Once, in the Romanian hills when escaping from the rebels, Krantz had stuck like a limpet to the bottom of a two-ton truck as it traveled for miles across rough terrain. She survived for fifty-one minutes, and when the sun finally set, she fell to the ground, exhausted. She then trekked across country to safety, jogging the last fourteen miles.
The limousine drove at an uneven pace through the city, and it was another twenty minutes before the driver turned off the highway and began to climb into the hills. A few minutes later, another turn, a much smaller road, and far less traffic. Krantz wanted to fall off, but knew that every minute she could cling on would be to her advantage. The car came to a halt at a crossroads, turned sharp left, and continued along what appeared to be a wide, uneven path. When they stopped at the next crossroads, Krantz listened attentively. A passing lorry was holding them up.
She slowly released her right arm, which was almost numb, unsheathed the knife from her jeans, turned to one side and thrust the blade into the right-hand rear tire, again and again, until she heard a loud hissing sound. As the car moved off, she fell to the ground and didn’t move an inch until she could no longer hear the engine. She rolled over to the side of the road and watched the limousine as it drove higher into the hills. She didn’t attempt to get up until the car was out of sight.
Once the limousine had disappeared over the hill, she pushed herself up and began to carry out a series of stretching exercises. She wasn’t in a hurry. After all, it would be waiting for her on the other side of the hill. Once Krantz had recovered, she began jogging slowly toward the brow of the hill. Some miles ahead of her, she could see a magnificent mansion nestling in the hills that dominated the surrounding landscape.
When Krantz came over the rise, she saw the chauffeur in the distance, on one knee, staring at the flat tire. She checked up and down what was clearly a private road that probably led only to the Nakamura residence. As she approached, the driver looked up and smiled. Krantz returned the smile and jogged up to his side. He was about to speak when, with one swift movement of her left leg, Krantz kicked him in the throat, then in the groin. She watched as he collapsed on the ground, like a puppet whose strings had been cut. For a moment, she considered slitting his throat, but now she had the painting, why bother, when she would have the pleasure of cutting someone else’s throat tonight. And in any case, she wasn’t being paid for this one.
Once again Krantz looked up and down the road. Still clear. She ran to the front of the limousine and removed the keys from the ignition, before returning to unlock the trunk. The lid swung up and her eyes settled on the wooden crate. She would have smiled, but first she needed to make sure that she’d earned the first million dollars.
Krantz grabbed a heavy screwdriver from the tool kit in the trunk and wedged it into a crack in the top right-hand corner of the crate. It took all of her strength to wrench the lid open, only to find her prize was covered in bubble wrap. She tore at it with her bare hands. When the last remnant had been removed, she stared down at the prize-winning painting by Danuta Sekalska, entitled Freedom.
Jack waited for another hour, one eye on the door for Crew Cut, the other on the elevator for Petrescu, but neither appeared. Yet another hour passed, by which time Jack was convinced Anna must be staying overnight. He walked wearily up to reception and asked if they had a vacant room.
“Name, sir,” asked the booking clerk.
“Fitzgerald,” Jack replied.
“Your passport, please?”
“Certainly,” said Jack, taking a passport out of an inside pocket and handing the document over.
“How many nights will you be staying with us, Mr. Fitzgerald?”
Jack would have liked to be able to answer that question.
9/19
35
When Anna woke the next morning, the first thing she did was to phone Wentworth Hall.
“It’s going to be a close-run thing,” warned Arabella, once Anna had imparted her news.
“What do you mean?” asked Anna.
“Fenston has issued a bankruptcy order against the estate, giving me fourteen days to clear the debt or he’ll put Wentworth Hall on the market. So let’s hope Nakamura doesn’t find out, because if he does, it will certainly weaken your bargaining position and might even cause him to have second thoughts.”
“I’m seeing him at ten o’clock this morning,” said Anna. “I would call you back as soon as I find out his decision, but it will be the middle of the night.”
“I don’t care what time it is,” said Arabella, “I’ll be awake.”
Once Anna had put the phone down, she began to go over her tactics for the meeting with Nakamura. In truth, she’d thought of little else for the past twelve hours.
She knew that Arabella would be happy with a sum that would clear her debts with Fenston Finance and allow her to make sure that the estate was safe from prying creditors, with enough over to cover any taxes. Anna calculated that sum to be around fifty million. She had already decided she would settle for that amount and the chance to return to New York, no longer with the sobriquet missing attached to her name, and be reacquainted with both loops in Central Park. She might even ask Nakamura for more details about the job she wasn’t interviewed for.
Anna lingered in a bath that went from boiling to tepid — an indulgence she normally only allowed herself at weekends — as she continued to think through her approach to the meeting with Nakamura. She smiled at the thought of Nakamura opening his present. For all serious collectors, it’s as much of a thrill to discover the next master as it is to pay a vast sum for an established one. When Nakamura saw the bold brushwork and the sheer flair, he would surely hang Freedom in his private collection. Always the ultimate test.
Anna thought long and hard about what she would wear for their second meeting. She settled on a beige linen dress with a modest hemline, a wide brown leather belt, and a simple gold necklace — an outfit that would be considered demure in New York but almost brash in Tokyo. Yesterday she’d dressed for her opening move, today for closing.
She opened her bag for a third time that morning to check that she had included a copy of Dr. Gachet’s letter to Van Gogh, along with a simple one-page contract that was standard among recognized dealers. If she could agree on a price with Nakamura, Anna was going to ask for 10 percent down as an act of good faith, to be returned in full if, after inspecting the masterpiece, he was not satisfied. Anna felt that once he set his eyes on the original...
Anna checked her watch. The meeting with the chairman was at ten, and he had promised to send his limousine to pick her up at nine forty. She would be waiting in the lobby. The Japanese quickly lose patience with people who play games.
Anna took the elevator to the lobby and walked across to reception. “I expect to be checking out later today,” she said, “and would like my bill prepared.”
“Certainly, Dr. Petrescu,” said the receptionist. “May I ask if you have had anything from the minibar?”
Anna thought for a moment. “Two Evian waters.”
“Thank you,” said the clerk, and began tapping the information into his computer as a bellboy came rushing up to her.