Anna checked her watch: 7:55 A.M. She drained her coffee, left six dollars on the table, and walked across to the phone booth on the far side of the diner. She dialed a 212 number.
“Good morning, sir, my name is Agent Roberts.”
“Morning, Agent Roberts,” replied Jack, leaning back in his chair, “have anything to report?”
“I’m standing in a vehicle rest stop somewhere between New York and the Canadian border.”
“And what are you doing there, Agent Roberts?”
“I’m holding a bumper.”
“Let me guess,” said Jack. “The bumper was at one time attached to a white van driven by the suspect.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And where is the van now?” asked Jack, trying not to sound exasperated.
“I have no idea, sir. When the suspect drove into the rest stop to take a break, I must admit, sir, I also fell asleep. When I woke, the suspect’s van had left, leaving the bumper with the GPS still attached.”
“Then she’s either very clever,” said Jack, “or she’s been involved in an accident.”
“I agree.” He paused, and then added, “What do you think I should do next, sir?”
“Join the CIA,” said Jack.
“Hi, it’s Vincent, any news?”
“Yep, just as you thought, Ruth Parish has the painting locked up in the secure customs area at Heathrow.”
“Then I’ll have to unlock it,” said Anna.
“That might not prove quite that easy,” said Tina, “because Leapman flies out of JFK first thing tomorrow morning to pick up the painting, so you’ve only got another twenty-four hours before he joins you.” She hesitated. “And you have another problem.”
“Another problem?” said Anna.
“Leapman isn’t convinced you’re dead.”
“What makes him think that?”
“He keeps asking about you, so be especially careful. Never forget Fenston’s reaction when the North Tower collapsed. He may have lost half a dozen staff, but his only interest was the Monet in his office. Heaven knows what he’d do if he lost the Van Gogh as well. Dead artists are more important to him than living people.”
Anna could feel the beads of sweat breaking out on her forehead as the line went dead. She checked her watch: thirty-two seconds.
“Our ‘friend’ at JFK has confirmed we’ve been allocated a slot at seven twenty tomorrow morning,” Leapman said. “But I haven’t informed Tina.”
“Why not?” asked Fenston.
“Because the doorman at Petrescu’s building told me that someone looking like Tina was seen leaving there on Tuesday evening.”
“Tuesday evening?” repeated Fenston. “But that would mean—”
“And she was carrying a suitcase.”
Fenston frowned but said nothing.
“Do you want me to do anything about it?”
“What do you have in mind?” asked Fenston.
“Bug the phone in her apartment for a start. Then if Petrescu is in contact with her, we’ll know exactly where she is and what she’s up to.”
Fenston didn’t reply, which Leapman always took to mean yes.
Canadian border 4 miles declared a sign on the side of the road. Anna smiled — a smile that was quickly removed when she swung round the next corner and came to a halt behind a long line of vehicles that stretched as far as the eye could see.
She stepped out onto the road and began to stretch her tired limbs. Anna grimaced as she looked across at what was left of her battered transport. How would she explain that to the Happy Hire Company? She certainly didn’t need to part with any more cash — the first $500 of any damage, if she remembered correctly. While continuing to stretch, she couldn’t help noticing that the other side of the road was empty; no one seemed to be in a rush to enter the United States.
Anna progressed only another hundred yards during the next twenty minutes, ending up opposite a gas station. She made an instant decision — breaking another habit of a lifetime. She swung the van across the road and onto the forecourt, drove past the pumps, and parked the van next to a tree — just behind a large sign declaring SUPERIOR CAR WASH. Anna retrieved her two bags from the back of the van and started out on the four-mile trek to the border.
20
“I’m so sorry, my dear,” said Arnold Simpson, as he looked across his desk at Arabella Wentworth. “Dreadful business,” he added, dropping another sugar lump into his tea. Arabella didn’t comment as Simpson leaned forward and placed his hands on the partners’ desk, as if about to offer up a prayer. He smiled benignly at his client and was about to offer an opinion when Arabella opened the file on her lap and said, “As our family’s solicitor, perhaps you can explain how my father and Victoria managed to run up such massive debts and in so short a period of time?”
Simpson leaned back and peered over his half-moon spectacles. “Your dear father and I,” he began, “had been close friends for over forty years. We were, as I feel sure you are aware, at Eton together.” Simpson paused to touch his dark blue tie with the light blue stripe, which looked as if he’d worn it every day since he’d left school.
“My father always described it as ‘at the same time,’ rather than ‘together,’ retorted Arabella. “So perhaps you could now answer my question.”
“I was just coming to that,” said Simpson, momentarily lost for words as he searched around the scattered files that littered his desk. “Ah, yes,” he declared eventually, picking up one marked LLOYD’S OF LONDON. He opened the cover and adjusted his spectacles. “When your father became a name at Lloyd’s in nineteen seventy-one, he signed up for several syndicates, putting up the estate as collateral. For many years, the insurance industry showed handsome returns and your father received a large annual income.” Simpson ran his finger down a long list of figures.
“But did you point out to him at the time,” asked Arabella, “the meaning of unlimited liability?”
“I confess,” said Simpson, ignoring the question, “that like so many others, I did not anticipate such an unprecedented run of bad years.”
“It was no different from being a gambler hoping to make a profit from a spin at the roulette wheel,” said Arabella. “So why didn’t you advise him to cut his losses and leave the table?”
“Your father was an obstinate man,” said Simpson, “and, having ridden out some bad years, remained convinced that the good times would return.”
“But that didn’t prove to be the case,” said Arabella, turning to another of the numerous papers in her one file.
“Sadly not,” confirmed Simpson, who seemed to have sunk lower in his chair so that he nearly disappeared behind the partners’ desk.
“And what happened to the large portfolio of stocks and shares that the family had accumulated over the years?”
“They were among the first assets your father had to liquidate to keep his current account in surplus. In fact,” continued the solicitor, turning over another page, “at the time of your father’s death, I fear he had run up an overdraft of something over ten million pounds.”
“But not with Coutts,” Arabella said, “as it appears some three years ago he transferred his account to a small bank in New York called Fenston Finance.”
“That is correct, dear lady,” said Simpson. “Indeed, it has always been a bit of a mystery to me how that particular establishment came across—”
“It’s no mystery to me,” retorted Arabella, as she extracted a letter from her file. “It’s clear that they singled him out as an obvious target.”