False Impression (27 page)

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 fitted perfectly,
like a gun in a holster.

T
he 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. T 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 die
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 Cafe
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.’

‘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 leant 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?’ enquired Anna.

‘Dr Gachet, Van
Gogh’s friend and admirer.’

‘And
the date?’

‘1889,’ replied
Nakamura, ‘when Van Gogh resided at Aries, 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 cheque 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 significantly, 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 towards 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 towards 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,
spreadeagled,
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.

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 travelled 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.