Darkroom

by Joshua Graham

  “But they’re letting me in?”

  “I’ve gotten a verbal confirmation that with the right signature, you can evacuate with me as my common-law wife.” The paper was a letter stating our relationship and our intent to marry as soon as we found safe passage out of Saigon.

  “Whose signature?”

  “His.”

  A soldier in military uniform carrying a pistol at his side stepped forward and shook our hands, then spoke with Peter. Right away I recognized him as the officer in charge back in Bình Sơn two years ago, when I got shot in the crossfire of American and Vietcong fighting. This officer was responsible for seeing to it that I was rushed back to Saigon for medical treatment. I smiled, shook his hand, and thanked him briefly, though I didn’t remember his name. It didn’t matter, though. The soldiers hurried us to the elevators and finally to the rooftop, where we ascended the ladder to the helicopter.

  As it lifted off, I looked down upon the spectacular view of the city that for the past three years had become my surrogate home. Fires, rising smoke, and flashes of weapons fire lit up various sections of Saigon. I wept for my fallen city, my fallen country, because I felt that I, too, was abandoning my people.

  46

  KYLE MATTHEWS

  It’s all happening so fast. Everything about Rolston—the badge, the fact that he knew where to find Xandra—seems legitimate. But the manner in which he took her doesn’t.

  A simple call will clarify this, but I can’t just let them out of my sight. I set the Bluetooth into my ear.

  Push to activate.

  Two short beeps.

  It’s not connecting.

  A dark car-service limo pulls up. I make eye contact with the driver while pairing my Bluetooth.

  The driver, whose name—according to the prominently displayed license and certificate—is Srinivasu Venkatrarajan … something, speaks with an Indian accent. “Do you need a ride, sir?”

  “Yes, but I’m driving.” My cell phone won’t connect. And just ahead, Xandra is stepping inside Rolston’s car. She’s got that look of fear that I’m going to let her down again.

  The smooth tone in my ear tells me that the Bluetooth has finally connected with my BlackBerry.

  “Sir, I cannot let you drive this vehicle. It’s company policy, you know.”

  “You can, and you will.” Judging by his trembling jaw, his eyes that are about to pop out of his head, and both of his hands raised up where I can see them, my badge alone would probably have done the trick. But I’ve pulled out my gun too. “Please, step out of the car.”

  “Yes sir. You don’t need to point that weapon at me, sir. I am quite familiar with these procedures, you know.”

  “Sir, you are not being carjacked.” Rolston’s car is gone now. I jump in Srinivasu’s seat and shut the door. As I pull away, he’s scratching his head. If there were more time, I would feel bad about this. “You’ll get your car back.”

  But in what condition, I can’t predict.

  “United States Secret Service, how may I direct your call?”

  “This is Special Agent Kyle Matthews, FBI.” I give her my ID number and wait in silence. “I’m calling to verify the identity of an Electronic Crime Task Force agent by the name of Rolston.” He’s a couple of cars ahead of me and unaware that I’m tailing him.

  “I’ll connect you with personnel, Agent Matthews.”

  We’re stopped at a traffic light on Harbor Drive. A large city bus crosses the intersection and blocks my view. “Come on, come on …”

  The receptionist doesn’t reply immediately. “Sir, I’m working on it as—”

  “Not you.” The intersection is gridlocked, and Rolston’s already out of visual. Sweat dampens my brow. More cars jam the path and join the chorus of impatient honking.

  “Agent Matthews, regarding the name and identification number of this Special Agent Rolston …”

  “Yes?”

  “I’ve looked up the roster of the Los Angeles ECTF.”

  “And?” At last, the bus is clearing the intersection. The light’s even turned green. Good.

  But the next words I hear confirm my worst fears.

  47

  “I’m sorry, Agent Matthews, the information you requested is not available.”

  “He either works with the service or not, right?”

  “That’s all I can tell you.”

  “All right, can you at least tell me what the computer screen says?” The bus is clear. Just as I hit the accelerator, a courier on a bike zips past me. We almost collide, but instead of giving me the finger, he smiles, waves, and rides off.

  “It’s just an access message.”

  “Read the text aloud, please.”

  “It says: this file is restricted.”

  “Look, I just need to know if there is an Agent Rolston working for the Secret Service or Homeland.”

  “He’s not on payroll, I can tell you that. Rolston’s listed as a consultant. You can come into the office to discuss this with the assistant director if you like.”

  “Thanks, you’ve been helpful.”

  “Agent Matthews, who did you say your supervisor was?”

  “Assistant Director Sharon Maguire, Quantico Field Office.” With a sudden kick, the proverbial pedal hits the metal and I’m off. Whether or not this Rolston character knows I’ve regained a visual and am tailing him doesn’t seem to make a difference. He’s flooring it and getting onto the I-5 like his pants are on fire.

  The sky’s turned to molasses in a matter of minutes. First a trickle, then raindrops start to rap against the windshield, making an incessant sound like microwave popcorn. It’s coming down so hard it’s blurring my view.

  As I follow Rolston, my cell buzzes. It’s Maguire. I do not want to hear what she has to say now. So I hit the ignore button. This distraction continues a few more times until it’s clear that she’s not about to give up.

  “Matthews.”

  “Where are you, Kyle?”

  “Best if you don’t ask.”

  “Best if you don’t feed me any crap. Xandra Carrick’s all over the media as a high-profile fugitive. She with you?”

  “No. Look, Maguire, can we talk later, I’m—”

  “You’re off this case. You hear? Get back here right now.”

  A red Mustang convertible cuts across three lanes to get to the exit ramp. “Holy—!” In this weather, that ditzy blonde didn’t even signal! Her tires skid, and for an instant, the thought of a multicar pileup in the rain comes to mind.

  “I’m serious, Matthews. You need to report back to the office right now.”

  “No can do. The pieces are finally coming together. I’m on to something here, and I’ve got to see it through.”

  “Report back immediately, or the next time you do, you’ll be turning in your badge, your gun—”

  “Come on, Maguire. Threats? How effective have those ever been with me?”

  The Secret Service impostor pulls his car in front of a couple of trucks and falls out of sight. “Dammit!”

  “You don’t seem to understand. I’m trying to save your—look, you know how this goes. The list is dragging on the floor. Obstruction, aiding and abetting, conspiracy. I could go on.”

  “I’m sure you could. Gotta go now. I’ll call you—”

  “You’re coming in now, or I’ll have no choice but to send out a team from the San Diego field office to bring you in! And according to our techs, you’re driving east on the I-8 toward—”

  Click.

  Ending one call, I press my Bluetooth once more and announce, “Glen.”

  “Dialing …”

  “Yo Kyle! What up? Man, you’re up to your ears in it, homey!”

  “Are you as good as you claim, flying under the radar?”

  “Better.”

  “Can I trust you?”

  “Duh.”

  “Trust you not to get yourself caught? Because if you do, we’re both dead.”

  “I feel yo
u, son. What do you need?”

  I lay out what I need and keep him on the line for as long I can before either of us gets caught. Finally, he provides me with information on Xandra’s location based on GPS tracking of her cell phone. I’ve got the general area within two thousand meters. Good thing this limo has a built-in GPS.

  Glen, an unrepentant geek, suddenly speaks with uncharacteristic severity. “It’s worse than you think, Kyle. I hear the orders to shut you down are coming from several levels above Maguire.”

  “That doesn’t make sense. As far as she knows, this is just an interstate or a simple serial case.”

  “Just telling you what I heard, bro.”

  I’m wondering if there’s a connection to that Rolston fake. “I need you to check one more thing for me. There’s a man impersonating a Secret Serv—”

  “Someone’s coming, gotta go.”

  “Wait!”

  “Watch your back, bro.”

  48

  XANDRA CARRICK

  He’s already confiscated my cell phone and put my backpack with my Graflex in the front seat. I’m not sure what’s going on, but it’s not good. “What does Homeland Security want with me?”

  “You’re a bail jumper.”

  “Who’s traveling with an FBI agent to investigate—”

  “Let’s not make this any harder than it needs to be.” Beneath the harsh words, I sense something. Not sure, but it almost sounds like regret. There’s that tingling in my fingers.

  “At least tell me what to expect. You will let me call Agent Matthews, won’t you?”

  “I understand you’re anxious. But not to worry, it shan’t take long.”

  “Is it much farther?” I stifle a yawn. Must stay awake.

  “The office is about twenty minutes from here.” From this point on, he keeps silent. It’s raining heavily now. He doesn’t seem to take any driving precautions, even in this weather. Anyway, the main concern now is not getting shipped back to New York and spending the months leading up to my trial in jail. No matter what, I’ve got to speak with Dad, and that vet Hank Jennings. That’s likely where I’ll find my answers and get my name cleared from this nightmare.

  Another yawn and a stretch. “Sleep, perchance to dream.”

  “Hamlet, act three.”

  “So you’re a fan of Shakespeare.”

  “When I was younger, I fancied myself something of an expert.” The English accent I suspected was lurking beneath has now risen to the surface. He pauses as though at the edge of a precipice. And the coldness returns. “That, however, was another life.”

  “Dare I ask?”

  He doesn’t answer, just keeps driving. After five minutes, the silence becomes less awkward and takes on a narcotic quality. I’m drifting …

  I’m awakened by the thunk of the car door. Like rapid fire from a machine gun, drops of rain smack repeatedly against the roof and hood. I must have been really tired to have slept so deeply. The Homeland agent stands outside in the pouring rain with one hand on my door handle. But where is this?

  Instead of a parking lot and office buildings, trees and brush surround us.

  “Step out of the vehicle, Ms. Carrick.”

  I climb out, and he takes a step away from me. With one hand, he’s holding one of my backpack’s shoulder straps. It hangs and sways like a dead man in a noose.

  “Where are we, Agent—?”

  He pulls a gun from his jacket and points it right at my head. With a finger over his lips he hushes me. My hair is drenched now. Water rolls down my face like blood. His sunglasses are off, and now I can see the scar. He’s the guy on the plane who bumped into Kyle. With a severe tone he says, “Don’t struggle and we’ll make it quick and painless.”

  49

  GRACE TH’AM AI LE

  Saigon: April 29, 1975

  Crowded with dozens of people in the helicopter, I kept still in Peter’s arms. When we’d flown off the coast, away from the land of my ancestors and over the water, I could not help but cry. Something told me that once I left, I would never return.

  Peter held me tighter and kissed the top of my head. “It’s going to be all right, Grace.”

  “Is it?”

  “We’re safe now. Keep all the good memories and leave the bad behind.”

  “I’m afraid.”

  “Of what?”

  “I’ve never left Vietnam before. And in America, I won’t know anyone.”

  “I’ll take care of you, I promise. We’ll start a family, make lots of new friends. You won’t be alone.”

  But despite his assurances, that is just what I felt. As the cords that tied me to my people and heritage were severed, the void within my heart grew deeper. No amount of anticipation could compensate for the losses I’d suffered since the war began. I would have to live with that always.

  Someone at the front of the helicopter called out, “Hold on, everyone!” Gasps and anxious murmurs rose up. “It’s going to be a bit rough.”

  “Peter, what does he mean?”

  He pointed out the window and braced me. “See that ship? It’s a U.S. Navy ship called the USS Blue Ridge. That’s where we’re going to land.”

  “But there’s no room!” Down on the ship’s deck, scores of evacuees clutching suitcases poured out from a landed helicopter, whose blades were still spinning. Most of them were being inspected for weapons. After the last person left that helicopter, it flew up and passed us.

  It was our turn to land on that tiny space on the deck. Off in the distance, a smaller helicopter hovered dangerously close to the water’s surface. I pointed it out to Peter. “It’s going to crash!”

  Before Peter could respond, the pilot of that small craft jumped out and the helicopter hit the water. Its turning blades stopped suddenly and broke off, pieces flying in the air. “What are they doing?”

  “I don’t—wait! Hold on!” Our helicopter pitched sideways, sending people and luggage sliding. Then the front section dipped. Petrified, I could not even scream like the other women. I just shut my eyes and prayed.

  A moment passed, and we landed.

  A marine opened the door and lowered a set of steps for the passengers to climb down. “All right, people. We’ve got many more runs. Everyone out, let’s go!”

  It was hectic on the deck, and yet there seemed to be order in the chaos. An American man examined the paperwork Peter handed him, looked at us both, and nodded. “Welcome aboard. Please make your way starboard.”

  We found a spot to set down our luggage and wait. Peter took out his camera. He pointed to the very rear of the ship’s deck and started walking. “Stay here. I need to get this.”

  Right away I saw what he was going to document. Seven or eight men put their hands on the sides of another one of those smaller helicopters. To my amazement, they lifted it from the bottom and tilted it over the edge of the ship. One man fell into a safety net on the edge of the deck as the helicopter fell into the water.

  I understood now. After they had deposited their refugees on the Blue Ridge, they had to discard those smaller helicopters to make room for more people.

  This happened a few more times. About sixty meters from the ship, a lone pilot would fly his helicopter and ditch it in the water. He either leapt out before it hit the water, or went down with it and climbed out. He would then swim to a rubber lifeboat and return to the ship.

  It felt like the end of the world. I had never seen or imagined anything like this. And I suspected the same could be said for most people there. True to his vocation, Peter captured this historic event. I felt proud of him, but I wished he was with me at that moment. I couldn’t bear all this by myself.

  “Ma’am, are you all right?” A marine stood behind me with a green duffle bag.

  “Is this what it has come to? How could this happen?” I said, too stunned to realize I was trembling.

  He took out a thick wool blanket and put it around my shoulders. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Why are you s
orry?”

  “This is the first time we’ve ever walked away, left an ally to themselves. You know, I keep asking myself if there was more I could have done. Maybe if we had some more boats, helicopters, anything, maybe we could have …” He took a deep breath and turned away. “I feel like I’ve let them down. Like I’m just turning my back on them.”

  “You are a good man. Try to remember all you have helped. God knows your heart.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  USS Blue Ridge

  South China Sea: April 30, 1975

  Peter brought me to one of the meeting rooms on the ship where a TV crew and all the news correspondents gathered to discuss all that had happened in the past day.

  An official-looking person stood up before the microphone and read from a paper: “At ten twenty-four this morning, President Duong Van Minh announced a surrender. He called for all South Vietnamese forces to cease hostilities and remain where they are. Minh then invited the Provisional Revolutionary Government to engage in a ceremony of orderly transfer of power so as to avoid any unnecessary bloodshed in the population.

  “No such ceremony took place. At eleven thirty, PAVN tanks broke through and destroyed the gates of the Independence Palace, where they raised the flag of the National Liberation Front. Minh was arrested. At fifteen thirty hours, he broadcast over the radio and declared the Saigon government completely dissolved at all levels.”

  Clinging to whatever hope I could, I reached for Peter’s hand.

  Saigon had fallen.

  50

  XANDRA CARRICK

  Too many thoughts flying through my mind. All that rises out of the silent jumble is, I’m going to die.

  “Hands on your head,” Rolston orders. “Good. Now, on your knees.”

  “Please … don’t do this.”

  “Shut up! I told you, quick and painless.” He tosses my backpack on the grass. “Now, tell me the truth. How did you know about the Dellafina girl?”