Jeffrey Archer - False Impression

“But your father would never have agreed to sell the Van Gogh.”

“My father wasn’t alive when you approved the second loan,” countered Arabella. “It was a decision you should have advised her on.”

“I had no choice, dear lady, under the terms of the original contract.”

“Which you witnessed, but obviously didn’t read. Because not only did my sister agree to go on paying 16 percent compound interest on the loan, but you even allowed her to hand over the Van Gogh as collateral.”

“But you can still demand that they sell the painting, and then the problem will be solved.”

“Wrong again, Mr. Simpson,” said Arabella. “If you had read beyond page one of the original contract, you would have discovered that should there be a dispute, any decision will revert to a New York court’s jurisdiction, and I certainly don’t have the wherewithal to take on Bryce Fenston in his own backyard.”

“You don’t have the authority to do so, either,” retorted Simpson, “because I—”

“I am next of kin,” said Arabella firmly.

“But there is no will to indicate to whom Victoria intended to leave the estate,” shouted Simpson.

“Another duty you managed to execute with your usual prescience and skill.”

“Your sister and I were at the time in the process of discussing—”

“It’s a bit late for that,” said Arabella. “I am facing a battle here and now with an unscrupulous man, who seems to have the law on his side thanks to you.”

“I feel confident,” said Simpson, once again placing his hands on the desk in a prayerlike position as if ready to give the final blessing, “that I can wrap this whole problem up in—”

“I’ll tell you exactly what you can wrap up,” said Arabella, rising from her place, “all those files concerning the Wentworth estate, and send them to Wentworth Hall.” She stared down at the solicitor. “And at the same time, enclose your final account” — she checked her watch — “for one hour of your invaluable advice.”

Anna walked down the middle of the road, pulling her suitcase behind her, with the laptop hanging over her left shoulder. With each stride she took, Anna became more and more aware of passengers sitting in their stationary cars, staring at the strange lone figure as she passed them.

The first mile took fifteen minutes, and one of the families who had settled down for a picnic on the grass verge by the side of the road offered her a glass of wine. The second mile took eighteen minutes, but she still couldn’t see the border post. It was another twenty minutes before she passed a 1 MILE TO THE BORDER sign, when she tried to speed up.

The last mile reminded her which muscles ached after a long, tiring run, and then she saw the finish line. An injection of adrenaline caused her to step up a gear.

When Anna was about a hundred yards from the barrier, the staring looks made her feel like a line jumper. She averted her eyes and walked a little more slowly. When she came to a halt on the white line, where each car is asked to turn off its engine and wait, she stood to one side.

There were two customs officials on duty that day, having to deal with an unusually long line for a Thursday morning. They were sitting in their little boxes, checking everyone’s documents much more assiduously than usual. Anna tried to make eye contact with the younger of the two officers in the hope that he would take pity on her, but she didn’t need a mirror to know that after what she’d been through during the past twenty-four hours, she couldn’t have looked a lot better than when she staggered out of the North Tower.

Eventually, the younger of the two guards beckoned her over. He checked her travel documents and stared at her quizzically. Just how far had she trudged with those bags? He checked her passport carefully. Everything seemed to be in order.

“What is your reason for visiting Canada?” he asked.

“I’m attending an art seminar at McGill University. It’s part of my Ph.D. thesis on the pre-Raphaelite movement,” she said, staring directly at him.

“Which artists in particular?” asked the guard casually.

A smart-ass or a fan? Anna decided to play along. “Rossetti, Holman Hunt, and Morris, among others.”

“What about the other Hunt?”

“Alfred? Not a true pre-Raphaelite, but—”

“But just as good an artist.”

“I agree,” said Anna.

“Who’s giving the seminar?”

“Er, Vern Swanson,” said Anna, hoping the guard would not have heard of the most eminent expert in the field.

“Good, then I’ll get a chance to meet him.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, if he’s still the professor of art history at Yale he’ll be coming from New Haven, won’t he, and as there are no flights in and out of the U.S., this is the only way he can cross the border.”

Anna couldn’t think of a suitable response and was grateful to be rescued by the woman behind her, who began commenting to her husband in a loud voice about how long she’d been waiting in line.

“I was at McGill,” said the young officer with a smile, as he handed Anna back her passport. Anna wondered if the color of her cheeks betrayed her embarrassment. “We’re all sorry about what happened in New York,” he added.

“Thank you,” said Anna, and walked across the border. Welcome to Canada .

“Who is it?” demanded an anonymous voice.

“You’ve got an electrical fault on the tenth floor,” said a man standing outside the front door, dressed in green overalls, wearing a Yankee baseball cap, and carrying a toolbox. He closed his eyes and smiled into the security camera. When he heard the buzzer, the man pushed open the door and slipped in without any further questions.

He walked past the elevator and began to climb the stairs. That way there was less chance of anyone remembering him. He stopped when he reached the tenth floor, glancing quickly up and down the corridor. No one in sight; 3:30 P.M. was always a quiet time. Not that he could tell you why, it was simply based on experience. When he reached her door, he pressed the buzzer. No reply. But then he had been assured that she would still be at work for at least another couple of hours. The man placed his bag on the floor and examined the two locks on the door. Hardly Fort Knox. With the precision of a surgeon about to perform an operation, he opened his bag and selected several delicate instruments.

Two minutes and forty seconds later, he was inside the apartment. He quickly located all three telephones. The first was in the front room on a desk, below a Warhol print of Marilyn Monroe. The second was by her bed, next to a photograph. The intruder glanced at the woman in the center of the picture. She was standing between two men who looked so alike they had to be her father and brother.

The third phone was in the kitchen. He looked at the fridge door and grinned; they were both fans of the 49ers.

Six minutes and nine seconds later he was back in the corridor, down the stairs, and out of the front door.

Job completed in less than ten minutes. Fee $1,000. Not unlike a surgeon.

Anna was among the last to step onto the Greyhound bus that was due to leave Niagara Falls at three o’clock.

Two hours later, the bus came to a halt on the western shore of Lake Ontario. Anna was first down the steps, and without stopping to admire the Mies van der Rohe buildings that dominate the Toronto skyline, she hailed the first available cab.

“The airport, please, and as fast as possible.”

“Which terminal?” asked the driver.

Anna hesitated. “Europe.”

“Terminal three,” he said, as he moved off, adding, “Where you from?”