Jeffrey Archer - False Impression

She thought about how many friends and colleagues she must have lost and realized just how lucky she was to be alive. But mourning would have to wait, if she was to have any chance of rescuing Victoria from a slower death.

Anna’s thoughts were interrupted by Tina knocking on the door. She walked in and sat on the end of the bath. “A definite improvement,” she said with a smile, as she looked at Anna’s newly scrubbed body.

“I’ve been thinking about your idea,” said Anna, “and if I could—”

“Change of plan,” said Tina. “It’s just been announced by the FAA that all aircraft across America have been grounded until further notice and no incoming flights will be allowed to land, so by now the Van Gogh will be on its way back to Heathrow.”

“Then I’ll need to call Victoria immediately,” said Anna, “and tell her to instruct Ruth Parish to return the painting to Wentworth Hall.”

“Agreed,” said Tina, “but I’ve just realized that Fenston has lost something even more important than the Monet.”

“What could be more important to him than the Monet?” asked Anna.

“His contract with Victoria, and all the other paperwork that proves he owns the Van Gogh along with the rest of the Wentworth estate should she fail to clear the debt.”

“But didn’t you keep backups?” asked Anna.

Tina hesitated. “Yes,” she said, “in a safe in Fenston’s office.”

“But don’t forget that Victoria will also be in possession of all the relevant documents.”

Tina paused again. “Not if she was willing to destroy them.”

“Victoria would never agree to that,” said Anna.

“Why don’t you phone her and find out? If she did feel able to, it would give you more than enough time to sell the Van Gogh and clear the debt with Fenston, before he could do anything about it.”

“There’s only one problem.”

“What’s that?” asked Tina.

“I don’t have her number. Her file is in my office, and I’ve lost everything, including my cell phone and Palm Pilot, even my wallet.”

“I’m sure international directories can solve that problem,” suggested Tina. “Why don’t you dry yourself and put on a bathrobe? We can sort out some clothes later.”

“Thank you,” said Anna, gripping her by the hand.

“You might not thank me when you find out what you’re having for lunch. Mind you, I wasn’t expecting a guest, so you’ll have to make do with leftover Chinese.”

“Sounds great,” said Anna, as she stepped out of the bath and grabbed a towel, wrapping it tightly around her.

“See you in a couple of minutes,” said Tina, “by which time the microwave should have completely finished off my gourmet offering.” She turned to leave.

“Tina, can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“Why do you continue to work for Fenston, when you obviously detest the man as much as I do?”

Tina hesitated. “Anything but that,” she eventually replied. She closed the door quietly behind her.

Ruth Parish picked up her outside line.

“Hi, Ruth,” said a familiar voice, about to deliver an unfamiliar message. “It’s Ken Lane over at United, just to let you know that our flight 107, bound for New York, has been ordered to turn back, and we’re expecting it to touch down at Heathrow in about an hour.”

“But why?” asked Ruth.

“Details are a bit sketchy at the moment,” Ken admitted, “but reports coming out of JFK suggest there’s been a terrorist attack on the Twin Towers. All U.S. airports have been ordered to ground their planes, and won’t be allowing any incoming flights until further notice.”

“When did all this happen?”

“Around one thirty our time. You must have been at lunch. You can get an update on any news station. They’re all carrying it.”

Ruth picked up the remote control from her desk and pointed it toward the TV screen.

“Will you be putting the Van Gogh in storage?” asked Ken, “or do you want us to return it to Wentworth Hall?”

“It certainly won’t be going back to Wentworth,” said Ruth. “I’ll lock the painting up in one of our customs-free zones overnight and then put it on the first available flight to New York once JFK lifts the restrictions.” Ruth paused. “Will you confirm an ETA about thirty minutes before your plane is due to touch down so I can have one of my trucks standing by?”

“Will do,” said Ken.

Ruth replaced the receiver and glanced up at the TV. She tapped out the number 501 on her remote control. The first image she saw was a plane flying into the South Tower.

Now she understood why Anna hadn’t returned her call.

As Anna dried herself, she began to speculate on what possible reason Tina could have to go on working for Fenston. She found herself shaking her head. After all, Tina was bright enough to pick up a far better job.

She pulled on her friend’s bathrobe and slippers, placed the key on its chain back around her neck and put on her one-time watch. She looked at herself in the mirror; the outward façade had considerably improved, but Anna still felt queasy whenever she thought about what she had been through only a few hours before. She wondered for how many days, months, years it would be a recurring nightmare.

She opened the bathroom door and maneuvered her way down the corridor, avoiding the ashy footprints she’d left on the carpet. When she walked into the kitchen, Tina stopped laying the table and handed over her cell phone.

“Time to call Victoria and warn her what you’re up to.”

“What am I up to?” asked Anna.

“For starters, ask her if she knows where the Van Gogh is.”

“Locked up in a customs-free zone at Heathrow would be my bet, but there’s only one way to find out.” Anna dialed 00.

“International operator.”

“I need a number in England,” said Anna.

“Business or residential?”

“Residential.”

“Name?”

“Wentworth, Victoria.”

“Address?”

“Wentworth Hall, Wentworth, Surrey.”

There was a long silence before Anna was informed, “I’m sorry, ma’am, that number is ex-directory.”

“What does that mean?” asked Anna.

“I can’t give out the number.”

“But this is an emergency,” insisted Anna.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but I still can’t release that number.”

“But I’m a close personal friend.”

“I don’t care if you’re the Queen of England, I repeat, I’m unable to give out that number.” The line went dead. Anna frowned.

“So what’s plan B?” asked Tina.

“No choice but to get myself to England somehow and try to see Victoria so I can warn her what Fenston’s up to.”

“Good. Then the next thing to decide is which border you’re going to cross.”

“What chance have I got of crossing any border, when I can’t even go back to my apartment and pick up my things — unless I want the whole world to know I’m alive and kicking.”

“There’s nothing to stop me going to your place,” said Tina. “Tell me what you want and I can pack a bag and—”

“No need to pack,” said Anna. “Everything I want is ready and waiting in the hallway — don’t forget I was expecting to fly to London this evening.”

“Then all I need is the key to your apartment,” said Tina.

Anna unclasped the chain round her neck and handed over her key. “How do I get past the doorman?” asked Tina. “He’s bound to ask who I’ve come to see.”

“That won’t be a problem,” said Anna. “His name is Sam. Tell him you’re visiting David Sullivan and he’ll just smile and call for the elevator.”

“Who’s David Sullivan?” asked Tina.