False Impression

“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, D.C. 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 on Bryce Fenston, and was now having to rely on an amateur to deliver the knockout punch.

He stopped daydreaming 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 cell phone every day. She’d phone the chairman once, only speak in their native tongue, 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 cell phone 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.”

“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 holdup 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.”