False Impression (41 page)

‘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.

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 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.

A
t 7.16 pm,
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 7.19 pm.
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.

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: 7.43 pm. ‘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. 7.48 pm.

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?’

‘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.

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 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?’