False Impression Read online

  “I had no idea it belonged to you. I thought that it—”

  “Then you thought wrong. Perhaps you were also unaware that Petrescu no longer works for this bank.”

  “Dr. Petrescu made that all too clear, in fact—”

  “And did she tell you she was fired?”

  “Yes, she did.”

  “But did she tell you why?”

  “In great detail.”

  “And you still felt able to do business with her?”

  “Yes. In fact I am trying to persuade her to join my board, as CEO of the company’s foundation.”

  “Despite the fact that I had to dismiss her for conduct unworthy of an officer of a bank.”

  “Not a bank, Mr. Fenston, your bank.”

  “Don’t bandy words with me,” said Fenston.

  “So be it,” said Nakamura, “then let me make it clear that should Dr. Petrescu join this company, she will quickly discover that we do not condone a policy of swindling clients out of their inheritance, especially when they are old ladies.”

  “Then how would you feel about directors who steal bank assets worth a hundred million dollars?”

  “I am delighted to learn you consider the painting is worth that amount, because the owner—”

  “I am the owner,” bellowed Fenston, “under New York state law.”

  “Whose jurisdiction does not stretch to Tokyo.”

  “But doesn’t your company also have offices in New York?”

  “At last we’ve found something on which we can agree,” said Nakamura. “Then there’s nothing to stop me serving you with a writ in New York, were you foolish enough to attempt to buy my picture.”

  “And in which name will the writ be issued?” asked Nakamura.

  “What are you getting at?” shouted Fenston.

  “Only that my New York lawyers will need to know who they’re up against. Will it be Bryce Fenston, the chairman of Fenston Finance, or Nicu Munteanu, money launderer to Ceauşescu, the late dictator of Romania?”

  “Don’t threaten me, Nakamura, or I’ll—”

  “Break my driver’s neck?”

  “It won’t be your driver next time.”

  There was a long pause, before Nakamura said, “Then perhaps I ought to reconsider whether it’s really worth paying that much for the Van Gogh.”

  “A sensible decision,” said Fenston.

  “Thank you, Mr. Fenston. You have convinced me that what I had originally planned might not be the wisest course of action, after all.”

  “I knew you’d come to your senses in the end,” said Fenston, before putting down the phone.

  When Anna boarded the flight for Bucharest an hour later, she felt confident that she had shaken off Fenston’s man. Following her call to Tina, they would have been convinced that she was on her way back to London to pick up the painting, where it’s always been. The sort of clue Fenston and Leapman would undoubtedly have argued over.

  She had perhaps overdone it a little by spending so much time at the British Airways desk and then heading straight for Gate 91B when she didn’t even have a ticket. The little boy turned out to be a bonus, but even Anna was surprised by how much fuss he made when she’d pinched him on his calf.

  Anna’s only real concern was for Tina. By this time tomorrow, Fenston and Leapman would realize that Anna had fed them false information, having obviously worked out that her conversations were being bugged. Anna feared that losing her job might end up the least of Tina’s problems.

  As the wheels lifted off Japanese soil, Anna’s mind drifted to Anton. She only hoped that three days would have proved long enough.

  Fenston’s man was chasing her down an alley. At the far end was a high, jagged stone wall covered in barbed wire. Anna knew there was no way out. She turned to face her adversary as he came to a halt only a few feet in front of her. The short, ugly man drew a pistol from his holster, cocked the trigger, grinned, and aimed it directly at her heart. She turned as she felt the bullet graze her shoulder . . . “If you would like to adjust your watches, the time in Bucharest is now three twenty in the afternoon.”

  Anna woke with a start. “What day is it?” she asked the passing steward.

  “Thursday, madam.”

  9/20

  37

  ANNA RUBRED HER eyes and set her watch to the correct time.

  She had kept her agreement with Anton to be back within four days. Now her biggest problem would be to transport the painting to London, while at the same time . . . “Ladies and gentlemen, the captain has turned on the FASTEN SEAT BELT sign. We will be landing in Bucharest in approximately twenty minutes.”

  She smiled at the thought that by now Fenston’s man would have landed in Hong Kong and would be puzzled why this time he couldn’t spot her in duty-free. Would he carry on to London, or risk switching flights for the Romanian capital? Perhaps he would arrive back in Bucharest just as she set off for London.

  When Anna stepped out onto the pavement, she was delighted to see a smiling Sergei standing by the door of his yellow Mercedes. He opened the back door for her. Her only problem was she barely had enough cash to cover his fare.

  “Where to?” he asked.

  “First, I need to go to the academy,” she told him.

  Anna would have liked to share with Sergei all she had been through, but still didn’t feel she knew him well enough to risk it. Not trusting people was another experience she didn’t enjoy.

  Sergei dropped her at the bottom of the steps, where she’d left Anton before going to the airport. She no longer needed to ask him to wait. The student working at the reception desk told Anna that Professor Teodorescu’s lecture on “Attribution” was just about to begin.

  Anna made her way to the lecture theater on the first floor. She followed a couple of students in just as the lights were dimmed and slipped into a seat at the end of the second row, looking forward to a few minutes’ escape from the real world.

  “Attribution and provenance,” began Anton, running a hand through his hair in that familiar way the students mimicked behind his back, “are the cause of more discussion and disagreement among art scholars than any other subject. Why? Because it’s sexy, open to debate, and rarely conclusive. There is no doubt that several of the world’s most popular galleries currently display works that were not painted by the artists whose names are suggested on the frame. It is, of course, possible that the master painted the main figure, the Virgin or Christ for example, while leaving an assistant to fill in the background. We must consider, therefore, whether several paintings, all depicting the same subject, can have been executed by one master, or if it is more likely that one of them, possibly even more, are the works of his star pupils, which several hundred years later are mistaken for the master’s,” Anna smiled at the words star pupil and remembered the letter she had to pass on to Danuta Sekalska.

  “Now let us consider some examples,” continued Anton, “and see if you can detect the hand of a lesser mortal. The first is of a painting currently on display at the Frick Museum in New York.” A slide was beamed up on the screen behind Anton. “Rembrandt, I hear you cry, but the Rembrandt Research Project, set up in 1974, would not agree with you. They believe that The Polish Rider is the work of at least two hands, one of which may—I repeat, may—have been that of Rembrandt. The Metropolitan Museum, just a few blocks away from the Frick on the other side of Fifth Avenue, was unable to hide its angst when the same distinguished scholars dismissed the two portraits of the Beresteyn Family, acquired by them in 1929, as not executed by the Dutch master.

  “Don’t lose too much sleep over the problems faced by these two great institutions, because, of the twelve paintings attributed to Rembrandt in London’s Wallace Collection, only one, Titus, the Artist’s Son, has been pronounced genuine.” Anna became so engrossed that she began taking notes. “The second artist I would ask you to consider is the great Spanish maestro, Goya. Much to the embarrassment of the Prado in Madrid, Juan Jose