The first thing she saw was a man dressed in a dinner jacket. He was on his feet, a glass of champagne in one hand as if proposing a toast. She couldn’t hear what he was saying, but then she wasn’t interested. Her eyes swept that part of the room she could see. At one end of the table sat a lady in a long silk dress with her back to the window, looking intently at the man delivering the impromptu speech. Krantz’s eyes rested on her diamond necklace, but that wasn’t her trade. Her specialty was two or three inches above the sparkling gems.
She turned her attention to the other end of the table. She almost smiled when she saw who was eating pheasant and sipping a glass of wine. When Petrescu retired to bed later that night, Krantz would be waiting for her, hidden in a place Petrescu would least expect to find her.
Krantz glanced toward the man in the black tailcoat who had opened the door to let the dogs out. He was now standing behind the lady wearing the silk gown, refilling her glass with wine, while other servants removed plates and one did nothing more than scrape crumbs from the table into a silver tray. Krantz remained absolutely still while her eyes continued to move around the room, searching for the other throat Fenston had sent her to cut.
“Lady Arabella, I rise to thank you for your kindness and hospitality. I have much enjoyed trout from the River Test, and pheasant shot on your estate, while in the company of two remarkable women. But tonight will remain memorable for me for many other reasons. Not least, that I will leave Wentworth Hall tomorrow with two unique additions to my collection—one of the finest examples of Van Gogh’s work, as well as one of the most talented young professionals in her field, who has agreed to be the CEO of my foundation. Your great-grandfather,” said Nakamura, turning to face his hostess, “was wise enough in eighteen eighty-nine, over a century ago, to purchase from Dr. Gachet the self-portrait of his close friend, Vincent Van Gogh. Tomorrow, that masterpiece will begin a journey to the other side of the world, but I must warn you, Arabella, that after only a few hours in your home, I have my eye on another of your national treasures, and this time I would be willing to pay well over the odds.”
“Which one, may I ask?” said Arabella.
Krantz decided that it was time to move on.
She crept slowly toward the north end of the building, unaware that the massive cornerstones had been an architectural delight to Sir John Vanbrugh; to her they formed perfectly proportioned footholds to the first floor.
She climbed up onto the first-floor balcony in less than two minutes and paused for a moment to consider how many bedrooms she might have to enter. She knew that while there were guests in the house there was no reason to think any of the rooms would be alarmed, and because of the age of the building, entry wouldn’t have caused much difficulty for a burglar on his first outing. With the aid of her knife, Krantz slipped the bolt on the window of the first room. Once inside, she didn’t fumble around for a light but switched on a slimline pen flashlight, which illuminated an area about the size of a small television screen. The square of light moved across the wall, illuminating picture after picture, and although Hals, Hobbema, and Van Goyen would have delighted most connoisseurs’ eyes, Krantz passed quickly over them in search of another Dutch master. Once she had given cursory consideration to every painting in the room, she switched off the torch and headed back to the balcony. She entered the second guest bedroom as Arabella rose to thank Mr. Nakamura for his gracious speech.
Once again Krantz studied each canvas, and once again none brought a smile to her lips. She quickly returned to the parapet, as the butler offered Mr. Nakamura a port and opened the cigar box. Mr. Nakamura allowed Andrews to pour him a Taylor’s 47. When the butler returned to his mistress at the other end of the table, Arabella declined the port, but rolled several cigars between her thumb and forefinger before she selected a Monte Cristo. As the butler struck a match for his mistress, Arabella smiled. Everything was going to plan.
56
KRANTZ HAD COVERED five bedrooms by the time Arabella invited her guests to join her in the drawing room for coffee. There were still another nine rooms left to consider, and Krantz was aware that not only was she running out of time, but she wouldn’t be given a second chance.
She moved swiftly to the next room, where someone who believed in fresh air had left a window wide open. She switched on her flashlight, to be greeted by a steely glare from the Iron Duke. She moved on to the next picture, just as Mr. Nakamura placed his coffee cup back on the side table and rose from his place. “I think it is time for me to retire to bed, Lady Arabella,” he said, “in case those dull men of Corus Steel feel I have lost my edge.” He turned to Anna. “I look forward to seeing you in the morning, when we might discuss over breakfast any ideas you have for developing my collection, and perhaps even your remuneration.”
“But you have already made it clear what you think I am worth,” said Anna.
“I don’t recall that,” said Nakamura, looking puzzled.
“Oh yes,” said Anna, with a smile. “I well remember your suggestion that Fenston had convinced you that I was worth five hundred dollars a day.”
“You have taken advantage of an old man,” said Nakamura with a smile, “but I shall not go back on my word.”
Krantz thought she heard a door close, and without giving Wellington a second look returned quickly to the balcony. She needed the use of her knife to secure entry into the next room. She moved stealthily across the floor, coming to a halt at the end of another four-poster bed. She switched on the flashlight, expecting to be greeted by a blank wall. But not this time.
The insane eyes of a genius stared at her. The insane eyes of an assassin stared back.
Krantz smiled for the second time that day. She climbed up onto the bed and crawled slowly toward her next victim. She was within inches of the canvas when she unsheathed her knife, raised it above her head, and was about to plunge the blade into the neck of Van Gogh, when she remembered what Fenston had insisted on if she hoped to collect four million rather than three. She switched off her flashlight, climbed down from the bed onto the thick carpet, and crawled under the four-poster. She lay flat on her back and waited.
As Arabella and her guests strolled out of the drawing room and into the hallway, she asked Andrews if Brunswick and Picton had returned.
“No, m’lady,” the butler replied, “but there are a lot of rabbits about tonight.”
“Then I shall go and fetch the rascals myself,” muttered Arabella and, turning to her guests, added, “Sleep well. I’ll see you both at breakfast.”
Nakamura bowed before accompanying Anna up the staircase, again stopping occasionally to admire Arabella’s ancestors, who gazed back at him.
“You will forgive me, Anna,” he said, “for taking my time, but I may not be given the opportunity of meeting these gentlemen again.”
Anna smiled as she left him to admire the Romney of Mrs. Siddons.
She continued on down the corridor, coming to a halt outside the Van Gogh room. She opened the bedroom door and switched on the light, stopping for a moment to admire the portrait of Van Gogh. She took off her dress and hung it in the wardrobe, placing the rest of her clothes on the sofa at the end of the four-poster. She then turned on the light by the side of the bed and checked her watch. It was just after eleven. She disappeared into the bathroom.
When Krantz heard the sound of a shower, she slid out from under the canopy and knelt beside the bed. She cocked an ear, like an attentive animal sniffing the wind. The shower was still running. She stood up, walked across to the door, and switched off the bedroom light, while leaving on the reading light by the side of the bed. She pulled back the covers on the other side of the bed away from the lamp and climbed carefully in. She took one last look at the Van Gogh, before neatly replacing the blanket and cover over her head and finally disappearing under the sheet. Krantz lay flat and didn’t move a muscle. She was so slight that she barely made an impression in the half light. Although she remained secreted
under the sheets, she heard the shower being turned off. This was followed by silence. Anna must have been drying herself, and then she heard a switch being flicked off—the bathroom light, followed by the sound of a door closing.
Krantz extracted the knife from its tailor-made sheath and gripped the handle firmly as Anna walked back into the bedroom. Anna slipped under the covers on her side of the bed and immediately turned on one side, stretching out an arm to switch off the bedside light. She lowered her head onto the soft goose-feather pillow. As she drifted into those first moments of slumber, her last thought was that the evening could hardly have gone better. Mr. Nakamura had not only closed the deal, but offered her a job. What more could she ask for?
Anna was drifting off to sleep when Krantz leaned across and touched her back with the tip of her forefinger. She ran the finger tip down her spine and onto her buttocks, coming to a halt at the top of her thigh. Anna sighed. Krantz paused for a moment, before placing her hand between Anna’s legs.
Was she dreaming, or was someone touching her, Anna wondered, as she lay in that semiconscious state before falling asleep. She didn’t move a muscle. It wasn’t possible that someone else could be in the bed. She must be dreaming. That was when she felt the cold steel of a blade as it slipped in between her thighs. Suddenly Anna was wide awake, a thousand thoughts rushing through her mind. She was about to throw the blanket back and dive onto the floor, when a voice said quietly but firmly, “Don’t even think about moving, not even a muscle; you have a six-inch knife between your legs, and the blade is facing upward.” Anna didn’t move. “If you as much as murmur, I’ll slit you up from your crotch to your throat, and you’ll live just long enough to wish you were dead.”
Anna felt the steel of the blade wedged between her thighs and tried hard not to move, although she couldn’t stop trembling.
“If you follow my instructions to the letter,” said Krantz, “you might just live, but don’t count on it.”
Anna didn’t, and knew that if she was to have the slightest chance of survival, she would have to play for time. “What do you want?” she asked.
“I told you not to murmur,” repeated Krantz, moving the knife up between Anna’s thighs until the blade was a centimeter from the clitoris. Anna didn’t argue.
“There is a light on your side of the bed,” said Krantz. “Lean across, very slowly, and turn it on.”
Anna leant over and felt the blade move with her as she switched on the bedside light.
“Good,” said Krantz. “Now I’m going to pull back the blanket on your side of the bed, while you remain still. I won’t be removing the knife—yet.”
Anna stared in front of her, while Krantz slowly pulled the covers back on her side of the bed.
“Now pull your knees up under your chin,” said Krantz, “slowly.”
Anna obeyed her order, and once again felt the knife move with her.
“Now push yourself up onto your knees and turn to face the wall.”
Anna placed her left elbow on the bed, pushed herself up slowly onto her knees, and inched around until she was facing the wall. She stared up at Van Gogh. When she saw his bandaged ear, she couldn’t help remembering the last act Krantz had performed on Victoria.
Krantz was now kneeling directly behind her, still gripping firmly onto the handle of the knife.
“Lean slowly forward,” said Krantz, “and take hold of the painting on both sides of the frame.”
Anna obeyed her every word, while every muscle in her body was trembling.
“Now lift the picture off its hook and lower it slowly down onto the pillow.”
Anna managed to find the strength to carry out her command, bringing the portrait to rest on top of the pillows.
“Now I’m going to remove the knife from between your legs very slowly, before placing the tip of the blade on the back of your neck. Don’t even give a second’s thought to any sudden movement once the blade has been removed, because should you be foolish enough to attempt anything, let me assure you that I can kill you in less than three seconds, and be out of the open window in less than ten. I want you to think about that for a moment before I remove the blade.”
Anna thought about it and didn’t move. A few seconds later, she felt the knife slide out from between her legs, and a moment later, as promised, the tip of the blade was pressed against the nape of her neck.
“Lift the picture up off the pillow,” ordered Krantz, “then turn around and face me. Be assured the blade will never be less than a few inches away from your throat at any time. Any movement, and I mean any movement that I consider unexpected, will be your last.”
Anna believed her. She leaned forward, lifted the picture off the pillow, and moved her knees around inch by inch, until she came face-to-face with Krantz. When Anna first saw her, she was momentarily taken by surprise. The woman was so small and slight she even looked vulnerable, a mistake several seasoned men had made in the past—their past. If Krantz had got the better of Sergei, what chance did she have? The strangest thought passed through Anna’s mind as she waited for her next order. Why hadn’t she said yes when Andrews offered to bring her up a cup of cocoa before she retired to bed?
“Now I want you to turn the picture around so that it’s facing me,” said Krantz, “and don’t take your eye off the knife.” She pulled back the blade from her throat and raised it above her head. While Anna turned the picture round, Krantz kept the knife in line with her favorite part of the anatomy.
“Grip the frame firmly,” said Krantz, “because your friend Mr. Van Gogh is about to lose more than his left ear.”
“But why?” cried Anna, unable to remain silent any longer.
“I’m glad you asked,” said Krantz, “because Mr. Fenston’s orders could not have been more explicit. He wanted you to be the last person to see the masterpiece before it was finally destroyed.”
“But why?” Anna repeated.
“As Mr. Fenston couldn’t own the painting himself, he wanted to be sure that Mr. Nakamura couldn’t either,” said Krantz, the blade of the knife still hovering inches from Anna’s neck. “Always a mistake to cross Mr. Fenston. What a pity that you won’t have the chance to tell your friend Lady Arabella what Mr. Fenston has in mind for her.” Krantz paused. “But I have a feeling he won’t mind me sharing the details with you. Once the painting has been destroyed—so unfortunate that she couldn’t afford to insure it, such a false economy, because that’s when Mr. Fenston will set about selling off the rest of the estate until she has finally cleared the debt. Her death, unlike yours, will be a long and lingering one. One can only admire Mr. Fenston’s neat and logical mind.” She paused again. “I fear that time is running out, both for you and Mr. Van Gogh.”
Krantz suddenly raised the knife high above her head and plunged the blade into the canvas. Anna felt the full force of Krantz’s strength as she sliced through Van Gogh’s neck, and with all the power she could muster, Krantz continued the movement until she had completed an uneven circle, finally removing the head of Van Gogh and leaving a ragged hole in the center of the canvas. Krantz leaned back to admire her handiwork and allowed herself a moment of satisfaction. She felt she had carried out her contract with Mr. Fenston to the letter, and now that Anna had witnessed the whole spectacle, the time had come for Krantz to earn the fourth million.
Anna watched as Van Gogh’s head fell onto the sheet beside her, without a drop of blood being spilt. As Krantz sat back to enjoy her moment of triumph, Anna brought the heavy frame crashing down toward her head. But Krantz was swifter than Anna had anticipated and was able to quickly turn, raise an arm, and deflect the blow onto her left shoulder. Anna jumped off the bed as Krantz cast the frame to one side and pushed herself back up. Anna managed to rise and even take a step toward the door before Krantz leaped off the bed and dived at her, thrusting the tip of the blade into her leg as Anna attempted another step. Anna stumbled and fell, only inches from the door, blood spurting in every direction. Kra
ntz was only a pace behind as Anna’s hand touched the handle of the door, but it was too late. Krantz was on her before she could turn the handle. She grabbed Anna by the hair and pulled her back down onto the floor. Krantz raised the knife above her head, and the last words Anna heard her utter were: “This time it’s personal.”
Krantz was about to perform a ceremonial incision when the bedroom door was flung open. Not by a butler carrying a cup of cocoa, but by a woman with a shotgun under her right arm, her hands and shimmering silk gown covered in blood.
Krantz was momentarily transfixed as she looked up at Lady Victoria Wentworth. Hadn’t she already killed this woman? Was she staring at a ghost? Krantz hesitated, mesmerized, as the apparition advanced toward her. Krantz didn’t take her eyes off Arabella, while still holding the knife to Anna’s throat, the blade hovering a centimeter from her skin.
Arabella raised the gun as Krantz eased slowly backward, dragging her quarry across the floor toward the open window. Arabella cocked the trigger. “Another drop of blood,” she said, “and I’ll blow you to smithereens. I’ll start with your legs, and then I’ll save the second cartridge for your stomach. But I won’t quite finish you off. No, I can promise you a slow, painful death, and I will not be calling for an ambulance until I’m convinced there’s nothing they can do to help you.” Arabella lowered her gun slightly and Krantz hesitated. “Let her go,” she said, “and I won’t fire.” Arabella broke the barrel of her gun and waited. She was surprised to see how terrified Krantz was, while Anna remained remarkably composed.
Without warning, Krantz let go of Anna’s hair and threw herself sideways out of the open window, landing on the balcony. Arabella snapped the barrel closed, raised the gun and fired all in one movement, blowing away the Burne-Jones window and leaving a gaping hole. Arabella rushed over to the smouldering gap and shouted, “Now, Andrews,” as if she was ordering a beat at a pheasant shoot to commence. A second later, the security lights floodlit the front lawn so that it looked like a football field with a single player advancing toward goal.
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