The security van waited on the tarmac for over an hour before the cargo hold was opened, by which time Ruth knew the life history of the customs official, even which school he intended to send his third child to if he was promoted. Ruth then watched the process in reverse. The back door of the security van was unlocked, the painting placed on a forklift truck, driven to the side of the hold, raised, and accepted on board by two handlers before it disappeared into the bowels of the aircraft.
The customs official signed all three copies of the dispatch documents and bade farewell to Ruth before returning to his office. In normal circumstances, Ruth would also have gone back to her office, filed the relevant forms, checked her messages, and then left for the day. However, these were not normal circumstances. She remained seated in her car and waited until all the passengers’ bags had been loaded on board and the cargo doors had been locked. Still she didn’t move, even after the aircraft began to taxi toward the north runway. She waited until the plane’s wheels had left the ground before she phoned Leapman in New York. Her message was simple: “The package is on its way.”
Jack was puzzled. He had watched Anna stroll into the arrivals hall, exchange some dollars at Travelex, and then join the long line for a taxi. Jack’s cab was already waiting on the other side of the road, two sets of luggage on board, engine running, as he waited for Anna’s cab to pass him.
“Where to, guv?” asked the driver.
“I’m not sure,” admitted Jack, “but my first bet would be cargo.”
Jack assumed that Anna would drive straight to the cargo depot and retrieve the package the taxi driver had dispatched from Bucharest.
But Jack was wrong. Instead of turning right, when the large blue sign indicating cargo loomed up in front of them, Anna’s taxi swung left and continued to drive west down the M25.
“She’s not going to cargo, guv, so what’s your next bet—Gatwick?”
“So what’s in the crate?” asked Jack.
“I’ve no idea, sir.”
“I’m so stupid,” Jack said.
“I wouldn’t want to venture an opinion on that, sir, but it would help if I knew where we was goin’.”
Jack laughed. “I think you’ll find it’s Wentworth.”
“Right, guv.”
Jack tried to relax, but every time he glanced out of the rear window he could have sworn that another black cab was following them. A shadowy figure was seated in the back. Why was she still pursuing Anna, when the painting must have been deposited in cargo?
When his driver turned off the M25 and took the road to Wentworth, the taxi Jack had imagined was following them continued on in the direction of Gatwick.
“You’re not stupid, after all, guv, because it looks as if it could be Wentworth.”
“No, but I am paranoid,” admitted Jack.
“Make up your mind, sir,” the driver said, as Anna’s taxi swung through the gates of Wentworth Hall and disappeared up the drive.
“Do you want me to keep followin’ her, guv?”
“No,” said Jack. “But I’ll need a local hotel for the night. Do you know one by any chance?”
“When the golf tournament is on, I drop a lot of my customers off at the Wentworth Arms. They ought to be able to fix you up with a room at this time of year.”
“Then let’s find out,” said Jack.
“Right you are, guv.”
Jack sat back and dialed a number on his cell phone.
“American Embassy.”
“Tom Crasanti, please.”
40
WHEN KRANTZ CAME round following the operation, the first thing she felt was a stabbing pain in her right shoulder. She managed to raise her head a couple of inches off the pillow as she tried to focus on the small, white-walled, unadorned room: just the bare necessities—a bed, a table, a chair, one sheet, one blanket, and a bedpan. It could only be a hospital, but not of the private variety, because the room had no windows, no flowers, no fruit, no cards from well-wishers, and an exit that had bars clamped across the door.
Krantz tried to piece together what had happened to her. She could remember spotting the taxi driver’s gun pointing at her heart, and that was where the memory faded. She’d had just enough time to turn—an inch, no more—before the bullet ripped into her shoulder. No one had been that close before. The next bullet missed completely, but by then he’d given her another second, easily enough time to cut his throat. He had to be a pro, an ex-policeman, perhaps, possibly a soldier. But then she must have passed out.
Jack checked himself into the Wentworth Arms for the night and booked a table for dinner at eight. After a shower and a change of clothes, he looked forward to devouring a large, juicy steak.
Even though Anna was safely ensconced at Wentworth Hall, he didn’t feel he could relax while Crew Cut might well be hovering somewhere nearby. He had already asked Tom to brief the local police, while he continued to carry out his own surveillance.
He sat in the lounge enjoying a Guinness and thinking about Anna. Long before the hall clock struck eight, Tom walked in, looked around, and spotted his old friend by the fire. Jack rose to greet him, and apologized for having to drag him down to Wentworth when he could have been spending the evening with Chloe and Hank.
“As long as this establishment can produce a decent Tom Collins, you’ll not hear me complain,” Tom assured him.
Tom was explaining to Jack how Hank had scored a half century—whatever that was—when they were joined by the head waiter, who took their orders for dinner. They both chose steaks, but as a Texan, Tom admitted he hadn’t got used to the English version that was served up looking like a lamb chop.
“I’ll call you through,” said the head waiter, “as soon as your table is ready.”
“Thank you,” said Jack, as Tom bent down to open his briefcase. He extracted a thick file and placed it on the table between them. Small talk had never been his forte.
“Let’s begin with the important news,” said Tom, opening the file. “We’ve identified the woman in the photograph you sent through from Tokyo.” Jack put his drink down and concentrated on the contents of the file. “Her name is Olga Krantz, and she has something in common with Dr. Petrescu.”
“And what’s that?” asked Jack.
“The agency was also under the illusion that she was missing, presumed dead. As you can see from Krantz’s profile,” Tom added, pushing a sheet of paper across the table, “we lost contact with her in nineteen eighty-nine, when she ceased being a member of Ceauşescu’s personal bodyguard. But we’re now convinced that she works exclusively for Fenston.”
“That’s one hell of a leap of logic,” suggested Jack, as a waiter appeared with a Tom Collins and another half pint of Guinness.
“Not if you consider the facts logically,” said Tom, “and then follow them step by step,” he added, before sipping his drink. “Urn, not bad. After all, she and Fenston worked for Ceauşescu at the same time.”
“Coincidence,” said Jack. “Wouldn’t stand up in court.”
“It might, when you learn what her job description was.”
“Try me,” said Jack.
“She was responsible for removing anyone who posed a threat to Ceauşescu.”
“Still circumstantial.”
“Until you discover her chosen method of disposal.”
“A kitchen knife?” suggested Jack, not looking down at the sheet of paper in front of him.
“You’ve got it,” said Tom.
“Which, I fear, means that there is yet another undeniable link in your chain of logic.”
“What’s that?” asked Tom.
“Anna is being lined up as her next victim.”
“No—there, fortunately, the logic breaks down, because Krantz was arrested in Bucharest this morning.”
“What?” said Jack.
“By the local police,” added Tom.
“It’s hard to believe they got within a mile of her,” said Jack. “I kept los
ing her even when I knew where she was.”
“The local police were the first to admit,” said Tom, “that she was unconscious at the time.”
“Fill me in on the details,” said Jack impatiently.
“It seems, and reports were still coming through when I left the embassy, that Krantz was involved in a quarrel with a taxi driver, who was found to have five hundred dollars in his possession. The driver had his throat cut, while she ended up with a bullet in her right shoulder. We don’t yet know what caused the fight, but as he was killed only moments before your flight took off, we thought you might be able to throw some light on it.”
“Krantz would have been trying to find out which plane Anna was on, after she made such a fool of herself in Tokyo, but that man would never have told her. He protected her more like a father than a taxi driver, and the five hundred dollars is a red herring. Krantz doesn’t bother to kill people for that sort of money, and that was one taxi driver who never kept the meter running.”
“Well, whatever, Krantz is safely locked up and with a bit of luck will spend the rest of her life in jail, which may not prove to be that long, as we’re reliably informed that half the population of Romania would be happy to strangle her.” Tom glanced back down at his file. “And it turns out that our taxi driver, one Colonel Sergei Slatinaru, was a hero of the resistance.” Tom took another sip of his drink before he added, “So there’s no longer any reason for you to worry about Petrescu’s safety.”
The waiter reappeared to accompany them into the dining room.
“In common with most Romanians, I won’t relax until Krantz is dead,” said Jack. “Until then, I’ll remain anxious for Anna.”
“Anna? Are you two on first-name terms?” asked Tom, as he took his seat opposite Jack in the dining room.
“Hardly, though we may as well be. I’ve spent more nights with her than any of my recent girlfriends.”
“Then perhaps we should have invited Dr. Petrescu to join us?”
“Forget it,” said Jack. “She’ll be having dinner with Lady Arabella at Wentworth Hall, while we have to settle for the Wentworth Arms.”
A waiter placed a bowl of leek and potato soup in front of Tom and served Jack a Caesar salad.
“Have you found out anything else about Anna?”
“Not a lot,” admitted Tom, “but I can tell you that one of the calls she made from Bucharest airport was to the New York Police Department. She asked them to take her name off the missing list, said she’d been in Romania visiting her mother. She also called her uncle in Danville, Illinois, and Lady Arabella Wentworth.”
“Then her meeting in Tokyo must have gone belly-up,” said Jack.
“You’re going to have to explain that one to me,” said Tom.
“She had a meeting in Tokyo with a steel tycoon called Nakamura, who has one of the largest collections of Impressionist paintings in the world, or so the concierge at the Seiyo informed me.” Jack paused. “She obviously failed to sell Nakamura the Van Gogh, which would explain why she sent the painting back to London and even allowed it to be forwarded to New York.”
“She doesn’t strike me as someone who gives up that easily,” said Tom, extracting another piece of paper from his file. “By the way, the Happy Hire Company is also looking for her. They claim she abandoned one of their vehicles on the Canadian border, minus its front mudguard, front and rear bumpers, with not one of its lights in working order.”
“Hardly a major crime,” said Jack.
“Are you falling for this girl?” asked Tom.
Jack didn’t reply as a waiter appeared by their side. “Two steaks, one rare, one medium,” he announced.
“Mine’s the rare,” said Tom.
The waiter placed both plates on the table and added, “Enjoy.”
“Another Americanism we seem to have exported,” grunted Tom.
Jack smiled. “Did you get any further with Leapman?”
“Oh yes,” said Tom. “We know a great deal about Mr. Leapman.” He placed another file on the table. “He’s an American citizen, second generation, and studied law at Columbia. Not unlike you,” Tom said with a grin. “After graduating, he worked for several banks, always moving on fairly quickly, until he became involved in a share fraud. His specialty was selling bonds to widows who didn’t exist.” He paused. “The widows existed, the bonds didn’t.” Jack laughed. “He served a two-year sentence at Rochester Correctional Facility in upstate New York and was banned for life from working at a bank or any other financial institution.”
“But he’s Fenston’s right hand?”
“Fenston’s possibly, but not the bank’s. Leapman’s name doesn’t appear on their books, even as a cleaner. He pays taxes on his only known income, a monthly check from an aunt in Mexico.”
“Come on—,” said Jack.
“And before you say anything else,” added Tom, “my department has neither the financial resources nor the backup to find out if this aunt even exists.”
“Any Romanian connection?” Jack asked, as he dug into his steak.
“None that we’re aware of,” said Tom. “Straight out of the Bronx and into a Brooks Brothers suit.”
“Leapman may yet turn out to be our best lead,” said Jack. “If we could only get him to testify—”
“Not a hope,” said Tom. “Since leaving jail, he hasn’t even had a parking ticket, and I suspect he’s a lot more frightened of Fenston than he is of us.”
“If only Hoover was still alive,” said Jack with a grin.
They both raised their glasses, before Tom added, “So when do you fly back to the States? I only ask, as I want to know when I can return to my day job.”
“Tomorrow, I suppose,” said Jack. “Now Krantz is safely locked up, I ought to get back to New York. Macy will want to know if I’m any nearer to linking Krantz with Fenston.”
“And are you?” asked Tom.
Neither of them noticed the two men talking to the maître d’. They couldn’t have been booking a table, otherwise they would have left their raincoats in reception. Once the maître d’ had answered their question, they walked purposefully across the dining room.
Tom was placing the files back in his briefcase by the time they reached their table.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” said the taller of the two men. “My name is Detective Sergeant Frankham, and this is my colleague, Detective Constable Ross. I’m sorry to disturb your meal, but I need to have a word with you, sir,” he said, touching Jack on the shoulder.
“Why, what have I done?” asked Jack, putting down his knife and fork. “Parked on a double yellow line?”
“I’m afraid it’s a little more serious than that, sir,” said the detective sergeant, “and I must therefore ask you to accompany me to the station.”
“On what charge?” demanded Jack.
“I think it might be wiser, sir, if we were not to continue this conversation in a crowded restaurant.”
“And on whose authority—,” began Tom.
“I don’t think you need to involve yourself, sir.”
“I’ll decide about that,” said Tom, as he removed his FBI badge from an inside pocket. He was about to flick the leather wallet open, when Jack touched him on the elbow and said, “Let’s not create a scene. No need to get the Bureau involved.”
“To hell with that, who do these people think—”
“Tom, calm down. This is not our country. I’ll go along to the police station and sort this all out.”
Tom reluctantly placed his FBI badge back in his pocket, and although he said nothing, the look on his face wouldn’t have left either policeman in any doubt how he felt. As Jack stood up, the sergeant grabbed his arm and quickly handcuffed him.
“Hey, is that really necessary?” demanded Tom.
“Tom, don’t get involved,” said Jack in a measured tone.
Tom reluctantly followed Jack out of the dining room, through a room full of guests, who studiously carried on ch
atting and eating their meals as if nothing unusual was going on around them.
When they reached the front door, Tom said, “Do you want me to come with you to the station?”
“No,” said Jack, “Why don’t you stick around. Don’t worry, I’m sure I’ll be back in time for coffee.”
Two women stared intently at Jack from the other side of the corridor.
“Is that him, madam?”
“Yes it is,” one of them confirmed.
When Tina heard her door open, she quickly flicked off the screen. She didn’t look up, as only one person never bothered to knock before entering her office.
“I presume you know that Petrescu is back in New York?”
“I’d heard,” said Tina, as she continued typing.
“But had you also heard,” said Leapman, placing both hands on her desk, “that she tried to steal the Van Gogh?”
“The one in the chairman’s office?” said Tina innocently.
“Don’t play games with me,” said Leapman. “You think I don’t know that you listen in on every phone conversation the chairman has?” Tina stopped typing and looked up at him. “Perhaps the time has come,” Leapman continued, “to let Mr. Fenston know about the switch under your desk that allows you to spy on him whenever he’s having a private meeting.”
“Are you threatening me, Mr. Leapman?” asked Tina. “Because if you are, I might find it necessary to have a word with the chairman myself.”
“And what could you possibly tell him that I would care about?” demanded Leapman.
“About the weekly calls you receive from a Mr. Pickford, and then perhaps we’ll discover who’s playing games.”
Leapman took his hands off the table and stood up straight.
“I feel sure your probation officer will be interested to learn that you’ve been harassing staff at a bank you don’t work for, don’t have an office in, and don’t receive a salary from.”
Leapman took a pace backward.
“When you come to see me next time, Mr. Leapman, make sure you knock, like any other visitor to the bank.”