False Impression

“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.”

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.