LEAPMAN WASN’T ASLEEP when his phone rang. But then he rarely slept, although he knew there was only one person who would consider calling him at such an ungodly hour.
He picked up the phone, and said, “Good morning, Chairman,” as if he was sitting at his desk in the office.
“Krantz has located the painting.”
“Where is it?” asked Leapman.
“It was in Bucharest, but it’s now on its way back to Heathrow.”
Leapman wanted to say, I told you so, but confined himself to, “When does the plane land?”
“Just after four, London time.”
“I’ll have someone standing by to pick it up.”
“And they should put it on the first available flight to New York.”
“So where’s Petrescu?” asked Leapman.
“No idea,” said Fenston, “but Krantz is at the airport waiting for her. So don’t expect her to be on the same flight.”
Leapman heard the click. Fenston never said good-bye. He climbed out of bed, picked up his phone book, and thumbed through until he reached the Ps. He checked his watch and dialed her office number.
“Ruth Parish.”
“Good morning, Ms. Parish. It’s Karl Leapman.”
“Good morning,” replied Ruth cautiously.
“We’ve found our painting.”
“You have the Van Gogh?” said Ruth.
“No, not yet, but that’s why I’m calling.”
“How can I help?”
“It’s in the cargo hold of a flight on its way from Bucharest, due to land outside your front door just after four o’clock this afternoon.” He paused. “Just make sure you’re there to pick it up.”
“I’ll be there. But whose name is on the manifest?”
“Who gives a fuck? It’s our painting and it’s in your crate. Just be sure you don’t mislay it a second time.” Leapman put the phone down before she had a chance to protest.
Ruth Parish and four of her carriers were already on the tarmac when Flight 019 from Bucharest landed at Heathrow. Once the aircraft had been cleared for unloading, the little motorcade of a customs official’s car, Ruth’s Range Rover, and an Art Locations security van drove up and parked within twenty meters of the cargo hold.
If Ruth had looked up, she would have seen Anna’s smiling face in her tiny window at the back of the aircraft. But she didn’t.
Ruth stepped out of her car and joined the customs officer. She had earlier informed him that she wished to transfer a painting from an incoming flight to an onward destination. The customs official had looked bored, and wondered why she had chosen such a senior officer to carry out such a routine task, until he was told, in confidence, the value of the painting. His promotion board was due in three weeks’ time. If he screwed up this simple exercise, he could forget the extra silver stripe he promised his wife she would be sewing on his sleeve before the end of the month. Not to mention the pay raise.
When the hold eventually opened, they both walked forward together, but only the customs officer addressed the chief loader. “There’s a red wooden crate on board”—he checked his file—“three foot by two, and three or four inches deep. It’s stamped with an Art Locations logo on both sides, and the number forty-seven stenciled in all four corners. I want it unloaded before anything else is moved.”
The chief loader passed on the instructions to his two men in the hold, who disappeared into the darkness. By the time they reappeared, Anna was heading toward passport control.
“That’s it,” said Ruth, when the two loaders reappeared on the edge of the hold, carrying a red crate. The customs official nodded. A forklift truck moved forward, expertly extracted the crate from the hold and lowered it slowly to the ground. The customs man checked the manifest, followed by the logo and even the stenciled forty-sevens.
“Everything seems to be in order, Ms. Parish. If you’ll just sign here.”
Ruth signed the form but couldn’t make out the signature on the original manifest. The customs officer’s eyes never left the forklift truck as the package was driven across to the Art Locations van, where two of Ruth’s carriers loaded the crate on board.
“I’ll still have to accompany you to the outgoing aircraft, Ms. Parish, so I can confirm that the package has been loaded for its onward destination. Not until then can I sign a clearance certificate.”
“Of course,” said Ruth, who carried out the same procedure two or three times a day.
Anna had reached the baggage area by the time the security van began its circuitous journey from terminal three to terminal four. When the driver came to a halt, he parked beside a United Airlines plane bound for New York.
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.”