“Yes,” said Ruth. “We’ll begin loading the moment the captain has finished refueling — shouldn’t be more than an hour. Then you can be on your way.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” said Leapman, pushing through the swing doors. “We have a slot booked for eight thirty and I don’t want to miss it.”
“Then perhaps it might be more sensible if I left you to oversee the transfer,” said Ruth, “but I’ll report back the moment the painting is safely on board.”
Leapman nodded and sank back in a leather chair. Ruth turned to leave.
“Can I get you a drink, sir?” asked the barman.
“Scotch on the rocks,” said Leapman, scanning the short dinner menu.
As Ruth reached the door, she turned and said, “When Anna comes back, would you tell her I’ll be over at customs, waiting to complete the paperwork?”
“Anna?” exclaimed Leapman, jumping out of his chair.
“Yes, she’s been around for most of the afternoon.”
“Doing what?” Leapman demanded, as he advanced toward Ruth.
“Just checking over the manifest,” Ruth said, trying to sound relaxed, “and making sure that Mr. Fenston’s orders were carried out.”
“What orders?” barked Leapman.
“To send the Van Gogh to Sotheby’s for an insurance valuation.”
“The chairman gave no such order,” said Leapman.
“But Sotheby’s sent their van, and Dr. Petrescu confirmed the instruction.”
“Petrescu was fired three days ago. Get me Sotheby’s on the line, now.”
Ruth ran across to the phone and dialed the main number.
“Who does she deal with at Sotheby’s?”
“Mark Poltimore,” Ruth said, handing the phone across to Leapman.
“Poltimore,” he barked, the moment he heard the word Sotheby’s, then realized he was addressing an answering machine. Leapman slammed down the phone. “Do you have his home number?”
“No,” said Ruth, “but I have a mobile.”
“Then call it.”
Ruth quickly looked up the number on her palm pilot and began dialing again.
“Mark?” she said.
Leapman snatched the phone from her. “Poltimore?”
“Speaking.”
“My name is Leapman. I’m the—”
“I know who you are, Mr. Leapman,” said Mark.
“Good, because I understand you are in possession of our Van Gogh.”
“Was, would be more accurate,” replied Mark, “until Dr. Petrescu, your art director, informed us, even before we’d had a chance to examine the painting, that you’d had a change of heart and wanted the canvas taken straight back to Heathrow for immediate transport to New York.”
“And you went along with that?” said Leapman, his voice rising with every word.
“We had no choice, Mr. Leapman. After all, it was her name on the manifest.”
25
“Hi, it’s Vincent.”
“Hi. Is it true what I’ve just heard?”
“What have you heard?”
“That you’ve stolen the Van Gogh.”
“Have the police been informed?”
“No, he can’t risk that, not least because our shares are still going south and the picture wasn’t insured.”
“So what’s he up to?”
“He’s sending someone to London to track you down, but I can’t find out who it is.”
“Maybe I won’t be in London by the time they arrive.”
“Where will you be?”
“I’m going home.”
“And is the painting safe?”
“Safe as houses.”
“Good, but there’s something else you ought to know.”
“What’s that?”
“Fenston will be attending your funeral this afternoon.”
The phone went dead. Fifty-two seconds.
Anna replaced the receiver, even more concerned about the danger she was placing Tina in. What would Fenston do if he were to discover the reason she always managed to stay one step ahead of him?
She walked over to the departures desk.
“Do you have any bags to check in?” asked the woman behind the counter. Anna heaved the red box off the luggage cart and onto the scales. She then placed her suitcase next to it.
“You’re quite a bit over weight, madam,” she said. “I’m afraid there will be an excess charge of thirty-two pounds.” Anna took the money out of her wallet while the woman attached a label to her suitcase and fixed a large FRAGILE sticker on the red box. “Gate forty-three,” she said, handing her a ticket. “They’ll be boarding in about thirty minutes. Have a good flight.”
Anna began walking toward the departures gate.
Whoever Fenston was sending to London to track her down would be landing long after she had flown away. But Anna knew that they only had to read her report carefully to work out where the picture would be ending up. She just needed to be certain that she got there before they did. But first she had to make a phone call to someone she hadn’t spoken to for over ten years to warn him that she was on her way. Anna took the escalator to the first floor and joined a long line waiting to be checked through security.
“She’s heading toward gate forty-three,” said a voice, “and will be departing on flight BA two-seven-two to Bucharest at eight forty-four...”
Fenston squeezed himself into a line of dignitaries as President Bush and Mayor Giuliani shook hands with a select group who were attending the latest service at Ground Zero.
He hung around until the president’s helicopter had taken off and then walked across to join the other mourners. He took a place at the back of the crowd and listened as the names were read out. Each one was followed by the single peal of a bell.
Greg Abbot.
He glanced around the crowd.
Kelly Gullickson.
He studied the faces of the relations and friends who had gathered in memory of their loved ones.
Anna Petrescu.
Fenston knew that Petrescu’s mother lived in Bucharest and wouldn’t be traveling to the service. He looked more carefully at the strangers who were huddled together and wondered which one of them was Uncle George from Danville, Illinois.
Rebecca Rangere.
He glanced across at Tina. Tears were filling her eyes, certainly not for Petrescu.
Brulio Real Polanco.
The priest bowed his head. He delivered a prayer, then closed his Bible and made the sign of a cross. “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost,” he declared.
“Amen,” came back the unison reply.
Tina looked across at Fenston, not a tear shed, just the familiar movement from one foot to the other — the sign that he was bored. While others gathered in small groups to remember, sympathize, and pay their respects, Fenston left without commiserating with anyone. No one else joined the chairman as he strode off purposefully toward his waiting car.
Tina stood among a little group of mourners, although her eyes remained fixed on Fenston. His driver was holding open the back door for him. Fenston climbed into the car and sat next to a woman Tina had never seen before. Neither spoke until the driver had returned to the front seat and touched a button on the dashboard to cause a smoked-glass screen to rise behind him. Without waiting, the car eased out into the road to join the midday traffic. Tina watched as the chairman disappeared out of sight. She hoped it wouldn’t be long before she called again — so much to tell her, and now she had to find out who the waiting woman was. Were they discussing Anna? Had Tina put her friend in unnecessary danger? Where was the Van Gogh?
The woman seated next to Fenston was dressed in a gray trouser suit. Anonymity was her most important asset. She had never once visited Fenston at either his office or his apartment, even though she had known him for almost twenty years. She’d first met Nicu Munteanu when he was bagman for President Nicolae Ceauşescu.