Jeffrey Archer: False Impression

Stay calm, girl, stay calm , Anna could hear her father whispering in her ear.

She took a deep breath before continuing. “My report does no more, and certainly no less, than advise the board, of which I am a member, that if we were to sell the Van Gogh, either privately or through one of the recognized auction houses, the amount raised would more than cover the bank’s original loan plus interest.”

“But it might not have been my intention to sell the Van Gogh,” said Fenston, now clearly straying from his script.

“You would have been left with no choice, Chairman, had that been the wish of our client.”

“But I may have come up with a better solution for dealing with the Wentworth problem.”

“If that was the case, Chairman,” said Anna evenly, “I’m only surprised you didn’t consult the head of the department concerned so that, at least as colleagues, we could have discussed any difference of opinion before I left for England tonight.”

“That is an impertinent suggestion,” said Fenston, raising his voice to a new level. “I report to no one.”

“I don’t consider it is impertinent, Chairman, to abide by the law,” said Anna calmly. “It’s no more than the bank’s legal requirement to report any alternative recommendations to their clients. As I feel sure you realize, under the new banking regulations, as proposed by the IRS and recently passed by Congress—”

“And I feel sure you realize,” said Fenston, “that your first responsibility is to me.”

“Not if I believe that an officer of the bank is breaking the law,” Anna replied, “because that’s something I am not willing to be a party to.”

“Are you trying to goad me into firing you?” shouted Fenston.

“No, but I have a feeling that you are trying to goad me into resigning,” said Anna quietly.

“Either way,” said Fenston, swiveling around in his chair and staring out of the window, “it is clear you no longer have a role to play in this bank, as you are simply not a team player — something they warned me about when you were dismissed from Sotheby’s.”

Don’t rise, thought Anna. She pursed her lips and stared at Fenston’s profile. She was about to reply when she noticed there was something different about him, and then she spotted the new earring. Vanity will surely be his downfall, she thought, as he swiveled back around and glared at her. She didn’t react.

“Chairman, as I suspect this conversation is being recorded, I would like to make one thing absolutely clear. You don’t appear to know a great deal about banking law, and you clearly know nothing about employment law, because enticing a colleague to swindle a naïve woman out of her inheritance is a criminal offence, as I feel sure Mr. Leapman, with all his experience of both sides of the law, will be happy to explain to you.”

“Get out, before I throw you out,” screamed Fenston, jumping up from his chair and towering over Anna. She rose slowly, turned her back on Fenston, and walked toward the door.

“And the first thing you can do is clean out your desk because I want you out of your office in ten minutes. If you are still on the premises after that, I will instruct security to escort you from the building.”

Anna didn’t hear Fenston’s last remark as she had already closed the door quietly behind her.

The first person Anna saw as she stepped into the corridor was Barry, who had clearly been tipped off. The whole episode was beginning to look as if it had been choreographed long before she’d entered the building.

Anna walked back down the corridor with as much dignity as she could muster, despite Barry matching her stride for stride and occasionally touching her elbow. She passed an elevator that was being held open for someone and wondered who. Surely it couldn’t be for her. Anna was back in her office less than fifteen minutes after she’d left it. This time Rebecca was waiting for her. She was standing behind her desk clutching a large brown cardboard box. Anna walked across to her desk and was just about to turn on her computer when a voice behind her said, “Don’t touch anything. Your personal belongings have already been packed, so let’s go.” Anna turned around to see Barry still hovering in the doorway.

“I’m so sorry,” said Rebecca. “I tried to phone and warn you, but—”

“Don’t speak to her,” barked Barry, “just hand over the box. She’s outta here.” Barry rested the palm of his hand on the knuckle of his truncheon. Anna wondered if he realized just how stupid he looked. She turned back to Rebecca and smiled.

“It’s not your fault,” she said, as her secretary handed over the cardboard box.

Anna placed the box on the desk, sat down, and pulled open the bottom drawer.

“You can’t remove anything that belongs to the company,” said Barry.

“I feel confident that Mr. Fenston won’t be wanting my sneakers,” said Anna, as she removed her high-heeled shoes and placed them in the box. Anna pulled on her sneakers, tied the laces, picked up the box, and headed back into the corridor. Any attempt at dignity was no longer possible. Every employee knew that raised voices in the chairman’s office followed by Barry escorting you from the premises meant only one thing: you were about to be handed your pink slip. This time passersby quickly retreated into their offices, making no attempt to engage Anna in conversation.

The head of security accompanied his charge to an office at the far end of the corridor that Anna had never entered before. When she walked in, Barry once again positioned himself in the doorway. It was clear that they’d also been fully briefed, because she was met by another employee who didn’t even venture “good morning” for fear it would be reported to the chairman. He swiveled a piece of paper around that displayed the figure $9,116 in bold type. Anna’s monthly salary. She signed on the dotted line without comment.

“The money will be wired through to your account later today,” he said without raising his eyes.

Anna turned to find her watchdog still prowling around outside, trying hard to look menacing. When she left the accounts office, Barry accompanied her on the long walk back down an empty corridor.

When they reached the elevator, Barry pressed the down arrow, while Anna continued to cling onto her cardboard box.

They were both waiting for the elevator doors to open when American Airlines Flight 11 out of Boston crashed into the ninety-fourth floor of the North Tower.

Ruth Parish looked up at the departure monitor on the wall above her desk. She was relieved to see that United’s Flight 107 bound for JFK had finally taken off at 1:40 P.M, forty minutes behind schedule.

Ruth and her partner, Sam, had founded Art Locations nearly a decade before, and when he left her for a younger woman Ruth ended up with the company — by far the better part of the bargain. Ruth was married to the job, despite its long hours; demanding customers; and planes, trains, and cargo vessels that never arrived on time. Moving great, and not so great, works of art from one corner of the globe to the other allowed her to combine a natural flair for organization with a love of beautiful objects — if sometimes she saw the objects only for a fleeting moment.

Ruth traveled around the world accepting commissions from governments who were planning national exhibitions, while also dealing with gallery owners, dealers, and several private collectors, who often wanted nothing more than to move a favorite painting from one home to another. Over the years, many of her customers had become personal friends. But not Bryce Fenston. Ruth had long ago concluded that the words please and thank you were not in this man’s vocabulary, and she certainly wasn’t on his Christmas card list. Fenston’s latest demand had been to collect a Van Gogh from Wentworth Hall and transport it, without delay, to his office in New York.