False Impression

“We’ll be there in a few minutes,” the chauffeur assured him, as he drove out of the hotel entrance.

Half of the journey seemed to Jack to be from the wrought-iron gates at the entrance to the estate along the long drive that led up to the hall. Once the chauffeur had brought the car to a halt, he jumped out and walked around to open the back door. Jack stepped out onto the gravel drive and looked up to see a butler standing on the top step, obviously expecting him.

“Good morning, sir,” he said, “welcome to Wentworth Hall. If you would be good enough to follow me, Lady Arabella is expecting you.’

“ ‘A usually reliable source,’ ” muttered Jack, but if the butler did overhear him, he made no comment as he led the guest through to the drawing room.

“Mr. Delaney, m’lady,” announced the butler, as two dogs, tails wagging, padded forward to greet him.

“Good morning, Mr. Delaney,” said Arabella. “I think we owe you an apology. You are so obviously not a stalker.”

Jack stared at Anna, who also looked suitably embarrassed, and then turned toward Tom, who couldn’t remove the grin from his face.

Andrews reappeared at the door. “Breakfast is ready, m’lady.”

When she woke a second time, a young doctor was changing the dressing on her shoulder.

“How long before I’m fully recovered?” was her first question.

The doctor looked startled when he heard her voice for the first time—such a shrill, piping note didn’t quite fit her legend. He remained silent until he’d finished cutting a length of bandage with his scissors.

“Three, four days at most,” he replied, looking down at her. “But I wouldn’t be in a hurry to get myself discharged, if I were you, because the moment I sign your release papers, your next stop is Jilava, which I think you’re only too familiar with from your days serving the past regime.”

Krantz could never forget the barren, stone-walled, rat-infested building that she had visited every night in order to question the latest prisoners before being driven back to the warmth of her well-furnished dacha on the outskirts of the city.

“I’m told that the inmates are looking forward to seeing you again after such a prolonged absence,” added the doctor. He bent over, peeled an edge from the large dressing on her shoulder, and paused. “This is going to hurt,” he promised, and then in one movement, ripped it off. Krantz didn’t flinch. She wasn’t going to allow him

that satisfaction.

The doctor dabbed iodine into the wound before placing a new dressing over it. He then expertly bandaged the shoulder and placed her right arm in a sling.

“How many guards are there?” she asked casually.

“Six, and they’re all armed,” said the doctor, “and just in case you’re thinking of trying to escape, they have orders to shoot first and fill in any unnecessary forms later. I’ve even prepared an unsigned death certificate for them.”

Krantz didn’t ask any more questions.

When the doctor left, she lay staring up at the ceiling. If there was any chance of escaping, it would have to be while she was still at the hospital. No one had ever managed to escape from Jilava penitentiary, not even Ceausescu.

It took her another eight hours to confirm that there were always six guards, covering three eight-hour shifts. The first group clocked in at six o’clock, the second at two, and the night shift came on duty at ten.

During a long, sleepless night, Krantz discovered that the half-dozen guards on night duty felt they had drawn the short straw. One of them was just plain lazy and spent half the night asleep. Another was always sneaking off to have a cigarette on the fire escape—no smoking allowed on the hospital premises. The third was a philanderer who imagined that he’d been put on earth to satisfy women. He was never more than a few paces from one of the nurses. The fourth spent most of his time grumbling about how much, or how little, he was paid, and his wife’s ability to clean him out before the end of every week. Krantz knew that she could take care of his problem if she was given the chance. The other two guards were older, and remembered her only too well from the past regime. One of them would have been happy to blow a hole right through her if she’d as much as raised her head from the pillow.

But even they were entitled to a meal break.

Jack sat down to a breakfast of eggs, bacon, deviled kidneys, mushrooms, and tomatoes, followed by toast, English marmalade, and coffee.

“You must be hungry after such an ordeal,” remarked Arabella.

“If it hadn’t been for Tom, I might have had to settle for prison rations.”

“And I fear I am to blame,” said Anna. “Because I fingered you,” she added with a grin.

“Not true,” said Tom. “You can thank Arabella for having Jack arrested and Arabella for having him released.”

“No, I can’t take all the credit,” Arabella said, stroking one of the dogs, seated on each side of her. “I admit to having Jack arrested, but it was your ambassador who managed to get him—what’s the American expression?—sprung.”

“But there is one thing I still don’t understand,” said Anna, “despite Tom filling us in with all the finer details. Why did you continue to follow me to Wentworth once you were convinced I was no longer in possession of the painting?”