One Child (2 page)

Chapter

2

Soho, New York City

The beeping from the alarm began as a low gurgle, then increased in cadence and volume until a hand hit the snooze button. The room sank back into silence. One of the figures stirred under the covers, then bare feet touched the floor.

Carson
Grant shuffled across the worn hardwood into the kitchen and touched the brew button on the coffee machine. He returned to bed and pulled the woman under the covers close to him. She mumbled something incomprehensible, but contented. They lay unmoving for ten minutes, then he roused himself again and returned to the kitchen. He added cream and sugar to the brew and padded back to the bedroom. He opened the shades on the window and slipped into bed, sitting in the dark with his back against the headboard, staring out the window. Across the street, the windows of the four-story warehouse lofts were still dark. Above the building the last remnants of a full moon lit the early morning sky. The woman rolled over on her side, snuggled up to him and dozed off.

A light breeze pushed through the open window.
Carson
sipped the coffee, his mind growing alert as the caffeine kicked in. Below him, Soho was slowly coming alive. The sounds of traffic from Spring Street picked up and a large truck drove past, the roar from its diesel motor reverberating off the brick buildings. Low voices carried up to the third floor window, the words muted and indistinguishable. Cans clanged as a garbage truck hauled away the last of yesterday's trash.

New York was waking up.

The woman shifted slightly under the covers and coughed. She clutched the duvet until her fingers turned white. Her body was wracked with convulsions - muscles tensed and contracted as the shock waves rolled through her thin frame. The coughing fit lasted almost a minute, then she settled back into the pillow and her grip on the covers relaxed. Tiny spasms shook her body for another minute, then she lay still, her breathing labored and shallow.

"You okay,
Nicki
?"
Carson
asked.

"Fine," she answered. Her voice was strong for such a small frame. "Business as usual."

"Yeah," he said quietly. He hated it when she said that.

He sipped the coffee and stared out the window, listening to the growing wall of white noise. The alarm clock flipped over to 6:00 and he slid out of bed and started the shower. The water was cold - invigorating - and his mind ran through his daily calendar. The two o'clock meeting trumped everything. In fact, it was the meeting that could change his life. Or not.

The water dripped for thirty seconds after he turned it off, then petered out.
Carson
couldn't help smiling. Everything about the third-story flat was like the shower and had some sort of quirk. The heat register thumped six times before it kicked in and the electrical outlet the television was plugged into would only work if the bathroom light was on. Two years was enough, it was time to move on. Maybe that would happen today.

"It all comes down to one meeting," he muttered to himself as he stripped the plastic off his freshly pressed suit. He knew he was ready.

He dressed and checked his look in the mirror. Perfect. Never better. His light brown hair was exactly the right length and was behaving itself. None of the usual cowlicks or unruly tufts. He smiled and was rewarded with the sight of even white teeth behind full lips. His eyes, pale on the grey days, were vibrant blue. He ran a sponge over his black leather shoes and returned to the bedroom.
Nicki
was awake and sitting up in the bed.

"I should have gotten up this morning," she said. "Made you breakfast." She was thin - too thin - her clavicles jutting out from her shoulders. The natural beauty in her face was accentuated by her leanness. Like freshly fallen snow - a simple white blanket with no blemishes. Nothing to detract from the perfection of the place and the moment. Short black hair framed her striking features.

He sat beside her. "It's okay. I'll grab something at the deli near the office."

"Big day for you," she said. She adjusted his tie.

"Big day for us."

She nodded. "For us. Of course."

He hugged her, longer than usual, then left the apartment and locked the door behind him. Spring Street was already busy. Delivery trucks filled with early morning shipments pulled in at the curb and an occasional yellow cab trolled, looking for fares. He stayed on Spring Street to the Avenue of the Americas and caught the 1 Line subway at the Canal Street station. The train was crowded, but not unbearable and he rode it past his building to the 50th Street Station rather than getting off at Times Square. He liked the walk coming back in from the north better.

The lobby of 1177 Avenue of the Americas, home of
Platinus Investments
, always amazed him. A grand piano sat just inside the doors and the ceilings soared five stories above the marble floors. He cleared security and took the elevator to his office on the eighteenth floor. Getting through the morning was hell. A problem with the latest algorithm was waiting on his desk and needed his attention. But his thoughts and focus were already in William
Fleming
's office, facing the man across his desk. He finished lunch and checked his watch. 1:20. Forty minutes until he was due for the most important interview of his life. He felt a tinge of wetness in his armpits and willed his sweat glands to stop. Nothing was going to ruin this.

It was three weeks ago to the day when he found out he had been shortlisted for the job of heading up the High Frequency Trading division of
Platinus Investments
. It wasn't a title that was to be taken lightly. In addition to overseeing two hundred highly educated men and women, the job description included advising the CEO on a daily basis. That meant one-on-one contact with William
Fleming
, a man who stood among the ruling elite on Wall Street. High Frequency Trading was enormously lucrative for the firm, and it was
Fleming
's baby.
Fleming
wanted opinions on how the firm could maximize profits and keep the other HFT firms at bay.
Carson
would have influence over the computer programs that were the engine of the global financial markets. It was Nirvana. And he was one of five who had made the shortlist.

Almost double his current salary plus bonuses. It would easily run over a million a year. If
Fleming
chose him for the position, he would move up the wedding and get a new place in Midtown. Soho was nice, but couldn't compete with an apartment overlooking Central Park.

It was so close. Everything he had worked for. So many years of college, all for this moment.

Carson
switched off his computer and took the elevator to the forty-seventh floor. It opened with a swooshing sound and he wondered if it did that on every floor. He strode across the foyer to where a mid-forties woman sat at a sleek metal and glass reception desk.

"
Carson
Grant to see Mr.
Fleming
," he said.

"He's ready for you," the woman replied. She motioned to the door behind her with one hand and touched a button on her computer with the other. "No need to knock."

"Thank you,"
Carson
said.

His knees almost buckled. He moved past the desk and glanced at his watch. Was he late? It wasn't possible. The minute hand on his Omega was exactly on eleven. Five minutes before the hour. He was early. He wasn't sure what to think as he pushed open the solid wood door.

The corner room was spacious and sparsely furnished. An average-size desk, dark wood with pewter accents, faced the bank of windows looking north toward Central Park. William
Fleming
sat on one of a pair of sofas that faced each other in front of a second wall of windows. He was reading the contents of a file folder. He set the folder on his lap and pointed to the other couch. He was dressed in tan slacks and a dark blue shirt open at the neck. His dark hair was pushed back behind his ears and framed a thin, intense face. His eyes were deep brown, almost black.

"Sit down,
Carson
,"
Fleming
said.

"Thank you, sir."
Carson
tugged his trouser legs up slightly as he sat, then adjusted the material so it sat properly on his legs.

It was the fifth time he had met William
Fleming
. If anyone asked, he could tell them where each encounter had taken place and what was said. Conversing with one of the richest men in the world wasn't something that was easily forgotten.

"You have an MBA from MIT,"
Fleming
said.

"Yes, sir."

"Did you like the school?"

Carson
considered his answer. The examination was underway. No foreplay with this interview. "Yes and no. I found the professors to be the best I had ever encountered. But the student body was a different thing altogether."

Fleming
tilted his head to one side. "Why is that?"

"There were some students on scholarships, but there were a lot more from wealthy families. Most of them had attitudes of entitlement."

"And you didn't." It wasn't a question. It was a statement.

"No,"
Carson
said. He wondered if the $375,000 student loan he had taken out to attend the prestigious campus was noted in his file. He suspected it was. No, he
knew
it was.

Carson
was ready for the questions. He had studied everything he could find about William
Fleming
prior to the interview. Born Laszio Farkas in Hungary in 1958, he was the younger of two children. He had a late October birthday, which made him a Scorpio. His father had dropped out of school in grade eight and spent his life running a small grocery store. His mother helped with the store and cooked the meals. There was some sort of trouble with a communist party official in the summer of 1975 and
Fleming
had left the country the same night the incident had happened. He changed his name to William
Fleming
and settled in Wisconsin, where he excelled at math and statistics. He enrolled in business at the University of Wisconsin - Madison, maintained a 3.85 GPA for two years then dropped out and headed for New York.
Fleming
spent the next nine years with a handful of investment companies, then started
Platinus Investments
in 1989. The rest was logged in the Wall Street history books.

Fleming
locked eyes with the younger man. "Thursday, May 6
th
, 2010. A computer glitch erases 723 points off the Dow in sixteen minutes. What is your immediate response to counteract the drop?"

The questions continued for over an hour. Easy ones that lulled him into a false sense of security, followed by staccato bursts that tested him on industry knowledge, his integrity and decision-making ability. There was no rhythm, nothing to indicate what question might be next. To
Carson
, it was an hour that redefined stress. Finally,
Fleming
closed
Carson
's file and set it on the table.

"Can I ask you a personal question?"

Carson
nodded. "Yes."

"You're engaged - getting married soon."

"Yes, sometime later this year, maybe early in 2011."

"Why are you marrying a woman who is dying?"

Carson
's mouth opened, then closed. His mind was racing. Somehow, instinctively, he knew that the outcome of the interview rested on this one answer. The obvious one, and the truth, was that he loved
Nicki
and that it didn't matter to him how much time they had together. But this moment wasn't about truth. It had nothing to do with
Nicki
or with love. It had everything to do with his dedication to William
Fleming
and to Platinus.

"I committed to her," he said. "A commitment - a promise - is everything."

Fleming
leaned forward. He stared coldly at the younger man. "Are you committed to this company? To running a High Frequency Trading department that outperforms every other firm in the world?"

"One hundred percent."

Fleming
remained motionless for fifteen seconds, eyes locked on
Carson
. Then he relaxed into the leather cushion and touched a small black button embedded in the arm of the couch. A pleasant voice answered.

"Yes, Mr.
Fleming
?"

"Cherise, I'd like you to cancel the interview with the final applicant. The position has been filled."

"Yes, sir."

Fleming
smiled. "Welcome to the inner circle,
Carson
."

Chapter

3

Boston, Massachusetts

Russell
Matthews closed the lid on his camera case. Then he opened it and checked his lenses, batteries and memory cards. For the sixth time. It was a habit - and a good one. Forgetting one piece of specialized equipment when heading to a country like Afghanistan could be disastrous.

"Are you ready?" a woman's voice asked.

Russell
slung the bag over his shoulder and grabbed his backpack. "Ready as I'll ever be." He faced the woman in the doorway.

"You're crazy. You can still back out." She was leaning against the doorjamb, dressed in tight jeans and a white T-shirt. Long curly hair fell past her shoulders and tiny worry lines creased her skin near her eyes. They hadn't been there when she married
Russell
in Punta Cana three years ago. Living with a photojournalist who covered the world's hot spots wasn't easy.

Russell
set the pack on the floor and pulled the woman close to him. At five-eight she was still six inches shorter than her husband. He pushed his blond hair back from his face and gave her his patented one-sided grin. Disarming to most women, but it didn't work on her anymore.

"It's only a month, Tina. And I'm embedded."

"I don't like it. Not with you traveling in the trucks with the soldiers. Most of the injuries in Afghanistan are caused by IEDs."

"I won't be in a truck. I'll be in an armored vehicle called a Stryker,"
Russell
said. His face darkened slightly. "You're right about the Improvised Explosive Devices. I think they're a coward's way to fight a war."

"Well, cowardly or not, they work. Look at the body count." Tina Matthews pulled back from her husband and held him at arm's length. "It may be a good assignment,
Russell
, but I have a bad feeling about it."

"I'll be spending most of my time behind the wire - some in the villages. Anita wants the story on what it's like to be a soldier in Kandahar, but it's more than that. She's pushing for stories on the Afghan people and how all this is affecting them."

"Anita Greenwall is behind a desk at the television station. She's not the one with her life on the line."

"Anita's cool. You know that. She's the reason the network is footing the bill for this. And she talked them into having me cover more than just the troops. She pushed for the humanitarian angle."

"Sorry," Tina said. "Just venting." She sunk in against his chest. "I want you intact. Not with your legs blown off. Or dead."

"Man, you really know how to sweet talk a guy."

She was trembling now. Enough for him to feel her chest pulsing against his. She clutched him tighter. "I love you,
Russell
. I don't want a phone call in the middle of the night."

They stood entwined for a minute, then
Russell
said, "I'll miss my flight."

The mid-morning drive from the eastern edge of Cambridge to Logan International was easy - by Boston standards. Less than forty minutes from door to door. They alternated between banal conversation and prolonged stretches of silence. Two minds processing the same information. Both of them touching on the reality of what was happening and neither of them wanting to talk about it.

"How long until you're embedded?" Tina asked as they approached the Sumner Tunnel. She slowed for the toll and threw a handful of change into the basket.

"About five days,"
Russell
answered. "Today's the 28
th
, so I should be in the field by August 1
st
or 2
nd
."

"And you're flying back on August 30
th
."

He tapped his camera bag, which doubled as his carry-on. "E-ticket is in here. Confirmed. I'm back about six at night."

"Good," Tina said, navigating the Saab through the thickening traffic. She slipped into an opening near the departures door and set the transmission in park. "Promise me something."

"Sure," he said.

"Come back alive."

Tina was crying. She dropped him at the airport every time he left on assignment. It was their routine. She was emotional, but never like this. Never tears. It shocked him into a sudden realization of the danger he would soon be plunged into. He was thirty-six years old. No longer an invulnerable twenty-something who couldn't see the frailty of life. Maybe it was time to rethink his career path. Maybe. He wasn't sure. One thing was certain. If he left the war and disaster zones to the younger pups, he'd miss the adrenaline rush.

"I'm coming home," he said. "My life is with you, and I'm not giving that up."

"To them - you're faceless. Just another white guy in their country messing up their lives. They could care less about the life you left behind. Or about me. I don't exist. Keep that in mind."

He kissed her and joined the throng of people in the Lufthansa line for the flight to Frankfurt. Security was a nightmare, with the line snaking all the way from the scanners to the main terminal. He made the gate eight minutes before his scheduled departure. The attendants had closed the flight, but reopened the computer file and ran his boarding pass through the machine. More and more people late for their departure times. In one way, the terrorists were winning by impacting millions of travelers every day.

Russell
settled into the flight and played the mental tape of his meeting with Anita Greenwall. She had pushed for the network to take him on as a contract journalist to ferret out why the American involvement wasn't working. Why was Afghanistan a rat's nest of death and disappointment? Somehow, she figured, the answer lay with the civilians. He liked the angle. It was new and fresh. America was getting tired of seeing coffins draped in the stars and stripes on their local television stations. What they didn't see, were the coffins being unloaded off transport planes arriving at Dover AFB in Delaware. They didn't see the bodies being taken into the mortuary units for autopsy. There were a lot of things the American public didn't see. They needed a different perspective and it was up to him to deliver.

Usually he didn't mind the danger, but Tina was right, this time felt different. No reason - it was the same as Iraq or Somalia or Haiti after the earthquake. Places he had been and had survived. Mogadishu was the worst. A failed government, militia serving all-powerful warlords, and street thugs with loaded guns. Nothing nice about the Somali capital.
Blackhawk Down
, one of his favorite movies of all time, had portrayed it for what it was. A total clusterfuck.

He had faced irate men armed with guns and had seen people die violently. His memories harbored injustice beyond what any normal person could imagine. The worst of what he filmed was deemed too offensive and never aired on the major networks. This was the footage that got buried in the vastness of the Internet, where the government had trouble sterilizing things. He wondered if the film from this trip was destined for the digital bone yard, or if it would be edited for the six o'clock news. He had mixed feelings about that. Part of him wanted it on the major network - part of him wanted the story that could never be told. It was the stories that never made the news that held the most impact.

Anita was the reason he was on the plane. She was a veteran newswoman who knew the industry and pushed for the truth. He respected her and knew she would do everything she could to get the best stories on the air. But even she had her limitations. The American people could take only so much truth. At least that was the network's logic.

A flight attendant passed by and offered him snacks and a drink. He thanked her and ripped open the small bag of pretzels. Such a simple thing, having a bite to eat on an airplane. Yet in five days he would enter a world where opening pretzels was a treat and flying to another continent was unthinkable. Where war had raged continuously for twenty-five years and survival was the order of the day.

He'd seen it before. The vile acts of murder and rape, always perpetrated on the weak and vulnerable. He hated it. The scenes haunted him while he slept and even when he was awake. The eyes - the stares of those about to die - burned into his soul. There was no escaping the horror. And now he was heading directly into the storm.

He asked himself the same questions he did every time he left the comfort and safety of Boston and climbed aboard a plane destined for a war zone. Why? Why did he do it? Why risk his life to give the world such sad images? Why did he care? The answer was always the same. The oppressed deserved a voice and if he didn't do it, who would?

He finished the pretzels, pulled the window shade down and settled in to sleep.