Page 34 of Traitors Gate

She returned to her suite, ordered breakfast, and took her time turning the pages in the entertainment section of theNew York Times. She spotted several shows she would have liked to see but not this time. Once she was dressed in her new ensemble, only a glance in the long hall mirror convinced her that she was more than ready for the challenge ahead.

Breakfast arrived and was served by an attractive young man with an Italian accent. Christina only wished she had more time on her hands.

She was enjoying an eggs Benedict when Miles phoned to check up on her. Did the damn man ever let go?

The crate had arrived at Newark on time, he informed her, was already on its way to East 61st Street, and should be dropped off around ten. James Buchanan had an appointment to view the apartment at eleven o’clock, so she would have at least an hour to switch the paintings. Two experienced hangers from the Schwartz Gallery would be there to assist her, but she must make sure to leave the apartment before eleven o’clock, so the ‘three Musketeers’ would have enough time to switch the painting back, ensuring that their copy of the Rubens was returned to London while the original remained in his apartment where it belonged.

Christina felt a twinge of guilt when she thought about Beth sitting in her office in London, hoping against hope that the transfer would take place without a hitch. However, Miles assured her he’d already transferred the first fifty thousand to her account, and a further fifty would follow as soon as the copy of the painting was back on the Fitzmolean’s wall, which helped to assuage any lingering doubts.

After breakfast had been cleared by another equally attractive young man – Irish this time – she once again checked her appearance in the long mirror, confident she was ready to carry out the deception. She left the room and made her way slowly downstairs, feigning not to notice several women’s admiring glances when they spotted her outfit. She strolled across to the reception desk and handed in her room key. She was just about to leave when the receptionist enquired, ‘How will you be paying your bill, madam?’

‘But I thought—’ she began, only to be reminded once again that the ten thousand was to cover necessary expenses that clearly didn’t include unnecessary accessories.

Christina checked the bill and wished she hadn’t bought the handbag. When they exchanged her pounds for dollars,she was made painfully aware that the hotel operated its own exchange rate.

She left the Waldorf having emptied the first cellophane packet of fifties and didn’t want to check how much was left in the second. The doorman hailed a cab for her but he didn’t get a tip.

‘Three East 61st Street,’ she said, before climbing into the back.

• • •

It was William’s turn to read theNew York Timeswhile Ross was given the chance to finish what was left of breakfast, and James kept a close eye on the comings and goings across the street.

Two men dressed in brown overalls and carrying a couple of small stepladders were the only people of any interest to enter the front door during James’s shift, but as the building had over a hundred apartments, he made a note but didn’t give it a third thought. A few moments later a taxi drew up outside the block and a smartly dressed woman stepped out onto the sidewalk. She strolled into the building as if it wasn’t her first visit. James, who was coming to the end of his shift, made a detailed description, even though he could only see her back. However, as the doorman saluted her, he assumed she had to be a resident. William took his place a few minutes later.

Long before Christina reached the front desk it became clear she was expected. The concierge jumped up to greet her as if she was still Mrs Miles Faulkner. She may as well have been.

‘Mr Faulkner has already been in touch,’ he said, ‘andinstructed me to take you straight up to his apartment on the ninth floor. Two gentlemen from the Schwartz Gallery have already arrived and are waiting for you.’

Without another word he came from behind the desk and accompanied Christina across to the elevator. When they reached the ninth floor, he opened the door to the apartment with his pass key for the second time that morning.

The first thing Christina noticed as she entered the lounge was that the Rubens was no longer hanging on the wall but had been placed face up on the floor waiting to be put into the crate.

The concierge left them and took the elevator back down to the ground floor. He once again phoned Mr Faulkner, who was reading theEvening Newsover afternoon tea in London, and brought him up to date.

• • •

‘An Art Logistics van has just arrived,’ said Ross, barely able to contain his excitement.

William and James leapt up and rushed across to the window. They all watched as a man opened the rear door of the van and, along with two colleagues, gently lifted a large crate out onto the sidewalk before placing it on a dolly. Both front doors of the apartment block were held open, and six eyes never left the crate as it was wheeled slowly into the building, before disappearing out of sight.

James checked his watch. ‘It shouldn’t be too long before we’re going through those doors, by which time the crate should have been delivered to the ninth floor. I’ll stay on lookout duty, as I’m the only one who’ll recognize the realtor, who should be arriving …’ he checked his watch again, ‘inabout twenty minutes’ time. Be ready to move at a moment’s notice,’ he added, leaving them in no doubt who’d taken over command.

• • •

When the crate was delivered to the ninth floor, the chief hanger nodded and said, ‘Let’s get on with it.’

Christina watched in admiration as the two professionals went about their work. First, they removed the twenty-eight screws that kept the lid firmly in place, before lifting the false Christ out of the box and propping him up against the wall. Next, after wrapping the real masterpiece in acid-free tissue and a layer of polythene, they lowered it gently into its bespoke foam-lined box. A perfect fit. The lid was replaced, and the process reversed as each of the screws were slowly twisted back into place. A lengthy process, and once they’d completed the task, they took a cigarette break.

Don’t you realize we’re on a tight schedule, Christina wanted to remind them, as she pointedly kept staring at her watch. At last, the chief hanger stubbed out his cigarette and they both went back to work.

First, they lifted the museum’s copy of the Rubens off the floor, and climbed their little ladders, pausing on each step before moving on to the next one in unison. Their coordination would have impressed an Olympic gymnast. When they reached the top step, they slowly lowered the Fitzmolean’s fake onto the hooks where a few minutes before the masterpiece had hung. They stood back for a moment to admire their work. The whole process had taken about forty minutes.

Christina found herself clapping as the chief packer lookedup at the copy on the wall and remarked, ‘Not sure I can tell the difference.’

‘That’s the point,’ said Christina, but didn’t tell him there was a thirty-million-pound difference.

‘Time for us to leave,’ said the chief packer after checking his watch. ‘We had strict instructions to be out of here before eleven.’

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