The orders bellowing from the megaphones were becoming louder and louder by the moment, and their demands even more strident. “Keep moving, get out of the building, get as far away as you possibly can.” Not that easy, Anna wanted to tell them. When she reached the turnstiles she’d passed through earlier that morning, she found them battered and twisted. They must have been brushed aside by wave after wave of firemen when they transported their heavy equipment into the building.
Anna felt disorientated and unsure what to do next. Should she wait for her colleagues to join her? She stood still, but only for a moment, before she heard another insistent command that she felt was being addressed directly at her. “Keep moving, lady, don’t use your cell phone, and don’t look back.”
“But where do we go?” someone shouted.
“Down the escalator, through the mall, and then get as far away from the building as possible.”
Anna joined the horde of tired savages as they stepped onto an overcrowded escalator. She allowed it to carry her down to the concourse before taking another escalator up to the open promenade, where she often joined Tina and Rebecca for an al fresco lunch while they enjoyed an open-air concert. No open air now, and certainly no calming sound of a violin—just another voice bellowing, “Don’t look back, don’t look back.” An order Anna disobeyed, which not only slowed her down, but also caused her to fall on her knees retching. She watched in disbelief as first one person then another, who must have been trapped above the ninetieth floor, jumped out of their office windows to a certain death rather than face the slow agony of burning. “Get back on your feet, lady, and keep movin’.”
Anna picked herself up and stumbled forward, suddenly aware that none of the officers in charge of the evacuation were making eye contact with those fleeing from the building or even attempting to answer any of their individual questions. She assumed this must be because it would only slow things down and impede the progress of those still trying to get out of the building.
When Anna passed Borders bookshop, she glanced in the window displaying the number-one bestseller, Valhalla Rising.
“Keep movin’, lady,” a voice repeated, even louder.
“Where to?” she asked desperately.
“Anywhere, hut just keep goin’.”
“In which direction?”
“I don’t care, as long as it’s as far away from the tower as possible.”
Anna spat out the last bits of vomit as she continued to move away from the building.
When she reached the entrance to the plaza, she came across fire trucks and ambulances that were tending to the walking wounded and those who just simply couldn’t manage another step. Anna didn’t waste their time. When she finally reached the road, she looked up to see a sign with an arrow covered in black grime. She could just make out the words CITY HALL. Anna began jogging for the first time. Her jog turned into a run and she started to overtake some of those who had departed earlier from the lower floors. And then she heard another unfamiliar noise behind her. It sounded like a clap of thunder that seemed to grow louder and louder by the second. She didn’t want to look back, but she did.
Anna stood transfixed as she watched the South Tower collapse in front of her eyes, as if it had been constructed of bamboo. In a matter of seconds, the remnants of the building came crashing to the ground, throwing up dust and debris that mushroomed into the sky, causing a dense mountain of flames and fumes that hovered for a moment, then began to advance indiscriminately through the crowded streets, engulfing anyone and everyone who stood in its way
Anna ran as she had never run before, but she knew it was hopeless. It could only be a matter of seconds before the gray, ruthless snake was upon her, suffocating all in its progress. Anna wasn’t in any doubt that she was about to die. She only hoped it would be quick.
Fenston stared across at the World Trade Center from the safety of an office on Wall Street.
He watched in disbelief as a second plane flew directly into the South Tower.
While most New Yorkers worried about how they could assist their friends, relations, and colleagues at this tragic time, and others what it meant for America, Fenston had only one thought on his mind.
He and Leapman had arrived on Wall Street for their meeting with a prospective client only moments before the first plane crashed into the North Tower. Fenston abandoned his appointment and spent the next hour on a public telephone in the corridor trying to contact someone, anyone, in his office, but no one responded to his calls. Others would have liked to use the phone, but Fenston didn’t budge. Leapman was carrying out the same exercise on his cell phone.
When Fenston heard a second volcanic eruption, he left the phone dangling and rushed to the window. Leapman walked quickly across to join him. They both stood in silence as they watched the South Tower collapse.
“It can’t be long before the North Tower goes the same way,” said Fenston.
“Then I think we can assume that Petrescu will not survive,” said Leapman, matter-of-factly.
“I don’t give a damn about Petrescu,” said Fenston. “If the North Tower goes, then I’ve lost my Monet, and it isn’t insured.”
12
ANNA BEGAN RUNNING flat out, more and more aware with each step she took that everything around her was becoming quieter. One by one the screams were dying, and she knew she had to be next. There no longer seemed to be anyone behind her, and for the first time in her life Anna wanted someone to overtake her, anyone, just so she didn’t feel like the last person on earth. She now understood what it must be like to be pursued by an avalanche at a speed ten times faster than any human could achieve. This particular avalanche was black.
Anna took deep breaths as she forced her body to achieve speeds that she had never experienced before. She lifted her white silk blouse—now black, sodden, and crumpled—and placed it over her mouth, just moments before she was overtaken by the relentless, all-enveloping gray cloud.
A whoosh of uncontrolled air hurled her forward and threw her onto the ground, but she still tried desperately to keep moving. She hadn’t managed more than a few feet before she began choking uncontrollably. She pushed forward for another yard, and then another, until her head suddenly bumped into something solid. Anna placed a hand on the surface of a wall and tried to feel her way along. But was she walking away from, or back into, the gray cloud? Ash, dirt, dust were in her mouth, eyes, ears, nose, and hair, and clinging to her skin. It felt as if she was about to be burned alive. Anna thought about the people she had seen jumping because they felt that must be an easier way to die. She now understood their feelings, but she had no building to jump from and could only wonder how much longer it would be before she suffocated. She took her last step, knelt down on the ground, and began to pray.
Our Father . . . She felt peaceful, and was about to close her eyes and give way to deep sleep when out of nowhere she saw a flashing police light. Who art in Heaven . . . She made one last effort to get back on her feet and move toward the blue light. Hallowed be thy name . . . but the car drifted past, unaware of her plaintive cry for help. Thy Kingdom come . . . Anna fell once again and cut her knee on the edge of the sidewalk, Thy will be done . . ., but felt nothing. On earth, as it is in Heaven. She clung to the edge of the sidewalk with her right hand and somehow managed a few more inches. She was about to stop breathing when she thought she touched something warm. Was it alive? “Help,” she murmured feebly, expecting no response.
“Give me your hand,” came back the immediate reply. His grip was firm. “Try and stand.”
With his help, Anna somehow pushed herself up. “Can you see that triangle of light coming from over there?” the voice said, but she couldn’t even see where he was pointing. Anna turned a complete circle and stared into 360 degrees of black night. Suddenly she let out a muffled yelp of joy when she spotted a ray of sunlight trying to break through the heavy overcoat of gloom. She took the stranger’s hand and they began inching toward a ligh
t that grew brighter and brighter with every step, until she finally walked out of hell and back into New York.
Anna turned to the gray ash-coated figure who had saved her life. His uniform was so covered in dirt and dust that if he hadn’t been wearing the familiar peaked cap and badge she wouldn’t have known that he was a cop. He smiled and cracks appeared on his face as if he was daubed in heavy makeup. “Keep heading toward the light,” he said, and disappeared back into the murky cloud before she could thank him. Amen.
Fenston gave up trying to contact his office only when he saw the North Tower collapse in front of his eyes. He replaced the receiver and rushed back down the unfamiliar corridor to find Leapman scrawling SOLD on a “To Rent” board that was attached to the door of an empty office.
“Tomorrow there will be ten thousand people after this space,” he explained, “so at least that’s one problem solved.”
“You may be able to replace an office, but what you can’t replace is my Monet,” Fenston said ungraciously. He paused. “And if I don’t get my hands on the Van Gogh . . .”
Leapman checked his watch. “It should be halfway across the Atlantic by now.”
“Let’s hope so, because we no longer have any documentation to prove we even own the painting,” said Fenston, as he looked out of the window and stared at a gray cloud that hung above the ground where the Twin Towers had once proudly stood.
Anna joined a group of fellow stragglers as they emerged out of the gloom. Her compatriots looked as if they’d already completed a marathon but hadn’t yet reached the finish line. Coming out of such darkness, Anna found she couldn’t bear to look up at the glaring sun; even opening her dust-covered eyelids demanded effort. On, on, she stumbled, inch by inch, foot by foot, coughing up dirt and dust with every step, wondering how much more black liquid there could possibly be left in her body. After a few more paces she collapsed onto her knees, convinced the gray cloud could no longer overtake her. She continued coughing, spitting, spitting, coughing. When Anna looked up, she became aware of a group of startled onlookers, who were staring at her as if she’d just landed from another planet.
“Were you in one of the towers?” asked one of them. She didn’t have the strength to answer and decided to get as far away from their gaping eyes as possible. Anna had only covered a few more paces before she bumped into a Japanese tourist who was bending down trying to take a photograph of her. She angrily waved him away. He immediately bowed even lower and apologized.
When Anna reached the next intersection, she collapsed on the sidewalk and stared up at the street sign—she was on the corner of Franklin and Church. I’m only a few blocks from Tina’s apartment, was her first thought. But as Tina was still somewhere behind her, how could she possibly have survived? Without warning, a bus came to a halt by her side. Although it was as full as a San Francisco tram car during rush hour, people edged back to allow her to clamber on. The bus stopped on the corner of every block, allowing some to jump off while others got on, with no suggestion of anyone paying a fare. It seemed that all New Yorkers were united in wanting to play some part in the unfolding drama.
“Oh, my God,” whispered Anna, as she sat on the bus and buried her head in her hands. For the first time she thought about the firemen who had passed her on the stairwell, and of Tina and Rebecca, who must be dead. It’s only when you know someone that a tragedy becomes more than a news item.
When the bus came to a halt in the Village near Washington Square Park, Anna almost fell off. She stumbled over to the sidewalk, coughing up several more mouthfuls of gray dust that she’d avoided bringing up while she was on the bus. A woman sat down on the curb beside her and offered her a bottle of water. Anna filled her mouth several times before spitting out dollops of black liquid. She emptied the bottle without swallowing a drop. The woman then pointed in the direction of a small hotel where escapees were trooping in and out in a steady stream. She bent down and took Anna by the arm, guiding her gently toward the ladies’ room on the ground floor. The room was full of men and women oblivious of their sex. Anna looked at herself in the mirror and understood why onlookers had stared at her so curiously. It was as if someone had poured several bags of gray ash all over her. She left her hands under a flowing tap until only her nails remained black. She then tried to remove a layer of the caked dust from her face—an almost pointless exercise. She turned to thank the stranger, but she, like the cop, had already disappeared to assist someone else.
Anna limped back onto the road, her throat dry, her knees cut, her feet blistered and aching. As she stumbled slowly up Waverly Place, she tried to remember the number of Tina’s apartment. She continued on past an uninhabited Waverly Diner before pausing outside number 273.
Anna grabbed at the familiar wrought-iron balustrade like a lifeline and yanked herself up the steps to the front door. She ran her finger down the list of names by the side of the buzzers: Amato, Kravits, Gambino, O’Rourke, Forster . . . Forster, Forster, she repeated joyfully, before pressing the little bell. But how could Tina answer her call, when she must be dead, was Anna’s only thought. She left her finger on the buzzer as if it would bring Tina to life, but it didn’t. She finally gave up and turned to leave, tears streaming down her dust-caked face, when out of nowhere an irate voice demanded, “Who is it?”
Anna collapsed onto the top step.
“Oh, thank God,” she cried, “you’re alive, you’re alive.”
“But you can’t be,” said a disbelieving voice.
“Open the door,” pleaded Anna, “and you can see for yourself.”
The click of the entry button was the best sound Anna had heard that day.
13
“YOU’RE ALIVE,” REPEATED Tina, as she flung open the front door and threw her arms around her friend. Anna may have resembled a street urchin who had just climbed out of a Victorian chimney, but it didn’t prevent Tina from clinging to her.
“I was thinking about how you could always make me laugh, and wondering if I’d ever laugh again, when the buzzer sounded.”
“And I was convinced that even if you’d somehow managed to get out of the building, you still couldn’t have survived once the tower collapsed.”
“If I had a bottle of champagne, I’d open it so that we could celebrate,” said Tina, finally letting go of her friend.
“I’ll settle for a coffee, and then another coffee, followed by a bath.”
“I do have coffee,” said Tina, who took Anna by the hand and led her through to the small kitchen at the end of the corridor. Anna left a set of gray footprints on the carpet behind her.
Anna sat down at a small, round, wooden table and kept her hands in her lap, while a soundless television was showing images of the other side of the story. She tried to stay still, aware that anything she touched was immediately smeared with ash and dirt. Tina didn’t seem to notice.
“I know this may sound a little strange,” said Anna, “but I haven’t a clue what’s going on.”
Tina turned up the sound on the television.
“Fifteen minutes of that,” Tina said as she filled the coffeepot, “and you’ll know everything.”
Anna watched the endless replays of a plane flying into the South Tower, people throwing themselves from the higher floors to a certain death, and the collapse of first the South and then the North Tower.
“And another plane hit the Pentagon?” she asked. “So how many more are out there?”
“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 . . .”
False Impression Page 6
