False Impression

He picked up the phone, and said, “Good morning, Chairman,” as if he was sitting at his desk in the office.

“Krantz has located the painting.”

“Where is it?” asked Leapman.

“It was in Bucharest, but it’s now on its way back to Heathrow.”

Leapman wanted to say, I told you so, but confined himself to, “When does the plane land?”

“Just after four, London time.”

“I’ll have someone standing by to pick it up.”

“And they should put it on the first available flight to New York.”

“So where’s Petrescu?” asked Leapman.

“No idea,” said Fenston, “but Krantz is at the airport waiting for her. So don’t expect her to be on the same flight.”

Leapman heard the click. Fenston never said good-bye. He climbed out of bed, picked up his phone book, and thumbed through until he reached the Ps. He checked his watch and dialed her office number.

“Ruth Parish.”

“Good morning, Ms. Parish. It’s Karl Leapman.”

“Good morning,” replied Ruth cautiously.

“We’ve found our painting.”

“You have the Van Gogh?” said Ruth.

“No, not yet, but that’s why I’m calling.”

“How can I help?”

“It’s in the cargo hold of a flight on its way from Bucharest, due to land outside your front door just after four o’clock this afternoon.” He paused. “Just make sure you’re there to pick it up.”

“I’ll be there. But whose name is on the manifest?”

“Who gives a fuck? It’s our painting and it’s in your crate. Just be sure you don’t mislay it a second time.” Leapman put the phone down before she had a chance to protest.

Ruth Parish and four of her carriers were already on the tarmac when Flight 019 from Bucharest landed at Heathrow. Once the aircraft had been cleared for unloading, the little motorcade of a customs official’s car, Ruth’s Range Rover, and an Art Locations security van drove up and parked within twenty meters of the cargo hold.

If Ruth had looked up, she would have seen Anna’s smiling face in her tiny window at the back of the aircraft. But she didn’t.

Ruth stepped out of her car and joined the customs officer. She had earlier informed him that she wished to transfer a painting from an incoming flight to an onward destination. The customs official had looked bored, and wondered why she had chosen such a senior officer to carry out such a routine task, until he was told, in confide

nce, the value of the painting. His promotion board was due in three weeks’ time. If he screwed up this simple exercise, he could forget the extra silver stripe he promised his wife she would be sewing on his sleeve before the end of the month. Not to mention the pay raise.

When the hold eventually opened, they both walked forward together, but only the customs officer addressed the chief loader. “There’s a red wooden crate on board”—he checked his file—“three foot by two, and three or four inches deep. It’s stamped with an Art Locations logo on both sides, and the number forty-seven stenciled in all four corners. I want it unloaded before anything else is moved.”

The chief loader passed on the instructions to his two men in the hold, who disappeared into the darkness. By the time they reappeared, Anna was heading toward passport control.

“That’s it,” said Ruth, when the two loaders reappeared on the edge of the hold, carrying a red crate. The customs official nodded. A forklift truck moved forward, expertly extracted the crate from the hold and lowered it slowly to the ground. The customs man checked the manifest, followed by the logo and even the stenciled forty-sevens.

“Everything seems to be in order, Ms. Parish. If you’ll just sign here.”

Ruth signed the form but couldn’t make out the signature on the original manifest. The customs officer’s eyes never left the forklift truck as the package was driven across to the Art Locations van, where two of Ruth’s carriers loaded the crate on board.