False Impression (16 page)

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.’

‘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.

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 6.55 am.’

L
eapman 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.

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.

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 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 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.