False Impression

by Jeffrey Archer

  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.

  “How can I help you, sir?” he asked.

  “I’m checking up on those people who are still missing, presumed dead, following the terrorist attack on Tuesday.”

  “Anyone in particular?” asked Sam cautiously.

  “Yes,” said the man. He placed his briefcase on the counter, opened it, and extracted a list of names. He ran a finger down the list and came to a halt at the Ps. “Anna Petrescu,” he said. “This is the last known address we have for her.”

  “I haven’t seen Anna since she left for work on Tuesday morning,” said Sam, “though several people have asked about her, and one of her friends came around that night and took away some of her personal things.”

  “What did she take?”

  “I don’t know,” said Sam. “I just recognized the suitcase.”

  “Do you know the girl’s name?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “It might help if we could get in touch with her. Anna’s mother is quite anxious.”

  “No, I don’t know her name,” admitted Sam.

  “Would you recognize her if I showed you a photograph?”

  “Might,” said Sam.

  Once again, the man opened his briefcase. This time he extracted a photo and passed it across to Sam. He studied it for a moment.

  “Yes, that’s her. Pretty girl,” he paused, “but not as pretty as Anna. She was beautiful.”

  As she swung onto the 1-90, Anna noticed that the speed limit was seventy. She would have been happy to break it, but however hard she pressed down on the accelerator she could still only manage sixty-eight miles per hour.

  Although the second truck was still some way behind, it was closing on her rapidly, and this time she didn’t have an exit strategy. She prayed for a sign. The truck must have been only fifty yards behind her, and closing by the second, when she heard the siren.

  She was delighted at the thought of being pulled over, and didn’t care whether she would be believed when she explained why she had careered across two lanes of the highway and onto the exit ramp, not to mention why her van was missing both bumpers and a mudguard and that none of its lights were working. She began to slow down as the patrol car sped past the truck and slipped in behind her. The officer looked back and indicated that the truck driver should pull over. Anna watched in her passenger-side mirror as both vehicles came to a halt on the hard shoulder.

  It was over an hour before she was calm enough to stop looking in her side-view mirror every few minutes.

  After another hour she even began to feel hungry and decided to pull into a roadside café for breakfast. She parked the van, strolled in, and took a seat at the far end of the counter. She perused the menu before ordering “the big one”—eggs, bacon, sausage, hash browns, pancakes, and coffee. Not her usual fare, but then not much had been usual about the past forty-eight hours.

  Between mouthfuls, Anna checked her route map. The two drunken men who’d pursued her had helped her keep to her schedule. Anna calculated that she had already covered around 380 miles, but there were still at least another fifty to go to reach the Canadian border. She studied the map more closely. Next stop, Niagara Falls, which she estimated would take her another hour.

  The television behind the counter was reporting the early morning news. The hope of finding any more survivors was fading. New York had begun mourning its dead and setting about the long and arduous task of cleaning up. A memorial service, attended by the president, was to be held in Washington, D.C., as part of a national day of remembrance. The president then intended to fly on to New York and visit Ground Zero. Mayor Giuliani was next to appear on the screen. He was wearing a T-shirt proudly emblazoned with the letters NYPD and a cap with NYFD printed across the peak. He praised the spirit of New Yorkers and pledged his determination to put the city back on its feet as quickly as possible.

  The news camera cut to JFK, where an airport spokesman confirmed that the first commercial flights would resume their normal schedule the following morning. That one sentence determined Anna’s timetable. She knew she had to touch down in London before Leapman took off from New York if she was to have any chance of convincing Victoria . . . Anna glanced out of the window. Two trucks were pulling into the parking lot. She froze, unable to watch as the drivers climbed out of their cabs. She was checking the fire exit as they entered the café. They both took seats at the counter, smiled at the waitress, and didn’t give Anna a second look. She had never previously understood why people suffered from paranoia.

  Anna checked her watch: 7:55 A.M. She drained her coffee, left six dollars on the table, and walked across to the phone booth on the far side of the diner. She dialed a 212 number.

  __________

  “Good morning, sir, my name is Agent Roberts.”

  “Morning, Agent Roberts,” replied Jack, leaning back in his chair, “have anything to report?”

  “I’m standing in a vehicle rest stop somewhere between New York and the Canadian border.”

  “And what are you doing there, Agent Roberts?”

  “I’m holding a bumper.”

  “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.

  20

  “I’M SO SORRY, my dear,” said Arnold Simpson, as he looked across his desk at Arabella Wentworth. “Dreadful business,” he added, dropping another sugar lump into his tea. Arabella didn’t comment as Simpson leaned forward and placed his hands on the partners’ desk, as if about to offer up a prayer. He smiled benignly at his client and was about to offer an opinion when Arabella opened the file on her lap and said, “As our family’s solicitor, perhaps you can explain how my father and Victoria managed to run up such massive debts and in so short a period of time?”

  Simpson leaned back and peered over his half-moon spectacles. “Your dear father and I,” he began, “had been close friends for over forty years. We were, as I feel sure you are aware, at Eton together.” Simpson paused to touch his dark blue tie with the light blue stripe, which looked as if he’d worn it every day since he’d left school.

  “My father always described it as ‘at the same time,’ rather than ‘together,’ retorted Arabella. “So perhaps you could now answer my question.”

  “I was just coming to that,” said Simpson, momentarily lost for words as he searched around the scattered files that littered his desk. “Ah, yes,” he declared eventually, picking up one marked LLOYD’S OF LONDON. He opened the cover and adjusted his spectacles. “When your father became a name at Lloyd’s in nineteen seventy-one, he signed up for several syndicates, putting up the estate as collateral. For many years, the insurance industry showed handsome returns and your father received a large annual income.” Simpson ran his finger down a long list of figures.

  “But did you point out to him at the time,” asked Arabella, “the meaning of unlimited liability?”

  “I confess,” said Simpson, ignoring the question, “that like so many others, I did not anticipate such an unprecedented run of bad years.”

  “It was no different from being a gambler hoping to make a profit from a spin at the roulette wheel,” said Arabella. “So why didn’t you advise him to cut his losses and leave the table?”

  “Your father was an obstinate man,” said Simpson, “and, having ridden out some bad years, remained convinced that the good times would return.”

  “But that didn’t prove to be the case,” said Arabella, turning to another of the numerous papers in her one file.

  “Sadly not,” confirmed Simpson, who seemed to have sunk lower in his chair so that he nearly disappeared behind the partners’ desk.

  “And what happened to the large portfolio of stocks and shares that the family had accumulated over the years?”

  “They were among the first assets your father had to liquidate to keep his current account in surplus. In fact,” continued the solicitor, turning over another page, “at the time of your father’s death, I fear he had run up an overdraft of something over ten million pounds.”

  “But not with Coutts,” Arabella said, “as it appears some three years ago he transferred his account to a small bank in New York called Fenston Finance.”

  “That is correct, dear lady,” said Simpson. “Indeed, it has always been a bit of a mystery to me how that particular establishment came across—”

  “It’s no mystery to me,” retorted Arabella, as she extracted a letter from her file. “It’s clear that they singled him out as an obvious target.”

  “But I still can’t work out how they knew—”

  “They only had to read the financial pages of any broadsheet. They were reporting the problems faced by Lloyd’s on a daily basis, and my father’s name appeared regularly, along with several others, as being placed with unfortunate, if not crooked, syndicates.”

  “That is pure speculation on your part,” said Simpson, his voice rising.

  “Just because you didn’t consider it at the time,” replied Arabella, “doesn’t mean it’s speculation. In fact, I’m only surprised that you allowed your close friend to leave Coutts, who had served the family for over two hundred years, to join such a bunch of shysters.”

  Simpson turned scarlet. “Perhaps you are falling into the politician’s habit of relying on hindsight, madam.”

  “No, sir,” replied Arabella. “My late husband was also offered the opportunity to join Lloyd’s. The broker assured him that the farm would be quite enough to cover the necessary deposit, whereupon Angus showed him the door.”

  Simpson was speechless.

  “And how, may I ask, with you as her principal advisor, did Victoria manage to double that debt in less than a year?”

  “I am not to blame for that,” snapped Simpson. “You can direct your anger at the tax man, who always demands his pound of flesh,” he added as
he searched for a file marked DEATH DUTIES. “Ah, yes, here it is. The Exchequer is entitled to 40 percent of any assets on death, unless the assets are directly passed on to a spouse, as I feel sure your late husband would have explained to you. However, I managed, with some considerable skill, even if I do say so myself, to reach a settlement of eleven million pounds with the inspectors, which Lady Victoria seemed well satisfied with at the time.”

  “My sister was a naïve spinster who never left home without her father and didn’t have her own bank account until she was thirty,” said Arabella, “but still you allowed her to sign a further contract with Fenston Finance, which was bound to land her in even more debt.”

  “It was that or putting the estate on the market.”

  “No, it wasn’t,” replied Arabella. “It only took me one phone call to Lord Hindlip, the chairman of Christie’s, to be told that he would expect the family’s Van Gogh to make in excess of thirty million pounds were it to come up for auction.”

  “But your father would never have agreed to sell the Van Gogh.”

  “My father wasn’t alive when you approved the second loan,” countered Arabella. “It was a decision you should have advised her on.”

  “I had no choice, dear lady, under the terms of the original contract.”

  “Which you witnessed, but obviously didn’t read. Because not only did my sister agree to go on paying 16 percent compound interest on the loan, but you even allowed her to hand over the Van Gogh as collateral.”

  “But you can still demand that they sell the painting, and then the problem will be solved.”

  “Wrong again, Mr. Simpson,” said Arabella. “If you had read beyond page one of the original contract, you would have discovered that should there be a dispute, any decision will revert to a New York court’s jurisdiction, and I certainly don’t have the wherewithal to take on Bryce Fenston in his own backyard.”

  “You don’t have the authority to do so, either,” retorted Simpson, “because I—”