40
WHEN KRANTZ CAME round following the operation, the first thing she felt was a stabbing pain in her right shoulder. She managed to raise her head a couple of inches off the pillow as she tried to focus on the small, white-walled, unadorned room: just the bare necessities—a bed, a table, a chair, one sheet, one blanket, and a bedpan. It could only be a hospital, but not of the private variety, because the room had no windows, no flowers, no fruit, no cards from well-wishers, and an exit that had bars clamped across the door.
Krantz tried to piece together what had happened to her. She could remember spotting the taxi driver’s gun pointing at her heart, and that was where the memory faded. She’d had just enough time to turn—an inch, no more—before the bullet ripped into her shoulder. No one had been that close before. The next bullet missed completely, but by then he’d given her another second, easily enough time to cut his throat. He had to be a pro, an ex-policeman, perhaps, possibly a soldier. But then she must have passed out.
Jack checked himself into the Wentworth Arms for the night and booked a table for dinner at eight. After a shower and a change of clothes, he looked forward to devouring a large, juicy steak.
Even though Anna was safely ensconced at Wentworth Hall, he didn’t feel he could relax while Crew Cut might well be hovering somewhere nearby. He had already asked Tom to brief the local police, while he continued to carry out his own surveillance.
He sat in the lounge enjoying a Guinness and thinking about Anna. Long before the hall clock struck eight, Tom walked in, looked around, and spotted his old friend by the fire. Jack rose to greet him, and apologized for having to drag him down to Wentworth when he could have been spending the evening with Chloe and Hank.
“As long as this establishment can produce a decent Tom Collins, you’ll not hear me complain,” Tom assured him.
Tom was explaining to Jack how Hank had scored a half century—whatever that was—when they were joined by the head waiter, who took their orders for dinner. They both chose steaks, but as a Texan, Tom admitted he hadn’t got used to the English version that was served up looking like a lamb chop.
“I’ll call you through,” said the head waiter, “as soon as your table is ready.”
“Thank you,” said Jack, as Tom bent down to open his briefcase. He extracted a thick file and placed it on the table between them. Small talk had never been his forte.
“Let’s begin with the important news,” said Tom, opening the file. “We’ve identified the woman in the photograph you sent through from Tokyo.” Jack put his drink down and concentrated on the contents of the file. “Her name is Olga Krantz, and she has something in common with Dr. Petrescu.”
“And what’s that?” asked Jack.
“The agency was also under the illusion that she was missing, presumed dead. As you can see from Krantz’s profile,” Tom added, pushing a sheet of paper across the table, “we lost contact with her in nineteen eighty-nine, when she ceased being a member of Ceausescu’s personal bodyguard. But we’re now convinced that she works exclusively for Fenston.”
“That’s one hell of a leap of logic,” suggested Jack, as a waiter appeared with a Tom Collins and another half pint of Guinness.
“Not if you consider the facts logically,” said Tom, “and then follow them step by step,” he added, before sipping his drink. “Urn, not bad. After all, she and Fenston worked for Ceausescu at the same time.”
“Coincidence,” said Jack. “Wouldn’t stand up in court.”
“It might, when you learn what her job description was.”
“Try me,” said Jack.
“She was responsible for removing anyone who posed a threat to Ceausescu.”
“Still circumstantial.”
“Until you discover her chosen method of disposal.”
“A kitchen knife?” suggested Jack, not looking down at the sheet of paper in front of him.
“You’ve got it,” said Tom.
“Which, I fear, means that there is yet another undeniable link in your chain of logic.”
“What’s that?” asked Tom.
“Anna is being lined up as her next victim.”
“No—there, fortunately, the logic breaks down, because Krantz was arrested in Bucharest this morning.”
“What?” said Jack.
“By the local police,” added Tom.
“It’s hard to believe they got within a mile of her,” said Jack. “I kept los