Next in Line (William Warwick, #5)(78)

‘Which only creates more problems.’ Holbrooke paused. ‘For both of us.’

‘Like what?’

‘Believe me, Warwick, Mansour Khalifah will want revenge. He’ll consider this,’ he said, waving a hand across the scene, ‘a further humiliation, and will now be looking for an even bigger target. As you’re the only contact we have with Faulkner, I’m going to tell you exactly what I want you to do.’





CHAPTER 28





CHRISTINA ARRIVED AT THE BANK well in time for her meeting with Mr Rosen. She had spoken to the deputy director of the Kunstmuseum in Basel, who’d confirmed the wording of Holbein’s letter to Dr Rosen, and that according to the museum’s records the painting was still owned by the Rosen family, who lived in Amsterdam.

Mr Rosen was punctual, but looked worn out. After greeting Christina he introduced his sons, Cornelius and Sander. One was carrying a wooden casket adorned with a family crest, while his brother had brought two large suitcases which Christina assumed were empty.

‘I’m exhausted,’ Rosen said. ‘But then, it has been some time since I last travelled by plane, and even a short flight is no longer a pleasant experience. Not as unpleasant, however, as having to part with a treasured family heirloom.’

Christina looked suitably sympathetic, but her eyes rarely left the little wooden box Cornelius was still clutching.

‘Nevertheless,’ continued Rosen, ‘after considerable soul-searching, we decided if you were able to confirm that the painting will become part of the Fitzmolean’s collection, we would reluctantly accept your offer.’

‘I give you my word,’ said Christina. A sentiment she delivered with complete conviction.

Rosen bowed, and she couldn’t help reflecting on what an old-fashioned gentleman he was. His word was clearly his bond. Whereas his sons looked as if they were much more interested in the money.

Christina headed for the lift, and when they reached the basement they were met by a security guard who guided them along a well-lit corridor, stopping only when a floor-to-ceiling reinforced door blocked their progress. After entering an eight-digit code on the keypad, a code Christina had been assured was changed every morning, he pulled open the heavy door and stood aside to allow them to enter a room that held many secrets only the keyholders were privy to.

The walls were lined with safe-deposit boxes. The security guard checked the small red numbers, selected one and pulled it out as if it were a body in a morgue, then placed it on the table in the centre of the room. Producing a large set of keys from his pocket, he chose one and opened the first of two locks, before stepping back and saying, ‘I’ll leave you now, Mrs Faulkner. Please, take your time.’

‘Thank you,’ said Christina. She didn’t move until the heavy door had been closed behind him; she then opened her handbag and took out the second key to open the client’s lock. Rather enjoying herself, she lingered before lifting the box’s lid, to reveal ten thousand neatly wrapped cellophane packets each containing twenty crisp fifty-pound notes.

Mr Rosen’s sons stepped forward and after one look began to transfer the money from the deposit box into their suitcases, while their father sat silently behind them on the only chair.

Christina walked up to the table, unclipped the locks of the wooden casket and raised the lid. Henry VIII was staring directly at her, as he’d done with so many beautiful women in his day. But she rejected his advances until she had lifted the portrait from its bed of red satin and carried it nearer to the light so she could check the letter attached to the back. Once she recognized Holbein’s hand, she felt reassured.

She placed the picture carefully back in its box, and closed the lid. The two young men were still filling their suitcases when she bade Mr Rosen farewell, before jabbing the green button on the wall by the door.

The old man rose unsteadily from his chair and bowed as the door opened and Christina quickly departed.

‘They will be here for a few more minutes,’ she said to the waiting security guard. ‘I’ll see myself out.’

‘As you wish, madam,’ he replied, before he pushed the heavy door back into place.

Christina took the lift to the ground floor and left the bank, tightly clutching onto the small wooden casket. She crossed James’s Street, and hurried off in the direction of the Van Haeften gallery, a few blocks away. Once again, she failed to notice a man standing in the entrance of Lobb’s, watching her walk past. He didn’t bother to follow her, but then he knew where she was going.

The moment he saw the wooden casket, Johnny van Haeften recognized the family crest on the lid. He could feel his excitement mounting as Christina placed it on the table in the centre of the gallery. She flicked open the clasps and lifted the lid to reveal Henry VIII in all his pomp and glory.

‘May I?’ van Haeften asked, his fingers trembling.

Christina nodded, and he gently lifted the painting out of its red satin resting place. He studied Henry for some time before turning him over and reading the letter attached to the back.

‘I think you said twelve million, possibly fifteen,’ said Christina, ‘if I remember correctly.’

‘I did indeed,’ replied van Haeften.

? ? ?

The man waited a few minutes before crossing the road and entering the bank, where he hung around in the lobby looking as if he were waiting for someone, which indeed he was. He didn’t have to wait long before the lift doors opened and three men appeared, one of them pulling two large suitcases. They walked straight past him without saying a word, and left the cases by his side, before walking out of the bank and going their separate ways.