Jeffrey Archer - False Impression

“But what if you’re caught?”

“Then I’ll have done something worthwhile for a change. Do you think it’s fun being a taxi driver when you’ve commanded a regiment? Do not concern yourself, dear lady. One or two of my boys work in the customs shed, and if the price is right, they won’t ask too many questions.”

Anna flicked open her briefcase, took out the envelope Anton had given her and passed Sergei five twenty-dollar bills.

“No, no, dear lady,” he said, throwing his hands in the air. “We are not trying to bribe the chief of police, just a couple of local boys,” he added, taking one of the twenty-dollar notes. “And in any case, I may be in need of their services again at some time in the future, so we don’t want expectations to exceed their usefulness.”

Anna laughed. “And when you sign the manifest, Sergei, be sure your signature is illegible.”

He looked at her closely. “I understand, but then I do not understand,” he said, pausing. “You stay here and keep out of sight. All I’ll need is your plane ticket.”

Anna opened her bag again, placed the eighty dollars back in the envelope, and handed over her ticket to London.

Sergei climbed into the driver’s seat, turned on the engine, and waved good-bye.

Anna watched as the car disappeared around the corner with the painting, her luggage, her ticket to London, and twenty dollars. All she had as security was a cheese and tomato roll and a thermos of cold coffee.

Fenston picked up the receiver on the tenth ring.

“I’ve just landed in Bucharest,” she said. “The red crate you’ve been looking for was loaded onto a flight to London, which will be landing at Heathrow around four this afternoon.”

“And the girl?”

“I don’t know what her plans are, but when I do—”

“Just be sure to leave the body in Bucharest.”

The phone went dead.

Krantz walked out of the airport, placed the recently acquired cell phone under the front wheel of an articulated truck, and waited for it to move off before she slipped back into the terminal.

She checked the departures board, but this time she didn’t assume Petrescu would be traveling to London; after all, there was also a flight to New York that morning. If Petrescu was booked on that one, she’d have to kill her at the airport. It wouldn’t be the first time — at this particular airport.

Krantz tucked herself in behind a large drinks machine and waited. She made sure she had an unimpeded view of any taxis dropping off their customers. She was only interested in one taxi and one customer. Petrescu wouldn’t fool her a second time, because on this occasion, she intended to take out some insurance.

After thirty minutes, Anna began to feel anxious. After forty minutes, worried. After fifty, close to panic. An hour after he’d left, Anna even wondered if Sergei worked for Fenston. A few minutes later, an old yellow Mercedes, driven by an even older man, came trundling around the bend.

Sergei smiled. “You look relieved,” he said, as he opened the front door for her and handed back her ticket.

“No, no,” said Anna, feeling guilty.

Sergei smiled. “The package is booked for London, and it’s on the same flight as you,” he said, once he’d climbed back behind the wheel.

“Good,” said Anna. “Then perhaps it’s time for me to be on my way as well.”

“Agreed,” said Sergei, turning the key in the ignition. “But you’ll have to be careful, because the American is already there waiting for you.”

“He’s not interested in me,” said Anna, “only the package.”

“But he saw me take it into the cargo depot, and for another twenty dollars he’ll know exactly where it’s going.”

“I don’t care any longer,” said Anna without explanation.

Sergei looked puzzled but didn’t question her as he eased the Mercedes back onto the highway and continued to follow the signs for the airport.

“I owe you so much,” said Anna.

“Four dollars,” said Sergei, “plus gourmet meal. I’ll settle for five.”

Anna opened her bag, took out Anton’s envelope, removed all but five hundred dollars, and resealed it. When Sergei came to a halt at the taxi rank outside the main terminal, Anna passed him the envelope.

“Five dollars,” she said.

“Thank you, ma’am,” he replied.

“Anna,” she said, and kissed him on the cheek. She didn’t look back, otherwise she would have seen an old soldier crying.

Should he have told her that Colonel Sergei Slatinaru was standing by her father’s side when he was executed?

When Tina stepped out of the elevator, she spotted Leapman leaving her office. She slipped into the washroom, her heart beating frantically as she considered the consequences. Did he now know that she could overhear every phone conversation Fenston had, while at the same time being able to watch everything that was going on in the chairman’s office? But worse, had he found out that she had been e-mailing confidential documents to herself for the past year? Tina tried to remain calm as she stepped back into the corridor and walked slowly toward her office. One thing she was certain about, there would be no clue that Leapman had even entered the room.

She sat at her desk and flicked on the screen. She felt ill. Leapman was in the chairman’s office, talking to Fenston. The chairman was listening intently.

Jack watched as Anna kissed the driver on the cheek and couldn’t forget that this was the same man who had extracted twenty dollars from him — a sum that wouldn’t be appearing on his expense sheet. He thought about the fact that the two of them had stayed awake all night while she had slept. If he’d dozed off, even for a moment, Jack feared that Crew Cut would have moved in and stolen the crate, although he hadn’t spotted her since she boarded the plane for London. He wondered where she was now. Not far away, he suspected. As each hour had passed, Jack became more aware that he wasn’t just dealing with a taxi driver, but someone willing to risk his life for the girl, perhaps without even knowing the significance of what was in that crate. There had to be a reason.

Jack knew it would be a waste of time to try and bribe the taxi driver, as he had already discovered to his own cost, but the cargo manager had beckoned him into his private office and even printed out the relevant page of the manifest. The crate was booked on the next flight to London. Already loaded on board, he assured him. Not a bad investment for fifty dollars, even if he couldn’t read the signature. But would she be on the same flight? Jack remained puzzled. If the Van Gogh was in the red box on its way back to London, what was in the box that Petrescu had taken to Japan and delivered to Nakamura’s office? He had no choice but to wait and see if she boarded the same plane.

Sergei watched as Anna walked toward the airport entrance, pulling her suitcase. He would call Anton later, to let him know he had delivered her safely. Anna turned to wave, so he didn’t notice a customer climb into the back of the car, until he heard the door close. He glanced up at his rearview mirror.

“Where to, madam?” he asked.

“The old airport,” she said.

“I didn’t realize it was still in service,” he ventured, but she didn’t reply. Some customers don’t.

When they reached the second traffic island, Sergei took the next exit. He checked once again in the mirror. There was something familiar about her — had she been in the back of his cab before? At the crossroads, Sergei turned left onto the old airport road. It was deserted. He’d been right, nothing had flown out of there since Ceauşescu had attempted to escape in November 1989. He glanced up at the mirror again, while trying to maintain a steady speed, and suddenly it all came back to him. He now remembered exactly where he’d last seen her. The hair had been longer, and blonde, and although it was over a decade ago, those eyes hadn’t changed — eyes that registered nothing when she killed, eyes that bore into you when you died.