Leapman took another pace backward, hesitated, then left without another word.
When the door closed, Tina was shaking so much she had to grip the armrests of her chair.
41
WHEN THE POLICE car arrived at the station, Jack was bundled out. Once he’d been checked in by the desk sergeant, the two detectives accompanied him downstairs to an interview room. Detective Sergeant Frankham asked him to take a seat on the other side of the table. Something else Jack hadn’t experienced before. Detective Constable Ross stood quietly in one corner.
Jack could only wonder which one of them was going to play the good cop.
Detective Sergeant Frankham sat down, placed a file on the table, and extracted a long form.
“Name?” began Frankham.
“Jack Fitzgerald Delaney,” Jack replied.
“Date of birth?”
“Twenty-second November, “sixty-three.”
“Occupation?”
“Senior investigating officer with the FBI, attached to the New York field office.”
The detective sergeant dropped his pen, looked up, and said, “Do you have some ID?”
Jack produced his FBI badge and identity card.
“Thank you, sir,” said Frankham after he’d checked them. “Can you wait here for a moment?” He stood and turned to his colleague. “Would you see that Agent Delaney is offered a coffee? This may take some time.” When he reached the door he added, “And make sure he gets his tie, belt, and laces back.”
DS Frankham turned out to be right, because it was another hour before the heavy door was opened again and an older man with a weathered, lined face entered the room. He was dressed in a well-tailored uniform, with silver braid on his sleeve, epaulette, and the peak of his cap, which he removed to reveal a head of gray hair. He took the seat opposite Jack.
“Good evening, Mr. Delaney. My name is Renton, Chief Superintendent Renton, and now that we have been able to confirm your identity, perhaps you’d be kind enough to answer a few questions.”
“If I can,” said Jack.
“I feel sure you can,” said Renton. “What interests me is whether you will.”
Jack didn’t respond.
“We received a complaint from a usually reliable source that you have, for the past week, been following a lady without her prior knowledge. This is an offence in England under the 1997 Protection from Harassment Act, as you are no doubt aware. However, I feel sure you have a simple explanation.”
“Dr. Petrescu is part of an ongoing investigation, which my department has been involved in for some time.”
“Would that investigation have anything to do with the death of Lady Victoria Wentworth?”
“Yes,” replied Jack.
“And is Dr. Petrescu a suspect in that murder?”
“No,” replied Jack firmly. “Quite the opposite. In fact, we had thought she might be the next victim.”
“Had thought?” repeated the chief superintendent.
“Yes,” replied Jack. “Fortunately the murderer has been apprehended in Bucharest.”
“And you didn’t feel able to share this information with us?” said Renton. “Despite the fact that you must have been aware that we were conducting a murder inquiry.”
“I apologize, sir,” said Jack. “I only found out myself a few hours ago. But I’m sure our London office planned to keep you informed.”
“Mr. Tom Crasanti has briefed me, but I suspect only because his colleague was under lock and key.” Jack didn’t comment. “But he did go on to assure me,” continued Renton, “that you will keep us fully informed of any developments that might arise in the future.” Once again, Jack didn’t respond. The chief superintendent rose from his place. “Good night, Mr. Delaney. I have authorized your immediate release and can only hope you have a pleasant flight home.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Jack, as Renton replaced his cap and left the room.
Jack had some sympathy with the chief superintendent. After all, the NYPD, not to mention the CIA, rarely bothered to let the FBI know what they were up to. A few moments later, DS Frankham returned.
“If you’ll accompany me, sir,” he said, “we have a car waiting to take you back to your hotel.”
“Thank you,” said Jack, as he followed the detective sergeant out of the room and up the stairs into reception.
The desk sergeant lowered his head as Jack left the building. Jack shook hands with an embarrassed DS Frankham before climbing into a police car that was parked outside the front door. Tom was waiting for him in the back.
“Just another case study for Quantico to add to its curriculum,” suggested Tom. “This time on how to cause a major diplomatic incident while visiting one’s oldest ally.”
“I must have brought a new meaning to the words special relationship,” commented Jack.
“However, the condemned man is to be given a chance to redeem himself,” said Tom.
“What do you have in mind?” asked Jack.
“We’ve both been invited to join Lady Arabella and Dr. Petrescu for breakfast at Wentworth Hall tomorrow morning—and by the way, Jack, I see what you mean about Anna.”
9/22
42
JACK EMERGED FROM the Wentworth Arms just after seven thirty to find a Rolls-Royce parked by the entrance. A chauffeur opened the back door the moment he saw him.
“Good morning, sir,” he said. “Lady Arabella asked me to say how much she is looking forward to meeting you.”
“Me too,” said Jack, as he climbed into the back.
“We’ll be there in a few minutes,” the chauffeur assured him, as he drove out of the hotel entrance.
Half of the journey seemed to Jack to be from the wrought-iron gates at the entrance to the estate along the long drive that led up to the hall. Once the chauffeur had brought the car to a halt, he jumped out and walked around to open the back door. Jack stepped out onto the gravel drive and looked up to see a butler standing on the top step, obviously expecting him.
“Good morning, sir,” he said, “welcome to Wentworth Hall. If you would be good enough to follow me, Lady Arabella is expecting you.’
“ ‘A usually reliable source,’ ” muttered Jack, but if the butler did overhear him, he made no comment as he led the guest through to the drawing room.
“Mr. Delaney, m’lady,” announced the butler, as two dogs, tails wagging, padded forward to greet him.
“Good morning, Mr. Delaney,” said Arabella. “I think we owe you an apology. You are so obviously not a stalker.”
Jack stared at Anna, who also looked suitably embarrassed, and then turned toward Tom, who couldn’t remove the grin from his face.
Andrews reappeared at the door. “Breakfast is ready, m’lady.”
When she woke a second time, a young doctor was changing the dressing on her shoulder.
“How long before I’m fully recovered?” was her first question.
The doctor looked startled when he heard her voice for the first time—such a shrill, piping note didn’t quite fit her legend. He remained silent until he’d finished cutting a length of bandage with his scissors.
“Three, four days at most,” he replied, looking down at her. “But I wouldn’t be in a hurry to get myself discharged, if I were you, because the moment I sign your release papers, your next stop is Jilava, which I think you’re only too familiar with from your days serving the past regime.”
Krantz could never forget the barren, stone-walled, rat-infested building that she had visited every night in order to question the latest prisoners before being driven back to the warmth of her well-furnished dacha on the outskirts of the city.
“I’m told that the inmates are looking forward to seeing you again after such a prolonged absence,” added the doctor. He bent over, peeled an edge from the large dressing on her shoulder, and paused. “This is going to hurt,” he promised, and then in one movement, ripped it off. Krantz didn’t flinch. She wasn’t going to allow him
that satisfaction.
The doctor dabbed iodine into the wound before placing a new dressing over it. He then expertly bandaged the shoulder and placed her right arm in a sling.
“How many guards are there?” she asked casually.
“Six, and they’re all armed,” said the doctor, “and just in case you’re thinking of trying to escape, they have orders to shoot first and fill in any unnecessary forms later. I’ve even prepared an unsigned death certificate for them.”
Krantz didn’t ask any more questions.
When the doctor left, she lay staring up at the ceiling. If there was any chance of escaping, it would have to be while she was still at the hospital. No one had ever managed to escape from Jilava penitentiary, not even Ceauşescu.
It took her another eight hours to confirm that there were always six guards, covering three eight-hour shifts. The first group clocked in at six o’clock, the second at two, and the night shift came on duty at ten.
During a long, sleepless night, Krantz discovered that the half-dozen guards on night duty felt they had drawn the short straw. One of them was just plain lazy and spent half the night asleep. Another was always sneaking off to have a cigarette on the fire escape—no smoking allowed on the hospital premises. The third was a philanderer who imagined that he’d been put on earth to satisfy women. He was never more than a few paces from one of the nurses. The fourth spent most of his time grumbling about how much, or how little, he was paid, and his wife’s ability to clean him out before the end of every week. Krantz knew that she could take care of his problem if she was given the chance. The other two guards were older, and remembered her only too well from the past regime. One of them would have been happy to blow a hole right through her if she’d as much as raised her head from the pillow.
But even they were entitled to a meal break.
Jack sat down to a breakfast of eggs, bacon, deviled kidneys, mushrooms, and tomatoes, followed by toast, English marmalade, and coffee.
“You must be hungry after such an ordeal,” remarked Arabella.
“If it hadn’t been for Tom, I might have had to settle for prison rations.”
“And I fear I am to blame,” said Anna. “Because I fingered you,” she added with a grin.
“Not true,” said Tom. “You can thank Arabella for having Jack arrested and Arabella for having him released.”
“No, I can’t take all the credit,” Arabella said, stroking one of the dogs, seated on each side of her. “I admit to having Jack arrested, but it was your ambassador who managed to get him—what’s the American expression?—sprung.”
“But there is one thing I still don’t understand,” said Anna, “despite Tom filling us in with all the finer details. Why did you continue to follow me to Wentworth once you were convinced I was no longer in possession of the painting?”
“Because I thought the woman who murdered your driver would then follow you to London.”
“Where she planned to kill me?” said Anna quietly. Jack nodded but didn’t speak. “Thank God I never knew,” said Anna, pushing her breakfast to one side.
“But by then she’d already been arrested for murdering Sergei?” queried Arabella.
“That’s right,” said Jack, “but I didn’t know that until I met up with Tom last night.”
“So the FBI had been keeping an eye on me at the same time?” said Anna, turning to face Jack, who was buttering some toast.
“For some considerable time,” admitted Jack. “At one point, we even wondered if you were the hired assassin.”
“On what grounds?” demanded Anna.
“An art consultant would be a good front for someone who worked for Fenston, especially if she was also an athlete and just happened to be born in Romania.”
“And just how long have I been under investigation?” asked Anna.
“For the past two months,” admitted Jack. He took a sip of coffee. “In fact, we were just about to close your file when you stole the Van Gogh.”
“I didn’t steal it,” said Anna sharply.
“She retrieved it, on my behalf,” interjected Arabella. “And with my blessing, what’s more.”
“And are you still hoping that Fenston will agree to sell the painting so that you can clear the debt? Because if he did, it would be a first.”
“No,” said Arabella, a little too quickly. “That’s the last thing I want.”
Jack looked puzzled.
“Not until the police solve the mystery of who murdered your sister,” interjected Anna.
“We all know who murdered my sister,” said Arabella sharply, “and if she ever crosses my path, I’ll happily blow her head off.” Both dogs pricked up their ears.
“Knowing it is not the same as proving it,” said Jack.
“So Fenston has got away with murder,” said Anna quietly.
“More than once, I suspect,” admitted Jack. “The Bureau has had him under investigation for some time. There are four—” he paused “—now five murders in different parts of the world that have the Krantz trademark, but we’ve never been able to link her directly to Fenston.”
“Krantz murdered Victoria and Sergei,” said Anna.
“Without a doubt,” said Jack.
“And Colonel Sergei Slatinaru was your father’s commanding officer,” added Tom, “as well as being a close friend.”
“I’ll do anything I can to help,” said Anna, close to tears, “and I mean anything.”
“We’ve had a tiny break,” admitted Tom, “though we can’t be sure it will lead us anywhere. When Krantz was taken to the hospital to have the bullet removed from her shoulder, the only thing they found on her, other than the knife and a little cash, was a key.”
“But surely it will fit a lock in Romania?” suggested Anna.
“We don’t think so,” said Jack, after devouring another mushroom. “It has NYRC 13 stamped on it. Not much of a lead, but if we could find out what it opened, it might, just might, connect Krantz to Fenston.”
“So do you want me to stay in England while you continue your investigation?” asked Anna.
“No, I need you to return to New York,” said Jack. “Let everyone know you’re safe and well, act normally, even look for a job. Just don’t give Fenston any reason to become suspicious.”
“Do I stay in touch with my former colleagues in his office?” asked Anna. “Because Fenston’s secretary, Tina, is one of my closest friends.”
“Are you sure about that?” asked Jack, putting down his knife and fork.
“What are you getting at?” asked Anna.
“How do you explain the fact that Fenston always knew exactly where you were, if Tina wasn’t telling him?”
“I can’t,” said Anna, “but I know she hates Fenston as much as I do.”
“And you can prove it?” asked Jack.
“I don’t need proof,” snapped Anna.
“I do,” said Jack calmly.
“Be careful, Jack, because if you’re wrong,” said Anna, “then her life must also be in danger.”
“If that’s the case, all the more reason for you to return to New York and make contact with her as soon as possible,” suggested Tom, trying to calm the atmosphere.
Jack nodded his agreement.
“I’m booked on a flight this afternoon,” said Anna.
“Me too,” said Jack. “Heathrow?”
“No, Stansted,” said Anna.
“Well, one of you is going to have to change your flight,” suggested Tom.
“Not me,” said Jack. “I’m not going to be arrested for stalking a second time.”
“Before I make a decision on whether to change flights,” said Anna, “I’ll need to know if I’m still under investigation. Because if I am, you can go on following me.”
“No,” said Jack. “I closed your file a few days ago.”
“What convinced you to do that?” asked Anna.
“When Arabella’s sister was murdered, you had an unimpeachabl
e witness as your alibi.”
“And who was that, may I ask?”
“Me,” replied Jack. “As I’d been following you around Central Park, you can’t have been in England.”
“You run in Central Park?” said Anna.
“Every morning around the loop,” said Jack. “Around the Reservoir on Sundays.”
“Me too,” said Anna. “Never miss.”
“I know,” said Jack. “I overtook you several times during the last six weeks.”
Anna stared at him. “The man in the emerald-green T-shirt. You’re not bad.”
“You’re not so—”
“I’m sorry to break up this meeting of the Central Park joggers’ club,” said Tom, as he pushed back his chair, “but I ought to be getting back to my office. There’s a stack of 9/11 files on my desk I haven’t even opened. Thank you for breakfast,” he added, turning to Arabella. “I’m only sorry that the ambassador had to disturb you so early this morning.”
“Which reminds me,” said Arabella, as she rose from her chair. “I must get on with writing some humble-pie letters, my thanks to the ambassador and my apologies to half the Surrey police force.”
“What about me?” said Jack. “I’m thinking of suing the Wentworth estate, the Surrey police, and the Home Office, with Tom as my witness.”
“Not a hope,” said Tom. “I wouldn’t care to have Arabella as an enemy.”
Jack smiled. “Then I’ll have to settle for a lift to the Wentworth Arms.”
“You got it,” said Tom.
“And now that I feel safe to join you at Heathrow,” said Anna, rising from her place, “where shall we meet?”
“Don’t worry,” said Jack. “I’ll find you.”
43
LEAPMAN WAS DRIVEN to JFK to pick up the painting an hour before the plane was due to land. That didn’t stop Fenston calling him every ten minutes on the way to the airport, which became every five once the limousine was on its way back to Wall Street with the red crate safely stowed in the trunk.
Fenston was pacing up and down his office by the time Leapman was dropped outside the front of the building and waiting in the corridor when Barry Steadman and the driver stepped out of the elevator carrying the red crate.
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