Jeffrey Archer - False Impression

She slowed down to fifty, although her heart was still beating at three times that speed. She tried to relax. As with all athletes, it is speed of recovery that matters. As she swung onto the 1-90, she glanced in her side-view mirror. Her heartbeat immediately returned to 150 when she saw a second eighteen-wheeler bearing down on her.

Pot-belly’s buddy hadn’t made the same mistake.

As the stranger entered the lobby, Sam looked up from behind his desk. When you’re a doorman, you have to make instant decisions about people. Do they fall in the category of “Good morning, sir” or “Can I help you?” or simply “Hi”? Sam studied the tall, middle-aged man who had just walked in. He was wearing a smart but well-worn suit, the cloth a little shiny at the elbows, and his shirt cuffs were slightly frayed. He wore a tie that Sam reckoned had been tied a thousand times.

“Good morning,” Sam settled on.

“Good morning,” replied the man. “I’m from the Department of Immigration.”

That only made Sam nervous. Although he’d been born in Harlem, he’d heard stories of people being deported by mistake.

“How can I help you, sir?” he asked.

“I’m checking up on those people who are still missing, presumed dead, following the terrorist attack on Tuesday.”

“Anyone in particular?” asked Sam cautiously.

“Yes,” said the man. He placed his briefcase on the counter, opened it, and extracted a list of names. He ran a finger down the list and came to a halt at the Ps. “Anna Petrescu,” he said. “This is the last known address we have for her.”

“I haven’t seen Anna since she left for work on Tuesday morning,” said Sam, “though several people have asked about her, and one of her friends came around that night and took away some of her personal things.”

“What did she take?”

“I don’t know,” said Sam. “I just recognized the suitcase.”

“Do you know the girl’s name?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“It might help if we could get in touch with her. Anna’s mother is quite anxious.”

“No, I don’t know her name,” admitted Sam.

“Would you recognize her if I showed you a photograph?”

“Might,” said Sam.

Once again, the man opened his briefcase. This time he extracted a photo and passed it across to Sam. He studied it for a moment.

“Yes, that’s her. Pretty girl,” he paused, “but not as pretty as Anna. She was beautiful.”

As she swung onto the 1-90, Anna noticed that the speed limit was seventy. She would have been happy to break it, but however hard she pressed down on the accelerator she could still only manage sixty-eight miles per hour.

Although the second truck was still some way behind, it was closing on her rapidly, and this time she didn’t have an exit strategy. She prayed for a sign. The truck must have been only fifty yards behind her, and closing by the second, when she heard the siren.

She was delighted at the thought of being pulled over, and didn’t care whether she would be believed when she explained why she had careered across two lanes of the highway and onto the exit ramp, not to mention why her van was missing both bumpers and a mudguard and that none of its lights were working. She began to slow down as the patrol car sped past the truck and slipped in behind her. The officer looked back and indicated that the truck driver should pull over. Anna watched in her passenger-side mirror as both vehicles came to a halt on the hard shoulder.

It was over an hour before she was calm enough to stop looking in her side-view mirror every few minutes.

After another hour she even began to feel hungry and decided to pull into a roadside café for breakfast. She parked the van, strolled in, and took a seat at the far end of the counter. She perused the menu before ordering “the big one” — eggs, bacon, sausage, hash browns, pancakes, and coffee. Not her usual fare, but then not much had been usual about the past forty-eight hours.

Between mouthfuls, Anna checked her route map. The two drunken men who’d pursued her had helped her keep to her schedule. Anna calculated that she had already covered around 380 miles, but there were still at least another fifty to go to reach the Canadian border. She studied the map more closely. Next stop, Niagara Falls, which she estimated would take her another hour.

The television behind the counter was reporting the early morning news. The hope of finding any more survivors was fading. New York had begun mourning its dead and setting about the long and arduous task of cleaning up. A memorial service, attended by the president, was to be held in Washington, D.C., as part of a national day of remembrance. The president then intended to fly on to New York and visit Ground Zero. Mayor Giuliani was next to appear on the screen. He was wearing a T-shirt proudly emblazoned with the letters NYPD and a cap with NYFD printed across the peak. He praised the spirit of New Yorkers and pledged his determination to put the city back on its feet as quickly as possible.

The news camera cut to JFK, where an airport spokesman confirmed that the first commercial flights would resume their normal schedule the following morning. That one sentence determined Anna’s timetable. She knew she had to touch down in London before Leapman took off from New York if she was to have any chance of convincing Victoria... Anna glanced out of the window. Two trucks were pulling into the parking lot. She froze, unable to watch as the drivers climbed out of their cabs. She was checking the fire exit as they entered the café. They both took seats at the counter, smiled at the waitress, and didn’t give Anna a second look. She had never previously understood why people suffered from paranoia.

Anna checked her watch: 7:55 A.M. She drained her coffee, left six dollars on the table, and walked across to the phone booth on the far side of the diner. She dialed a 212 number.

“Good morning, sir, my name is Agent Roberts.”

“Morning, Agent Roberts,” replied Jack, leaning back in his chair, “have anything to report?”

“I’m standing in a vehicle rest stop somewhere between New York and the Canadian border.”

“And what are you doing there, Agent Roberts?”

“I’m holding a bumper.”

“Let me guess,” said Jack. “The bumper was at one time attached to a white van driven by the suspect.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And where is the van now?” asked Jack, trying not to sound exasperated.

“I have no idea, sir. When the suspect drove into the rest stop to take a break, I must admit, sir, I also fell asleep. When I woke, the suspect’s van had left, leaving the bumper with the GPS still attached.”

“Then she’s either very clever,” said Jack, “or she’s been involved in an accident.”

“I agree.” He paused, and then added, “What do you think I should do next, sir?”

“Join the CIA,” said Jack.

“Hi, it’s Vincent, any news?”

“Yep, just as you thought, Ruth Parish has the painting locked up in the secure customs area at Heathrow.”

“Then I’ll have to unlock it,” said Anna.

“That might not prove quite that easy,” said Tina, “because Leapman flies out of JFK first thing tomorrow morning to pick up the painting, so you’ve only got another twenty-four hours before he joins you.” She hesitated. “And you have another problem.”

“Another problem?” said Anna.

“Leapman isn’t convinced you’re dead.”

“What makes him think that?”

“He keeps asking about you, so be especially careful. Never forget Fenston’s reaction when the North Tower collapsed. He may have lost half a dozen staff, but his only interest was the Monet in his office. Heaven knows what he’d do if he lost the Van Gogh as well. Dead artists are more important to him than living people.”