Jeffrey Archer - False Impression

“Or even Romanian?” suggested Tom.

“Oh, God, I’m so dumb,” said Jack.

“Bright enough to get two photos. No one else has managed that, and they may turn out to be the biggest break we’ve had in this case.”

“I’d be only too happy to bask in a little glory,” admitted Jack, “but the truth is that both of them are well aware of my existence.”

“Then I’d better find out who she is pretty fast. I’ll be back in touch as soon as the boys in the basement come up with anything.”

Tina turned on the switch under her desk. The little screen on the corner came on. Fenston was on the phone. She flicked up the switch to his private line and listened.

“You were right,” said a voice, “she’s in Japan.”

“Then she probably has an appointment with Nakamura. All his details are in your file. Don’t forget that getting the painting is more important than removing Petrescu.”

Fenston put the phone down.

Tina was confident that the voice fitted the woman she had seen in the chairman’s car. She must warn Anna.

Leapman walked into the room.

Anna stepped out of the shower, grabbed a towel, and began drying her hair. She glanced across at the digital clock in the corner of the TV screen. It was just after twelve, the hour when most Japanese businessmen go to their club for lunch. Not the time to disturb Mr. Nakamura.

Once she was dry, Anna put on the white toweling bathrobe that hung behind the bathroom door. She sat on the end of the bed and opened her laptop. She tapped in her password, MIDAS, which accessed a file on the richest art collectors around the globe: Gates, Cohen, Lauder, Magnier, Nakamura, Rales, Wynn. She moved the cursor across to his name. Takashi Nakamura, industrialist. Tokyo University 1966-70, B.Sc. in engineering. UCLA 1971-73, M.A. Economics. Joined Maruha Steel Company 1974, Director 1989, Chief Executive Officer 1997, Chairman 2001 . Anna scrolled down to Maruha Steel. Last year’s annual balance sheet showed a turnover of nearly three billion dollars, with profits of over four hundred million. Mr. Nakamura owned 22 percent of the company and, according to Forbes , was the ninth richest man in the world. Married with three children, two girls and a boy. Under other interests, only two words appeared: golf and art . No details of his fabled high handicap or his valuable Impressionist collection, thought to be among the finest in private hands.

Nakamura had made several statements over the years, saying that the pictures belonged to the company. Although Christie’s never made such matters public, it was well known by those in the art world that Nakamura had been the underbidder for Van Gogh’s Sunflowers in 1987, when he was beaten by his old friend and rival Yasuo Goto, chairman of Yasuda Fire and Marine Insurance Company, whose hammer bid was $39,921,750.

Anna hadn’t been able to add a great deal to Mr. Nakamura’s profile since leaving Sotheby’s. The Degas she had purchased on his behalf, Dancing Class with Mme. Minette , had proved a wise investment, which Anna hoped he would remember. She wasn’t in any doubt that she had chosen the right man to help pull off her coup.

She unpacked her suitcase and selected a smart blue suit with a skirt that fell just below the knees, a cream shirt, and low-heeled navy leather shoes; no makeup, no jewelry. While she pressed her clothes, Anna thought about a man she had met only once, and wondered if she had made any lasting impression on him. When she was dressed, Anna checked herself in the mirror. Exactly what a Japanese businessman would expect a Sotheby’s executive to wear.

Anna looked up his private number on her laptop. She sat on the end of the bed, picked up the phone, took a deep breath, and dialled the eight digits.

“Hai, Shacho-Shitso desu,” announced a high-pitched voice.

“Good afternoon, my name is Anna Petrescu. Mr. Nakamura may remember me from Sotheby’s.”

“Are you hoping to be interviewed?”

“Er, no, I simply want to speak to Mr. Nakamura.”

“One moment please, I will see if he is free to take your call.”

How could she possibly expect him to remember her after only one meeting?

“Dr. Petrescu, how nice to hear from you again. I hope you are well?”

“I am, thank you, Nakamura-san.”

“Are you in Tokyo? Because if I am not mistaken it is after midnight in New York.”

“Yes, I am, and I wondered if you would be kind enough to see me.”

“You weren’t on the interview list, but you are now. I have half an hour free at four o’clock this afternoon. Would that suit you?”

“Yes, that would be just fine,” said Anna.

“Do you know where my office is?”

“I have the address.”

“Where are you staying?”

“The Seiyo.”

“Not the usual haunt for Sotheby’s, who, if I remember correctly, prefer the Imperial.” Anna’s mouth went dry. “My office is about twenty minutes from the hotel. I look forward to seeing you at four o’clock. Good-bye, Dr. Petrescu.”

Anna replaced the receiver and for some time didn’t budge from the end of the bed. She tried to recall his exact words. What had his secretary meant when she asked, “Are you hoping to be interviewed,” and why did Mr. Nakamura say, “You weren’t on the interview list, but you are now?” Was he expecting her call?

Jack leant forward to take a closer look. Two bellboys were coming out of the hotel carrying the same wooden crate that Anna had exchanged with Anton Teodorescu on the steps of the academy in Bucharest. One of them spoke to the driver of the front taxi, who jumped out and carefully placed the wooden crate in the trunk. Jack rose slowly from his chair and walked across to the window, making sure he remained out of sight. He waited in anticipation, realizing it could well be another false alarm. He checked the taxi rank: four cars waiting in line. He glanced toward the entrance of the health club and calculated he could reach the second taxi in about twenty seconds.

He looked back at the hotel’s sliding doors, wondering if Petrescu was about to appear. But the next person who caused the doors to slide open was Crew Cut, who slipped past the doorman and out onto the main road. Jack knew she wouldn’t take one of the hotel taxis and risk being remembered — a chance Jack would have to take.

Jack switched his attention back to the hotel entrance, aware that Crew Cut would now be sitting in a taxi well out of sight, waiting for both of them.

Seconds later, Petrescu appeared, dressed as if she was about to attend a board meeting. The doorman escorted her to the front taxi and opened the back door for her. The driver eased out onto the road and joined the afternoon traffic.

Jack was seated in the back of the second taxi before the doorman had a chance to open the door for him.

“Follow that cab,” said Jack, pointing ahead of him, “and if you don’t lose it, you can double the fare.” The driver shot off. “But,” continued Jack, “don’t make it too obvious,” well aware that Crew Cut would be in one of the numerous green vehicles ahead of them.

Petrescu’s taxi turned left at Ginza and headed north, away from the fashionable shopping area, toward the city’s prestigious business district of Marunouchi. Jack wondered if this could be the appointment with a potential buyer, and found himself sitting on the edge of his seat in anticipation.

Petrescu’s green taxi turned left at the next set of lights and Jack repeated firmly, “Don’t lose her.” The driver switched lanes, moved to within three cars’ length of her car and stuck like a limpet. Both cabs came to a halt at the next red light. Petrescu’s taxi was indicating right and, when the lights turned green, several other cars followed in her wake. Jack knew Crew Cut would be in one of them. As they swung onto the three-lane highway, Jack could see a string of overhead lights awaiting them, all of them on green. He swore under his breath. He preferred red lights; stopping and starting was always better when you needed to remain in contact with a mark.