The Hearing Page 19

  “So one day he took me out and had my picture taken, and I didn’t know why. And a few weeks later, one morning when my mom was out shopping, he gave me a suitcase and told me to put my clothes in it. I was really excited. Taking a trip! So we got a taxi to the airport and flew to New York and then got on another plane and went to London. He left a note behind for my mom, but I don’t know what it said.”

  “How old were you?”

  “I was still eight. He worked out some deal with this hotel chain—Intercontinental Hotels?”

  “I’ve heard of them.”

  “So we were in London for a while, and I went to school there, but we were only there about four months. We were never anywhere more than about four months. They wanted new pianists all the time so the customers didn’t get bored. And we went to Paris, and Milan, and then back to London.”

  “Sounds exciting.”

  “Yeah, and my dad, sometimes he’d let me come into the hotel where he was playing and listen to him. And that was the greatest, all these people around the piano and at the tables and the bar and they’re all listening to him play, like my dad, and everyone’s listening to him play. I loved it. But then he stopped letting me come to listen to him because I was getting older and I wasn’t looking like a kid anymore. And once a customer asked me for a date, and boy, that was the end of that.”

  She stopped.

  “Then what happened?”

  “That’s about it, until you showed up, or Carl did. My dad came back to the hotel and I heard him in the hallway, and I knew something was wrong, just from the sounds he made, his steps outside the door. I thought maybe my mom had found us and we had to run. He came in the room and sat on the bed and said there was this man who’d come to the club, and he showed me a card the man had written. It said something like, ‘You really need to talk to me and it’s okay because I’m a friend.’ My dad showed it to me and he said, ‘What do you think?’ And I said, ‘See him. Why not?’ And two days later I met you and Michelle and the day after that, here I was.”

  Gus said, “That’s a remarkable story.”

  He wanted to tell Michelle. What about Rothman?

  “It’s true.”

  “I know it’s true. Samantha, I believe every word you’ve told me.”

  After a minute she said, “I’m glad I told you. At first I thought maybe I was making a big mistake. But now I’m glad.”

  “It wasn’t a mistake, Samantha. The truth is never a mistake.”

  “Yeah. That’s what my dad says.”

  They were silent.

  Samantha said, “You know what else?”

  “What?”

  “I thought lots of kids lived like that. I mean, it never occurred to me that living in a whorehouse was that unusual. Then I killed the guy, and there were all the cops and judges and everything, and I realized that most kids don’t live in places where this stuff happens, that not all fathers are drunks and not all mothers are madams and not all homes are whorehouses.”

  “And then?”

  “I wanted to know how it would have been if I wasn’t living how I was, who my real parents were, why they gave me away, why they didn’t want me, why they didn’t just get rid of me, was I lucky to be alive? All that stuff. I really wanted to know. Then I saw Michelle in the airport, and she looked just like me, and I knew, I couldn’t believe it, I was so—I wasn’t even happy. I was too shocked to be happy. In the ladies’ room when I talked to her, then I was happy. Yeah, really happy, like now I’m gonna get some answers.”

  It was late now, near midnight, dark and silent. The car was sweltering. Gus didn’t dare use the air conditioner more than a couple of minutes every few hours. He’d rolled up his shirtsleeves and now in the dark he unbuttoned his shirt to the waist. He couldn’t stop thinking about what Saman-tha had told him. He wondered how it would affect Roth-man’s view of the nomination—and Michelle’s.

  He heard the cabinet snap open, snap closed, snap open—Samantha playing.

  She had really lived in a brothel? What does it do to an eight-year-old to stick a knife in the belly of a rapist? How disturbed was Samantha, really? How disturbed was he?

  The cabinet snapped again. Open, close, open, close. He wished she’d stop playing with it. A lemon, a lime, a bottle opener, gin, vodka, a knife.

  He fell asleep.

  20

  Have you heard?”

  Helen Bondell was in her office late Thursday afternoon, Warren Gier on the phone.

  “Tell me, Warren. I’m busy.”

  “Gus Parham’s about to be blown up by a bomb. You still busy?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “They just interrupted CNN. There’s a car bomb parked outside a State Department residence. It’s where they’ve had the Parhams and their daughter holed up.”

  “Are they in the house?”

  This wasn’t happening. A bomb? Gus Parham? She thought of the Oklahoma carnage, the World Trade Center. Madmen did these things.

  “As far as I know. I’ll find out more. I’ve got some good friends in that street.”

  “Tell me as soon as you know anything, Warren.”

  “Bet on it.”

  She called Harrington. Punching the numbers, her trembling fingers kept hitting the wrong buttons.

  She said, “You hear about the bomb?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  He sounded scared.

  “Any ideas?”

  “None whatsoever.”

  “Dinner?”

  “I already have an appointment.”

  She put the phone down. A man that worried about what he says on the phone is a man who knows things.

  She walked across her office to the TV and switched on CNN. If she hadn’t heard back from Gier by the end of the day, she’d track him down. By then he’d know everything there was to know.

  She was sick and frightened. So, she imagined, was Harrington. But Warren had sounded thrilled, a pit bull off the chain.

  She returned from the TV to her desk, hands sweating, Vicaro’s name echoing in her brain.

  Michelle sat in the Four Seasons lounge, finishing her orange juice and thinking. She’d had a letter that morning from her mother and father in Montgomery. They’d been reading newspaper stories about the nomination, all the lies the so-called Freedom Federation had been spreading about Gus. And now comes this Doreen butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-her-mouth Young. The only good thing—something unbelievably wonderful—to come out of the whole nasty nomination was Samantha. If they’d stayed in Montgomery, they would never have known her. Gus would not even have known she existed. Getting rid of that lie—it was like the breaking of chains—was worth the pain of this whole evil mess.

  Did she want to go back to Montgomery? She squeezed the orange juice glass so hard it almost broke in her hand. The thought of giving in, surrendering, running back home, made her angry. It would all be over soon. Gus would be confirmed, the lies would stop, the people who were tormenting them would go away and torment others, and she and Gus and Samantha would have a normal life.

  She left the hotel and despite the heat decided to walk. After a half hour she tired and hailed a taxi. When she gave the driver her address, he glanced at her in the rear-view mirror.

  “You didn’t hear?”

  “Hear what?”

  “They’ve got a bomb threat in that street. You won’t be able to get near it. They’ve got the whole area sealed off.”

  Two blocks from her street several hundred spectators had gathered around police cars barricading the intersection.

  Michelle’s stomach tightened. She knew something was wrong at Blossom.

  She paid the taxi and got out. She saw photographers and hid her face. If they recognized her and started asking questions about the nomination—about Samantha!—she’d come apart.

  She pushed through the mob, found a cop, and asked what had happened.

  “Bomb scare. You’ll have to move, ma’am. You can’
t stand here.”

  If she told him she lived there, he might recognize her and tell reporters.

  She joined the line at a public telephone in the drugstore at the shopping center. She dialed Blossom. No answer. If even the security people had left, it must be serious.

  Where were Gus and Samantha?

  She searched in her bag and found Rothman’s phone number.

  “Rothman residence.”

  “This is Mrs. Parham. May I speak with him please?”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t hear you.”

  She didn’t want to raise her voice.

  “May I speak with Mr. Rothman, please?”

  “May I ask who’s calling?”

  “It’s Mrs. Parham.”

  “Oh, Mrs. Parham, I didn’t understand before. I can hardly hear you. I’m sorry. No, I’m afraid he’s not here right now. I think he’s over at Blossom.”

  “How can I reach him?”

  “I don’t know. Have you tried calling Blossom?”

  “Yes, but thanks anyway.”

  She hung up.

  Carl was in the command truck late Thursday night, on the phone with a State Department engineer who’d helped fortify Blossom, when he saw two new people, a man and a woman dressed in orange coveralls, step through the narrow door. They were with Rolf Zaeder, the fat, jolly ATF agent who’d shown him the antenna under the Mercedes.

  “Can I call you back? Ten minutes. Thanks.”

  Zaeder said, “Hi, these are the folks I told you about. Just flew in from Dallas.”

  “Oh?”

  “EOD. Explosive Ordnance Division.”

  “Oh, right, sure.” The people who weren’t too tightly wrapped.

  They exchanged names, shook hands. One of them, a curly-haired young woman not much more than four feet tall, gave his hand a hard shake but didn’t speak. She looked about as tightly wrapped as they get.

  Carl said, “So what’s up?”

  The man said, “We need to identify the explosive, and see how much there is. Then we can think about ways to deal with it.”

  The woman, whose name was Terry, smiled. It was pushing midnight, but she seemed fresh and rested.

  “Like what ways?”

  The man said, “Hard to say right now. If we can put a probe in, we can go from there.”

  Carl said, “There may be people in the Colombian Trade Commission, very near where the vehicle’s parked. We don’t want to worry them.”

  “Take one person five minutes. Put out those floodlights, give us five minutes’ darkness, nobody’ll be the wiser.”

  FBI technicians had erected elevated lights illuminating the approaches to Blossom.

  “Okay,” Carl said, “you’ve got it. But take it easy.” He smiled. “No loud noises.”

  “Never missed yet.”

  The woman, still smiling, small and shy, hadn’t spoken.

  Michelle left the drugstore and, keeping her face down, walked back through the growing crowd to the police barricade. Up the block she could see the flashing red lights of emergency vehicles.

  How was Gus? How was Samantha?

  She thought again of telling a cop who she was. She glanced around. Photographers, reporters. Two TV vans with satellite dishes. She saw a TV man, sweating in a suit, holding a microphone. The memory of the airport reporters, the thought of that microphone suddenly thrust into her face and the questions that might be asked (“Where is your daughter?” “Why did you decide not to have the abortion?”) put to death any thought of telling anyone who she was.

  But what could she do?

  She thought, Eventually I’ll see someone I know. They’ll be looking for me. They’ll come out. I’ll see them.

  So she spent Thursday night standing in the street, mixing with the crowd. Who were these people—up all night, abandoning TV sets to linger barely within the fringes of live action? What did they hope to see?

  Every few minutes a car drove out through the police line and disappeared up the street. Sometimes men on foot came out. Others entered, showing credentials to the cops. Past the police barricades she could see the dim glow of floodlights illuminating the danger area.

  She sat on a curb a few yards from a trio of other spectators and told herself that by midnight if she hadn’t seen anyone she knew she’d approach a cop and say whatever she had to say to get past him to the house.

  When midnight came, she picked out a nice-looking young cop and, hoping he wouldn’t recognize her face from all the news photos, walked up and said, “Excuse me?”

  He turned to her but didn’t speak. Up close, she could see how tired he was.

  She said, “I live in the second block up there. My family will be wondering where I am. Can’t I please go in for just a minute? I promise I’ll come right back out.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. There won’t be anyone there anyway. The whole area’s been evacuated. No one’s in there now but emergency personnel, and they’re not any further than right there.” He pointed at flashing red lights fifty yards into the block. “Past those vehicles there, you won’t find a cat.”

  “Well, where is everyone? Where did they go?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe you should call some relatives.”

  She thanked him and went back to the curb and sat down.

  She knew that a lot of spectators had gone to the shopping area to get drinks and sandwiches at a store that was staying open for the night. But she was afraid if she left she’d miss seeing someone she knew. Sooner or later, someone would come looking for her.

  Two yards of grass ran between the curb and the sidewalk. With her feet still in the gutter, she lay back, stared up at the stars, and thought about what Gus would want her to do. She fell asleep.

  A sound next to her head brought her suddenly upright, dazed but awake.

  “Mrs. Parham? Are you all right?”

  It was Todd.

  “Oh, Todd, where did you come from? What time is it?”

  “It’s five A.M. What are you doing here?”

  “Well, where would I be, Todd? I live up there, remember? Didn’t anyone think of that?”

  “We didn’t know where you were. We’ve been searching for you.”

  “I left a note. No one saw the note?” Why was she arguing with Todd? It wasn’t his fault. “Where are my husband and daughter?”

  “I think you should come with me.”

  “Where are they?”

  “Carl can explain it better than I can.”

  “Are they all right? Are they hurt?”

  “No, they’re okay. Can you walk?”

  “Of course I can walk.”

  He helped her up.

  “I’m sorry, Todd. Excuse me. I’m not angry at you. I’m just tired. Where is everyone?”

  “Come with me.”

  Todd led her past the barricades to a huge tractor-trailer truck with FBI written on the sides.

  Carl was inside, sitting with a half-dozen other men and women at one of two counters running along the sides of the truck.

  When he saw her, he shouted, “Michelle!” and slammed down a telephone. “Where the hell—let’s go next door.”

  He took her hand, none too gently, and hurried her into a neighboring Winnebago camper ATF was using as an office and conference room. They sat in a small sitting room with chairs, a sofa, and a coffee table.

  “Where’ve you been?”

  “Where are Gus and Samantha?”

  Carl told her everything he knew—the Mercedes station wagon, the explosives dogs, the opinions of all the experts.

  “So that’s where they are now. In the limousine.”

  Michelle said, “But they’re safe?”

  “Safe as anyone can make them. If the Mercedes has the maximum explosives it could possibly have, and if those explosives are the most powerful they could be, and if it goes off with the maximum effect, Gus and Samantha will experience a very rocky ride inside the limousine, and they may suffer cuts and bruises, but t
hey’ll be okay. That’s why they’re still there. It’s safer than running the risk of trying to bring them out.”

  During the night, Gus allowed Samantha out of the car once to go to the bathroom in the garage. He turned on the ignition to activate the electrical system, and lowered the windows. He left them down for one minute, then closed them and turned off the ignition. It failed to make anything cooler, and the odor of urine and feces in the garage was worse than the odor of sweat in the car. He decided not to lower the windows again.

  When Gus awoke Friday morning, the phone was buzzing.

  “Gus, it’s Carl. How was your night?”

  Gus looked at his watch. Five-thirty. A few rays of light penetrated the garage windows. Samantha was curled into a corner of the seat, still asleep.

  “The night was hot, is how the night was. Carl, where is—”

  “Before you say anything, you might like to know that CNN is broadcasting pieces of our telephone conversations, even—”

  “They broke the scrambling?”

  “Not yet. They’re broadcasting the scrambled signals, just to show what they sound like. But NSA says the networks have approached foreign intelligence sources, offer ing high prices for decryption devices, and may have them at any time. When the people behind this operation will have a device—or if they have one now—is less clear. To answer the question you were about to ask, there’s nothing to worry about.”

  “What does that mean, exactly?”

  “What was lost has been found. No damage, no problems. Don’t worry. We’ve also heard from someone else. You remember L.Y.?”

  Larry Young.

  “Of course. What’s happened?”

  “He’s back in London, called Carl, said he’d heard something on a radio station, not much. I guess the foreign media isn’t that interested in our courts, but he wants to know is it true there’s a threat, what’s going on, is Samantha safe.”

  “What’d you tell him?”

  “I didn’t want to alarm him. I told him she’s fine, don’t worry about a thing, I’ll keep him advised. He seemed relieved.”