False Impression (12 page)

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?’

1
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.

D
uring 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 cellphone, 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 am, 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 grey 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 queuing 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 licence. 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 die
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 travelling 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 queue waiting patiently to
board a 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 queue. She took off her
baseball cap to reveal her long fair hair and cream skin.

“Why are you
going to New Jersey?’ enquired 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 grey 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 honour 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
C
anada,’
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.’

‘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 counter top, 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 queue of customers waiting in line behind
her, all no doubt willing her to say no. Hank placed a form in triplicate on
the counter top and began filling in the little boxes. Anna pushed across her
driver’s licence, 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 swivelled the form round for her signature.

That’ll be sixty
dollars, and I’ll need a two-hundred-dollar deposit.’

Anna frowned,
and handed over two hundred and sixty dollars.

‘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 milometer 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 400 miles might
well finish it off. She wondered if the vehicle was even worth three hundred
and sixty dollars.