False Impression Read online

  “But it isn’t the same woman,” queried the taxi driver.

  “I know,” said Jack. “Change of plan.”

  The driver looked perplexed. Japanese don’t understand change of plan.

  As Petrescu’s taxi drove past him and onto the freeway, Jack watched an identical vehicle come out of a side road and slip in behind her. At last it was Jack’s turn to be the pursuer and not the pursued.

  For the first time, Jack was thankful for the notorious snarl-ups and never-ending traffic jams that are the accepted norm for anyone driving from Narita airport into the city center. He was able to keep his distance while never losing sight of either of them.

  It was another hour before Petrescu’s taxi came to a halt outside the Hotel Seiyo in the Ginza district. A bellboy stepped forward to help with her luggage, but the moment he saw the wooden crate he motioned for a colleague to assist him. Jack didn’t consider entering the hotel until some time after Petrescu and the box had disappeared inside. But not Crew Cut. She was already secreted in the far corner of the lobby with a clear view of the staircase and elevators, out of sight of anyone working behind the reception desk.

  The moment he spotted her, Jack retreated through the swing doors and back out into the courtyard. A bellboy rushed forward. “Do you want a taxi, sir?”

  “No, thank you,” he said, and, pointing to a glass door on the other side of the courtyard, inquired, “What’s that?”

  “Hotel health club, sir,” replied the bellboy.

  Jack nodded, walked around the perimeter of the courtyard, and entered the building. He strolled up to reception.

  “Room number, sir?” he was asked by a young man sporting a hotel tracksuit.

  “I can’t remember,” said Jack.

  “Name?”

  “Petrescu.”

  “Ah, yes, Dr. Petrescu,” said the young man looking at his screen. “Room 118. Do you need a locker, sir?”

  “Later,” said Jack. “When my wife joins me.”

  He took a seat by the window overlooking the courtyard and waited for Anna to reappear. He noted that there were always two or three taxis waiting in line, so following her should not prove too much of a problem. But if she reappeared without the crate, he was in no doubt that Crew Cut, who was still sitting in the lounge, would be working on a plan to relieve his “wife” of its contents.

  While Jack sat patiently by the window, he flicked open his cell phone and dialed through to Tom in London. He tried not to think what time it was.

  “Where are you?” asked Tom, when he saw the name GOOD COP flash up on his screen.

  “Tokyo.”

  “What’s Petrescu doing there?”

  “I can’t be sure, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she isn’t trying to sell a rare painting to a well-known collector.”

  “Have you found out who the other interested party is?”

  “No,” said Jack, “but I did manage to get a couple of images of her at the airport.”

  “Well done,” said Tom.

  “I’m sending the pictures through to you now,” said Jack. He keyed a code into his phone and the images appeared on Tom’s screen moments later.

  “They’re a bit blurred,” was Tom’s immediate response, “but I’m sure the tech guys can clean them up enough to try and work out who she is. Any other information?”

  “She’s around five foot, slim, with a blonde crew cut and the shoulders of a swimmer.”

  “Anything else?” asked Tom, as he made notes.

  “Yes, when you’ve finished with the American mug shots, move on to Eastern Europe. I’ve got a feeling she may be Russian or possibly Ukrainian.”

  “Or even Romanian?” suggested Tom.

  “Oh, God, I’m so dumb,” said Jack.

  “Bright enough to get two photos. No one else has managed that, and they may turn out to be the biggest break we’ve had in this case.”

  “I’d be only too happy to bask in a little glory,” admitted Jack, “but the truth is that both of them are well aware of my existence.”

  “Then I’d better find out who she is pretty fast. I’ll be back in touch as soon as the boys in the basement come up with anything.”

  __________

  Tina turned on the switch under her desk. The little screen on the corner came on. Fenston was on the phone. She flicked up the switch to his private line and listened.

  “You were right,” said a voice, “she’s in Japan.”

  “Then she probably has an appointment with Nakamura. All his details are in your file. Don’t forget that getting the painting is more important than removing Petrescu.”

  Fenston put the phone down.

  Tina was confident that the voice fitted the woman she had seen in the chairman’s car. She must warn Anna.

  Leapman walked into the room.

  33

  ANNA STEPPED OUT of the shower, grabbed a towel, and began drying her hair. She glanced across at the digital clock in the corner of the TV screen. It was just after twelve, the hour when most Japanese businessmen go to their club for lunch. Not the time to disturb Mr. Nakamura.

  Once she was dry, Anna put on the white toweling bathrobe that hung behind the bathroom door. She sat on the end of the bed and opened her laptop. She tapped in her password, MIDAS, which accessed a file on the richest art collectors around the globe: Gates, Cohen, Lauder, Magnier, Nakamura, Rales, Wynn. She moved the cursor across to his name. Takashi Nakamura, industrialist. Tokyo University 1966-70, B.Sc. in engineering. UCLA 1971-73, M.A. Economics. Joined Maruha Steel Company 1974, Director 1989, Chief Executive Officer 1997, Chairman 2001. Anna scrolled down to Maruha Steel. Last year’s annual balance sheet showed a turnover of nearly three billion dollars, with profits of over four hundred million. Mr. Nakamura owned 22 percent of the company and, according to Forbes, was the ninth richest man in the world. Married with three children, two girls and a boy. Under other interests, only two words appeared: golf and art. No details of his fabled high handicap or his valuable Impressionist collection, thought to be among the finest in private hands.

  Nakamura had made several statements over the years, saying that the pictures belonged to the company. Although Christie’s never made such matters public, it was well known by those in the art world that Nakamura had been the underbidder for Van Gogh’s Sunflowers in 1987, when he was beaten by his old friend and rival Yasuo Goto, chairman of Yasuda Fire and Marine Insurance Company, whose hammer bid was $39,921,750.

  Anna hadn’t been able to add a great deal to Mr. Nakamura’s profile since leaving Sotheby’s. The Degas she had purchased on his behalf, Dancing Class with Mme. Minette, had proved a wise investment, which Anna hoped he would remember. She wasn’t in any doubt that she had chosen the right man to help pull off her coup.

  She unpacked her suitcase and selected a smart blue suit with a skirt that fell just below the knees, a cream shirt, and low-heeled navy leather shoes; no makeup, no jewelry. While she pressed her clothes, Anna thought about a man she had met only once, and wondered if she had made any lasting impression on him. When she was dressed, Anna checked herself in the mirror. Exactly what a Japanese businessman would expect a Sotheby’s executive to wear.

  Anna looked up his private number on her laptop. She sat on the end of the bed, picked up the phone, took a deep breath, and dialled the eight digits.

  “Hai, Shacho-Shitso desu,” announced a high-pitched voice.

  “Good afternoon, my name is Anna Petrescu. Mr. Nakamura may remember me from Sotheby’s.”

  “Are you hoping to be interviewed?”

  “Er, no, I simply want to speak to Mr. Nakamura.”

  “One moment please, I will see if he is free to take your call.”

  How could she possibly expect him to remember her after only one meeting?

  “Dr. Petrescu, how nice to hear from you again. I hope you are well?”

  “I am, thank you, Nakamura-san.”

  “Are you in Tokyo? Because if I am