A week later, the drunken body of Pierre de Rochelle was found slumped in a Marseille alley, his throat sliced open.
Four years later, the Marseille police closed the file, with the words NON RESOLU stamped on the cover.
When the estate was finally settled, Fenston had sold off all the works, with the exception of the Renoir, the Monet, and the two Pissarros; and after compound interest, bank charges, and lawyers’ fees, Pierre’s younger brother, Simon de Rochelle, inherited the flat in Marseille.
Jack rose from behind his desk, stretched his cramped limbs, and yawned wearily before he considered tackling Chris Adams, Jr., although he knew Adams’s case history almost by heart.
Chris Adams, Sr., had operated a highly successful fine art gallery on Melrose Avenue in Los Angeles. He specialized in the American School so admired by the Hollywood glitterati. His untimely death in a car crash left his son Chris, Jr., with a collection of Rothkos, Pollocks, Jasper Johnses, Rauschenbergs, and several Warhol acrylics, including a Black Marilyn.
An old school friend advised Chris that the way to double his money would be to invest in the dot.com revolution. Chris, Jr., pointed out that he didn’t have any ready cash, just the gallery, the paintings, and Christina, his father’s old yacht—and even that was half owned by his younger sister. Fenston Finance stepped in and advanced him a loan of twelve million dollars on their usual terms. As in so many revolutions, several bodies ended up on the battlefield: among them, Chris, Jr.’s.
Fenston Finance had allowed the debt to continue mounting without ever troubling their client. That was until Chris, Jr., read in the Los Angeles Times that Warhol’s Shot Red Marilyn had recently sold for over four million dollars. He immediately contacted Christie’s in L.A., who assured him that he could expect an equally good return for his Rothkos, Pollocks, and Jasper Johnses. Three months later, Leapman rushed into the chairman’s office bearing the latest copy of a Christie’s sale catalogue. He had placed yellow Post-It notes against seven different lots that were due to come under the hammer. Fenston made one phone call, then booked himself on the next flight to Rome.
Three days later, Chris, Jr., was discovered in the lavatory of a gay bar with his throat cut.
Fenston was on holiday in Italy at the time, and Jack had a copy of his hotel bill, plane tickets, and even his credit-card purchases from several shops and restaurants.
The paintings were immediately withdrawn from the Christie’s sale while the L.A. police carried out their investigations. After eighteen months of no new evidence and dead-ends, the file joined the other LAPD cold cases stored in the basement. All Chris’s sister ended up with was a model of Christina, her father’s much-loved yacht.
Jack tossed Chris, Jr.’s, file to one side and stared down at the name of Maria Vasconcellos, a Brazilian widow who had inherited a house and a lawn full of statues—and not of the garden-center variety. Moore, Giacometti, Remington, Botero, and Calder were among Señora Vasconcellos’s husband’s bequest. Unfortunately, she fell in love with a gigolo, and when he suggested—The phone rang on Jack’s desk.
“Our London Embassy is on line two,” his secretary informed him.
“Thanks, Sally,” said Jack, knowing it could only be his friend Tom Crasanti, who had joined the FBI on the same day as he had.
“Hi, Tom, how are you?” he asked even before he heard a voice.
“In good shape,” Tom replied. “Still running every day, even if I’m not as fit as you.”
“And my godson?”
“He’s learning to play cricket.”
“The traitor. Got any good news?”
“No,” said Tom. “That’s why I’m calling. You’re going to have to open another file.”
Jack felt a cold shiver run through his body. “Who is it this time?” he asked quietly.
“The lady’s name, and Lady she was, is Victoria Wentworth.”
“How did she die?”
“In exactly the same manner as the other three, throat cut, almost certainly with a kitchen knife.”
“What makes you think Fenston was involved?”
“She owed the bank over thirty million.”
“And what was he after this time?”
“A Van Gogh self-portrait.”
“Value?”
“Sixty, possibly seventy million dollars.”
“I’ll be on the next plane to London.”
8
AT 7:56, ANNA closed the Wentworth file and bent down to open the bottom drawer of her desk. She slipped off her sneakers and replaced them with a pair of black high-heeled shoes. She rose from her chair, gathered up the files, and glanced in the mirror—not a hair out of place.
Anna stepped out of her office and walked down the corridor toward the large corner suite. Two or three members of the staff greeted her with “Good morning, Anna,” which she acknowledged with a smile. A gentle knock on the chairman’s door—she knew Fenston would already be seated at his desk. Had she been even a minute late, he would have pointedly stared at his watch. Anna waited for an invitation to enter and was surprised when the door was immediately pulled open and she came face-to-face with Karl Leapman. He was wearing an almost identical suit to the one Fenston had on, even if it wasn’t of the same vintage.
“Good morning, Karl,” she said brightly, but didn’t receive a response.
The chairman looked up from behind his desk and motioned Anna to take the seat opposite him. He also didn’t offer any salutation, but then he rarely did. Leapman took his place on the right of the chairman and slightly behind him, like a cardinal in attendance on the Pope. Status clearly defined. Anna assumed that Tina would appear at any moment with a cup of black coffee, but the secretary’s door remained resolutely shut.
Anna glanced up at the Monet of Argenteuil that hung on the wall behind the chairman’s desk. Although Monet had painted this peaceful riverbank scene on several occasions, this was one of the finest examples. Anna had once asked Fenston where he’d acquired the painting, but he’d been evasive, and she couldn’t find any reference to the sale among past transactions.
She looked across at Leapman, whose lean and hungry look reminded her of Cassius. It didn’t seem to matter what time of day it was, he always looked as if he needed a shave. She turned her attention to Fenston, who was certainly no Brutus, and shifted uneasily in her chair, trying not to appear fazed by the silence, which was suddenly broken, on Fenston’s nod.
“Dr. Petrescu, some distressing information has been brought to the attention of the chairman,” Leapman began. “It would appear,” he continued, “that you sent one of the bank’s private and confidential documents to a client before the chairman had been given the chance to consider its implications.”
For a moment Anna was taken by surprise, but she quickly recovered and decided to respond in kind. “If, Mr. Leapman, you are referring to my report concerning the loan to the Wentworth Estate, you are correct. I did send a copy to Lady Victoria Wentworth.”
“But the chairman was not given enough time to read that report and make a considered judgment before you forwarded it to the client,” said Leapman, looking down at some notes.
“That is not the case, Mr. Leapman. Both you and the chairman were sent copies of my report on September first, with a recommendation that Lady Victoria should be advised of her position before the next quarterly payment was due.”
“I never received the report,” said Fenston brusquely.
“And indeed,” said Anna, still looking at Leapman, “the chairman acknowledged such, when his office returned the form I attached to that report.”
“I never saw it,” repeated Fenston.
“Which he initialed,” said Anna, who opened her file, extracted the relevant form, and placed it on the desk in front of Fenston. He ignored it.
“The least you should have done was wait for my opinion,” said Fenston, “before allowing a copy of a report on such a sensitive subject to leave this office.”
Anna still couldn’t work out why they were spoiling for a fight. They weren’t even playing good cop, bad cop.
“I waited for a week, Chairman,” she replied, “during which time you made no comment on my recommendations, despite the fact that I will be flying to London this evening to keep an appointment with Lady Victoria tomorrow afternoon. However,” Anna continued before the chairman could respond, “I sent you a reminder two days later.” She opened her file again and placed a second sheet of paper on the chairman’s desk. Once again he ignored it.
“But I hadn’t read your report,” Fenston said, repeating himself, clearly unable to depart from his script.
Stay calm, girl, stay calm, Anna could hear her father whispering in her ear.
She took a deep breath before continuing. “My report does no more, and certainly no less, than advise the board, of which I am a member, that if we were to sell the Van Gogh, either privately or through one of the recognized auction houses, the amount raised would more than cover the bank’s original loan plus interest.”
“But it might not have been my intention to sell the Van Gogh,” said Fenston, now clearly straying from his script.
“You would have been left with no choice, Chairman, had that been the wish of our client.”
“But I may have come up with a better solution for dealing with the Wentworth problem.”
“If that was the case, Chairman,” said Anna evenly, “I’m only surprised you didn’t consult the head of the department concerned so that, at least as colleagues, we could have discussed any difference of opinion before I left for England tonight.”
“That is an impertinent suggestion,” said Fenston, raising his voice to a new level. “I report to no one.”
“I don’t consider it is impertinent, Chairman, to abide by the law,” said Anna calmly. “It’s no more than the bank’s legal requirement to report any alternative recommendations to their clients. As I feel sure you realize, under the new banking regulations, as proposed by the IRS and recently passed by Congress—”
“And I feel sure you realize,” said Fenston, “that your first responsibility is to me.”
“Not if I believe that an officer of the bank is breaking the law,” Anna replied, “because that’s something I am not willing to be a party to.”
“Are you trying to goad me into firing you?” shouted Fenston.
“No, but I have a feeling that you are trying to goad me into resigning,” said Anna quietly.
“Either way,” said Fenston, swiveling around in his chair and staring out of the window, “it is clear you no longer have a role to play in this bank, as you are simply not a team player—something they warned me about when you were dismissed from Sotheby’s.”
Don’t rise, thought Anna. She pursed her lips and stared at Fenston’s profile. She was about to reply when she noticed there was something different about him, and then she spotted the new earring. Vanity will surely be his downfall, she thought, as he swiveled back around and glared at her. She didn’t react.
“Chairman, as I suspect this conversation is being recorded, I would like to make one thing absolutely clear. You don’t appear to know a great deal about banking law, and you clearly know nothing about employment law, because enticing a colleague to swindle a naïve woman out of her inheritance is a criminal offence, as I feel sure Mr. Leapman, with all his experience of both sides of the law, will be happy to explain to you.”
“Get out, before I throw you out,” screamed Fenston, jumping up from his chair and towering over Anna. She rose slowly, turned her back on Fenston, and walked toward the door.
“And the first thing you can do is clean out your desk because I want you out of your office in ten minutes. If you are still on the premises after that, I will instruct security to escort you from the building.”
Anna didn’t hear Fenston’s last remark as she had already closed the door quietly behind her.
The first person Anna saw as she stepped into the corridor was Barry, who had clearly been tipped off. The whole episode was beginning to look as if it had been choreographed long before she’d entered the building.
Anna walked back down the corridor with as much dignity as she could muster, despite Barry matching her stride for stride and occasionally touching her elbow. She passed an elevator that was being held open for someone and wondered who. Surely it couldn’t be for her. Anna was back in her office less than fifteen minutes after she’d left it. This time Rebecca was waiting for her. She was standing behind her desk clutching a large brown cardboard box. Anna walked across to her desk and was just about to turn on her computer when a voice behind her said, “Don’t touch anything. Your personal belongings have already been packed, so let’s go.” Anna turned around to see Barry still hovering in the doorway.
“I’m so sorry,” said Rebecca. “I tried to phone and warn you, but—”
“Don’t speak to her,” barked Barry, “just hand over the box. She’s outta here.” Barry rested the palm of his hand on the knuckle of his truncheon. Anna wondered if he realized just how stupid he looked. She turned back to Rebecca and smiled.
“It’s not your fault,” she said, as her secretary handed over the cardboard box.
Anna placed the box on the desk, sat down, and pulled open the bottom drawer.
“You can’t remove anything that belongs to the company,” said Barry.
“I feel confident that Mr. Fenston won’t be wanting my sneakers,” said Anna, as she removed her high-heeled shoes and placed them in the box. Anna pulled on her sneakers, tied the laces, picked up the box, and headed back into the corridor. Any attempt at dignity was no longer possible. Every employee knew that raised voices in the chairman’s office followed by Barry escorting you from the premises meant only one thing: you were about to be handed your pink slip. This time passersby quickly retreated into their offices, making no attempt to engage Anna in conversation.
The head of security accompanied his charge to an office at the far end of the corridor that Anna had never entered before. When she walked in, Barry once again positioned himself in the doorway. It was clear that they’d also been fully briefed, because she was met by another employee who didn’t even venture “good morning” for fear it would be reported to the chairman. He swiveled a piece of paper around that displayed the figure $9,116 in bold type. Anna’s monthly salary. She signed on the dotted line without comment.
“The money will be wired through to your account later today,” he said without raising his eyes.
Anna turned to find her watchdog still prowling around outside, trying hard to look menacing. When she left the accounts office, Barry accompanied her on the long walk back down an empty corridor.
When they reached the elevator, Barry pressed the down arrow, while Anna continued to cling onto her cardboard box.
They were both waiting for the elevator doors to open when American Airlines Flight 11 out of Boston crashed into the ninety-fourth floor of the North Tower.
9
RUTH PARISH LOOKED up at the departure monitor on the wall above her desk. She was relieved to see that United’s Flight 107 bound for JFK had finally taken off at 1:40 P.M, forty minutes behind schedule.
Ruth and her partner, Sam, had founded Art Locations nearly a decade before, and when he left her for a younger woman Ruth ended up with the company—by far the better part of the bargain. Ruth was married to the job, despite its long hours; demanding customers; and planes, trains, and cargo vessels that never arrived on time. Moving great, and not so great, works of art from one corner of the globe to the other allowed her to combine a natural flair for organization with a love of beautiful objects—if sometimes she saw the objects only for a fleeting moment.
Ruth traveled around the world accepting commissions from governments who were planning national exhibitions, while also dealing with gallery owners, dealers, and several private collectors, who often wanted nothing more than to move a favorite painting from one home to ano
ther. Over the years, many of her customers had become personal friends. But not Bryce Fenston. Ruth had long ago concluded that the words please and thank you were not in this man’s vocabulary, and she certainly wasn’t on his Christmas card list. Fenston’s latest demand had been to collect a Van Gogh from Wentworth Hall and transport it, without delay, to his office in New York.
Obtaining an export license for the masterpiece had not proved difficult, as few institutions or museums could raise the sixty million dollars necessary to stop the painting leaving the country, especially after the National Galleries of Scotland had recently failed to raise the required £7.5 million to ensure that Michelangelo’s Study of a Mourning Woman didn’t leave these shores to become part of a private collection in the States.
When a Mr. Andrews, the butler at Wentworth Hall, had rung the previous day to say that the painting would be ready for collection in the morning, Ruth had scheduled one of her high-security air-ride trucks to be at the hall by eight o’clock. Ruth was pacing up and down the tarmac long before the truck turned up at her office, just after ten.
Once the painting was unloaded, Ruth supervised every aspect of its packing and safe dispatch to New York, a task she would normally have left to one of her managers. She stood over her senior packer as he wrapped the painting in acid-free glassine paper and then placed it into the foam-lined case he’d been working on throughout the night so it would be ready in time. The captive bolts were tightened on the case, preventing anyone breaking into it without a sophisticated socket set. Special indicators were attached to the outside of the case that would turn red if anyone attempted to open it during its journey. The senior packer stenciled the word FRAGILE on both sides of the box and the number 47 in all four corners. The customs officer had raised an eyebrow when he checked the shipping papers, but as an export license had been granted, the eyebrow returned to its natural position.
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