“I’ll still have to accompany you to the outgoing aircraft, Ms. Parish, so I can confirm that the package has been loaded for its onward destination. Not until then can I sign a clearance certificate.”
“Of course,” said Ruth, who carried out the same procedure two or three times a day.
Anna had reached the baggage area by the time the security van began its circuitous journey from terminal three to terminal four. When the driver came to a halt, he parked beside a United Airlines plane bound for New York.
The security van waited on the tarmac for over an hour before the cargo hold was opened, by which time Ruth knew the life history of the customs official, even which school he intended to send his third child to if he was promoted. Ruth then watched the process in reverse. The back door of the security van was unlocked, the painting placed on a forklift truck, driven to the side of the hold, raised, and accepted on board by two handlers before it disappeared into the bowels of the aircraft.
The customs official signed all three copies of the dispatch documents and bade farewell to Ruth before returning to his office. In normal circumstances, Ruth would also have gone back to her office, filed the relevant forms, checked her messages, and then left for the day. However, these were not normal circumstances. She remained seated in her car and waited until all the passengers’ bags had been loaded on board and the cargo doors had been locked. Still she didn’t move, even after the aircraft began to taxi toward the north runway. She waited until the plane’s wheels had left the ground before she phoned Leapman in New York. Her message was simple: “The package is on its way.”
Jack was puzzled. He had watched Anna stroll into the arrivals hall, exchange some dollars at Travelex, and then join the long line for a taxi. Jack’s cab was already waiting on the other side of the road, two sets of luggage on board, engine running, as he waited for Anna’s cab to pass him.
“Where to, guv?” asked the driver.
“I’m not sure,” admitted Jack, “but my first bet would be cargo.”
Jack assumed that Anna would drive straight to the cargo depot and retrieve the package the taxi driver had dispatched from Bucharest.
But Jack was wrong. Instead of turning right, when the large blue sign indicating cargo loomed up in front of them, Anna’s taxi swung left and continued to drive west down the M25.
“She’s not going to cargo, guv, so what’s your next bet—Gatwick?”
“So what’s in the crate?” asked Jack.
“I’ve no idea, sir.”
“I’m so stupid,” Jack said.
“I wouldn’t want to venture an opinion on that, sir, but it would help if I knew where we was goin’.”
Jack laughed. “I think you’ll find it’s Wentworth.”
“Right, guv.”
Jack tried to relax, but every time he glanced out of the rear window he could have sworn that another black cab was following them. A shadowy figure was seated in the back. Why was she still pursuing Anna, when the painting must have been deposited in cargo?
When his driver turned off the M25 and took the road to Wentworth, the taxi Jack had imagined was following them continued on in the direction of Gatwick.
“You’re not stupid, after all, guv, because it looks as if it could be Wentworth.”
“No, but I am paranoid,” admitted Jack.
“Make up your mind, sir,” the driver said, as Anna’s taxi swung through the gates of Wentworth Hall and disappeared up the drive.
“Do you want me to keep followin’ her, guv?”
“No,” said Jack. “But I’ll need a local hotel for the night. Do you know one by any chance?”
“When the golf tournament is on, I drop a lot of my customers off at the Wentworth Arms. They ought to be able to fix you up with a room at this time of year.”
“Then let’s find out,” said Jack.
“Right you are, guv.”
Jack sat back and dialed a number on his cell phone.
“American Embassy.”
“Tom Crasanti, please.”