“I had no idea it belonged to you. I thought that it—”
“Then you thought wrong. Perhaps you were also unaware that Petrescu no longer works for this bank.”
“Dr. Petrescu made that all too clear, in fact—”
“And did she tell you she was fired?”
“Yes, she did.”
“But did she tell you why?”
“In great detail.”
“And you still felt able to do business with her?”
“Yes. In fact I am trying to persuade her to join my board, as CEO of the company’s foundation.”
“Despite the fact that I had to dismiss her for conduct unworthy of an officer of a bank.”
“Not a bank, Mr. Fenston, your bank.”
“Don’t bandy words with me,” said Fenston.
“So be it,” said Nakamura, “then let me make it clear that should Dr. Petrescu join this company, she will quickly discover that we do not condone a policy of swindling clients out of their inheritance, especially when they are old ladies.”
“Then how would you feel about directors who steal bank assets worth a hundred million dollars?”
“I am delighted to learn you consider the painting is worth that amount, because the owner—”
“I am the owner,” bellowed Fenston, “under New York state law.”
“Whose jurisdiction does not stretch to Tokyo.”
“But doesn’t your company also have offices in New York?”
“At last we’ve found something on which we can agree,” said Nakamura. “Then there’s nothing to stop me serving you with a writ in New York, were you foolish enough to attempt to buy my picture.”
“And in which name will the writ be issued?” asked Nakamura.
“What are you getting at?” shouted Fenston.
“Only that my New York lawyers will need to know who they’re up against. Will it be Bryce Fenston, the chairman of Fenston Finance, or Nicu Munteanu, money launderer to Ceauşescu, the late dictator of Romania?”
“Don’t threaten me, Nakamura, or I’ll—”
“Break my driver’s neck?”
“It won’t be your driver next time.”
There was a long pause, before Nakamura said, “Then perhaps I ought to reconsider whether it’s really worth paying that much for the Van Gogh.”
“A sensible decision,” said Fenston.
“Thank you, Mr. Fenston. You have convinced me that what I had originally planned might not be the wisest course of action, after all.”
“I knew you’d come to your senses in the end,” said Fenston, before putting down the phone.
When Anna boarded the flight for Bucharest an hour later, she felt confident that she had shaken off Fenston’s man. Following her call to Tina, they would have been convinced that she was on her way back to London to pick up the painting, where it’s always been. The sort of clue Fenston and Leapman would undoubtedly have argued over.
She had perhaps overdone it a little by spending so much time at the British Airways desk and then heading straight for Gate 91B when she didn’t even have a ticket. The little boy turned out to be a bonus, but even Anna was surprised by how much fuss he made when she’d pinched him on his calf.
Anna’s only real concern was for Tina. By this time tomorrow, Fenston and Leapman would realize that Anna had fed them false information, having obviously worked out that her conversations were being bugged. Anna feared that losing her job might end up the least of Tina’s problems.
As the wheels lifted off Japanese soil, Anna’s mind drifted to Anton. She only hoped that three days would have proved long enough.
Fenston’s man was chasing her down an alley. At the far end was a high, jagged stone wall covered in barbed wire. Anna knew there was no way out. She turned to face her adversary as he came to a halt only a few feet in front of her. The short, ugly man drew a pistol from his holster, cocked the trigger, grinned, and aimed it directly at her heart. She turned as she felt the bullet graze her shoulder . . . “If you would like to adjust your watches, the time in Bucharest is now three twenty in the afternoon.”
Anna woke with a start. “What day is it?” she asked the passing steward.
“Thursday, madam.”
9/20
37
ANNA RUBRED HER eyes and set her watch to the correct time.
She had kept her agreement with Anton to be back within four days. Now her biggest problem would be to transport the painting to London, while at the same time . . . “Ladies and gentlemen, the captain has turned on the FASTEN SEAT BELT sign. We will be landing in Bucharest in approximately twenty minutes.”
She smiled at the thought that by now Fenston’s man would have landed in Hong Kong and would be puzzled why this time he couldn’t spot her in duty-free. Would he carry on to London, or risk switching flights for the Romanian capital? Perhaps he would arrive back in Bucharest just as she set off for London.
When Anna stepped out onto the pavement, she was delighted to see a smiling Sergei standing by the door of his yellow Mercedes. He opened the back door for her. Her only problem was she barely had enough cash to cover his fare.
“Where to?” he asked.
“First, I need to go to the academy,” she told him.
Anna would have liked to share with Sergei all she had been through, but still didn’t feel she knew him well enough to risk it. Not trusting people was another experience she didn’t enjoy.
Sergei dropped her at the bottom of the steps, where she’d left Anton before going to the airport. She no longer needed to ask him to wait. The student working at the reception desk told Anna that Professor Teodorescu’s lecture on “Attribution” was just about to begin.
Anna made her way to the lecture theater on the first floor. She followed a couple of students in just as the lights were dimmed and slipped into a seat at the end of the second row, looking forward to a few minutes’ escape from the real world.
“Attribution and provenance,” began Anton, running a hand through his hair in that familiar way the students mimicked behind his back, “are the cause of more discussion and disagreement among art scholars than any other subject. Why? Because it’s sexy, open to debate, and rarely conclusive. There is no doubt that several of the world’s most popular galleries currently display works that were not painted by the artists whose names are suggested on the frame. It is, of course, possible that the master painted the main figure, the Virgin or Christ for example, while leaving an assistant to fill in the background. We must consider, therefore, whether several paintings, all depicting the same subject, can have been executed by one master, or if it is more likely that one of them, possibly even more, are the works of his star pupils, which several hundred years later are mistaken for the master’s,” Anna smiled at the words star pupil and remembered the letter she had to pass on to Danuta Sekalska.
“Now let us consider some examples,” continued Anton, “and see if you can detect the hand of a lesser mortal. The first is of a painting currently on display at the Frick Museum in New York.” A slide was beamed up on the screen behind Anton. “Rembrandt, I hear you cry, but the Rembrandt Research Project, set up in 1974, would not agree with you. They believe that The Polish Rider is the work of at least two hands, one of which may—I repeat, may—have been that of Rembrandt. The Metropolitan Museum, just a few blocks away from the Frick on the other side of Fifth Avenue, was unable to hide its angst when the same distinguished scholars dismissed the two portraits of the Beresteyn Family, acquired by them in 1929, as not executed by the Dutch master.
“Don’t lose too much sleep over the problems faced by these two great institutions, because, of the twelve paintings attributed to Rembrandt in London’s Wallace Collection, only one, Titus, the Artist’s Son, has been pronounced genuine.” Anna became so engrossed that she began taking notes. “The second artist I would ask you to consider is the great Spanish maestro, Goya. Much to the embarrassment of the Prado in Madrid, Juan Jose
Junquera, the world’s leading authority on Goya, has suggested that the “black paintings,” which include such haunting visions as Satan Devouring His Children, cannot have been the hand of Goya, as he points out that the room for which they were painted as murals was not completed until after his death. The distinguished Australian critic Robert Hughes, in his book on Goya, suggests they are the work of the artist’s son.
“And now I turn to the Impressionists. Several examples of Manet, Monet, Matisse, and Van Gogh currently on display in leading galleries around the world have not been authenticated by the relevant scholars. Sunflowers, for example, which came under the hammer at Christie’s in 1987, selling for just under forty million dollars, has yet to be authenticated by Louis van Tilborgh of the Van Gogh Museum.”
As Anton turned to display the next slide, his eyes rested on Anna. She smiled, and he put up a Raphael instead of the Van Gogh, which caused a ripple of laughter among the students. “As you can see, I am also capable of attributing the wrong painting to the wrong artist.” The laughter turned to applause. But then, to Anna’s surprise, he looked back and stared at her. “This great city,” he said, no longer referring to his notes, “has produced its own scholar in the field of attribution, who currently works out of New York. Some years ago when we were both students, we used to have long discussions into the night about this particular painting.” The Raphael returned to the screen. “After attending a lecture, we would meet up at our favorite rendezvous,”—once again he fixed his gaze on Anna—”Koskies, where I’m reliably informed many of you still congregate. We always used to meet at nine o’clock, following the evening lecture.” He turned his attention back to the picture on the screen. “This is a portrait known as The Madonna of the Pinks, recently acquired by the National Gallery in London. Raphael experts are divided, but many are concerned by how many examples there are of the same subject, attributed to the same artist. Some argue that this painting is more likely to be ‘school of Raphael,’ or ‘after Raphael.’ ”
Anton looked back into the audience to see that the seat on the end of the second row was no longer occupied.
Anna arrived at Koskies a few minutes before the suggested hour. Only an attentive student would have noticed that the lecturer had departed from his prepared script for a few moments to let her know where they should meet. She could not mistake that look of fear in Anton’s eyes, a look that is obvious only to those who’ve had to survive in a police state.
Anna glanced around the room. Her old student haunt hadn’t changed that much. The same plastic tables, the same plastic chairs, and probably the same plastic wine that couldn’t find an exporter. Not a natural rendezvous for a Professor of Perspective and a New York art dealer. She ordered two glasses of the house red.
Anna could still remember when she had considered a night at Koskies so cool, where she would discuss with her friends the virtues of Constantin Brancusi and U2, Tom Cruise and John Lennon, and have to suck a peppermint on the way home so that her mother wouldn’t find out that she’d been smoking and sipping alcohol. Her father always knew—he’d wink and point to whichever room her mother was in.
Anna recalled when she and Anton first made love. It was so cold they both had to keep their coats on, and when it was over, Anna even wondered if she would bother to do it again. No one seemed to have explained to Anton that it might take a woman a little longer to have an orgasm.
Anna looked up to see a tall man coming toward her. For a moment she couldn’t be sure that it was Anton. The advancing man was dressed in an army greatcoat too big for him, with a woolen scarf wrapped around his neck, topped off by a fur hat with flaps that covered his ears. An ideal outfit for a New York winter, was her immediate thought.
Anton took the seat opposite her and removed his hat, but nothing else. He knew that the only heater that worked was on the other side of the room.
“Do you have the painting?” asked Anna, unable to wait a moment longer to find out.
“Yes,” said Anton. “The canvas never left my studio the whole time you were away, as even the least observant of my students would have noticed it wasn’t my usual style,” he added, before sipping his red wine. “Though I confess I’ll be glad to be rid of the damn man. I went to jail for less, and I haven’t slept for the past four days. Even my wife suspects something is wrong.”
“I’m so sorry,” said Anna, as Anton began to roll a cigarette. “I shouldn’t have placed you in such danger, and what makes it worse is I have to ask you for another favor.” Anton looked apprehensive but waited to hear what her latest request would be. “You told me you kept eight thousand dollars of my mother’s money hidden in the house.”
“Yes, most Romanians stash the cash under their mattress, in case there’s a change of government in the middle of the night,” said Anton, as he lit his cigarette.
“I need to borrow some of it,” said Anna. “I’ll refund the money just as soon as I get back to New York.”
“It’s your money, Anna, you can have every last cent.”
“No, it’s my mother’s, but don’t let her know, or she’ll only assume I’m in some sort of financial trouble and start selling off the furniture.”
Anton didn’t laugh. “But you are in some sort of trouble, aren’t you?”
“Not as long as I have the painting.”
“Would you rather I held on to it for another day?” he asked, as he took a sip of wine.
“No, that’s kind of you,” said Anna, “but that would only mean that neither of us was able to get a night’s sleep. I think the time has come to take the canvas off your hands.”
Anna rose without another word, having not touched her wine.
Anton drained his glass, stubbed out his cigarette, and left a few coins on the table. He pulled his hat back on and followed Anna out of the bar. She couldn’t help remembering the last time they’d walked out of Koskies together.
Anna looked up and down the street before she joined Anton, who was whispering intently to Sergei.
“Will you have time to visit your mother?” asked Anton, as Sergei opened the back door for her.
“Not while someone is watching my every move.”
“I didn’t see anyone,” said Anton.
“You don’t see him,” said Anna. “You feel him.” She paused. “And I was under the illusion that I’d got rid of him.”
“You haven’t,” said Sergei, as they drove off.
No one spoke for the rest of the short journey to Anton’s home. Once Sergei had brought the car to a halt, Anna jumped out and followed Anton into the house. He led her quickly up the stairs to an attic on the top floor. Although Anna could hear the sound of Sibelius coming from a room below, it was clear that he didn’t want her to meet his wife.
Anna walked into a room crowded with canvases. Her eyes were immediately drawn to the painting of Van Gogh, his left ear bandaged. She smiled. The picture was in its familiar frame, safely back inside the open red box.
“Couldn’t be better,” said Anna. “Now all I have to do is make sure it ends up in the right hands.”
Anton didn’t comment, and when Anna turned round, she found him on his knees in the far corner of the room, lifting up a floorboard. He reached inside and extracted a thick envelope, which he slipped into an inside pocket. He then returned to the red box, replaced the lid, and began to hammer the nails back in place. It was only too clear that he wanted to be rid of the painting as quickly as possible. Once the final nail was secured, he lifted up the box and, without a word, led Anna out of the room and back down the stairs.
Anna opened the front door to allow Anton to step out onto the street. She was pleased to see Sergei waiting by the back of the car, the trunk already open. Anton placed the red box in the trunk and brushed his hands together, showing how happy he was to be free of the painting. Sergei slammed the lid closed and returned to his seat behind the wheel.
Anton extracted the thick envelope from his inside pocket and
handed it over to Anna.
“Thank you,” she said, before passing across another envelope in exchange, but it was not addressed to Anton.
He looked at the name, smiled, and said, “I’ll see she gets it. Whatever it is you’re up to,” he added, “I hope it works out.”
He kissed her on both cheeks before disappearing back into the house.
“Where will you stay tonight?” asked Sergei, as Anna joined him in the front of the car.
Anna told him.
9/21
38
WHEN ANNA WOKE, Sergei was sitting on the hood of the car, smoking a cigarette. Anna stretched, blinked, and rubbed her eyes. It was the first time she’d slept in the backseat of a car—a definite improvement on the back of a van, somewhere on the way to the Canadian border, with no one to protect her.
She got out of the car and stretched her legs. The red box was still in place.
“Good morning,” said Sergei. “I hope you slept well?”
She laughed. “Better than you, it seems.”
“After twenty years in the army, sleep becomes a luxury,” said Sergei. “But please do join me for breakfast.” He returned to the car and retrieved a small tin box from under the driver’s seat. He removed the lid and revealed its contents: two bread rolls, a boiled egg, a hunk of cheese, a couple of tomatoes, an orange, and a thermos of coffee.
“Where did all of this come from?” asked Anna, as she peeled the orange.
“Last night’s supper,” explained Sergei, “prepared by my dear wife.”
“How will you explain why you didn’t go home?” Anna asked.
“I’ll tell her the truth,” said Sergei. “I spent the night with a beautiful woman.” Anna blushed. “But I fear I am too old for her to believe me,” he added. “So what do we do next? Rob a bank?”
“Only if you know one with fifty million dollars in loose change,” said Anna, laughing. “Otherwise I have to get that”—she pointed to the crate—“into the cargo hold on the next flight to London, so I’ll need to find out when the freight depot opens.”
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