“The position, Nakamura-san?” said Anna, puzzled.
“You are not here to apply for the job as the director of my foundation?”
“No,” said Anna, suddenly realizing what the receptionist had meant when she said that the chairman was interviewing another candidate. “Although I am flattered that you would consider me, Nakamura-san, I actually came to see you on a completely different matter.”
The chairman nodded, clearly disappointed, and then his eyes settled on the wooden box.
“A small gift,” said Anna, smiling.
“If that is the case, and you will forgive the pun, I cannot open your offering until you have left, otherwise I will insult you.” Anna nodded, well aware of the custom. “Please have a seat, young lady.”
Anna smiled.
“Now, what is your real purpose in visiting me?” he asked as he leaned back in his chair and stared at her intently.
“I believe I have a painting that you will be unable to resist.”
“As good as the Degas pastel?” asked Nakamura, showing signs of enjoying himself.
“Oh yes,” she said, a little too enthusiastically.
“Artist?”
“Van Gogh.”
Nakamura smiled an inscrutable smile that gave no sign if he was or wasn’t interested.
“Title?”
“Self-Portrait with Bandaged Ear.”
“With a famous Japanese print reproduced on the wall behind the artist, if I remember correctly,” said Nakamura.
“Geishas in a Landscape,” said Anna, “demonstrating Van Gogh’s fascination with Japanese culture.”
“You should have been christened Eve,” said Nakamura. “But now it’s my turn.” Anna looked surprised, but didn’t speak. “I presume that it has to be the Wentworth Self-Portrait, purchased by the fifth marquis?”
“Earl.”
“Earl. Ah, will I ever understand English titles? I always think of Earl as an American first name.”
“Original owner?” inquired Anna.
“Dr. Gachet, Van Gogh’s friend and admirer.”
“And the date?”
“Eighteen eighty-nine,” replied Nakamura, “when Van Gogh resided at Arles, sharing a studio with Paul Gauguin.”
“And how much did Dr. Gachet pay for the piece?” asked Anna, aware that few people on earth would have considered teasing this man.
“It is always thought that Van Gogh only sold one painting in his lifetime, The Red Vineyard. However, Dr. Gachet was not only a close friend, but unquestionably his benefactor and patron. In the letter he wrote after receiving the picture, he enclosed a check for six hundred francs.”
“Eight hundred,” said Anna, as she opened her briefcase and handed over a copy of the letter. “My client is in possession of the original,” she assured him.
Nakamura read the letter in French, requesting no assistance with a translation. He looked up and smiled. “What figure do you have in mind?” he asked.
“Sixty million dollars,” said Anna without hesitation.
For a moment, the inscrutable face appeared puzzled, but he didn’t speak for some time. “Why is such an acknowledged masterpiece so underpriced?” he asked eventually. “There must be some conditions attached.”
“The sale must not be made public,” said Anna in reply.
“That has always been my custom, as you well know,” said Nakamura.
“You will not resell the work for at least ten years.”
“I buy pictures,” said Nakamura. “I sell steel.”
“During the same period of time, the painting must not be displayed in a public gallery.”
“Who are you protecting, young lady?” asked Nakamura without warning: “Bryce Fenston or Victoria Wentworth?”
Anna didn’t reply, and now understood why the chairman of Sotheby’s had once remarked that you underestimate this man at your peril.
“It was impertinent of me to ask such a question,” said Nakamura. “I apologize,” he added, as he rose from his place. “Perhaps you would be kind enough to allow me to consider your offer overnight.” He bowed low, clearly indicating that the meeting was over.
“Of course, Nakamura-san,” she said, returning the bow.
“Please drop the san, Dr. Petrescu. In your chosen field, I am not your equal.”
She wanted to say, Please call me Anna; in your chosen field, I know nothing — but she lost her nerve.
Nakamura walked across to join her, and glanced at the wooden box. “I will look forward to finding out what is in the box. Perhaps we can meet again tomorrow, Dr. Petrescu, after I’ve had a little more time to consider your proposition.”
“Thank you, Mr. Nakamura.”
“Shall we say ten o’clock? I’ll send my driver to pick you up at nine forty.”
Anna gave a farewell bow and Mr. Nakamura returned the compliment. He walked to the door and as he opened it, added, “I only wish you had applied for the job.”
Krantz was still standing in the shadows when Petrescu came out of the building. The meeting must have gone well because a limousine was waiting for her with a chauffeur holding open the back door, and, more significant, there was no sign of the wooden box. Krantz was left with two choices. She was confident that Petrescu would be returning to the hotel for the night, while the painting must still be in the building. She made her choice.
Anna sat back in the chairman’s car and relaxed for the first time in days, confident that even if Mr. Nakamura didn’t agree to sixty million, he would still make a realistic offer. Otherwise why put his car at her disposal and invite her to return the following day?
When Anna was dropped outside the Seiyo, she went straight to the reception desk and picked up her key before heading toward the elevator. If she had turned right instead of left, she would have walked straight past a frustrated American.
Jack’s eyes never left her as she stepped into an empty elevator. She was on her own. No sign of the package and, perhaps more significant, no sign of Crew Cut. She must have made the decision to stay with the painting rather than with its courier. Jack had to quickly decide what he would do if Petrescu reappeared with her bags and left for the airport. At least he hadn’t unpacked this time.
Krantz had been standing in different shadows for nearly an hour, only moving with the sun, when the chairman’s car returned and parked outside the entrance to Maruha Steel. A few moments later, the front doors slid open and Mr. Nakamura’s secretary appeared with a man in a red uniform who was carrying the wooden crate. The driver opened the trunk, while the doorman placed the painting in the back. The driver listened as the secretary passed on the chairman’s instructions. The chairman needed to make several calls to America and England overnight, and would therefore be staying in the company flat. He had seen the picture and wanted it to be delivered to his home in the country.
Krantz checked the traffic. She knew she’d get one chance, and then only if the lights were red. She was thankful it was a one-way street. She already knew that the lights at the far end of the road would remain on green for forty-five seconds. During that time, Krantz calculated about thirteen cars crossed the intersection. She stepped out of the shadows and moved stealthily down the sidewalk, like a cat, aware that she was about to risk one of her nine lives.
The chairman’s black limousine emerged onto the street and joined the early evening traffic. The light was green, but there were fifteen cars ahead of him. Krantz stood exactly opposite where she thought the vehicle would come to a halt. When the light turned red, she walked slowly toward the limousine; after all, she had another forty-five seconds. When she was only a pace away, Krantz fell on to her right shoulder and rolled under the car. She gripped the two sides of the outer frame firmly and, spread-eagled, pulled herself up. One of the advantages of being four foot eleven and weighing less than a hundred pounds. When the lights turned green and the chairman’s car moved off, she was nowhere to be seen.