False Impression

“Let me guess,” said Jack. “The bumper was at one time attached to a white van driven by the suspect.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And where is the van now?” asked Jack, trying not to sound exasperated.

“I have no idea, sir. When the suspect drove into the rest stop to take a break, I must admit, sir, I also fell

asleep. When I woke, the suspect’s van had left, leaving the bumper with the GPS still attached.”

“Then she’s either very clever,” said Jack, “or she’s been involved in an accident.”

“I agree.” He paused, and then added, “What do you think I should do next, sir?”

“Join the CIA,” said Jack.

“Hi, it’s Vincent, any news?”

“Yep, just as you thought, Ruth Parish has the painting locked up in the secure customs area at Heathrow.”

“Then I’ll have to unlock it,” said Anna.

“That might not prove quite that easy,” said Tina, “because Leapman flies out of JFK first thing tomorrow morning to pick up the painting, so you’ve only got another twenty-four hours before he joins you.” She hesitated. “And you have another problem.”

“Another problem?” said Anna.

“Leapman isn’t convinced you’re dead.”

“What makes him think that?”

“He keeps asking about you, so be especially careful. Never forget Fenston’s reaction when the North Tower collapsed. He may have lost half a dozen staff, but his only interest was the Monet in his office. Heaven knows what he’d do if he lost the Van Gogh as well. Dead artists are more important to him than living people.”

Anna could feel the beads of sweat breaking out on her forehead as the line went dead. She checked her watch: thirty-two seconds.

“Our ‘friend’ at JFK has confirmed we’ve been allocated a slot at seven twenty tomorrow morning,” Leapman said. “But I haven’t informed Tina.”

“Why not?” asked Fenston.

“Because the doorman at Petrescu’s building told me that someone looking like Tina was seen leaving there on Tuesday evening.”

“Tuesday evening?” repeated Fenston. “But that would mean—”

“And she was carrying a suitcase.”

Fenston frowned but said nothing.

“Do you want me to do anything about it?”

“What do you have in mind?” asked Fenston.

“Bug the phone in her apartment for a start. Then if Petrescu is in contact with her, we’ll know exactly where she is and what she’s up to.”

Fenston didn’t reply, which Leapman always took to mean yes.

CANADIAN BORDER 4 MILES declared a sign on the side of the road. Anna smiled—a smile that was quickly removed when she swung round the next corner and came to a halt behind a long line of vehicles that stretched as far as the eye could see.

She stepped out onto the road and began to stretch her tired limbs. Anna grimaced as she looked across at what was left of her battered transport. How would she explain that to the Happy Hire Company? She certainly didn’t need to part with any more cash—the first $500 of any damage, if she remembered correctly. While continuing to stretch, she couldn’t help noticing that the other side of the road was empty; no one seemed to be in a rush to enter the United States.

Anna progressed only another hundred yards during the next twenty minutes, ending up opposite a gas station. She made an instant decision—breaking another habit of a lifetime. She swung the van across the road and onto the forecourt, drove past the pumps, and parked the van next to a tree—just behind a large sign declaring SUPERIOR CAR WASH. Anna retrieved her two bags from the back of the van and started out on the four-mile trek to the border.