False Impression

“But why?”

“Perhaps she wants us to believe she’s missing, presumed dead?” suggested Joe.

“Not us,” said Jack.

“Then who?”

“Fenston, would be my bet.”

“Why?”

“I have no idea,” said Jack, “but I have every intention of finding out.”

“And how do you propose to do that, boss?”

“By putting an OPS team on Tina Forster’s apartment until Petrescu leaves the building.”

“But we don’t even know if she’s in there,” said Joe.

“She’s in there,” said Jack, and put the phone down.

9/12

16

DURING THE NIGHT, Anna managed to catch only a few minutes of sleep as she considered her future. She came to the conclusion that she might as well return to Danville and open a gallery for local artists while any potential employers could get in touch with Fenston and be told his side of the story. She was beginning to feel that her only hope of survival was to prove what Fenston was really up to, and she accepted that she couldn’t do that without Victoria’s full cooperation, which might include destroying all the relevant documentation, even her report.

Anna was surprised how energized she felt when Tina knocked on the door just after four.

Another shower, followed by another shampoo, and she felt almost human.

Over a breakfast of black coffee and bagels, Anna went over her plan with Tina. They decided on some ground rules they should follow while she was away. Anna no longer had a credit card or a cell phone, so she agreed to call Tina only on her home number and always from a public phone booth—never the same one twice. Anna would announce herself as “Vincent,” and no other name would be used. The call would never last for more than one minute.

Anna left the apartment at 4:52 A.M., dressed in jeans, a blue T-shirt, a linen jacket, and a baseball cap. She wasn’t sure what to expect as she stepped out onto the sidewalk that cool, dark morning. Few people were out on the streets, and those that were had their heads bowed—their downcast faces revealed a city in mourning. No one gave Anna a second glance as she strode purposefully along the sidewalk pulling her suitcase, the laptop bag slung over her shoulder. It didn’t matter in which direction she looked; a foggy, gray haze still hung over the city. The dense cloud had dispersed, but like a disease it had spread to other parts of the body. For some reason, Anna had assumed when she woke it would have gone, but, like an unwelcome guest at a party, it would surely be the last to leave.

Anna passed a line of people who were already waiting to give blood in the hope that more survivors would be found. She was a survivor, but she didn’t want to be found.

Fenston was seated behind his desk in his new Wall Street office by six o’clock that morning. After all, it was already eleven in London. The first call he made was to Ruth Parish.

“Where’s my Van Gogh?” he demanded, without bothering to announce who it was.

“Good morning, Mr. Fenston,” said Ruth, but she received no reply in kind. “As I feel sure you know, the aircraft carrying your painting was turned back, following yesterday’s tragedy”

“So where’s my Van Gogh?” repeated Fenston.

“Safely locked up in one of our secure vaults in the restricted customs area. Of course, we will have to reapply for customs clearance and renew the export license. But there’s no need to do that before—”

“Do it today,” said Fenston.

“This morning I had planned to move four Vermeers from—”

“Fuck Vermeer. Your first priority is to make sure my painting is packed and ready to be collected.”

“But the paperwork might take a few days,” said Ruth. “I’m sure you appreciate that there’s now a backlog following—”

“And fuck any backlog,” said Fenston. “The moment the FAA lift their restrictions, I’m sending Karl Leapman over to pick up the painting.”

“But my staff are already working round the clock to clear the extra work caused by—”