Jeffrey Archer - False Impression

“Call me the moment you land,” was the chairman’s response.

Tina flicked off the extension to the chairman’s phone.

Leapman had been dropping into her office more and more recently — always without knocking. He made no secret of the fact that he believed Anna was still alive and in touch with her.

The chairman’s jet had taken off from JFK on time that morning, and Tina had listened in on his conversation with Leapman. She realized that Anna only had a few hours’ start on him, and that was assuming she was even in London.

Tina thought about Leapman returning to New York the following day, that sickly grin plastered on his face as he handed over the Van Gogh to the chairman. Tina continued to download the latest contracts, having earlier e-mailed them to her private address — something she only did when Leapman was out of the office and Fenston was fully occupied.

The first available flight to London Gatwick that morning was due out of Schiphol at ten o’clock. Anna purchased a ticket from British Airways, who warned her that the flight was running twenty minutes late as the incoming plane had not yet landed. She took advantage of the delay to have a shower and change her clothes. Schiphol was accustomed to overnight travelers. Anna selected the most conservative outfit from her small wardrobe for her meeting with Victoria.

As she sat in Caffè Nero sipping coffee, Anna turned the pages of the Herald Tribune: 50-MILLION-DOLLAR-REWARD, read a headline on the second page — less of a bounty than the Van Gogh would fetch at any auction house. Anna didn’t waste any time reading the article as she needed to concentrate on her priorities once she came face-to-face with Victoria.

First she had to find out where the Van Gogh was. If Ruth Parish had the picture in storage, then she would advise Victoria to call Ruth and insist that it be returned to Wentworth Hall without delay, and add that she’d be quite happy to advise Ruth that Fenston Finance couldn’t hold onto the painting against Victoria’s wishes, especially if the only contract in existence were to disappear. She had a feeling Victoria would not agree to that, but if she did, Anna would get in touch with Mr. Nakamura in Tokyo and try to find out if — “British Airways flight eight-one-one-two to London Gatwick is now ready for boarding at Gate D-fourteen,” announced a voice over the public-address system.

As they crossed the English Channel, Anna went over her plan again and again, trying to find some fault with her logic, but she could think of only two people who would consider it anything other than common sense. The plane touched down at Gatwick thirty-five minutes late.

Anna checked her watch as she stepped onto English soil, aware that it would only be another nine hours before Leapman landed at Heathrow. Once she was through passport control and had retrieved her baggage, Anna went in search of a rental car. She avoided the Happy Hire Company desk and stood in line at the Avis counter.

Anna didn’t see the smartly dressed young man who was standing in the duty-free shop whispering into a cell phone, “She’s landed. I’m on her tail.”

Leapman settled back in the wide leather chair, far more comfortable than anything in his apartment on Forty-third Street. The stewardess served him a black coffee in a gold-rimmed china cup on a silver tray. He leaned back and thought about the task ahead of him. He knew he was nothing more than a bagman, even if the bag today contained one of the most valuable paintings on earth. He despised Fenston, who never treated him as an equal. If Fenston just once acknowledged his contribution to the company’s success and responded to his ideas as if he was a respected colleague rather than a paid lackey — not that he was paid that much... If he just occasionally said thank you — it would be enough. True, Fenston had picked him up out of the gutter but only to drop him into another.

He had served Fenston for a decade and watched as the unsophisticated immigrant from Bucharest climbed up the ladder of wealth and status — a ladder he had held in place, while remaining nothing more than a sidekick. But that could change overnight. She only needed to make one mistake, and their roles would be reversed. Fenston would end up in prison, and he would have a fortune at his disposal that no one could ever trace.

“Would you care for some more coffee, Mr. Leapman?” asked the stewardess.

Anna didn’t need a map to find her way to Wentworth Hall, although she did have to remember not to go the wrong way around the numerous traffic islands en route.

Forty minutes later, she drove through the gates of Wentworth Hall. Anna had no special knowledge of the Baroque architecture that dominated the late seventeenth- and early eighteenth-century homes of aristocratic England before she stayed at Wentworth Hall. The pile — Victoria’s description of her home — had been built in 1697 by Sir John Vanbrugh. It was his first commission before he moved on to create Castle Howard and, later, Blenheim Palace, for another triumphant soldier — after which he became the most sought-after architect in Europe.

The long drive up to the house was shaded by fine oaks of the same vintage as the hall itself, although gaps were now visible where trees had succumbed to the violent storms of 1987. Anna drove by an ornate lake full of Magoi Koi carp — immigrants from Japan — and on past two tennis courts and a croquet lawn, sprinkled with the first leaves of autumn. As she rounded the bend, the great hall, surrounded by a thousand green English acres, loomed up to dominate the skyline.

Victoria had once told Anna that the house had sixty-seven rooms, fourteen of them guest bedrooms. The bedroom she had stayed in on the first floor, the Van Gogh room, was about the same size as her apartment in New York.

As she approached the hall, Anna noticed that the crested family flag on the east tower was fluttering at half-mast. As she brought the car to a halt, she wondered which of Victoria’s many elderly relatives had died.

The massive oak door was pulled open even before Anna reached the top step. She prayed that Victoria was at home, and that Fenston still had no idea she was in England.

“Good morning, madam,” the butler intoned. “How may I help you?”

It’s me, Andrews, Anna wanted to say, surprised by his formal tone. He had been so friendly when she stayed at the hall. She echoed his formal approach. “I need to speak to Lady Victoria, urgently.”

“I’m afraid that will not be possible,” replied Andrews, “but I will find out if her ladyship is free. Perhaps you would be kind enough to wait here while I inquire.”

What did he mean, that will not be possible, but I will find out if her ladyship ...

As Anna waited in the hall, she glanced up at Gainsborough’s portrait of Catherine, Lady Wentworth. She recalled every picture in the house, but her eye moved to her favorite at the top of the staircase, a Romney of Mrs. Siddons as Portia . She turned to face the entrance to the morning room, to be greeted with a painting by Stubbs of Actaeon, Winner of the Derby , Sir Harry Wentworth’s favorite horse — still safely in his paddock. If Victoria took her advice, at least she could still save the rest of the collection.

The butler returned at the same even pace.

“Her ladyship will see you now,” he said, “if you would care to join her in the drawing room.” He gave a slight bow before leading her across the hall.

Anna tried to concentrate on her six-point plan, but first she would need to explain why she was forty-eight hours late for their appointment, although surely Victoria would have followed the horrors of Tuesday and might even be surprised to find that she had survived.