False Impression

“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.”

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.

“You’re quite a bit over weight, madam,” she 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 toward 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 toward gate forty-three,” said a voice, “and will be departing on flight BA two-seven-two to Bucharest at eight forty-four. . . .”

Fenston squeezed himself into a line of dignitaries as President Bush and Mayor Giuliani shook hands with a select 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 was followed by the single peal of a bell.