False Impression

“There was a fourth,” said Tina, as she placed two mugs on the table, “but no one seems certain where it was heading.”

“The White House, possibly,” suggested Anna, as she looked up at the screen to see President Bush speaking from Barksdale Air Force Base in Louisiana: “Make no mistake, the United States will hunt down and punish those responsible for these cowardly acts.”

The images flashed back to the second plane flying into the South Tower.

“Oh, my God,” said Anna. “I hadn’t even thought about the innocent

passengers onboard those planes. Who’s responsible for all this?” she demanded, as Tina filled her mug with black coffee.

“The State Department is being fairly cautious,” said Tina, “and all the usual suspects—Russia, North Korea, Iran, and Iraq—have all been quick to scream, ‘Not me,’ swearing they will do everything they can to track down those responsible.”

“But what are the newscasters saying? There’s no reason for them to be cautious.”

“CNN is pointing a finger at Afghanistan and, in particular, at a terrorist group called Al-Qaeda—I think that’s how you pronounce it, but I’m not sure as I’ve never heard of them,” Tina said, as she sat down opposite Anna.

“I think they’re a bunch of religious fanatics who I thought were only interested in taking over Saudi Arabia so they could get hold of its oil.” Anna glanced back up at the television and listened to the commentator, who was trying to imagine what it must have been like to be in the North Tower when the first plane struck. How could you possibly know? Anna wanted to ask him. A hundred minutes telescoped into a few seconds, and then repeated again and again like a familiar advertisement. When the South Tower collapsed and smoke billowed up into the sky, Anna started coughing loudly, shaking ash onto everything around her.

“Are you OK?” asked Tina, jumping up from her chair.

“Yes, I’ll be fine,” said Anna, draining her coffee. “Would you mind if I turned the TV off? I don’t think I can face continually being reminded what it was like to be there.”

“Of course not,” said Tina, who picked up the remote and touched the off button. The images melted from the screen.

“I can’t stop thinking about all our friends who were in the building,” said Anna, as Tina refilled her mug with coffee. “I wonder if Rebecca . . .”

“No word from her,” said Tina. “Barry is the only person who’s reported in so far.”

“Yeah, I can believe Barry was the first down the stairs, trampling over anyone who got in his way. But who did Barry call?” asked Anna.

“Fenston. On his mobile.”

“Fenston?” said Anna. “How did he manage to escape when I left his office only a few minutes before the first plane hit the building?”

“He’d arrived on Wall Street by then—he had an appointment with a potential client, whose only asset was a Gauguin. So there was no way he was going to be late for that.”

“And Leapman?” asked Anna, as she took another sip of coffee.

“One step behind him as usual,” said Tina.

“So that’s why the elevator door was being held open.”

“The elevator door?” repeated Tina.

“It’s not important,” said Anna. “But why weren’t you at work this morning?”

“I had a dental appointment,” said Tina. “It had been on my calendar for weeks.” She paused and looked across the table. “The moment I heard the news I never stopped trying to call you on your cell, but all I got was a ringing tone. So where were you?”

“Being escorted off the premises,” said Anna.

“By a firefighter?” asked Tina.

“No,” replied Anna, “by that ape, Barry.”

“But why?” demanded Tina.

“Because Fenston had just fired me,” said Anna.

“Fired you?” said Tina in disbelief. “Why would he fire you, of all people?”