“That sounds like Leapman,” said Anna.
“Then we’d better get moving,” said Ruth, as she began walking toward the door.
Anna nodded her agreement, followed her out of the building, and jumped into the passenger seat of Ruth’s Range Rover.
“Terrible business, Lady Victoria,” said Ruth, as she swung the car around and headed for the south end of the cargo terminal. “The press are making a real meal of the murder—mystery killer, throat cut with a kitchen knife—but the police still haven’t arrested anyone.”
Anna remained silent, the words throat cut and mystery killer reverberating in her mind. Was that why Arabella told her that she was a brave woman?
Ruth pulled up outside an anonymous-looking concrete building, which Anna had visited several times in the past. She checked her watch: 3:40 P.M.
Ruth flashed a security pass to the guard, who immediately unlocked the three-inch steel door. He accompanied them both down a long, gray concrete corridor that always felt like a bunker to Anna. He stopped at a second security door, this time with a digital pad. Ruth waited for the guard to stand back before she entered a six-digit number. She pulled open the heavy door, allowing them to enter a square concrete room. A thermometer on the wall indicated a temperature of 20 degrees centigrade.
The room was lined with wooden shelves, which were stacked with pictures waiting to be transported to different parts of the world, all packed in Art Locations’s distinctive red boxes. Ruth checked her inventory before walking across the room and looking up at a row of shelves. She tapped a crate showing the number 47 stenciled in all four corners.
Anna strolled across to join her, playing for time. She also checked the inventory: number forty-seven, Vincent Van Gogh, Self-Portrait with Bandaged Ear, 24 by 18 inches.
“Everything seems to be in order,” said Anna, as the guard reappeared at the door.
“Sorry to interrupt you, Ms. Parish, but there are two security men from Sotheby’s outside, say they’ve been instructed to pick up a Van Gogh for valuation.”
“Do you know anything about this?” asked Ruth, turning to face Anna.
“Oh, yes,” said Anna, not missing a beat, “the chairman instructed me to have the Van Gogh valued for insurance purposes before it’s shipped to New York. They’ll only need the piece for about an hour, and then they will send it straight back.”
“Mr. Leapman didn’t mention anything about this,” said Ruth. “It wasn’t in his e-mail.”
“Frankly,” said Anna, “Leapman’s such a philistine, he wouldn’t know the difference between Van Gogh and Van Morrison.” Anna paused for a moment. Normally she never took risks, but she couldn’t afford to let Ruth call Fenston and check. “If you’re in any doubt, why don’t you call New York and have a word with Fenston?” she said. “That should clear the matter up.”
Anna waited nervously as Ruth considered her suggestion.
“And have my head bitten off again?” said Ruth eventually. “No, thank you. I think I’ll take your word for it. That’s assuming you will take responsibility for signing the release order?”
“Of course,” said Anna, adding, “That’s no more than my fiduciary duty as an officer of the bank,” hoping her reply sounded suitably pompous.
“And you’ll also explain the change of plan to Mr. Leapman?”
“That won’t be necessary,” said Anna. “The painting will be back long before his plane lands.”
Ruth looked relieved and, turning to the guard, said, “It’s number forty-seven.”
They both accompanied the guard as he removed the red packing case from the shelf and carried it out to the Sotheby’s security van.
“Sign here,” said the driver.
Anna stepped forward and signed the release document.
“When will you be bringing the picture back?” Ruth asked the driver. “I don’t know anything about—”
“I asked Mark Poltimore to return the painting within a couple of hours,” interjected Anna.
“It had better be back before Mr. Leapman lands,” said Ruth, “because I don’t need to get on the wrong side of that man.”
“Would you be happier if I accompanied the painting to Sotheby’s?” asked Anna innocently. “Then perhaps I can speed up the whole process.”
“Would you be willing to do that?” asked Ruth.
“It might be wise given the circumstances,” said Anna, and she climbed up into the front of the van and took the seat between the two men.
Ruth waved as the van disappeared through the perimeter gate and joined the late-afternoon traffic on its journey into London.
24
BRYCE FENSTON’S GULFSTREAM V executive jet touched down at Heathrow at 7:22 P.M., and Ruth was standing on the tarmac waiting to greet the bank’s representative. She had already alerted customs with all the relevant details so that the paperwork could be completed just as soon as Anna returned.
For the past hour, Ruth had spent more and more time looking toward the main gate, willing the security van to reappear. She had already rung Sotheby’s and was assured by the girl in their Impressionist department that the painting had arrived. But that was more than two hours ago. Perhaps she should have called the States to double-check—but why question one of your most reliable customers. Ruth turned her attention back to the jet and decided to say nothing. After all, Anna was certain to turn up in the next few minutes.
The fuselage door opened and the steps unfolded onto the ground. The stewardess stood to one side to allow her only passenger to leave the plane. Karl Leapman stepped onto the tarmac and shook hands with Ruth before joining her in the back of an airport limousine for the short journey to the private lounge. He didn’t bother to introduce himself, just assumed she would know who he was.
“Any problems?” asked Leapman.
“None that I can think of,” replied Ruth confidently, as the driver pulled up outside the executive building. “We’ve carried out your instructions to the letter, despite the tragic death of Lady Victoria.”
“Yeah,” said Leapman, as he stepped out of the car. “The company will be sending a wreath to her funeral,” and without pausing, added, “Is everything ready for a quick turnaround?”
“Yes,” said Ruth. “We’ll begin loading the moment the captain has finished refueling—shouldn’t be more than an hour. Then you can be on your way.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” said Leapman, pushing through the swing doors. “We have a slot booked for eight thirty and I don’t want to miss it.”
“Then perhaps it might be more sensible if I left you to oversee the transfer,” said Ruth, “but I’ll report back the moment the painting is safely on board.”
Leapman nodded and sank back in a leather chair. Ruth turned to leave.
“Can I get you a drink, sir?” asked the barman.
“Scotch on the rocks,” said Leapman, scanning the short dinner menu.
As Ruth reached the door, she turned and said, “When Anna comes back, would you tell her I’ll be over at customs, waiting to complete the paperwork?”
“Anna?” exclaimed Leapman, jumping out of his chair.
“Yes, she’s been around for most of the afternoon.”
“Doing what?” Leapman demanded, as he advanced toward Ruth.
“Just checking over the manifest,” Ruth said, trying to sound relaxed, “and making sure that Mr. Fenston’s orders were carried out.”
“What orders?” barked Leapman.
“To send the Van Gogh to Sotheby’s for an insurance valuation.”
“The chairman gave no such order,” said Leapman.
“But Sotheby’s sent their van, and Dr. Petrescu confirmed the instruction.”
“Petrescu was fired three days ago. Get me Sotheby’s on the line, now.”
Ruth ran across to the phone and dialed the main number.
“Who does she deal with at Sotheby’s?”
“Mark Poltimore,” Ruth said, handing the p
hone across to Leapman.
“Poltimore,” he barked, the moment he heard the word Sotheby’s, then realized he was addressing an answering machine. Leapman slammed down the phone. “Do you have his home number?”
“No,” said Ruth, “but I have a mobile.”
“Then call it.”
Ruth quickly looked up the number on her palm pilot and began dialing again.
“Mark?” she said.
Leapman snatched the phone from her. “Poltimore?”
“Speaking.”
“My name is Leapman. I’m the—”
“I know who you are, Mr. Leapman,” said Mark.
“Good, because I understand you are in possession of our Van Gogh.”
“Was, would be more accurate,” replied Mark, “until Dr. Petrescu, your art director, informed us, even before we’d had a chance to examine the painting, that you’d had a change of heart and wanted the canvas taken straight back to Heathrow for immediate transport to New York.”
“And you went along with that?” said Leapman, his voice rising with every word.
“We had no choice, Mr. Leapman. After all, it was her name on the manifest.”
25
“HI, IT’S VINCENT.”
“Hi. Is it true what I’ve just heard?”
“What have you heard?”
“That you’ve stolen the Van Gogh.”
“Have the police been informed?”
“No, he can’t risk that, not least because our shares are still going south and the picture wasn’t insured.”
“So what’s he up to?”
“He’s sending someone to London to track you down, but I can’t find out who it is.”
“Maybe I won’t be in London by the time they arrive.”
“Where will you be?”
“I’m going home.”
“And is the painting safe?”
“Safe as houses.”
“Good, but there’s something else you ought to know.”
“What’s that?”
“Fenston will be attending your funeral this afternoon.”
The phone went dead. Fifty-two seconds.
Anna replaced the receiver, even more concerned about the danger she was placing Tina in. What would Fenston do if he were to discover the reason she always managed to stay one step ahead of him?
She walked over to the departures desk.
“Do you have any bags to check in?” asked the woman behind the counter. Anna heaved the red box off the luggage cart and onto the scales. She then placed her suitcase next to it.
“You’re quite a bit over weight, madam,” she said. “I’m afraid there will be an excess charge of thirty-two pounds.” Anna took the money out of her wallet while the woman attached a label to her suitcase and fixed a large FRAGILE sticker on the red box. “Gate forty-three,” she said, handing her a ticket. “They’ll be boarding in about thirty minutes. Have a good flight.”
Anna began walking toward the departures gate.
Whoever Fenston was sending to London to track her down would be landing long after she had flown away. But Anna knew that they only had to read her report carefully to work out where the picture would be ending up. She just needed to be certain that she got there before they did. But first she had to make a phone call to someone she hadn’t spoken to for over ten years to warn him that she was on her way. Anna took the escalator to the first floor and joined a long line waiting to be checked through security.
“She’s heading toward gate forty-three,” said a voice, “and will be departing on flight BA two-seven-two to Bucharest at eight forty-four. . . .”
Fenston squeezed himself into a line of dignitaries as President Bush and Mayor Giuliani shook hands with a select group who were attending the latest service at Ground Zero.
He hung around until the president’s helicopter had taken off and then walked across to join the other mourners. He took a place at the back of the crowd and listened as the names were read out. Each one was followed by the single peal of a bell.
Greg Abbot.
He glanced around the crowd.
Kelly Gullickson.
He studied the faces of the relations and friends who had gathered in memory of their loved ones.
Anna Petrescu.
Fenston knew that Petrescu’s mother lived in Bucharest and wouldn’t be traveling to the service. He looked more carefully at the strangers who were huddled together and wondered which one of them was Uncle George from Danville, Illinois.
Rebecca Rangere.
He glanced across at Tina. Tears were filling her eyes, certainly not for Petrescu.
Brulio Real Polanco.
The priest bowed his head. He delivered a prayer, then closed his Bible and made the sign of a cross. “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost,” he declared.
“Amen,” came back the unison reply.
Tina looked across at Fenston, not a tear shed, just the familiar movement from one foot to the other—the sign that he was bored. While others gathered in small groups to remember, sympathize, and pay their respects, Fenston left without commiserating with anyone. No one else joined the chairman as he strode off purposefully toward his waiting car.
Tina stood among a little group of mourners, although her eyes remained fixed on Fenston. His driver was holding open the back door for him. Fenston climbed into the car and sat next to a woman Tina had never seen before. Neither spoke until the driver had returned to the front seat and touched a button on the dashboard to cause a smoked-glass screen to rise behind him. Without waiting, the car eased out into the road to join the midday traffic. Tina watched as the chairman disappeared out of sight. She hoped it wouldn’t be long before she called again—so much to tell her, and now she had to find out who the waiting woman was. Were they discussing Anna? Had Tina put her friend in unnecessary danger? Where was the Van Gogh?
The woman seated next to Fenston was dressed in a gray trouser suit. Anonymity was her most important asset. She had never once visited Fenston at either his office or his apartment, even though she had known him for almost twenty years. She’d first met Nicu Munteanu when he was bagman for President Nicolae Ceauşescu.
Fenston’s primary responsibility during Ceauşescu’s reign was to distribute vast sums of money into countless bank accounts across the world—bribes for the dictator’s loyal henchmen. When they ceased to be loyal, the woman seated next to Fenston eliminated them, and he then redistributed their frozen assets. Fenston’s speciality was money laundering, to places as far afield as the Cook Islands and as close to home as Switzerland. Her speciality was to dispose of the bodies—her chosen instrument a kitchen knife available in any hardware store in any city and, unlike a gun, not requiring a licence.
Both knew, literally, where the bodies were buried.
In 1985, Ceauşescu decided to send his private banker to New York to open an overseas branch for him. For the next four years, Fenston lost touch with the woman seated next to him, until in 1989 Ceauşescu was arrested by his fellow countrymen, tried, and finally executed on Christmas Day. Among those who avoided the same fate was Olga Krantz, who crossed seven borders before she reached Mexico, from where she slipped into America to become one of the countless illegal immigrants who do not claim unemployment benefits and live off cash payments from an unscrupulous employer. She was sitting next to her employer.
Fenston was one of the few people alive who knew Krantz’s true identity. He’d first watched her on television when she was fourteen years old and representing Romania in an international gymnastics competition against the Soviet Union.
Krantz came second to her teammate Mara Moldoveanu, and the press were already tipping them for the gold and silver at the next Olympics. Unfortunately, neither of them made the journey to Moscow. Moldoveanu died in tragic, unforeseen circumstances, when she fell from the beam attempting a double somersault and broke her neck. Krantz was the only other person in the gymnasium at the time. She
vowed to win the gold medal in her memory.
Krantz’s exit was far less dramatic. She pulled a hamstring warming up for a floor exercise, only days before the Olympic team was selected. She knew she wouldn’t be given a second chance. Like all athletes who don’t quite make the grade, her name quickly disappeared from the headlines. Fenston assumed he would never hear of her again, until one morning he thought he saw her coming out of Ceauşescu’s private office. The short, sinewy woman may have looked a little older, but she had lost none of her agile movement, and no one could forget those steel gray eyes.
A few well-placed questions and Fenston learned that Krantz was now head of Ceauşescu’s personal protection squad. Her particular responsibility: breaking selected bones of those who crossed the dictator or his wife.
Like all gymnasts, Krantz wanted to be number one in her discipline. Having perfected all the routines in the compulsory section—broken arms, broken legs, broken necks—she moved on to her voluntary exercise, “cut throats,” a routine at which no one could challenge her for the gold medal. Hours of dedicated practice had resulted in perfection. While others attended a football match or went to the movies on a Saturday afternoon, Krantz spent her time at a slaughterhouse on the outskirts of Bucharest. She filled her weekend cutting the throats of lambs and calves. Her Olympic record was forty-two in an hour. None of the slaughtermen reached the final.
Ceauşescu had paid her well. Fenston paid her better. Krantz’s terms of employment were simple. She must be available night and day and work for no one else. In a space of twelve years, her fee had risen from $250,000 to $1 million. Not for her the hand-to-mouth existence of most illegal immigrants.
Fenston extracted a folder from his briefcase and handed it across to Krantz without comment. She turned the cover and studied five recent photographs of Anna Petrescu.
“Where is she at the moment?” asked Krantz, still unable to disguise her mid-European accent.
“London,” replied Fenston, before he passed her a second file.
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