False Impression by Jeffrey Archer Page A

yawned involuntarily.
It had been a long day, and he had a feeling that it was going to be an even
longer night.
    No one on his
team had considered going home, and they were all beginning to look, and sound,
exhausted. The telephone on his desk rang.
    ‘ Just thought I ought
to let you know, boss,’ said Joe, ‘that Tina Forster, Fenston’s secretary,
turned up at Thornton House a couple of hours ago. Forty minutes later she came
out carrying a suitcase and a laptop, which she took back to her place.’
    Jack sat bolt
upright. Then Petrescu must be alive,’ he said.
    ‘Although she
obviously doesn’t want us to think so,’ said Joe.
    ‘But
why?’
    ‘Perhaps she
wants us to believe she’s missing, presumed dead,’ suggested Joe.
    ‘Not us,’ said
Jack.
    ‘Then
who?’
    ‘Fenston, would be my
bet.’
    Why?’
    1 have no idea,’ said Jack, ‘but I have every intention of
finding out.’
    ‘And how do you
propose to do that, boss?’
    ‘By putting an
OPS team on Tina Forster’s apartment until Petrescu leaves the building.’
    ‘But we don’t
even know if she’s in there,’ said Joe.
    ‘She’s in
there,’ said Jack, and put the phone down.

16
    D uring the night,
Anna managed to catch only a few minutes of sleep as she considered her future.
She came to the conclusion that she might as well return to Danville and open a
gallery for local artists while any potential employers could get in touch with
Fenston and be told his side of the story. She was beginning to feel that her
only hope of survival was to prove what Fenston was really up to, and she
accepted that she couldn’t do that without Victoria’s full cooperation, which
might include destroying all the relevant documentation, even her report.
    Anna was
surprised how energized she felt when Tina knocked on the door just after four.
    Another shower,
followed by another shampoo, and she felt almost human.
    Over a breakfast
of black coffee and bagels, Anna went over her plan with Tina. They decided on
some ground rules they should follow while she was away. Anna no longer had a credit
card or a cellphone, so she agreed to call Tina only on her home number, and
always from a public phone booth – never the same one twice. Anna would
announce herself as ‘Vincent’, and no other name would be used. The call would
never last for more than one minute.
    Anna left the
apartment at 4.52 am, dressed in jeans, a blue T-shirt, a linen jacket and a
baseball cap. She wasn’t sure what to expect as she stepped out onto the
sidewalk that cool, dark morning. Few people were out on the streets, and those
that were had their heads bowed – their downcast faces revealed a city in
mourning. No one gave Anna a second glance as she strode purposefully along the
sidewalk pulling her suitcase, the laptop bag slung over her shoulder. It
didn’t matter in which direction she looked, a foggy grey haze still hung over
the city. The dense cloud had dispersed, but like a disease it had spread to
other parts of the body. For some reason, Anna had assumed when she woke it
would have gone, but, like an unwelcome guest at a party, it would surely be
the last to leave.
    Anna passed a
line of people who were already queuing to give blood in the hope that more
survivors would be found. She was a survivor, but she didn’t want to be found.
    Fenston was
seated behind his desk in his new Wall Street office by six o’clock that
morning. After all, it was already eleven in London. The first call he made was
to Ruth Parish.
    Where’s my Van
Gogh?’ he demanded, without bothering to announce who it was.
    ‘Good morning,
Mr Fenston,’ said Ruth, but she received no reply in kind. ‘As I feel sure you
know, the aircraft carrying your painting was turned back, following
yesterday’s tragedy.’
    ‘So where’s my
Van Gogh?’ repeated Fenston.
    ‘Safely
locked up in one of our secure vaults in the restricted customs area. Of course, we
will have to reapply for customs clearance