False Impression

Ruth picked up the remote control from her desk and pointed it toward the TV screen.

“Will you be putting the Van Gogh in storage?” asked Ken, “or do you want us to return it to Wentworth Hall?”

“It certainly won’t be going back to Wentworth,” said Ruth. “I’ll lock the painting up in one of our customs-free zones overnight and then put it on the first available flight to New York once JFK lifts the restrictions.” Ruth paused. “Will you confirm an ETA about thirty minutes before your plane is due to touch down so I can have one of my trucks standing by?”

“Will do,” said Ken.

Ruth replaced the receiver and glanced up at the TV. She tapped out the number 501 on her remote control. The first image she saw was a plane flying into the South Tower.

Now she understood why Anna hadn’t returned her call.

As Anna dried herself, she began to speculate on what possible reason Tina could have to go on working for Fenston. She found herself shaking her head. After all, Tina was bright enough to pick up a far better job.

She pulled on her friend’s bathrobe and slippers, placed the key on its chain back around her neck and put on her one-time watch. She looked at herself in the mirror; the outward façade had considerably improved, but Anna still felt queasy whenever she thought about what she had been through only a few hours before. She wondered for how many days, months, years it would be a recurring nightmare.

She opened the bathroom door and maneuvered her way down the corridor, avoiding the ashy footprints she’d left on the carpet. When she walked into the kitchen, Tina stopped laying the table and handed over her cell phone.

“Time to call Victoria and warn her what you’re up to.”

“What am I up to?” asked Anna.

“For starters, ask her if she knows where the Van Gogh is.”

“Locked up in a customs-free zone at Heathrow would be my bet, but there’s only one way to find out.” Anna dialed 00.

“International operator.”

“I need a number in England,” said Anna.

“Business or residential?”

“Residential.”

“Name?”

“Wentworth, Victoria.”

“Address?”

“Wentworth Hall, Wentworth, Surrey.”

There was a long silence before Anna was informed, “I’m sorry, ma’am, that number is ex-directory.”

“What does that mean?” asked Anna.

“I can’t give out the number.”

“But this is an emergency,” insisted Anna.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but I still can’t release that number.”

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“But I’m a close personal friend.”

“I don’t care if you’re the Queen of England, I repeat, I’m unable to give out that number.” The line went dead. Anna frowned.

“So what’s plan B?” asked Tina.