Anna thought long and hard about what she would wear for their second meeting. She settled on a beige linen dress with a modest hemline, a wide brown leather belt, and a simple gold necklace—an outfit that would be considered demure in New York but almost brash in Tokyo. Yesterday she’d dressed for her opening move, today for closing.
She opened her bag for a third time that morning to check that she had included a copy of Dr. Gachet’s letter to Van Gogh, along with a simple one-page contract that was standard among recognized dealers. If she could agree on a price with Nakamura, Anna was going to ask for 10 percent down as an act of good faith, to be returned in full if, after inspecting the masterpiece, he was not satisfied. Anna felt that once he set his eyes on the original . . .
Anna checked her watch. The meeting with the chairman was at ten, and he had promised to send his limousine to pick her up at nine forty. She would be waiting in the lobby. The Japanese quickly lose patience with people who play games.
Anna took the elevator to the lobby and walked across to reception. “I expect to be checking out later today,” she said, “and would like my bill prepared.”
“Certainly, Dr. Petrescu,” said the receptionist. “May I ask if you have had anything from the minibar?”
Anna thought for a moment. “Two Evian waters.”
“Thank you,” said the clerk, and began tapping the information into his computer as a bellboy came rushing up to her.
“Chauffeur here to collect you,” was all he said, before leading Anna out to the waiting car.
Jack was already sitting in a taxi when she appeared at the entrance. He was determined he wasn’t going to lose her a second time. After all, Crew Cut would be waiting for her, and she even knew where Anna was going.
Krantz had also spent the night in the center of Tokyo, but unlike Petrescu, not in a hotel bed. She had slept in the cab of a crane, some 150 feet above the city. She was confident that no one would come looking for her there. She stared down on Tokyo as the sun rose over the Imperial Palace. She checked her watch. Five fifty-six A.M. Time to descend if she were to leave unnoticed.
Once Krantz was back on the ground, she joined the office staff and early morning commuters as they disappeared underground and made their way to work.
Seven stops later, Krantz emerged in the Ginza and quickly retraced her steps to the Seiyo. She slipped back into the hotel, a regular guest who never booked in and never stayed overnight.
Krantz positioned herself in the corner of the lounge, where she had a perfect sight line of the two elevators, while she could be seen by only the most observant of waiters. It was a long wait, but then patience was a skill, developed over hours of practice—like any other skill.
The chauffeur closed the back door behind her. Not the same driver as the night before, Anna noted—she never forgot a face. He drove off without a word, and she became more and more confident as each mile passed.
When the chauffeur opened the back door again, Anna could see Mr. Nakamura’s secretary waiting for her in the lobby. Sixty million dollars, Anna whispered to herself, as she climbed the steps, and I won’t consider a cent less. The glass doors slid open, and the secretary bowed low.
“Good morning, Dr. Petrescu. Nakamura-san is looking forward to seeing you.” Anna smiled and followed her down the long corridor of untitled offices. A gentle tap, and the secretary opened the door to the chairman’s room and announced Dr. Petrescu.
Once again, Anna was stunned by the effect the room had on her, but this time managed to keep her mouth closed. Nakamura rose from behind his desk and bowed. Anna returned the compliment before he ushered her into a chair on the opposite side of the desk. He sat down. Yesterday’s smile had been replaced by a grim visage. Anna assumed this was nothing more than a bargaining ploy.
“Dr. Petrescu,” he began as he opened a file on the desk in front of him, “it seems that when we met yesterday, you were less than frank with me.”
Anna felt her mouth go dry, as Nakamura glanced down at some papers. He removed his spectacles and looked directly at Anna. She tried not to flinch.
“You did not tell me, for instance, that you no longer work for Fenston Finance, nor did you allude to the fact that you were recently dismissed from the board for conduct unworthy of an officer of the bank.” Anna tried to breathe regularly. “You also failed to inform me of the distressing news that Lady Victoria had been murdered, at a time when she had run up debts with your bank”—he put his glasses back on—“of over thirty million dollars. You also forgot to mention the small matter of the New York police being under the illusion that you are currently classified as missing, presumed dead. But perhaps the most damning indictment of all was your failure to let me know that the painting you were attempting to sell is, to use police jargon, stolen goods.” Nakamura closed the file, removed his glasses once more, and stared directly at her. “Perhaps there is a simple explanation for such a sudden attack of amnesia?”
Anna wanted to jump up and run out of the room, but she couldn’t move. Her father always told her when you’ve been found out, confess. She confessed everything. In fact, she even let him know where the painting was hidden. Once she finished, Nakamura didn’t speak for some time. Anna sat and waited to be escorted unceremoniously from a building for the second time in just over a week.
“I now understand why you didn’t wish the painting to be sold for at least ten years and certainly wouldn’t want it to be put on public display. But I am bound to ask how you intend to square the circle with your former boss. It is clear to me that Mr. Fenston is more interested in holding on to such a valuable asset than having the debt cleared.”
“But that’s the point,” said Anna. “Once the overdraft has been cleared, the Wentworth estate can sell the painting to whomever they wish.”
Mr. Nakamura nodded. “Assuming that I accept your version of events, and if I was still interested in purchasing the Self-Portrait, I would want to make some conditions of my own.”
Anna nodded.
“First, the painting would have to be purchased directly from Lady Arabella, and only after legal tenure had been properly established.”
“I can see no objection to that,” said Anna.
“Second, I would expect the work to be authenticated by the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam.”
“That causes me no problems,” said Anna.
“Then perhaps my third condition will cause you a problem,” said Nakamura, “and that is the price I am willing to pay, as I do believe that I am, to use that ghastly but appropriate American expression, in the driving seat.”
Anna nodded her reluctant agreement.
“If, and I repeat if, you are able to meet my other conditions, I am happy to offer, for the Wentworth Van Gogh Self-Portrait with Bandaged Ear, fifty million dollars, which I have worked out will not only clear Lady Arabella’s debt but leave enough over to cover any taxes.”
“But it could come under the hammer for seventy, even eighty million,” Anna protested.
“That assumes you are not hammered long before then,” Nakamura replied. “I apologize,” he added immediately. “You have discovered my weakness for bad puns.” He smiled for the first time. “However, I am advised that Mr. Fenston has recently issued a bankruptcy order against your client, and knowing the Americans as I do, it might be years before any legal action can be settled, and my London lawyers confirm that Lady Arabella is in no position to consider the crippling legal costs such a lengthy process would undoubtedly incur.”
Anna took a deep breath. “If, and I repeat if”—Nakamura had the grace to smile—“I accept your terms, in return I would expect some gesture of goodwill.”
“And what do you have in mind?”
“You will place 10 percent, five million dollars, in escrow with Lady Arabella’s solicitors in London, to be returned if you do not wish to purchase the original.”
Nakamura shook his head. “No, Dr. Petrescu, I am unable to accept your gestu
re of goodwill.”
Anna felt deflated.
“However, I am willing to place five million in escrow with my London lawyers, the full amount to be paid on exchange of contracts.”
“Thank you,” said Anna, unable to disguise a sigh of relief.
But Nakamura continued. “Having accepted your terms, I would also expect some gesture of goodwill in return,” he said as he rose from behind his desk. Anna rose nervously. “Should the deal go through, you will give serious consideration to taking up the appointment as the CEO of my foundation.”
Anna smiled but did not bow. She offered her hand and said, “To use another ghastly but appropriate American expression, Mr. Nakamura, we have a deal.” She turned to leave.
“And one more thing before you go,” said Nakamura, picking up an envelope from his desk. Anna turned back, hoping she didn’t look apprehensive. “Would you be kind enough to pass on this letter to Miss Danuta Sekalska, a huge talent that I can only hope will be allowed to mature.” Anna smiled as the chairman accompanied her down the corridor and back to the waiting limousine. They chatted about the tragic events in New York, and the long-term consequences for America. However, Nakamura made no reference to why his regular driver was in hospital recovering from serious injuries, not least to his pride.
But then the Japanese have always considered that some secrets are best kept in the family.
Whenever Jack was in a strange city, he rarely informed the embassy of his presence. They always asked too many questions he didn’t want to answer. Tokyo was no exception, but he did need some of his own questions answered, and he knew exactly who to ask.
A con man, whom Jack had put behind bars for several years, once told him that whenever you’re abroad and in need of information, book yourself into a good hotel. But don’t seek advice from the manager and don’t bother with the receptionist; only deal with the head concierge. Information is how he makes his living; his salary is incidental.
For fifty dollars, Jack learnt everything he needed to know about Mr. Nakamura, even his golf handicap—fourteen.
Krantz watched as Petrescu emerged from the building and climbed back into the chairman’s limousine. She quickly hailed a taxi and asked to be dropped a hundred yards from the Seiyo hotel. If Petrescu was about to depart, she would still have to retrieve her luggage and settle the bill.
Once the temporary chauffeur had dropped Anna back at the Seiyo, she couldn’t wait to check out—she picked up her key from reception and ran up the stairs to her room on the first floor. She sat on the end of the bed and called Arabella first. She sounded wide awake.
“A veritable Portia,” was Arabella’s final comment after she had learned the news. Which Portia, Anna wondered, Shylock’s nemesis, or Brutus’s wife? She unclasped her gold chain, unfastened the leather belt, kicked off her shoes, and finally slipped out of her dress. She exchanged her more formal attire for a T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers. Although checkout was at noon, she still had enough time to make one more call. Anna needed to plant the clue.
The ringing tone continued for some time before a sleepy voice answered.
“Who’s this?”
“Vincent.”
“Christ, what time is it? I must have fallen asleep.”
“You can go back to sleep after you’ve heard my news.”
“You’ve sold the painting?”
“How did you guess?”
“How much?”
“Enough.”
“Congratulations. So where are you going next?”
“To pick it up.”
“And where’s that?”
“Where it’s always been. Go back to sleep.”
The phone went dead.
Tina smiled as she drifted back to sleep. Fenston was going to be beaten at his own game for once.
“Oh, my God,” she said out loud, suddenly wide awake.
“I didn’t warn her that the stalker is a woman and knows she’s in Tokyo.”
36
FENSTON STRETCHED AN arm across the bed and fumbled for the phone as he tried to keep his eyes shut.
“Who the fuck is this?”
“Vincent’s just made a call.”
“And where was she calling from this time?” asked Fenston, his eyes suddenly wide open.
“Tokyo.”
“So she must have seen Nakamura.”
“Sure has,” said Leapman, “and claims she’s sold the painting.”
“You can’t sell something that you don’t own,” said Fenston, as he switched on the bedside light. “Did she say where she was going next?”
“To pick it up.”
“Did she give any clue as to where that might be?”
“Where it’s always been,” replied Leapman.
“Then it has to be in London,” said Fenston.
“How can you be so sure?” asked Leapman.
“Because if she had taken the painting to Bucharest, why not take it on to Tokyo? No, she left the picture in London,” said Fenston adamantly, “where it’s always been.”
“I’m not so sure,” said Leapman.
“Then where do you think it is?”
“In Bucharest, where it’s always been, in the red box.”
“No, the box was just a decoy.”
“Then how can we ever hope to find the painting?” asked Leapman.
“That will be simple enough,” said Fenston. Now that Petrescu thinks she’s sold the painting to Nakamura, her next stop will be to pick it up. And this time Krantz will be waiting for her, and then she’ll end up having something in common with Van Gogh. But before then, there’s another call I have to make.’ He slammed the phone down before Leapman had a chance to ask to whom.
Anna checked out of the hotel just after twelve. She took a train to the airport, no longer able to afford the luxury of a cab. She assumed that once she boarded the shuttle, the same man would be following her, and she intended to make his task as easy as possible. After all, he would already have been informed of her next stop.
What she didn’t know was that her pursuer was sitting eight rows behind her.
Krantz opened a copy of the Shinbui Times, ready to raise it and cover her face should Petrescu look around. She didn’t.
Time to make her call. Krantz dialed the number and waited for ten rings. On the tenth, it was picked up. She didn’t speak.
“London,” was the only word Fenston uttered before the line went dead.
Krantz dropped the cell phone out of the window, and watched as it landed in front of an oncoming train.
When her train came to a halt at the airport terminal, Anna jumped out and went straight to the British Airways desk. She inquired about an economy fare to London, although she had no intention of purchasing the ticket. She had only thirty-five dollars to her name, after all. But Fenston had no way of knowing that. She checked the departure board. There were ninety minutes between the two flights. Anna walked slowly toward Gate 91B, making sure that whoever was following her couldn’t lose her. She window-shopped all the way to the departure gate and arrived just before they began boarding. She selected her seat in the lounge carefully, sitting next to a small child. “Would those passengers in rows . . .” The child screamed and ran away, a harassed parent chasing after him.
Jack had only been distracted for a moment, but she was gone. Had she boarded the plane or turned back? Perhaps she had worked out that two people were following her. Did she have any idea how much danger she was in? Jack’s eyes searched the concourse below him. They were now boarding business class, and she wasn’t anywhere to be seen. He checked all the remaining passengers who were seated in the lounge, and he wouldn’t have spotted the other woman in his life if she hadn’t touched her hair, no longer a blonde crew cut, now a black wig. She also looked puzzled.
Krantz hesitated when they invited all first-class passengers to board. She walked across to the ladies’ washroom, which was directly behind where Petrescu had been sitting. She eme
rged a few moments later and returned to her seat. When they called final boarding, she was among the last to hand over her ticket.
Jack watched as Crew Cut disappeared down the ramp. How could she be so confident that Anna was on the London flight? Had he lost both of them again?
Jack waited until the gate closed, now painfully aware that both women were obviously on the flight to London. But there had been something about Anna’s manner since she’d left the hotel—almost as if, this time, she wanted to be followed.
Jack waited until the last airline official had packed up and gone. He was about to return to the ground floor and book himself on the next plane to London, when the door of the men’s washroom opened.
Anna stepped out.
“Put me through to Mr. Nakamura.”
“Who shall I say is calling?”
“Bryce Fenston, the chairman of Fenston Finance.”
“I’ll just find out if he’s available, Mr. Fenston.”
“He’ll be available,” said Fenston.
The line went silent and it was some time before another voice ventured, “Good morning, Mr. Fenston. This is Takashi Nakamura. How can I help you?”
“I just phoned to warn you—”
“Warn me?” said Nakamura.
“I’m told that Petrescu tried to sell you a Van Gogh.”
“Yes, she did,” said Nakamura.
“And how much did she ask for?” said Fenston.
“I think, to use an American expression, an arm and a leg.”
“If you were foolish enough to agree to buy the picture, Mr. Nakamura, it could end up being your arm and your leg,” said Fenston, “because that picture belongs to me.”
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