Jeffrey Archer - False Impression

Anna looked up to see a tall man coming toward her. For a moment she couldn’t be sure that it was Anton. The advancing man was dressed in an army greatcoat too big for him, with a woolen scarf wrapped around his neck, topped off by a fur hat with flaps that covered his ears. An ideal outfit for a New York winter, was her immediate thought.

Anton took the seat opposite her and removed his hat, but nothing else. He knew that the only heater that worked was on the other side of the room.

“Do you have the painting?” asked Anna, unable to wait a moment longer to find out.

“Yes,” said Anton. “The canvas never left my studio the whole time you were away, as even the least observant of my students would have noticed it wasn’t my usual style,” he added, before sipping his red wine. “Though I confess I’ll be glad to be rid of the damn man. I went to jail for less, and I haven’t slept for the past four days. Even my wife suspects something is wrong.”

“I’m so sorry,” said Anna, as Anton began to roll a cigarette. “I shouldn’t have placed you in such danger, and what makes it worse is I have to ask you for another favor.” Anton looked apprehensive but waited to hear what her latest request would be. “You told me you kept eight thousand dollars of my mother’s money hidden in the house.”

“Yes, most Romanians stash the cash under their mattress, in case there’s a change of government in the middle of the night,” said Anton, as he lit his cigarette.

“I need to borrow some of it,” said Anna. “I’ll refund the money just as soon as I get back to New York.”

“It’s your money, Anna, you can have every last cent.”

“No, it’s my mother’s, but don’t let her know, or she’ll only assume I’m in some sort of financial trouble and start selling off the furniture.”

Anton didn’t laugh. “But you are in some sort of trouble, aren’t you?”

“Not as long as I have the painting.”

“Would you rather I held on to it for another day?” he asked, as he took a sip of wine.

“No, that’s kind of you,” said Anna, “but that would only mean that neither of us was able to get a night’s sleep. I think the time has come to take the canvas off your hands.”

Anna rose without another word, having not touched her wine.

Anton drained his glass, stubbed out his cigarette, and left a few coins on the table. He pulled his hat back on and followed Anna out of the bar. She couldn’t help remembering the last time they’d walked out of Koskies together.

Anna looked up and down the street before she joined Anton, who was whispering intently to Sergei.

“Will you have time to visit your mother?” asked Anton, as Sergei opened the back door for her.

“Not while someone is watching my every move.”

“I didn’t see anyone,” said Anton.

“You don’t see him,” said Anna. “You feel him.” She paused. “And I was under the illusion that I’d got rid of him.”

“You haven’t,” said Sergei, as they drove off.

No one spoke for the rest of the short journey to Anton’s home. Once Sergei had brought the car to a halt, Anna jumped out and followed Anton into the house. He led her quickly up the stairs to an attic on the top floor. Although Anna could hear the sound of Sibelius coming from a room below, it was clear that he didn’t want her to meet his wife.

Anna walked into a room crowded with canvases. Her eyes were immediately drawn to the painting of Van Gogh, his left ear bandaged. She smiled. The picture was in its familiar frame, safely back inside the open red box.

“Couldn’t be better,” said Anna. “Now all I have to do is make sure it ends up in the right hands.”

Anton didn’t comment, and when Anna turned round, she found him on his knees in the far corner of the room, lifting up a floorboard. He reached inside and extracted a thick envelope, which he slipped into an inside pocket. He then returned to the red box, replaced the lid, and began to hammer the nails back in place. It was only too clear that he wanted to be rid of the painting as quickly as possible. Once the final nail was secured, he lifted up the box and, without a word, led Anna out of the room and back down the stairs.

Anna opened the front door to allow Anton to step out onto the street. She was pleased to see Sergei waiting by the back of the car, the trunk already open. Anton placed the red box in the trunk and brushed his hands together, showing how happy he was to be free of the painting. Sergei slammed the lid closed and returned to his seat behind the wheel.

Anton extracted the thick envelope from his inside pocket and handed it over to Anna.

“Thank you,” she said, before passing across another envelope in exchange, but it was not addressed to Anton.

He looked at the name, smiled, and said, “I’ll see she gets it. Whatever it is you’re up to,” he added, “I hope it works out.”

He kissed her on both cheeks before disappearing back into the house.

“Where will you stay tonight?” asked Sergei, as Anna joined him in the front of the car.

Anna told him.

When Anna woke, Sergei was sitting on the hood of the car, smoking a cigarette. Anna stretched, blinked, and rubbed her eyes. It was the first time she’d slept in the backseat of a car — a definite improvement on the back of a van, somewhere on the way to the Canadian border, with no one to protect her.

She got out of the car and stretched her legs. The red box was still in place.

“Good morning,” said Sergei. “I hope you slept well?”

She laughed. “Better than you, it seems.”

“After twenty years in the army, sleep becomes a luxury,” said Sergei. “But please do join me for breakfast.” He returned to the car and retrieved a small tin box from under the driver’s seat. He removed the lid and revealed its contents: two bread rolls, a boiled egg, a hunk of cheese, a couple of tomatoes, an orange, and a thermos of coffee.

“Where did all of this come from?” asked Anna, as she peeled the orange.

“Last night’s supper,” explained Sergei, “prepared by my dear wife.”

“How will you explain why you didn’t go home?” Anna asked.

“I’ll tell her the truth,” said Sergei. “I spent the night with a beautiful woman.” Anna blushed. “But I fear I am too old for her to believe me,” he added. “So what do we do next? Rob a bank?”

“Only if you know one with fifty million dollars in loose change,” said Anna, laughing. “Otherwise I have to get that” — she pointed to the crate — “into the cargo hold on the next flight to London, so I’ll need to find out when the freight depot opens.”

“When the first person turns up,” said Sergei, as he removed the shell from the egg. “Usually around seven.” He added, before handing the egg across to Anna.

Anna took a bite. “Then I’d like to be there by seven, when they open,” she said, “so I can be sure the crate is definitely on board.” She looked at her watch. “So we’d better get moving.”

“I don’t think so.”

“What do you mean?” asked Anna, sounding anxious.

“When a woman like you has to spend the night in a car, not a hotel, there has to be a reason. I have a feeling that is the reason,” said Sergei, pointing to the crate. “So perhaps it would be unwise for you to be seen checking in a red box this morning.” Anna continued to stare at him, but didn’t speak. “Could there possibly be something inside the box that you don’t want the authorities to take an interest in?” He paused, but Anna still didn’t comment. “Just as I thought,” said Sergei. “You know, when I was a colonel in the army, and I needed something done that I didn’t want anyone else to know about, I always chose a corporal to carry out the task. That way, I found, no one took the slightest interest. I think today I will have to be your corporal.”