Darkroom (17 page)

The beating blades of a helicopter filled the air as it landed on the roof of the embassy building. In reaction, the crowd’s clamor rose in intensity. Peter held up his papers and shouted over to the soldier behind the gate. The marine watching the gate kept telling everyone not to panic. To stay calm.

I tugged on Peter’s hand until he looked at me. Puzzled at my expression, he lowered his ear to my lips, and I said, “I love you, Peter Carrick.”

His eyes responded with more emotion than words could ever convey. All at once, in the midst of the tumult, he wrapped his arms around my waist and kissed me deeply.

All time stopped. Lost in his love, his kiss, his embrace, I had touched that beauty, that sense of the eternal that he told me about on the night he proposed.
“You complete me.”
And for that moment, it was all I would ever need.

When we finally made our way to the gate, Peter identified himself and introduced me as his fiancée. The marine took his papers and looked them over. “All right, you can come in. But she needs to wait out there while we take you in for verification.”

“Peter?” The gate opened.

“No, wait.” Peter held onto the bars, as the soldier took him by the arm. “She comes with me.”

“It’s just a quick debriefing,” the soldier said. “If everything checks out, you can come back and bring her in.”

“Go ahead,” I said, a bit too trusting.

“I’ll come back for you. Don’t go anywhere.”

As the gate slammed shut, the crowd surged forward again, some waving papers, some begging to have the soldiers take their little children. One desperate mother even threw her baby over the wall, hoping someone would catch it and take it to America. Many tried to scale the concrete wall, only to be pushed back down by marines.

After a few minutes, the helicopter that had landed earlier was now taking off. Up on the roof, people crowded around a ladder that stretched to the elevated platform on which the aircraft had rested.

One man clung to the landing skid until he realized it was too dangerous, then let go before it was too late. Five minutes stretched into ten, then fifteen. Another helicopter landed and immediately more people climbed the ladder to board it.

Growing more frantic, the crowd by the gate pressed in. We were taught to fear the Communists, and now they were in our city. How could they expect us to stay calm?

I picked up my luggage and tried to reposition myself so I could see Peter when he returned. The handle slipped and the bag landed on my toes. I wanted to cry out but felt too embarrassed.

Finally, a large group of American civilians came out of the
door Peter had entered. They were followed by some Vietnamese and headed for the main building where the helicopter landed.

In the midst of this crowd, I saw him. “Peter!” Jumping and waving, I called his name over and over. He tried to push through the crowd entering the embassy building across the courtyard, but there were too many people in the way.

Just then, shots rang out all around us. Everyone dropped to the ground. I could not tell who was firing, but people on the sidewalk nearby scattered after one man fell to the ground.

“Move it!” said the same marine who told us all to stay calm. With their guns ready, the other marines herded the frenzied evacuees into the building. Peter tried to break free from the group.

I stretched my hand into the bars as he passed by. Our fingers touched for just a second. “Let me get through!” he shouted. But no one heard him. They all pushed and shoved until he was engulfed and taken with the human undertow that would let nothing and no one stand in the way of their escape from Saigon.

41

XANDRA CARRICK

“Xandra, before you do or say anything, you need to—”

“Are you stalking me? I’m fairly certain there are laws against that.”

Instead of a charming quip or a witty comeback, Kyle fixes a severe gaze on me. “Are you
crazy
?”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re violating the conditions of your bail.”

“And you’re violating my right to privacy.”

“Leaving the State of New York without authorization? You made bail because your attorney said you
weren’t
a flight risk.”

Flight risk
. I almost have to laugh at the term.

“I could put you in cuffs right now.” He’s whispering and leaning in close. “Now, would you like to explain to me why I shouldn’t bring you in as a fugitive?”

“Would you like to explain to me how you followed me onto this flight? And why?”

“Xandra, this is serious.” A crease of frustration bunches up between his eyebrows.

Again, I’m at a loss for words. It makes sense that I should not leave New York without permission. In my haste, I neglected to consider how it’s going to look at my trial. “If you wanted to arrest me, why wait till we’re in flight?”

“I have my reasons.”

“As do I.”

“We’re not getting anywhere with this line of—”

“Arrest me, then.”

“Ugh!” He’s trying his best to contain his vexation, but slamming the seat cushion betrays him. He leans back in his seat and rubs his temples. The dark rings under his eyes testify to sleep deprivation. But I have no sympathy for him. Not after all he’s done.

“It’s your fault I’m being charged with”—I glance around and lower my voice—“you know.”

“Believe me, I had no idea Nuñez was so desperate. She was only supposed to follow up on the leads. I promise, I never—I even reiterated that you’re not under suspicion. I guess that’s where she stopped believing me.”

Despite his sincerity, I’m still angry. Though not so much now. “So if you’re going to arrest me, what are you doing here?”

“We never concluded the business of the darkroom. I read what you wrote in your notebook, the visions you saw.”

“You did? Where is it?”

“They seized it for evidence.”

I can just imagine how the prosecution is going to use that against me.

Kyle lowers his voice. “Look, I don’t know what kind of ideas you have about me.”

“Right now, you don’t want to know.”

“But for what it’s worth, I believe you.” He sits up and leans toward me. “Now, you saw something that led us to Stacy. And after finding the name of Hank Jennings in your notebook … tell me again, why are you going to San Diego?”

God, help me pull this one off
. Right, asking God to help me lie better. Brilliant, Xandra. “I’m going to visit my father.”

“Now?”

“Well … yes.” It’s not working. Why am I lying to someone who believes me about the visions?

A man walking down the aisle in a navy raincoat accidentally bumps Kyle’s shoulder with his briefcase. “Sorry about that. I’m
feeling a bit dizzy sitting in the tail section.” Pointing to the seat between Kyle and me: “Is that seat taken?”

Simultaneously we answer, “Yes.”

The poor businessman pushes his glasses back up his nose and scratches the back of his head. “You sure?” His brow knits and … isn’t that odd? Over his left eye, he’s got a tiny scar running through the edge of his thick eyebrow. There’s also something odd about his speech, but I can’t put my finger on it.

“I’m sorry,” Kyle says. “We’re holding a confidential business meeting here.”

“Thanks anyway.” The guy goes forward and speaks to a flight attendant. He looks weary and almost reminds me of Dad. Guilt is not something I need right now.

“Okay, Kyle. If you really believe me, then you’ll help me, right?”

“I’ve gone off the radar for this. My supervisor has ordered me back to Quantico and off this case. But I owe you—”

“Got that right.”

“What’s it going to take, Xandra? An apology? Is that how it’s got to be? Well, okay then. I’m sorry. I’ve already told you so. I believe you about the visions and I never meant for this to happen. When are you going to believe that I’m on your side?”

This is perhaps the first time I’ve seen him get … not angered as much as exasperated. With a sigh, I glance at his distant eyes. “I suppose you deserve a little faith from me.”

“You suppose?”

I’m going to risk it again and tell him everything. “All right, here goes …”

42

RICHARD COLSON

Campaign Headquarters
San Diego, California

Of all the facilities across the country, my San Diego office is by far the most pleasant. Overlooking the tall palm trees and white waves of the La Jolla shores, I could simply step outside, walk five minutes, and become one with nature, if ever I need a quick de-stressing session.

The panoramic picture windows make walking outside hardly necessary, though. They almost compensate for this unscheduled but necessary detour in my campaign tour.

“Your ten a.m. is here,” the receptionist announces through the intercom.

“Send him in.” I smooth out my jacket and straighten my tie. It’s been three years since we’ve met face-to-face. I’m actually anxious. Isn’t that interesting?

The door buzzes and opens. Reaching out warmly with a hand of friendship, I step forward. “Peter! So good to see you.” We shake hands with strength and enthusiasm clearly biased. Carrick makes this clear by withdrawing abruptly. Nevertheless, I will retain my charm. “Won’t you have a seat?”

“So, instead of meetings on the shore, you can hold them from a distance and still capture their essence?” Carrick paces around my office for a while, gazing out at the view. “What’s so urgent?”

I take a seat and light up a cigarette. There are only a couple of
occasions when I smoke: under extreme stress, and celebrating a hard-earned victory. “So what’s it been, two years, three?”

“Not long enough.” A wry smirk. I would have expected nothing less.

“You’re a hoot, Peter.”

“I was thoroughly unimpressed with that kid you sent.”

“Oh, Mark Collinsworth? He’s brash. But you know these young hotshots. Come on, have a seat.” I point to the chair facing my desk. “Italian leather, you’ve got to try it.”

With unmistakable reluctance, Carrick relents and sits. “Only the best for you, eh?”

“You get used to it after a while.” Manufacturing his most sincere expression of sympathy, he lets out a heavy breath. “I heard about Grace. You have my condolences.”

“Save it.”

“Oh, come now, Peter. We’ve known each other far too long to let a simple business arrangement impede our friendship.”

“Friendship?” Carrick scoffs and reclines into the ebony leather. “I love the way you euphemize. You’re a politician through and through.” He runs his hand over the buttery leather arms of the chair. “You’ve done well for yourself, I see.”

“Unlike some people, I wasn’t born into money. I’ve earned everything through hard work and dedication. Fought my way to the top.” Dear old Dad beat those values into me, ostensibly to toughen me up for the real world. But I suspect it was really to punish me for Deanna. The abuse continued until I was twelve, when armed robbers broke in and shot him in the back of the head, making off with forty-seven dollars in cash. From that point on, I was the man of the family, while Mom shuffled two or three jobs—it was difficult to tell exactly how many. I clawed my way through high school, college, the corps, and finally the senate with—as Winston Churchill put it—blood, sweat, and tears.

“My family’s economic status never kept me from doing my absolute best,” Carrick says sharply. “Why do you always bring that up, as if you had something to prove to me? Ever since Bình Sơn—”

“For pity’s sake, Peter, once and for all, can we just leave the past in the past?”

He locks onto my eyes. “You tell
me.
”

“I can and I have. Why haven’t you? Look, there’s no sense in destroying the future over things in the past you can’t change.”

“How do you sleep at night?”

“Sleep? Well …” I cleared my throat. “It’s overrated, I’m told.” Truth is, I avoid it as much as possible because it’s the one place I can’t exercise absolute control. Better to divert this conversation. “Now what’s this I hear about your daughter’s legal issues in New York?”

“A mistake.” Folding his arms over his chest, Carrick scowls and stares out the window. “I was planning on flying out tonight to see her.”

“I apologize for the inconvenience, but we needed to have this talk first.” I fold my hands and rest them on the desk. “As always, if there’s anything I or Suzanne can do. Anything at all.”

“Magnanimous of you.”

I smile, my palms open in genuine fellowship. “I can hire the best legal team on the Eastern seaboard. Just say the word, they’re yours. Xandra’s as good as exonerated.”

“Thanks, but you’ve done so much already.” Carrick gets up and goes to the display case by the window. There he examines the eight-by-ten sepia photo of me in fatigues with Echo Company. He’d taken that back in 1973. “You kept this?”

“I keep a copy in every office.” I go over and look at it with him. “Reminds me of where it all started.”

“Like a psychopath’s souvenirs?”

“Said it before, I’ll say it again: you’re a hoot.”

Carrick doesn’t respond in kind to the grins, the brotherly slap on the back. “It was wrong, Rick. We all knew it.”

I feel my shoulders rise and fall with a sigh. “Look, Peter. You’re a decent man and I admire your conviction. But you’ve never had to carry the burden, the difficult choices that hover between the boundaries of what ordinary people call moral absolutes—as if such a thing existed in the real world.”

“Haven’t I? You’ve forced that burden upon me all these years. My only regret was not having the guts to—”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself. You understood the importance of what we did.”

“No, I allowed myself to believe a lie.” He sets the picture down and turns to face me. “If the polls are correct, you’re about to become the president of the United States. You can’t keep this up forever. One day, when it comes out—”

“When?”

“If it comes out, it’ll destroy your credibility, and the credibility of the country you swore to protect.”

“Which is exactly why the terms of the NDA must be upheld.” I smile, hoping my anxiety doesn’t show. I’m holding to the illusion that we’re on the same page.