Betrayals

by Carla Neggers

  Jared didn’t know what to say. He neither wanted to defend his cousin nor damn him. When Quentin had come to Saigon in October 1973, he had looked up his childhood playmate from the Riviera, the daughter of another man killed during the ambush that had claimed Benjamin Reed’s life. He and Tam quickly fell in love. Quentin rented her own penthouse apartment and bought her lavish gifts and made her even more lavish promises. Jared stumbled onto his secret when he arrived in town the following June, but by then Quentin was already coping with the consequences of another secret: his involvement with a drug-smuggling network that had used Winston & Reed planes for transporting heroin. He was in over his head. Jared tried to help, but Quentin only wanted to make sure he promised not to tell his mother.

  “I can handle it,” he told Jared.

  It wasn’t long before Jared discovered his cousin was being blackmailed. The situation deteriorated, and by August, Quentin had returned to Boston. Jared was appalled that Quentin could drop Tam with hardly a word, but when he confronted him, his cousin insisted he loved her and would be back.

  Like hell.

  Quentin had developed consummate skill at making himself believe what he wanted to believe.

  Tam lost her apartment and seemed confused about why Quentin wasn’t in Saigon. When was he coming back? Jared avoided bad-mouthing his cousin and invited Tam to share his apartment until she could get back on her feet. There were no breathtaking views of the river, no elegant French furnishings, no near-priceless Asian curios.

  Within weeks, Tam discovered she was pregnant.

  Jared volunteered to fly to Boston and kick Quentin Reed all the way back to Saigon for her, but she wouldn’t let him. If she and Quentin were meant to be, he would return. She didn’t want the prospect of being a father to influence his decision. She would wait.

  Her pregnancy wasn’t an easy one, and she was often depressed about not hearing from Quentin, waiting for him to come back to her as the months dragged on.

  In early April, however, her feet so swollen she could hardly walk, her country on the brink of extinction—Tam’s mood improved.

  She was convinced Quentin would get her out of the country and they would live happily ever after together in Boston.

  Now, Jared hated to disillusion her. He took her hand, just comforting her in silence as they listened to the shelling.

  Footsteps echoed in the hall outside the apartment. It was almost dawn and there was a curfew in effect, and the building was virtually unoccupied. Could it be another R.J.-type scavenger at work?

  There was a single knock at the door. A man spoke something in Vietnamese.

  Tam’s eyes lit up and she jumped to her feet with a sudden burst of excited energy.

  “What did he say?” Jared asked.

  With a dazzling smile, she looked over her shoulder at him. “Help has come from Boston. I told you, Jared. I told you!”

  Jared didn’t believe it, but Tam happily pulled open the door.

  She screamed and shrank back into the small apartment, and Jared, on his feet, felt his stomach lurch at the sight of the AK-47 assault rifle pointed at Tam.

  Before Jared could even think of what to do, the stout Vietnamese man fired.

  Tam’s body jerked backward and blood spread over her front. She crumpled, falling so silently, and Jared yelled and lunged toward her, knowing he was too late.

  He knelt beside Tam. There was blood everywhere, and he didn’t have to touch her to know she was dead. Tears mixed with perspiration and spilled down his cheeks. She’d been killed instantly—expertly. Help from Boston…Quentin…

  The Vietnamese assassin turned his rifle on Jared.

  Of course, he thought, with a sudden, awful calm. Tam was one of Quentin’s secrets, but Jared knew what both his cousin’s secrets were.

  But not R.J., not the baby. Stay in the bedroom—don’t make a sound.

  He willed them to be all right.

  The assassin hesitated as he was joined by a white-haired, wiry Caucasian. He, too, carried an AK-47.

  I don’t have a chance, Jared thought.

  With Tam’s body lying only feet away, the white-haired man grinned at his cohort and said something in Vietnamese. The two made eye contact.

  Jared took advantage of their momentary distraction to scramble and dive toward the kitchen. The two murderers were blocking the door, but if he could get to the balcony—

  The gun cracked, and he felt himself flying through the air, his body out of control. He didn’t know what he’d done, if he’d been hit…and he landed on the floor, hard, burning his cheek against the thin rug. For a few seconds he thought that was all that was wrong, just the rug burn, not understanding the cold, numbing sensation in his shoulder.

  Then the pain started.

  At the first sound of gunfire Rebecca had grabbed for the .38 Smith & Wesson her grandfather’s state department friend had insisted she take, just in case—of what, she didn’t ask. She’d thought he was being melodramatic. But she’d thanked the man and stashed the .38 in her knapsack.

  There was another shot before Rebecca managed to get her hands on the gun. At least she knew how to shoot. It was one of the skills Papa O’Keefe had taught her that her mother would have rather he hadn’t. Rebecca could do an impressive job on a coffee can.

  She had to force herself not to kick open the door and swoop in with gun blazing like John Wayne.

  Cracking the door, she saw Jared sprawled on his stomach, blood seeping into the carpet around him. Only her survival instincts kept her from screaming and running to him. She began to shake uncontrollably. Jared…oh, God, no! But she could see he was breathing. He was still alive. Now where was Tam?

  Out of her view a man said something in Vietnamese.

  Rebecca’s mouth felt parched and her stomach had cramped up so badly she was afraid she’d double over. She stepped back and held the revolver the way Papa O’Keefe had shown her and decided her best strategy was to watch the door and wait. When—if—the bedroom door opened, she’d fire.

  Everything’s going to be all right. Whoever’s out there is just going to go away…. Jared’s going to be okay…. Tam…

  Her heart was pounding and she thought she’d throw up, but she didn’t have to wait long.

  The door banged open, and a short, tough-looking Vietnamese man jumped into the bedroom. He didn’t see Rebecca at first. She knew her revolver was no match for his assault rifle. She wanted just to melt into the woodwork, to disappear.

  The assassin leveled his rifle at Tam’s sleeping newborn.

  Horrified, Rebecca screamed, “No!”

  She fired, braced for the kick of the gun. Her shot grazed the Vietnamese’s upper arm, and he grunted, turning his attention from the baby to her. She hadn’t even brought him down. Her hands were shaking badly, and sweat was pouring into her eyes, blurring her vision. She knew she had to make her next shot a good one, fast, before he could recover his balance enough to let loose with his rifle.

  Another man burst into the bedroom. Rebecca thought it must be Jared, but saw the white hair, the assault rifle. I’m dead…we’re all dead.

  The intrusion distracted the Vietnamese. Rebecca used the opportunity to fire again.

  Her second shot struck the Vietnamese man in the leg, and he went down, gritting his teeth, but flipped around immediately, his rifle still in hand.

  The white-haired man was standing in front of the door. There was nowhere for Rebecca to run. And the Vietnamese was between her and the baby. What kind of heartless bastard would shoot a baby?

  She couldn’t leave Mai to die.

  And she knew something neither the Vietnamese nor the white-haired man knew: she was out of bullets.

  “There are only two bullets in the thing,” her grandfather’s diplomat-friend had advised her.

  All this Rebecca digested in the split-second it took for the Vietnamese man to adjust his aim to take her out.

  She started to dive under the bed.


  But it was the white-haired man who fired. Not at Rebecca: at the Vietnamese. Stunned, she put out a hand to steady herself against Jared’s crummy bureau and turned her head at the sight of the blood spreading across the man’s chest. She heard him fall back onto the floor with a finality and quiet that sickened her.

  On the bed, the baby began to cry.

  Rebecca had no idea what the white-haired man would do next and tried to make herself speak—to beg—but no words came out.

  He lowered his rifle and held it in one arm as he walked slowly toward her. “You must get the baby and your friend out of Saigon,” he told her in a soft, French-accented voice. He took her clammy hand…she was shaking. “It’s up to you. Do you understand?”

  She tried to focus on his face. “Tam?”

  “I couldn’t save her.” His voice choked and his eyes filled with tears. “I’m sorry.”

  “What…” Rebecca, too, began to sob, trying to force back the waves of approaching hysteria. “But why?”

  The Frenchman touched her mouth gently with two fingers. “You will be all right,” he said with confidence. “Take the baby, take your friend. At first light, leave Saigon. Go home.”

  “I don’t know if I can….”

  “You can.”

  Her eyes reached his. “Who are you?”

  But he was already moving toward the door, and he left quickly, not making a sound.

  Mai was screaming now. Rebecca looked around, feeling strangely helpless. What was she supposed to do? Sobbing, she picked up the baby, a tiny, warm bundle, and held her close, and she hushed. Tam’s dead…oh, baby, your mama’s dead….

  Forcing back another wave of panic, Rebecca carried the baby with her into the living room.

  She saw Tam’s body sprawled unnaturally on the floor near the door and could see at once she was dead.

  “Tam…oh, God…”

  Jared had managed to roll onto his back and was in the process of trying to sit up, his face racked with pain. Rebecca held the baby against her shoulder and knelt beside him. His face was drained of color. But his eyes focused on her.

  “Jesus, R.J.,” he said.

  “Don’t talk. Save your strength.”

  “You’re okay?”

  She nodded, tears streaming down her face. “We’ll get out of here. I love you, Jared.”

  He sank against the wall, unable to answer.

  At 10:48 a.m. Saigon time on April 29, 1975, Ambassador Graham Martin notified Secretary of State Henry Kissinger that they were going to Option IV. It was the final and least desirable option for a full-scale American evacuation of Saigon: they were going out by helicopter. Helicopters couldn’t hold as many people as planes could. That meant not all the Vietnamese who deserved to get out were going to make it.

  Rebecca’s state department friend showed up to make sure she and her friends got out, but was surprised to find her making her way from the apartment building with a newborn baby and a seriously wounded Jared Sloan. She had patched him up as best she could with bandages she’d scrounged from a vacant apartment. There wasn’t much more she could do. He had at least two bullets in him and needed proper medical attention as soon as possible. He was in a great deal of pain, feverish, near-delirious—but determined.

  “Listen, kid,” her friend said when she explained what had happened. “You’ve got to put it behind you. Never mind the bodies. If Hanoi wants to call you in Boston with a few questions after they get into town, you can talk. Right now we’ve got to get you home.”

  He helped them get to a bus pickup point, but he had to get back to the embassy. White-faced and numb, Rebecca thanked him. He said to give Thomas Blackburn his best.

  “Tell him if more people’d known what he knew back in ’63, maybe—well, the hell with it. Maybe nothing. Take care of yourself, Rebecca. Call me when you finish your degree.”

  She promised him she would.

  Then, with a diaper bag slung over her shoulder, Mai in one arm and supporting Jared with the other, she got them onto the bus, which joined a caravan edging cautiously through the city to one of the landing zones where U.S. Marine and Navy helicopters could set down.

  By midafternoon, with a photographer clicking away, they climbed aboard a packed Chinook helicopter and lifted high above Saigon, on their way to a U.S. Navy ship in the South China Sea. It was hot and close in the helicopter, and Mai was screaming. Calling upon her experience as the eldest of six, Rebecca tried to comfort the baby, loosening her blanket, cooing. Tam had planned to breast-feed, but Sister Joan had left several ready-made bottles of formula for emergencies. Rebecca had stuffed them into the diaper bag, but she hoped Mai could hang on until they reached the ship. Nothing like a starving, screaming baby to forestall awkward questions from the brass. With Jared wounded and Mai barely a day old, Rebecca knew she’d end up doing all the explaining about who they were and what they were still doing in Saigon.

  Mai continued to scream.

  Knowing it was an old wives’ tale and unless they had a rash most babies didn’t give a damn whether they were wet or dry, Rebecca gave in to frustration and checked Mai’s diaper.

  She pulled out a deep ruby-red velvet bag wrapped in plastic.

  Peeking inside, Rebecca saw the ten glittering colored stones.

  Tam’s ticket to freedom?

  Rebecca shoved them into her pocket, wrapped the baby back up and held her close, until she exhausted herself crying and went back to sleep.

  Jared grimaced and coughed a little. Someone had given him a shot of morphine during their wait for the helicopter. He still looked terrible, and despite his assurances he’d be okay, Rebecca could see he was in a state of shock not just from his wounds, but from having witnessed Tam’s murder. She was grateful for having him and Mai to tend: it kept her mind occupied.

  “Mai has papers,” he told her. “In the diaper bag.”

  “Relax, no one’s going to bug us about papers right now. We’ll take care of the red tape later.”

  “No. I promised Tam, R.J. I’m not taking any chances.”

  Rebecca dug in the diaper bag and got out the papers and had a look. “It says her name’s Mai Sloan and you’re her father.”

  “I know.”

  “Is that a mistake?”

  His eyes cleared as they held hers, and he said, “No.”

  Twenty-Four

  Seeing Annette Reed and Jean-Paul Gerard again after so many years combined with his poorly paced walk back to West Cedar Street had left Thomas panting and perspiring. He put on a kettle and waited impatiently for the water to boil. Nerves and exhaustion. How unbecoming, he thought. He would hate to come to the day he’d have to take a taxi to get around the city and hire someone to tend his garden for him. The expense would be aggravating enough, but the indignity—the feeling of utter uselessness—he wouldn’t tolerate. He’d just stay at home and watch his garden rot if it came to that.

  “You’re not in a terribly fine mood, my fellow,” he muttered to himself, filling his ironstone teapot with an extra spoon of loose-leaf tea and adding boiling water. The simple chore helped settle him. He brought the teapot and a cup and saucer out into the garden and set them on the dripping-wet table.

  The wind and rain had done a job on his impatiens.

  “Can’t even keep a few flowers alive,” Thomas grumbled. If he set them out, they’d have a better chance on their own. Ignoring his fatigue, he fetched his claw and hand shovel from the cellar landing and got to work.

  He heard Rebecca and Jared come into the kitchen, fussing at each other. Doors slammed, feet stomped. She called him a two-timing son of a bitch who didn’t deserve to be told a damned thing, and he called her a sanctimonious tight-lipped Blackburn who bowed out when the going got tough. Thomas assumed they’d finally started talking to each other. For years he’d hoped they’d accidentally meet at the Grand Canyon or somewhere and have it out. Either one would toss the other over the side, or they’d realize how very much they
were meant for each other.

  Well, at least that wasn’t his problem.

  Rebecca flounced into the garden and dropped into a chair, water and all. Glancing up from his gardening, Thomas could see why. She was a dripping mess herself. He climbed stiffly to his feet with his claw in one hand, dirt clinging to its sharp steel points.

  With one finger on Rebecca’s chin, he turned her head so he could examine her cut and bruise. “I told you he could be dangerous.”

  She made a face at him. “Who?”

  “Our Monsieur Gerard. He clobbered you good, didn’t he?”

  “Don’t jump to conclusions, Grandfather,” she said, in no cheerful mood herself. She opened the lid on his teapot and peered at the steeping tea. He’d quite forgotten about it and in a few minutes it’d be strong enough he could take it out and repave West Cedar. Rebecca dropped the lid back on. “I slipped on the library stairs.”

  Thomas set his claw down on the able. “Lying doesn’t become a Blackburn.”

  She fastened her sparkling eyes on him, and there was something about her—a certain reluctant grace, an inner strength—that reminded him of Emily. If only she’d lived. Thomas had often wondered how he’d gone on without that lovely, spirited, intelligent woman he’d fallen in love with well over a half century ago. In a way he supposed he hadn’t gone on, at least not very well.

  “Lying doesn’t become anyone,” Rebecca said, “but it’s no worse a transgression than withholding the truth. To me it’s a case of splitting hairs.”

  “Rebecca…” He broke off, too tired and confused himself to attempt a halfhearted explanation—a rationalization—of the silences he’d kept. And in too ill a temper himself. “Tell me, Rebecca, do you think it your prerogative to know everything I know? To be privy to everything I’ve ever done in my life?”

  She didn’t even hesitate. “Only to what concerns me.”

  “And where do I draw the line? One could make the case that everything that goes on in the world concerns each one of us. There’s an interconnectedness to—”

  “Spare me the lecture, Grandfather.”