LEAPMAN WAS AWAKE long before the limousine was due to pick him up. This was not a day for oversleeping.
He climbed out of bed and headed straight for the bathroom. However closely he shaved, Leapman knew he would still have stubble on his chin long before he went to bed. He could grow a beard over a long weekend. Once he’d showered and shaved, he didn’t bother with making himself breakfast. He’d be served coffee and croissants later by the company stewardess on the bank’s private jet. Who in this run-down apartment building in such an unfashionable neighbourhood would believe that in a couple of hours Leapman would be the only passenger on a Gulfstream V on its way to London.
He walked across to his half-empty closet and selected his most recently acquired suit, his favorite shirt, and a tie that he would be wearing for the first time. He didn’t need the pilot to look smarter than he was.
Leapman stood by the window, waiting for the limousine to appear, aware that his little apartment was not much of an improvement on the prison cell where he’d spent four years. He looked down on Forty-third Street as the incongruous limousine drew up outside the front door.
Leapman climbed into the back of the car, not speaking to the driver as the door was opened for him. Like Fenston, he pushed the button in the armrest and watched as the smoke-gray window slid up, cutting him off from the driver. For the next twenty-four hours, he would live in a different world.
Forty-five minutes later the limousine turned off the Van Wyck Expressway and took the exit to JFK. The driver swept through an entrance that few passengers ever discover and drew up outside a small terminal building that served only those privileged enough to fly in their own aircraft. Leapman stepped out of the car and was escorted to a private lounge, where the captain of the company’s Gulfstream V jet was waiting for him.
“Any hope of taking off earlier than planned?” Leapman asked, as he sank into a comfortable leather armchair.
“No, sir,” the captain replied, “planes are taking off every forty-five seconds, and our slot is confirmed for seven twenty.”
Leapman grunted and turned his attention to the morning papers.
The New York Times was leading on the news that President Bush was offering a fifty-million-dollar reward for the capture of Osama bin Laden, which Leapman considered to be no more than the usual Texan approach to law and order over the past hundred years. The Wall Street Journal listed Fenston Finance off another twelve cents, a fate suffered by several companies whose headquarters had been based in the World Trade Center. Once he got his hands on the Van Gogh, the company could ride out a period of weak share prices while he concentrated on consolidating the bottom line. Leapman’s thoughts were interrupted by a member of the cabin crew.
“You can board now, sir. We’ll be taking off in around fifteen minutes.”
Another car drove Leapman to the steps of the aircraft, and the plane began to taxi even before he’d finished his orange juice, but he didn’t relax until the jet reached its cruising altitude of thirty thousand feet and the FASTEN SEAT BELT sign had been turned off. He leaned forward, picked up the phone, and dialed Fenston’s private line.
“I’m on my way,” he said, “and I can’t see any reason why I shouldn’t be back by this time tomorrow—” he paused “—with a Dutchman sitting in the seat next to me.”
“Call me the moment you land,” was the chairman’s response.
Tina flicked off the extension to the chairman’s phone.
Leapman had been dropping into her office more and more recently—always without knocking. He made no secret of the fact that he believed Anna was still alive and in touch with her.
The chairman’s jet had taken off from JFK on time that morning, and Tina had listened in on his conversation with Leapman. She realized that Anna only had a few hours’ start on him, and that was assuming she was even in London.
Tina thought about Leapman returning to New York the following day, that sickly grin plastered on his face as he handed over the Van Gogh to the chairman. Tina continued to download the latest contracts, having earlier e-mailed them to her private address—something she only did when Leapman was out of the office and Fenston was fully occupied.
The first available flight to London Gatwick that morning was due out of Schiphol at ten o’clock. Anna purchased a ticket from British Airways, who warned her that the flight was running twenty minutes late as the incoming plane had not yet landed. She took advantage of the delay to have a shower and change her clothes. Schiphol was accustomed to overnight travelers. Anna selected the most conservative outfit from her small wardrobe for her meeting with Victoria.
As she sat in Caffè Nero sipping coffee, Anna turned the pages of the Herald Tribune: 50-MILLION-DOLLAR-REWARD, read a headline on the second page—less of a bounty than the Van Gogh would fetch at any auction house. Anna didn’t waste any time reading the article as she needed to concentrate on her priorities once she came face-to-face with Victoria.
First she had to find out where the Van Gogh was. If Ruth Parish had the picture in storage, then she would advise Victoria to call Ruth and insist that it be returned to Wentworth Hall without delay, and add that she’d be quite happy to advise Ruth that Fenston Finance couldn’t hold onto the painting against Victoria’s wishes, especially if the only contract in existence were to disappear. She had a feeling Victoria would not agree to that, but if she did, Anna would get in touch with Mr. Nakamura in Tokyo and try to find out if—“British Airways flight eight-one-one-two to London Gatwick is now ready for boarding at Gate D-fourteen,” announced a voice over the public-address system.
As they crossed the English Channel, Anna went over her plan again and again, trying to find some fault with her logic, but she could think of only two people who would consider it anything other than common sense. The plane touched down at Gatwick thirty-five minutes late.
Anna checked her watch as she stepped onto English soil, aware that it would only be another nine hours before Leapman landed at Heathrow. Once she was through passport control and had retrieved her baggage, Anna went in search of a rental car. She avoided the Happy Hire Company desk and stood in line at the Avis counter.
Anna didn’t see the smartly dressed young man who was standing in the duty-free shop whispering into a cell phone, “She’s landed. I’m on her tail.”
Leapman settled back in the wide leather chair, far more comfortable than anything in his apartment on Forty-third Street. The stewardess served him a black coffee in a gold-rimmed china cup on a silver tray. He leaned back and thought about the task ahead of him. He knew he was nothing more than a bagman, even if the bag today contained one of the most valuable paintings on earth. He despised Fenston, who never treated him as an equal. If Fenston just once acknowledged his contribution to the company’s success and responded to his ideas as if he was a respected colleague rather than a paid lackey—not that he was paid that much . . . If he just occasionally said thank you—it would be enough. True, Fenston had picked him up out of the gutter but only to drop him into another.
He had served Fenston for a decade and watched as the unsophisticated immigrant from Bucharest climbed up the ladder of wealth and status—a ladder he had held in place, while remaining nothing more than a sidekick. But that could change overnight. She only needed to make one mistake, and their roles would be reversed. Fenston would end up in prison, and he would have a fortune at his disposal that no one could ever trace.
“Would you care for some more coffee, Mr. Leapman?” asked the stewardess.
Anna didn’t need a map to find her way to Wentworth Hall, although she did have to remember not to go the wrong way around the numerous traffic islands en route.
Forty minutes later, she drove through the gates of Wentworth Hall. Anna had no special knowledge of the Baroque architecture that dominated the late seventeenth- and early eighteenth-century homes of aristocratic England before she stayed at Wentworth Hall. The pile—Victoria’s description of her home—had been built in 1697 by Sir John Vanbrugh. It was his first commission before he moved on to create Castle Howard and, later, Blenheim Palace, for another triumphant soldier—after which he became the most sought-after architect in Europe.
The long drive up to the house was shaded by fine oaks of the same vintage as the hall itself, although gaps were now visible where trees had succumbed to the violent storms of 1987. Anna drove by an ornate lake full of Magoi Koi carp—immigrants from Japan—and on past two tennis courts and a croquet lawn, sprinkled with the first leaves of autumn. As she rounded the bend, the great hall, surrounded by a thousand green English acres, loomed up to dominate the skyline.
Victoria had once told Anna that the house had sixty-seven rooms, fourteen of them guest bedrooms. The bedroom she had stayed in on the first floor, the Van Gogh room, was about the same size as her apartment in New York.
As she approached the hall, Anna noticed that the crested family flag on the east tower was fluttering at half-mast. As she brought the car to a halt, she wondered which of Victoria’s many elderly relatives had died.
The massive oak door was pulled open even before Anna reached the top step. She prayed that Victoria was at home, and that Fenston still had no idea she was in England.
“Good morning, madam,” the butler intoned. “How may I help you?”
It’s me, Andrews, Anna wanted to say, surprised by his formal tone. He had been so friendly when she stayed at the hall. She echoed his formal approach. “I need to speak to Lady Victoria, urgently.”
“I’m afraid that will not be possible,” replied Andrews, “but I will find out if her ladyship is free. Perhaps you would be kind enough to wait here while I inquire.”
What did he mean, that will not be possible, but I will find out if her ladyship . . .
As Anna waited in the hall, she glanced up at Gainsborough’s portrait of Catherine, Lady Wentworth. She recalled every picture in the house, but her eye moved to her favorite at the top of the staircase, a Romney of Mrs. Siddons as Portia. She turned to face the entrance to the morning room, to be greeted with a painting by Stubbs of Actaeon, Winner of the Derby, Sir Harry Wentworth’s favorite horse—still safely in his paddock. If Victoria took her advice, at least she could still save the rest of the collection.
The butler returned at the same even pace.
“Her ladyship will see you now,” he said, “if you would care to join her in the drawing room.” He gave a slight bow before leading her across the hall.
Anna tried to concentrate on her six-point plan, but first she would need to explain why she was forty-eight hours late for their appointment, although surely Victoria would have followed the horrors of Tuesday and might even be surprised to find that she had survived.
When Anna entered the drawing room, she saw Victoria, head bowed, dressed in mourning black, seated on the sofa, a chocolate Labrador half asleep at her feet. She couldn’t remember Victoria having a dog and was surprised when she didn’t jump up and greet her in her usual warm manner. Victoria raised her head, and Anna gasped, as Arabella Wentworth stared coldly up at her. In that split second, she realized why the family’s crest had been flying at half mast. Anna remained silent as she tried to take in the fact that she would never see Victoria again and would now need to convince her sister, whom she had never met before. Anna couldn’t even remember her name. The mirror image did not rise from her place or offer to shake her hand.
“Would you care for some tea, Dr. Petrescu?” Arabella asked in a distant voice that suggested she hoped to hear her reply, No, thank you.
“No, thank you,” said Anna, who remained standing. “May I ask how Victoria died?” she said quietly.
“I assumed you already knew,” replied Arabella dryly.
“I have no idea what you mean,” said Anna.
“Then why are you here,” asked Arabella, “if it’s not to collect the rest of the family silver?”
“I came to warn Victoria not to let them take away the Van Gogh before I had a chance to—”
“They took the painting away on Tuesday,” said Arabella, pausing. “They didn’t even have the good manners to wait until after the funeral.”
“I tried to call, but they wouldn’t give me her number. If only I’d got through,” Anna mumbled incoherently, and then added, “And now it’s too late.”
“Too late for what?” asked Arabella.
“I sent Victoria a copy of my report recommending that—”
“Yes, I’ve read your report,” said Arabella, “but you’re right, it’s too late for that now. My new lawyer has already warned me that it could be years before the estate can be settled, by which time we’ll have lost everything.”
“That must have been the reason he didn’t want me to travel to England and see Victoria personally,” Anna said without explanation.
“I’m not sure I understand,” said Arabella, looking more closely at her.
“I was fired by Fenston on Tuesday,” said Anna, “for sending a copy of my report to Victoria.”
“Victoria read your report,” said Arabella quietly. “I have a letter confirming that she was going to take your advice, but that was before her cruel death.”
“How did she die?” asked Anna gently.
“She was murdered in a vile and cowardly fashion,” said Arabella. She paused and, looking directly at Anna, added, “And I have no doubt that Mr. Fenston will be able to fill in the details for you.” Anna bowed her head, unable to think of anything to say, her six-point plan in tatters. Fenston had beaten both of them. “Dear Victoria was so trusting, and, I fear, so naïve,” continued Arabella, “but no human being deserved to be treated in that way, let alone someone as good-natured as my sweet sister.”
“I am so sorry,” said Anna, “I didn’t know. You have to believe me. I had no idea.”
Arabella looked out of the window across the lawn and didn’t speak for some time. She turned back to see Anna, trembling.
“I believe you,” Arabella eventually said. “I originally assumed that it was you who was responsible for this evil charade.” She paused again. “I see now that I was wrong. But, sadly, it’s all too late. There’s nothing we can do now.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” said Anna, looking at Arabella with a fierce determination in her eyes. “But if I’m to do anything, I’ll have to ask you to trust me, as much as Victoria did.”
“What do you mean, trust you?” said Arabella.
“Give me a chance,” said Anna, “to prove that I wasn’t responsible for your sister’s death.”
“But how can you hope to do that?” asked Arabella.
“By retrieving your Van Gogh.”
“But as I told you, they’ve already taken the painting away.”
“I know,” said Anna, “but it still has to be in England, because Fenston has sent a Mr. Leapman to pick up the picture.” Anna checked her watch. “He’ll be landing at Heathrow in a few hours’ time.”
“But even if you managed to get your hands on the painting, how would that solve the problem?”
Anna outlined the details of her plan and was pleased to find Arabella nodding from time to time. Anna ended by saying, “I’ll need your backing, otherwise what I have in mind could get me arrested.”
Arabella remained silent for some time, before she said, “You’re a brave young woman, and I wonder if you even realize just how brave. But if you’re willing to take such a risk, so am I, and I’ll back you to the hilt,” she added.
Anna smiled at the quaint English expression, and said, “Can you confirm who collected the Van Gogh?”
Arabella rose from the sofa and crossed the room to the writing desk, with the dog following in her wake. She picked up a business card. “A Ms. Ruth Parish,” she read, “of Art Locations.”
“Just as I thought,” said Anna. “Then I’ll have to leave immediately, as I only have a few hours before Leapman arrives.”
Anna stepped forward and thrust out her hand, but Arabella didn’t respond. She simply took her in her arms and said, “If I can do anything to help you avenge my sister’s death . . .”
“Anything?”
“Anything,” repeated Arabella.
“When the North Tower collapsed, all the documentation concerning Victoria’s loan was destroyed,” said Anna, “including the original contract. The only copy is in your possession. If—”
“You don’t have to spell it out,” said Arabella.
Anna smiled. She wasn’t dealing with Victoria any longer.
She turned to leave and had reached the hall long before the butler had time to open the front door.
Arabella watched from the drawing-room window as Anna’s car disappeared down the drive and out of sight. She wondered if she would ever see her again.
“Petrescu,” said a voice, “is just leaving Wentworth Hall. She’s heading back in the direction of central London. I’m following her and will keep you briefed.”