Jeffrey Archer - False Impression

“Boston,” Anna replied. She didn’t want to talk about New York.

“Terrible, what happened in New York,” he said. “One of those moments in history when everyone remembers exactly where they were. I was in the cab, heard it on the radio. How about you?”

“I was in the North Tower,” said Anna.

He knew a smart-ass when he saw one.

It took just over twenty-five minutes to drive the seventeen miles from Bay Street to Lester B. Pearson International Airport, and during that time the driver never uttered another word. When he finally pulled up outside the entrance to terminal three, Anna paid the fare and walked quickly into the airport. She stared up at the departure board as the digital clock flicked over to twenty-eight minutes past five.

The last flight to Heathrow had just closed its gates. Anna cursed. Her eyes scanned the list of cities for any remaining flights that evening: Tel Aviv, Bangkok, Hong Kong, Sydney, Amsterdam. Amsterdam . How appropriate, she thought. Flight KL692 departs 18:00 hours, gate C31, now boarding.

Anna ran to the KLM desk and asked the man behind the counter, even before he’d looked up, “Can I still get on your flight to Amsterdam?”

He stopped counting the tickets. “Yes, but you’ll have to hurry as they’re just about to close the gate.”

“Do you have a window seat available?”

“Window, aisle, center, anything you like.”

“Why’s that?”

“Not many people seem to want to fly today, and it’s not just because it’s the thirteenth.”

“JFK has reconfirmed our slot at seven twenty tomorrow morning,” said Leapman.

“Good,” said Fenston. “Phone me the moment the plane takes off. What time do you touch down at Heathrow?”

“Around seven,” replied Leapman. “Art Locations will be waiting on the runway to load the painting on board. Three times the usual fee seems to have concentrated their minds.”

“And when do you expect to be back?”

“In time for breakfast the following morning.”

“Any news on Petrescu?”

“No,” Leapman said. “Tina’s only had one call so far, a man.”

“Nothing from—”

Tina entered the room.

“She’s on her way to Amsterdam,” said Joe.

“Amsterdam?” repeated Jack, tapping his fingers on the desk.

“Yes, she missed the last flight to Heathrow.”

“Then she’ll be on the first flight into London tomorrow morning.”

“We already have an agent at Heathrow,” said Joe. “Do you want agents anywhere else?”

“Yes, Gatwick and Stansted,” said Jack.

“If you’re right, she’ll be in London only hours before Karl Leapman.”

“What do you mean?” asked Jack.

“Fenston’s private jet has a slot booked out of JFK at seven twenty tomorrow morning, and the only passenger is Leapman.”

“Then they probably plan to meet up,” said Jack. “Call Agent Crasanti at our London embassy and ask him to put extra agents at all three airports. I want to know exactly what those two are up to.”

“We won’t be on our own territory,” Joe reminded him. “If the British were to find out, not to mention the CIA—”

“At all three airports,” Jack repeated, before putting the phone down.

Moments after Anna stepped onto the plane, the door was locked into place. She was guided to her seat and asked to fasten her seat belt, as they were expecting to take off almost immediately. Anna was pleased to find the other seats in her row were unoccupied, and as soon as the seat-belt sign had been turned off, she pulled up the armrests in her row and lay down, covering herself with two blankets before resting her head on a real pillow. She had dozed off even before the plane had reached its cruising height.

Someone was gently touching her shoulder. Anna cursed under her breath. She’d forgotten to mention that she didn’t want a meal. Anna looked up at the stewardess and blinked sleepily. “No thank you,” she said firmly, and closed her eyes again.

“I’m sorry, but I have to ask you to sit up and fasten your seat belt,” said the stewardess politely. “We’re expecting to land in about twenty minutes. If you would like to alter your watch, the local time in Amsterdam is six fifty-five A.M.”

Leapman was awake long before the limousine was due to pick him up. This was not a day for oversleeping.

He climbed out of bed and headed straight for the bathroom. However closely he shaved, Leapman knew he would still have stubble on his chin long before he went to bed. He could grow a beard over a long weekend. Once he’d showered and shaved, he didn’t bother with making himself breakfast. He’d be served coffee and croissants later by the company stewardess on the bank’s private jet. Who in this run-down apartment building in such an unfashionable neighbourhood would believe that in a couple of hours Leapman would be the only passenger on a Gulfstream V on its way to London.

He walked across to his half-empty closet and selected his most recently acquired suit, his favorite shirt, and a tie that he would be wearing for the first time. He didn’t need the pilot to look smarter than he was.

Leapman stood by the window, waiting for the limousine to appear, aware that his little apartment was not much of an improvement on the prison cell where he’d spent four years. He looked down on Forty-third Street as the incongruous limousine drew up outside the front door.

Leapman climbed into the back of the car, not speaking to the driver as the door was opened for him. Like Fenston, he pushed the button in the armrest and watched as the smoke-gray window slid up, cutting him off from the driver. For the next twenty-four hours, he would live in a different world.

Forty-five minutes later the limousine turned off the Van Wyck Expressway and took the exit to JFK. The driver swept through an entrance that few passengers ever discover and drew up outside a small terminal building that served only those privileged enough to fly in their own aircraft. Leapman stepped out of the car and was escorted to a private lounge, where the captain of the company’s Gulfstream V jet was waiting for him.

“Any hope of taking off earlier than planned?” Leapman asked, as he sank into a comfortable leather armchair.

“No, sir,” the captain replied, “planes are taking off every forty-five seconds, and our slot is confirmed for seven twenty.”

Leapman grunted and turned his attention to the morning papers.

The New York Times was leading on the news that President Bush was offering a fifty-million-dollar reward for the capture of Osama bin Laden, which Leapman considered to be no more than the usual Texan approach to law and order over the past hundred years. The Wall Street Journal listed Fenston Finance off another twelve cents, a fate suffered by several companies whose headquarters had been based in the World Trade Center. Once he got his hands on the Van Gogh, the company could ride out a period of weak share prices while he concentrated on consolidating the bottom line. Leapman’s thoughts were interrupted by a member of the cabin crew.

“You can board now, sir. We’ll be taking off in around fifteen minutes.”

Another car drove Leapman to the steps of the aircraft, and the plane began to taxi even before he’d finished his orange juice, but he didn’t relax until the jet reached its cruising altitude of thirty thousand feet and the FASTEN SEAT BELT sign had been turned off. He leaned forward, picked up the phone, and dialed Fenston’s private line.

“I’m on my way,” he said, “and I can’t see any reason why I shouldn’t be back by this time tomorrow—” he paused “—with a Dutchman sitting in the seat next to me.”