False Impression

by Jeffrey Archer

  When the Aeroflot crew finally reached passport control, Nina guided her charge past the long line of passengers and on toward the exit marked CREW ONLY. Krantz tucked in behind Nina, who didn’t stop chatting even when she’d handed over her passport to the official. He slowly turned the pages, checked the photograph, and then waved Nina through. “Next.”

  Krantz handed over her passport. Once again, the official looked carefully at the photograph and then at the person it claimed to represent. He even smiled as he waved her through. Krantz suddenly felt a stab of pain in her right shoulder. For a moment, the excruciating feeling made it difficult for her to move. She tried not to grimace. The official waved again, but she still remained fixed to the spot.

  “Come on, Sasha,” cried Nina, “you’re holding everyone up.”

  Krantz somehow managed to stumble unsteadily through the barrier. The official continued to stare at her as she walked away. Never look back. She smiled at Nina, and linked her arm in hers as they headed toward the exit. The official finally turned his attention to the second officer, who was next in line.

  “Will you be joining us on the bus?” asked Nina, as they strolled out of the airport and onto the pavement.

  “No,” said Krantz. “I’m being met by my boyfriend.”

  Nina looked surprised. She said good-bye, before crossing the road in the company of the second officer.

  “Who was that?” her colleague asked, before climbing onto the Aeroflot bus.

  Krantz had chosen to sit in the back of the aircraft so that few of the passangers would notice her, only the crew. She needed to be adopted by one of them long before they touched down at Heathrow. Krantz took her time as she tried to work out which of her new colleagues would fulfill that purpose.

  “Domestic or international?” asked the senior stewardess, soon after the aircraft had reached its cruising height.

  “Domestic,” replied Krantz with a smile.

  “Ah, that’s why I haven’t seen you before.”

  “I’ve only been with the company for three months,” said Krantz.

  “That would explain it. My name’s Nina.”

  “Sasha,” said Krantz, giving her a warm smile.

  “Just let me know if you need anything, Sasha.”

  “I will,” said Krantz.

  Trying to relax when she couldn’t lean on her right shoulder meant that Krantz remained awake for most of the flight. She used the hours getting to know Nina, so that by the time they landed, the senior stewardess would unwittingly play a role in the most crucial part of her deception. By the time Krantz finally fell asleep, Nina had become her minder.

  54

  “WASN’T THERE ANYTHING on the film that would assist us?” asked Macy.

  “Nothing,” replied Jack, as he looked across the desk at his boss. “Leapman had only been in the office long enough to photograph eight documents before Fenston’s unscheduled appearance.”

  “And what do those eight documents tell us?” Macy demanded.

  “Nothing we didn’t already know,” admitted Jack, as he opened a file in front of him. “Mainly contracts confirming that Fenston is still fleecing customers in different parts of the world, who are either naïve or greedy. But should any of them decide it would be in their best interests to sell their assets and clear the debt with Fenston Finance, I suspect that’s when we’ll end up with another body on our hands. No, my only hope is that the NYPD has gathered enough evidence to press charges in the Leapman case, because I still don’t have enough to slap a parking ticket on him.”

  “It doesn’t help,” said Macy, “that when I spoke to my opposite number this morning, or to be more accurate he spoke to me, the first thing he wanted to know was did we have an FBI agent called Delaney, and if so, was he on the scene of the crime before his boys arrived.”

  “What did you tell him?” asked Jack, trying not to smile.

  “I’d look into the matter and call him back.” Macy paused. “But it might placate them a little if you were willing to trade some information,” he suggested.

  “But I don’t think they have anything we aren’t already aware of,” responded Jack, “and they can’t be that optimistic about pressing charges while Leapman is still out for the count.”

  “Any news from the hospital about his chances of recovery?” asked Macy.

  “Not great,” admitted Jack. “While he was in Fenston’s office he suffered a stress stroke caused by high blood pressure. The medical term is aphasia.”

  “Aphasia?”

  “The part of Leapman’s brain that affects his speech has been irreparably damaged, so he can’t speak. Frankly, his doctor is describing him as a vegetable and warned me that the only decision the hospital will have to make is whether to pull the plug and let him die peacefully.”

  “The NYPD tells me that Fenston is sitting solicitously by the patient’s bedside.”

  “Then they’d better not leave them alone for more than a few moments,” said Jack, “because if they do, the doctors won’t need to make the decision as to who should pull the plug.”

  “The police also want to know if you removed a camera from the crime scene.”

  “It was FBI property.”

  “Not if it was evidence in a criminal investigation, as you well know, Jack. Why don’t you send them a set of the photos Leapman took and try to be more cooperative in the future? Remind them that your father served twenty-six years with the force—that should do the trick.”

  “But what do they have to offer in exchange?” asked Jack.

  “A copy of a photograph with your name on the back. They want to know if it meant anything to you, because it sure didn’t to them, or me,” admitted Macy.

  The supervisor pushed two prints across his desk and allowed Jack a few moments to consider them. The first was a picture of Fenston shaking hands with George W. Bush when he visited Ground Zero. Jack recalled the blown-up version that was hanging on the wall behind Fenston’s desk. He held up the picture and asked, “How come the NYPD has a copy of this?”

  “They found it on Leapman’s desk. He was obviously going to hand it over to you yesterday evening, along with an explanation of what he’d written on the back.”

  Jack looked at the second print and was considering the words, Delaney, this is all the evidence you need, when the phone on Macy’s desk buzzed.

  He picked it up and listened. “Put him on,” said Macy, as he replaced the receiver and flicked a switch that would allow them both to follow the conversation. “It’s Tom Crasanti, calling from London,” said Macy. “Hi, Tom, it’s Dick Macy. Jack’s in the office with me. We were just discussing the Fenston case, because we’re still not making much headway.”

  “That’s why I’m calling,” said Tom. “There’s been a development at this end, and the news is not good. We think Krantz has slipped into England.”

  “That’s not possible,” said Jack. “How could she hope to get through passport control?”

  “By posing as an Aeroflot stewardess, it would seem,” said Tom. “My contact at the Russian embassy called to warn me that a woman had entered Britain using a fake passport under the name of Sasha Prestakavich.”

  “But why should they assume Prestakavich is Krantz?” asked Jack.

  “They didn’t,” said Tom. “They had no idea who she was. All they could tell me was that the suspect befriended Aeroflot’s chief stewardess while on their daily flight to London. She then fooled her into accompanying her through passport control. That’s how we got to hear of it. It turns out that the copilot asked who the woman was, and when he was told that her name was Sasha Prestakavich, he said that wasn’t possible because he traveled with her regularly, and it certainly wasn’t Prestakavich.”

  “That still doesn’t prove it’s Krantz,” pressed Macy.

  “I’ll get there, sir, just give me time.”

  Jack was glad his friend couldn’t see the look of impatience on the boss’s face.

 
; “The copilot,” continued Tom, “reported to his captain, who immediately alerted Aeroflot’s security. It didn’t take them long to discover that Sasha Prestakavich was on a three-day layover, and her passport had been stolen, along with her uniform. That set alarm bells ringing.” Macy began tapping his fingers on the desk. “My contact at the Russian embassy called me in the new entente-cordiale spirit of post-9/11,” said Tom, “having already briefed Interpol.”

  “We are going to get there, aren’t we, Tom?”

  “Any moment, sir.” He paused. “Where was I?”

  “Taking calls from your contact in the Russian embassy,” said Jack.

  “Oh, yes,” said Tom. “It was after I’d given him a description of Krantz, about five foot, around a hundred pounds, crew cut, that they asked me to fax over a photograph of her, which I did. He then forwarded a copy of the photograph to the copilot at his London hotel, who confirmed that it was Krantz.”

  “Good work, Tom,” said Macy, “thorough as always, but have you come up with any theory as to why Krantz would chance going to England at this particular time?”

  “To kill Petrescu would be my bet,” said Tom.

  “What do you think?” asked Macy, looking across his desk at Jack.

  “I agree with Tom” replied Jack. “Anna has to be the obvious target.” He hesitated. “But what I can’t work out is why Krantz would take such a risk right now.”

  “I agree,” said Macy, but I’m not willing to put Petrescu’s life at risk while we try to second-guess Krantz’s motives.” Macy leant forward. “Now listen carefully, Tom, because I’m only going to tell you this once.” He quickly began to turn the pages of his Fenston file. “I need you to get in touch with—just give me a moment,” said Macy, as he turned over even more pages. “Ah, yes, here it is, Chief Superintendent Renton of the Surrey CID. After reading Jack’s report, I got a clear impression that Renton is a man used to making tough decisions, even taking responsibility when one of his subordinates has screwed up. I know you’ve already briefed him on Krantz, but warn him that we think she’s about to strike again, and the target could well be someone else at Wentworth Hall. He won’t want that to happen twice on his watch, and rub in that the last time Krantz was captured, she escaped. That will keep him awake at night. And if he wants to have a word with me at any time, I’m always on the end of a line.”

  “And do pass on my best wishes,” added Jack.

  “That should settle it,” said Macy. “So, Tom, step it up a notch.”

  “Yes, sir,” came back the reply from London.

  Macy flicked off the speaker phone. “And, Jack, I want you to take the next flight to London. If Krantz is even thinking about harming Petrescu, let’s make sure we’re waiting for her, because if she were to escape a second time, I’ll be pensioned off and you can forget any thoughts of promotion.”

  Jack frowned but didn’t respond.

  “You look apprehensive,” said Macy.

  “I can’t see why a photo of Fenston shaking hands with the president is all the evidence you need—” he paused “—although I think I’ve worked out why Krantz is willing to risk returning to Wentworth Hall a second time.”

  “And why’s that?” asked Macy.

  “She’s going to steal the Van Gogh,” said Jack, “then somehow get it to Fenston.”

  “So Petrescu isn’t the reason Krantz has returned to England.”

  “No, she isn’t,” said Jack, “but once Krantz discovers she’s there, you can assume that she’ll consider killing Anna a bonus.”

  55

  LIGHTING-UP TIME WAS 7:41 P.M. on September 25th. Krantz didn’t appear on the outskirts of Wentworth until just after eight.

  Arabella was at the time accompanying her guests through to the dining room.

  Krantz, dressed in a black skintight tracksuit, circled the estate twice before she decided where she would enter the grounds. It certainly wasn’t going to be through the front gates. Although the high stone walls that surrounded the estate had proved impregnable when originally built to keep invaders out, particularly the French and Germans, by the beginning of the twenty-first century wear and tear, and the minimum wage, meant that there were one or two places where entry would have been simple enough for a local lad planning to steal apples.

  Once Krantz had selected her point of entry, she easily climbed the weakened perimeter in a matter of seconds, straddled the wall, fell and rolled over, as she had done a thousand times following a bad dismount from the high bar.

  Krantz remained still for a moment as she waited for the moon to disappear behind a cloud. She then ran thirty or forty yards to the safety of a little copse of trees down by the river. She waited for the moon to reappear so that she could study the terrain more carefully, aware that she would have to be patient. In her line of work, impatience led to mistakes, and mistakes could not be rectified quite as easily as in some other professions.

  Krantz had a clear view of the front of the house, but it was another forty minutes before the vast oak door was opened by a man in a black tailcoat and white tie, allowing the two dogs out for their nightly frolic. They sniffed the air, immediately picking up Krantz’s scent, and began barking loudly as they bounded toward her. But then she had been waiting for them—patiently.

  The English, her instructor had once told her, were an animal-loving nation, and you could tell a person’s class by the dogs they chose to share their homes with. The working class liked greyhounds, the middle classes Jack Russells and cocker spaniels, while the nouveau riche preferred a Rottweiler or German shepherd to protect their newly made wealth. The upper classes traditionally chose Labradors, dogs quite unsuited for protection, as they were more likely to lick you than take a chunk out of you. When Krantz was told about these dogs, it was the first time she had come across the word soppy. Only the Queen had Corgis.

  Krantz didn’t move as the two dogs bounded toward her, occasionally stopping to sniff the air, now aware of another smell that made their tails wag even faster. Krantz had earlier visited Curnick’s in the Fulham Road and selected the most tender pieces of sirloin steak, which would have been appreciated by those guests now dining at Wentworth Hall. Krantz felt no expense should be spared. After all, it was to be their last supper.

  Krantz laid the large juicy morsels around her in a circle and remained motionless in the center, like a dumb waiter. Once Brunswick and Picton came across the meat, they quickly tucked into their first course, not showing a great deal of interest in the human statue in the center of the circle. Krantz crouched slowly down on one knee and began to lay out a second helping, wherever she saw a gap appear in the circle. Occasionally the dogs would pause between mouthfuls, look up at her with doleful eyes, tails wagging if anything more enthusiastically, before they returned to the feast.

  Once she had laid before them the final delicacy, Krantz leant forward and began to stroke the silky head of Picton, the younger of the two dogs. He didn’t even look up when she drew the kitchen knife from its sheath. Sheffield steel, also purchased from the Fulham Road that afternoon.

  Once again, she gently stroked the head of the chocolate Labrador, and then suddenly, without warning, grabbed Picton by the ears, jerked his head away from the last succulent morsels and, with one slash of the blade, sliced into the animal’s throat. A loud bark was quickly followed by a shrill yelp, and in the darkness Krantz could not see the large black eyes giving her a pained expression. The black Labrador, older but not wiser, looked up and growled, which took him a full second. More than enough time for Krantz to thrust her left forearm under the dog’s jaw, causing Brunswick to raise his head just long enough for Krantz to slash out at his throat, though not with her usual skill and precision. The dog sank to the ground, whimpering in pain. Krantz leant forward, pulled up his silken ears and with one final movement finished off the job.

  Krantz dragged both dogs into the copse and dumped them behind a fallen oak. She then washed her hands in the stream
, annoyed to find her brand-new tracksuit was covered in blood. She finally wiped the knife on the grass before replacing it in its sheath. She checked her watch. She had allocated two hours for the entire operation, so she reckoned she still had over an hour before those in the house, occupied with either serving or being served, would notice the dogs had not returned from their evening constitutional.

  The distance between the copse and the north end of the house Krantz estimated to be 100, perhaps 120 yards. With the moon throwing out such a clear light, if only intermittently, she knew that there was only one form of movement that would go unobserved.

  She fell to her knees before lying flat on the grass. She first placed one arm in front of her, followed by one leg, the second arm, then the second leg, and finally she eased her body forward. Her record for a hundred yards as a human crab was seven minutes and nineteen seconds. Occasionally, she would stop and raise her head to study the layout of the house so that she could consider her point of entry. The ground floor was ablaze with light, while the first floor was almost in darkness. The second floor, where the servants resided, had only one light on. Krantz wasn’t interested in the second floor. The person she was looking for would be on the ground floor, and later the first.

  When Krantz was within ten yards of the house, she slowed each movement down until she felt a finger touch the outer wall. She lay still, cocked her head to one side, and used the light of the moon to study the edifice more carefully. Only great estates still boasted drainpipes of that size. When you’ve performed a somersault on a four-inch-wide beam, a drainpipe that prominent is a ladder.

  Krantz next checked the windows of the large room where the most noise was coming from. Although the heavy curtains were drawn, she spotted one affording a slight chink. She moved even more slowly toward the noise and laughter. When she reached the window, she pushed herself up onto her knees until one eye was in line with the tiny gap in the curtain.