False Impression Read online

  Anna thought long and hard about what she would wear for their second meeting. She settled on a beige linen dress with a modest hemline, a wide brown leather belt, and a simple gold necklace—an outfit that would be considered demure in New York but almost brash in Tokyo. Yesterday she’d dressed for her opening move, today for closing.

  She opened her bag for a third time that morning to check that she had included a copy of Dr. Gachet’s letter to Van Gogh, along with a simple one-page contract that was standard among recognized dealers. If she could agree on a price with Nakamura, Anna was going to ask for 10 percent down as an act of good faith, to be returned in full if, after inspecting the masterpiece, he was not satisfied. Anna felt that once he set his eyes on the original . . .

  Anna checked her watch. The meeting with the chairman was at ten, and he had promised to send his limousine to pick her up at nine forty. She would be waiting in the lobby. The Japanese quickly lose patience with people who play games.

  Anna took the elevator to the lobby and walked across to reception. “I expect to be checking out later today,” she said, “and would like my bill prepared.”

  “Certainly, Dr. Petrescu,” said the receptionist. “May I ask if you have had anything from the minibar?”

  Anna thought for a moment. “Two Evian waters.”

  “Thank you,” said the clerk, and began tapping the information into his computer as a bellboy came rushing up to her.

  “Chauffeur here to collect you,” was all he said, before leading Anna out to the waiting car.

  Jack was already sitting in a taxi when she appeared at the entrance. He was determined he wasn’t going to lose her a second time. After all, Crew Cut would be waiting for her, and she even knew where Anna was going.

  Krantz had also spent the night in the center of Tokyo, but unlike Petrescu, not in a hotel bed. She had slept in the cab of a crane, some 150 feet above the city. She was confident that no one would come looking for her there. She stared down on Tokyo as the sun rose over the Imperial Palace. She checked her watch. Five fifty-six A.M. Time to descend if she were to leave unnoticed.

  Once Krantz was back on the ground, she joined the office staff and early morning commuters as they disappeared underground and made their way to work.

  Seven stops later, Krantz emerged in the Ginza and quickly retraced her steps to the Seiyo. She slipped back into the hotel, a regular guest who never booked in and never stayed overnight.

  Krantz positioned herself in the corner of the lounge, where she had a perfect sight line of the two elevators, while she could be seen by only the most observant of waiters. It was a long wait, but then patience was a skill, developed over hours of practice—like any other skill.

  The chauffeur closed the back door behind her. Not the same driver as the night before, Anna noted—she never forgot a face. He drove off without a word, and she became more and more confident as each mile passed.

  When the chauffeur opened the back door again, Anna could see Mr. Nakamura’s secretary waiting for her in the lobby. Sixty million dollars, Anna whispered to herself, as she climbed the steps, and I won’t consider a cent less. The glass doors slid open, and the secretary bowed low.

  “Good morning, Dr. Petrescu. Nakamura-san is looking forward to seeing you.” Anna smiled and followed her down the long corridor of untitled offices. A gentle tap, and the secretary opened the door to the chairman’s room and announced Dr. Petrescu.

  Once again, Anna was stunned by the effect the room had on her, but this time managed to keep her mouth closed. Nakamura rose from behind his desk and bowed. Anna returned the compliment before he ushered her into a chair on the opposite side of the desk. He sat down. Yesterday’s smile had been replaced by a grim visage. Anna assumed this was nothing more than a bargaining ploy.

  “Dr. Petrescu,” he began as he opened a file on the desk in front of him, “it seems that when we met yesterday, you were less than frank with me.”

  Anna felt her mouth go dry, as Nakamura glanced down at some papers. He removed his spectacles and looked directly at Anna. She tried not to flinch.

  “You did not tell me, for instance, that you no longer work for Fenston Finance, nor did you allude to the fact that you were recently dismissed from the board for conduct unworthy of an officer of the bank.” Anna tried to breathe regularly. “You also failed to inform me of the distressing news that Lady Victoria had been murdered, at a time when she had run up debts with your bank”—he put his glasses back on—“of over thirty million dollars. You also forgot to mention the small matter of the New York police being under the illusion that you are currently classified as missing, presumed dead. But perhaps the most damning indictment of all was your failure to let me know that the painting you were attempting to sell is, to use police jargon, stolen goods.” Nakamura closed the file, removed his glasses once more, and stared directly at her. “Perhaps there is a simple explanation for such a sudden attack of amnesia?”

  Anna wanted to jump up and run out of the room, but she couldn’t move. Her father always told her when you’ve been found out, confess. She confessed everything. In fact, she even let him know where the painting was hidden. Once she finished, Nakamura didn’t speak for some time. Anna sat and waited to be escorted unceremoniously from a building for the second time in just over a week.

  “I now understand why you didn’t wish the painting to be sold for at least ten years and certainly wouldn’t want it to be put on public display. But I am bound to ask how you intend to square the circle with your former boss. It is clear to me that Mr. Fenston is more interested in holding on to such a valuable asset than having the debt cleared.”

  “But that’s the point,” said Anna. “Once the overdraft has been cleared, the Wentworth estate can sell the painting to whomever they wish.”

  Mr. Nakamura nodded. “Assuming that I accept your version of events, and if I was still interested in purchasing the Self-Portrait, I would want to make some conditions of my own.”

  Anna nodded.

  “First, the painting would have to be purchased directly from Lady Arabella, and only after legal tenure had been properly established.”

  “I can see no objection to that,” said Anna.

  “Second, I would expect the work to be authenticated by the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam.”

  “That causes me no problems,” said Anna.

  “Then perhaps my third condition will cause you a problem,” said Nakamura, “and that is the price I am willing to pay, as I do believe that I am, to use that ghastly but appropriate American expression, in the driving seat.”

  Anna nodded her reluctant agreement.

  “If, and I repeat if, you are able to meet my other conditions, I am happy to offer, for the Wentworth Van Gogh Self-Portrait with Bandaged Ear, fifty million dollars, which I have worked out will not only clear Lady Arabella’s debt but leave enough over to cover any taxes.”

  “But it could come under the hammer for seventy, even eighty million,” Anna protested.

  “That assumes you are not hammered long before then,” Nakamura replied. “I apologize,” he added immediately. “You have discovered my weakness for bad puns.” He smiled for the first time. “However, I am advised that Mr. Fenston has recently issued a bankruptcy order against your client, and knowing the Americans as I do, it might be years before any legal action can be settled, and my London lawyers confirm that Lady Arabella is in no position to consider the crippling legal costs such a lengthy process would undoubtedly incur.”

  Anna took a deep breath. “If, and I repeat if”—Nakamura had the grace to smile—“I accept your terms, in return I would expect some gesture of goodwill.”

  “And what do you have in mind?”

  “You will place 10 percent, five million dollars, in escrow with Lady Arabella’s solicitors in London, to be returned if you do not wish to purchase the original.”

  Nakamura shook his head. “No, Dr. Petrescu, I am unable to accept your gestu