ONE OF ANNA’S golden rules when she woke in the morning was not to check the messages on her cell phone until she had showered, dressed, had breakfast, and read The New York Times. But as she had broken every one of her golden rules over the last two weeks, she checked her messages even before she got out of bed. One from Stalker asking her to call, which made her smile, one from Tina—no message, and one from Mr. Nakamura, which made her frown—only four words: “Urgent, please call. Nakamura.”
Anna decided to take a cold shower before she returned his call. As the jets of water cascaded down on her, she thought about Mr. Nakamura’s message. The word urgent always made her assume the worst—Anna fell into the half-empty-glass category rather than the half-full.
She was wide awake by the time she stepped out of the shower. Her heart was pounding at about the same pace as when she’d just finished her morning run. She sat on the end of the bed and tried to compose herself.
Once Anna felt her heartbeat had returned to as near normal as it was likely to, she dialed Nakamura’s number in Tokyo.
“Hai, Shacho-Shitso desu,” announced the receptionist.
“Mr. Nakamura, please.”
“Who shall I say is calling?”
“Anna Petrescu.”
“Ah yes, he is expecting your call.” Anna’s heartbeat quickened.
“Good morning, Dr. Petrescu.”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Nakamura,” said Anna, wishing she could see his face and more quickly learn her fate.
“I’ve recently had a most unpleasant conversation with your former boss, Bryce Fenston,” continued Nakamura. “Which I’m afraid”—Anna could hardly breathe—“has made me reassess”—was she about to be sick?—“my opinion of that man. However, that’s not the purpose of this call. I just wanted to let you know that you are currently costing me around five hundred dollars a day as I have, as you requested, deposited five million dollars with my lawyers in London. So I would like to view the Van Gogh as soon as possible.”
“I could fly to Tokyo in the next few days,” Anna assured him, “but I would first have to go to England and pick up the painting.”
“That may not prove necessary,” said Nakamura. “I have a meeting with Corus Steel in London scheduled for Wednesday, and would be happy to fly over a day earlier, if that was convenient for Lady Arabella.”
“I’m sure that will be just fine,” said Anna. “I’ll need to contact Arabella and then call your secretary to confirm the details. Wentworth Hall is only about thirty minutes from Heathrow.”
“Excellent,” said Nakamura. “Then I’ll look forward to seeing you both tomorrow evening.” He paused. “By the way, Anna, have you given any more thought to becoming the director of my foundation? Because Mr. Fenston did convince me of one thing: you are certainly worth five hundred dollars a day.”
Although it was the third time Fenston had read the article, a smile never left his face. He couldn’t wait to share the news with Leapman, though he suspected he’d already seen the piece. He glanced at the clock on his desk, just before ten. Leapman was never late. Where was he?
Tina had already warned him that Mr. Jackson, an insurance assessor from Lloyd’s of London, was in the waiting room, and the front desk had just called to say that Chris Savage of Christie’s was on his way up.
“As soon as Savage appears,” said Fenston, “send them both in and then tell Leapman to join us.”
“I haven’t seen Mr. Leapman this morning,” said Tina.
“Well, tell him I want him in here the moment he arrives,” said Fenston. The smile returned to his face when he reread the headline, KITCHEN KNIFE KILLER ESCAPES.
There was a knock on the door, and Tina ushered both men into the office.
“Mr. Jackson and Mr. Savage,” she said. From their dress, it would not have been difficult to fathom which was the insurance broker and which one spent his life in the art world.
Fenston stepped forward and shook hands with a short, balding man in a navy pin-striped suit and crested blue tie, who introduced himself as Bill Jackson. Fenston nodded at Savage, whom he had met at Christie’s on several occasions over the years. He was wearing his trademark bow tie.
“I wish to make it clear from the outset,” began Fenston, “that I only want to insure this one painting,” he said, gesturing toward the Van Gogh, “for twenty million dollars.”
“Despite the fact that it might fetch five times that amount were it to come under the hammer?” queried Savage, who turned to study the picture for the first time.
“That would, of course, mean a far lower premium,” interjected Jackson. “That’s assuming our security boys consider the painting is adequately protected.”
“Just stay where you are, Mr. Jackson, and you can decide for yourself if it’s adequately protected.”
Fenston walked to the door, entered a six-digit code on the keypad next to the light switch, and left the room. The moment the door closed behind him, a metal grille appeared from out of the ceiling and eight seconds later was clamped to the floor, covering the Van Gogh. At the same time, an alarm emitted an ear-piercing sound that would have caused even Quasimodo to seek another vocation.
Jackson quickly pressed the palms of his hands over his ears and turned around to see that a second grille had already barred his exit from the only door in the room. He walked across to the window and looked down at the midgets hurrying along the sidewalk below. A few seconds later, the alarm stopped and the metal grilles slid up into the ceiling. Fenston marched back into the room, looking pleased with himself.
“Impressive,” said Jackson, the sound of the alarm still reverberating in his ears. “But there are still a couple of questions I will need answered,” he added. “How many people know the code?”
“Only two of us,” said Fenston, “my chief of staff and myself, and I change the sequence of numbers once a week.”
“And that window,” said Jackson, “is there any way of opening it?”
“No, it’s double-glazed bulletproof glass, and even if you could break it, you’d still be thirty-two stories above the ground.”
“And the alarm . . .”
“Connected directly to Abbott Security,” said Fenston. “They have an office in the building and guarantee to be on this floor within two minutes.”
“I’m impressed,” said Jackson. “What we in the business call triple-A, which usually means the premium can be kept down to one percent or, in real terms, around two hundred thousand dollars a year.” He smiled. “I only wish the Norwegians had your foresight, Mr. Fenston, and then perhaps we wouldn’t have had to pay out so much on The Scream.”
“But can you also guarantee discretion in these matters?” Fenston asked.
“Absolutely,” Jackson assured him. “We insure half the world’s treasures, and you wouldn’t find out who our clients are, were you to break into our headquarters in the City of London. Even their names are coded.”
“That’s reassuring,” said Fenston. “Then all that needs to be done is for you to complete the paperwork.”
“I can do that,” said Jackson, “just as soon as Mr. Savage confirms a value of twenty million for the painting.”
“That shouldn’t be too difficult,” said Fenston, turning his attention to Chris Savage, who was staring intently at the picture. “After all, he’s already assured us that the Wentworth Van Gogh is worth nearer one hundred million.”
“The Wentworth Van Gogh most certainly is,” said Savage, “but not this particular piece.” He paused before turning round to face Fenston. “The only part of this work of art that’s original is the frame.”
“What do you mean?” said Fenston, staring up at his favorite painting as if he’d been informed that his only child was illegitimate.
“I mean just that,” said Savage. “The frame is original, but the painting is a fake.”
“A fake?” repeated Fenston, hardly able to get the words out. “But it came from Wentworth Hall.”
“The frame may well have come from Wentworth Hall,” said Savage, “but I can assure you that the canvas did not.”
“How can you be so sure,” demanded Fenston, “when you haven’t even carried out any tests?”
“I don’t need to carry out any tests,” said Savage emphatically.
“Why not?” barked Fenston.
“Because the wrong ear is bandaged,” came back the immediate reply.
“No it’s not,” insisted Fenston, as he stared up at the painting. “Every schoolchild knows that Van Gogh cut off his left ear.”
“But not every schoolchild knows that he painted the self-portrait while looking in a mirror, which is why the right ear is bandaged.”
Fenston slumped down into the chair behind his desk, with his back to the painting. Savage strolled forward and began to study the picture even more closely. “What puzzles me,” he added, “is that although the painting is undoubtedly a fake, someone has put it into the original frame.” Fenston’s face burned with anger. “And I must confess,” continued Savage, “that whoever painted this particular version is a fine artist.” He paused. “However, I could only place a value of ten thousand on the work, and perhaps—”he hesitated “—a further ten thousand on the frame, which would make the suggested premium of two hundred thousand seem somewhat excessive.” Fenston still didn’t respond. “I am sorry to be the bearer of such bad news,” concluded Savage, as he walked away from the picture and came to a halt in front of Fenston. “I can only hope that you haven’t parted with a large sum, and, if you have, you know who is responsible for this elaborate deception.”
“Get me Leapman,” Fenston screamed at the top of his voice, causing Tina to come running into the room.
“He’s just arrived,” she said. “I’ll tell him you want to see him.”
Neither the man from Lloyd’s nor the Christie’s expert felt this was the moment to hang around, hoping to be offered a cup of coffee. They discreetly left, as Leapman came rushing in.
“It’s a fake,” shouted Fenston.
Leapman stared up at the picture for some time before offering an opinion. “Then we both know who’s responsible,” he eventually said.
“Petrescu,” said Fenston, spitting out the name.
“Not to mention her partner, who has been feeding Petrescu with information since the day you fired her.”
“You’re right,” said Fenston, and turning toward the open door he hollered “Tina” at the top of his voice. Once again, she came running into the room.
“You see that picture,” he said, unable even to turn around and look at the painting. Tina nodded, but didn’t speak. “I want you to put it back in its box, and then immediately dispatch it to Wentworth Hall, along with a demand for—”
“Thirty-two million, eight hundred and ninety-two thousand dollars,” said Leapman.
“And once you’ve done that,” said Fenston, “you can collect all your personal belongings and make sure you’re off the premises within ten minutes, because you’re fired, you little bitch.”
Tina began shaking as Fenston rose from behind his desk and stared down at her. “But before you leave, I have one last task for you.” Tina couldn’t move. “Tell your friend Petrescu that I still haven’t removed her name from the ‘missing, presumed dead’ list.”