Jeffrey Archer - False Impression

“That’s it,” said Ruth, when the two loaders reappeared on the edge of the hold, carrying a red crate. The customs official nodded. A forklift truck moved forward, expertly extracted the crate from the hold and lowered it slowly to the ground. The customs man checked the manifest, followed by the logo and even the stenciled forty-sevens.

“Everything seems to be in order, Ms. Parish. If you’ll just sign here.”

Ruth signed the form but couldn’t make out the signature on the original manifest. The customs officer’s eyes never left the forklift truck as the package was driven across to the Art Locations van, where two of Ruth’s carriers loaded the crate on board.

“I’ll still have to accompany you to the outgoing aircraft, Ms. Parish, so I can confirm that the package has been loaded for its onward destination. Not until then can I sign a clearance certificate.”

“Of course,” said Ruth, who carried out the same procedure two or three times a day.

Anna had reached the baggage area by the time the security van began its circuitous journey from terminal three to terminal four. When the driver came to a halt, he parked beside a United Airlines plane bound for New York.

The security van waited on the tarmac for over an hour before the cargo hold was opened, by which time Ruth knew the life history of the customs official, even which school he intended to send his third child to if he was promoted. Ruth then watched the process in reverse. The back door of the security van was unlocked, the painting placed on a forklift truck, driven to the side of the hold, raised, and accepted on board by two handlers before it disappeared into the bowels of the aircraft.

The customs official signed all three copies of the dispatch documents and bade farewell to Ruth before returning to his office. In normal circumstances, Ruth would also have gone back to her office, filed the relevant forms, checked her messages, and then left for the day. However, these were not normal circumstances. She remained seated in her car and waited until all the passengers’ bags had been loaded on board and the cargo doors had been locked. Still she didn’t move, even after the aircraft began to taxi toward the north runway. She waited until the plane’s wheels had left the ground before she phoned Leapman in New York. Her message was simple: “The package is on its way.”

Jack was puzzled. He had watched Anna stroll into the arrivals hall, exchange some dollars at Travelex, and then join the long line for a taxi. Jack’s cab was already waiting on the other side of the road, two sets of luggage on board, engine running, as he waited for Anna’s cab to pass him.

“Where to, guv?” asked the driver.

“I’m not sure,” admitted Jack, “but my first bet would be cargo.”

Jack assumed that Anna would drive straight to the cargo depot and retrieve the package the taxi driver had dispatched from Bucharest.

But Jack was wrong. Instead of turning right, when the large blue sign indicating cargo loomed up in front of them, Anna’s taxi swung left and continued to drive west down the M25.

“She’s not going to cargo, guv, so what’s your next bet — Gatwick?”

“So what’s in the crate?” asked Jack.

“I’ve no idea, sir.”

“I’m so stupid,” Jack said.

“I wouldn’t want to venture an opinion on that, sir, but it would help if I knew where we was goin’.”

Jack laughed. “I think you’ll find it’s Wentworth.”

“Right, guv.”

Jack tried to relax, but every time he glanced out of the rear window he could have sworn that another black cab was following them. A shadowy figure was seated in the back. Why was she still pursuing Anna, when the painting must have been deposited in cargo?

When his driver turned off the M25 and took the road to Wentworth, the taxi Jack had imagined was following them continued on in the direction of Gatwick.

“You’re not stupid, after all, guv, because it looks as if it could be Wentworth.”

“No, but I am paranoid,” admitted Jack.

“Make up your mind, sir,” the driver said, as Anna’s taxi swung through the gates of Wentworth Hall and disappeared up the drive.

“Do you want me to keep followin’ her, guv?”

“No,” said Jack. “But I’ll need a local hotel for the night. Do you know one by any chance?”

“When the golf tournament is on, I drop a lot of my customers off at the Wentworth Arms. They ought to be able to fix you up with a room at this time of year.”

“Then let’s find out,” said Jack.

“Right you are, guv.”

Jack sat back and dialed a number on his cell phone.

“American Embassy.”

“Tom Crasanti, please.”

When Krantz came round following the operation, the first thing she felt was a stabbing pain in her right shoulder. She managed to raise her head a couple of inches off the pillow as she tried to focus on the small, white-walled, unadorned room: just the bare necessities — a bed, a table, a chair, one sheet, one blanket, and a bedpan. It could only be a hospital, but not of the private variety, because the room had no windows, no flowers, no fruit, no cards from well-wishers, and an exit that had bars clamped across the door.

Krantz tried to piece together what had happened to her. She could remember spotting the taxi driver’s gun pointing at her heart, and that was where the memory faded. She’d had just enough time to turn — an inch, no more — before the bullet ripped into her shoulder. No one had been that close before. The next bullet missed completely, but by then he’d given her another second, easily enough time to cut his throat. He had to be a pro, an ex-policeman, perhaps, possibly a soldier. But then she must have passed out.

Jack checked himself into the Wentworth Arms for the night and booked a table for dinner at eight. After a shower and a change of clothes, he looked forward to devouring a large, juicy steak.

Even though Anna was safely ensconced at Wentworth Hall, he didn’t feel he could relax while Crew Cut might well be hovering somewhere nearby. He had already asked Tom to brief the local police, while he continued to carry out his own surveillance.

He sat in the lounge enjoying a Guinness and thinking about Anna. Long before the hall clock struck eight, Tom walked in, looked around, and spotted his old friend by the fire. Jack rose to greet him, and apologized for having to drag him down to Wentworth when he could have been spending the evening with Chloe and Hank.

“As long as this establishment can produce a decent Tom Collins, you’ll not hear me complain,” Tom assured him.

Tom was explaining to Jack how Hank had scored a half century — whatever that was — when they were joined by the head waiter, who took their orders for dinner. They both chose steaks, but as a Texan, Tom admitted he hadn’t got used to the English version that was served up looking like a lamb chop.

“I’ll call you through,” said the head waiter, “as soon as your table is ready.”

“Thank you,” said Jack, as Tom bent down to open his briefcase. He extracted a thick file and placed it on the table between them. Small talk had never been his forte.

“Let’s begin with the important news,” said Tom, opening the file. “We’ve identified the woman in the photograph you sent through from Tokyo.” Jack put his drink down and concentrated on the contents of the file. “Her name is Olga Krantz, and she has something in common with Dr. Petrescu.”

“And what’s that?” asked Jack.

“The agency was also under the illusion that she was missing, presumed dead. As you can see from Krantz’s profile,” Tom added, pushing a sheet of paper across the table, “we lost contact with her in nineteen eighty-nine, when she ceased being a member of Ceauşescu’s personal bodyguard. But we’re now convinced that she works exclusively for Fenston.”