RUTH PARISH PICKED up her outside line.
“Hi, Ruth,” said a familiar voice, about to deliver an unfamiliar message. “It’s Ken Lane over at United, just to let you know that our flight 107, bound for New York, has been ordered to turn back, and we’re expecting it to touch down at Heathrow in about an hour.”
“But why?” asked Ruth.
“Details are a bit sketchy at the moment,” Ken admitted, “but reports coming out of JFK suggest there’s been a terrorist attack on the Twin Towers. All U.S. airports have been ordered to ground their planes, and won’t be allowing any incoming flights until further notice.”
“When did all this happen?”
“Around one thirty our time. You must have been at lunch. You can get an update on any news station. They’re all carrying it.”
Ruth picked up the remote control from her desk and pointed it toward the TV screen.
“Will you be putting the Van Gogh in storage?” asked Ken, “or do you want us to return it to Wentworth Hall?”
“It certainly won’t be going back to Wentworth,” said Ruth. “I’ll lock the painting up in one of our customs-free zones overnight and then put it on the first available flight to New York once JFK lifts the restrictions.” Ruth paused. “Will you confirm an ETA about thirty minutes before your plane is due to touch down so I can have one of my trucks standing by?”
“Will do,” said Ken.
Ruth replaced the receiver and glanced up at the TV. She tapped out the number 501 on her remote control. The first image she saw was a plane flying into the South Tower.
Now she understood why Anna hadn’t returned her call.
As Anna dried herself, she began to speculate on what possible reason Tina could have to go on working for Fenston. She found herself shaking her head. After all, Tina was bright enough to pick up a far better job.
She pulled on her friend’s bathrobe and slippers, placed the key on its chain back around her neck and put on her one-time watch. She looked at herself in the mirror; the outward façade had considerably improved, but Anna still felt queasy whenever she thought about what she had been through only a few hours before. She wondered for how many days, months, years it would be a recurring nightmare.
She opened the bathroom door and maneuvered her way down the corridor, avoiding the ashy footprints she’d left on the carpet. When she walked into the kitchen, Tina stopped laying the table and handed over her cell phone.
“Time to call Victoria and warn her what you’re up to.”
“What am I up to?” asked Anna.
“For starters, ask her if she knows where the Van Gogh is.”
“Locked up in a customs-free zone at Heathrow would be my bet, but there’s only one way to find out.” Anna dialed 00.
“International operator.”
“I need a number in England,” said Anna.
“Business or residential?”
“Residential.”
“Name?”
“Wentworth, Victoria.”
“Address?”
“Wentworth Hall, Wentworth, Surrey.”
There was a long silence before Anna was informed, “I’m sorry, ma’am, that number is ex-directory.”
“What does that mean?” asked Anna.
“I can’t give out the number.”
“But this is an emergency,” insisted Anna.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but I still can’t release that number.”
“But I’m a close personal friend.”
“I don’t care if you’re the Queen of England, I repeat, I’m unable to give out that number.” The line went dead. Anna frowned.
“So what’s plan B?” asked Tina.
“No choice but to get myself to England somehow and try to see Victoria so I can warn her what Fenston’s up to.”
“Good. Then the next thing to decide is which border you’re going to cross.”
“What chance have I got of crossing any border, when I can’t even go back to my apartment and pick up my things—unless I want the whole world to know I’m alive and kicking.”
“There’s nothing to stop me going to your place,” said Tina. “Tell me what you want and I can pack a bag and—”
“No need to pack,” said Anna. “Everything I want is ready and waiting in the hallway—don’t forget I was expecting to fly to London this evening.”
“Then all I need is the key to your apartment,” said Tina.
Anna unclasped the chain round her neck and handed over her key. “How do I get past the doorman?” asked Tina. “He’s bound to ask who I’ve come to see.”
“That won’t be a problem,” said Anna. “His name is Sam. Tell him you’re visiting David Sullivan and he’ll just smile and call for the elevator.”
“Who’s David Sullivan?” asked Tina.
“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.