False Impression by Jeffrey Archer Page A

and keep moving,’ said an authoritative voice from somewhere below her.
Although the instruction became louder with each step she took, it was still
several more floors before she spotted the first fireman heading slowly towards
her.
    He was wearing a
baggy fireproof suit and sweating profusely under his black helmet emblazoned
with the number 28. Anna could only wonder what state he’d be in after he’d
climbed another thirty floors. He also appeared to be overloaded with equipment:
coiled ropes over one shoulder and two oxygen tanks on his back, like a
mountaineer trying to conquer Everest. Another fireman followed closely behind,
carrying a vast length of hose, six pole arms and a large bottle of drinking
water. He was dripping so much sweat that from time to time he removed his
helmet and poured some of the drinking water over his head.
    Those who
continued to leave their offices and join Anna in her downward migration were
mostly silent, until an old man in front of her tripped and fell on a woman.
The woman cut her leg on the sharp edge of the step and began to scream at the
old man.
    ‘Get on with
it,’ said a voice behind her. ‘I made this journey after the ‘93 bombing, and I
can tell you, lady, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet .’
    Anna leant
forward to help the old man to his feet, hindering her own progress, while
allowing others to scramble past her.
    Whenever she
reached a new stairwell, Anna stared through the vast panes of glass at workers
who remained at their desks, apparently oblivious of those fleeing in front of
their eyes. She even overheard snatches of conversation through the open doors.
    One of them, a
broker on the sixty-second floor, was trying to close a deal before the markets
opened at nine o’clock. Another was staring out at her, as if the pane of glass
was a television screen and he was reporting on a football game. He was giving
a running commentary over the phone to a friend in the South Tower.
    More and more
firemen were now climbing towards her, turning the highway into two-way
traffic, their constant cry: ‘Get to the right, keep moving.’ Anna kept moving,
her speed often dictated by the slowest participant. Although
the building had stopped swaying, tension and fear could still be seen on the
faces of all those around her. They didn’t know what had happened above
them, and had no idea what awaited them below. Anna felt guilty as she passed
an old woman who was being carried down in a large leather chair by two young
men, her legs swollen, her breathing uneven.
    On, on, on, Anna
went, floor after floor, until even she began to] feel tired.
    She thought
about Rebecca and Tina, and prayed they were both safe. She even wondered if
Fenston and Leapman were still sitting in the chairman’s office, believing themselves impervious to any danger.
    Anna began to
feel confident that she was now safe and would eventually wake up from this
nightmare. She even smiled at some of the New York humour that was bouncing
around her, until she heard a voice behind her scream.
    ‘A second plane
has hit the South Tower.’

11
    J ack was appalled
by his first reaction when he heard what sounded like a bomb exploding on the
other side of the road. Sally had rushed in to tell him that a plane had
crashed into the North Tower of the World Trade Center.
    ‘Let’s hope it
scored a direct hit on Fenston’s office,’ he said.
    His second
thoughts were a little more professional, as expressed when he joined Dick
Macy, the Supervising Special Agent, along with the rest of the senior agents
in the command centre. While other agents hit the phones in an attempt to make
some sense of what was happening less than a mile away, Jack told the SSA that
he was in no doubt that it was a well-planned act of terrorism.
    When a second
plane crashed into the South Tower at 9.03 am, all Macy said was, ‘Yes, but
which terrorist organization?’
    Jack’s third
reaction was delayed, and it took him by surprise.
    He