Jeffrey Archer - False Impression

“Impressive,” said Jackson, the sound of the alarm still reverberating in his ears. “But there are still a couple of questions I will need answered,” he added. “How many people know the code?”

“Only two of us,” said Fenston, “my chief of staff and myself, and I change the sequence of numbers once a week.”

“And that window,” said Jackson, “is there any way of opening it?”

“No, it’s double-glazed bulletproof glass, and even if you could break it, you’d still be thirty-two stories above the ground.”

“And the alarm...”

“Connected directly to Abbott Security,” said Fenston. “They have an office in the building and guarantee to be on this floor within two minutes.”

“I’m impressed,” said Jackson. “What we in the business call triple-A, which usually means the premium can be kept down to one percent or, in real terms, around two hundred thousand dollars a year.” He smiled. “I only wish the Norwegians had your foresight, Mr. Fenston, and then perhaps we wouldn’t have had to pay out so much on The Scream .”

“But can you also guarantee discretion in these matters?” Fenston asked.

“Absolutely,” Jackson assured him. “We insure half the world’s treasures, and you wouldn’t find out who our clients are, were you to break into our headquarters in the City of London. Even their names are coded.”

“That’s reassuring,” said Fenston. “Then all that needs to be done is for you to complete the paperwork.”

“I can do that,” said Jackson, “just as soon as Mr. Savage confirms a value of twenty million for the painting.”

“That shouldn’t be too difficult,” said Fenston, turning his attention to Chris Savage, who was staring intently at the picture. “After all, he’s already assured us that the Wentworth Van Gogh is worth nearer one hundred million.”

“The Wentworth Van Gogh most certainly is,” said Savage, “but not this particular piece.” He paused before turning round to face Fenston. “The only part of this work of art that’s original is the frame.”

“What do you mean?” said Fenston, staring up at his favorite painting as if he’d been informed that his only child was illegitimate.

“I mean just that,” said Savage. “The frame is original, but the painting is a fake.”

“A fake?” repeated Fenston, hardly able to get the words out. “But it came from Wentworth Hall.”

“The frame may well have come from Wentworth Hall,” said Savage, “but I can assure you that the canvas did not.”

“How can you be so sure,” demanded Fenston, “when you haven’t even carried out any tests?”

“I don’t need to carry out any tests,” said Savage emphatically.

“Why not?” barked Fenston.

“Because the wrong ear is bandaged,” came back the immediate reply.

“No it’s not,” insisted Fenston, as he stared up at the painting. “Every schoolchild knows that Van Gogh cut off his left ear.”

“But not every schoolchild knows that he painted the self-portrait while looking in a mirror, which is why the right ear is bandaged.”

Fenston slumped down into the chair behind his desk, with his back to the painting. Savage strolled forward and began to study the picture even more closely. “What puzzles me,” he added, “is that although the painting is undoubtedly a fake, someone has put it into the original frame.” Fenston’s face burned with anger. “And I must confess,” continued Savage, “that whoever painted this particular version is a fine artist.” He paused. “However, I could only place a value of ten thousand on the work, and perhaps—” he hesitated “—a further ten thousand on the frame, which would make the suggested premium of two hundred thousand seem somewhat excessive.” Fenston still didn’t respond. “I am sorry to be the bearer of such bad news,” concluded Savage, as he walked away from the picture and came to a halt in front of Fenston. “I can only hope that you haven’t parted with a large sum, and, if you have, you know who is responsible for this elaborate deception.”

“Get me Leapman,” Fenston screamed at the top of his voice, causing Tina to come running into the room.

“He’s just arrived,” she said. “I’ll tell him you want to see him.”

Neither the man from Lloyd’s nor the Christie’s expert felt this was the moment to hang around, hoping to be offered a cup of coffee. They discreetly left, as Leapman came rushing in.

“It’s a fake,” shouted Fenston.

Leapman stared up at the picture for some time before offering an opinion. “Then we both know who’s responsible,” he eventually said.

“Petrescu,” said Fenston, spitting out the name.

“Not to mention her partner, who has been feeding Petrescu with information since the day you fired her.”

“You’re right,” said Fenston, and turning toward the open door he hollered “Tina” at the top of his voice. Once again, she came running into the room.

“You see that picture,” he said, unable even to turn around and look at the painting. Tina nodded, but didn’t speak. “I want you to put it back in its box, and then immediately dispatch it to Wentworth Hall, along with a demand for—”

“Thirty-two million, eight hundred and ninety-two thousand dollars,” said Leapman.

“And once you’ve done that,” said Fenston, “you can collect all your personal belongings and make sure you’re off the premises within ten minutes, because you’re fired, you little bitch.”

Tina began shaking as Fenston rose from behind his desk and stared down at her. “But before you leave, I have one last task for you.” Tina couldn’t move. “Tell your friend Petrescu that I still haven’t removed her name from the ‘missing, presumed dead’ list.”

Anna felt her lunch with Ken Wheatley could have gone better. The deputy chairman of Christie’s had made it clear that the unfortunate incident that had caused her to resign from Sotheby’s was not yet considered by her colleagues in the art world to be a thing of the past . And it didn’t help that Bryce Fenston was telling anyone who cared to listen that she had been fired for conduct unworthy of an officer of the bank. Wheatley admitted that no one much cared for Fenston. However, they felt unable to offend such a valuable customer, which meant that her reentry into the auction house arena wasn’t going to prove that easy.

Wheatley’s words only made Anna more determined to help Jack secure a conviction against Fenston, who didn’t seem to care whose life he ruined.

There wasn’t anything suitable at the moment for someone with her qualifications and experience, was how Ken had euphemistically put it, but he promised to keep in touch.

When Anna left the restaurant, she hailed a cab. Perhaps her second meeting would prove more worthwhile. “Twenty-six Federal Plaza,” she told the driver.

Jack was standing in the lobby of the New York field office waiting for Anna some time before she was due to arrive. He was not surprised to see her appear a couple of minutes early. Three guards watched Anna carefully as she descended the dozen steps that led to the entrance of 26 Federal Plaza. She gave her name to one of the guards, who requested proof of identity. She passed over her driver’s license, which he checked before ticking off her name on his clipboard.

Jack opened the door for her.

“Not my idea of a first date,” said Anna, as she stepped inside.

“Nor mine,” Jack tried to reassure her, “but my boss wanted you to be in no doubt how important he considers this meeting.”

“Why, is it my turn to be arrested?” asked Anna.

“No, but he is hoping that you will be willing to assist us.”