Jeffrey Archer - False Impression

Anna took a break just after eight and began flicking through the TV channels. There was only one story. She found that she couldn’t go on watching endless reports without continually being reminded of her own small walk-off part in this two-act drama. She was about to turn off the television when it was announced that President Bush would address the nation. “Good evening. Today, our fellow citizens...” Anna listened intently, and nodded when the president said, “The victims were in airplanes, or in their offices; secretaries, businessmen and women...” Anna once again thought about Rebecca. “None of us will ever forget this day...,” the president concluded, and Anna felt able to agree with him. She switched off the television as the South Tower came crashing down again, like the climax of a disaster movie.

Anna sat back down and stared at the map on the kitchen table. She double-checked — or was it triple-? — her route out of New York. She was writing detailed notes of everything that needed to be done before she left in the morning when the front door burst open and Tina staggered in — a laptop over one shoulder, dragging a bulky case behind her. Anna ran out into the corridor to welcome her back. She looked exhausted.

“Sorry to have taken so long, honey,” said Tina, as she dumped the luggage in the hallway and walked down the freshly vacuumed corridor and into the kitchen. “Not many busses going in my direction,” she added, “especially when you’ve left your money behind,” she added, as she collapsed into a kitchen chair. “I’m afraid I had to break into your five hundred dollars, otherwise I wouldn’t have been back until after midnight.”

Anna laughed. “My turn to make you coffee,” she suggested.

“I was only stopped once,” continued Tina, “by a very friendly policeman who checked through your luggage and accepted that I’d been sent back from the airport after being unable to board a flight. I was even able to produce your ticket.”

“Any trouble at the apartment?” asked Anna, as she filled the coffeepot for a third time.

“Only having to comfort Sam, who obviously adores you. He looked as if he’d been crying for hours. I didn’t even have to mention David Sullivan, because all Sam wanted to do was talk about you. By the time I got into the elevator, he didn’t seem to care where I was going.” Tina stared around the kitchen. She hadn’t seen it so clean since she’d moved in. “So have you come up with a plan?” she asked, looking down at the map that was spread across the kitchen table.

“Yes,” said Anna. “It seems my best bet will be the ferry to New Jersey and then to rent a car, because according to the latest news all the tunnels and bridges are closed. Although it’s over four hundred miles to the Canadian border, I can’t see why I shouldn’t make Toronto airport by tomorrow night, in which case I could be in London the following morning.”

“Do you know what time the first ferry sails in the morning?” asked Tina.

“In theory, it’s a nonstop service,” said Anna, “but in practice, every fifteen minutes after five o’clock. But who knows if they’ll be running at all tomorrow, let alone keeping to a schedule.”

“Either way,” said Tina, “I suggest you have an early night, and try to snatch some sleep. I’ll set my alarm for four thirty.”

“Four,” said Anna. “If the ferry is ready to depart at five, I want to be first in line. I suspect getting out of New York may well prove the most difficult part of the journey.”

“Then you’d better have the bedroom,” said Tina with a smile, “and I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“No way,” said Anna, as she poured her friend a fresh mug of coffee. “You’ve done more than enough already.”

“Not nearly enough,” said Tina.

“If Fenston ever found out what you were up to,” said Anna quietly, “he’d fire you on the spot.”

“That would be the least of my problems,” Tina responded without explanation.

Jack yawned involuntarily. It had been a long day, and he had a feeling that it was going to be an even longer night.

No one on his team had considered going home, and they were all beginning to look, and sound, exhausted. The telephone on his desk rang.

“Just thought I ought to let you know, boss,” said Joe, “that Tina Forster, Fenston’s secretary, turned up at Thornton House a couple of hours ago. Forty minutes later she came out carrying a suitcase and a laptop, which she took back to her place.”

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?”

“I 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.

During 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 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”