Jeffrey Archer: False Impression

From high school, Anna won a scholarship to Williams University in Massachusetts to study art history. A local newspaper recorded that she also won the intervarsity mile against Cornell in a time of four minutes forty-eight seconds. Jack followed Anna’s progress to the University of Pennsylvania, where she continued her studies for a Ph.D., her chosen thesis subject the Fauve Movement. Jack had to look up the word in Webster’s . It referred to a group of artists led by Matisse, Derain, and Vlaminck who wished to break away from the influence of Impressionism and move toward the use of bright and dissonant color. He also learned how the young Picasso had left Spain to join the group in Paris, where he shocked the public with paintings that Paris Match described as “of no lasting importance”; “sanity will return,” they assured their readers. It only made Jack want to read more about Vuillard, Luce, and Camois — artists he’d never heard of. But that would have to wait for an off-duty moment, unless it became evidence that would nail Fenston.

After Penn, Dr. Petrescu joined Sotheby’s as a graduate trainee. Here Jack’s information became somewhat sketchy, as he could allow his agents only limited contact with Anna’s former colleagues. However, he did learn of her photographic memory, her rigorous scholarship, and the fact that she was liked by everyone from the porters to the chairman. But no one would discuss in detail what “under a cloud” meant, although he did discover that she would not be welcome back at Sotheby’s under the present management. And Jack couldn’t fathom out why, despite her dismissal, she considered joining Fenston Finance. For that part of his inquiry, he had to rely on speculation, because he couldn’t risk approaching anyone she worked with at the bank, although it was clear that Tina Forster, the chairman’s secretary, had become a close friend.

In the short time Anna had worked at Fenston Finance, she had visited several new clients who had recently taken out large loans, all of whom were in possession of major art collections. Jack feared that it could only be a matter of time before one of them suffered the same fate as Fenston’s three previous victims.

Jack ran onto West Eighty-sixth Street. Three questions still needed answering. One, how long had Fenston known Petrescu before she joined the bank? Two, had they, or their families, known each other in Romania? And three, was she the hired assassin?

Fenston scrawled his signature across the breakfast bill, rose from his place, and, without waiting for Leapman to finish his coffee, marched out of the restaurant. He stepped into an open elevator, but waited for Leapman to press the button for the eighty-third floor. A group of Japanese men in dark blue suits and plain silk ties joined them, having also had breakfast at Windows on the World. Fenston never discussed business matters while in an elevator, well aware that several of his rivals occupied the floors above and below him.

When the elevator opened on the eighty-third floor, Leapman followed his master out, but then turned the other way and headed straight for Petrescu’s office. He opened her door without knocking to find Anna’s assistant, Rebecca, preparing the files Anna would need for her meeting with the chairman. Leapman barked out a set of instructions that didn’t invite questions. Rebecca immediately placed the files on Anna’s desk and went in search of a large cardboard box.

Leapman walked back down the corridor and joined the chairman in his office. They began to go over tactics for their showdown with Petrescu. Although they had been through the same procedure three times in the past eight years, Leapman warned the chairman that it could be different this time.

“What do you mean?” demanded Fenston.

“I don’t think Petrescu will leave without putting up a fight,” he said. “After all, she isn’t going to find it easy to get another job.”

“She certainly won’t if I have anything to do with it,” said Fenston, rubbing his hands.

“But perhaps in the circumstances, Chairman, it might be wise if I—”

A knock on the door interrupted their exchange. Fenston looked up to see Barry Steadman, the bank’s head of security, standing in the doorway.

“Sorry to bother you, Chairman, but there’s a FedEx courier out here, says he has a package for you and no one else can sign for it.”

Fenston waved the courier in and, without a word, penned his signature in the little oblong box opposite his name. Leapman looked on, but neither of them spoke until the courier had departed and Barry had closed the door behind him.

“Is that what I think it is?” asked Leapman quietly.

“We’re about to find out,” said Fenston, as he ripped open the package and emptied its contents onto the desk.

They both stared down at Victoria Wentworth’s left ear.

“See that Krantz is paid the other half million,” said Fenston. Leapman nodded. “And she’s even sent a bonus,” Fenston, staring down at the antique diamond earring.

Anna finished packing just after seven. She left her suitcase in the hall, intending to return and pick it up on the way to the airport straight after work. Her flight to London was scheduled for 5:40 P.M. that afternoon, touching down at Heathrow just before sunrise the following day. Anna much preferred taking the overnight flight, when she could sleep and still have enough time to prepare herself before joining Victoria for lunch at Wentworth Hall. She only hoped that Victoria had read her report and would agree that selling the Van Gogh privately was a simple solution to all her problems.

Anna left her apartment building for the second time that morning just after 7:20 A.M. She hailed a taxi — an extravagance, but one she justified by wanting to look her best for her meeting with the chairman. She sat in the back of the cab and checked her appearance in her compact mirror. Her recently acquired Anand Jon suit and white silk blouse would surely make heads turn. Although some might be puzzled by her black sneakers.

The cab took a right on FDR Drive and speeded up a little as Anna checked her cell phone. There were three messages, all of which she would deal with after the meeting: one from her secretary, Rebecca, needing to speak to her urgently, which was surprising given they were going to see each other in a few minutes’ time; confirmation of her flight from BA; and an invitation to dinner with Robert Brooks, the new chairman of Bonhams.

Her cab drew up outside the entrance to the North Tower twenty minutes later. She paid the driver and jumped out to join a sea of workers as they filed toward the entrance and through the bank of turnstiles. She took the shuttle express elevator and less than a minute later stepped out onto the dark green carpet of the executive floor. Anna had once overheard in the elevator that each floor was an acre in size, and some fifty thousand people worked in a building that never closed — more than double the population of her adopted hometown of Danville, Illinois.

Anna went straight to her office and was surprised to find that Rebecca wasn’t waiting for her, especially as she knew how important her eight o’-clock meeting was. But she was relieved to see that all the relevant files had been piled neatly on her desk. She double-checked that they were in the order she had requested. Anna still had a few minutes to spare, so she once again turned to the Wentworth file and began reading her report. “The value of the Wentworth Estate falls into several categories. My department’s only interest is in...”

Tina Forster didn’t rise until just after seven. Her appointment with the dentist wasn’t until eight thirty, and Fenston had made it clear that she needn’t be on time this morning. That usually meant he had an out-of-town appointment or was going to fire someone. If it was the latter, he wouldn’t want her hanging around the office, sympathizing with the person who had just lost their job. Tina knew that it couldn’t be Leapman, because Fenston wouldn’t be able to survive without the man; and although she would have liked it to be Barry Steadman, she could dream on, because he never missed an opportunity to praise the chairman, who absorbed flattery like a beached sea sponge waiting for the next wave.