Darkroom (16 page)

“Science, medication, it’s all good, but when a person’s time is up, it’s just up.”

“No, Suzanne. We make our own destiny.”

“To an extent. But life and death aren’t meant for our hands. We do our best to be good stewards, but in the end, they’re not ours to manipulate.”

“You sound like one of those pro-lifers.”

“Maybe I’ve changed my views.”

“Since when?”

“I just don’t want you to put so much of yourself into things that, in the end, aren’t yours to control.”

But hadn’t I always held life and death in my hands? Every time I picked up a freaking M-16 in Nam I was saving lives, even if it meant taking some to do so. And as a district attorney, hadn’t I brought justice to those who deserved it? Healing to those victims of rapists, families of murder victims? The whole reason I went into public service was to take control of life and death.

If not my hands, then whose? And as the chairman of the Investigations Subcommittee of the Senate Committee on Homeland Security, how many terrorist attacks have I already prevented? How many do I curtail every day? How many people’s lives are in my hands and they don’t even know it?

“I disagree. If you don’t take control of your life, you’re basically handing it over to someone else.”

“It’s my life.”

“I don’t want to argue, hon. Just take your meds, and we’ll talk about it next time I’m back.”

“Rick, listen to yourself. Don’t you see what you’re doing?”

“I have no idea what you mean.”

“How long are you going to blame yourself for Deanna? It wasn’t your fault.”

“Hon, please.”

“You’ve skirted this for too long. It’s clouding your judgment now. There was nothing you could have done.”

“I panicked. I hesitated. In those ten seconds of indecision, I could have saved her.”

“You were only ten.”

“I was a coward.” The river Deanna had dared me to steal away to with her had become white rapids. Neither I nor my twin sister had realized how dangerous it was. But she had to go and taunt me about my fear of water. In the end, I was too petrified to make the decision in time. To grab her outstretched hand. I had to run back to the campsite to tell Momma and Pa that Deanna was gone. “I will never waver on a tough decision again, no matter what.”

“Even if it’s not yours to make?”

“Come on, Suzie!” I want to tell her,
“I’m seeing to it that all the decisions are mine to make,”
but realize just how crazed that would sound coming out of my mouth.

She’s quiet. She knows. We’ll never see the end of this argument. After a short pause: “The boys came home early for Thanksgiving.”

“A month early?”

“They’re taking good care of me. You’ve taught them well.”

“Don’t tell them how proud of them their father is; it’ll go to their heads.”

Then, behind my back, the floorboards squeak. Someone’s stepped into the office. The security guards usually knock before entering. Who can it be? “I have to go now, Suzie. Love you.”

I swing my chair around and immediately make eye contact. “What are you doing here?”

“Sorry to interrupt.”

“I told you, only matters of utmost importance. And you come to see me in person?”

Mark Collinsworth plows forward, leans on the desk with both hands, and looks me dead in the eye. “This
is
.”

“To have you barging in like this, it better be.”

“We’ve got serious problems.”

“Is there any other kind?”

“Besides needing to get your subcontractor in line, you’ve got a new thread unraveling.”

“What might that be?”

“Haven’t you been watching the news?”

“No time. Whatever I get, I get from Lassiter. She’s filtering for me.”

“Carrick’s daughter.”

“Right. Charging her with the murder takes the heat off of the sub. That’s brilliant.”

“We had nothing to do with it. Worse still, she’s been digging into her father’s past.”

“And you know this how?” I glance at my watch. It’s later than I thought.

“We’ve been monitoring her internet usage. She’s booked a flight to San Diego tomorrow morning.”

Just five minutes till my scheduled conference call. My collar’s shrunk two sizes. “So, she’ll be treated as a fugitive.”

“Sir, we need to cut this off at the source.”

“Did you speak with Carrick about the NDA?”

“He says he’ll uphold it, but I have my doubts.”

“You’re the half-empty glass, Mark; you always have doubts.”

“It’s different this time. I really think we need to deal with him. Especially now that his daughter—”

“Fine. I’ll handle them both.”

Mark lets out an exasperated breath. “You’re not going with the subcontractor, are you? Not after his last failure to deliver.”

Without a word, I stand and walk to the door, which I open. A gesture indicating that Collinsworth should leave. “Just go and
manage your segment of this operation, all right? You worry too much.”

“All the same, Xandra is a real problem.”

“Leave the Carricks to me.”

Mark steps out, leaving a cloud of uncertainty in his wake. With Carrick’s daughter now in the public eye, anything she says could draw attention and curiosity to the very thing we’re working so hard to protect.

A frigid drop of perspiration rolls down the side of my face. Friend or not, I’ve been too lenient with Carrick. Should have taken care of this long before it came to this.

The conference will have to wait. I’m going to have to go back to California tomorrow and oversee the Carrick problem. It’s time to call the subcontractor with a new set of instructions.

“Ian, this is TR …”

39

XANDRA CARRICK

Rest and staying out of trouble are not my forte.

After spending the entire night getting my internet back online and researching every online reference to Dad’s photojournalism work in Vietnam—scant details, strange enough—and Corporal Henry “Hank” Jennings, I find myself at LaGuardia with a boarding pass in hand, and on my way to the West Coast.

Southwest Airlines had the best fares, but the only downside is that it’s open seating. Never know who you’ll be stuck with, and it’s six hours to San Diego.

For now, I’ve got the entire row to myself. Window seat too. I place my white earbuds in and dial to my in-flight playlist. Brahms’ Piano Trio in B major, played by the Stern-Rose-Istomin trio. The last chamber piece I ever performed. The adrenaline of all yesterday’s events ebbs. I’m nodding off as the flight attendants give their little demonstration on emergency procedures. My seat cushion also serves as a flotation device, I know. How much will that help if we crash into the desert? I wonder if we’ll pass over the Great Lakes? Hush, Xandi! Leonard Rose is playing that heavenly opening.

The cello sings. I lean my head back, shut my eyes, and drift into aural bliss. So good to have this entire row to myself, all the
way to San Diego—thank God for nonstops. I might just lie across the three seats when we get up in the air.

Moments later, as the violin joins the cello, someone sinks heavily into the seat by the aisle. Great. Not going to open my eyes and try to make casual conversation. With my great fortune, it will be some old guy who wants to talk the whole trip about his dentures, his vasectomy, his flatulence issues. At least the center seat’s still open. Won’t have to rub elbows for the next quarter of a day.

And now we’re flying.

I’m a bit disappointed that I won’t get to lie down across the seats. But having pulled an all-nighter, I think I might be able to sleep the whole way in any position.

The morning sun warms my face. It’s not so bright yet as to require pulling the shade down. All is well. No babies crying, no annoying loud people. It’s going to be a quiet flight.

Except for the passenger next to me tapping my shoulder.

Was a couple of hours of sleep too much to ask? Grudgingly, I suck in a slow breath and open my eyes.

Only to find seated next to me, with an earnest expression in his eyes, FBI Special Agent Kyle Matthews.

40

GRACE TH’AM AI LE

Saigon: April 28, 1975

Today, the National Liberation Front flew their flag on Newport Bridge, just three miles from Saigon. The three-days-new President Minh gave an address to the remainder of his republic from the presidential palace. Despite the valiant efforts of our soldiers, he called for a cease-fire and negotiations.

After everything, Saigon is going to be surrendered to the Communists!

Peter has been busy speaking with various evacuation wardens about the embassy’s plans. Just yesterday, after the rocket attacks, the American ambassador, Graham Martin, appeared on television, saying, “I, the American ambassador, am not going to run away in the middle of the night. Any of you can come to my home and see for yourselves that I have not packed my bags. I give you my word.”

But today, as the streets resounded with every imaginable—and unimaginable—kind of weapons fire from the outskirts of the city, the evacuations have begun. Not the official embassy evacuation, but many had prepared to flee the city.

I spent most of my day in Peter’s room at the Caravelle Hotel watching the news, while he spoke on the phone and met with people planning the evacuation. At one point, he lay down on the bed beside me and covered his eyes with his hand.

“Peter?”

He didn’t answer. He just lay there silent, every now and then letting out a heavy sigh. It was near midnight, and we had barely spoken the entire day. I sensed he wanted to talk about something, but he never did.

Instead, it was I who finally turned and leaned on his chest. “What’s bothering you? Do you want to talk about it?”

Lifting his hand from his eyes, the redness and moist tears were apparent. “It’s nothing. And … it’s everything.”

“I don’t understand.”

After taking a deep breath, he tried to appear as if nothing was troubling him. But something was. I could tell. Nevertheless, if he did not wish to speak about it, I would respect it.

Saigon: April 29, 1975

This day will forever remain in my memory as the end of Saigon. After a night of fitful sleep, I was awakened by weapons fire out in the street. Peter was sitting before the television shaking his head as the reporter announced that Tan Son Nhut Airport had been hit by rocket and artillery fire, shortly after four that morning.

This was the airport to which most of the evacuees from Saigon were supposed to report in order to be flown out to safety. Its runways now were rendered unfit for fixed-wing aircraft.

Another report of chaos at Tan Son Nhut Airport, where American helicopters from a U.S. Air Force base were ordered not to land: a pilot had landed a fighter jet and left the engine running. South Vietnamese soldiers were ramming one of their own transport planes as it tried to take off. There were about three thousand panicking civilians on the runway.

Peter threw a towel at the television set.

“What will we do?”

“Our safest bet is through the embassy. They’ll fly people out from there.”

By nine o’ clock we had packed our bags, eaten breakfast, and
met with the evacuation wardens. From them we received a fifteen-page booklet called SAFE, short for “Standard Instruction and Advice for Civilians in an Emergency.”

They brought to our attention an insert in the booklet that said:

Note evacuation signal. Do not disclose to other personnel. When the evacuation is ordered, the code will be read out on American Forces Radio. The code is: THE TEMPERATURE IN SAIGON IS 105 DEGREES AND RISING. THIS WILL BE FOLLOWED BY THE PLAYING OF I’M DREAMING OF A WHITE CHRISTMAS.

“What is ‘White Christmas’?” I asked.

“A song. We’ll have to listen carefully for it.”

The entire city was on a twenty-four-hour curfew, but I had no interest in going outside anyway.

We stayed in the lobby until close to 11:00 a.m., when the code came out over the radio. The announcer said, “The temperature in Saigon is one hundred and five degrees and rising.”

Peter stood up, grabbed our bags. “Time to go.”

A man with a very smooth voice began to sing the song about a white Christmas. From then on, I would always associate it with the fear and panic of running out into the streets in order to get to the American Embassy.

A bellman who obviously had no idea what we were doing asked Peter if he needed help with his bags. “Would you like me to call a cab for you?”

Peter pulled out a roll of piastres and put it in his hands. “Thank you, but that won’t be necessary.” The thought occurred to me that this courteous young man might not live long enough to spend the money Peter had given him.

To my surprise, Lam Son Square was desolate, save for a few South Vietnamese soldiers. They were despondent; some were drunk and took random shots at the crowds of people running toward the embassy.

“Keep your head down!” Peter called out and put himself between me and Tu Do, the main street. I readily obeyed, feeling sorry for these soldiers who fought so hard, only to return and find everyone they fought to protect abandoning them.

When we reached the embassy, we pressed through a large crowd gathered around the gate. Some merely craned their necks in order to see better what was happening. Still others clung to the bars and begged to be let in.

An American soldier examined papers presented by those wishing to enter. Once in a while, he would nod and allow someone in. But the others he would not.

“Don’t let go of me,” I told Peter. But the rising din of the crowd made it difficult for him to hear.

He leaned over to me. “What did you say?”

“Don’t let go of my hand!” After all, I had yet to give it to him in marriage.

This was not the way I imagined my future. Never had I dreamt that I would leave my homeland. Certainly not in this fashion. And yet, despite the circumstances, with Peter’s warm hand firmly surrounding mine, I was looking forward to it. A new life awaited me in what the Chinese call “The Beautiful Country.” And there I would know peace, contentment. With the man I love. This strong and handsome man would be the person with whom I’d spend the rest of my life. In English they have a saying that the bride and groom vow to each other:
Till death do us part
.