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.