Tina studied Anna’s watch more closely. “You’re never going to be allowed to forget what time it was when that plane flew into the building,” she said, as the microwave beeped.
“This may well be inedible,” Tina warned her, as she served up a dish of yesterday’s chicken chow mein and egg fried rice. Between mouthfuls, the two of them considered the alternatives for getting out of the city and which border would be safest to cross.
By the time they had devoured every last scrap of leftovers along with another pot of coffee, they had gone over all the possible routes out of Manhattan, although Anna still hadn’t settled on whether she should head north or south. Tina placed the plates in the sink and said, “Why don’t you decide on which direction you think would be quickest, while I try to get myself uptown and in and out of your apartment without Sam becoming suspicious.”
Anna hugged her friend again. “Be warned,” she said, “it’s hell on earth out there.”
Tina stood on the top step of her apartment building and waited for a few moments. Something felt wrong. And then she realized what it was. New York had changed over a day.
The streets were no longer full of bustling, haven’t-got-time-to-stop-and-chat people, who made up the most energetic mass on earth. It felt more like a Sunday to Tina. But not even Sunday. People stood and stared in the direction of the World Trade Center. The only background music was the noise of perpetual sirens, which continually reminded the indigenous population—if they needed reminding—that what they had been watching on television in their homes, clubs, bars, even shop windows, was taking place just a few blocks away.
Tina walked down the road in search of a taxi, but the familiar yellow cabs had been replaced by the red, white, and blue of fire engines, ambulances, and police cars, all heading in one direction. Little clusters of citizens gathered on street corners to applaud the three different services as they raced by, as if they were young recruits leaving their homeland to fight a foreign foe. You no longer have to travel abroad to do that, thought Tina.
Tina walked on and on, block after block, aware that just like the weekend, commuters had fled to the hills, leaving the locals to man the pumps. But now there was another unfamiliar group roaming around the city in a daze. New York had, over the past century, absorbed citizens from every nation on earth, and now they were adding another race to their number. This most recent group of immigrants looked as if they had arrived from the bowels of the earth, and like any new race could be distinguished by their color—ash gray. They roamed around Manhattan, like marathon runners limping home hours after the more serious competitors had departed from the scene. But there was an even more visual reminder for anyone who looked up that autumn evening. The New York skyline was no longer dominated by its proud, gleaming skyscrapers because they were overshadowed by a dense, gray haze that hung above the city like an unwelcome visitor. Occasionally there were breaks in the ungodly cloud, when Tina noticed for the first time shards of jagged metal sticking out of the ground—all that was left of one of the tallest buildings in the world. The dentist had saved her life.
Tina walked past empty shops and restaurants in a city that never closed. New York would recover but would never be the same again. Terrorists were people who lived in far-off lands: the Middle East, Palestine, Israel, even Spain, Germany, and Northern Ireland. She looked back at the cloud. They had taken up residence in Manhattan and left their calling card.
Tina once again waved unhopefully at the rare sight of a passing taxi. It screeched to a halt.
15
ANNA STROLLED BACK into the kitchen and began washing the dishes. She was keeping herself occupied in the hope that her mind wouldn’t continually return to those faces coming up the stairs, faces she feared would remain etched on her memory for the rest of her life. She had discovered a downside to her unusual gift.
She tried to think about Victoria Wentworth instead, and how she might stop Fenston from ruining someone else’s life. Would Victoria believe that Anna hadn’t known Fenston always planned to steal the Van Gogh and bleed her dry? Why should she, when Anna was a member of the board and had been fooled so easily herself?
Anna left the kitchen in search of a map. She found a couple on a bookshelf in the front room above Tina’s desk: a copy of Streetwise Manhattan and The Columbia Gazetteer of North America, propped up against the recent bestseller on John Adams, second president of the United States. She paused to admire the Rothko poster on the wall opposite the bookshelf—not her period, but she knew he must be one of Tina’s favorite artists, because she also had another in her office. No longer, thought Anna, her mind switching back to the present. She returned to the kitchen and laid the map of New York out on the table.
Once she’d decided on a route out of Manhattan, Anna folded up the map and turned her attention to the larger volume. She hoped that it would help her make up her mind which border to cross.
Anna looked up Mexico and Canada in the index, and then began making copious notes as if she was preparing a report for the board to consider; she usually suggested two alternatives, but always ended her reports with a firm recommendation. When she finally closed the cover on the thick, blue book, Anna wasn’t in any doubt in which direction she had to go if she hoped to reach England in time.
Tina spent the cab journey to Thornton House considering how she would get into Anna’s apartment and leave with her luggage without the doorman becoming suspicious. As the cab drew up outside the building, Tina moved a hand to her jacket pocket. She wasn’t wearing a jacket. She turned scarlet. She’d left the apartment without any money. Tina stared at the driver’s identity information on the back of the front seat: Abdul Affridi—worry beads dangling from the rearview mirror. He glanced around, but didn’t smile. No one was smiling today.
“I’ve come out without any money,” Tina blurted, and then waited for a string of expletives to follow.
“No problem,” muttered the driver, who jumped out of his cab to open the door for her. Everything had changed in New York.
Tina thanked him and walked nervously toward the entrance door, her opening line well prepared. The script changed the moment she saw Sam seated behind the counter, head in hands, sobbing.
“What’s the matter?” Tina asked. “Did you know someone in the World Trade Center?”
Sam looked up. On the desk in front of him was a photo of Anna running in the marathon. “She hasn’t come home,” he said. “All my others who worked at the WTC returned hours ago.”
Tina put her arms round the old man. Yet another victim. How much she wanted to tell him Anna was alive and well. But not today.
Anna took a break just after eight and began flicking through the TV channels. There was only one story. She found that she couldn’t go on watching endless reports without continually being reminded of her own small walk-off part in this two-act drama. She was about to turn off the television when it was announced that President Bush would address the nation. “Good evening. Today, our fellow citizens . . .” Anna listened intently, and nodded when the president said, “The victims were in airplanes, or in their offices; secretaries, businessmen and women . . .” Anna once again thought about Rebecca. “None of us will ever forget this day . . .,” the president concluded, and Anna felt able to agree with him. She switched off the television as the South Tower came crashing down again, like the climax of a disaster movie.
Anna sat back down and stared at the map on the kitchen table. She double-checked—or was it triple-?—her route out of New York. She was writing detailed notes of everything that needed to be done before she left in the morning when the front door burst open and Tina staggered in—a laptop over one shoulder, dragging a bulky case behind her. Anna ran out into the corridor to welcome her back. She looked exhausted.
“Sorry to have taken so long, honey,” said Tina, as she dumped the luggage in the hallway and walked down the freshly vacuumed corridor and into the kitchen. “Not many busses going in my dir
ection,” she added, “especially when you’ve left your money behind,” she added, as she collapsed into a kitchen chair. “I’m afraid I had to break into your five hundred dollars, otherwise I wouldn’t have been back until after midnight.”
Anna laughed. “My turn to make you coffee,” she suggested.
“I was only stopped once,” continued Tina, “by a very friendly policeman who checked through your luggage and accepted that I’d been sent back from the airport after being unable to board a flight. I was even able to produce your ticket.”
“Any trouble at the apartment?” asked Anna, as she filled the coffeepot for a third time.
“Only having to comfort Sam, who obviously adores you. He looked as if he’d been crying for hours. I didn’t even have to mention David Sullivan, because all Sam wanted to do was talk about you. By the time I got into the elevator, he didn’t seem to care where I was going.” Tina stared around the kitchen. She hadn’t seen it so clean since she’d moved in. “So have you come up with a plan?” she asked, looking down at the map that was spread across the kitchen table.
“Yes,” said Anna. “It seems my best bet will be the ferry to New Jersey and then to rent a car, because according to the latest news all the tunnels and bridges are closed. Although it’s over four hundred miles to the Canadian border, I can’t see why I shouldn’t make Toronto airport by tomorrow night, in which case I could be in London the following morning.”
“Do you know what time the first ferry sails in the morning?” asked Tina.
“In theory, it’s a nonstop service,” said Anna, “but in practice, every fifteen minutes after five o’clock. But who knows if they’ll be running at all tomorrow, let alone keeping to a schedule.”
“Either way,” said Tina, “I suggest you have an early night, and try to snatch some sleep. I’ll set my alarm for four thirty.”
“Four,” said Anna. “If the ferry is ready to depart at five, I want to be first in line. I suspect getting out of New York may well prove the most difficult part of the journey.”
“Then you’d better have the bedroom,” said Tina with a smile, “and I’ll sleep on the couch.”
“No way,” said Anna, as she poured her friend a fresh mug of coffee. “You’ve done more than enough already.”
“Not nearly enough,” said Tina.
“If Fenston ever found out what you were up to,” said Anna quietly, “he’d fire you on the spot.”
“That would be the least of my problems,” Tina responded without explanation.
Jack 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?”
“I 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.
9/12
16
DURING 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 cell phone, 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 A.M., 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, gray 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 waiting 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 and renew the export license. But there’s no need to do that before—”
“Do it today,” said Fenston.
“This morning I had planned to move four Vermeers from—”
“Fuck Vermeer. Your first priority is to make sure my painting is packed and ready to be collected.”
“But the paperwork might take a few days,” said Ruth. “I’m sure you appreciate that there’s now a backlog following—”
“And fuck any backlog,” said Fenston. “The moment the FAA lift their restrictions, I’m sending Karl Leapman over to pick up the painting.”
“But my staff are already working round the clock to clear the extra work caused by—”
“I’ll only say this once,” said Fenston. “If the painting is ready for loading by the time my plane touches down at Heathrow, I will triple, I repeat triple your fee.”
Fenston put the phone down, confident that the only word she’d remember would be triple. He was wrong. Ruth was puzzled by the fact that he hadn’t mentioned the attacks on the Twin Towers or made any reference to Anna. Had she survived, and if so, why wasn’t she traveling over to pick up the painting?
Tina had overheard every word of Fenston’s conversation with Ruth Parish on the extension in her office—without the chairman being aware. Tina vainly wished that she could contact Anna and quickly pass on the information—an eventuality neither of them had considered. Perhaps Anna would call th
is evening.
Tina flicked off the phone switch, but left on the screen that was fixed to the corner of her desk. This allowed her to watch everything and, more important, everybody who came in contact with the chairman, something else that Fenston wasn’t aware of, but then he hadn’t asked. Fenston would never have considered entering her office when the press of a button would summon her, and if Leapman walked into the room—without knocking, as was his habit—she would quickly flick the screen off.
When Leapman took over the short lease on the thirty-second floor, he hadn’t shown any interest in the secretary’s office. His only concern seemed to be settling the chairman into the largest space available, while he took over an office at the other end of the corridor. Tina had said nothing about her IT extras, aware that in time someone was bound to find out, but perhaps by then she would have gathered all the information she needed to ensure that Fenston would suffer an even worse fate than he had inflicted on her.
When Fenston put the phone down on Ruth Parish, he pressed the button on the side of his desk. Tina grabbed a notepad and pencil and made her way through to the chairman’s office.
“The first thing I need you to do,” Fenston began, even before Tina had closed the door, “is find out how many staff I still have. Make sure they know where we are relocated, so they can report for work without delay.”
“I see that the head of security was among the first to check in this morning,” said Tina.
“Yes, he was,” Fenston replied, “and he’s already confirmed that he gave the order for all staff to evacuate the building within minutes of the first plane crashing into the North Tower.”
“And then led by example, I’m told,” said Tina tartly.
“Who told you that?” barked Fenston, looking up.
Tina regretted the words immediately, and quickly turned to leave, adding, “I’ll have those names on your desk by midday.”
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