False Impression

“Perhaps she did. After all, you ordered her off the premises within ten minutes.”

“Barry thinks otherwise.”

“Barry’s alive,” Leapman reminded him.

“Even if Petrescu did escape, she still can’t do anything,” said Fenston. “She could get to London before I do,” said Leapman.

“But the painting is safely under lock and key at Heathrow.”

“But all the documentation to prove you own it was in your safe in the North Tower, and if Petrescu is able to convince—”

“Convince who? Victoria Wentworth is dead, and try not to forget that Petrescu is also missing, presumed dead.”

“But that might prove to be just as convenient for her as it is for us.”

“Then we’ll have to make it less convenient.”

9/13

18

A LOUD, REPEATED banging jolted Anna out of a deep sleep. She rubbed her eyes and looked through the windshield. A man with a pot belly hanging out of his jeans was thumping on the hood of the van with a clenched fist. In his other hand he was carrying a can of beer that was frothing at the mouth. Anna was about to scream at him when she realized that someone else was at the same time trying to wrench open the back door. An ice-cold shower couldn’t have woken her any quicker.

Anna scrambled into the driver’s seat and quickly turned the key in the ignition. She looked in her side-view mirror and was horrified to see that another forty-ton truck was now stationed directly behind her, leaving her with almost no room to maneuver. She pressed the palm of her hand on the horn, which only encouraged the man holding the beer can to clamber up onto the hood and advance toward her. Anna saw his face clearly for the first time, as he leered at her through the windshield. She felt cold and sick. He leaned forward, opened his toothless mouth, and began licking the glass, while his friend continued trying to force open the back door. The engine finally spluttered into life.

Anna yanked the steering wheel round to give her the tightest possible turns, but the space between the two trucks only allowed her to advance a few feet before she had to reverse. Power steering was not one of the van’s extras. When she shot back, Anna heard a yell from behind as the second man threw himself to one side. Anna crashed into first gear and pressed her foot back down on the accelerator. As the van leaped forward, the pot-bellied man slid off the hood and onto the ground with a thud. Anna thrust the gearstick back into reverse, praying this time there would be enough room to escape. But before she had pulled the steering wheel fully around, she glanced to the side to see that the second man was now staring at her through the passenger window. He clamped both of his massive hands on the roof and began rocking the van slowly backward and forward. She slammed her foot on the pedal and the van dragged him slowly forward, but she still failed to make it through the gap, if only by inches. Anna rammed the gear into reverse for a third time and was horrified to see the first man’s hands reappear on the front of the hood, as he pulled himself back up onto his feet. He lurched forward, stuck his nose flat against the windshield, and gave her a thumbs-down sign. He then shouted to his buddy, “I get to go first this week.” His buddy stopped rocking the car and burst out laughing.

Anna broke out into a cold sweat when her eyes settled on the potbellied man, walking unsteadily toward his truck. A quick glance in her side-view mirror and she could see his mate climbing up into his cab.

It didn’t take Anna more than a split second to work out exactly what they had in mind. She was about to become the meat in their next sandwich. Anna hit the accelerator so hard that she careered into the truck behind her just as he turned on his full headlights. She crashed the gears back into first as the engine of the front truck roared into life, belching a cloud of black smoke all over the windshield. Anna yanked the steering wheel over with a jerk and once again thrust her foot hard down on the accelerator. The van jumped forward, just as the truck in front of her began to reverse. She collided with the corner of the front truck’s massive mudguard

, which tore off her bumper followed by her passenger-side mudguard. She then felt herself being shunted from behind as the rear truck plowed into her, ripping off her rear bumper. The little van came hurtling out of the gap with inches to spare and spun around a full 360 degrees before it came to a halt. Anna looked across to see the two trucks, unable to react in time, crash into each other.

She accelerated across the parking lot, raced past several stationary trucks and out onto the highway. She continued to look in her rearview mirror as the two trucks disentangled themselves. A loud screeching of brakes and a cacophony of horns followed as she narrowly missed colliding with a stream of vehicles coming down the highway, several of which had to career across two lanes to avoid her. The first driver left his hand on the horn for some time, leaving Anna in no doubt of his feelings. Anna waved an apologetic hand to the overtaking vehicle as it shot past her, while she continued to glance into her side-view mirror, dreading seeing either of the trucks pursuing her. She jammed her foot down on the accelerator until it touched the floor, determined to find out the maximum speed the van could manage: sixty-eight miles per hour was the answer.

Anna checked her side-view mirror once again. A vast eighteen-wheeler was coming up behind her on the inside lane. She gripped the steering wheel firmly and jammed her foot back down on the accelerator, but the van had no more to offer. The truck was now eating up the ground, yard by yard, and in moments she knew it would convert itself into a bulldozer. Anna thrust the palm of her left hand down on the horn, and it let out a bleat that wouldn’t have disturbed a flock of starlings from their nests. A large, green sign appeared on the side of the road, indicating the turnoff for the 1-90, one mile.

Anna moved into the middle lane and the massive truck followed her like a magnet hoping to sweep up any loose filings. The truck driver was now so close that Anna could see him in her side-view mirror. He gave her another toothless grin and then honked his horn. It let forth a sound that would have drowned out the last bars of a Wagner opera.

Half a mile to the exit, the new sign promised. She moved across to the fast lane, causing a line of advancing cars to throw on their brakes and slow down. Several pressed their horns this time. She ignored them and slowed down to fifty when they became an orchestra.

The eighteen-wheeler drew up beside her. She slowed down, he slowed down; quarter of a mile to the turnoff, the next sign declared. She saw the exit in the distance, grateful for the first shafts of the morning sun appearing through the clouds, as none of her lights were now working.

Anna knew that she would have only one chance, and her timing had to be perfect. She gripped the steering wheel firmly as she reached the exit for the 1-90 and drove on past the green triangle of grass that divided the two highways. She suddenly jammed her foot back down on the accelerator, and although the van didn’t leap forward, it spurted and managed to gain a few yards. Was it enough? The truck driver responded immediately and also began to accelerate. He was only a car’s length away when Anna suddenly swung the steering wheel to the right and carried on across the middle and inside lanes before mounting the grass verge. The van bounced across the uneven triangle of grass and onto the far exit lane. A car traveling down the inside lane had to swerve onto the hard shoulder to avoid hitting her, while another shot past on the outside. As Anna steadied the van on the inside lane, she looked across to see the eighteen-wheeler heading on down the highway and out of sight.

She slowed down to fifty, although her heart was still beating at three times that speed. She tried to relax. As with all athletes, it is speed of recovery that matters. As she swung onto the 1-90, she glanced in her side-view mirror. Her heartbeat immediately returned to 150 when she saw a second eighteen-wheeler bearing down on her.

Pot-belly’s buddy hadn’t made the same mistake.

19

AS THE STRANGER entered the lobby, Sam looked up from behind his desk. When you’re a doorman, you have to make instant decisions about people. Do they fall in the category of “Good morning, sir” or “Can I help you?” or simply “Hi”? Sam studied the tall, middle-aged man who had just walked in. He was wearing a smart but well-worn suit, the cloth a little shiny at the elbows, and his shirt cuffs were slightly frayed. He wore a tie that Sam reckoned had been tied a thousand times.

“Good morning,” Sam settled on.

“Good morning,” replied the man. “I’m from the Department of Immigration.”

That only made Sam nervous. Although he’d been born in Harlem, he’d heard stories of people being deported by mistake.