Heads You Win

by Jeffrey Archer

  “And don’t forget,” he said, “only Anna and I are to leave the van when we arrive.”

  Forty minutes later they drove through the front gates and up the driveway, and came to a halt outside a magnificent villa. Anna would have loved to stroll through the colorful, well-tended gardens, but not today.

  She and Duval walked up to the front door hand in hand. Duval pressed the bell, and moments later the maid appeared. She smiled when she recognized the van.

  “One package to be delivered to Mrs. Lowell,” said Duval. “If you’ll just sign here, Maria, I’ll fetch the crate from the van.”

  Maria smiled, but her expression turned to anxiety when Anna collapsed on the ground at her feet, clutching her stomach.

  “Ah, ma pauvre femme,” said Duval. “My wife is pregnant, Maria. Do you have somewhere where she could lie down for a few minutes?”

  “Of course, monsieur. Come with me.”

  Duval helped Anna to her feet and they followed the maid into the house and up the wide staircase to a guest bedroom on the first floor, while he studied the pictures on the way.

  “I’m sorry to be such a nuisance,” said Anna, as Duval helped her onto the bed.

  “It’s not a problem, madame,” said Maria. “Should I call for a doctor?”

  “No, I’m sure I’ll be all right if I can just rest for a few minutes. But, darling,” she said to Duval, “would you fetch my bag from the van, there are some pills I ought to take.”

  “Of course, darling, I won’t be a moment,” he said, taking a closer look at the picture above the bed.

  “You’re so kind,” said Anna, clinging on to Maria’s hand.

  “No, no, madame, I have four children of my own. And men are so useless in these situations,” she added as Duval slipped out of the room.

  He ran down the stairs to find his team were already in full swing, with Rosenthal acting as ringmaster, while Pierre cracked the whip. One by one the masterpieces were removed from the walls, to be replaced moments later with copies.

  “You’ll find the Matisse above the fireplace in the drawing room,” Rosenthal said to one of the couriers. “The Picasso belongs in the master bedroom,” to another, “and the Rauschenberg goes right there,” he said, pointing to a large empty space on the wall in front of him.

  “I’m looking for a Dalí,” said Duval. “It goes in the guest bedroom,” he added as a de Kooning disappeared out of the front door.

  “There are three Dalís,” said Pierre after checking the inventory. “What’s the subject?”

  “A yellow clock melting over a table.”

  “Oil or watercolor?” asked Pierre.

  “Oil,” said Duval as he headed back up the staircase.

  “Got it. And don’t forget your wife’s handbag,” said Rosenthal.

  “Merde!” said Duval, who dashed out of the house, nearly colliding with two couriers coming the other way.

  He opened the passenger door of the van, grabbed Anna’s handbag, and ran back into the house and up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Pierre was just a pace behind, clutching the Dalí. Duval caught his breath, opened the door, and walked in, assuming a look of concern, while Pierre waited outside in the corridor.

  “And the problem with Béatrice,” the maid was saying, “is that she’s fourteen, going on twenty-three.”

  Anna laughed as Duval handed her the bag. “Thank you, darling,” she said, as she undid the clasp and took out a bottle of pills. “I’m sorry to be such a nuisance, Maria, but could I have a glass of water?”

  “Of course,” said the maid, bustling into the bathroom.

  Anna leaped up, stood on the bed, and quickly lifted the Dalí off its hook. She handed it to Duval, who ran to the door and exchanged it with Pierre for the copy, which he passed to Anna seconds later. Their second risk. She just had time to hang it on the hook and fall back down on the bed before Maria reappeared, carrying a glass of water. She found the two of them holding hands.

  Anna took her time swallowing two pills, then said, “I’m so sorry to be holding you up.” Her well-trained husband came in bang on cue.

  “Maria, where should I put the package for Mrs. Lowell?”

  “Leave it in the hall, and the butler can deal with it when he gets back tomorrow.”

  “Of course,” said Duval, “and by the time I return, darling, perhaps you’ll have sufficiently recovered for me to take you home.”

  “I hope so,” said Anna.

  “Don’t worry,” said Maria, “I’ll stay with madame until you get back.”

  “How kind of you,” said Duval as he left the room. He was running down the stairs when he spotted Pierre handing the Dalí to a courier. “How much longer?” he asked as he joined Rosenthal in the hall.

  “Five minutes, ten at the most,” said Rosenthal, as a courier showed him a Pollock. “Far side of the drawing room,” he said without hesitation.

  Duval’s eyes never left the bedroom door. He said, “Any problems?”

  “I can’t find the blue Warhol of Jackie. It’s too important not to be in one of the main rooms. But you’d better get back upstairs before the maid becomes suspicious.”

  Duval walked back upstairs and returned to the bedroom, where the maid was still regaling Anna with tales about her children. He held up five fingers, and as she nodded, he noticed that the Dalí was hanging lopsided.

  “Maria was just telling me, darling, about the trouble she’s been having with her daughter Béatrice.”

  “She can’t be worse than Marcel,” said Duval, sitting on the edge of the bed.

  “But I thought you told me this would be your first child?” said Maria, looking puzzled.

  “Dominic has a son by his first wife,” said Anna quickly, “who tragically died of cancer, which I think is one of the reasons for Marcel’s problems.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” said Maria.

  “I think I’m feeling a little better now,” said Anna, slowly sitting up and lowering her feet onto the carpet. “You’ve been so kind. I don’t know how to thank you.” She rose unsteadily and, with Maria’s support, began walking slowly toward the door, while Duval knelt on the bed and straightened the Dalí. His third risk. He caught up with them just in time to open the door.

  “I’ll go ahead and make sure the van door is open,” he said—not part of the well-rehearsed script—and he was only halfway down the stairs when he saw Rosenthal and Pierre still in the hallway.

  “Where’s the Warhol?” Pierre demanded.

  “To hell with the Warhol,” said Duval. “We’re out of here.”

  Pierre left quickly, followed by Rosenthal, cursing under his breath.

  When Anna and Maria reached the hallway a few moments later, they found Duval standing by the front door, one hand resting on a crate.

  “Thank you for being so kind to my wife,” he said. “Here’s the package I was asked to deliver, along with a letter for Mrs. Lowell.”

  “I’ll see madame gets them both as soon as she returns,” said Maria.

  Duval took Anna gently by the arm and led her out of the house to find the passenger door of the van already open. It was the little details that Rosenthal was so good at.

  As the van moved slowly down the drive, Duval wondered if Maria would find it strange that they had used such a large van to deliver one picture.

  “Any problems, Anna?” said Rosenthal from the back of the van.

  “Other than being pregnant, having two husbands, neither of whom I’m married to, and a stepson I’ve never even met, nothing in particular.”

  “Remember to drive slowly, Dominic,” said Rosenthal. “We mustn’t forget that we have precious cargo on board.”

  “How thoughtful of you,” said Anna, touching her stomach.

  Rosenthal had the grace to smile, as Anna leaned out of the window and waved good-bye to Maria. She waved back, a puzzled look on her face.

  35

  ALEX

  Boston


  Alex arrived at the bank so early the following morning that Errol hadn’t yet taken up his post, and the night security guard had to let him in. Someone else who needed to be convinced that he was the new chairman.

  He went up in the elevator alone, and when he stepped out into the corridor on the twenty-fourth floor, he was amused to see that Miss Robbins had left her light on. Fuelish, he would tease her. He opened the door, intending to switch the light off, only to be greeted with, “Good morning, chairman.”

  “Good morning,” said Alex, not missing a beat. “Have you been here all night?”

  “No, sir, but I wanted to bring the mail up to date before you arrived.”

  “Anything interesting?”

  “There’s one letter and a package I thought you ought to see immediately. They’re on the top of the pile on your desk.”

  “Thank you,” said Alex, curious to discover what Miss Robbins considered interesting. He walked into his office to find the promised mountain of mail awaiting him.

  He took the letter from the top of the pile and read it slowly. He then opened the package and stared in disbelief at the real thing. His hands were still shaking as he put it back in the package. He had to agree with Miss Robbins, the letter was interesting, and she’d offered her opinion without knowing what was in the package.

  The second letter was from Bob Underwood, a director of the bank who felt the time had come for him to retire, not least because he was seventy. He suggested that the emergency board meeting on Monday morning would be an ideal time to inform the board of his intention. Alex cursed, because Underwood was one of the few people he had hoped would remain on the board. He seemed perfectly satisfied with the ten thousand dollars a year he received as a non-executive director, he rarely claimed any expenses, and you didn’t have to read between the lines of the minutes to realize that he was one of the few board members who was willing to stand up to Ackroyd and his cronies. Alex would have to try and get him to change his mind.

  And then his eyes returned to the words, emergency board meeting on Monday morning. Why hadn’t Miss Robbins informed him about that earlier?

  There was a gentle tap on the door and Miss Robbins appeared bearing a cup of coffee, black no sugar, and a plate of digestive biscuits. How did she find out what his favorite biscuits were?

  “Thank you,” said Alex, as she placed a silver tray that must have been one of Lawrence’s family heirlooms on the desk in front of him. “May I ask a delicate question, Miss Robbins? You must have a first name?”

  “Pamela.”

  “And I’m Alex.”

  “I’m aware of that, chairman.”

  “I agree with you, Pamela, that Mrs. Ackroyd’s letter is interesting. But as I don’t know the lady, how would you advise me to respond to her offer?”

  “I would accept it in good faith, chairman. After all, it’s common knowledge that their recent divorce was acrimonious…” Miss Robbins hesitated.

  “I don’t think we have time to observe the social niceties, Pamela, so spit it out.”

  “I was only surprised how few women were named as co-respondents.”

  “That’s sure spitting it out,” said Alex. “Carry on.”

  “The latest of his secretaries, a Miss Bowers, may well have hidden attributes of which I am unaware, but she certainly couldn’t spell.”

  “So you feel I should take Mrs. Ackroyd’s words at face value?”

  “I most certainly do, chairman, and I particularly enjoyed the last paragraph of her letter.”

  Alex read it again, and indeed it brought a smile to his face.

  “Anything else, chairman?”

  “Yes,” said Alex, “before you go, Pamela, I also read Mr. Underwood’s letter and he’s under the impression there’s an emergency board meeting next Monday. If that’s the case, it’s news to me.”

  “As it was to me,” said Miss Robbins. “So I made a few discreet inquiries, and it turns out that Mr. Fowler sent out notice of the meeting a few days ago.”

  “Not to me, he didn’t.”

  “Yes, he did. But he sent the agenda to your apartment in New York, which is registered with the company as your home address.”

  “But Fowler knows perfectly well that I’m staying at Mr. Lowell’s home for the foreseeable future. What’s he up to?”

  “I have no idea, chairman, but I could try to find out.”

  “Please do. And see if you can lay your hands on an agenda, without Fowler finding out.”

  “Of course, chairman.”

  “Meanwhile, I’ll plow on with these files until Mr. Harbottle arrives for his appointment at eleven.” As she turned to leave, Alex couldn’t resist asking, “What do you think of Mr. Harbottle, Pamela?”

  “He’s a stuffy, eccentric old buzzard, right out of the pages of Dickens, but let’s at least be thankful he’s batting for our team, because the enemy are terrified of him, and perhaps even more important, he’s like Caesar’s wife.”

  “Caesar’s wife?”

  “When you have more time, chairman.”

  “Before you go, Pamela, if I were to ask you for one piece of advice to keep this ship afloat, what would it be?”

  “Not what, but who. I’d have a private meeting, very private, with Jake Coleman, who until six months ago was the bank’s chief financial officer.”

  “Why do I remember that name?” said Alex. “Something I read in the minutes?”

  “He resigned after a flaming row with Mr. Ackroyd, and like me, he was told to clear his desk by the end of the day.”

  “What was the row about?”

  “I’ve no idea. Mr. Coleman is far too professional to have discussed the matter with a member of staff.”

  “Who’s he working for now?”

  “He hasn’t been able to find another job, chairman, because every time he’s shortlisted for a major position they call Mr. Ackroyd, and he not only sticks the knife in, but twists it.”

  “Set up a meeting with him as quickly as possible.”

  “I’ll call him immediately, chairman,” said Miss Robbins before closing the door behind her.

  As Alex read through the minutes of the previous years’ board meetings, it became increasingly evident that although Lawrence might well have attended, even chaired, every one of them, the unholy trinity of Ackroyd, Jardine, and Fowler had simply run rings around him. He had reached September, when there was a knock on the door. Could it possibly be eleven o’clock already?

  The door opened and in walked the unmistakable figure of Mr. Harbottle. “Good morning, chairman,” said the elderly counsel.

  “Good morning, sir,” said Alex, standing and waiting for Harbottle to take a seat. He paused to allow Mr. Harbottle to suggest that perhaps they might now call each other by their first names, but no such offer was forthcoming.

  “May I begin by thanking you for your excellent advice yesterday,” said Alex. “It allowed me to remain a yard ahead of Ackroyd and Jardine, but only a yard, because I’ve just learned that Fowler has called an emergency board meeting for next Monday.”

  “Has he indeed?” said Harbottle. He adjusted his spectacles before continuing. “Then I suspect it is their intention to try to replace you as chairman. And they wouldn’t have called the meeting unless they’re convinced they have a majority on the board.”

  “If they have, is there anything I can do about it?”

  “I won’t know the answer to that, chairman, until I have another chance to consult the bank’s statutes.”

  “Another chance?”

  “Yes, because I may already have come up with something that will assist you in your efforts.”

  Alex sank back in his chair, only too aware that Harbottle would take his time.

  “While you’re been familiarizing yourself with the board minutes and annual accounts, I’ve been engrossed in the company’s statutes—fascinating bedtime reading—and I think I may have come across something that will be of interest to you.” He
removed a file from his Gladstone bag.

  “Paragraph 33b, no doubt.”

  Harbottle allowed himself a half-smile. “No, in fact,” he said, opening the file, “statute 9, subclause 2. Allow me to enlighten you, chairman,” he said, and began to read a passage he had underlined. “No employee or director of the company shall be paid more than the chairman.”

  Alex’s mind began to race, but it quickly became clear that Harbottle had continued to burn the midnight oil.

  “Ackroyd paid himself the outrageous sum of five hundred thousand dollars a year as CEO, which also allowed him to reward his inner team with inflated salaries, thereby guaranteeing him a majority on the board.”

  “So if I were to pay myself a more realistic salary,” said Alex, “say—”

  “Sixty thousand dollars a year,” prompted Harbottle, “while at the same time insisting that all future expenses had to be signed off by you, I suspect that all three of them would resign fairly quickly.”

  “But that’s assuming I survive as chairman.”

  “Agreed,” said Harbottle. “And after what I have to tell you, you may not be certain you want to remain in the post.” Alex sat back again. “You asked me to visit the chairman of the Banking Commission, which I did yesterday afternoon. I can’t pretend he was in the giving vein. In fact, he made it quite clear after he’d studied the latest balance sheet that the entire Lowell Collection would have to be valued by a recognized dealer and lodged in the bank’s vaults before he would consider it as an asset. He will allow you twenty-eight days to fulfill this obligation, and I am to report back to him personally should you fail to do so.”

  Alex let out a deep sigh. “Anything else?”

  “Yes, I fear so. He also made it clear that Mr. Lowell had no right to leave you his fifty percent of the bank’s shares, or even his fifty percent of the Elena Pizza Company, and has insisted that those shares also be lodged with the bank as security. He went on to suggest that you might consider including your fifty percent of Elena’s, to prove your commitment to the bank. However, he did add that you were under no obligation to do so.”

  “How very generous of him,” said Alex. “Anything in the credit column?”