False Impression

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 this 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.”

She spent the rest of the morning trying to contact the forty-three employees who worked in the North Tower. Tina was able to account for thirty-four of them by twelve o’clock. She placed a provisional list of nine names who were still missing, presumed dead, on Fenston’s desk before he went to lunch.

Anna Petrescu was the sixth name on that list.

By the time Tina had placed the list on Fenston’s desk, Anna had finally made it to Pier 11, by cab, bus, foot, and then cab again, only to find a long line of people waiting patiently to board the ferry to New Jersey. She took her place at the back of the line, put on a pair of sunglasses, and pulled down the peak of her baseball cap so it nearly covered her eyes. She stood with her arms tightly folded, the collar of her jacket turned up, and her head bowed, so that only the most insensitive individual would have considered embarking on a conversation with her.

The police were checking the IDs of everyone leaving Manhattan. She looked on as a dark-haired, swarthy young man was taken to one side. The poor man looked bemused when three policemen surrounded him. One fired questions, while another searched him.

It was almost an hour before Anna finally reached the front of the line. She took off her baseball cap to reveal her long, fair hair and cream skin.

“Why are you going to New Jersey?” inquired the policeman as he checked her ID.

“A friend of mine was working in the North Tower, and she’s still missing.” Anna paused. “And I thought I’d spend the day with her parents.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” said the policeman. “I hope they find her.”

“Thank you,” said Anna, and quickly carried her bags up the gangway and onto the ferry. She felt so guilty about lying that she couldn’t look back at the policeman. She leaned on the railing and stared across at the gray cloud that still enveloped the site of the World Trade Center and several blocks either side. She wondered how many days, weeks, or even months it would be before that dense blanket of smoke dispersed. What would they finally do with the desolate site, and how would they honor the dead? She raised her eyes and stared up at the clear blue sky above her. Something was missing. Although they were only a few miles from JFK and La Guardia, there wasn’t a plane in the sky, as if they had all, without warning, migrated to another part of the world.

The old engine juddered into action and the ferry began to drift slowly away from the pier on its short journey across the Hudson to New Jersey.

One o’clock struck on the pier tower. Half a day had gone.

“The first flights out of JFK won’t be taking off for another couple of days,” said Tina.

“Does that include private aircraft?” asked Fenston.

“There are no exceptions,” Tina assured him.

“The Saudi royal family are being allowed to fly out tomorrow,” interjected Leapman, who was standing by the chairman’s side, “but they seem to be the only exception.”

“Meanwhile, I’m trying to get you on what the press are describing as the priority list,” said Tina, who decided not to mention that the port authorities didn’t consider his desire to pick up a Van Gogh from Heathrow quite fell into the category of emergency.

“Do we have any friends at JFK?” asked Fenston.

“Several,” said Leapman, “but they’ve all suddenly acquired a whole lot of rich relations.”

“Any other ideas?” asked Fenston, looking up at both of them.

“You might consider driving across the border into Mexico or Canada,” suggested Tina, “and taking a commercial flight from there,” knowing only too well that he wouldn’t consider it.

Fenston shook his head and, turning to Leapman, said, “Try and turn one of our friends into a relation — someone will want something,” he added. “They always do.”

17

“I’ll take any car you’ve got,” said Anna.

“I have nothing available at the moment,” said the weary-looking young man behind the Happy Hire Company desk, whose plastic badge displayed the name HANK. “And I don’t anticipate anything being returned until tomorrow morning,” he added, failing to fulfil the company’s motto displayed on the countertop, NO ONE LEAVES HAPPY HIRE WITHOUT A SMILE ON THEIR FACE. Anna couldn’t mask her disappointment.

“I don’t suppose you’d consider a van?” Hank ventured. “It’s not exactly the latest model, but if you’re desperate...”

“I’ll take it,” said Anna, well aware of the long line of customers waiting behind her, all no doubt willing her to say no. Hank placed a form in triplicate on the countertop and began filling in the little boxes. Anna pushed across her driver’s license, which she had packed along with her passport, enabling him to complete even more boxes. “How long do you require the vehicle?” Hank asked.

“A day, possibly two — I’ll be dropping it off at Toronto airport.”

Once Hank had completed all the little boxes, he swiveled the form around for her signature.

“That’ll be sixty dollars, and I’ll need a two-hundred-dollar deposit.” Anna frowned and handed over $260.

“And I’ll also need your credit card.”

Anna slipped another hundred-dollar bill across the counter. The first time she’d ever attempted to bribe someone.

Hank pocketed the money. “It’s the white van in bay thirty-eight,” he told her, handing over a key.

When Anna located bay thirty-eight, she could see why the little two-seater white van was the last vehicle on offer. She unlocked the back door and placed her case and laptop inside. She then went to the front and squeezed herself into the plastic-covered driver’s seat. She checked the dashboard. The odometer read 98,617, and the speedometer suggested a maximum of 90, which she doubted. It was clearly coming to the end of its rental life, and another four hundred miles might well finish it off. She wondered if the vehicle was even worth $360.

Anna started the engine and tentatively reversed out of the parking lot. She saw a man in her rearview mirror, who quickly stepped out of the way. It was less than a mile before she discovered the vehicle was built for neither speed nor comfort. She glanced down at the route map she’d placed on the passenger seat beside her, then began to look for signs to the Jersey Turnpike and the Del Water Gap. Although she hadn’t eaten since breakfast, Anna decided she needed to put a few miles on the clock before she started thinking about food.

“You were right, boss,” said Joe, “she’s not going to Danville.”

“So where is she headed?”

“Toronto airport.”

“Car or train?” he asked.

“Van,” replied Joe.

Jack tried to calculate how long the journey would take and concluded that Petrescu ought to reach Toronto by late the next afternoon.

“I’ve already fixed a GPS on her rear bumper,” Joe added, “so we’ll be able to track her night and day.”

“And be sure you have an agent waiting for her at the airport.”

“He’s already been detailed,” said Joe, “with instructions to let me know where she intends to fly.”

“She’ll be flying to London,” said Jack.

By three that afternoon, Tina had been able to remove four more names from the missing list. Three of them had been voting in the primary elections for mayor, while the fourth had missed her train.

Fenston studied the list, as Leapman placed a finger on the only name he was interested in. Fenston nodded when his eyes settled on the Ps. He smiled.

“Saved having to do it ourselves,” was Leapman’s only comment.

“What’s the latest from JFK?” Fenston asked.

“They’re allowing a few flights out tomorrow,” said Leapman, “visiting diplomats, hospital emergencies, and some senior politicians vetted by the State Department. But I’ve managed to secure us an early slot for Friday morning.” He paused. “Someone wanted a new car.”

“Which model?” asked Fenston.

“A Ford Mustang,” replied Leapman.

“I would have agreed to a Cadillac.”

Anna had reached the outskirts of Scranton by three thirty that afternoon but decided to press on for a couple more hours. The weather was clear and crisp and the three-lane highway crowded with cars heading north, almost all of them overtaking her. Anna relaxed a little once tall trees replaced skyscrapers on both sides. Most of the highways had a fifty-five-mile speed limit, which suited her particular mode of transport. But she still had to hold on to the steering wheel firmly to make sure the van didn’t drift into another lane. Anna glanced down at the tiny clock on the dashboard. She would try and make Buffalo by seven, and then perhaps take a break.

She checked her rearview mirror, suddenly aware of what it must feel like to be a criminal on the run. You couldn’t use a credit card or a cell phone, and the sound of a distant siren doubled your heartbeat. A life spent wary of strangers, as you looked over your shoulder every few minutes. Anna longed to be back in New York, among her friends, doing the job she loved. Her father once said — “Oh, God,” said Anna out loud. Did her mother think she was dead? What about Uncle George and the rest of the family in Danville? Could she risk a phone call? Hell, she wasn’t very good at thinking like a criminal.

Leapman walked into Tina’s office unannounced. She quickly flicked off the screen on the side of her desk.

“Wasn’t Anna Petrescu a friend of yours?” Leapman asked without explanation.

“Yes, she is,” said Tina, looking up from her desk.

“Is?” said Leapman.

“Was,” said Tina, quickly correcting herself.

“So you haven’t heard from her?”

“If I had, I wouldn’t have left her name on the missing list, would I?”

“Wouldn’t you?” said Leapman.

“No, I wouldn’t,” said Tina, looking directly at him. “So perhaps you’ll let me know if she gets in touch with you,” she added.

Leapman frowned and left the room.

Anna pulled off the road and swung into the forecourt of an uninviting-looking diner. She was pleased to see there were only two other vehicles in the parking lot, and when she entered the building just three customers were seated at the counter. Anna took a seat in a booth with her back to the counter, pulled down her baseball cap, and studied the one-sided, greasy plastic menu. She ordered a tomato soup and the chef’s special, grilled chicken.

Ten dollars and thirty minutes later, she was back on the road. Although she’d drunk nothing but coffee since breakfast, it wasn’t long before she began to feel sleepy. She’d covered 310 miles in just over eight hours before stopping to eat, and now she was having to make an effort to keep her eyes open.

FEEL TIRED? TAKE A BREAK, advised a bold sign on the side of the highway, which only caused her to yawn again. Ahead of her, she spotted a twelve-wheeler truck turning off the road into a rest stop. Anna glanced at the clock on the dashboard — just after eleven. She’d been on the road for nearly nine hours. She decided to catch a couple of hours’ rest before tackling the rest of the journey. After all, she could always sleep on the plane.

Anna followed the articulated truck into the rest stop and then drove across to the farthest corner. She parked behind a large stationary vehicle. She jumped out of the van and made sure all the doors were locked before climbing into the back, relieved that there was no other vehicle nearby. Anna tried to make herself comfortable, using her laptop bag as a pillow. She couldn’t have been more uncomfortable but fell asleep within minutes.

“Petrescu still worries me,” said Leapman.

“Why should a dead woman worry you?” asked Fenston.

“Because I’m not convinced she’s dead.”

“How could she have survived that?” asked Fenston, looking out of the window at the black shroud that refused to lift its veil from the face of the World Trade Center.

“We did.”

“But we left the building early,” said Fenston.

“Perhaps she did. After all, you ordered her off the premises within ten minutes.”

“Barry thinks otherwise.”

“Barry’s alive,” Leapman reminded him.

“Even if Petrescu did escape, she still can’t do anything,” said Fenston. “She could get to London before I do,” said Leapman.

“But the painting is safely under lock and key at Heathrow.”

“But all the documentation to prove you own it was in your safe in the North Tower, and if Petrescu is able to convince—”

“Convince who? Victoria Wentworth is dead, and try not to forget that Petrescu is also missing, presumed dead.”

“But that might prove to be just as convenient for her as it is for us.”

“Then we’ll have to make it less convenient.”