The next person through the door was the taxi driver, who climbed back behind the wheel of his Toyota. She waited for Petrescu to follow, but the empty green cab swung onto the street, in search of its next customer. Krantz had a feeling that this was going to be a long wait.
She stood in the shadows of a department store on the opposite side of the road and waited. She looked up and down a street full of designer label shops, which she despised, until her eyes settled on an establishment that she had only read about in the past and had always wanted to visit: not Gucci, not Burberry, not Calvin Klein, but the Nozaki Cutting Tool Shop, which nestled uneasily among its more recent neighbors.
Krantz was drawn to the entrance as a filing is to a magnet. As she crossed the road, her eyes remained fixed on the front door of the Maruha Steel Company in case Petrescu made an unscheduled reappearance. She suspected that Petrescu’s meeting with Mr. Nakamura would last some considerable time. After all, even he didn’t spend that amount of money without expecting several questions to be answered.
Once across the road, Krantz stared into the window, like a child for whom Christmas had come three months early. Tweezers, nail clippers, left-handed scissors, Swiss Army knives, long-bladed tailor’s shears, a Victorinox machete with a fifteen-inch blade — all played second fiddle to a ceremonial samurai sword (circa 1783). Krantz felt that she had been born in the wrong century.
She stepped inside to be met with row upon row of kitchen knives, for which Mr. Takai, a samurai’s descendant, had become so famous. She spotted the proprietor standing in one corner, sharpening knives for his customers. Krantz recognized him immediately, and would have liked to shake hands with the maestro — her equivalent of Brad Pitt — but she knew she would have to forgo that particular pleasure.
While keeping a wary eye on the Maruha Company’s front door Krantz began to study the hand-forged Japanese implements — razor-sharp and deceptively light, with the name NOZAKI stamped into the shoulder of each blade, as if, like Cartier, they wished to emphasize that a counterfeit was not acceptable.
Krantz had long ago accepted that she could not risk carrying her preferred weapon of death on a plane, so she was left with no choice but to pick up a local product in whichever country Fenston needed a client account closed indefinitely.
Krantz began the slow process of selection while being serenaded by suzumushi — bell crickets — in tiny bamboo cages suspended from the ceiling. She stared back at the entrance door across the road, but there was still no sign of Petrescu. She returned to her task, first testing the different categories of knife — fruit, vegetable, bread, meat — for weight, balance, and size of blade. No more than eight inches, never less than four.
In a matter of minutes, Krantz was down to three, before she finally settled on the award-winning Global GS5 — fourteen centimeters, which, it was claimed, would cut through a rump steak as easily as a ripe melon.
She handed her chosen instrument to an assistant, who smiled — such a thin neck — and wrapped the kitchen knife in rice paper. Krantz paid in yen. Dollars would have drawn attention to her, and she didn’t possess a credit card. One last look at Mr. Takai before she reluctantly left the shop to return to the anonymity of the shadows on the other side of the road.
While she waited for Petrescu to reappear, Krantz removed the rice paper from her latest acquisition, desperate to try it out. She slipped the blade into a sheath that had been tailor-made to fit on the inside of her jeans. It fit perfectly, like a gun in a holster.
34
The receptionist could not hide her surprise when the doorman appeared carrying a wooden crate. She placed her hands in front of her mouth — an unusually animated response for a Japanese.
Anna offered no explanation, only her name. The receptionist checked the list of applicants to be interviewed by the chairman that afternoon and placed a tick next to “Dr. Petrescu.”
“Mr. Nakamura is interviewing another candidate at the moment,” she said, “but should be free shortly.”
“Interviewing them for what?” asked Anna.
“I have no idea,” said the receptionist, seeming equally puzzled that an interviewee needed to ask such a question.
Anna sat in reception and glanced at the crate that was propped up against the wall. She smiled at the thought of how she would go about asking someone to part with sixty million dollars.
Punctuality is an obsession with the Japanese, so Anna was not surprised when a smartly dressed lady appeared at two minutes to four, bowed, and invited Anna to follow her. She too looked at the wooden box, but showed no reaction other than to ask, “Would you like it to be taken to the chairman’s office?”
“Yes, please,” said Anna, again without explanation.
The secretary led Anna down a long corridor, passing several doors that displayed no name, title, or rank. When they reached the last door, the secretary knocked quietly, opened it, and announced, “Dr. Petrescu.”
Mr. Nakamura rose from behind his desk and came forward to greet Anna, whose mouth was wide open. A reaction not caused by the short, slim, dark-haired man who looked as if he had his suits tailored in Paris or Milan. It was Mr. Nakamura’s office that caused Anna to gasp. The room was a perfect square and one of the four walls was a single pane of glass. Anna stared out onto a tranquil garden, a stream winding from one corner to the other, crossed by a wooden bridge and bordered by willow trees, whose branches cascaded over the rails.
On the wall behind the chairman’s desk was a magnificent painting, duplicating exactly the same scene. Anna closed her mouth and turned to face her host.
Mr. Nakamura smiled, clearly delighted with the effect his Monet had created, but his first question equally shocked her.
“How did you manage to survive 9/11, when, if I recall correctly, your office was in the North Tower?”
“I was very lucky,” replied Anna quietly, “although I fear that some of my colleagues...”
Mr. Nakamura raised a hand. “I apologize,” he said. “How tactless of me. Shall we begin the interview by testing your remarkable photographic memory and first ask you the provenance of all three paintings in the room? Shall we begin with the Monet?”
“Willows at Vetheuil,” said Anna. “Its previous owner was a Mr. Clark of Sangton, Ohio. It was part of Mrs. Clark’s divorce settlement when her husband decided to part with her, his third wife, which meant sadly that he had to part with his third Monet. Christie’s sold the oil for twenty-six million dollars, but I had no idea you were the purchaser.”
Mr. Nakamura revealed the same smile of pleasure.
Anna turned her attention to the opposite wall and paused. “I have for some time wondered where that particular painting ended up,” she said. “It’s a Renoir, of course. Madame Duprez and Her Children, also known as The Reading Lesson. It was sold in Paris by Roger Duprez, whose grandfather purchased it from the artist in 1868. I therefore have no way of knowing how much you paid for the oil.” Anna added, as she turned her attention to the final piece. “Easy,” she declared, smiling. “It’s one of Manet’s late Salon works, probably painted in 1871—” she paused “—entitled Dinner at the Café Guerbois. You will have observed that his mistress is seated in the right-hand corner, looking directly out at the artist.”
“And the previous owner?”
“Lady Charlotte Churchill, who, following the death of her husband, was forced to sell it to meet death duties.”
Nakamura bowed. “The position is yours.”