False Impression

“Where it’s always been,” replied Leapman.

“Then it has to be in 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 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 around. She didn’t.

Time to make her call. Krantz dialed 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 cell phone 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 inquired 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 toward 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 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. Did she have any idea how much danger she was in? 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 eme

rged 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.”

“I’ll just find out if he’s available, Mr. Fenston.”

“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?”