Darkroom

by Joshua Graham

  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.

  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 respond
ed 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.”