Jeffrey Archer: False Impression

The insane eyes of a genius stared at her. The insane eyes of an assassin stared back.

Krantz smiled for the second time that day. She climbed up onto the bed and crawled slowly toward her next victim. She was within inches of the canvas when she unsheathed her knife, raised it above her head, and was about to plunge the blade into the neck of Van Gogh, when she remembered what Fenston had insisted on if she hoped to collect four million rather than three. She switched off her flashlight, climbed down from the bed onto the thick carpet, and crawled under the four-poster. She lay flat on her back and waited.

As Arabella and her guests strolled out of the drawing room and into the hallway, she asked Andrews if Brunswick and Picton had returned.

“No, m’lady,” the butler replied, “but there are a lot of rabbits about tonight.”

“Then I shall go and fetch the rascals myself,” muttered Arabella and, turning to her guests, added, “Sleep well. I’ll see you both at breakfast.”

Nakamura bowed before accompanying Anna up the staircase, again stopping occasionally to admire Arabella’s ancestors, who gazed back at him.

“You will forgive me, Anna,” he said, “for taking my time, but I may not be given the opportunity of meeting these gentlemen again.”

Anna smiled as she left him to admire the Romney of Mrs. Siddons.

She continued on down the corridor, coming to a halt outside the Van Gogh room. She opened the bedroom door and switched on the light, stopping for a moment to admire the portrait of Van Gogh. She took off her dress and hung it in the wardrobe, placing the rest of her clothes on the sofa at the end of the four-poster. She then turned on the light by the side of the bed and checked her watch. It was just after eleven. She disappeared into the bathroom.

When Krantz heard the sound of a shower, she slid out from under the canopy and knelt beside the bed. She cocked an ear, like an attentive animal sniffing the wind. The shower was still running. She stood up, walked across to the door, and switched off the bedroom light, while leaving on the reading light by the side of the bed. She pulled back the covers on the other side of the bed away from the lamp and climbed carefully in. She took one last look at the Van Gogh, before neatly replacing the blanket and cover over her head and finally disappearing under the sheet. Krantz lay flat and didn’t move a muscle. She was so slight that she barely made an impression in the half light. Although she remained secreted under the sheets, she heard the shower being turned off. This was followed by silence. Anna must have been drying herself, and then she heard a switch being flicked off — the bathroom light, followed by the sound of a door closing.

Krantz extracted the knife from its tailor-made sheath and gripped the handle firmly as Anna walked back into the bedroom. Anna slipped under the covers on her side of the bed and immediately turned on one side, stretching out an arm to switch off the bedside light. She lowered her head onto the soft goose-feather pillow. As she drifted into those first moments of slumber, her last thought was that the evening could hardly have gone better. Mr. Nakamura had not only closed the deal, but offered her a job. What more could she ask for?

Anna was drifting off to sleep when Krantz leaned across and touched her back with the tip of her forefinger. She ran the finger tip down her spine and onto her buttocks, coming to a halt at the top of her thigh. Anna sighed. Krantz paused for a moment, before placing her hand between Anna’s legs.

Was she dreaming, or was someone touching her, Anna wondered, as she lay in that semiconscious state before falling asleep. She didn’t move a muscle. It wasn’t possible that someone else could be in the bed. She must be dreaming. That was when she felt the cold steel of a blade as it slipped in between her thighs. Suddenly Anna was wide awake, a thousand thoughts rushing through her mind. She was about to throw the blanket back and dive onto the floor, when a voice said quietly but firmly, “Don’t even think about moving, not even a muscle; you have a six-inch knife between your legs, and the blade is facing upward.” Anna didn’t move. “If you as much as murmur, I’ll slit you up from your crotch to your throat, and you’ll live just long enough to wish you were dead.”

Anna felt the steel of the blade wedged between her thighs and tried hard not to move, although she couldn’t stop trembling.

“If you follow my instructions to the letter,” said Krantz, “you might just live, but don’t count on it.”

Anna didn’t, and knew that if she was to have the slightest chance of survival, she would have to play for time. “What do you want?” she asked.

“I told you not to murmur,” repeated Krantz, moving the knife up between Anna’s thighs until the blade was a centimeter from the clitoris. Anna didn’t argue.

“There is a light on your side of the bed,” said Krantz. “Lean across, very slowly, and turn it on.”

Anna leant over and felt the blade move with her as she switched on the bedside light.

“Good,” said Krantz. “Now I’m going to pull back the blanket on your side of the bed, while you remain still. I won’t be removing the knife — yet.”

Anna stared in front of her, while Krantz slowly pulled the covers back on her side of the bed.

“Now pull your knees up under your chin,” said Krantz, “slowly.”

Anna obeyed her order, and once again felt the knife move with her.

“Now push yourself up onto your knees and turn to face the wall.”

Anna placed her left elbow on the bed, pushed herself up slowly onto her knees, and inched around until she was facing the wall. She stared up at Van Gogh. When she saw his bandaged ear, she couldn’t help remembering the last act Krantz had performed on Victoria.

Krantz was now kneeling directly behind her, still gripping firmly onto the handle of the knife.

“Lean slowly forward,” said Krantz, “and take hold of the painting on both sides of the frame.”

Anna obeyed her every word, while every muscle in her body was trembling.

“Now lift the picture off its hook and lower it slowly down onto the pillow.”

Anna managed to find the strength to carry out her command, bringing the portrait to rest on top of the pillows.

“Now I’m going to remove the knife from between your legs very slowly, before placing the tip of the blade on the back of your neck. Don’t even give a second’s thought to any sudden movement once the blade has been removed, because should you be foolish enough to attempt anything, let me assure you that I can kill you in less than three seconds, and be out of the open window in less than ten. I want you to think about that for a moment before I remove the blade.”

Anna thought about it and didn’t move. A few seconds later, she felt the knife slide out from between her legs, and a moment later, as promised, the tip of the blade was pressed against the nape of her neck.

“Lift the picture up off the pillow,” ordered Krantz, “then turn around and face me. Be assured the blade will never be less than a few inches away from your throat at any time. Any movement, and I mean any movement that I consider unexpected, will be your last.”

Anna believed her. She leaned forward, lifted the picture off the pillow, and moved her knees around inch by inch, until she came face-to-face with Krantz. When Anna first saw her, she was momentarily taken by surprise. The woman was so small and slight she even looked vulnerable, a mistake several seasoned men had made in the past — their past. If Krantz had got the better of Sergei, what chance did she have? The strangest thought passed through Anna’s mind as she waited for her next order. Why hadn’t she said yes when Andrews offered to bring her up a cup of cocoa before she retired to bed?