Jeffrey Archer - False Impression

Anna was wondering if he liked fat women when his head fell onto her shoulder. As she was the cause of his not getting much sleep the previous night, Anna felt she was hardly in a position to complain. She pushed his head gently back up, not wishing to wake him. She began making a list of things she needed to do once she was back in New York, when Jack slumped back down onto her shoulder. Anna gave in and tried to sleep with his head there. She had once read that the head is one-seventh of your body weight. She no longer needed to be convinced.

She woke about an hour before they were due to land to find Jack was still asleep, but his arm was now draped around her shoulder. She sat up sleepily and accepted a cup of tea from the stewardess.

Jack leaned across. “So how was it for you?” he asked, grinning.

“I’ve had worse,” she replied, “and some of them were awake.”

“So what’s the first thing you’re going to do now that you’ve miraculously risen from the dead?” he asked.

“Call my family and friends and let them know just how alive I am, and then find out if anyone wants to employ me. And you?”

“I’ll have to check in with my boss and let him know I’m no nearer to nailing Fenston, which will be greeted with one of his two favorite maxims: ‘Raise your game, Jack,’ or ‘Step it up a notch.’ ”

“That’s hardly fair,” said Anna, “now that Krantz is safely behind bars.”

“No thanks to me,” said Jack. “And then I’ll have to face up to an even fiercer wrath than the boss’s, when I try to explain to my mother why I didn’t call her from London and apologize for not turning up for her Irish stew night. No, my only hope of redemption is to discover what NYRC stands for.” Jack put a hand in his top pocket. “After I’d checked out of the Wentworth Arms, I traveled on to the embassy with Tom, and thanks to modern technology, he was able to produce an exact copy of the key, even though the original is still in Romania.” He pulled the facsimile out of his top pocket and handed it across to Anna.

Anna turned the small brass key over in her hands. “NYRC 13. Got any ideas?” she asked.

“Only the obvious ones,” said Jack.

“New York Racing Club, New York Rowing Club, anything else?”

“New York Racquet Club, but if you come up with any others, let me know, because I intend to spend the rest of the weekend trying to find out if it’s any of those. I need to come up with something positive before I face the boss on Monday.”

“Perhaps you could slow down enough on your morning run to let me know if you’ve cracked it.”

“I was rather hoping to tell you over dinner tonight,” said Jack.

“I can’t. I’m sorry, Jack, much as I’d love to, I’m having dinner with Tina.”

“Are you?” said Jack. “Well, just be careful.”

“Six o’clock tomorrow morning suit you?” asked Anna, ignoring the comment.

“That means I’ll have to set my alarm for six thirty if we’re going to meet up about halfway around.”

“I’ll be out of my shower by then.”

“I’ll be sorry to miss that.”

“By the way,” said Anna, “can you do me a favor?”

Leapman strode into the chairman’s office without knocking.

“Have you seen this?” he asked, placing a copy of The New York Times on the desk and jabbing a finger at an article from the international section.

Fenston studied the headline: ROMANIAN POLICE ARREST ASSASSIN. He read the short article twice before speaking.

“Find out how much the chief of police wants.”

“It may not prove to be that easy,” suggested Leapman.

“It’s always that easy,” said Fenston, looking up. “Only agreeing on a price will prove difficult.”

Leapman frowned. “And there’s another matter you should consider.”

“And what’s that?” asked Fenston.

“The Van Gogh. You ought to have the painting insured, after what happened to the Monet.”

“I never insure my paintings. I don’t need the IRS to find out how much my collection is worth, and in any case it’s never going to happen twice.”

“It already has,” said Leapman.

Fenston scowled and didn’t reply for some time.

“All right, but only the Van Gogh,” he eventually said. “Make it Lloyd’s of London, and be sure you keep the book value below twenty million.”

“Why such a low figure?” queried Leapman.

“Because the last thing I need is to have the Van Gogh with an asset value of a hundred million while I’m still hoping to get my hands on the rest of the Wentworth collection.”

Leapman nodded and turned to leave.

“By the way,” said Fenston, looking back down at the article. “Do you still have the second key?”

“Yes I do,” said Leapman. “Why?”

“Because when she escapes, you’ll need to make a further deposit.”

Leapman smiled. A rarity, which even Fenston noticed.

Krantz wet her bed, and then explained to the doctor about her weak bladder. He authorized periodic visits to the bathroom, but only when accompanied by at least two guards.

These regular little outings up and down the corridor gave Krantz an opportunity to study the layout of the floor: a reception desk at the far end of the landing manned by a single nurse; a drug clinic that could only be unlocked if a doctor was present; a linen closet; three other single rooms; one bathroom; and, at the other end of the corridor, a ward containing sixteen beds, opposite a fire escape.

But the outings also served another, more important purpose, and it certainly wasn’t anything the young doctor would have come across when reading his medical textbooks or carrying out his ward rounds.

Once they had locked Krantz into her cubicle, also windowless, she sat on the toilet seat, placed two fingers up her rectum, and slowly extracted a condom. She then washed the rubber container in the toilet water, undid the knot at the top, and pulled out a roll of tightly wrapped twenty-dollar bills. She extracted two from the roll, tucked them into her sling, and then carried out the whole process in reverse.

Krantz pulled the chain and was escorted back to her room. She spent the rest of the day sleeping. She needed to be wide awake during the night shift.

Jack sat in the back of the taxi, looking out of the window.

The gray cloak of 9/11 still hadn’t lifted from Manhattan, although New Yorkers rushing by no longer stared upward in disbelief. Terrorism was something else the most frenetic city on earth had already learned to take in its stride.

Jack sat back and thought about the favor he’d promised Anna. He dialed the number she’d given him. Sam picked up the phone. Jack told him that Anna was alive and well, and that she had been visiting her mother in Romania, and he could expect her back that evening. Nice to start the day making someone feel good, thought Jack, which wasn’t going to be the case with his second call. He phoned his boss to let him know that he was back in New York. Macy told him that Krantz had been taken to a local hospital in Bucharest to undergo an operation on her shoulder. She was being guarded round the clock by half a dozen cops.

“I’ll be happier when she’s locked up in jail,” said Jack.

“I’m told you speak with some experience on that subject,” said Macy.

Jack was about to respond when Macy added, “Why don’t you take the rest of the week off, Jack? You’ve earned it.”

“It’s Saturday,” Jack reminded his boss.

“So I’ll see you first thing Monday morning,” said Macy.

Jack decided to text Anna next: Told Sam U R on way home. Is he only other man in yr life? He waited a couple of minutes, but there was no reply. He called his mother.