New York

  So she was happy. She was wearing a dress that looked both pretty and businesslike. Get them both ways.

  Her fiancé Rick was driving. As they came over the George Washington Bridge, she could look both upriver past the Palisades, and down to the distant, glimmering waters of New York harbor. It was so beautiful.

  As they came down the Henry Hudson Parkway alongside the river, she gazed at the water. They passed the yacht basin at Seventy-ninth Street, and in the low Fifties, they reached the big piers where the Cunard liners still came in.

  On the left, big warehouse-like buildings prevailed. Katie knew enough of Theodore Keller’s work to realize that down here somewhere he must have taken the famous shot of the men walking up the railroad tracks.

  The traffic wasn’t too bad, and soon the towers of the World Trade Center were looming impressively ahead.

  Katie Keller loved those towers. She knew that when they first went up, thirty years ago, some people had said they were architecturally dull. But she didn’t find them dull. Some of the gleaming glass rectangles that had started up since might be a little glitzy and lacking in character, but the towers were different. The broad horizontal bands softly divided their sheer verticality into sections that, strangely, gave them a tall intimacy. And the thin, silver-gray, vertical lines that ran down each face caught the altering light of the sky so that the towers’ faces were as constantly changing as the wide waters of the harbor and the great northerly Hudson below. Sometimes they were gleaming softly silver, sometimes they were granular gray. Once in a while, even, for haunting moments, a corner would flash like a sword, as its long blade caught the bright arc of the sun.

  She loved the way that, when you walked in Soho, they hovered over the line of the rooftops, graceful as the towers of a cathedral.

  The World Financial Center was approaching on their right, and Liberty Street was just ahead. Rick slowed the car to drop her off.

  At 6:45 that morning, Gorham went into the living room. Spreading some wrapping paper on the floor, he carefully took the Motherwell drawing down from the wall, folded the paper around it, and taped it. Maggie was still in the shower. He wondered whether she’d notice it was gone before she left for the office. She mightn’t be very pleased, but that was too bad. The drawing really didn’t belong to them. Putting it under his arm, he left the building.

  Sarah Adler was already waiting for him at the Regency, and they went straight into breakfast. She was looking very fresh and businesslike, wearing a cream-colored coat and skirt outfit, very simple and elegant, and carrying a briefcase.

  She was going to see a small finance house, she explained, that wanted to start an art collection they could display on their office walls. Before considering the deal, she had to take a look at the space, and the partners.

  “What will you be looking for?” he asked.

  “Whether they are good enough for my artists,” she answered firmly.

  When he handed over the parcel and confessed with some embarrassment that the Motherwell had been gracing his living-room wall for more than thirty years, she was greatly amused.

  “Of course you didn’t want to part with it,” she said. “I’m so glad that you liked it too. Did you know that it was I who gave it to your father originally?”

  No, he admitted, he did not.

  “And you know nothing about my relationship with your father?”

  Again, he had to admit his ignorance.

  “Do you remember the girl from Brooklyn in his book, Verrazano Narrows?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Well, that was me.”

  It did not take Sarah long to tell him the story. “I’ve never told my husband. I have had a very happy marriage, but every woman likes to have her secrets. And then, after the book became so famous, I didn’t want my husband’s patients saying, ‘Oh, his wife is the girl in that book.’ Not in those days, anyway. Your father was very discreet, also. He was a good man.”

  “It seemed from the book that you were very close.”

  “He wanted to marry me, and I nearly accepted. I would have been your stepmother. What do you think of that?”

  “I think it would have been wonderful.”

  “Maybe. It was difficult in those days.” She looked thoughtful. “Your father was a remarkable man, in his way. For someone like Charlie to want to marry a girl from Brooklyn, from a family of Conservative Jews, even, in those days … Charlie was a man of large mind.”

  “I guess he was. I loved my father, but I suppose I was a little disappointed as well. I think he might have made more of his life. Perhaps if he’d married you he would have.”

  “Who can say?” Sarah Adler shrugged. “I have lived too long to believe you can predict what people will do. But your father’s book will be read for a long time. He will be remembered. Do we remember any of your other ancestors?”

  “Maybe not.”

  “You look like him, you know. You remind me of him.”

  “I think we’re very different.”

  Sarah Adler reached down to her briefcase. She opened it and took something out.

  “Do you know what this is?” she asked. “Looks like an Indian belt of some kind.”

  “It is. A wampum belt.” She spread it out. “Look at the design. Isn’t it wonderful?” She gazed at it. “The design says something, of course—though we don’t know what—but it’s also a piece of pure abstract art. This was an heirloom in your family, you know. Yet Charlie gave it to me. He had it framed, but the frame’s rather big, so I took it out to bring you this morning. I think you should have it.”

  “I couldn’t take it from you—it must have such memories.”

  “It has, but I’d like you to have it. I’m returning it to the family, just as you are returning the drawing.” She smiled. “The cycle is complete.”

  Gorham said nothing. He suddenly thought of the gap on the living-room wall where the Motherwell had been, and wondered if the wampum belt would go there. He didn’t think so. Then it occurred to him that if his marriage fell apart, perhaps he wouldn’t be seeing so much of that living-room wall anyway.

  Sarah Adler was looking at Gorham carefully.

  “You don’t look happy. Something in your life is troubling you.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Would you like to tell me? After all, I was almost your stepmother.”

  Gorham supposed that if he was going to share the information with anyone, this clever older woman who’d loved his father was probably as good a person as he’d ever find. It didn’t take him long to relate what had happened. After he had finished, Sarah was silent for a minute. Then she smiled at him.

  “So,” she said gently, “I see that Charlie failed.”

  “I always felt that, but I thought you told me he succeeded.”

  “No, I don’t mean that Charlie failed to be a banker, or whatever you think he should have been. I mean that he failed to teach you anything.” She sighed. “All those weekends he used to take you from Staten Island and show you New York. All that effort, and you never learned anything about the city at all. That’s sad. Poor Charlie.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “All the richness of this city. All the life. The newspapers, the theaters, the galleries, the jazz, the businesses and activities of every kind. There’s almost nothing you can’t find in New York, and he wanted to introduce you to all of it. People come here from all over the world, there are communities and cultures of every kind, and you want none of it, except one little thing. To run a bank. That’s not so interesting.”

  “I guess I’ve always wanted the financial success you find in New York. That’s a powerful thing.”

  “You know there has been a dot.com boom—except that it’s turning out to be a bubble.”

  “Probably.”

  “Don’t you know that there’s another bubble as well? An expectations bubble. Bigger houses, private planes, yachts … stupid salaries and bonuses. People come to de
sire these things and expect them. But the expectations bubble will burst as well, as all bubbles do.”

  “Then you won’t be able to sell the big Picassos.”

  “Come to my gallery and I will sell you beautiful things at a more reasonable price. But the point is that they will have value. Things of real beauty, things of the spirit. That is art. New York is full of people like me, and you have missed us. You see only dollars.”

  “When I was a boy,” said Gorham, “my grandmother gave me a silver dollar. I guess for me that was a symbol of all the family had been, when we had money. I keep it with me to this day, in my pocket, just to remind me what I come from. The old Master family, before my father’s aberration. I suppose you think it foolish, but I feel as if my grandmother was passing that on to me, like a talisman.”

  “Really? That would be a Morgan dollar, I believe.”

  “Yes. But how did you know?”

  “Because I was seeing your father at the time, and he told me about it. Your grandmother wanted to give you something and she asked Charlie for advice. So he gave her the dollar, which he’d bought from a collector, so that she could give it to you. Your silver dollar actually came from Charlie. The rest is your own construction.”

  Gorham was silent for several moments, then he shook his head. “You’re telling me I’m deluded.”

  “People come to New York to be free, but you have constructed a prison for yourself.” She sighed. “I loved your father, Gorham, but I’m glad I married my husband. And do you know how we’ve built up our marriage? Layer upon layer. Shared experience, children, loyalty. Layer upon layer. Until we have something of more value than anything I can imagine. And we’ve tried to pass that on to our children. That’s all parents can do—try to teach their children how to live. I don’t think you’re doing that by going to Boston.” She looked at her watch. “I have to go.”

  “I guess I do, too.”

  Sarah Adler stood up. “I’ve given you a lecture. Now I’ll give you a present. I know you like it. I gave it to your father once, now I’m giving it to you.” She handed him the Motherwell drawing. “Please go back to your family and have a good life, Gorham. That would make me very happy.” She gave him a quick smile. “I’ll let you pay for the breakfast.”

  Then she was moving swiftly away.

  He was just waiting for the check when an idea occurred to him. He hurried out of the dining room.

  Sarah Adler was just about to step into a taxi on Park when he caught up with her.

  “I want to give you something too.” He handed her the wampum belt. “My father would have wanted you to keep it—I know he would—but you can consider it a present from me.”

  “Well, thank you.” She fixed her eyes on his. “Think about what I said.” Then, with a mischievous smile, she put it round her waist and tied it. “How do I look?”

  “Adorable.”

  “Well, then I guess I am.” She got into the taxi, and it moved away, as he turned back inside to pay the check.

  “Where to?” the driver asked Sarah Adler, as the taxi started down Park.

  “World Trade Center,” she replied.

  Gorham sat for several minutes alone at their table. He pondered what to do. He glanced at his watch. If he was going to turn up for the meeting at the headhunter’s, he’d better get going. With the drawing under his arm, he went out onto Park, and moments later, he was being driven south.

  It was an easy ride down FDR Drive. The taxi rounded the bulge of the Lower East Side by the Williamsburg Bridge. Manhattan Bridge came next, then the Brooklyn Bridge, and just after that, the South Street Seaport on the waterfront.

  That was where he made his decision. As the taxi came onto South Street and made a right onto Whitehall, he took out his cellphone. He wouldn’t be going to the meeting.

  He didn’t feel like going straight back to his office. He got out of the taxi and decided to call Maggie.

  At approximately 7:59 on the morning of September 11, 2001, American Airlines Flight 11 from Boston to Los Angeles had taken off from Logan International Airport. The plane was a Boeing 767, with ninety-two people on board, including crew. Soon after 8:16, the plane, flying at 29,000 feet, deviated from its scheduled course and failed to respond to repeated calls from Boston Air Traffic Control. For a time, its whereabouts were unclear.

  At 8:26 the plane turned south. By now BATC had heard the leading hijacker giving instructions to the passengers. At 8:37 the plane was spotted. It was flying south approximately along the line of the Hudson River. NORAD was informed and two F-15 fighters were prepared for take-off from the Otis base in Massachusetts.

  At 8:43 the plane made a final turn toward Manhattan.

  Very few people noticed the plane as it approached the city. For a start, there wasn’t much time. Initially, the sight of a plane flying low toward Manhattan would not have seemed so strange. Plenty of planes, if not on quite this flight path, came in low over the city as they approached nearby La Guardia. As it passed over the city, few people in the narrow canyons of the streets would even have seen it. Those on the waterfront, or across the river in New Jersey, did see it, however. Though it did not seem out of control, it was now far too low. Some witnesses thought the pilot must be in trouble and was maybe hoping to crash-land in the Hudson.

  Only at the last moment did the plane level out, appear to accelerate, and head straight for the northern face of the World Trade Center Number 1 Tower. It did not occur to people that this extraordinary flight path was deliberately chosen.

  At 8.46 the plane smashed into the side of the North Tower just above the ninety-third floor and embedded itself deep into the building with a huge explosion. It was traveling at 404 knots and carried 10,000 gallons of fuel.

  At 8:35, Dr. Caruso had been ushered into the office. It was only in the twenties in the South Tower, but the view over the water was splendid. The insurance agent, Doug, an old friend, had told him he’d join him in a minute. Standing at the window, Caruso had glanced up.

  The North Tower loomed just a short distance away. At the top of that tower, on the 106th and 107th floors, was the Windows on the World restaurant. It was a splendid establishment, and the highest grossing restaurant in the USA. When friends from outside the city came to visit New York, he liked to take them there. He probably did this a couple of times a year. And he never tired of it. You could walk round the bar area and look out over Brooklyn on one side, New Jersey the other, north up the Hudson or south across the harbor. You could see for twenty miles. Sometimes, low clouds even passed below you, cutting off sections of the city like a thin veil. He smiled.

  Doug hurried into the room, apologizing for keeping him waiting.

  “I’ve got a bunch of stuff for you to look at,” he said with a grin. “Then I’ll tell you what I think you ought to do.”

  “Great,” said Dr. Caruso as he sat down. “Let me make a suggestion. Why don’t you tell me what to do first? Then after I’ve got the diagnosis, I’ll look at the patient.”

  “Sounds good to me.” And he launched into a quick appraisal of Caruso’s life expectancy, from an actuarial point of view, and what that meant for his future premiums. Then he launched into a disquisition about how Caruso could save money—in the long run.

  He’d just got going with his proposal, when he started, glanced up at the North Tower and then stared.

  “What the hell is that?” he said.

  “Ms. O’Donnell’s office.”

  “This is her husband. Is she there?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Master. She’s away at a meeting. You could try her cell, but she probably has it switched off just now. Is there a message?”

  “Tell her I’ll call later. Actually, tell her that I decided not to go to Boston. She’ll understand.”

  He hung up. And he was just wondering whether to walk a few blocks before heading back to his office, when an extraordinary sound caused him to look up. High in the World Trade Center’s North Tower, a h
uge fire had just broken out, and smoke was billowing from it.

  “What happened?” he asked a man standing nearby.

  “Looks like a bomb,” said the man.

  “A plane went smack into it,” said a young woman. “I saw it. Must’ve gone out of control.”

  “They say we have to evacuate,” said Doug. “I don’t know why. The fire’s in the other building.”

  They went out toward the elevators. There was a crowd of people waiting by them already.

  “Want to take the stairs?” asked Caruso.

  “Twenty and some floors?” said Doug. “Not much.”

  “I guess we’d better be patient then,” said Caruso. “Can we finish this meeting on the sidewalk?”

  “I can finish a meeting in any space known to man,” said Doug, “including numerous bars. But I’d prefer my office.”

  The elevators were all full. “I can’t believe this is necessary,” somebody said.

  A couple of minutes later, a receptionist came out from a neighboring office.

  “They just called to say we don’t need to evacuate,” she announced. “The building’s fine. The building’s secure. You can all get back to work.”

  With a collective sigh, everyone started to file back to their offices.

  “Okay,” said Doug, when they reached his office again, “let’s get back to your life.”

  Gorham was still watching the fire in the North Tower when the second plane struck. A bang like a thunderclap came from the far corner of the building, high, maybe eighty floors up. At almost the same instant, a huge fireball burst out of the side of the building far above. Thinking quickly, Gorham hurled himself toward an entrance to avoid any falling debris.

  He heard screams of fear. People who’d started evacuating the building earlier were coming out of one of the elevators. He was thinking hard.

  This couldn’t be an accident. Two coincidences like that? Impossible. Carefully, he stepped away from the entrance. Black smoke and flame were billowing from both buildings, making blood-colored, oily clouds against the pale blue sky.