“That woman was nobody’s girlfriend.”
“Describe her.”
“Five foot, slim, dark-haired.”
“There will be a lot of people like that where I’m going.”
“And are you taking the painting with you?”
“No, I’ve left it where no one can give it a second look.”
The phone went dead.
Leapman pressed the off button. “Where no one can give it a second look,” he repeated.
“Can, not will?” said Fenston. “It must still be in the box.”
“Agreed, but where’s she off to next?”
“To a country where the people are five foot, slim, and dark-haired.”
“Japan,” said Leapman.
“How can you be so sure?” asked Fenston.
“It’s all in her report. She’s going to try and sell your painting to the one person who won’t be able to resist it.”
“Nakamura,” said Fenston.
9/16
29
Jack had checked in at what was ambitiously described on a flashing neon sign as the Bucharesti International. He spent most of the night either turning the radiator up because it was so cold or turning it off because it was so noisy. He rose just after 6:00 A.M. and skipped breakfast, fearing it might be as unreliable as the radiator.
He hadn’t spotted the woman again since he stepped onto the plane, so either he’d made a mistake or she was a professional. But he was no longer in any doubt that Anna was working independently, which meant Fenston would soon be dispatching someone to retrieve the Van Gogh. But what did Petrescu have in mind, and didn’t she realize what danger she was putting herself in? Jack had already decided the most likely place he’d catch up with Anna would be when she visited her mother. This time he’d be waiting for her. He wondered if the woman he’d seen when he stood in line for the plane had the same idea, and, if so, was she Fenston’s retriever or did she work for someone else?
The hotel porter offered him a tourist map, which colorfully detailed the finer parts of the city center but not the outskirts, so he walked across to the kiosk and purchased a guidebook entitled Everything You Need to Know About Bucharest. There wasn’t a single paragraph devoted to the Berceni district where Anna’s mother lived, although they were considerate enough to include Piazza Resitei on the larger foldout map at the back. With the aid of a matchstick placed against the scale at the bottom left-hand corner of the page, Jack worked out that Anna’s birthplace must be about six miles north of the hotel.
He decided he would walk the first three miles, not least because he needed the exercise, but also it would give him a better chance to discover if he was the target of an SDR.
Jack left the International at 7:30 A.M. and set off at a brisk pace.
Anna also had a restless night, finding it hard to sleep while the red box was under her bed. She was beginning to have doubts about Anton taking on such an unnecessary risk to assist her in her plan, even if it was only for a few days. They’d agreed to meet at the academy at eight o’clock, an hour no self-respecting student would admit existed.
When she stepped out of the hotel, the first thing she saw was Sergei in his old Mercedes parked by the entrance. She wondered how long he’d been waiting for her. Sergei jumped out of the car.
“Good morning, madam,” he said, as he loaded the red box back into the trunk.
“Good morning, Sergei,” Anna replied. “I would like to go back to the academy, where I’ll be leaving the crate.” Sergei nodded, and opened the back door for her.
On the journey over to the Piata Universitatii, Anna learnt that Sergei had a wife, that they had been married for over thirty years, and had a son who was serving in the army. Anna was about to ask if he’d ever met her father, when she spotted Anton, standing on the bottom step of the academy, looking anxious and fidgeting.
Sergei brought the car to a halt, jumped out, and unloaded the crate from the trunk.
“Is that it?” asked Anton, viewing the red box suspiciously. Anna nodded. Anton joined Sergei as he carried the crate up the steps. Anton opened the front door for him, and they both disappeared inside the building.
Anna kept checking her watch every few moments and looking back up the steps toward the entrance. They were only away for a few minutes, but she never felt alone. Was Fenston’s stalker watching her even now? Had he worked out where the Van Gogh was? The two men finally reappeared carrying another wooden box. Although it was exactly the same size, the plain slats of timber were unmarked in any way. Sergei placed the new crate in the trunk of the Mercedes, slammed the lid down, and climbed back behind the wheel.
“Thank you,” said Anna, before kissing Anton on both cheeks.
“I won’t be getting much sleep while you’re away,” Anton mumbled.
“I’ll be back, three, four days at the most,” Anna promised, “when I’ll happily take the painting off your hands and no one will be any the wiser.” She climbed into the back of the car.
As Sergei drove away, she stared through the rear window at the forlorn figure of Anton, who was standing on the bottom step of the academy, looking worried. Was he up to the job? she wondered.
Jack didn’t look back, but once he’d covered the first mile, he slipped into a large supermarket and disappeared behind a pillar. He waited for her to walk by. She didn’t. An amateur would have strolled past and been unable to resist glancing in, and might even have been tempted to enter the building. He didn’t hang around for too long, knowing it would make her suspicious. He bought a bacon and egg baguette and walked back onto the road. As he munched his breakfast, he tried to work out why he was being followed. Who did she represent? What was her brief? Was she hoping he would lead her to Anna, was he a selected target for countersurveillance — the unspoken fear of every FBI agent — or was he just paranoid?
Once he was out of the city center, Jack stopped to study the map. He decided to grab a taxi, as he doubted he’d be able to pick one up in the Berceni district, when he might need to make a speedy exit. Jumping into a taxi might also make it easier for him to lose his tail, as a yellow cab would be more conspicuous once they were no longer in the city center. He rechecked his map, turned left at the next corner, and didn’t look back or even glance into the shop window with its large plate-glass pane. If she was a pro, it would be a dead giveaway. He hailed a cab.
Anna asked her driver — as she now thought of Sergei — to take her back to the same block of flats they’d visited the previous day. Anna would have liked to call and warn her mother what time to expect her, but it wasn’t possible because Elsa Petrescu didn’t approve of phones. They were like elevators, she’d once told her daughter: when they break down, no one comes to repair them, and in any case they create unnecessary bills. Anna knew her mother would have risen by six to be sure everything in her already spotless flat had been dusted and polished for a third time.
When Sergei parked at the end of the weed-strewn path of the Piazza Resitei, Anna told him that she expected to be about an hour, and then wanted to go to Otopeni airport. Sergei nodded.
A taxi drew up beside him. Jack strolled round to the driver’s side and motioned for him to wind down the window.
“Do you speak English?”
“A little,” said the driver hesitantly.
Jack opened his map and pointed to Piazza Resitei, before taking a seat behind the driver. The taxi driver grimaced in disbelief and looked up at Jack to double-check. Jack nodded. The driver shrugged his shoulders and set out on a journey no tourist had ever requested before.