Jeffrey Archer - False Impression

“It most certainly is,” confirmed Arabella, “although our American cousins wouldn’t begin to understand its significance. And you were stumped by Lely.”

“Ah, Sir Peter, and what a fine-looking woman—” he paused “—a family trait,” he said, turning to face his host.

“And I can see, Mr. Nakamura, that your family trait is flattery,” teased Arabella.

Nakamura burst out laughing. “With the risk of being taken to task a second time, Lady Arabella, if every room is the equal of this, it may prove necessary for me to cancel my meeting with those dullards from Corus Steel.” Nakamura’s eyes continued to sweep the room, “Wheatley, Lawrence, West, and Wilkie,” he said, before his gaze ended up on the portrait propped up against the wall.

Nakamura offered no opinion for some time. “Quite magnificent,” he finally said. “The work of an inspired hand—” he paused “—but not the hand of Van Gogh.”

“How can you be so sure, Nakamura-san?” asked Anna.

“Because the wrong ear is bandaged,” replied Nakamura.

“But everyone knows that Van Gogh cut off his left ear,” said Anna.

Nakamura turned and smiled at Anna. “And you know only too well,” he added, “that Van Gogh painted the original while looking in a mirror, which is why the bandage ended up on the wrong ear.”

“I do hope that someone is going to explain all this to me later,” said Arabella as she led her guests through to the drawing room.

Krantz returned to the shop at 2 P.M., but there was no sign of the proprietor. “He’ll be back at any moment,” the assistant assured her without conviction.

“Any moment” turned out to be thirty minutes, by which time the assistant was nowhere to be seen. When the owner did eventually show up, Krantz was pleased to see that he was carrying a bulky plastic bag. Without a word being spoken, Krantz followed him to the back of the shop and into his office. Not until he’d closed the door did a large grin appear on his fleshy lips.

The proprietor placed the carrier bag on his desk. He paused for a moment, then pulled out the red outfit Krantz had requested.

“She may be a little taller than you,” he said with a half apology, “but I can supply a needle and thread at no extra charge.” He began to laugh but ceased when his customer didn’t respond.

Krantz held the uniform up against her shoulders. The previous owner was at least three or four inches taller than Krantz but only a few pounds heavier; nothing — as the proprietor had suggested — that a needle and thread wouldn’t remedy.

“And the passport?” asked Krantz.

Once again the proprietor’s hand dipped into the carrier bag, and, like a conjuror producing a rabbit out of a hat, he offered up a Soviet passport. He handed over the prize to Krantz and said, “She has a three-day layover, so she probably won’t discover that it’s missing until Friday.”

“It will have served its purpose long before then,” Krantz said, as she began to turn the pages of the official document.

Sasha Prestakavich, she discovered, was three years younger than her, and eight centimeters taller with no distinguishing marks. A problem that a pair of high-heeled shoes would solve, unless an overzealous official decided to carry out a strip search and came across the recent wound on her right shoulder.

When Krantz reached the page where Sasha Prestakavich’s photo had once been, the proprietor was unable to disguise a satisfied smirk. For his next trick, he produced from under the counter a Polaroid camera.

“Smile,” he said. She didn’t.

A few seconds later an image spewed out. A pair of scissors appeared next, and the proprietor began to cut the photograph down to a size that would comply with the little dotted rectangle on page three of the passport. Next, a dollop of glue to fix the new holder in place. His final act was to drop a needle and thread into the carrier bag. Krantz was beginning to realize that this was not the first occasion he had supplied such a service. She placed the uniform and the passport back in the carrier bag, before handing over eight hundred dollars.

The proprietor checked the wad of notes carefully.

“You said a thousand,” he protested.

“You were thirty minutes late,” Krantz reminded him, as she picked up the bag and turned to leave.

“Do come and visit us again,” suggested the proprietor as she retreated, “whenever you’re passing through.”

Krantz didn’t bother to explain to him why, in her profession, she never saw anyone twice, unless it was to make sure they couldn’t see her a third time.

Once she was back on the street, she only had to walk for a couple of blocks before she came across the next shop she required. She purchased a pair of plain, black high-heeled shoes — not her style, but they would serve their purpose. She paid the bill in rubles and left the shop carrying two bags.

Krantz next hailed a taxi, gave the driver an address, and told him the exact entrance where she wished to be dropped off. When the cab drew up by a side door marked STAFF ONLY, Krantz paid the fare, entered the building, and went straight to the ladies’ room. She locked herself in a cubicle, where she spent the next forty minutes. With the aid of the needle and thread supplied by the proprietor, she raised the hemline of the skirt by a couple of inches and made a couple of tucks in the waist, which wouldn’t be visible under the jacket. She then stripped off all her outer garments before trying on the uniform — not a perfect fit, but fortunately the company she was proposing to work for was not known for its sartorial elegance. Next she replaced her sneakers with the recently acquired high heels, before dropping her own clothes into the carrier bag.

When she finally left the ladies’ room, she went in search of her new employers. Her walk was a little unsteady, but then she wasn’t used to high heels. Krantz’s eyes settled on another woman who was dressed in an identical uniform. She walked across to the counter and asked, “Have you got a spare seat on any of our London flights?”

“That shouldn’t be a problem,” she replied. “Can I see your passport?” Krantz handed over the recently acquired document. The company’s representative looked up Sasha Prestakavich’s details on the company database. According to their records, she was on a three-day layover. “That seems to be in order,” she eventually said, and handed her a crew pass. “Be sure that you’re among the last to check in, just in case we have any latecomers.”

Krantz walked across to the international terminal, and once she’d been checked through customs, hung around in duty-free until she heard the final boarding call for Flight 413 to London. By the time she arrived at the gate, the last three passengers were checking in. Once again her passport was checked against the company database before the gate officer studied his screen and said, “We’ve got seats available in every class, so take your pick.”

“Back row of economy,” Krantz said unhesitatingly.

The gate official looked surprised, but printed out a boarding card and handed the little slip over to her. Krantz walked through the gate, and boarded Aeroflot’s Flight 413 to London.

Anna walked slowly down the wide, marble staircase, pausing for a moment at every two or three steps to admire another master. It didn’t matter how often she saw them... she heard a noise behind her, and looked back toward the guest corridor to see Andrews coming out of her bedroom. He was carrying a picture under his arm. She smiled as he hurried away in the direction of the backstairs.

Anna continued to study the paintings on her slow progress down the staircase. As she stepped into the hall she gave Catherine, Lady Wentworth another admiring look, before she walked slowly across the black-and-white marbled-square floor toward the drawing room.