False Impression (22 page)

‘Yes, thank
you,’ said Anna. “Where did you meet him?’

‘In jail,’
admitted Anton. ‘He was lucky to survive the Ceaugescu regime. And have you
visited your sainted mother?’

‘I have,’
replied Anna, ‘and she’s still living in conditions not much better than a
jail.’

‘I agree, and
don’t think I haven’t tried to do something about it, but at least your
dollars, and her generosity, allow some of my best students ‘I know,’ said
Anna, ‘she’s already told me.’

‘You can’t begin
to know,’ continued Anton. ‘So let me show you some of the results of your
investment.’

Anton took Anna
by the hand as if they were still students and guided her down the steps to the
long corridor on the first floor, where the walls were crammed with paintings
in every medium.

‘This year’s
prize-winning students,’ he told her, holding out his arms like a proud father.
‘And every entry has been painted on a canvas supplied by you. In fact, one of
the awards is in your name – the Petrescu Prize.’ He paused. ‘How appropriate
if you were to select the winner, which would make not only me, but one of my
students, very proud.’

‘I’m flattered,’
said Anna with a smile, as she walked towards a long row of paintings. She took
her time as she strolled slowly up and down the canvas-filled corridor, pausing
occasionally to study an image more closely. Anton had clearly taught them the
importance of drawing before he allowed them to move on to other media. Don’t
bother with the brush if you can’t first handle the pencil, he liked to repeat.
But the range of subjects and bold approach showed that he had also let them
express themselves.

Some didn’t
quite come off, while others showed considerable talent. Anna finally stopped
in front of
an oil
entitled Freedom, depicting the sun
rising over Bucharest.

‘I know a
certain gentleman who’ll appreciate that,’ she said.

‘You haven’t
lost your touch,’ said Anton, smiling. ‘Danuta Sekalska is this year’s star
pupil, and she’s been offered a place at the Slade in London to continue her
studies, if only we can raise enough money to cover her expenses.’ He looked at
his watch. ‘Do you have time for a drink?’

‘I certainly
do,’ replied Anna, ‘because I confess there’s a favour I need to ask of you -’
she paused – ‘in fact, two favours.’

Anton once again
took her by the hand and led her back down the corridor towards the staff
refectory. When they entered the senior common room, Anna was greeted by the
sound of good humoured chatter as tutors swapped anecdotes while they sat
around in groups enjoying nothing stronger than a coffee. They didn’t seem to
notice that the furniture, the cups, saucers and probably even the cookies
would have been rejected by any self respecting hobo visiting a Salvation Army
hostel in the Bronx.

Anton poured two
cups of coffee. ‘Black, if I remember. Not quite Starbucks,’ he mocked, ‘but
we’re getting there slowly.’

Heads turned as
Anton guided his former pupil to a place by the fire. He took a seat opposite
her. ‘Now, what can I do for
you,

Anna?’ he asked.
‘Because I am unquestionably in your debt.’

‘It’s my
mother,’ she said quietly. ‘I need your help. I can’t get her to spend a cent
on herself. She could do with a new carpet, sofa, a TV and even a telephone,
not to mention a splash of fresh paint on that front door.’

‘You think I
haven’t tried?’ Anton repeated. “Where do you imagine you get your stubborn
streak from? I even suggested she move in with us. It’s not palatial, but it’s
a damn sight better than that dump she’s living in now.’ Anton took a long
draught of his coffee. ‘But I promise I’ll try again –
‘ he
paused – ‘even harder.’

‘Thank you,’
said Anna, who remained silent while Anton rolled a cigarette. ‘And I see I
failed to convince you to give up smoking.’

‘I don’t have
the bright lights of New York to distract me,’ he said with a laugh. He lit his
hand-rolled cigarette before adding,

‘And what’s the
second favour?’

‘You’ll need to
think long and hard about it,’ she said in an even tone.

Anton put down
his coffee, inhaled deeply and listened carefully as Anna explained in detail
how he could help her.

‘Have you
discussed the idea with your mother?’

‘No,’ Anna
admitted. ‘I think
it’s
best she doesn’t find out why
I really came to Bucharest.’

‘How much time
have I got?’

‘Three,
perhaps four days.
Depends how successful I am while I’m away,’ she added without explanation.

‘And if I’m
caught?’ he asked, once again dragging deeply on his cigarette.

‘You’d probably
go back to jail,’ admitted Anna.

‘And you?’

‘The canvas
would be shipped to New York and used as evidence against me. If you need any
more money for...’

‘No, I’m still
holding over eight thousand dollars of your mother’s money, so...’

‘Eight
thousand?’

‘A dollar goes a
long way in Romania.’

‘Can I bribe
you?’

‘Bribe me?’

‘If you’ll take
on the assignment, I’ll pay for your pupil, Danuta Sekalska, to go to the
Slade.’

Anton thought
for a moment. ‘And you’ll be back in three days,’ he said, stubbing out his
cigarette.

‘Four at the
most,’ said Anna.

‘Then let’s hope
I’m as good as you think I am.’

It’s Vincent.’

“Where are you?’

“Visiting
my mother.’

‘Then don’t hang
about.’

-Why?’

‘The stalker
knows where you are.’

‘Then I’m afraid
he’ll miss me again.’

‘I’m not even
convinced the stalker’s a man.’

‘What makes you
say that?’

‘I saw Fenston talking
to a woman in the back of his car while I was attending your funeral.’

‘That doesn’t
prove...’

‘I agree, but it
worries me that I’ve never seen her before.’

‘She could be
one of Fenston’s girlfriends.’

‘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.

J
ack 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 am 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 to 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 colourfully detailed the finer parts of the
city centre 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 fold-out 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 because it would give him a better chance to discover if he was the target
of an SDR.

Jack left the
International at 7.30 am, 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 towards 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 counter-surveillance – the unspoken fear of every FBI
agent – or was he just paranoid?

Once he was out
of the city centre, 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 centre. 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.