False Impression by Jeffrey Archer Read Free Book Online Page A

anything.
    Your personal
belongings have already been packed, so let’s go.’
    Anna turned
round to see Barry still hovering in the doorway.
    ‘I’m so sorry,’
said Rebecca. ‘I tried to phone and warn you, but...’
    ‘Don’t speak to
her,’ barked Barry, just hand over the box.
    She’s outta
here.’ Barry rested the palm of his hand on the knuckle of his truncheon. Anna
wondered if he realized just how stupid he looked. She turned back to Rebecca
and smiled.
    ‘It’s not your
fault,’ she said as her secretary handed over the cardboard box.
    Anna placed the
box on the desk, sat down and pulled open the bottom drawer.
    ‘You can’t
remove anything that belongs to the company,’ said Barry.
    ‘I feel
confident that Mr Fenston won’t be wanting my
sneakers,’ said Anna, as she removed her high-heeled shoes and placed them in
the box. Anna pulled on her sneakers, tied the laces, picked up the box and
headed back into the corridor. Any attempt at dignity was no longer possible.
Every employee knew that raised voices in the chairman’s office followed by
Barry escorting you from the premises meant only one thing: you were about to
be handed your pink slip. This time passers-by quickly retreated into their
offices, making no attempt to engage Anna in conversation.

9
    T he head of
security accompanied his charge to an office at the far end of the corridor
that Anna had never entered before. When she walked in, Barry once again
positioned himself in the doorway.
    It was clear
that they’d also been fully briefed, because she was met by another employee
who didn’t even venture ‘good morning’ for fear it would
be reported to the chairman. He swivelled a piece of paper around that
displayed the figures $9,116 in bold type.
    Anna’s
monthly salary. She signed on the dotted line without comment.
    “The money will
be wired through to your account later today,’ he said without raising his
eyes.
    Anna turned to
find her watchdog still prowling around outside, trying hard to look menacing.
When she left the accounts office,
    Barry
accompanied her on the long walk back down an empty corridor.
    When they
reached the elevator, Barry pressed the down arrow, while Anna continued to
cling onto her cardboard box.
    They were both
waiting for the elevator doors to open when American Airlines Flight 11 out of
Boston crashed into the ninety fourth floor of the North Tower.
    Ruth Parish
looked up at the departure monitor on the wall above her desk. She was relieved
to see that United’s flight 107 bound for JFK had finally taken off at 1.40 pm.
Forty minutes behind schedule.
    Ruth and her partner
Sam had founded Art Locations nearly a decade before, and when he left her for
a younger woman Ruth ended up with the company – by far the better part of the
bargain.
    Ruth was married
to the job, despite its long hours, demanding customers and planes, trains and
cargo vessels that never arrived on time. Moving great, and not so great, works
of art from one corner of the globe to the other allowed her to combine a
natural flair for organization with a love of beautiful objects – if sometimes
she saw the objects only for a fleeting moment.
    Ruth travelled
around the world accepting commissions from governments who were planning
national exhibitions, while also dealing with gallery owners, dealers and
several private collectors, who often wanted nothing more than to move a
favourite painting from one home to another. Over the years, many of her
customers had become personal friends. Rut not Bryce Fenston. Ruth had long ago
concluded that the words ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ were not in this man’s
vocabulary, and she certainly wasn’t on his Christmas card list. Fenston’s
latest demand had been to collect a Van Gogh from Wentworth Hall and transport
it, without delay, to his office in New York.
    Obtaining an
export licence for the masterpiece had not proved difficult, as few
institutions or museums could raise the