind, sir,' the driver said, as Anna's taxi swung
through the gates of Wentworth Hall and disappeared up the drive.
'Do you want me to keep followin' her, guv?'
'No,' said Jack. 'But I'll need a local hotel for the night. Do you
know one by any chance?'
"When the golf tournament is on, I drop a lot of my customers
off at the Wentworth Arms. They ought to be able to fix you up
with a room at this time of year.'
'Then let's find out,' said Jack.
'Right you are, guv.'
Jack sat back and dialled a number on his cellphone.
'American embassy.'
'Tom Crasanti, please.'

257
 
40

When Krantz came round following the operation, the first
thing she felt was a stabbing pain in her right shoulder. She managed
to raise her head a couple of inches off the pillow as she tried to
focus on the small white-walled, unadorned room: just the bare
necessities - a bed, a table, a chair, one sheet, one blanket and a
bed pan. It could only be a hospital, but not of the private variety,
because the room had no windows, no flowers, no fruit, no cards
from well-wishers and an exit that had bars clamped across the door.
Krantz tried to piece together what had happened to her. She
could remember spotting the taxi driver's gun pointing at her heart,
and that was where the memory faded. She'd had just enough time
to turn - an inch, no more - before the bullet ripped into her
shoulder. No one had been that close before. The next bullet missed
completely, but by then he'd given her another second, easily
enough time to cut his throat. He had to be a pro, an ex-policeman
perhaps, possibly a soldier. But then she must have passed out.

Jack checked himself into the Wentworth Arms for the night, and
booked a table for dinner at eight. After a shower and a change of
clothes, he looked forward to devouring a large juicy steak.
Even though Anna was safely ensconced at Wentworth Hall, he
didn't feel he could relax while Crew Cut might well be hovering
somewhere nearby. He had already asked Tom to brief the local
police, while he continued to carry out his own surveillance.
He sat in the lounge enjoying a Guinness and thinking about

258
 
Anna. Long before the hall clock struck eight, Tom walked in, looked around and spotted his old friend by the fire. Jack rose to
greet him, and apologized for having to drag him down to Went
worth when he could have been spending the evening with Chloe
and Hank.
'As long as this establishment can produce a decent Tom
Collins, you'll not hear me complain,' Tom answered him.
Tom was explaining to Jack how Hank had scored a half century
- whatever that was - when they were joined by the head waiter,
who took their orders for dinner. They both chose steaks, but as a
Texan, Tom admitted he hadn't got used to the English version
that was served up looking like a lamb chop.
I'll call you through,' said the head waiter, 'as soon as your
table is ready.'
'Thank you,' said Jack, as Tom bent down to open his briefcase.
He extracted a thick file and placed it on the table between them.
Small talk had never been his forte.
'Let's begin with the important news,' said Tom, opening the
file. 'We've identified the woman in the photograph you sent
through from Tokyo.' Jack put his drink down and concentrated on the contents of the file. 'Her name is Olga Krantz, and she has one
thing in common with Dr Petrescu.'
'And what's that?' asked Jack.
'The agency was also under the illusion that she was missing,
presumed dead. As you can see from her profile,' Tom added,
pushing a sheet of paper across the table, 'we lost contact with her
in 1989, when she ceased being a member of Ceaugescu's personal
bodyguard. But we're now convinced that she works exclusively for
Fenston.'
'That's one hell of a leap of logic,' suggested Jack, as a waiter
appeared with a Tom Collins and another half pint of Guinness.
'Not if you consider the facts logically,' said Tom, 'and then
follow them step by step,' he added, before sipping his drink. 'Um,
not bad. After all, she and Fenston worked for Ceauescu at the
same time.'
'Coincidence,' said Jack. 'Wouldn't stand up in court.'
'It might, when you learn what her job description was.'

259
 
'Try me,' said Jack.
'She was responsible for removing anyone who posed a threat
to Ceauescu.'
'Still circumstantial.'
'Until you discover her chosen method of disposal.'
'A kitchen knife?' suggested Jack, not looking down at the sheet
of paper in front of him.
'You've got it,' said Tom.
"Which, I fear, means that there is yet another undeniable link
in your chain of logic'
What's that?' asked Tom.
'Anna is being lined up as her next victim.'
'No - there, fortunately, the logic breaks down, because Krantz
was arrested in Bucharest this morning.'
What?' said Jack.
'By the local police,' added Tom.
'It's hard to believe they got within a mile of her,' said Jack.
'I kept losing her even when I knew where she was.'
'The local police were the first to admit,' said Tom, 'that she
was unconscious at the time.'
'Fill me in on the details,' said Jack impatiently.
It seems, and reports were still coming through when I left the
embassy, that Krantz was involved in a quarrel with a taxi driver,
who was found to have five hundred dollars in his possession. The
driver had his throat cut, while she ended up with a bullet in her
right shoulder. We don't yet know what caused the fight, but as he
was killed only moments before your flight took off, we thought
you might be able to throw some light on it.'
'Krantz would have been trying to find out which plane Anna
was on, after she made such a fool of herself in Tokyo, but that
man would never have told her. He protected Anna more like a
father than a taxi driver, and the five hundred dollars is a red
herring. Krantz doesn't bother to kill people for that sort of money,
and that was one taxi driver who never kept the meter running.'
"Well, whatever, Krantz is safely locked up, and with a bit of
luck will spend the rest of her life in jail, which may not prove to
be that long, as we're reliably informed that half the population of


260
 
Romania would be happy to strangle her.' Tom glanced back down
at his file. 'And it turns out that our taxi driver, one Colonel Sergei
Slatinaru, was a hero of the resistance.' Tom took another sip of
his drink before he added, 'So there's no longer any reason for you
to worry about Petrescu's safety.'
The waiter reappeared to accompany them into the dining
room.
'In common with most Romanians, I won't relax until Krantz is
dead,' said Jack. 'Until then, I'll remain anxious for Anna.'
'Anna? Are you two on first-name terms?' asked Tom as he took
his seat opposite Jack in the dining room.
'Hardly, though we may as well be. I've spent more nights with
her than any of my recent girlfriends.'
'Then perhaps we should have invited Dr Petrescu to join
us?'
'Forget it,' said Jack. 'She'll be having dinner with Lady Arabella
at Wentworth Hall, while we have to settle for the Wentworth
Arms.'
A waiter placed a bowl of leek and potato soup in front of Tom
and served Jack with a Caesar salad.
'Have you found out anything else about Anna?'
'Not a lot,' admitted Tom, 'but I can tell you that she called the
New York Police Department from Bucharest airport. She asked
them to take her name off the missing list, said she'd been in
Romania visiting her mother. She also called her uncle in Danville,
Illinois, and Lady Arabella Wentworth.'
'Then her meeting in Tokyo must have gone belly up,' said Jack.
'You're going to have to explain that one to me,' said Tom.
'She had a meeting in Tokyo with a steel tycoon called
Nakamura, who has one of the largest collections of Impressionist
paintings in the world, so the concierge at the Seiyo informed me.'
Jack paused. 'She obviously failed to sell Nakamura the Van Gogh,
which would explain why she sent the painting back to London,
and even allowed it to be forwarded to New York.'
'She doesn't strike me as someone who gives up that easily,' said
Tom, extracting another piece of paper from his file. 'By the way,
the Happy Hire Company is also looking for her. They claim she

261
 
abandoned one of their vehicles on the Canadian border, minus its
front mudguard, front and rear bumper, with not one of its lights
in working order.'
'Hardly a major crime,' said Jack.
'Are you falling for this girl?* asked Tom.
Jack didn't reply as a waiter appeared by their side. 'Two steaks,
one rare, one medium,' he announced.
'Mine's the rare,' said Tom.
The waiter placed both plates on the table, and added, 'Enjoy.'
'Another Americanism we seem to have exported,' grunted
Tom.
Jack smiled. 'Did you get any further with Leapman?'
'Oh yes,' said Tom. "We know a great deal about Mr Leapman.'
He placed another file on the table. 'He's an American citizen,
second generation, and studied law at Columbia. Not unlike you,'
Tom said with a grin. 'After graduating, he worked for several
banks, always moving on fairly quickly, until he became involved in
a share fraud. His speciality was selling bonds to widows that didn't
exist.' He paused. 'The widows existed, the bonds didn't.' Jack
laughed. 'He served a two-year sentence at Rochester Correctional
Facility in upstate New York, and was banned for life from working
at a bank or any other financial institution.'
'But he's Fenston's right hand?5
'Fenston's possibly, but not the bank's. Leapman's name doesn't
appear on their books, even as a cleaner. He pays taxes on his only
known income, a monthly cheque from an aunt in Mexico.'
'Come on--' said Jack.
'And before you say anything else,' added Tom, 'my department
has neither the financial resources nor the back-up to find out if
this aunt even exists.'
'Any Romanian connection?' Jack asked as he dug into his steak.
'None that we're aware of,' said Tom. 'Straight out of the Bronx,
and into a Brooks Brothers suit.'
'Leapman may yet turn out to be our best lead,' said Jack. 'If
we could only get him to testify--'
'Not a hope,' said Tom. 'Since leaving jail, he hasn't even had a

262
 
parking ticket, and I suspect he's a lot more frightened of Fenston
than he is of us.'
'If only Hoover was still alive,' said Jack with a grin.
They both raised their glasses, before Tom added, 'So when do
you fly back to the States? I only ask, as I want to know when I
can return to my day job.'
'Tomorrow, I suppose,' said Jack. 'Now Krantz is safely locked
up, I ought to get back to New York. Macy will want to know if
I'm any nearer to linking Krantz with Fenston.'
'And are you?' asked Tom.
Neither of them noticed the two men talking to the maitre d\
They couldn't have been booking a table, otherwise they would
have left their raincoats in reception. Once the maitre d' had
answered their question, they walked purposefully across the
dining room.
Tom was placing the files back in his briefcase by the time they
reached their table.
'Good evening, gentlemen,' said the taller of the two men. 'My
name is Detective Sergeant Frankham, and this is my colleague,
Detective Constable Ross. I'm sorry to disturb your meal, but I
need to have a word with you, sir,' he said, touching Jack on the
shoulder.
Why, what have I done?' asked Jack, putting down his knife
and fork. 'Parked on a double yellow line?'
'I'm afraid it's a little more serious than that, sir,' said the
detective sergeant, 'and I must therefore ask you to accompany me
to the station.'
'On what charge?' demanded Jack.
T think it might be wiser, sir, if we were not to continue this
conversation in a crowded restaurant.'
'And on whose authority--' began Tom.
'I don't think you need to involve yourself, sir.'
Til decide about that,' said Tom, as he removed his FBI badge
from an inside pocket. He was about to flick the leather wallet
open, when Jack touched him on the elbow and said, 'Let's not
create a scene. No need to get the bureau involved.'


263
 
'To hell with that, who do these people think--'
Tom, calm down. This is not our country. I'll go along to the
police station and sort this all out.'
Tom reluctantly placed his FBI badge back in his pocket, and
although he said nothing, the look on his face wouldn't have left
either policeman in any doubt how he felt. As Jack stood up, the
sergeant grabbed his arm and quickly handcuffed him.
'Hey, is that really necessary?' demanded Tom.
Tom, don't get involved,' said Jack in a measured tone.
Tom reluctantly followed Jack out of the dining room, through
a room full of guests, who studiously carried on chatting and eating
their meals as if nothing unusual was going on around them.
When they reached the front door, Tom said, 'Do you want me
to come with you to the station?'
'No,' said Jack, 'why don't you stick around. Don't worry, I'm
sure I'll be back in time for coffee.'
Two women stared intently at Jack from the other side of the
corridor.
'Is that him, madam?'
'Yes it is,' one of them confirmed.

When Tina heard her door open, she quickly flicked off the screen.
She didn't look up, as only one person never bothered to knock
before entering her office.
'I presume you know that Petrescu is on her way back to New York?5
'I'd heard,' said Tina, as she continued typing.
'But had you also heard,' said Leapman, placing both hands on
her desk, 'that she tried to steal the Van Gogh?'
The one in the chairman's office?' said Tina, innocently.
'Don't play games with me,' said Leapman. 'You think I don't
know that you listen in on every phone conversation the chairman
has?' Tina stopped typing and looked up at him. 'Perhaps the time
has come,' Leapman continued, 'to let Mr Fenston know about the
switch under your desk that allows you to spy on him whenever
he's having a private meeting.'
'Are you threatening me, Mr Leapman?' asked Tina. 'Because if

264
 
you are, I might find it necessary to have a word with the chairman
myself.'
'And what could you possibly tell him that I would care about?'
demanded Leapman.
'About the weekly calls you receive from a Mr Pickford, and
then perhaps we'll discover who's playing games.'
Leapman took his hands off the table and stood up straight.
'I feel sure your probation officer will be interested to learn that
you've been harassing staff at a bank you don't work for, don't have
an office in and don't receive a salary from.'
Leapman took a pace backwards.
"When you come to see me next time, Mr Leapman, make sure
you knock, like any other visitor to the bank.'
Leapman took another pace backwards, hesitated, then left
without another word.
When the door closed, Tina was shaking so much she had to
grip the armrests of her chair.

265
 
41

When the police car arrived at the station, Jack was bundled
out. Once he'd been checked in by the desk sergeant, the two
detectives accompanied him downstairs to an interview room. DS
Frankham asked him to take a seat on the other side of the table.
Something else Jack hadn't experienced before. DC Ross stood
quietly in one corner.
Jack could only wonder which one of them was going to play
the good cop.
DS Frankham sat down, placed a file on the table and extracted
a long form.
'Name?' began Frankham.
'Jack Fitzgerald Delaney,' Jack replied.
'Date of birth?'
'Twenty-second November, sixty-three.'
'Occupation?'
'Senior Investigating Officer with the FBI, attached to the New
York field office.'
The detective sergeant dropped his pen, looked up and said,
'Do you have some ID?'
Jack produced his FBI badge and identity card.
'Thank you, sir,' said Frankham after he'd checked them. 'Can
you wait here for a moment?' He stood and turned to his colleague.
Would you see that Agent Delaney is offered a coffee? This may
take some time.' When he reached the door he added, 'And make
sure he gets his tie, belt and laces back.'
DS Frankham turned out to be right, because it was another

266
 
hour before the heavy door was opened again and an older man
with a weathered, lined face entered the room. He was dressed in
a well-tailored uniform, with silver braid on his sleeve, epaulette,
and the peak of his cap, which he removed to reveal a head of grey
hair. He took the seat opposite Jack.
'Good evening, Mr Delaney. My name is Renton, Chief Superintendent
Renton, and now that we have been able to confirm your
identity, perhaps you'd be kind enough to answer a few questions.'
'If I can,' said Jack.
'I feel sure you can,' said Renton. 'What interests me, is whether
you will.'
Jack didn't respond.
*We received a complaint from a usually reliable source that
you have, for the past week, been following a lady without her
prior knowledge. This is an offence in England under the 1997
Protection from Harassment Act, as you are no doubt aware.
However, I feel sure you have a simple explanation.'
'Dr Petrescu is part of an ongoing investigation, which my
department has been involved in for some time.'
'Would that investigation have anything to do with the death of
Lady Victoria Wentworth?'
'Yes,' replied Jack.
'And is Dr Petrescu a suspect in that murder?'
'No,' replied Jack firmly. 'Quite the opposite. In fact, we had
thought she might be the next victim.'
'Had thought?' repeated the chief superintendent.
'Yes,' replied Jack. 'Fortunately the murderer has been apprehended
in Bucharest.'
'And you didn't feel able to share this information with us?' said
Renton. 'Despite the fact that you must have been aware that we
were conducting a murder enquiry.'
'I apologize, sir,' said Jack. 'I only found out myself a few hours
ago. But I'm sure our London office planned to keep you informed.'
'Mr Tom Crasanti has briefed me, but I suspect only because
his colleague was under lock and key.' Jack didn't comment. 'But
he did go on to assure me,' continued Renton, 'that you will keep
us fully informed of any developments that might arise in the

267
 
future.' Once again, Jack didn't respond. The chief superintendent
rose from his place. 'Good night, Mr Delaney. I have authorized
your immediate release, and can only hope you have a pleasant
flight home.'
'Thank you, sir,' said Jack, as Renton replaced his cap and left
the room.
Jack had some sympathy with the chief superintendent. After
all, the NYPD, not to mention the CIA, rarely bothered to let
the FBI know what they were up to. A few moments later, DS
Frankham returned.
'If you'll accompany me, sir,' he said, 'we have a car waiting to
take you back to your hotel.'
'Thank you,' said Jack, as he followed the detective sergeant out
of the room and up the stairs into reception.
The desk sergeant lowered his head as Jack left the building.
Jack shook hands with an embarrassed DS Frankham before
climbing into a police car that was parked outside the front door.
Tom was waiting for him in the back.
'Just another case study for Quantico to add to its curriculum,'
suggested Tom. 'This time on how to cause a major diplomatic
incident while visiting one's oldest ally.'
'I must have brought a new meaning to the words "special
relationship",' commented Jack.
'However, the condemned man is to be given a chance to
redeem himself,' said Tom.
'What do you have in mind?' asked Jack.
'We've both been invited to join Lady Arabella and Dr Petrescu
for breakfast at Wentworth Hall tomorrow morning, and by the
way, Jack, I see what you mean about Anna.'


268
 
9/22
 
42


Jack emerged from the Wentworth Arms just after seven
thirty to find a Rolls-Royce parked by the entrance. A chauffeur
opened the back door the moment he saw him.
'Good morning, sir,' he said. 'Lady Arabella asked me to say
how much she is looking forward to meeting you.'
The too,' said Jack, as he climbed into the back.
We'll be there in a few minutes,' the chauffeur assured him as
he drove out of the hotel entrance.
Half of the journey seemed to Jack to be from the wrought-iron
gates at the entrance to the estate up the long drive that led to the
hall. Once the chauffeur had brought the car to a halt, he jumped
out and walked round to open the back door. Jack stepped out
onto the gravel drive and looked up to see a butler standing on the
top step, obviously expecting him.
'Good morning, sir,' he said, 'welcome to Wentworth Hall. If
you would be good enough to follow me, Lady Arabella is expecting
you.'
'"A usually reliable source,"' muttered Jack, but if the butler
did overhear him, he made no comment as he led the guest
through to the drawing room.
'Mr Delaney, m'lady,' announced the butler, as two dogs, tails
wagging, padded forward to greet him.
'Good morning, Mr Delaney,' said Arabella. 'I think we owe you
an apology. You are so obviously not a stalker.'
Jack stared at Anna, who also looked suitably embarrassed, and

271
 
then turned towards Tom, who couldn't remove the grin from his
face.
Andrews reappeared at the door. 'Breakfast is ready, m'lady.'

When she woke a second time, a young doctor was changing the
dressing on her shoulder.
'How long before I'm fully recovered?' was her first question.
The doctor looked startled when he heard her voice for the first
time - such a shrill, piping note didn't quite fit her legend. He
remained silent until he'd finished cutting a length of bandage with
his scissors.
'Three, four days at most,' he replied, looking down at her. 'But
I wouldn't be in a hurry to get myself discharged, if I were you,
because the moment I sign your release papers, your next stop is
Jilava, which I think you're only too familiar with from your days
serving the past regime.'
Krantz could never forget the barren, stone-walled, rat-infested
building that she had visited every night in order to question the
latest prisoners before being driven back to the warmth of her
well-furnished dacha on the outskirts of the city.
I'm told that the inmates are looking forward to seeing you
again after such a prolonged absence,' added the doctor. He bent
over, peeled an edge from the large dressing on her shoulder and
paused. 'This is going to hurt,' he promised, and then in one
movement, ripped it off. Krantz didn't flinch. She wasn't going to
allow him that satisfaction.
The doctor dabbed iodine into the wound before placing a new
dressing over it. He then expertly bandaged the shoulder and
placed her right arm in a sling.
'How many guards are there?' she asked casually.
'Six, and they're all armed,' said the doctor, 'and just in case
you're thinking of trying to escape, they have orders to shoot first
and fill in any unnecessary forms later. I've even prepared an
unsigned death certificate for them.'
Krantz didn't ask any more questions.

When the doctor left, she lay staring up at the ceiling. If there

272
 
was any chance of escaping, it would have to be while she was still at the hospital. No one had ever managed to escape from Jilava
penitentiary, not even Ceauescu.
It took her another eight hours to confirm that there were
always six guards, covering three eight-hour shifts. The first group
clocked on at six o'clock, the second at two, and the night shift
came on duty at ten.
During a long, sleepless night, Krantz discovered that the half
dozen guards on night duty felt they had drawn the short straw.
One of them was just plain Ia2y and spent half the night asleep.
Another was always sneaking off to have a cigarette on the fire
escape - no smoking allowed on the hospital premises. The third
was a philanderer, who imagined that he'd been put on earth to
satisfy women. He was never more than a few paces from one of
the nurses. The fourth spent most of his time grumbling about
how much, or how little, he was paid, and his wife's ability to clean
him out before the end of every week. Krantz knew that she could
take care of his problem if she was given the chance. The other
two guards were older, and remembered her only too well from
the past regime. One of them would have been happy to blow a
hole right through her if she'd as much as raised her head from
the pillow.
But even they were entitled to a meal break.

Jack sat down to a breakfast of eggs, bacon, devilled kidneys,
mushrooms and tomatoes, followed by toast, English marmalade
and coffee.
'You must be hungry after such an ordeal,' remarked Arabella.
If it hadn't been for Tom, I might have had to settle for prison
rations.'
'And I fear I am to blame,' said Anna. 'Because I fingered you,'
she added with a grin.
'Not true,' said Tom. 'You can thank Arabella for having Jack
arrested, and Arabella for having him released.'
'No, I can't take all the credit,' Arabella said, stroking one of
the dogs, seated on each side of her. T admit to having Jack

273
 
arrested, but it was your ambassador who managed to get him what's
the American expression? - sprung.'
'But there is one thing I still don't understand/ said Anna,
'despite Tom filling us in with all the finer details. Why did you
continue to follow me to Wentworth once you were convinced I
was no longer in possession of the painting?'
'Because I thought the woman who murdered your driver would
then follow you to London.'
'Where she planned to kill me?' said Anna quietly. Jack nodded,
but didn't speak. 'Thank God I never knew,' she said, pushing her
breakfast to one side.
'But by then she'd already been arrested for murdering Sergei,'
queried Arabella.
'That's right,' said Jack, 'but I didn't know that until I met up
with Tom last night.'
'So the FBI had been keeping an eye on me at the same time?5 said Anna, turning to face Jack, who was buttering some toast.
'For some considerable time,' admitted Jack. 'At one point, we
even wondered if you were the hired assassin.'
'On what grounds?' demanded Anna.
'An art consultant would be a good front for someone who
worked for Fenston, especially if she was also an athlete, and just
happened to be born in Romania.'
'And just how long have I been under investigation?' asked
Anna.
'For the past two months,' admitted Jack. He took a sip of
coffee. 'In fact, we were just about to close your file when you
stole the Van Gogh.'
'I didn't steal it,' said Anna sharply.
'She retrieved it, on my behalf,' interjected Arabella. 'And with
my blessing, what's more.'
'And are you still hoping that Fenston will agree to sell the
painting so that you can clear the debt, because if he did, it would
be a first.'
'No,' said Arabella, a little too quickly. 'That's the last thing I
want.'
Jack looked puzzled.

274
 
'Not until the police solve the mystery of who murdered your
sister,' interjected Anna.
'We all know who murdered my sister,' said Arabella sharply,
'and if she ever crosses my path, I'll happily blow her head off.'
Both dogs pricked up their ears.
'Knowing it is not the same as proving it,' said Jack.
'So Fenston has got away with murder,' said Anna quietly.
'More than once, I suspect,' admitted Jack. 'The bureau has had
him under investigation for some time. There are four -' he
paused - 'now five murders in different parts of the world that
have the Krantz trademark, but we've never been able to link her
directly to Fenston.'
'Krantz murdered Victoria, and Sergei,' said Anna.
"Without a doubt,' said Jack.
'And Colonel Sergei Slatinaru was your father's commanding
officer,' added Tom, 'as well as being a close friend.'
'I'll do anything I can to help,' said Anna, close to tears, 'and I
mean anything.'
'We've had a tiny break,' admitted Tom, 'though we can't be
sure it will lead us anywhere. When Krantz was taken into hospital
to have the bullet removed from her shoulder, the only thing they
found on her, other than the knife and a little cash, was a key.'
'But surely it will fit a lock in Romania?' suggested Anna.

'We don't think so,' said Jack, after devouring another mushroom.
'It has NYRC 13 stamped on it. Not much of a lead, but if
we could find out what it opened, it might, just might, connect
Krantz to Fenston.'
'So do you want me to stay in England while you continue your
investigation?' asked Anna.
'No, I need you to return to New York,' said Jack. 'Let everyone
know you're safe and well, act normally, even look for a job. Just
don't give Fenston any reason to become suspicious.'
'Do I stay in touch with my former colleagues in his office?'
asked Anna. 'Because Fenston's secretary, Tina, is one of my
closest friends.'
'Are you sure about that?' asked Jack, putting down his knife
and fork.

275
 
"What are you getting at?" asked Anna.
'How do you explain the fact that Fenston always knew exactly
where you were, if Tina wasn't telling himP
'I can't,' said Anna, 'but I know she hates Fenston as much as I
do.'
'And you can prove it?' asked Jack.
'I don't need proof,' snapped Anna.
'I do,' said Jack, calmly.
'Be careful, Jack, because if you're wrong/ said Anna, 'then her
life must also be in danger.'
'If that's the case, all the more reason for you to return to New
York and make contact with her as soon as possible,' suggested
Tom, trying to calm the atmosphere.
Jack nodded his agreement.
'I'm booked on a flight this afternoon/ said Anna.
The too/ said Jack. 'Heathrow?'
'No, Stansted/ said Anna.
Well, one of you is going to have to change your flight/
suggested Tom.
'Not me/ said Jack. 'I'm not going to be arrested for stalking a
second time.'
'Before I make a decision on whether to change flights/ said
Anna, 'I'll need to know if I'm still under investigation. Because if
I am, you can go on following me.'
'No,' said Jack. 'I closed your file a few days ago.'
What convinced you to do that?' asked Anna.
When Arabella's sister was murdered, you had an unimpeachable
witness as your alibi.'
'And who was that, may I ask?'
The,' replied Jack. 'As I'd been following you around Central
Park, you can't have been in England.'
'You run in Central Park?' said Anna.
'Every morning round the loop,' said Jack. 'Round the Reservoir
on Sundays.'
The too,' said Anna. 'Never miss.'

'I know,' said Jack. 'I overtook you several times during the last
six weeks.'

276
 
Anna stared at him. 'The man in the emerald-green T-shirt.
You're not bad.'
Tou're not so--'
'I'm sorry to break up this meeting of the Central Park joggers'
club,' said Tom, as he pushed back his chair, 'but I ought to be
getting back to my office. There's a stack of 9/11 files on my desk I
haven't even opened. Thank you for breakfast,' he added, turning
to Arabella. 'I'm only sorry that the ambassador had to disturb you
so early this morning.'
'Which reminds me,' said Arabella, as she rose from her chair.
'I must get on with writing some humble-pie letters, my thanks to
the ambassador and my apologies to half the Surrey police force.'
What about me?' said Jack. 'I'm thinking of suing the Went
worth Estate, the Surrey police and the Home Office, with Tom as
my witness.'
'Not a hope,' said Tom. 'I wouldn't care to have Arabella as an
enemy.'
Jack smiled. 'Then I'll have to settle for a lift to the Wentworth
Arms.'
Tou got it,' said Tom.
'And now that I feel safe to join you at Heathrow,' said Anna,
rising from her place, 'where shall we meet?'
'Don't worry,' said Jack. 'I'll find you.'

277
 
43

Leapman was driven to JFK to pick up the painting an hour
before the plane was due to land. That didn't stop Fenston calling
him every ten minutes on the way to the airport, which became
every five once the limousine was on its way back to Wall Street
with the red crate safely stowed in the trunk.
Fenston was pacing up and down his office by the time Leap
man was dropped outside the front of the building, and waiting in
the corridor when Barry and the driver stepped out of the elevator
carrying the red crate.
'Open it,' ordered Fenston, long before the box had been
propped up against the wall in his office. Barry and the driver
undid the special clamps before setting about extracting the long
nails that had been hammered firmly into the rim of the wooden
crate, while Fenston, Leapman and Tina looked on. When the lid
was finally prised open and the polystyrene corners that were
holding the painting in place were removed, Barry lifted the
painting carefully out of the wooden crate and leant it up against
the chairman's desk. Fenston rushed forward and began to tear off
the bubble wrap with his bare hands, until he could at last see
what he'd been willing to kill for.
Fenston stood back and gasped.
No one else in the room dared to speak until he had offered an
opinion. Suddenly, the words came tumbling out in a torrent.
'It's even more magnificent than I'd expected,' he declared.
The colours are so fresh, and the brushwork so bold. Truly a
masterpiece,' he added. Leapman decided not to comment.

278
 
m-nawivi-*

1 know exactly where I'm going to hang my Van Gogh,' said
Fenston.
He looked up and stared at the wall behind his desk, where a
massive photograph of George W. Bush shaking hands with him
on his recent visit to Ground Zero filled the space.

Anna was looking forward to her flight back to the States, and the
chance to get to know Jack a little better during the seven-hour
journey. She even hoped that he would answer one or two more
questions. How did he find out her mother's address, why was he
still suspicious of Tina, and was there any proof that Fenston and
Krantz even knew each other?
Jack was waiting for her when she checked in. Anna took a little
time to relax with a man she couldn't forget had been following
her for the last nine days, and investigating her for the past eight
weeks, but by the time they climbed the steps to the aircraft,
together for a change, Jack knew she was a Knicks fan, liked
spaghetti and Dustin Hoffman, while Anna had found out that he
also supported the Knicks, that his favourite modern artist was
Fernando Botero, and nothing could replace his mother's Irish
stew.
Anna was wondering if he liked fat women when his head fell
onto her shoulder. As she was the cause of his not getting much
sleep the previous night, Anna felt she was hardly in a position
to complain. She pushed his head gently back up, not wishing
to wake him. She began making a list of things she needed to do
once she was back in New York, when Jack slumped back down
onto her shoulder. Anna gave in and tried to sleep with his head
there. She had once read that the head is one-seventh of your body
weight and no longer needed to be convinced.
She woke about an hour before they were due to land to find
Jack was still asleep, but his arm was now draped around her
shoulder. She sat up sleepily and accepted a cup of tea from the
stewardess.
Jack leaned across. 'So how was it for you?' he asked, grinning.
'I've had worse,' she replied, 'and some of them were awake.'

279
 
'So what's the first thing you're going to do, now that you've
miraculously risen from the dead:* he asked.
'Call my family and friends and let them know just how alive
I am, and then find out if anyone wants to employ me. And
you?'
'I'll have to check in with my boss and let him know I'm no
nearer to nailing Fenston, which will be greeted with one of his
two favourite maxims. "Raise your game, Jack," or "Step it up a
notch."'
That's hardly fair,' said Anna, 'now that Krantz is safely behind
bars.'
'No thanks to me,' said Jack. 'And then I'll have to face up to
an even fiercer wrath than the boss's, when I try to explain to my
mother why I didn't call her from London and apologize for not
turning up for her Irish stew night. No, my only hope of redemption
is to discover what "NYRC" stands for.' Jack put a hand in
his top pocket. 'After I'd checked out of the Wentworth Arms,
I travelled on to the embassy with Tom, and thanks to modern
technology, he was able to produce an exact copy of the key, even
though the original is still in Romania.' He pulled the facsimile out
of his top pocket and handed it across to Anna.
Anna turned the small brass key over in her hands. 'NYRC 13.
Got any ideas?' she asked.
'Only the obvious ones,' said Jack.
'New York Racing Club, New York Rowing Club, anything
else?'
'New York Racquet Club, but if you come up with any others,
let me know, because I intend to spend the rest of the weekend
trying to find out if it's any of those. I need to come up with
something positive before I face the boss on Monday.'
'Perhaps you could slow down enough on your morning run to
let me know if you've cracked it.'
'I was rather hoping to tell you over dinner tonight,' said Jack.
'I can't. I'm sorry, Jack, much as I'd love to, I'm having dinner
with Tina.'
'Are you?' said Jack. 'Well, just be careful.'

280
 
'Six o'clock tomorrow morning suit you?' asked Anna, ignoring
the comment.
That means I'll have to set my alarm for six thirty, if we're
going to meet up about halfway round.'
'I'll be out of my shower by then.'
'I'll be sorry to miss that.'
'By the way,' said Anna, 'can you do me a favour?'

Leapman strode into the chairman's office without knocking.
'Have you seen this?' he asked, placing a copy of the New York
Times on the desk and jabbing a finger at an article from the
international section.
Fenston studied the headline: Romanian Police Arrest
Assassin. He read the short article twice before speaking.
'Find out how much the chief of police wants.'

'It may not prove to be that easy,' suggested Leapman.
'It's always that easy,' said Fenston, looking up. 'Only agreeing
a price will prove difficult.'
Leapman frowned, 'And there's another matter you should
consider.'
'And what's that?' asked Fenston.
'The Van Gogh. You ought to have the painting insured, after
what happened to the Monet.'
'I never insure my paintings. I don't need the IRS to find out
how much my collection is worth, and in any case it's never going
to happen twice.'
'It already has,' said Leapman.
Fenston scowled and didn't reply for some time.
'All right, but only the Van Gogh,' he eventually said. 'Make it
Lloyd's of London, and be sure you keep the book value below
twenty million.'
'Why such a low figure?' queried Leapman.
'Because the last thing I need is to have the Van Gogh with an
asset value of a hundred million while I'm still hoping to get my
hands on the rest of the Wentworth collection.'

281
 
Leapman nodded and turned to leave.
'By the way,' said Fenston looking back down at the article. 'Do
you still have the second key?'
'Yes I do,' said Leapman. Why?'
'Because when she escapes, you'll need to make a further deposit.'
Leapman smiled. A rarity, which even Fenston noticed.

Krantz wet her bed, and then explained to the doctor about her
weak bladder. He authorized periodic visits to the bathroom, but
only when accompanied by at least two guards.
These regular little outings up and down the corridor gave
Krantz an opportunity to study the layout of the floor: a reception
desk at the far end of the landing manned by a single nurse; a
drugs clinic which could only be unlocked if a doctor was present;
a linen closet; three other single rooms, one bathroom and, at the
other end of the corridor, a ward containing sixteen beds, opposite
a fire escape.
But the outings also served another, more important purpose,
and it certainly wasn't anything the young doctor would have come
across when reading his medical text books or carrying out his
ward rounds.
Once they had locked Krantz into her cubicle, also windowless,
she sat on the lavatory seat, placed two fingers up her rectum and
slowly extracted a condom. She then washed the rubber container
in the lavatory water, undid the knot at the top and pulled out a
roll of tightly wrapped twenty-dollar bills. She extracted two from
the roll, tucked them in her sling and then carried out the whole
process in reverse.
Krantz pulled the chain and was escorted back to her room. She
spent the rest of the day sleeping. She needed to be wide awake
during the night shift.

Jack sat in the back of the taxi, looking out of the window.
The grey cloak of 9/11 still hadn't lifted from Manhattan,
although New Yorkers rushing by no longer stared upwards in

282
 
disbelief. Terrorism was something else the most frenetic city on
earth had already learned to take in its stride.
Jack sat back and thought about the favour he'd promised Anna.
He dialled the number she'd given him. Sam picked up the phone.
Jack told him that Anna was alive and well, and that she had been
visiting her mother in Romania, and he could expect her back that
evening. Nice to start the day making someone feel good, thought
Jack, which wasn't going to be the case with his second call. He
phoned his boss to let him know that he was back in New York.
Macy told him that Krantz had been taken to a local hospital in
Bucharest to undergo an operation on her shoulder. She was being
guarded round the clock by half a dozen cops.
'I'll be happier when she's locked up in jail,' said Jack.
'I'm told you speak with some experience on that subject,' said
Macy.
Jack was about to respond, when Macy added, "Why don't you
take the rest of the week off, Jack? You've earned it.'
'It's Saturday,' Jack reminded his boss.
'So I'll see you first thing Monday morning,' said Macy.
Jack decided to text Anna next. Told Sam U Ron way home. Is
he only other man in yr life? He waited a couple of minutes, but
there was no reply. He called his mother.
'Will you be coming home for supper tonight?' she asked
sharply. He could almost smell the meat stewing in the background.
'Would
I miss it, Ma?'
'You did last week.'
'Ah, yes, I meant to call you,' said Jack, 'but something came
up.'
'Will you be bringing this something with you tonight?' Jack
hesitated, a foolish mistake. 'Is she a good Catholic girl?' was his
mother's next question.
'No, mother,' Jack replied. 'She's a divorcee, three ex-husbands,
two of whom died in mysterious circumstances. Oh, and she has
five children, not all of them by the three husbands, but you'll be
glad to know only four of the kids are on hard drugs - the other
one's currently serving a jail sentence.'

283
 
'Does she have a regular job?'
'Oh yes, Ma, it's a cash business. She services most of her
customers at the weekends, but she assures me that she can always
take an hour off for a bowl of Irish stew.'
'So what does she really do?' asked his mother.
'She's an art thief,' said Jack, 'specializes in Van Gogh and
Picasso. Makes a huge profit on each assignment.'
'Then she'll be an improvement on the last one,' said his mother,
'who specialized in losing your money.'
'Goodbye, Mother,' said Jack. Til see you tonight.'
He ended the call, to find there was a text from Anna, using her
ID for Jack.
Switch your brain on, Stalker. Got the obvious R. UR 2 slow
4 me.
'Damn the woman,' said Jack. His next call was to Tom in
London, but all he got was an answering machine saying, 'Tom
Crasanti, I'm out at the moment, but will be back shortly, please
leave a message.'
Jack didn't, as the cab was pulling up outside his apartment.
'That'll be thirty-two dollars.'
Jack handed the driver four tens, and didn't ask for any change
and didn't get a thank-you.
Things were back to normal in New York.

The night shift reported for duty at ten o'clock. The six new guards
spent their first two hours marching up and down the corridor,
making their presence felt. Every few minutes, one of them would
unlock her door, switch on the bare bulb that hung above her
bed and check that she was 'present', before he turned off the light
and locked the door. This exercise was repeated at regular intervals
for the first two hours, but after that it lapsed to every half an
hour.
At five minutes past four, when two of the guards went off for
their meal break, Krantz pressed the buzzer by her bed. Two more
guards appeared, the grumbler with money problems and the chain
smoker. They both accompanied her to the bathroom, each holding

284
 
an elbow. When she entered the lavatory, one remained in the corridor, while the other stood guard outside the cubicle. Krantz
extracted two more notes from her rectum, folded them up in her
hands and then pulled the lavatory chain. The guard opened the
door. She smiled, and slipped the notes into his hand. He looked
at them, and quickly put them in his pocket, before rejoining his
colleague in the corridor. They both accompanied Krantz back to
her room and locked her in.
Twenty minutes later, the other two guards returned from their
meal break. One of them unlocked her door, switched on the light
and, because she was so slight, had to go up to the side of the
bed to make sure she was actually there. The ritual completed,
he walked back into the corridor, locked the door, and joined his
colleague for a game of backgammon.
Krantz concluded that her one chance of escaping would be
between four and four twenty in the morning, when the two older
guards always took their meal break - the philanderer, the smoker
and the dozer would be otherwise occupied, and her unwitting
accomplice would be only too happy to accompany her to the bathroom.

Even
before Jack had showered and changed, he began to scour
the New York telephone directory in search of NYRC. Other than
the three Jack had already come up with, he couldn't spot Anna's
'obvious one'. He switched on his laptop and Googled the words
'new york racquet club'. He was able to retrieve a potted history of
the NYRC, several photographs of an elegant building on Park
Avenue and a picture of the present chairman, Darius T. Mablethorpe
III. Jack was in no doubt that the only way he was going to
get past the front door was if he looked like a member. Never
embarrass the bureau.
Once Jack had unpacked and showered, he selected a dark suit
with a faint stripe, a blue shirt and a Columbia tie for this particular
outing. He left his apartment and took a cab to 370 Park Avenue.
He stepped onto the sidewalk and stood staring at the building for
some time. He admired the magnificent four-storey Renaissance

285
 
revival architecture that reminded him of a palazzo, so popular
with the Italians in New York at the turn of the century. He walked
up the steps towards an entrance with the letters NYRC discreetly
etched into the glass.
The doorman greeted Jack with, 'Good afternoon, sir,' holding
the door open, as if he was a life-long member. He strolled into an
elegant lobby with massive paintings on every available space of
suitably attired former chairmen dressed in long white pants and
blue blazers, sporting the inevitable racquet. Jack glanced up at
the wide, sweeping staircase to see even more past chairmen, even
more ancient; only the racquet didn't seem to have changed. He
strolled up to the reception desk.
'May I help you, sir?' asked a young man.
'I'm not sure if you can,' Jack admitted.
'Try me,' he offered.
Jack took the replica key out of his pocket and placed it on the
countertop. 'Ever seen one of these?' he asked.
The young man picked up the key and turned it over, staring
at the lettering for some time, before he replied, 'No, sir, can't say
I have. It could well be a safety deposit box key, but not one of
ours.' He turned and removed a heavy bronze key from the board
behind him. A member's name was etched on the handle, and
'NYRC in red along the shaft.
'Any suggestions?' asked Jack, trying to keep any sign of desperation
out of his voice.
'No, sir,' he replied. 'Not unless it was before my time,' he
added. I've only been here for eleven years, but perhaps Abe
might be able to help. He was here in the days when more people
played racquets than tennis.'
'And the gentlemen only played racquets,' said an older man
who appeared from an office at the back to join his colleague. 'And
what is it that I might be able to help with?'
'A key,' said the young man. 'This gentleman wants to know if
you've ever seen one like it,' he added as he passed the key to Abe.
Abe turned the key over in his hands. 'It's certainly not one of
ours,' he confirmed, 'and never has been, but I know what the "R"
stands for,' he added triumphantly, 'because it must have been, oh,

286
 
nearly twenty years ago, when Dinkins was Mayor.' He paused and looked up at Jack. 'A young man came in who could hardly speak a
word of English and asked if this was the Romanian Club.'
'Of course,' murmured Jack, 'how stupid of me.'
'I remember how disappointed he was,' continued Abe, ignoring
Jack's muttered chastisement, 'to find the "R" stood for "Racquet".
Not that I think he knew what a racquet was. You see, he couldn't
read English, so I had to look up the address for him. The only
reason I remember anything after all this time is because the
club was situated somewhere on Lincoln,' he said, emphasizing
the name of the street. He glanced at Jack, who decided not to
interrupt a second time. 'Named after him, wasn't I?' he explained.
Jack smiled at Abe, and nodded. 'Some place in Queens, I think,
but I don't recall exactly where.'
Jack put the key back in his pocket, thanked Abe and turned to
leave before he gave him the chance to share any more reminiscences.

Tina
sat at her desk, typing out the speech. He hadn't even thanked
her for coming in on a Saturday.
Bankers must at all times be willing to set standards that far
exceed their legal requirements.
The New York Bankers' Association had invited Fenston to
deliver the keynote speech at their annual dinner, to be held at
the Sherry Netherland.
Fenston was both surprised and delighted by the invitation,
although he had been angling for it for some time.
The committee had been divided.
Fenston was determined to make a good impression on his
colleagues in the banking fraternity, and had already dictated
several drafts of the speech.
Customers must always be able to rely on our independent
judgement, confident that we will act in their best interests, rather
than our own.
Tina began to wonder if she was writing a script for a bankers'
sit-com, with Fenston auditioning for the lead. What part would

287
 
Leapman play in this moral tale? she wondered. For how many
episodes would Victoria Wentworth survive?
We must, at all times, look upon ourselves as the guardians of
our customers' assets - especially if they own a Van Gogh, Tina
wanted to insert - while never neglecting their commercial
aspirations.
Tina's thoughts drifted to Anna, as she continued to type out
Fenston's shameless homily. She had spoken to her on the phone
just before leaving for the office that morning. Anna wanted to tell
her about the new man in her life, whom she had met in the most
unusual circumstances. They had agreed to get together for supper
that evening, as Tina also had something she wanted to share.
And let's never forget that it only takes one of us to lower our
standards, and then the rest of us will suffer as a consequence.
As Tina turned another page, she wondered just how much
longer she could hope to survive as Fenston's personal assistant.
Since she'd thrown Leapman out of her office, a civil word had not
passed between them. Would he have her fired only days before
she had gathered enough proof to make sure Fenston spent the
rest of his life in a smaller room in a larger institution?
And may I conclude by saying that my single purpose in life has
always been to serve and give back to the community that has
allowed me to share the American dream.
This was one document Tina would not bother to retain a
copy of.
The light on Tina's phone was flashing and she quickly picked
up the receiver.
'Yes, chairman?'
'Have you finished my speech for the bankers' dinner?'
'Yes, chairman,' repeated Tina.
'It's good, isn't it?' said Fenston.
'It's remarkable,' responded Tina.

-<o>-

Jack hailed a cab and told him Lincoln Street, Queens. The driver
left the meter running while he looked up the address in his much
thumbed directory. Jack was halfway back to the airport before he

288
 
was dropped off on the comer of Lincoln and Harris. He looked
up and down the street, aware that the suit he'd carefully selected for Park Avenue was somewhat incongruous in Queens. He
stepped into a liquor store on the corner.
'I'm looking for the Romanian Club,' he told the elderly woman
behind the counter.
'Closed years ago,' she said. 'It's now a guest house,' she added,
looking him up and down, 'but I don't think you'll wanna stay
there.'
'Any idea of the number?' asked Jack.
'No, but it's 'bout halfway down, on the other side of the street.'
Jack thanked the woman, walked back out onto Lincoln and
crossed the road. He tried to judge where the halfway mark might
be, when he spotted a faded Rooms for rent sign. He stopped and
looked down a short flight of steps to see an even more faded sign
painted above the entrance. The letters NYRC, founded 1919 were
almost indecipherable.
Jack descended the steps and pushed open the creaking door.
He stepped into a dingy, unlit hallway, to be greeted with the
pungent smell of stale tobacco. There was a small, dusty reception
desk straight ahead of him, and behind it, almost hidden from
view, Jack caught a glimpse of an old man reading the New York
Post, enveloped in a cloud of cigarette smoke.
'I need a room for the night,' said Jack, trying to sound as if he
meant it.
The old man's eyes narrowed as he gave Jack a disbelieving
look. Did he have a girl waiting outside? 'That'll be seven dollars,'
he said, before adding, 'in advance.'
'And I'll also need somewhere to lock'my valuables,' said Jack.
'That'll be another dollar - in advance,' repeated the man, the
cigarette bobbing up and down.
Jack handed over eight dollars, in return for a key.
'Second floor, number three, and the safety deposit boxes are
at the end of the corridor,' the man said, passing him a second key.
He then returned his attention to the New York Post, the cigarette
having never left his mouth.
Jack walked slowly down the corridor until he reached a wall

289
 
lined with safety deposit boxes, which, despite their age, looked
solid and not that easy to break into, even if anyone might have
considered the exercise worthwhile. He opened his own box and
peered inside. It must have been about eight inches wide, and a
couple of feet deep. Jack glanced back towards the front counter.
The desk clerk had managed to turn the page, but the cigarette
still hadn't left his mouth.
Jack moved further down the corridor, removed the replica key
from an inside pocket and, after one more glance towards the front
desk, opened box 13. He stared inside and tried to remain calm,
although his heart was pounding. He extracted one bill from the
box and placed it in his wallet. Jack locked the box and put the key
back in his pocket.
The old man turned another page and began to study the racing
odds as Jack walked back onto the street.
He had to cover eleven blocks before he found an empty cab,
but he didn't attempt to call Dick Macy until he'd been dropped
back at his apartment. He unlocked the front door, ran through
to the kitchen and placed the hundred-dollar bill on the table. He
then recalled how deep and how wide the empty box had been,
before attempting to calculate how many hundred-dollar bills must
have been stuffed into box 13. By the time he called Macy, he'd
measured a space out on the kitchen table and used several fivehundred-page
paperbacks to assist him in his calculation.
'I thought I told you to take the rest of the weekend off,' said
Macy.
I've found the box that NYRC 13 opens.'
"What was inside?'
'Hard to be certain,' replied Jack, 'but I'd say around two
million dollars.'
'Your leave is cancelled,' said Macy.


290
 
9/23
 
44

'Good news,' declared the doctor on the morning of the third
day. Tour wound is nearly healed, and I shall be recommending to
the authorities that you can be moved to Jilava penitentiary
tomorrow.'
With that, the doctor had determined her timetable. After he
had changed her dressing and departed without another word,
Krantz lay in bed going over her plan again and again. She only
asked to visit the bathroom at 2pm. She slept soundly between
three and nine.
'She's been no trouble all day,' Krantz heard one of the guards
report when he handed over his keys to the night shift at ten
o'clock.
Krantz didn't stir for the next two hours, aware that two of
the guards would be waiting impatiently to accompany her to the
bathroom and collect their nightly stipend. But the timing had to
suit her. She would cater for their needs at four minutes past four,
not before, when one would receive forty dollars, and he would
make sure that the other got a packet of Benson & Hedges.
Disproportionate, but then one had a far more important role to
play. She spent the next two hours wide awake.

Anna left her apartment to set out on her morning run just before
6am. Sam rushed from behind his desk to open the door for her a
Cheshire cat grin hadn't left his face from the moment she'd
arrived back.

293
 
Anna wondered at what point Jack would catch up with her.
She had to admit, he'd been in her thoughts a lot since they had
parted yesterday, and she already hoped their relationship might
stray beyond a professional interest.
'Beware/ Tina had warned her over supper. 'Once he's got what
he wants, he'll move on, and it isn't necessarily sex that he's after.'
Pity, she remembered thinking.
'Fenston loves the Van Gogh,' Tina assured her. 'He's given the
painting pride of place on the wall behind his desk.'
In fact, Tina had been forthcoming about everything Fenston
and Leapman had been up to during the past ten days. However,
despite gentle probing, hints and well-placed questions, by the
time they left the restaurant a couple of hours later Anna was no
nearer to finding out why Fenston had such a hold over her.
Anna couldn't help remembering that the last time she'd run
round Central Park was on the morning of the eleventh. The dark
grey cloud might have finally dispersed, but there were several
other reminders of that dreadful day, not least the two words on
everyone's lips, Ground Zero. She put aside the horrors of that day
when she spotted Jack jogging on the spot under Artists' Gate.
'Been waiting long, Stalker?' Anna asked as she strode past him
and up around die pond.
'No,' he replied once he'd caught up. 'I've already been round
twice, so I'm treating this as a cooling-down session.'
'Cooling down already, are we?" said Anna, as she accelerated
away. She knew she wouldn't be able to maintain that pace for
long and it was only a few seconds before he was back striding by
her side.
'Not bad,' said Jack, 'but how long can you keep it up?'
'I thought that was a male problem,' Anna said, still trying to set
the pace. She decided that her only hope would be to distract him.
She waited until the Frick came in sight.
'Name five artists on display in that museum,' she demanded,
hoping his lack of knowledge would compensate for her lack of
speed.
'Bellini, Mary Cassatt, Renoir, Rembrandt and two Holbeins More
and Cromwell.'

294
 
inwwii nris iwwivn

'Yes, but which Cromwell?' asked Anna, panting.
"Thomas, not Oliver,' said Jack.
'Not bad, Stalker,' admitted Anna.
'You can blame it on my father/ said Jack. 'Whenever he was
out on patrol on a Sunday, my mother would take me to a
gallery or a museum. I thought it was a waste of time, until I
fell in love.'
'Who did you fall in love with?' asked Anna as they jogged up
Pilgrim's Hill.
'Rossetti, or, to be more accurate, his mistress Jane Burden.'
'Scholars are divided on whether he ever slept with her,' said
Anna. 'And her husband - William Morris - admired Rossetti so
much that they don't even think he would have objected.'
'Foolish man,' said Jack.
'Are you still in love with Jane?' asked Anna.
'No, I've moved on since then. I gave up the pre-Raphaelites
for the real thing, and started falling for women whose breasts
ofteri end up behind their ears.'
'So you must have been spending a lot of your time in MoMA.'
'Several blind dates,' admitted Jack, 'but my mother doesn't
approve.'
'Who does she think you should be dating?'
'She's old-fashioned, so anyone called Mary who's a virgin, but
I'm working on her.'
'Are you working on anything else?'
'Like what?' asked Jack.
'Like what R stands for,' said Anna, almost out of breath.
'You tell me,' said Jack.
'Romania would be my bet,' said Anna, the words puffing out
intermittently.
'You should have joined the FBI,' said Jack, slowing down.
'You'd worked it out already,' said Anna.
'No,' admitted Jack. 'A guy called Abe worked it out for me.'
'And?'
'And both of you were right.'
'So where is the Romanian Club?'

'In a rundown neighbourhood in Queens,' replied Jack.

295
 
'And what did you find when you opened the box?*
'I can't be absolutely certain,' replied Jack.
'Don't play games, Stalker, just tell me what was in the box.'
'About two million dollars.'
'Two million?' repeated Anna in disbelief.
"Well, it might not be quite that much, but it certainly was
enough for my boss to drop everything, stake out the building and
cancel my leave.'
'What sort of person keeps two million in cash hidden in a
safety deposit box in Queens?' asked Anna.
'A person who can't risk opening a bank account anywhere in
the world.'
'Krantz,' said Anna.
'So now it's your turn. Did anything come out of your dinner
with Tina?'
'I thought you'd never ask,' replied Anna, and covered another
hundred yards before she said, 'Fenston thinks the latest addition
to his collection is magnificent. But, more important, when Tina
took in his morning coffee, there was a copy of the New York
Times on his desk, and it was open at page seventeen.'
'Obviously not the sports section,' said Jack.
'No, international,' said Anna, as she extracted the article from
her pocket and passed it over to Jack.
'Is this a ploy to see if I can keep up with you while I read?'
'No, it's a ploy to find out if you can read, Stalker, and I can
always slow down, because I know you haven't been able to keep
up with me in the past,' said Anna.
Jack read the headline and almost came to a halt as they ran
past the lake. It was some time before he spoke again. 'Sharp girl,
your friend Tina.'
'And she gets sharper,' said Anna. 'She interrupted a conversation
Fenston was having with Leapman, and overhead him say, "Do you still have the second key?" She didn't understand the
significance of it at the time, but--'
'I take back everything I said about her,' said Jack. 'She's on our
team.'
'No, Stalker, she's on my team,' said Anna, accelerating down

296
 
Strawberry Fields as she always did for the last half mile, with Jack
striding by her side.
'This is where I leave you,' said Anna, once they reached Artists'
Gate. She checked her watch and smiled: 11 minutes 48 seconds.
'Brunch?
'Can't, sadly,' said Anna, 'meeting up with an old friend from
Christie's, trying to find out if they've got any openings.'
'Dinner?'
'I've got tickets for the Rauschenberg at the Whitney. If you
want to join me, I'll be there around six, Stalker.'
She ran away before he could reply.

297
 
45

Leapman had selected a Sunday because it was the one day
of the week Fenston didn't go into the office, although he'd already
called him three times that day.
He sat alone in his apartment eating a TV dinner, and going
over his plan, until he was certain nothing could go wrong.
Tomorrow, and all the rest of his tomorrows, he would dine in a
restaurant, without having to wait for Fenston.
When he'd eaten every last scrap, he returned to his bedroom
and stripped down to his underpants. He pulled open a drawer
that contained the sports gear he needed for this particular exercise.
He put on a T-shirt, shorts and a baggy grey tracksuit that
teenagers wouldn't even have believed their parents once wore,
and finally donned a pair of white socks and white gym shoes. He
didn't look at himself in the mirror. He walked back across the
room, fell on his knees and reached under the bed to pull out a
large gym bag that had the handle of a squash racket poking out
of it. He was now dressed and ready for his irregular exercise.
All he needed was the key, and a packet of cigarettes.
He strolled through to the kitchen, opened a drawer that
contained a large carton of duty-free Marlboro and extracted a
packet of twenty. He never smoked. His final act in this agnostic
ritual was to place his hand under the drawer and remove a key
that was taped to the base. He was now fully equipped.
He double-locked the front door of his apartment and took the
stairs down to the basement. He opened the back door and walked
up one flight, emerging onto the street.

298
 
To any casual passer-by, he looked like a man on the way to
his squash club. Leapman had never played a game of squash in
his life. He walked one block before hailing a yellow cab. The
routine never varied. He gave the driver an address that didn't
have a squash club within five miles. He sat in the back of the
cab, relieved to find the driver wasn't talkative, because he needed
to concentrate. Today, he would make one change from his normal
routine, a change he'd been planning for the past ten years.
This would be the last time he carried out this particular chore
for Fenston, a man who had taken advantage of him every day for
the last decade. Not today. Never again. He glanced out of the
cab window. He made this journey once, sometimes twice a year,
when he would deposit large sums of cash at NYRC, always within
days of Krantz completing one of her assignments. During that
time, Leapman had deposited over five million dollars into box 13
at the guesthouse on Lincoln Street, and he knew it would always
be a one-way journey - until she made a mistake.
When he'd read in the Times that Krantz had been captured
after being shot in the shoulder - he would have preferred that
she'd been killed - he knew this must be his one chance. What
Fenston would describe as a window of opportunity. After
all, Krantz was the only person who knew how much cash was
in that box, while he remained the only other person with a
key.
'Where is it exactly?' asked the driver.
Leapman looked out of the window. 'A couple more blocks,' he
said, 'and then you can drop me on the corner.' Leapman took the
squash racket out of the bag and placed it on the back seat.
'Twenty-three dollars,' the driver mumbled as he came to a halt
outside a liquor store.
Leapman passed three tens through the grille. 'I'll be back in
five minutes. If you're still around, you'll get another fifty.'
'I'll be around,' came back the immediate reply.
Leapman grabbed the empty gym bag and stepped out of the
cab, leaving the squash racket on the back seat. He crossed the
road, pleased to find that the sidewalk was crowded with locals out
shopping. One of the reasons he always chose a Sunday afternoon.

299
 
He would never risk such an outing at night. In Queens, they'd be
happy to mug him for an empty bag.
Leapman quickened his pace until he reached number 61. He
stopped for a moment to check that no one was taking any interest
in him. Why would they? He descended the steps towards the
NYRC sign and pushed open a door that was never locked.
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 Marlboro on the counter, knowing
they would disappear before he turned round. 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
form 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

300
 
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 towards 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 passers-by 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.
Tou 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 cellphone 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.


3i
 
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 onto 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
lavatory, 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 towards 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

302
 
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
towards the prisoner's room. The chair-bound guard at the end of
the passage leapt 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.

303
 
9/24
 
46

One of Anna's golden rules when she woke in the morning
was not to check the messages on her cellphone until she had
showered, dressed, had breakfast and read the New York Times. But as she had broken every one of her golden rules during the
past fortnight, 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 dialled Nakamura's number in Tokyo.
'Hai, Shacho-Shitso desu,' announced the receptionist.
'Mr Nakamura, please.'
'Who shall I say is calling?'
'Anna Petrescu.'
'Ah yes, he is expecting your call.' Anna's heartbeat quickened.
'Good morning, Dr Petrescu.'

37
 
'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. T 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.

308
 
'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 re-read 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 pinstriped 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 towards
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 key
pad 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 round to see that a second grille had already barred

309
 
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 storeys 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 your 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 per cent 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

310
 
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 favourite
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 would
make the suggested premium of two hundred thousand seem

311
 
somewhat excessive.' Fenston still didn't respond. 'I am sorry to be
the bearer of such bad news,' concluded Savage as he walked away
from the picture and came to a halt in front of Fenston. 'I can only
hope that you haven't parted with a large sum, and, if you have,
you know who is responsible for this elaborate deception.'
'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 towards 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 round 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 Went
worth 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.'

312
 
47

Anna felt her lunch with Ken Wheatley could have gone
better. The deputy chairman of Christie's had made it clear that
the unfortunate incident that had caused her to resign from
Sotheby's was not yet considered by her colleagues in the art world
to be a thing of the past. And it didn't help that Bryce Fenston was
telling anyone who cared to listen that she had been fired for
conduct unworthy of an officer of the bank. Wheatley admitted
that no one much cared for Fenston. However, they felt unable to
offend such a valuable customer, which meant that her re-entry
into the auction house arena wasn't going to prove that easy.
Wheatley's words only made Anna more determined to help
Jack secure a conviction against Fenston, who didn't seem to care
whose life he ruined.
There wasn't anything suitable at the moment for someone with
her qualifications and experience, was how Ken had euphemistically
put it, but he promised to keep in touch.
When Anna left the restaurant, she hailed a cab. Perhaps her
second meeting would prove more worthwhile. Twenty-six Federal
Plaza,' she told the driver.

Jack was standing in the lobby of the New York field office waiting
for Anna some time before she was due to arrive. He was not
surprised to see her appear a couple of minutes early. Three guards
watched Anna carefully as she descended the dozen steps that led
to the entrance of 26 Federal Plaza. She gave her name to one of

3i3
 
the guards, who requested proof of identity. She passed over her
driver's licence, which he checked before ticking off her name on
his clipboard.
Jack opened the door for her.
'Not my idea of a first date,' said Anna as she stepped inside.
'Nor mine,' Jack tried to reassure her, 'but my boss wanted you
to be in no doubt how important he considers this meeting.'
"Why, is it my turn to be arrested?' asked Anna.
'No, but he is hoping that you will be willing to assist us.'
'Then let's go and bell the cat.'
'One of your father's favourite expressions,' said Jack.
'How did you know that?' asked Anna. 'Have you got a file on
him as well?'
'No,' said Jack, laughing, as they stepped into the elevator. 'It
was just one of the things you told me on the plane during our first
night together.'
Jack whisked Anna to the nineteenth floor, where Dick Macy
was waiting in the corridor to greet her.
'How land of you to come in, Dr Petrescu,' he said, as if she'd
had a choice. Anna didn't comment. Macy led her through to his
office and ushered her into a comfortable chair on the other side
of his desk.
'Although this is an off-the-record meeting,' began Macy,
'I cannot stress how important we at the bureau consider your
assistance.'
"Why do you need my assistance?' asked Anna. 'I thought you
had arrested Leapman and he was safely under lock and key.'
*We released him this morning,' said Macy.
'Released him?' said Anna. 'Wasn't two million enough?'
'More than enough,' admitted Macy, 'which is why I became
involved. My speciality is plea-bargaining, and just after nine
o'clock this morning, Leapman signed an agreement with the
Southern District Federal Prosecutor to ensure that, if he fully
cooperates with our investigation, he'll end up with only a five-year
sentence.'
'But that still doesn't explain why you've released him,' said
Anna.

314
 
'Because Leapman claims he can show a direct financial link between Fenston and Krantz, but he needs to return to their Wall
Street office so he can get his hands on all the relevant documents,
including numbered accounts, and several illegal payments into
different bank accounts around the world.'
'He could be double-crossing you,' said Anna. 'After all, most of
the documents that would implicate Fenston were destroyed when
the North Tower collapsed.'
'True,' said Macy, 'but if he is, I've made it clear he can look
forward to spending the rest of his life in Sing Sing.'
'That's quite an incentive,' admitted Anna.
'Leapman's also agreed to appear as a government witness,' said
Jack, 'should the case come to trial.'
'Then let's be thankful that Krantz is safely locked up, otherwise
your star witness wouldn't even make it to the courthouse.'
Macy looked across at Jack, unable to mask his surprise. 'You
haven't read today's final edition New York Times?' he asked,
turning to face Anna.
'No,' said Anna, having no idea what they were talking about.
Macy opened the file, extracted an article and passed the
clipping across to Anna.

Olga Krantz, known as the kitchen knife killer because of
the role she played as an executioner in Ceauescu's brutal
regime, disappeared from a high-security hospital in
Bucharest last night. Krantz is thought to have escaped
down a waste-disposal shaft, dressed in the clothes of a
hospital porter. One of the policemen who had been
guarding her was later discovered with his ...

I'm going to be looking over my shoulder for the rest of my
life,' said Anna, long before she'd reached the last paragraph.

'I don't think so,' said Jack. 'Krantz won't be in a hurry to return
to America, now she's joined nine men on the FBI's most wanted
list. She'll also realize that we've circulated a detailed description
of her to every port of entry, as well as Interpol. If she were to be
stopped and searched, she'd have some trouble explaining the
bullet wound in her right shoulder.'

315
 
'But that won't stop Fenston seeking revenge.'
'Why should he bother? asked Jack. 'Now that he's got the Van
Gogh, you're history.'
'But he hasn't got the Van Gogh,' said Anna, bowing her head.
"What do you mean?' asked Jack.
'I had a call from Tina, just before I left to come to this meeting.
She warned me that Fenston had called in an expert from Christie's
so that he could have the painting valued for insurance. Something
he's never done before.'
'But why should that cause any problems?' asked Jack.
Anna raised her head. 'Because it's a fake.'
'A fake?' both men said in unison.
'Yes, that's why I had to fly to Bucharest. I was having a copy
made by an old friend who's a brilliant portrait artist.'
'Which would explain the drawing in your apartment,' said Jack.
'You've been in my apartment?' said Anna.
'Only when I believed that your life was in danger,' said Jack
quietly.
'But--' began Anna.
'And that also explains,' jumped in Macy, 'why you sent the red
box back to London, even allowing it to be intercepted by Art
Locations and delivered on to Fenston in New York.'
Anna nodded.
'But you must have realized that you'd be found out in time?'
queried Jack.
'In time, yes,' repeated Anna. 'That's the point. All I needed
was enough time to sell the original, before Fenston discovered
what I was up to.'
'So while your friend Anton was working on the fake, you flew
on to Tokyo to try and sell the original to Nakamura.'

Anna nodded.
'But did you succeed?' asked Macy.

'Yes,' said Anna. 'Nakamura agreed to purchase the original self
portrait for fifty million dollars, which was more than enough for
Arabella to clear her sister's debts with Fenston Finance while still
holding on to the rest of the estate.'

316
 
'But now that Fenston knows that he's in possession of a fake,
he's bound to get in touch with Nakamura and tell him what you've
been up to,' said Jack.
'He already has,' said Anna.
'So you're back to square one,' suggested Macy.
'No,' said Anna with a smile. 'Nakamura has already deposited
five million dollars with his London solicitors, and has agreed to
pay the balance once he's inspected the original.'
'Have you got enough time?' asked Macy.
'I'm flying to London this evening,' said Anna, 'and Nakamura
plans to join us at Wentworth Hall tomorrow night.'
'It's going to be a close-run thing,' said Jack.
'Not if Leapman delivers the goods,' said Macy. 'Don't forget
what he has planned for tonight.'
'Am I allowed to know what you're up to?' asked Anna.
'No, you are not,' said Jack firmly. 'You catch your plane to
England and close the deal, while we get on with our job.'
'Does your job include keeping an eye on Tina?' asked Anna
quietly.
'Why would we need to do that?' asked Jack.
'She was fired this morning.'
'For what reason?' enquired Macy.
'Because Fenston found out that she was keeping me informed
of everything he was up to while I was chasing halfway round the
world, so I fear that I've ended up putting her life in danger as
well.'
'I was wrong about Tina,' admitted Jack, and looking across at
Anna added, 'and I apologize. But I still can't make out why she
ever agreed to work for Fenston in the first place.'
'I have a feeling I'll find out this evening,' said Anna. 'We're
meeting up for a drink just before I leave for the airport.'
'If you have any time before take-off, give me a call. I'd be
fascinated to know the answer to that particular mystery.'
Anna nodded.
'There's another mystery I'd like to clear up before you leave,
Dr Petrescu,' said Macy.

317
 
Anna turned to face Jack's boss.
'If Fenston is in possession of a fake, where's the original?' he
demanded.
'At Wentworth Hall,' Anna replied. 'Once I'd retrieved the
painting from Sotheby's, I grabbed a cab and took it straight back
to Arabella. The only thing I came away with was the red box and
the painting's original frame.'
'Which you took on to Bucharest so that your friend Anton
could put his fake into the original frame, which you hoped would
be enough to convince Fenston that he'd got his hands on the real
McCoy.'
'And it would have stayed that way if he hadn't decided to have
the painting insured.'
No one spoke for some time, until Macy said, 'And you carried
out the whole deception right in front of Jack's eyes.'
'Sure did,' said Anna with a smile.
'So let me finally ask you, Dr Petrescu,' continued Macy, 'where
was the Van Gogh while two of my most experienced agents were
having breakfast with you and Lady Arabella at Wentworth Hall?'
'Plead the Fifth Amendment,' begged Jack.
'In the Van Gogh bedroom,' replied Anna, just above them on
the first floor.'
'That close,' said Macy.

Krantz waited until the tenth ring, before she heard a click and a
voice enquired, 'Where are you?'
'Over the Russian border,' she replied.
'Good, because you can't come back to America while you're
still regularly appearing in the New York Times'
'Not to mention on the FBI's Most Wanted list,' added Krantz.
'Fifteen minutes of fame,' said Fenston. 'But I do have another
assignment for you.'
Where?' asked Krantz.
Wentworth Hall.'
'I couldn't risk going back there a second time--'


318
 
'Even if I doubled your fee?'
It's still too much of a risk.'
"You may not think so when I tell you whose throat I want you
to cut.'
'I'm listening,' she said, and when Fenston revealed the name
of his next victim, all she said was, 'You'll pay me two million
dollars for that?'
'Three, if you manage to kill Petrescu at the same time - she'll
be staying there overnight.'
Krantz hesitated.
'And four, if she's a witness to the first throat being cut,' added
Fenston.
A long silence followed, before Krantz said, I'll need two
million in advance.'
'The usual place?'
'No,' she replied, and gave him a numbered account in Moscow.

Fenston put the phone down and buzzed through to Leapman.
'I need to see you - now.'
While he waited for Leapman to join him, Fenston began
jotting down headings for subjects he needed to discuss: Van Gogh,
money, Wentworth estate, Petrescu. He was still scribbling when
there was a knock on the door.
'She's escaped,' said Fenston the moment Leapman closed the
door.
'So the New York Times report was accurate,' said Leapman,
hoping he didn't appear anxious.
'Yes, but what they don't know is that she's on her way to
Moscow.'
'Is she planning to return to New York?'
'Not for the moment,' said Fenston. 'She can't risk it while
security remains on such high alert.'
'That makes sense,' agreed Leapman, trying not to sound relieved.
'Meanwhile, I've given her another assignment,' said Fenston.
"Who is it to be this time?' asked Leapman.

319
 
Leapman listened in disbelief as Fenston revealed who he had
selected as Krantz's next victim, and why it would be impossible
for her to cut off their left ear.
'And has the impostor been dispatched back to Wentworth Hall?'
asked Fenston, as Leapman stared up at the blown-up photograph
of the chairman shaking hands with George W. Bush following his
recent visit to Ground Zero, which had been returned to its place
of honour on the wall behind Fenston's desk.
'Yes. Art Locations picked the canvas up this afternoon,' replied
Leapman, 'and will be returning the fake to Wentworth Hall
sometime tomorrow. I also had a word with our lawyer in London.
The sequestration order is being heard before a judge in chambers
on Wednesday, so if she doesn't return the original by then, the
Wentworth estate automatically becomes yours, and then we can
start selling off the rest of the collection until the debt is cleared.
Mind you, it could take years.'
'If Krantz does her job properly tomorrow night, the debt will
never be cleared,' said Fenston, 'which is why I called you in. I
want you to put the rest of the Wentworth collection up for auction
at the earliest possible opportunity. Divide the pictures equally
between Christie's, Sotheby's, Phillips and Bonhams, and make
sure you sell them all at the same time.'
'But that would flood the market, and be certain to bring the
prices down.'
'That's exactly what I want to do,' said Fenston. 'If I remember
correctly, Petrescu valued the rest of the collection at around
thirty-five million, but I'll be happy to raise somewhere between
fifteen to twenty.'
'But that would still leave you ten million short.'
'How sad,' said Fenston, smiling. 'In which case I will be left
with no choice but to put Wentworth Hall on the market and dispose
of everything, right down to the last suit of armour.' Fenston paused. 'So be sure you place the estate in the hands of the three
most fashionable agents in London. Tell them they can print expensive
colour brochures, advertise in all the glossy magazines and
even take out the odd half-page in one or two national newspapers,
which will be bound to cause further editorial comment. By the

320
 
time I finish with Lady Arabella, she'll not only be penniless but,
knowing the British press, humiliated.'
'And Petrescu?'
'It's just her bad luck that she happens to be in the wrong place
at the wrong time,' said Fenston, unable to hide a smirk.

'So Krantz will be able to kill two birds with one stone,' said
Leapman.
'Which is why I want you to concentrate on bankrupting the
Wentworth estate, so that Lady Arabella suffers an even slower
death.'
'I'll get on to it right away,' said Leapman as he turned to leave.
'Good luck with your speech, chairman,' he added as he reached
the door.
'My speech?' said Fenston.
Leapman turned back to face the chairman. 'I thought you were
addressing the annual bankers' dinner at the Sherry Netherland
tonight.'
'Christ, you're right. Where the hell did Tina put my speech?'
Leapman smiled, but not until he had closed the door behind
him. He returned to his room, sat down at his desk and considered
what Fenston had just told him. Once the FBI learned
the full details of where Krantz would be tomorrow night, and
who her next intended victim was, he felt confident that the district
attorney's office would agree to reduce his sentence by even
more. And if he was able to deliver the vital piece of evidence
that linked Fenston to Krantz, they might even recommend a
suspended sentence.
Leapman removed a tiny camera, supplied by the FBI, from an
inside pocket: He began to calculate how many documents he
would be able to photograph while Fenston was delivering his
speech at the annual bankers' dinner.

321
 
48

At 7.16pm, Leapman switched the light off in his office and
stepped into the corridor. He closed his door, but didn't lock it.
He walked towards the bank of elevators, aware that the only office
light still shining was coming from under the chairman's door. He
stepped into an empty elevator and was quickly whisked to the
ground floor. He walked slowly across to reception and signed out
at 7.19pm. A woman standing behind him stepped forward to sign
herself out as Leapman took a pace backwards, his eyes never
leaving the two guards behind the desk. One was supervising the
steady flow of people exiting the building, while the other was
dealing with a delivery that required a signature. Leapman kept
retreating until he reached the empty elevator. He backed in and
stood to one side so that the guards could no longer see him. He
pressed button 31. Less than a minute later, he stepped out into
another silent corridor.
He walked to the far end, opened the fire exit door and climbed
the steps to the thirty-second floor. He pushed the door slowly
open, not wanting to make the slightest sound. He then tiptoed
down the thickly carpeted corridor until he was back outside his
own office. He checked to confirm that the only light came from
under the chairman's door. He then opened his own door, stepped
inside and locked it. He sat down in the chair behind his desk and
placed the camera in his pocket, but did not turn on the light.

He sat alone in the darkness, and waited patiently.

322
 
Fenston was considering a loan application from a Michael Karraway,
who wanted to borrow fourteen million to invest in a group
of provincial theatres. He was an out-of-work actor with few stage
credits to his name. But to his credit he had an indulgent mother,
who had left him a Matisse, View from the Bedroom, and a
thousand-acre farm in Vermont. Fenston studied a transparency of
a young nude looking out of a bedroom window and decided that
he would instruct Leapman to draw up a contract.
Fenston tossed the application to one side and began thumbing
through the latest Christie's catalogue. He paused at a reproduction
of Degas's Dancer Before a Mirror, but turned the page once he
had seen the low estimate. After all, Pierre de Rochelle had
supplied him with a Degas, The Dancing Instructor, at a far more
reasonable price.
He continued to study the prices of each picture, a smile
regularly appearing on his lips when he realized how much his
own collection was increasing in value. He glanced up at the clock
on the corner of his desk: 7.43pm. 'Shit,' he said, aware that if he
didn't hurry he was going to be late for his own speech at the
bankers' dinner. He picked up the catalogue and walked quickly to
the door. He entered a six-digit code on the pad next to the light
switch, stepped out into the corridor and closed his door. Eight
seconds after he'd locked it, he heard the security grilles slam into
place.
On the ride down in the elevator, Fenston was fascinated to see
the low estimate for Caillebotte's Street Sweepers. He had acquired the larger version for half that price from a client he had recently
bankrupted. When the doors slid open, he walked quickly across
to reception and signed himself out. 7.48pm.
As he strolled through the lobby, he could see his driver waiting
for him at the bottom of the steps. He kept his thumb stuck in the
catalogue as he climbed into the back seat. He was annoyed when
he turned the next page and came across Van Gogh's Reapers in
the Field, low estimate, $27 million. He swore. It wasn't in the
same class as the Self-portrait with Bandaged Ear.
'Excuse me, sir,' said the driver, 'but are you still going to the
bankers' dinner?'

323
 
'Yes, so we'd better get a move on,' said Fenston, and he turned
another page of the catalogue.
It's just that...' said the driver, picking up a gold-embossed
card from the passenger seat.
'That whatF said Fenston.
'That the invitation says dinner jacket.' He turned and passed
the card back to his boss.
'Shit,' said Fenston, dropping the catalogue onto the seat
beside him. Tina would normally have put out his dinner jacket
rather than leave it hanging in the closet. He jumped out of the
car, even before his driver could open the back door, and took
the steps up to the entrance of the building two at a time, quickly
bypassing reception, not bothering to sign back in. He hurried
towards a waiting elevator and pushed the button for the thirty
second floor.
When he stepped out of the elevator, the first thing he noticed
as he walked down the corridor was a beam of light coming from
under his office door. He could have sworn he'd switched the
light off after he'd set the alarm, or had he become so engrossed
in the catalogue that he simply forgot? He was about to enter the
code on the pad by his door, when he heard a noise coming from
inside.
Fenston hesitated, wondering who it could be. He didn't move
as he waited to find out if the intruder was aware of his presence.
They didn't stir, so he retraced his steps, slipped into the adjoining
office and quietly closed the door. He sat down in his secretary's
chair and began to look for the switch; Leapman had alerted him
to the fact that Tina could observe everything that was taking place
in his office. After searching for some time, he located the switch
under the desk. He flicked it across and the little screen in the
corner lit up, giving him a clear view of the interior of his office.
Fenston stared in disbelief.
Leapman was sitting at his desk, a thick file open in front of
him. He was slowing turning the pages, sometimes stopping to
study an entry more carefully, while occasionally extracting a sheet,
laying it on the table and photographing it with what looked like a
high-tech camera.

324
 
Several thoughts flashed through Fenston's mind. Leapman must be collecting material, so that he could at some later date
blackmail him. He was peddling information to a rival bank. The
IRS had finally put the squeeze on him and he'd made a deal to
sacrifice his boss in exchange for immunity. Fenston settled for
blackmail.
It soon became clear that Leapman was in no hurry. He had
obviously chosen this particular time with some thought. Once he
had finished one file, he methodically returned it to its place and
selected another. His routine didn't alter: search slowly through
the contents of the file, select certain items to study more carefully,
and then occasionally extract a page to be photographed.
Fenston considered his alternatives, before finally settling on
something he considered worthy of Leapman.
He first wrote down the sequence of events that would be
required to ensure he wasn't caught. Once he was confident that
he had mastered the order, he flicked up a switch to stop all
outgoing or incoming calls from his office. He sat patiently at his
secretary's desk until he saw Leapman open another thick file. He
then slipped back into the corridor, coming to a halt in front of his
office. Fenston went over the order in his mind and, once he was
satisfied, stepped forward. He first entered the correct code,
170690, on the pad by the door, as if he was leaving. He then
turned his key in the lock and silently pushed open the door no
more than an inch. He then immediately pulled it closed again.
The deafening alarm was automatically set off, but Fenston still
waited for eight seconds until the security grilles had clamped
firmly into place. He then quickly entered last week's code, 170680,
opened the door a second time and immediately slammed it closed.
He could hear Leapman running across the room, clearly
hoping that by entering the correct code he could stop the alarm
and cause the grilles to slide back into the ceiling. But it was too
late, because the iron grilles remained resolutely in place and the
overpowering cacophony continued unabated.
Fenston knew that he had only seconds to spare if he was to
complete the sequence without being caught. He ran back to the
adjoining office and quickly scanned the notes he'd left on his


325
 
secretary's desk. He dialled the emergency number for Abbott
Security.
A voice announced, 'Duty officer, security.'
'My name is Bryce Fenston, chairman of Fenston Finance.'
He spoke slowly, but with authority. 'The alarm has been triggered
in my office on the thirty-second floor. I must have entered last
week's code by mistake, and I just wanted to let you know that it's not an emergency.'
'Can you repeat your name, sir?'
'Bryce Fenston,' he shouted above the noise of the alarm.
'Date of birth?'
'Twelve six fifty-two.'
'Mother's maiden name?'
'Madejski.'
'Home zip code?'
'One zero zero two one.'
'Thank you, Mr Fenston. We'll get someone up to the thirty
second floor as quickly as possible. The engineers are currently
responding to an incident on the seventeenth floor, where we have
someone stuck in an elevator, so it might be a few minutes before
they get to you.'
'No hurry,' said Fenston casually, 'there's no one else working
on this floor at the moment, and the office won't open again until
seven tomorrow.'
'It's sure not going to take us that long,' the guard promised
him, 'but with your permission, Mr Fenston, we'll change your
category from emergency to priority.'
'OK by me,' shouted Fenston above the deafening noise.
'But there will still be an out-of-hours call-out charge of five
hundred dollars.'
'That sounds a bit steep,' said Fenston.
'It's standard in a case like this, sir,' came back the duty officer's
reply. 'However, if you were able to report to the front desk in
person, Mr Fenston, and sign our alarm roster, the charge is
automatically cut to two fifty.'
'I'm on my way,' said Fenston.
'But I have to point out, sir,' continued the duty officer, 'that

326
 
should you do that, your status will be lowered to routine, in which case we couldn't come to your assistance until we've dealt with all
other priority and emergency calls.'
'That won't be a problem,' said Fenston.
'But you can be confident that whatever other calls we have
outstanding, we still guarantee that yours will be sorted out within
four hours.'
'Thank you,' said Fenston. 'I'll come straight down and report
to the front desk.'
He replaced the receiver and walked back into the corridor. As
he passed his office, he could hear Leapman pounding on the door
like a trapped animal, but he could only just make out his voice
above the shrill scream of the alarm. Fenston continued on towards
the elevators. Even at a distance of some fifty feet he still found
the piercing drone intolerable.
Once he'd stepped out of the elevator on the ground floor, he
went straight to the front desk.
'Ah, Mr Fenston,' said the security guard. 'If you'll sign here, it
will save you another two hundred and fifty bucks.'

Fenston slipped him a ten-dollar note. 'Thanks,' he said. 'No
need to rush, I'm the last one out,' he assured them as he hurried
out of the front door and back down the steps.
As he stepped into his waiting car, Fenston glanced up at his
office. He could see a tiny figure banging on the window. The
driver closed the door behind him and returned to the front seat,
puzzled. His boss still wasn't wearing a dinner jacket.

327
 
49

Jack Delaney parked his car on Broad Street just after nine
thirty. He switched on the radio and listened to 'Cousin Brucie' on
FM101.1, as he settled back to wait for Leapman. The venue for
their meeting had been Leapman's choice, and he'd told the FBI
man to expect him some time between ten and eleven, when he
would hand over their camera containing enough damning evidence
to ensure a conviction.
Jack was suspended in that unreal world somewhere between
half awake and half asleep when he heard the siren. Like all law
enforcement officers, he could identify the different decibel pitch
between police, ambulance and fire department in a split second.
This was an ambulance, probably coming from St Vincent's.
He checked his watch: 11.15pm. Leapman was running late,
but then he had warned Jack that there could be over a hundred
documents to photograph, so not to keep him to the minute. The
FBI technical boys had spent some considerable time showing
Leapman how to operate the latest high-tech camera, so he could
be sure to deliver the best results. But that was before the phone
call. Leapman had rung Jack's office a few minutes after seven to
say that Fenston had told him something that would prove far
more damning than any document. But he didn't want to reveal
the information over the phone. The line went dead before Jack
could press him. He would have been more responsive if it hadn't
been his experience that plea-bargainers always claim they have
new information that will break the case wide open, and therefore
the FBI should reconsider the length of their sentence. He knew

328
 
his boss wouldn't agree to that unless the new evidence clearly
showed an unbreakable link in the chain between Fenston and
Krantz.
The sound of the siren was getting louder.
Jack decided to get out of the car and stretch his legs. His
raincoat felt crumpled. He'd bought it from Brooks Brothers in
the days when he wanted everyone to know that he was a G-man,
but the higher up the ranks he climbed, the less he wished it to
be that obvious. If he was promoted to run his own field office,
he might even consider buying a new coat, one that would make
him look more like a lawyer or a banker - that would please his
father.
His mind switched to Fenston, who by now would have delivered
his speech on Moral Responsibility for Modern Bankers, and
then to Anna, who was halfway across the Atlantic on her way to
meet up with Nakamura. Anna had left a message on his cellphone,
saying she now knew why Tina had taken the job as Fenston's PA,
and die evidence had been staring her in the face. The line had
been busy when she called, but Anna said she'd phone again in the
morning. It must have been when Leapman was on the line. Damn
the man. Jack was standing on a New York sidewalk in the middle
of the night, tired and hungry, while he waited for a camera. His
father was right. He should have been a lawyer.

The siren was now only a couple of blocks away.
Jack strolled down to the end of the road and peered up at the
building in which Leapman was working, somewhere on the thirty
second floor. There was a row of blazing lights about halfway up
the skyscraper, otherwise the windows were mostly dark. Jack
began to count the floors, but by the time he'd reached eighteen
he couldn't be sure, and when he counted thirty-two, it just might
have been the floor that was blazing with lights. But that didn't
make any sense, because on Leapman's floor, there should only
have been a single light. The last thing he would have wanted was
to draw attention to himself.
Jack looked across the road to watch an ambulance come to a
screeching halt in front of the building. The back door burst open
and three paramedics, two men and a woman dressed in their

329
 
familiar dark blue uniforms, jumped out onto the sidewalk. One
pushed a stretcher, the second carried an oxygen cylinder, while
the third held a bulky medical bag. Jack watched them as they
charged up the steps and into the building.
He turned his attention to the reception desk, where one guard
- pointing to something on his clipboard - was talking to an older
man dressed in a smart suit, probably his supervisor, while the
second guard was occupied on the telephone. Several people
strolled in and out of the elevators, which wasn't surprising, as they
were in the heart of the city where finance is a 24-hour occupation.
Most Americans would be asleep while money was changing hands
in Sydney, Tokyo, Hong Kong and now London, but there always
had to be a group of New Yorkers who lived their lives on other
people's time.
Jack's train of thought was interrupted when an elevator door
opened and the three paramedics reappeared, two of them wheeling
their patient on the stretcher, while the third was still holding
onto the oxygen cylinder. As they walked slowly but purposefully
towards the entrance, everyone in their path stood aside. Jack
strolled up the steps to take a closer look. Another siren blared in
the distance, on this occasion the droning pitch of the NYPD, but
it could be going anywhere at that time of night, and in any case
Jack was now concentrating on the stretcher. He stood by the door
as the paramedics came out of the building and carried their
patient slowly down the steps. He stared at the pallid face of a
stricken man, whose eyes were glazed over as if they'd been caught
in the blaze of a headlight. It wasn't until he'd passed him that Jack
realized who it was. He had to make an instant decision. Did he
pursue the ambulance back to St Vincent's, or head straight for the
thirty-second floor? The police siren now sounded as if it could be
heading in their direction. One look at that face and Jack didn't
need to be told that Leapman wasn't going to be speaking to
anyone for a very long time. He ran into the building with the
sound of the police siren no more than a block or two away. He
knew he had only a few minutes before the NYPD's finest would
be on the scene. He paused at the reception desk for a moment to
show them his FBI badge.

33O

 
Tou got here quickly,' said one of the guards, but Jack didn't comment as he headed for the bank of elevators. The guard
wondered how he knew which floor to go to.
Jack squeezed through the elevator doors just as they were
about to close, and jabbed at the button marked 32. When the
doors opened again, he looked quickly up and down the corridor
to see where the lights were coming from. He turned and ran
towards some offices at the far end to find a security guard and
two engineers in red overalls, along with a cleaner, standing by an
open door.
Who are you?' demanded the security guard.
'FBI,' said Jack, producing his badge but not revealing his name
as he strode into the room. The first thing he saw was a blown-up
photograph of Fenston shaking hands with George W. Bush, which
dominated the wall behind the desk. His eyes moved quickly
around the room until they settled on the one tiling he was looking
for. It was in the centre of the desk, resting on a pile of spread-out
papers beside an open file.
What happened?' demanded Jack authoritatively.
'Some guy got himself trapped in this office for over three hours
and must have set the alarm off.'
'It wasn't our fault,' jumped in one of the engineers, 'we were
told to downgrade the call, and we've got that in writing, otherwise
we would have been here a lot sooner.'
Jack didn't need to ask who had set off the alarm and then left
Leapman to his fate. He walked over to the desk, his eyes quickly
scanning the papers. He glanced up to find all four men staring at
him. Jack looked directly at the security guard. 'Go to the elevator,
wait for the cops, and the minute they turn up bring them straight
back to me.' The guard disappeared into the corridor without
question and headed quickly towards the elevators. 'And you three,
out,' was Jack's next command. 'This may be a crime scene, and I
don't want you disturbing any evidence.' The men turned to leave,
and in the split second their backs were turned, Jack grabbed the
camera and dropped it into one of the baggy pockets of his trench
coat.
He picked up the phone on Fenston's desk. There was no

33i

 
dialling tone, only a continuous buzzing noise. Someone had
disconnected the line. The same person who triggered the alarm,
no doubt. Jack didn't touch anything else in the room. He stepped
back into the corridor and slipped into the adjoining office. A
screen was fixed to the corner of the desk and was still relaying
images from inside Fenston's office. Fenston had clearly not only
witnessed Leapman's actions, but had enough time to set in motion
the most diabolical revenge.
Jack's eyes moved across to the switchboard. One lever was up,
illuminating a flickering orange light, indicating that the line was
busy. He must have cut Leapman off from any hope of contacting
the outside world. Jack looked down at the desk where Fenston
would have been sitting when he planned the whole operation.
He'd even written out a list to make sure he didn't make a mistake.
All the clues were there for the NYPD to gather and evaluate. If
this had been a Columbo investigation, the switch, the handwritten
list left on the desk and the timing of the alarm going off would
have been quite enough for the great detective to secure a conviction,
with Fenston breaking down and confessing following the last
commercial break. Unfortunately, this wasn't a made-for-TV movie,
and one thing was certain, Fenston wasn't going to break down,
and would never consider confessing. Jack grimaced. The only
thing he had in common with Columbo was the crumpled raincoat.
Jack heard the elevator doors open and the words, 'Follow me.'
He knew it had to be the cops. He turned his attention back to
the screen on the desk as two uniformed officers marched into
Fenston's office, and began to question the four witnesses. The
plainclothes men wouldn't be far behind. Jack walked out of
the adjoining office and headed silently towards the elevator. He'd
reached the doors when one of the cops came out of Fenton's
office and shouted, 'Hey, you.' Jack jabbed at the down button and
turned sideways, so the officer couldn't see his face. The moment
the doors opened, he quickly slipped inside. He kept his finger
pressed on the button marked L and the doors immediately closed.
When they opened on the ground floor thirty seconds later, he
jogged past reception, out of the building, down the steps, and
headed in the direction of his car.

332

 
Jack jumped in and started the engine, just as a cop came
running round the corner. He swung the car in a circle, mounted
the sidewalk, drove back onto the road, and headed for St Vincent's
Hospital.

'Good afternoon, Sotheby's.'
'Lord Poltimore, please.'
Who shall I say is calling, madam?'
'Lady Wentworth.' Arabella didn't have to wait long before
Mark came on the line.
'How nice to hear from you, Arabella,' said Mark. 'Dare I ask,'
he teased, 'are you a buyer or a seller?'
'A seeker after advice,' replied Arabella. 'But if I were to be a
seller
Mark began to make notes as he listened to a series of questions
that Arabella had obviously prepared carefully.
'In the days when I was a dealer,' Mark replied, 'before I joined
Sotheby's, the standard commission was 10 per cent up to the first
million. If the painting was likely to fetch more than a million I
used to negotiate a fee with the seller.'
'And what fee would you have negotiated, had I asked you to
sell the Wentworth Van Gogh?'
Mark was glad Arabella couldn't see the expression on his face.
Once he'd recovered, he took his time before suggesting a figure,
but quickly added, 'If you were to allow Sotheby's to put the
picture up for auction, we would charge you nothing, Arabella,
guaranteeing you the full hammer price.'
'So how do you make a profit?' asked Arabella.
We charge a buyer's premium,' explained Mark.
'I already have a buyer,' said Arabella, 'but thank you for the
advice.'

333

 
9/25

 
50

Krantz turned the comer of the street, relieved to find the
pavement so crowded. She walked for about another hundred
yards before stopping outside a small hotel. She glanced up and
down the road, confident that she was not being followed.
She pulled open the swing doors that led into the hotel and,
looking straight ahead, walked past reception, ignoring the concierge,
who was talking to a tourist who sounded as if he might
come from New York. Her gaze remained focused on a wall of
deposit boxes to the left of the reception desk. Krantz waited until
all three receptionists were fully occupied before she moved.
She glanced behind her to make sure no one had the same
purpose in mind. Satisfied, she moved quickly, extracting a key
from her hip pocket as she reached box 19. She turned the key in
the lock and opened the door. Everything was exactly as she had
left it. Krantz removed all the notes and two passports, and stuffed
them in a pocket. She then locked the door, walked out of the
hotel and was back on Herzen Street, without having spoken to
anyone.
She hailed a taxi, something she couldn't have done in the days
when the communists were teaching her her trade. She gave the
driver the name of a bank in Cheryomushki, sat in the back and
thought about Colonel Sergei Slatinaru - but only for a moment.
Her one regret was that she hadn't succeeded in cutting off his left
ear. Krantz would like to have sent Petrescu a little memento of
her visit to Romania. Still, what she had in mind for Petrescu would
more than make up for the disappointment.

337

 
But first she had to concentrate on getting out of Russia. It
might have been easy to escape from those amateurs in Bucharest,
but it was going to be far more difficult finding a safe route into
England. Islands always cause a problem; mountains are so much
easier to cross than water. She'd arrived in the Russian capital
earlier that morning exhausted, having been constantly on the
move since discharging herself from the hospital.
Kxantz had reached the highway by the time the siren went off.
She turned to see the hospital grounds bathed in light. A truck
driver who made love to her twice, and didn't deserve to die,
smuggled her across the border. It took a train, a plane, another
three hundred dollars and seventeen hours before she eventually
made it to Moscow. She immediately headed for the Isla Hotel,
with no intention of staying overnight. Her only interest was in a
safety deposit box that contained two passports and a few hundred
roubles.
While she was marooned in Moscow, Krantz had planned to
earn a little cash, moonlighting while she waited until it was safe to
return to America. The cost of living was so much cheaper in the
Russian capital than New York, and that included the cost of death.
$5,000 for a wife, $10,000 for a husband. The Russians hadn't yet
come to terms with equal rights. A KGB colonel could fetch as
much as $50,000, while Krantz could charge $100,000 for a mafia
boss. But if Fenston had transferred the promised two million
dollars, tiresome wives and husbands would have to wait for her
return. In fact, now that Russia had embraced free enterprise, she
might even attach herself to one of the new oligarchs and offer
him a comprehensive service.
She felt sure one of them could make use of the three million
dollars stashed away in a safety deposit box in Queens, in which
case she would never need to return to the States.
The taxi drew up outside the discreet entrance of a bank that
prided itself on having few customers. The letters G and Z were
chiselled in the white marble cornice. Krantz stepped out of the
cab, paid the fare and waited until the taxi was out of sight before
she entered the building.
The Geneva and Zurich Bank was an establishment that

338

 
specialized in catering to the needs of a new breed of Russians,
who had reinvented themselves following the demise of communism. Politicians, mafia bosses (businessmen), footballers and pop
stars were all small change compared to the latest superstars, the
oligarchs. Although everybody knew their names, they were a
breed that could afford the anonymity of a number when it came
to finding out the details of what they were worth.
Krantz walked up to an old-fashioned wooden counter, no lines,
no grilles, where a row of smartly dressed men in grey suits, white
shirts and plain silk ties waited to serve. They wouldn't have looked
out of place in either Geneva or Zurich.
'How may I assist you?' asked the clerk Krantz had selected. He
wondered which category she fell into - the wife of a mafia boss,
or the daughter of an oligarch. She didn't look like a pop star.
'One zero seven two zero nine five nine,' she said.
He tapped the code into his computer, and when the figures
flashed up on the screen he showed a little more interest.
'May I see your passport?' was his next question.
Krantz handed over one of the passports she had collected from
the Isla Hotel.
'How much is there in my account?' she asked.
'How much do you think there should be?' he replied.
'Just over two million dollars,' she said.
'And what amount do you wish to withdraw?' he asked.

'Ten thousand in dollars, and ten thousand in roubles.'
He pulled out a tray from under the counter and began to count
out the notes slowly. "We haven't dealt in this account for some
time,' he ventured, looking up at his screen.
'No,' she agreed, 'but you will be seeing a lot more activity now
that I'm back in Moscow,' she added without explanation.
'Then I look forward to being of service, madam,' the clerk said,
before passing across two bundles of notes neatly sealed in plastic
wallets, with no hint of where they had come from, and certainly
no paperwork to suggest a transaction had even taken place.
Krantz picked up the two wallets, placed them in an inside
pocket and walked slowly out of the bank. She hailed the third
available taxi.

339

 
'The Kalstern,' she said, and climbed into the back of the cab in
preparation for the second part of her plan.
Fenston had kept his part of the bargain. Now she would have
to keep hers if she hoped to collect the second two million. She
had given a moment's thought to keeping the two million and not
bothering to travel to England. But only a moment's thought
because she knew that Fenston had kept up his contacts with the
KGB, and they would have been only too happy to dispose of her
for a far smaller amount.
When the taxi came to a halt ten minutes later, Krantz handed
over four hundred roubles and didn't wait for any change. She
stepped out of the cab and joined a group of tourists who were
peering in at a window, hoping to find some memento to prove to
the folks back home that they had visited the wicked communists.
In the centre of the window was displayed their most popular item:
a four-star general's uniform with all the accessories - cap, belt,
holster and three rows of campaign medals. No price tag attached,
but Krantz knew the going rate was $20. Next to the general stood
an admiral, $15, and behind him a KGB colonel, $10. Although
Krantz had no interest in proving to the folks back home that she
had visited Moscow, the kind of person who could lay their hands
on the uniforms of generals, admirals and KGB colonels could
undoubtedly acquire the outfit she required.
Krantz entered the shop and was greeted by a young assistant.
'Can I help you?' she asked.
'I need to speak to your boss on a private matter,' said Krantz.
The young girl looked uncertain, but Krantz just stared at her
until she finally said, 'Follow me/ and led her customer to the back
of the shop, where she tentatively knocked before opening the
door to a small office.
Sitting behind a large wooden desk, littered with papers, empty
cigarette cartons and a half-eaten salami sandwich, sat an overweight
man in a baggy brown suit. He was wearing an open-necked
red shirt that looked as if it hadn't been washed for several days.
His bald head and thick moustache made it difficult for Krantz to
guess his age, although he was clearly the proprietor.

He placed both hands on the desk and looked wearily up at her.

34O

 
He offered a weak smile, but all Krantz noticed was the double
chinned neck. Always tricky to negotiate.
'How can I help?' he asked, not sounding as if he was convinced
she was worth the effort.
Krantz told him exactly what she required. The proprietor
listened in astonished silence and then burst out laughing.
'That wouldn't come cheap,' he eventually said, 'and could take
some considerable time.'
'I need the uniform by this afternoon,' said Krantz.
'That's not possible,' he said with a shrug of his heavy shoulders.
Krantz removed a wad of cash from her pocket, peeled off a
hundred-dollar bill and placed it on the desk in front of him. 'This
afternoon,' she repeated.
The proprietor raised his eyebrows, although his eyes never left
Benjamin Franklin.
T may just have a possible contact.'
Krantz placed another hundred on the desk.
'Yes, I think I know the ideal person.'
'And I also need her passport,' said Krantz.
'Impossible.'
Another two hundred dollars joined the Franklin twins.
'Possible,' he said, 'but not easy.'
Krantz placed a further two hundred on the table, making
sextuplets.
'But I feel sure some arrangement could be made,' he paused,
'at the right price.' He looked up at his customer while resting his
hands on his stomach.
'A thousand if everything I require is available by this afternoon.'
'I'll do my best,' said the proprietor.
'I feel sure you will,' said Krantz. 'Because I'm going to knock
off a hundred dollars for every fifteen minutes after -' she looked
at her watch - 'two o'clock.'
The proprietor was about to protest, but thought better of it.

34i

 
51

When Anna's taxi drove through the gates of Wentworth Hall,
she was surprised to see Arabella waiting on the top step, a shotgun
under her right arm and Brunswick and Picton by her side. The
butler opened the taxi door as his mistress and the two Labradors
walked down the steps to greet her.
'How nice to see you,' said Arabella, kissing her on both cheeks.
'You've arrived just in time for tea.'
Anna stroked the dogs as she accompanied Arabella up the
steps and into the house, while an under butler removed her
suitcase from the front of the taxi. When Anna stepped into the
hall, she paused to allow her eyes to move slowly round the room,
from picture to picture.
'Yes, it is nice to still have one's family around one,' said
Arabella, 'even if this might be their last weekend in the country.'
What do you mean?' asked Anna apprehensively.
'Fenston's lawyers delivered a letter by hand this morning,
reminding me that should I fail to repay their client's loan in full
by midday tomorrow, I must be prepared to pension off all the
family retainers.'
'He plans to dispose of the entire collection? 'said Anna.
'That would appear to be his purpose,' said Arabella.
'But that doesn't make sense/ said Anna. 'If Fenston were to
place the entire collection on the market at the same time he
wouldn't even clear his original loan.'
'He would, if he then put the hall up for sale,' said Arabella.
'He wouldn't--' began Anna.

342

 
'He would,' said Arabella. 'So we can only hope that Mr
Nakamura remains infatuated with Van Gogh, because frankly he's
my last hope.'
"Where is the masterpiece?' asked Anna as Arabella led her
through to the drawing room.
'Back in the Van Gogh bedroom, where he's resided for the
past hundred years -' Arabella paused - 'except for a day's
excursion to Heathrow.'
While Arabella settled herself in her favourite chair by the fire,
a dog on each side of her, Anna strolled around the room, reminding
herself of the Italian collection, assembled by the fourth earl.
'Should my dear Italians also be forced to make an unexpected
journey to New York,' said Arabella, 'they shouldn't grumble. After
all, that appears to be no more than an American tradition.'
Anna laughed as she moved from Titian to Veronese and to
Caravaggio. 'I'd forgotten just how magnificent the Caravaggio
was,' she said, standing back to admire The Marriage at Cana.
'I do believe that you are more interested in dead Italians than
living Irishmen,' said Arabella.
'If Caravaggio was alive today,' said Anna, 'Jack would be
following him, not me.'
'What do you mean?' asked Arabella.
'He murdered a man in a drunken brawl. Spent his last few
years on the run, but whenever he arrived in a new city, the local
burghers turned a blind eye as long as he went on producing
magnificent portraits of the Virgin Mother and the Christ child.'
'Anna, you're an impossible guest, now come and sit down,' said
Arabella as a maid entered the drawing room carrying a silver tray.
She began to lay up for tea by the fire.
'Now, my dear, will you have Indian or China?'
'I've always been puzzled,' said Anna, taking the seat opposite
Arabella, 'why it isn't Indian or Chinese, or India or China?'
For a moment, Arabella was silenced, saved only by the entry
of the butler.
'M'lady,' said Andrews, 'there's a gentleman at the door with a
package for you. I told him to take it round to the tradesman's
entrance, but he said he couldn't release it without your signature.'

343

 
'A sort of modem-day Viola,' suggested Arabella. 'I shall have to
go and see what this peevish messenger brings,' she added. 'Perhaps
I will even throw him a ring for his troubles.'
'I feel sure the fair Olivia will know just how to handle him,'
rejoined Anna.
Arabella gave a little bow, and followed Andrews out of the
room.
Anna was admiring Tintoretto's Perseus and Andromeda when
Arabella returned, the cheerful smile of only moments before
replaced by a grim expression.
Is there a problem?' asked Anna, as she turned round to face
her host.
'The peevish fellow has sent back my ring,' replied Arabella.
'Come and see for yourself.'
Anna followed her into the hall, where she found Andrews and
the under-butler removing the casing of a red crate that Anna had
hoped she had seen for the last time.
'It must have been sent from New York,' said Arabella, studying
a label attached to the box, 'probably on the same flight as you.'
'Seems to be following me around,' said Anna.
Tou appear to have that effect on men,' said Arabella.
They both watched as Andrews neatly removed the bubble wrap
to reveal a canvas that Anna had last seen in Anton's studio.
'The only good thing to come out of this,' said Anna, 'is that we
can transfer the original frame back onto the masterpiece.'
'But what shall we do with him?' asked Arabella, gesturing
towards the impostor. The butler gave a discreet cough. 'You have
a suggestion, Andrews?' Arabella enquired. 'If so, let's hear it.'
'No, m'lady,' Andrews replied, 'but I thought you would want to
know that your other guest is proceeding up the drive.'
'The man clearly has a gift for timing,' said Arabella, as she
quickly checked her hair in the mirror. 'Andrews,' she said, reverting
to her normal role, 'has the Wellington Room been prepared
for Mr Nakamura?'
'Yes, m'lady. And Dr Petrescu will be in the Van Gogh room.'
'How appropriate,' said Arabella, turning to face Anna, 'that he
should spend his last night with you.'

344

 
Anna was relieved to see Arabella so quickly back into her
stride, and had a feeling that she might prove a genuine foil for Nakamura.
The butler opened the front door and walked down the steps at
a pace that would ensure he reached the gravel just as the Toyota
Lexus came to a halt. Andrews opened the back door of the
limousine to allow Mr Nakamura to step out. He was clutching a
small square package.
'The Japanese always arrive bearing a gift,' whispered Anna,
'but under no circumstances should you open it in their presence.'
'That's all very well,' said Arabella, 'but I haven't got anything
for him.'
'He won't expect something in return. You have invited him to
be a guest in your house, and that is the greatest compliment you
can pay any Japanese.'
That's a relief,' said Arabella as Mr Nakamura appeared at the
front door.
'Lady Arabella,' he said bowing low, 'it is a great honour to be
invited to your magnificent home.'
'You honour my home, Mr Nakamura,' said Arabella, hoping
she'd said the correct thing.
The Japanese man bowed even lower, and when he rose came
face to face with Lawrence's portrait of Wellington.
'How appropriate,' he said. 'Did the great man not dine at
Wentworth Hall the night before he sailed for Waterloo?'
'Indeed he did,' said Arabella, 'and you will sleep in the same
bed that the Iron Duke slept in on that historic occasion.'
Nakamura turned to Anna and bowed. 'How nice to see you
again, Dr Petrescu.'
'And you too, Nakamura San,' said Anna. 'I hope you had a
pleasant journey.'
'Yes, thank you. We even landed on time, for a change,' said
Nakamura, who didn't move as his eyes roamed around the room.
'You will please correct me, Anna, should I make a mistake. It is
clear that the room is devoted to the English school. Gainsborough?'
he queried, as he admired the full-length portrait of
Catherine, Lady Wentworth. Anna nodded, before Nakamura

345

 
moved on. 'Landseer, Morland, Romney, Stubbs, but then, I am
stumped - is that the correct expression?'
It most certainly is,' confirmed Arabella, 'although our American
cousins wouldn't begin to understand its significance. And you
were stumped by Lely.'
'Ah, Sir Peter, and what a fine-looking woman -' he paused 'a
family trait,' he said, turning to face his host.
'And I can see, Mr Nakamura, that your family trait is flattery,'
teased Arabella.
Nakamura burst out laughing. With the risk of being taken to
task a second time, Lady Arabella, if every room is the equal of
this, it may prove necessary for me to cancel my meeting with
those dullards from Corns Steel.' Nakamura's eyes continued to
sweep the room, "Wheatley, Lawrence, West and Wilkie,' he said
before his gaze ended up on the portrait propped up against the
wall.
Nakamura offered no opinion for some time. 'Quite magnificent,'
he finally said. 'The work of an inspired hand - ' he paused 'but
not the hand of Van Gogh.'
'How can you be so sure, Nakamura San?' asked Anna
'Because the wrong ear is bandaged,' replied Nakamura.

'But everyone knows that Van Gogh cut off his left ear,' said
Anna.
Nakamura turned and smiled at Anna. 'And you know only too
well,' he added, 'that Van Gogh painted the original while looking
in a mirror, which is why the bandage ended up on the wrong ear.'
'I do hope that someone is going to explain all this to me later,'
said Arabella as she led her guests through to the drawing room.

346

 
52

Krantz returned to the shop at 2pm, but there was no sign
of the proprietor. 'He'll be back at any moment,' the assistant
assured her, without conviction.
Any moment turned out to be thirty minutes, by which time the
assistant was nowhere to be seen. When the owner did eventually
show up, Krantz was pleased to see that he was carrying a bulky
plastic bag. Without a word being spoken, Krantz followed him to
the back of the shop and into his office. Not until he'd closed the
door did a large grin appear on his fleshy lips.
The proprietor placed the carrier bag on his desk. He paused
for a moment, then pulled out the red outfit Krantz had requested.
'She may be a little taller than you,' he said with a half apology,
'but I can supply a needle and thread at no extra charge.' He began
to laugh, but ceased when his customer didn't respond.
Krantz held the uniform up against her shoulders. The previous
owner was at least three or four inches taller than Krantz, but only
a few pounds heaver; nothing - as the proprietor had suggested that
a needle and thread wouldn't remedy.
'And the passport?' asked Krantz.
Once again the proprietor's hand dipped into the carrier bag,
and, like a conjuror producing a rabbit out of a hat, he offered up
a Soviet passport. He handed over the prize to Krantz and said,
'She has a three-day layover, so she probably won't discover that
it's missing until Friday.'
Tt will have served its purpose long before then,' Krantz said,
as she began to turn the pages of the official document.

347

 
Sasha Prestakavich, she discovered, was three years younger
than her, and eight centimetres taller with no distinguishing marks.
A problem that a pair of high-heeled shoes would solve, unless an
overzealous official decided to carry out a strip search and came
across the recent wound on her right shoulder.
When Krantz reached the page where Sasha Prestakavich's
photo had once been, the proprietor was unable to disguise a
satisfied smirk. For his next trick, he produced from under the
counter a Polaroid camera.
'Smile,' he said. She didn't.
A few seconds later an image spewed out. A pair of scissors
appeared next and the proprietor began to cut the photograph
down to a size that would comply with the little dotted rectangle
on page three of the passport. Next, a dollop of glue to fix the new
holder in place. His final act was to drop a needle and thread into
the carrier bag. Krantz was beginning to realize that this was not
the first occasion he had supplied such a service. She placed the
uniform and the passport back in the carrier bag, before handing
over eight hundred dollars.
The proprietor checked the wad of notes carefully.
'You said a thousand,' he protested.
'You were thirty minutes late,' Krantz reminded him as she
picked up the bag and turned to leave.
'Do come and visit us again,' suggested the proprietor as she
retreated, 'whenever you're passing through.'
Krantz didn't bother to explain to him why, in her profession,
she never saw anyone twice, unless it was to make sure they
couldn't see her a third time.
Once she was back on the street, she only had to walk for a
couple of blocks before she came across the next shop she
required. She purchased a pair of plain black high-heeled shoes not
her style, but they would serve their purpose. She paid the bill
in roubles and left the shop carrying two bags.
Krantz next hailed a taxi, gave the driver an address and told
him the exact entrance where she wished to be dropped off. When
the cab drew up by a side door marked 'Staff Only', Krantz paid
the fare, entered the building and went straight to the ladies' room.

348

 
She locked herself in a cubicle, where she spent the next forty
minutes. With the aid of the needle and thread supplied by the proprietor, she raised the hemline of the skirt by a couple of inches,
and made a couple of tucks in the waist, which wouldn't be visible
under the jacket. She then stripped off all her outer garments before
trying on the uniform - not a perfect fit, but fortunately the company
she was proposing to work for was not known for its sartorial
elegance. Next she replaced her sneakers with the recently acquired
high heels, before dropping her own clothes into the carrier bag.
When she finally left the ladies' room, she went in search of
her new employers. Her walk was a little unsteady, but then she
wasn't used to high heels. Krantz's eyes settled on another woman
who was dressed in an identical uniform. She walked across to
the counter and asked, 'Have you got a spare seat on any of our
London flights?'
That shouldn't be a problem,' she replied. 'Can I see your
passport?' Krantz handed over the recently acquired document.
The company's representative looked up Sasha Prestakavich's
details on the company database. According to their records, she
was on a three-day layover. 'That seems to be in order,' she
eventually said, and handed her a crew pass. 'Be sure that you're
among the last to check in, just in case we have any latecomers.'
Krantz walked across to the international terminal, and once
she'd been checked through customs, hung around in duty free
until she heard the final boarding call for flight 413 to London.
By the time she arrived at the gate, the last three passengers
were checking in. Once again her passport was checked against
the company database before the gate officer studied his screen
and said, 'We've got seats available in every class, so take your
pick.'
'Back row of economy,' Krantz said unhesitatingly.
The gate official looked surprised, but printed out a boarding
card and handed the little slip over to her. Krantz walked through
the gate, and boarded Aeroflot's flight 413 to London.

349

 
53

Anna walked slowly down the wide, marble staircase, pausing
for a moment at every two or three steps to admire another
master. It didn't matter how often she saw them .. . she heard a
noise behind her, and looked back towards the guest corridor to
see Andrews coming out of her bedroom. He was carrying a
picture under his arm. She smiled as he hurried away in the
direction of the back stairs.
Anna continued to study the paintings on her slow progress
down the staircase. As she stepped into the hall she gave Catherine,
Lady Wentworth another admiring look, before she walked slowly
across the black-and-white marbled-square floor towards the drawing
room.
The first thing Anna saw as she entered was Andrews placing
the Van Gogh on an easel in the centre of the room.
What do you think?' said Arabella, as she took a pace back to
admire the self-portrait.
'Don't you feel that Mr Nakamura might consider it a little
ventured Anna, not wishing to offend her host.
'Crude, blatant, obvious? Which word were you searching for,
my dear?' asked Arabella as she turned to face Anna. Anna burst
out laughing. 'Let's face it,' said Arabella, I'm strapped for cash
and running out of time, so I don't have a lot of choice.'
'No one would believe it, looking at you,' said Anna as she
admired the magnificent long rose silk-taffeta gown and diamond
necklace Arabella was wearing, making Anna feel somewhat casual
in her short black Armani dress.

350

 
It's kind of you to say so, my dear, but if I had your looks and your figure, I wouldn't need to cover myself from head to toe with other distractions.'
Anna smiled, admiring the way Arabella had so quickly put her
at ease.
'When do you think he'll make a decision?' asked Arabella,
trying not to sound desperate.
'like all great collectors,' said Anna, 'he'll make up his mind
within moments. A scientific survey has recently shown that men
decide whether they want to sleep with a woman in about eight
seconds.'
'That long?' said Arabella.
'Mr Nakamura will take about the same time to decide if he
wants to own this painting,' she said, looking directly at the Van
Gogh.
'Let's drink to that,' said Arabella.
Andrews stepped forward on cue, proffering a silver tray that
held three glasses.
'A glass of champagne, madam?' he enquired.
'Thank you,' said Anna, removing a long-stemmed flute. When
Andrews stepped back, her gaze fell on a turquoise and black vase
that she had never seen before.
'It's quite magnificent,' said Anna.
'Mr Nakamura's gift,' said Arabella. 'Most embarrassing. By the
way,' she added, 'I do hope I haven't committed a. faux pas by
putting it on display while Mr Nakamura is still a guest in my
home?' She paused. 'If I have, Andrews can remove it immediately.'
'Certainly
not,' said Anna. 'Mr Nakamura will be flattered that
you have placed his gift among so many other maestros.'
'Are you sure?' asked Arabella.
'Oh yes. The piece survives, even shines in this room. There is
only one certain rule when it comes to real talent,' said Anna. 'Any
form of art isn't out of place as long as it's displayed among its
equals. The Raphael on the wall, the diamond necklace you are
wearing, the Chippendale table on which you have placed the vase,
the Nash fireplace and the Van Gogh have all been created by

35i

 
masters. Now I have no idea who the craftsman was who made
this piece,' continued Anna, still admiring the way the turquoise
appeared to be running into the black, like a melting candle, 'but I
have no doubt that in his own country, he is considered a master.'
'Not exactly a master,' said a voice coming from behind them.
Arabella and Anna turned at the same time to see that Mr
Nakamura had entered the room. He was dressed in a dinner
jacket and bow tie that Andrews would have approved of.
'Not a master?' queried Arabella.
'No,' said Nakamura. 'In this country, you honour those who
"achieve greatness", to quote your Bard, by making them knights
or barons, whereas we in Japan reward such talent with the title
"national treasure". It is appropriate that this piece has found a
home in Wentworth Hall because, of the twelve great potters in
history, the experts acknowledge that eleven have been Japanese,
with the sole exception of a Cornishman, Bernard Leach. You
failed to make him a Lord or even give him a knighthood, so we
declared him to be an honorary national treasure.'
'How immensely civilized,' said Arabella, 'as I must confess that
recently we have been giving honours to pop stars, footballers and
vulgar millionaires.' Nakamura laughed, as Andrews offered him a
glass of champagne. 'Are you a national treasure, Mr Nakamura?'
enquired Arabella.
'Certainly not,' replied Nakamura. 'My countrymen do not
consider vulgar millionaires worthy of such an honour.'
Arabella turned scarlet, while Anna continued to stare at the
vase, as if she hadn't heard the remark. 'But am I not right in
thinking, Mr Nakamura, that this particular vase is not symmetrical?'
'Quite brilliant,' replied Nakamura. 'You should have been a
member of the diplomatic corps, Anna. Not only did you manage
to deftly change the subject, but at the same time you raised a
question that demands to be answered.'
Nakamura walked straight past the Van Gogh as if he hadn't
noticed it and looked at the vase for some time before he added,
'If you ever come across a piece of pottery that is perfect, you can
be confident that it was produced by a machine. With pottery, you
must seek near perfection. If you look carefully enough, you will

352

 
always find some slight blemish that serves to remind us that the
piece was crafted by a human hand. The longer you have to search,
the greater the craftsman, for it was only Giotto who was able to
draw the perfect circle.'
Tor me, it is perfection,' said Arabella. 'I simply love it, and
whatever Mr Fenston manages to prise away from me during the
coming years, I shall never allow him to get his hands on my
national treasure.'
'Perhaps it won't be necessary for him to prise anything else
away,' said Mr Nakamura, turning to face the Van Gogh as if he'd
seen it for the first time. Arabella held her breath while Anna
studied the expression on Nakamura's face. She couldn't be sure.
Nakamura glanced at the picture for only a few seconds before
he turned to Arabella and said, There are times when it is a
distinct advantage to be a vulgar millionaire, because although one
may not aspire to being a national treasure oneself, it does allow
one to indulge in collecting other people's national treasures.'
Anna wanted to cheer, but simply raised her glass. Mr Nakamura
returned the compliment, and they both turned to face
Arabella. Tears were flooding down her cheeks.
'I don't know how to thank you,' she said.
'Not me,' said Nakamura, 'Anna. Because without her courage
and fortitude, this whole episode would not have been brought to
such a worthwhile conclusion.'
'I agree,' said Arabella, 'which is why I shall ask Andrews to
return the self-portrait to Anna's bedroom, so that she can be the
last person to fully appreciate the painting before it begins its long
journey to Japan.'
'How appropriate,' said Nakamura. 'But if Anna were to become
the CEO of my foundation, she could see it whenever she wished.'
Anna was about to respond when Andrews re-entered the
drawing room and announced, 'Dinner is served, m'lady.'

Krantz had chosen to sit in the back of the aircraft so that few of
the passengers would notice her, only the crew. She needed to be
adopted by one of them long before they touched down at

353

 
Heathrow. Krantz took her time as she tried to work out which of
her new colleagues would fulfil that purpose.
'Domestic or international?' asked the senior stewardess, soon
after the aircraft had reached its cruising height.
'Domestic,' replied Krantz with a smile.
'Ah, that's why I haven't seen you before.'
'I've only been with the company for three months,' said Krantz.
That would explain it. My name's Nina.'
'Sasha,' said Krantz, giving her a warm smile.
'Just let me know if you need anything, Sasha.'
'I will,' said Krantz.
Trying to relax when she couldn't lean on her right shoulder
meant that Krantz remained awake for most of the flight. She used
the hours getting to know Nina, so that by the time they landed,
the senior stewardess would unwittingly play a role in the most
crucial part of her deception. By the time Krantz finally fell asleep,
Nina had become her minder.
"Would you like to go up front, Sasha?' Nina asked once the
captain had instructed the crew to take their seats and prepare
for landing. 'Then you can disembark immediately after the doors
are opened.'
Krantz shook her head. 'It's my first visit to England,' she said
nervously, 'and I'd prefer to be with you and the rest of the crew.'
'Of course,' said Nina. 'And if you'd like to, you can also join us
on the minibus.'
'Thank you,' said Krantz.
Krantz remained in her seat until the last passenger had left the
aircraft. She then joined the crew as they disembarked and headed
in the direction of the terminal. Krantz never left the chief stewardess's
side during the long walk down endless corridors, while Nina
offered her opinion on everything from Putin to Rasputin.
When the Aeroflot crew finally reached passport control, Nina
guided her charge past the long queue of passengers and on
towards the exit marked CREW only. Krantz tucked in behind
Nina, who didn't stop chatting even when she'd handed over her
passport to the official. He slowly turned the pages, checked the
photograph and then waved Nina through. 'Next.'

354

 
Krantz handed over her passport. Once again, the official looked
carefully at the photograph and then at the person it claimed to represent. He even smiled as he waved her through. Krantz
suddenly felt a stab of pain in her right shoulder. For a moment,
the excruciating feeling made it difficult for her to move. She tried
not to grimace. The official waved again, but she still remained
fixed to the spot.
'Come on, Sasha,' cried Nina, 'you're holding everyone up.'
Krantz somehow managed to stumble unsteadily through the
barrier. The official continued to stare at her as she walked away.
Never look back. She smiled at Nina, and linked her arm in hers
as they headed towards the exit. The official finally turned his
attention to the second officer, who was next in line.
"Will you be joining us on the bus?' asked Nina, as they strolled
out of the airport and onto the pavement.
'No,' said Krantz. 'I'm being met by my boyfriend.'
Nina looked surprised. She said goodbye, before crossing the
road in the company of the second officer.
'Who was that?' her colleague asked, before climbing onto the
Aeroflot bus.

355

 
54

'Wasn't there anything on the film that would assist us?' asked
Macy.
'Nothing,' replied Jack, as he looked across the desk at his boss.
'Leapman had only been in the office for long enough to photograph
eight documents before Fenston's unscheduled appearance.'
'And what do those eight documents tell usF Macy demanded.
'Nothing we didn't already know,' admitted Jack, as he opened
a file in front of him. 'Mainly contracts confirming that Fenston is
still fleecing customers in different parts of the world, who are
either naive or greedy. But should any of them decide it would
be in their best interests to sell their assets and clear the debt
with Fenston Finance, I suspect that's when we'll end up with
another body on our hands. No, my only hope is that the NYPD
has gathered enough evidence to press charges in the Leapman
case, because I still don't have enough to slap a parking ticket on
him.'
'It doesn't help,' said Macy, 'that when I spoke to my opposite
number this morning, or to be more accurate he spoke to me, the
first thing he wanted to know was did we have an FBI agent
called Delaney, and if so, was he on the scene of the crime before
his boys arrived.'
What did you tell him?' asked Jack, trying not to smile.
'I'd look into the matter and call him back.' Macy paused. 'But
it might placate them a little if you were willing to trade some
information,' he suggested.
'But I don't think they have anything we aren't already aware

356

 
of,' responded Jack, 'and they can't be that optimistic about pressing
charges while Leapman is still out for the count.'
'Any news from the hospital about his chances of recovery?'
asked Macy.
'Not great,' admitted Jack. "While he was in Fenston's office he
suffered a stress stroke caused by high blood pressure. The medical
term is aphasia.'
'Aphasia?'
The part of Leapman's brain that affects his speech has been
irreparably damaged, so he can't speak. Frankly, his doctor is describing
him as a vegetable, and warned me that the only decision
the hospital will have to make is whether to pull the plug and let
him die peacefully.'
'The NYPD tell me that Fenston is sitting solicitously by the
patient's bedside.'
'Then they'd better not leave them alone for more than a few
moments,' said Jack, 'because if they do, the doctors won't need to
make the decision as to who should pull the plug.'
'The NYPD also wants to know if you removed a camera from
the crime scene.'
'It was FBI property.'
'Not if it was evidence in a criminal enquiry, as you well know,
Jack. Why don't you send them a set of the photos Leapman took
and try to be more cooperative in the future? Remind them that
your father served twenty-six years with the force - that should do
the trick.'
'But what do they have to offer in exchange?' asked Jack.
'A copy of a photograph with your name on the back. They want
to know if it meant anything to you, because it sure didn't to them,
or me,' admitted Macy.
The supervisor pushed two prints across his desk and allowed
Jack a few moments to consider them. The first was a picture of
Fenston shaking hands with George W. Bush when he visited
Ground Zero. Jack recalled the blown-up version that was hanging
on the wall behind Fenston's desk. He held up the picture and
asked, 'How come the NYPD has a copy of this?'
'They found it on Leapman's desk. He was obviously going to

357

 
hand it over to you yesterday evening, along with an explanation of
what he'd written on the back.'
Jack looked at the second print and was considering the words, Delaney, this is all the evidence you need, when the phone on
Macy's desk buzzed.
He picked it up and listened. Tut him on,' said Macy as he
replaced the receiver and flicked a switch that would allow them
both to follow the conversation. 'It's Tom Crasanti, calling from
London,' said Macy. 'Hi, Tom, it's Dick Macy. Jack's in the office
with me. We were just discussing the Fenston case, because we're
still not making much headway.'
'That's why I'm calling,' said Tom. 'There's been a development
at this end, and the news is not good. We think Krantz has slipped
into England.'
'That's not possible,' said Jack. 'How could she hope to get
through passport control?'
'By posing as an Aeroflot stewardess, it would seem,' said Tom.
'My contact at the Russian embassy called to warn me that a
woman had entered Britain using a fake passport under the name
of Sasha Prestakavich.'
'But why should they assume Prestakavich is Krantz?' asked Jack.
'They didn't,' said Tom. 'They had no idea who she was. All
they could tell me was that the suspect befriended Aeroflot's chief
stewardess while on their daily flight to London. She then fooled
her into accompanying her through passport control. That's how
we got to hear of it. It turns out that the co-pilot asked who the
woman was, and when he was told that her name was Sasha
Prestakavich, he said that wasn't possible because he travelled with
her regularly, and it certainly wasn't Prestakavich.'
'That still doesn't prove it's Krantz,' pressed Macy.
'I'll get there, sir, just give me time.'
Jack was glad his friend couldn't see the look of impatience on
the boss's face.
'The co-pilot,' continued Tom, 'reported to his captain, who
immediately alerted Aeroflot's security. It didn't take them long to
discover that Sasha Prestakavich was on a three-day layover, and

358

 
her passport had been stolen, along with her uniform. That set
alarm bells ringing.' Macy began tapping his fingers on the desk.
'My contact at the Russian embassy called me in the new entente
cordiale spirit of post 9/11,' said Tom, 'having already briefed
Interpol.'
We are going to get there, aren't we, Tom?'
'Any moment, sir.' He paused. "Where was I?'
'Taking calls from your contact in the Russian embassy,' said Jack.
'Oh, yes,' said Tom. 'It was after I'd given him a description of
Krantz, about five foot, around a hundred pounds, crew cut, that
they asked me to fax over a photograph of her, which I did. He
then forwarded a copy of the photograph to the co-pilot at his
London hotel, who confirmed that it was Krantz.'
'Good work, Tom,' said Macy, 'thorough as always, but have you
come up with any theory as to why Krantz would chance going to
England at this particular time?'
'To kill Petrescu would be my bet,' said Tom.
"What do you think?' asked Macy looking across his desk at Jack.
'I agree with Tom,' replied Jack. 'Anna has to be the obvious
target.' He hesitated. 'But what I can't work out is why Krantz
would take such a risk right now.'
'I agree,' said Macy, 'but I'm not willing to put Petrescu's life at
risk while we try to second-guess Krantz's motives.' Macy leant
forward. 'Now listen carefully, Tom, because I'm only going to tell
you this once.' He quickly began to turn the pages of his Fenston
file. 'I need you to get in touch with - just give me a moment,' he
said as he turned over even more pages. 'Ah, yes, here it is, Chief
Superintendent Renton of the Surrey CID. After reading Jack's
report, I got a clear impression that Renton is a man used to
making tough decisions, even taking responsibility when one of his
subordinates has screwed up. I know you've already briefed him
on Krantz, but warn him that we think she's about to strike again,
and the target could well be someone else at Wentworth Hall. He
won't want that to happen twice on his watch, and rub in that the
last time Krantz was captured, she escaped. That will keep him

359

 
awake at night. And if he wants to have a word with me at any
time, I'm always on the end of a line.'
'And do pass on my best wishes,' added Jack.
That should settle it,' said Macy. 'So, Tom, step it up a notch.'
Tes, sir,' came back the reply from London.
Macy flicked off the speaker phone. 'And, Jack, I want you to
take the next flight to London. If Krantz is even thinking about
harming Petrescu, let's make sure we're waiting for her, because if
she were to escape a second time, I'll be pensioned off and you
can forget any thoughts of promotion.'
Jack frowned but didn't respond.
'You look apprehensive,' said Macy.
'I can't see why a photo of Fenston shaking hands with the
President is all the evidence you need --' he paused - 'although I
think I've worked out why Krantz is willing to risk returning to
Wentworth Hall a second time.'
'And why's that?' asked Macy.
'She's going to steal the Van Gogh,' said Jack, 'then somehow
get it to Fenston.'
'So Petrescu isn't the reason Rrantz has returned to England.'
'No, she isn't,' said Jack, 'but once Krantz discovers she's there,
you can assume that she'll consider killing Anna a bonus.'

360

 
55

Lighting-up time was 7.41pm on September 25th. Krantz
didn't appear on the outskirts of Wentworth until just after eight.
Arabella was at the time accompanying her guests through to
the dining room.
Krantz, dressed in a black skin-tight tracksuit, circled the estate
twice before she decided where she would enter the grounds. It
certainly wasn't going to be through the front gates. Although the
high stone walls that surrounded the estate had proved impregnable
when originally built to keep invaders out, particularly the
French and Germans, by the beginning of the twenty-first century
wear and tear, and the minimum wage, meant that there were one
or two places where entry would have been simple enough for a
local lad planning to steal apples.
Once Krantz had selected her point of entry, she easily climbed
the weakened perimeter in a matter of seconds, straddled the wall,
fell and rolled over, as she had done a thousand times following a
bad dismount from the high bar.
Krantz remained still for a moment as she waited for the moon
to disappear behind a cloud. She then ran thirty or forty yards to
the safety of a little copse of trees down by the river. She waited
for the moon to reappear so that she could study the terrain more
carefully, aware that she would have to be patient. In her line of
work, impatience led to mistakes, and mistakes could not be
rectified quite as easily as in some other professions.
Krantz had a clear view of the front of the house, but it was
another forty minutes before the vast oak door was opened by a

361

 
man in a black tail coat and white tie, allowing the two dogs out
for their nightly frolic. They sniffed the air, immediately picking
up Krantz's scent, and began barking loudly as they bounded
towards her. But then she had been waiting for them - patiently.
The English, her instructor had once told her, were an animal
loving nation, and you could tell a person's class by the dogs they
chose to share their homes with. The working class liked greyhounds,
the middle classes Jack Russells and cocker spaniels, while
the nouveau riche preferred a Rottweiler or German shepherd to
protect their newly made wealth. The upper classes traditionally
chose Labradors, dogs quite unsuited for protection, as they were
more likely to lick you than take a chunk out of you. When Krantz
was told about these dogs, it was the first time she had come across
the word 'soppy'. Only the Queen had Corgis.
Krantz didn't move as the two dogs bounded towards her,
occasionally stopping to sniff the air, now aware of another smell
that made their tails wag even faster. Krantz had earlier visited
Curnick's in the Fulham Road and selected the most tender pieces
of sirloin steak, which would have been appreciated by those guests
now dining at Wentworth Hall. Krantz felt no expense should be
spared. After all, it was to be their last supper.
Krantz laid the large juicy morsels around her in a circle and
remained motionless in the centre, like a dumb waiter. Once
Brunswick and Picton came across the meat, they quickly tucked
into their first course, not showing a great deal of interest in the
human statue in the centre of the circle. Krantz crouched slowly
down on one knee and began to lay out a second helping, wherever
she saw a gap appear in the circle. Occasionally the dogs would
pause between mouthfuls, look up at her with doleful eyes, tails
wagging if anything more enthusiastically, before they returned to
the feast.
Once she had laid before them the final delicacy, Krantz leant
forward and began to stroke the silky head of Picton, the younger
of the two dogs. He didn't even look up when she drew the kitchen
knife from its sheath. Sheffield steel, also purchased from the
Fulham Road that afternoon.

362

 
Once again, she gently stroked the head of the chocolate
Labrador, and then suddenly, without warning, grabbed Picton by
the ears, jerked his head away from the last succulent morsels and,
with one slash of the blade, sliced into the animal's throat. A loud
bark was quickly followed by a shrill yelp, and in the darkness
Krantz could not see the large black eyes giving her a pained
expression. The black Labrador, older but not wiser, looked up
and growled, which took him a full second. More than enough
time for Krantz to thrust her left forearm under the dog's jaw,
causing Brunswick to raise his head just long enough for Krantz to
slash out at his throat, though not with her usual skill and precision.
The dog sank to the ground, whimpering in pain. Krantz leant forward, pulled up his silken ears and with one final movement finished off the job.
Krantz dragged both dogs into the copse and dumped them
behind a fallen oak. She then washed her hands in the stream,
annoyed to find her brand-new tracksuit was covered in blood. She
finally wiped the knife on the grass, before replacing it in its
sheath. She checked her watch. She had allocated two hours for
the entire operation, so she reckoned she still had over an hour
before those in the house, occupied with either serving or being
served, would notice the dogs had not returned from their evening
constitutional.
The distance between the copse and the north end of the house
Krantz estimated to be a hundred, perhaps a hundred and twenty
yards. With the moon throwing out such a clear light, if only
intermittently, she knew that there was only one form of movement
that would go unobserved.
She fell to her knees before lying flat on the grass. She first
placed one arm in front of her, followed by one leg, the second
arm, then the second leg, and finally she eased her body forward.
Her record for a hundred yards as a human crab was seven minutes
and nineteen seconds. Occasionally, she would stop and raise her
head to study the layout of the house so that she could consider
her point of entry. The ground floor was ablaze with light, while
the first floor was almost in darkness. The second floor, where the

363

 
servants resided, had only one light on. Krantz wasn't interested in
the second floor. The person she was looking for would be on the
ground floor, and later the first.
When Krantz was within ten yards of the house, she slowed
each movement down until she felt a finger touch the outer wall.
She lay still, cocked her head to one side and used the light of the
moon to study the edifice more carefully. Only great estates still
boasted drainpipes of that size. When you've performed a somersault
on a four-inch-wide beam, a drainpipe that prominent is a
ladder.
Krantz next checked the windows of the large room where the
most noise was coming from. Although the heavy curtains were
drawn, she spotted one affording a slight chink. She moved even
more slowly towards the noise and laughter. When she reached the
window, she pushed herself up onto her knees until one eye was
in line with the tiny gap in the curtain.
The first thing she saw was a man dressed in a dinner jacket.
He was on his feet, a glass of champagne in one hand as if
proposing a toast. She couldn't hear what he was saying, but then
she wasn't interested. Her eyes swept that part of the room she
could see. At one end of the table sat a lady in a long silk dress
with her back to the window, looking intently at the man delivering
the impromptu speech. Krantz's eyes rested on her diamond
necklace, but that wasn't her trade. Her speciality was two or three
inches above the sparkling gems.
She turned her attention to the other end of the table. She
almost smiled when she saw who was eating pheasant and sipping
a glass of wine. When Petrescu retired to bed later that night,
Krantz would be waiting for her, hidden in a place she would least
expect to find her.
Krantz glanced towards the man in the black tailcoat who had
opened the door to let the dogs out. He was now standing behind
the lady wearing the silk gown, refilling her glass with wine, while
other servants removed plates and one did nothing more than
scrape crumbs from the table into a silver tray. Krantz remained
absolutely still while her eyes continued to move around the room,
searching for the other throat Fenston had sent her to cut.

364

 
'Lady Arabella, I rise to thank you for your kindness and
hospitality. I have much enjoyed trout from the River Test, and
pheasant shot on your estate, while in the company of two
remarkable women. But tonight will remain memorable for me for
many other reasons. Not least, that I will leave Wentworth Hall
tomorrow with two unique additions to my collection - one of the
finest examples of Van Gogh's work, as well as one of the most
talented young professionals in her field, who has agreed to be the
CEO of my foundation. Your great-grandfather,' said Nakamura,
turning to face his hostess, 'was wise enough in 1889, over a
century ago, to purchase from Dr Gachet the self-portrait of his
close friend, Vincent Van Gogh. Tomorrow, that masterpiece will
begin a journey to the other side of the world, but I must warn you, Arabella, that after only a few hours in your home, I have my eye on another of your national treasures, and this time I would be willing to pay well over the odds.'
Which one, may I ask?' said Arabella.
Krantz decided that it was time to move on.
She crept slowly towards the north end of the building, unaware
that the massive corner stones had been an architectural delight to
Sir John Vanbrugh; to her they formed perfectly proportioned
footholds to the first floor.
She climbed up onto the first-floor balcony in less than two
minutes, and paused for a moment to consider how many bedrooms
she might have to enter. She knew that while there were
guests in the house there was no reason to think any of the rooms
would be alarmed, and because of the age of the building, entry
wouldn't have caused much difficulty for a burglar on his first
outing. With the aid of her knife, Krantz slipped the bolt on the
window of the first room. Once inside, she didn't fumble around
for a light but switched on a slim-line pen torch, which illuminated
an area about the size of a small television screen. The square of
light moved across the wall, illuminating picture after picture, and
although Hals, Hobbema and Van Goyen would have delighted
most connoisseurs' eyes, Krantz passed quickly over them in search
of another Dutch master. Once she had given cursory consideration
to every painting in the room, she switched off the torch and

365

 
headed back to the balcony. She entered the second guest bedroom
as Arabella rose to thank Mr Nakamura for his gracious speech.
Once again Krantz studied each canvas, and once again none
brought a smile to her lips. She quickly returned to the parapet, as
the butler offered Mr Nakamura a port and opened the cigar box.
Mr Nakamura allowed Andrews to pour him a Taylor's 47. When
the butler returned to his mistress at the other end of the table,
Arabella declined the port, but rolled several cigars between her
thumb and forefinger before she selected a Monte Cristo. As the
butler struck a match for his mistress, Arabella smiled. Everything
was going to plan.

366

 
56

Krantz had covered five bedrooms by the time Arabella
invited her guests to join her in the drawing room for coffee. There
were still another nine rooms left to consider, and Krantz was
aware that not only was she running out of time, but she wouldn't
be given a second chance.
She moved swiftly to the next room, where someone who
believed in fresh air had left a window wide open. She switched on
her torch, to be greeted by a steely glare from the Iron Duke. She
moved on to the next picture, just as Mr Nakamura placed his
coffee cup back on the side table and rose from his place. 'I think
it is time for me to retire to bed, Lady Arabella,' he said, 'in case
those dull men of Corns Steel feel I have lost my edge.' He turned
to Anna. 'I look forward to seeing you in the morning, when we
might discuss over breakfast any ideas you have for developing my
collection, and perhaps even your remuneration.'
'But you have already made it clear what you think I am worth,'
said Anna.
'I don't recall that,' said Nakamura, looking puzzled.
'Oh yes,' said Anna, with a smile. 'I well remember your
suggestion that Fenston had convinced you that I was worth five
hundred dollars a day.'
'You have taken advantage of an old man,' said Nakamura with
a smile, 'but I shall not go back on my word.'
Krantz thought she heard a door close, and without giving
Wellington a second look returned quickly to the balcony. She
needed the use of her knife to secure entry into the next room.

367

 
She moved stealthily across the floor, coming to a halt at the end
of another four-poster bed. She switched on the torch, expecting
to be greeted by a blank wall. But not this time.
The insane eyes of a genius stared at her. The insane eyes of an
assassin stared back.
Krantz smiled for the second time that day. She climbed up
onto the bed and crawled slowly towards her next victim. She was
within inches of the canvas when she unsheathed her knife, raised
it above her head and was about to plunge the blade into the neck
of Van Gogh, when she remembered what Fenston had insisted
on, if she hoped to collect four million rather than three. She
switched off her torch, climbed down from the bed onto the thick
carpet and crawled under the four-poster. She lay flat on her back
and waited.
As Arabella and her guests strolled out of the drawing room and
into the hallway, she asked Andrews if Brunswick and Picton had
returned.
'No, m'lady,' the butler replied, 'but there are a lot of rabbits
about tonight.'
'Then I shall go and fetch the rascals myself,' muttered Arabella
and, turning to her guests, added, 'Sleep well. I'll see you both at
breakfast.'
Nakamura bowed before accompanying Anna up the staircase,
again stopping occasionally to admire Arabella's ancestors, who
gazed back at him.
'You will forgive me, Anna,' he said, 'for taking my time, but I
may not be given the opportunity of meeting these gentlemen
again.'
Anna smiled as she left him to admire the Romney of Mrs
Siddons.
She continued on down the corridor, coming to a halt outside the
Van Gogh room. She opened the bedroom door and switched on
the light, stopping for a moment to admire the portrait of Van Gogh.
She took off her dress and hung it in the wardrobe, placing the rest
of her clothes on the sofa at the end of the four-poster. She then
turned on the light by the side of the bed and checked her watch.
It was just after eleven. She disappeared into the bathroom.

368

 
When Krantz heard the sound of a shower, she slid out from
under the canopy and knelt beside the bed. She cocked an ear,
like an attentive animal sniffing the wind. The shower was still
running. She stood up, walked across to the door and switched off
the bedroom light, while leaving on the reading light by the side of
the bed. She pulled back the covers on the other side of the bed
and climbed carefully in. She took one last look at the Van Gogh,
before neatly replacing the blanket and cover over her head and
finally disappearing under the sheet. Krantz lay flat and didn't
move a muscle. She was so slight that she barely made an
impression in the half light. Although she remained secreted under
the sheets, she heard the shower being turned off. This was
followed by silence. Anna must have been drying herself, and then
she heard a switch being flicked off - the bathroom light, followed
by the sound of a door closing.
Krantz extracted the knife from its tailor-made sheath and
gripped the handle firmly as Anna walked back into the bedroom.
Anna slipped under the covers on her side of the bed and
immediately turned on one side, stretching out an arm to switch
off the bedside light. She lowered her head on to the soft goose
feather pillow. As she drifted into those first moments of slumber,
her last thought was that the evening could hardly have gone
better. Mr Nakamura had not only closed the deal, but offered her
a job. What more could she ask for?
Anna was drifting off to sleep when Krantz leant across and
touched her back with the tip of her forefinger. She ran the finger
tip down her spine and onto her buttocks, coming to a halt at the
top of her thigh. Anna sighed. Krantz paused for a moment, before
placing her hand between Anna's legs.
Was she dreaming, or was someone touching her, Anna wondered,
as she lay in that semi-conscious state before falling asleep.
She didn't move a muscle. It wasn't possible that someone else
could be in the bed. She must be dreaming. That was when she
felt the cold steel of a blade as it slipped in between her thighs.
Suddenly Anna was wide awake, a thousand thoughts rushing
through her mind. She was about to throw the blanket back and
dive onto the floor, when a voice said quietly but firmly, 'Don't

369

 
even think about moving, not even a muscle; you have a six-inch
knife between your legs, and the blade is facing upwards.' Anna
didn't move. 'If you as much as murmur, I'll slit you up from your
crotch to your throat, and you'll live just long enough to wish you
were dead.'
Anna felt the steel of the blade wedged between her thighs and
tried hard not to move, although she couldn't stop trembling.
If you follow my instructions to the letter,' said Krantz, 'you
might just live, but don't count on it.'
Anna didn't, and knew that if she was to have the slightest
chance of survival, she would have to play for time. What do you
want?' she asked.
'I told you not to murmur,' repeated Krantz, moving the knife
up between Anna's thighs until the blade was a centimetre from
the clitoris. Anna didn't argue.
'There is a light on your side of the bed,' said Krantz. 'Lean
across, very slowly, and turn it on.'
Anna leant over and felt the blade move with her as she
switched on the bedside light.
'Good/ said Krantz. 'Now I'm going to pull back the blanket on
your side of the bed, while you remain still. I won't be removing
the knife - yet.'
Anna stared in front of her, while Krantz slowly pulled the
covers back on her side of the bed.
'Now pull your knees up under your chin,' said Krantz, 'slowly.'
Anna obeyed her order, and once again felt the knife move with
her.
'Now push yourself up onto your knees and turn to face the wall.'
Anna placed her left elbow on the bed, pushed herself up slowly
onto her knees and inched round until she was facing the wall. She
stared up at Van Gogh. When she saw his bandaged ear, she
couldn't help remembering the last act Krantz had performed on
Victoria.
Krantz was now kneeling directly behind her, still gripping
firmly onto the handle of the knife.
'Lean slowly forward,' said Krantz, 'and take hold of the painting
on both sides of the frame.'

37o

 
Anna obeyed her every word, while every muscle in her body was trembling.
'Now lift the picture off its hook and lower it slowly down onto
the pillow.'
Anna managed to find the strength to carry out her command,
bringing the portrait to rest on top of the pillows.
'Now I'm going to remove the knife from between your legs
very slowly, before placing the tip of the blade on the back of your
neck. Don't give a second's thought to any sudden movement
once the blade has been removed, because should you be foolish
enough to attempt anything, let me assure you that I can kill you
in less than three seconds, and be out of the open window in less
than ten. I want you to think about that for a moment before I
remove the blade.'
Anna thought about it, and didn't move. A few seconds later,
she felt the knife slide out from between her legs, and a moment
later, as promised, the tip of the blade was pressed against the
nape of her neck.
'lift the picture up off the pillow,' ordered Krantz, 'then turn
round and face me. Be assured the blade will never be less than a
few inches away from your throat at any time. Any movement, and
I mean any movement that I consider unexpected, will be your last.'
Anna believed her. She leant forward, lifted the picture off the
pillow and moved her knees round inch by inch, until she came
face to face with Krantz. When Anna first saw her, she was
momentarily taken by surprise. The woman was so small and slight
she even looked vulnerable, a mistake several seasoned men had
made in the past - their past. If Krantz had got the better of
Sergei, what chance did she have? The strangest thought passed
through Anna's mind as she waited for her next order. Why hadn't
she said yes when Andrews offered to bring her up a cup of cocoa
before she retired to bed?
'Now I want you to turn the picture round so that it's facing
me,' said Krantz, 'and don't take your eye off the knife,' she added
as she pulled back the blade from her throat and raised it above
her head. While Anna turned the picture round, Krantz kept the
knife in line with her favourite part of the anatomy.


37i

 
'Grip the frame firmly,' said Krantz, 'because your friend Mr
Van Gogh is about to lose more than his left ear.'
'But why?' cried Anna, unable to remain silent any longer.
'I'm glad you asked,' said Krantz, 'because Mr Fenston's orders
could not have been more explicit. He wanted you to be the last
person to see the masterpiece before it was finally destroyed.'
'But why?' Anna repeated.
'As Mr Fenston couldn't own the painting himself, he wanted
to be sure that Mr Nakamura couldn't either,' said Krantz, the
blade of the knife still hovering inches from Anna's neck. 'Always a
mistake to cross Mr Fenston. What a pity that you won't have the
chance to tell your friend Lady Arabella what Mr Fenston has in
mind for her.' Krantz paused. 'But I have a feeling he won't mind
me sharing the details with you. Once the painting has been
destroyed - so unfortunate that she couldn't afford to insure it,
such a false economy, because that's when Mr Fenston will set
about selling off the rest of the estate until she has finally cleared
the debt. Her death, unb'ke yours, will be a long and lingering one.
One can only admire Mr Fenston's neat and logical mind.' She
paused again. 'I fear that time is running out, both for you and Mr
Van Gogh.'
Krantz suddenly raised the knife high above her head and
plunged the blade into the canvas. Anna felt the full force of
Krantz's strength as she sliced through Van Gogh's neck, and with
all the power she could muster, continued the movement, until she
had completed an uneven circle, finally removing the head of Van
Gogh and leaving a ragged hole in the centre of the canvas. Krantz
leant back to admire her handiwork, and allowed herself a moment
of satisfaction. She felt she had carried out her contract with Mr
Fenston to the letter, and now that Anna had witnessed the whole
spectacle, the time had come for Krantz to earn the fourth million.
Anna watched as Van Gogh's head fell onto the sheet beside
her, without a drop of blood being spilt. As Krantz sat back to
enjoy her moment of triumph, Anna brought the heavy frame
crashing down towards her head. But Krantz was swifter than Anna
had anticipated and was able to quickly turn, raise an arm and
deflect the blow onto her left shoulder. Anna jumped off the bed

372

 
as Krantz cast the frame to one side and pushed herself back up. Anna managed to rise and even take a step towards the door before Krantz leapt off the bed and dived at her, thrusting the tip of the
blade into her leg as Anna attempted another step. Anna stumbled
and fell, only inches from the door, blood spurting in every
direction. Krantz was only a pace behind as Anna's hand touched
the handle of the door, but it was too late. Krantz was on her
before she could turn the handle. Krantz grabbed her by the hair
and pulled Anna back down onto the floor. Krantz raised the knife
above her head, and the last words Anna heard her utter were:
This time it's personal.'
Krantz was about to perform a ceremonial incision when the
bedroom door was flung open. Not by a butler carrying a cup of
cocoa, but by a woman with a shotgun under her right arm, her hands and shimmering silk gown covered in blood.
Krantz was momentarily transfixed as she looked up at Lady Victoria Wentworth. Hadn't she already killed this woman? Was she staring at a ghost? Krantz hesitated, mesmerized, as the
apparition advanced towards her. Krantz didn't take her eyes off
Arabella, while still holding the knife to Anna's throat, the blade
hovering a centimetre from her skin.
Arabella raised the gun as Krantz eased slowly backwards,
dragging her quarry across the floor towards the open window.
Arabella cocked the trigger. 'Another drop of blood,' she said, 'and
I'll blow you to smithereens. I'll start with your legs, and then I'll
save the second cartridge for your stomach. But I won't quite finish
you off. No, I can promise you a slow, painful death, and I will not
be calling for an ambulance until I'm convinced there's nothing
they can do to help you.' Arabella lowered her gun slightly and
Krantz hesitated. 'Let her go,' she said, 'and I won't fire.' Arabella
broke the barrel of her gun, and waited. She was surprised to
see how terrified Krantz was, while Anna remained remarkably
composed.
Without warning, Krantz let go of Anna's hair and threw herself
sideways out of the open window, landing on the balcony. Arabella
snapped the barrel closed, raised the gun and fired all in one
movement, blowing away the Burne-Jones window and leaving a

373

 
gaping hole. Arabella rushed over to the smouldering gap and
shouted, 'Now, Andrews,' as if she was ordering a beat at a
pheasant shoot to commence. A second later, the security lights
floodlit the front lawn so that it looked like a football field with a
single player advancing towards goal.
Arabella's eyes settled on the diminutive black figure as she
zigzagged across the lawn. Arabella raised the gun a second time,
pulled the butt firmly into her shoulder, took aim, drew a deep
breath and squeezed the trigger. A moment later Krantz fell to the
ground, but still somehow managed to crawl on towards the wall.
'Damn,' said Arabella, 'I only winged her.' She ran out of
the room, down the stairs and shouted long before she reached the
bottom step, 'Two more cartridges, Andrews.'
Andrews opened the front door with his right hand and passed
her ladyship two more cartridges with his left. Arabella quickly
reloaded before charging down the front steps and onto the lawn.
She could just about make out a tiny black figure as it changed
direction towards the open gate, but Arabella was beginning to
make ground on Krantz with every stride she took. Once she was
satisfied that Krantz was within range, she came to a halt in the
middle of the lawn. She raised her gun and nestled it into her
shoulder. She took aim and was about to squeeze the trigger when,
out of nowhere, three police cars and an ambulance came speeding
through the gates, their headlights blinding Arabella so that she
could no longer see her quarry.
The first car screeched to a halt at her feet, and when Arabella
saw who it was that climbed out of the car, she reluctantly lowered
her gun.
'Good evening, chief superintendent,' she said, placing a hand
across her forehead as she tried to shield her eyes from the beam
that was focused directly on her.
'Good evening, Arabella,' replied the chief superintendent, as if
he had arrived a few minutes late for one of her drinks parties. 'Is
everything all right?' he asked.
'It was until you turned up,' said Arabella, 'poking your nose
into other people's business. And how, may I ask, did you manage
to get here so quickly?'

374

 
'You have your American friend, Jack Delaney, to thank for that,' said the chief superintendent. 'He warned us that you might
require some assistance. So we've had the place under surveillance
for the past hour.'
'I didn't require any assistance,' said Arabella, raising her gun
again. 'If you'd given me just a couple more minutes, I'd have
finished her off, and been quite happy to face the consequences.'
'I have no idea what you're talking about,' said the chief
superintendent, as he returned to his car and switched off the
headlights. The ambulance and the other two police cars were
nowhere to be seen.
'You've let her get clean away, you fool,' said Arabella, raising
her gun for a third time, just as Mr Nakamura appeared by her
side in his dressing gown.
'I think that Anna--'
'Oh my God,' said Arabella, who turned and, not bothering to
wait for the chief superintendent's response, began running back
towards the house. She continued on up the steps, through the
open door, before dashing up the staircase, not stopping until she
reached the guest bedroom. She found Andrews kneeling on the
floor, placing a bandage expertly around Anna's leg. Mr Nakamura
came running through the door. He stopped for a moment to catch
his breath before he said, 'For many years, Arabella, I have
wondered what took place at an English country-house party.' He
paused. 'Well, now I know.'
Arabella burst out laughing, and turned towards Nakamura, to
find him staring at the mutilated canvas on the floor by the side of
the bed.
'Oh my God,' repeated Arabella, when she first set eyes on what
was left of her inheritance. 'That bastard Fenston has beaten us
after all. Now I understand why he was so confident that I'd be
forced to sell off the rest of my collection, even finally relinquishing
Wentworth Hall.'
Anna rose slowly to her feet and sat on the end of the bed. 'I
don't think so,' she said, facing her host. Arabella looked puzzled.
'But you have Andrews to thank for that.'
'Andrews?' Arabella repeated.

375

 
'Yes. He warned me that Mr Nakamura would be leaving first
thing in the morning if he was not to be late for his meeting with
Corns Steel and suggested that if I didn't want to be disturbed at
some ungodly hour, perhaps it might be wise for him to remove
the painting during dinner. This would not only allow his staff to
transfer the frame back onto the original, but also give them
enough time to have the picture packed and ready before Mr
Nakamura departed.' Anna paused. 'I put it to Andrews that you
might not be too pleased to discover that he had flouted your
wishes, while I had clearly abused your hospitality. I think I recall
Andrews's exact words/ said Anna. '"If you were to allow me to
replace the masterpiece with the fake, I feel confident that her
ladyship would be none the wiser."'
It was one of the rare occasions during the past forty-nine years
that Andrews had witnessed the Lady Arabella rendered speechless.
'I
think you should fire him on the spot for insubordination,'
said Nakamura, 'then I can offer him a job. Were you to accept,'
he said, turning to Andrews, 'I would be happy to double your
present salary/
'Not a hope/ said Arabella, before the butler was given a chance
to respond. 'Andrews is one national treasure I will never part
with/

376

 
9/26

 
57

Mr Nakamura woke a few minutes after six, when he thought he heard the bedroom door close. He spent a few moments thinking over what had taken place the previous evening, trying to
convince himself it hadn't all been a dream.
He pushed back the sheets and lowered his feet onto the carpet,
to find a pair of slippers and a dressing gown had been left by
the side of the bed. He placed his feet in the slippers, put on the
dressing gown and walked to the end of the bed, where he'd left
his dinner jacket, evening dress shirt and the rest of his clothes on
a chair. He had intended to pack before leaving, but they were no
longer there. He tried to recall if he had already put them in his
suitcase. He opened the lid to discover that his dress shirt had
been washed, ironed and packed, and his dinner jacket was pressed
and hanging up in his suit carrier.
He walked into the bathroom to find the large bath three
quarters full. He placed a hand in the water: the temperature was
warm, but not hot. Then he recalled the bedroom door closing. No
doubt with just enough force to wake him, without disturbing any
other guest. He took off his dressing gown and stepped into the
bath.

Anna came out of the bathroom and started to get dressed. She
was putting on Tina's watch when she first saw the envelope on
the bedside table. Had Andrews delivered it while she was in the

379

 
shower? She felt sure it hadn't been there when she woke. Anna was scrawled on it in Arabella's unmistakable bold hand.
She sat on the end of the bed and tore open the envelope.

Wentworth Hall

September 26th, 2001
Dearest Anna,
How do I begin to thank you? Ten days ago you told me
that you wished to prove you had nothing to do with Victoria's
tragic death. Since then, you have done so much more, and
even ended up saving the family's bacon.

Anna burst out laughing at the quaint English expression, causing
two slips of paper to fall out of the envelope and onto the floor. Anna
bent down to pick them up. The first was a Courts cheque made out
to Anna Petrescu for one million pounds. The second ...

Once Nakamura was dressed, he picked up his cellphone from the
bedside table and dialled a number in Tokyo. He instructed his
finance director to deposit the sum of forty-five million dollars by
electronic transfer with his bank in London. He wouldn't need to
brief his lawyers, as he had already given them clear instructions
to transfer the full amount to Courts & Co in the Strand, where the
Wentworth family had maintained an account for over two centuries.
Before leaving the room to go down to breakfast, Mr Nakamura
paused in front of the portrait of Wellington. He gave the Iron
Duke a slight bow, feeling sure that he would have enjoyed last
night's skirmishes.
As he walked down the marble staircase, he spotted Andrews in
the hall. He was supervising the moving of the red box, which
contained the Van Gogh with its original frame restored. The under
butler was placing the crate next to the front door so that it could be
loaded into Mr Nakamura's car the moment his chauffeur appeared.
Arabella bustled out of the breakfast room as her guest reached
the bottom step.

380

 
'Good morning, Takashi,' she said. 'I do hope that, despite
everything, you managed some sleep.'
"Yes, thank you, Arabella,' he replied, as Anna limped down
behind him.
'I don't know how to thank you,' said Anna.
'Sotheby's would have charged me a lot more,' said Arabella
without explanation.
'And I know that Tina--' began Anna, when there was a firm
rap on the front door. Nakamura paused, as Andrews walked
sedately across the hall.
'Probably my driver,' Nakamura suggested as the butler pulled
open the oak door.
'Good morning, sir,' Andrews said.
Arabella swung round and smiled at her unexpected guest.
'Good morning, Jack,' she said. 'I hadn't realized you were
joining us for breakfast. Have you just popped across from the
States, or have you spent the night at our local police station?'
'No, Arabella, I did not, but I'm told that you should have
done,' replied Jack with a grin.
'Hello, my hero,' said Anna, giving Jack a kiss. Tou arrived just
in time to save us all.'
'Not quite fair,' chipped in Arabella, 'as it was Jack who tipped
off the local constabulary in the first place.'
Anna smiled and, turning to Nakamura, said, 'This is my friend,
Jack Fitzgerald Delaney.'
'No doubt christened John,' suggested Mr Nakamura as he
shook hands with Jack.
'Correct, sir.'
'Names chosen by an Irish mother, or perhaps you were born
on the twenty-second of November, 1963?'
'Guilty on both counts,' admitted Jack.
"Very droll,' said Arabella, as she led her guests through to the
breakfast room, and Anna explained to Jack why she had a bandage
round her leg.
Arabella invited Nakamura to take the place on her right.
Gesturing to Jack, she said, 'Come and sit on my left, young man.
There are still one or two questions that I need answered.' Jack


381

 
eyed the devilled kidneys as he picked up his knife and fork. 'And
you can forget any thought of food/ Arabella added, 'until you've
explained why I'm not on the front page of the Daily Mail following
my heroic efforts last night.'
'I have no idea what you're talking about,' said Jack, as Andrews
poured him a cup of black coffee.
'Not you, as well,' said Arabella. 'It's no wonder so many people
believe in conspiracy theories and police cover-ups. Now do try a
little harder, Jack.'
When I questioned my colleagues at MI5 this morning,' said
Jack, placing his knife and fork back on the table, 'they were able
to assure me that no terrorists had entered this country during the
past twenty-four hours.'
'In other words, she got clean away,' said Anna.
'Not exactly,' said Jack, 'but I can tell you that a woman of
approximately five foot, weighing around a hundred pounds, with a
gunshot wound, spent the night in solitary at Belmarsh prison.'
'From which no doubt she will escape,' suggested Arabella.
'I can assure you, Arabella, that no one has ever escaped from
Belmarsh.'
'But they'll still end up having to send her back to Bucharest.'
'Unlikely,' said Jack, 'as there's no record of her ever entering
the country in the first place, and no one will be looking for a
woman in that particular prison.'
"Well, if that's the case, I'll allow you to help yourself to a small
portion of mushrooms.'
Jack picked up his knife and fork.
"Which I can highly recommend,' said Mr Nakamura, as he rose
from his place, 'but I fear I must now leave you, Arabella, if I am
not to be late for my meeting.'
Jack put down his knife and fork for a second time, as everyone
left the table to join Mr Nakamura in the hall.

Andrews was standing by the front door, organizing the packing
of the red box into the trunk of a Toyota limousine, when Arabella
and her guests walked into the hall.
'I think,' said Mr Nakamura, turning to face Arabella, 'that to
describe my short visit to Wentworth Hall as memorable would be

382

 
a classic example of English understatement.' He smiled, before
taking one last look at Gainsborough's portrait of Catherine, Lady
Wentworth. 'Correct me if I am wrong, Arabella/ he continued,
'but isn't that the same necklace as you were wearing at dinner last
night?"
'It is indeed,' replied Arabella with a smile. 'Her ladyship was
an actress, which would be the equivalent today of being a lap
dancer, so heaven knows from which of her many admirers she
acquired such a magnificent bauble. But I'm not complaining,
because I certainly have her to thank for the necklace.'
'And the earrings,' said Anna.
'Earring, sadly,' said Arabella, touching her right ear.
'Earring,' repeated Jack as he looked up at the painting. 'I'm
so dumb,' he added. 'It's been staring me in the face all the time.'
'And what exactly has been staring you in the face all the time?"
asked Anna.
'Leapman wrote on the back of a photograph of Fenston shaking hands with George W. Bush: "This is all the evidence you need".'
'All the evidence you need for what?' asked Arabella.
'To prove that it was Fenston who murdered your sister,' replied Jack.
'I fail to see a connection between Catherine Lady Wentworth
and the President of the United States,' said Arabella.
'Exactly the same mistake as I made,' said Jack. 'The connection
is not between Lady Wentworth and Bush, but between Lady
Wentworth and Fenston. And the clue has always been staring us
in the face.'
Everyone looked up at the Gainsborough portrait.
After a long silence, Anna was the first to speak.
'They're both wearing the same earring,' she said quietly. 'I also
missed it completely. I even saw Fenston wearing the earring on
the day he fired me, but I just didn't make the connection.'
'Leapman immediately realized its significance,' said Jack,
almost rubbing his hands together. 'He'd worked out that it was
the vital piece of evidence we needed to secure a conviction.'
Andrews coughed.
'You're quite right, Andrews,' said Arabella. We mustn't keep

383

 
Mr Nakamura any longer. The poor man has suffered quite enough
family revelations for one day.'
True,' said Mr Nakamura. 'However, I would like to congratulate
Mr Delaney on a remarkable piece of detection.'
'Slow, but he gets there in the end,' said Anna, taking his hand.
Mr Nakamura smiled as Arabella accompanied him down to his
car, while Jack and Anna waited on the top step.
Well done, Stalker. I agree with Mr Nakamura, that wasn't a
bad piece of detective work.'
Jack smiled and turned to face Anna. 'But how about your
efforts as a rookie agent? Did you ever discover why Tina--'
'I thought you'd never ask,' said Anna, 'though I must confess I
also missed several clues that should have been obvious, even to
an amateur.'
'Like what?' asked Jack.
'A girl who just happens to support the 49ers as well as the
Lakers, has a considerable knowledge and love of American art,
whose hobby was sailing a boat called Christina that had been
named after the owner's two children.'
'She's Chris Adams's daughter?' said Jack.
'And Chris Adams Jr's sister,' said Anna.
'Well that explains everything.'
'Almost everything,' said Anna, 'because not only did Tina Adams
lose her home and the boat after her brother had his throat cut by
Krantz, but she also had to drop out of law school.'
'So Fenston finally crossed the wrong person.'
'And it gets better,' said Anna. 'Tina changed her name from
Adams to Forster, moved to New York, took a secretarial course,
applied for a temping job at the bank and waited for Fenston's
secretary to resign - a fairly regular occurrence - before she
stepped into the breach.'
'And held on to her position until she was fired last week,' Jack
reminded her, as Nakamura bowed low to Arabella before climbing
into the back of his limousine.
'And even better news, Stalker,' continued Anna as she returned
Mr Nakamura's wave. 'Tina downloaded every document that might
implicate Fenston onto her personal computer. She kept everything,

384

 "; 1

 
from contracts to letters, even personal memos that Fenston thought
had been destroyed when the North Tower collapsed. So I have a
feeling that it won't be that long before you can finally close the file
on Mr Bryce Fenston.'

Thanks to you and Tina,' said Jack. He paused. 'But she still
lost everything.'

'Not everything,' said Anna, 'because you'll be happy to know
that Arabella has given her a million dollars for the part she played
in saving the Wentworth estate.'

'A million dollars?' said Jack.

'Not to mention the million pounds she's presented to me, "for
the labourer is worthy of his hire" was how Arabella expressed it in
her letter.'

'St Luke,' said Jack. '"And in the same house remain, eating
and drinking such things as they give: for the labourer is worthy of
his hire."'

'Impressive,' said Anna.

'And I didn't even get breakfast.'

Well, perhaps I'll take pity on you, Stalker, and let you join me
for lunch in first class on the flight home.'

Jack turned to Anna and smiled. I'd much rather you came to
dinner with me on Saturday evening.'

'Your mother's Irish stew night?' said Anna. 'Now that's better
than first class. I'd certainly be up for that.'

'But before you agree, Anna, that there's something I have to
tell you,' said Jack as Mr Nakamura's car disappeared down the
drive and out of the gates.

'And what's that?' asked Anna, turning back to face him.

'My mother is under the illusion that you've already been married
three times, you have five children, not necessarily by the three
husbands, four of them are on hard drugs and the other one is
currently serving a jail sentence.' He paused. 'She also thinks that
you work in a far older profession than art consultancy.'

Anna burst out laughing. 'But what will you tell her when she
discovers that none of it's true?'

'You're not Irish,' said Jack.

 
AUTHOR'S NOTE

Although Van Gogh cut off part of his left ear with a razor following a
row with Gauguin, it still remains a mystery why his right ear is covered
with a bandage in both self-portraits.
Art historians, including Louis van Tilborgh, Curator of Paintings at
the Van Gogh Museum, are convinced that the artist painted the picture
while looking in a mirror.
Tilborgh points out that Van Gogh wrote to his brother, Theo, on
17 September 1888, after buying a mirror 'to help him with his work'
(letter number 685 in the 1990 edition of Van Gogh's letters, and
number 537 in the 1953 (English) edition of his correspondence).
The mirror was left at Aries when the artist moved on to Saint-Remy.
However, Van Gogh wrote another letter to J. Ginoux (11 May 1890,
634a in the English edition, 872 in the Dutch edition), asking Ginoux to
'take good care of the mirror'.
Van Gogh is known to have painted two self-portraits with bandaged
ear. One can be viewed at the Courtauld Institute at Somerset House in
London. The second remains in a private collection.
 
'	/

i	/

W

From Van Gogh's letter to his brother, Theo, 17 September 1888 Copyright  Van Gogh Museum, Amsterdam (Vincent Van Gogh Foundation)

 
A TIMELINE OF BESTSELLERS IN THE AUCTION WORLD, 1980-2005


Year Artist/Title

1980 TURNER Juliet and Her Nurse

1981 PICASSO Yo Picasso


1982 BOTTICELLI Giovanni de Pierfrancesco de Medici

1983 CEZANNE Sucrier, poires et tapies

1984 RAPHAEL Chalk Study of a Man's Head and Hand

1985 MANTEGNA Adoration of the Magi

1986 MAN ET La rue Mosnier aux paveurs

1987 VAN GOGH IRISES

1988 PICASSO Acrobate et jeune arlequin

1989 PICASSO Yo Picasso

1990 VAN GOGH PORTRAITDU DR GACHET

1991 TITIAN Venus and Adonis

1992 CANALETTO The Old Horse Guards


1993 CEZANNE Nature morte: les grosses pommes

1994 DA VINCI Codex Hammer
Price/US$
7,000,000
5,800,000
1,400,000
4,000,000
4,400,000
10,500,000
11,100,000
53,900,000
38,500,000
47,900,000
82,500,000
13,500,000
17,800,000
28,600,000
30,800,000
 
1995 PICASSO Angel Fernandez de Soto	29,100,000

1996 John F. Kennedy's rocking chair	453,500

1997 PICASSO Le Rive	48,400,000

1998 VAN GOGH PORTRAIT DE L'ARTISTE SANS BARBE	71,500,000

1999 CEZANNE Rideau, cruchon et compotier	60,500,000

2000 MICHELANGELO The Risen Christ	12,300,000

2000 REMBRANDT Portrait of a Lady, Age 62	28,700,000

2001 KOONS Michael Jackson and Bubbles	5,600,000

2002 RUBENS The Massacre of the Innocents	76,700,000

2003 ROTHKO Wo. 9 (White and Black on Wine)	16,400,000

2004 RAPHAEL Madonna of the Pinks	62,700,000

2004 PICASSO Garcon a la pipe	104,000,000

2004 VERMEER A Young Woman Seated at the Virginals	30,000,000

2004 WARHOL Mustard Race Riot	15,100,000

2005 GAINSBOROUGH PORTRAIT OF SIR CHARLES GOULD	1,100,000

2005 YUAN DYNASTY VASE	27,600,000

Source: Art & Auction, September 2005