Jeffrey Archer - False Impression

“He’s got an apartment on the fourth floor and rarely entertains the same girl twice. He pays Sam a few dollars every week to keep them all blissfully unaware that they are not the only woman in his life.”

“But that doesn’t solve the cash problem,” said Tina. “Don’t forget you lost your wallet and credit card in the crash, and all I have to my name is about seventy dollars.”

“I took three thousand dollars out of my account yesterday,” said Anna. “Whenever you’re moving a valuable painting, you can’t risk any holdups, so you have to be prepared to take care of the odd baggage handler along the way. I’ve also got another five hundred in the drawer by the side of my bed.”

“And you’ll need to take my watch,” said Tina.

Anna took off her watch and swapped it with Tina’s.

Tina studied Anna’s watch more closely. “You’re never going to be allowed to forget what time it was when that plane flew into the building,” she said, as the microwave beeped.

“This may well be inedible,” Tina warned her, as she served up a dish of yesterday’s chicken chow mein and egg fried rice. Between mouthfuls, the two of them considered the alternatives for getting out of the city and which border would be safest to cross.

By the time they had devoured every last scrap of leftovers along with another pot of coffee, they had gone over all the possible routes out of Manhattan, although Anna still hadn’t settled on whether she should head north or south. Tina placed the plates in the sink and said, “Why don’t you decide on which direction you think would be quickest, while I try to get myself uptown and in and out of your apartment without Sam becoming suspicious.”

Anna hugged her friend again. “Be warned,” she said, “it’s hell on earth out there.”

Tina stood on the top step of her apartment building and waited for a few moments. Something felt wrong. And then she realized what it was. New York had changed over a day.

The streets were no longer full of bustling, haven’t-got-time-to-stop-and-chat people, who made up the most energetic mass on earth. It felt more like a Sunday to Tina. But not even Sunday. People stood and stared in the direction of the World Trade Center. The only background music was the noise of perpetual sirens, which continually reminded the indigenous population — if they needed reminding — that what they had been watching on television in their homes, clubs, bars, even shop windows, was taking place just a few blocks away.

Tina walked down the road in search of a taxi, but the familiar yellow cabs had been replaced by the red, white, and blue of fire engines, ambulances, and police cars, all heading in one direction. Little clusters of citizens gathered on street corners to applaud the three different services as they raced by, as if they were young recruits leaving their homeland to fight a foreign foe. You no longer have to travel abroad to do that, thought Tina.

Tina walked on and on, block after block, aware that just like the weekend, commuters had fled to the hills, leaving the locals to man the pumps. But now there was another unfamiliar group roaming around the city in a daze. New York had, over the past century, absorbed citizens from every nation on earth, and now they were adding another race to their number. This most recent group of immigrants looked as if they had arrived from the bowels of the earth, and like any new race could be distinguished by their color — ash gray. They roamed around Manhattan, like marathon runners limping home hours after the more serious competitors had departed from the scene. But there was an even more visual reminder for anyone who looked up that autumn evening. The New York skyline was no longer dominated by its proud, gleaming skyscrapers because they were overshadowed by a dense, gray haze that hung above the city like an unwelcome visitor. Occasionally there were breaks in the ungodly cloud, when Tina noticed for the first time shards of jagged metal sticking out of the ground — all that was left of one of the tallest buildings in the world. The dentist had saved her life.

Tina walked past empty shops and restaurants in a city that never closed. New York would recover but would never be the same again. Terrorists were people who lived in far-off lands: the Middle East, Palestine, Israel, even Spain, Germany, and Northern Ireland. She looked back at the cloud. They had taken up residence in Manhattan and left their calling card.

Tina once again waved unhopefully at the rare sight of a passing taxi. It screeched to a halt.

Anna strolled back into the kitchen and began washing the dishes. She was keeping herself occupied in the hope that her mind wouldn’t continually return to those faces coming up the stairs, faces she feared would remain etched on her memory for the rest of her life. She had discovered a downside to her unusual gift.

She tried to think about Victoria Wentworth instead, and how she might stop Fenston from ruining someone else’s life. Would Victoria believe that Anna hadn’t known Fenston always planned to steal the Van Gogh and bleed her dry? Why should she, when Anna was a member of the board and had been fooled so easily herself?

Anna left the kitchen in search of a map. She found a couple on a bookshelf in the front room above Tina’s desk: a copy of Streetwise Manhattan and The Columbia Gazetteer of North America , propped up against the recent bestseller on John Adams, second president of the United States. She paused to admire the Rothko poster on the wall opposite the bookshelf — not her period, but she knew he must be one of Tina’s favorite artists, because she also had another in her office. No longer, thought Anna, her mind switching back to the present. She returned to the kitchen and laid the map of New York out on the table.

Once she’d decided on a route out of Manhattan, Anna folded up the map and turned her attention to the larger volume. She hoped that it would help her make up her mind which border to cross.

Anna looked up Mexico and Canada in the index, and then began making copious notes as if she was preparing a report for the board to consider; she usually suggested two alternatives, but always ended her reports with a firm recommendation. When she finally closed the cover on the thick, blue book, Anna wasn’t in any doubt in which direction she had to go if she hoped to reach England in time.

Tina spent the cab journey to Thornton House considering how she would get into Anna’s apartment and leave with her luggage without the doorman becoming suspicious. As the cab drew up outside the building, Tina moved a hand to her jacket pocket. She wasn’t wearing a jacket. She turned scarlet. She’d left the apartment without any money. Tina stared at the driver’s identity information on the back of the front seat: Abdul Affridi — worry beads dangling from the rearview mirror. He glanced around, but didn’t smile. No one was smiling today.

“I’ve come out without any money,” Tina blurted, and then waited for a string of expletives to follow.

“No problem,” muttered the driver, who jumped out of his cab to open the door for her. Everything had changed in New York.

Tina thanked him and walked nervously toward the entrance door, her opening line well prepared. The script changed the moment she saw Sam seated behind the counter, head in hands, sobbing.

“What’s the matter?” Tina asked. “Did you know someone in the World Trade Center?”

Sam looked up. On the desk in front of him was a photo of Anna running in the marathon. “She hasn’t come home,” he said. “All my others who worked at the WTC returned hours ago.”

Tina put her arms round the old man. Yet another victim. How much she wanted to tell him Anna was alive and well. But not today.