Chapter Twenty-One
Phnom Penh, Cambodia 1975
Samantha screamed and slumped, still conscious but unable to move. Oliver dragged her up the last few feet of the rough surface of the ramp, jolting another scream from her as she landed in the dark hold of the plane. She lay there panting as the plane began a laborious turn, preparing for takeoff, and she heard the hatch door grinding closed behind her.
With a lurch they started down the runway. The hold was dusty, simmering with heat and the stench of human fear. Still gasping for breath, suddenly she remembered. The child! She rolled her head to the side where Oliver sat, and peering through the dim lights she saw the boy huddled just beyond him, hunched on the floor against the fuselage, eyes wide as he stared back at her.
A sudden dizziness overcame her, then another rush of pain, and she felt limp, as if she were floating. She tried to tell Oliver about this, but his face kept disappearing, moving in close to her and then receding. She could see his mouth working, and she felt his hand on her forehead, but his voice was submerged beneath the roar of the engines. Then he faded away entirely.
When she woke, Oliver was bending over her, calling her name. He was a blur at first, as though her brain had managed to wrap the injured part of her in cotton to dull the pain. With the plane dipping and rumbling under her, nausea rose. But one thought emerged above the pain and the fear and the nausea, drowning out the others.
"Oliver," she said, and he bent, put his ear close to her lips.
It was a struggle to speak, but she forced the words up from her chest. "My purse." She turned her head and her cheek rubbed the strap still wrapped about her shoulders. "Here. It's here."
He nodded, seeming to understand.
She closed her eyes, lips tight, pressing against the pain.
Oliver put his mouth to her ear. "Be still, Sam. It won't be long now. We're headed for Saigon."
"Will I die?"
"No." He pulled back and brushed the hair from her forehead. "It's your hip. You'll be all right. Just hang on."
She had to tell him, had to get the words out while there was still time, before they landed. Before the child was discovered. "The child . . ."
He began shaking his head.
"Inside my purse. Please, Oliver. Look inside."
Oliver looked at her and then down at the purse that lay beside her. Gently he picked it up.
She nodded.
He twisted the clasp and opened the flap. "What am I looking for?"
"Blue envelope." She exhaled the words, watching him.
Oliver reached in and pulled out a wallet, then the red silk pouch tied at the top in which she'd stored her mother's jewelry, her keys, and a comb. He set these items on the floor of the fuselage, and each time she frowned and shook her head.
Then he pulled out an envelope and held it up. "This?"
She nodded. "Yes." Her midsection burned. "Now the jewelry."
He arched his brows, looked down at the pile he'd created beside him, pushed the things around. Then he picked up the small red pouch and dangled it over her, so that she could see. When she nodded, he untied the frayed ribbon that held it tight, and she said in a rasping voice, "The silver pin . . . need the silver pin."
Her leg was on fire, she was certain, and Oliver simply hadn't noticed. The fire would spread, and perhaps the plane would burst into flames and they'd all die a slow, torturous death in this squalid hold.
When he held up the silver pin, she looked at it and thought it must have come from another lifetime.
Suddenly the plane lurched, and she cried out again. Oliver slipped his arms around her, lifting her shoulders just inches from the floor, bracing her. She grasped his arm. "Oliver, listen to me. Listen!"
Again he leaned in close until his cheek was touching hers, and his voice was thick. "I'm listening, Sam. Just tell me what you want."
Each word was a needle of pain as she spoke, explaining what she wanted. When at last he nodded that he understood—it seemed a long time—she was able to form a smile, to let him know that she was all right, and watching. And to mask the pain so he'd let go.
"Go on," she said, nodding her head toward the boy. "Please!"
Gently Oliver lowered Sam back down. Holding onto the broach and the envelope, he closed the pouch, tying it tight, and stuffed it back into her purse with her other things. Sam rolled her head to watch as Oliver pushed across the floor toward the boy.
"Stay with her," Oliver barked to someone nearby. A body slid close. A soft hand, a woman's hand, stroked her forehead. Sam's eyes were riveted on Oliver and the boy. Even from here she could see the child's fear. On Oliver's approach, the boy drew into himself, like a turtle into its shell. His eyes darted to her and back to Oliver again. But he did not move. He sat very still, looking down as Oliver reached him.
Oliver slipped the folded envelope into the pocket of the boy's ragged shirt and used the silver broach to pin it to the cloth.
When he'd completed his mission, Oliver patted the child's head and swung around to face Sam. Past him she could see the boy's shirtfront pocket sagging under the weight of the broach and the envelope pinned inside. She nodded.
"Who is he?" Oliver asked when he'd reached Sam again. He rested his hand on her shoulder. The plane bucked in the wind, and a moan escaped as Sam turned her head to look at him. To thank him.
"He was lost," she said with a deep, shuddering breath. "I couldn't leave him. His . . . his sponsor's name is on the envelope. On the back. Tell them." The plane banked, starting its descent. She gripped his arm. "It's written on the back, his U.S. sponsor!" She shouted over the roar. "Tell them, will you?"
He nodded.
"Get him onto Operation Babylift out of Saigon."
Oliver frowned. "Khmer refugees go through Thailand."
Sam squeezed her eyes shut and opened them again. "Please! Just get it done." She held his eyes as seconds passed. "Please," she whispered again. "Promise. Promise."
"We'll take care of him." Oliver lifted her into his arms, buffering her from a series of rocking bumps. "But it'll be a mess."
The fire inside had spread, as she'd known it would. She closed her eyes, conscious that she'd extracted a hard promise from Oliver. Operation Babylift, already overburdened, was scrambling to ferry thousands of Vietnamese orphans from Saigon just ahead of the coming VC invasion.
"A mess. That's what I'm counting on," she murmured. Chaos would save the child. The bureaucratic nightmare of evacuation would allow for a slip here and there.
She groaned, and Oliver held her closer. "I'll fix it somehow, Sam. We'll get him on one of those planes. And to his sponsor."
She was dizzy, feeling the nausea. "Promise?" She opened her eyes and fixed them on his.
How strange. Oliver was under water now. His face wavered, swayed, and receded. "Promise," she heard him say from afar. "Don't worry, Sam. You'll be all right."
And then everything faded away.
Chapter Twenty-Two
New Orleans—1977
At two o'clock in the morning Amalise lay in her bed in the house on Broadway, eyes refusing to close as she stared at the ceiling, worrying about Jude and Rebecca and the deal and the conference room and the family on Kerlerec Street, everything wheeling, spinning, buzzing inside like a swarm of bees. She fought to banish the misery she'd seen on Caroline's face earlier. She fought to banish the sight of Luke's sorrowful mien and thoughts of what might have caused a child to feel like that.
She talked to Abba for a while, praying and listening for guidance. Yet when at last she finally slept, she dreamt of the wreckage caused by Bingham Murdoch's project, knowing that she'd had a hand in it.
Poets have said that startling revelations hide in the mist and shadows of time between wakefulness and sleep, those fi
rst seconds in the morning when you're lying in bed and dreams are just slipping away. Hang on to those dreams, they've said. Amalise had known since she was a child that this waking time was when Abba sometimes planted little seeds of inspiration.
When the alarm on the table by her bed urged her awake at six o'clock, she did not move at first, instead letting herself sink deeper into the softness around her. She looked at nothing as the mist drifted around in her head, slowly streaming into the ether like silken ribbons, dissolving as her mind began to clear.
That's when the idea struck.
It tiptoed in, slipping past her guard. She mulled it over for a few minutes as a sort of academic exercise. If this . . . then that, while sketchy details rose in her mind. She stretched long in the bed, pointing her toes under the blanket, enjoying the idea and the feel of her muscles coming alive.
She rolled onto her side and fluffed the pillow beneath her head. And all at once the mist cleared. Robert's face emerged, his obsidian eyes burrowing into her mind, searching, probing. She gave the pillow a poke and then a little punch. Then she sat up straight and kicked the covers off, swinging her feet to the cold floor.
Amalise sensed that Robert was a dangerous man. If she followed through with this idea and he found out, even though no harm had been done, it would send him into a frenzy.
She went into the bathroom and brushed her teeth. The face that looked back from the mirror dared her take the chance, to do this thing, to try to make the world a little better for one family. As she brushed and foamed and rinsed and spat, she couldn't shake the thought that this problem was very real for Caroline and her family and—perhaps—she'd just stumbled on a solution.
Discovery would be a long shot, she told herself. But on the other hand, discovery would lead to unthinkable consequences. Robert would take revenge if he found out: He'd have her job.
Shaking her head, she put on slippers and a robe and went into the kitchen to make coffee. Community brand, from the familiar red package. When the coffee was ready, she poured herself a cup and wandered out onto the back porch where the cold air and the fragrance of the coffee and the dew on the grass—her own grass—revived her smile.
At 6:30 on the dot she went inside. Time to get to work. She put the coffee cup in the kitchen sink and headed for the bedroom. She resolved to think no more of this will-o'-the-wisp idea from an impractical dream, one she could barely remember now. She turned on the shower, stepped in, and let the hot water clear her mind.
Even if the idea worked, the consequences if she were found out, the price she would have to pay, would be too high.
But as she dressed, locked up the house, and drove downtown, the thought lingered, reminding her of those leeches in Mama's strawberry patch back home. Once they got hold of you, they stuck until you burned them off.
During a break that morning, Bingham beckoned Amalise over to where he and Robert had again spread the survey across the table. These were the final plans, he said. Bingham asked Robert to give her a guided tour. Together, they bent over the blueprints with a new translucent overlay. Everything was much more detailed than before. She was conscious of Bingham watching as she followed Robert's finger tracing the fine lines that mapped out the hotel, the pool, and the parking area.
The parking area backed up directly adjacent to Washington Square Park. She looked over at Bingham. "You said you'd do something to separate them, to preserve the ambience of the park." She ran her finger down the line demarking the two areas. "You said there'd be landscaping here." She looked up and met his eyes. "Some trees, gardens?"
It was Robert who answered. "There's not room. The pool area's on the other side of the lot. That's where the landscaping goes."
But she fixed her eyes on Bingham, shaking her head. "The park will be worthless butting right up against a parking lot. There'll be fumes, dust, noise. And here," she swept her hand over the residential areas to be demolished, "what about the oak trees over here? Some of them are hundreds of years old." Planting her hands flat on the table, she stared at Bingham. "If this entire area is designated for parking and a pool, what happens to those old-growth oaks?"
Beside her, Robert clicked his tongue against his cheek.
Bingham spread his hands. "We'll plant new ones."
"They take hundreds of years to grow."
"And we'll have palm trees. We'll have them lit, and we'll add tropical plants."
Careful, Amalise. She straightened, arms dropping to her sides.
Robert stabbed his finger onto another spot on the map. She tore her eyes from Bingham and looked at the place indicated. "This will be the casino," Robert said, observing her, taking her measure, she knew. "Later on, when gambling is approved."
She did her best to remain expressionless, masking her dislike as Robert whisked a cigarette from his pocket and lit it, watching her under heavy lids. "This project will be big. Project Black Diamond plus the Quarter equals Vegas squared." His smile was grim as he let smoke drift in her direction. "Of course, this is all still confidential."
Bingham studied his hands.
Robert flicked an ash into a small glass ashtray. "One word gets out before the closing, and the deal's blown. We've got money invested, Bingham and I, and others. We need to know you understand that."
Amalise met his eyes. "You could have saved your breath."
He shrugged. "If you're going to do a man's job, you can't take things personally."
She lifted her chin and turned away from him. She realized that Robert had seen her write down the name of the owner of the house on Kerlerec from the plans a few days ago. Without another word, she turned and went back to her seat at the other end of the table. As she waited for the meeting to begin, she contemplated the lurid possibilities, but none made any sense. Unless Robert read minds, there was no way that he could know what she'd been contemplating.
When Doug arrived, then Adam Grayson, everyone situated themselves around the table again. Robert rolled up the plans and set them aside.
Bingham looked down the table once everyone was settled in their places, and he smiled. He waved his pen in the direction of Amalise. "Robert and I just reviewed the final plans for our target area with Miss Catoir. Everything looks good, but I'm concerned about the timing of property acquisitions." Bingham placed his pen on the table and sat back. "We're closing the financing on the Wednesday before the Thanksgiving holiday. I want our agents to be ready to approach landowners the day after Thanksgiving. What's the best way to get that done?" He looked at Adam, then Doug.
Adam answered first. "We'll need a complete set of agreements drawn up for each property owner to sign. Blanks for the numbers, of course, but everything else should be included—property description, names of the seller and buyer, and so on. Everything will be purchased 'as is,' of course. By the time we sign the purchase agreements, we'll have dealt with other problems, such as liens on the property, one way or another."
Doug looked at Raymond and Amalise. "They'll be ready." Both nodded.
Preston leaned forward, looking down the table. "How many properties in total will be purchased?"
"Couple hundred," Robert said. "We'll want the purchasing documents at the closing on Wednesday, ready to go. The agents will pick them up as soon as funds arrive that day. It's critical we get them started."
Preston said he'd call the title company right away.
Robert interrupted. "I've talked to one already."
"The one we normally use—"
"Use ours."
Doug nodded slowly. "That's not a problem."
Robert hooked his arm over the back of his chair and turned toward the Mangen & Morris end of the table. His eyes flicked toward Amalise, then settled on Doug. "Let's all get something clear: Project Black Diamond is confidential. Extremely confidential. No one in this room will speak to any
one outside about the transaction until after the closing."
"That's a given." Preston's tone was smooth, as always. "Let's get started, then." He turned to Raymond and Amalise sitting at his right. "Make sure the title companies understand our schedule. This is a rush job."
"Trees, too." Bingham grunted and Robert looked at him. "First she's worried about souls. Now it's trees." He stabbed out his cigarette in a paper cup on the table. He was having second thoughts about Miss Catoir.
Bingham sat alone with Robert in the coffee shop just off the lobby of the First Merchant Bank Building, near the elevators. It was only ten o'clock in the morning, but already Bingham needed a break. The conference room upstairs hummed with tension that wore him down. He couldn't wait to get this thing over and done.
"I don't trust her," Robert said. "I still think we should have her followed."
Bingham looked at Robert, his dark brows slicked, his hair swept back in a smooth slide he'd have called a ducktail fifteen years ago if it were one inch longer. He took in the starched white collar on the blue shirt. And the matching tie—silk, from the look of it. Then he raised his brows. "What for?"
"Women talk."
"That won't fly."
"You've noticed it yourself. She's not on board."
Bingham said nothing. He was right. There was something going on in Amalise's mind that made him nervous.
Robert squared his arms on the table and leaned close. "Knowledge is power, Bingham. If she lets anything slip, prices of those properties will shoot up, and we need to prevent that." He frowned. "We've got too much invested to take the chance. If the preservationists find out before we close, we're done. The commotion would scare the pants off the politicians. Our permits will be withdrawn. Reporters will go crazy. And we'll have protesters with signs and flags and people sitting in trees. The banks will go into a fugue state."
There was a cooler filled with cold drinks and ice cream bars right beside their table. Robert rose, pulled two Eskimo Pies from the cooler, and handed one to Bingham. He peeled the paper off the ice cream.
Chasing the Wind Page 15