Ian Fleming's James Bond

It was a strange day in Bangkok. The rain had been pelting the crowded capital with a seemingly endless torrent of water, and yet, the temperature remained swelteringly hot. While standing in the rain, instead of feeling refreshed, a person would feel like he was being doused with hot water laden with all the pollutants that constantly floated above the ever-growing city.

The foul weather might have been to blame, because Bond was in a particularly foul mood. Sitting in a booth next to a window of the "Bateau Mouche" restaurant, he stared glumly out at the yellowish rain coming down. Bond felt uncomfortable, lethargic, and irascible. He brusquely dismissed a waiter who had approached him to inquire whether he needed another drink with a curt "No!", and a look that sent the young man scurrying away.

What a terrible time to be sent here, Bond thought. Right in the middle of the rainy season, with the tropical rain being a hundred times heavier than that in London. Maybe this was just M's way of punishing him for taking that unannounced detour on his way home from the last training trip. Bond had been sent to the States for a joint exercise with some CIA agents. The exercise had turned out to be a mini-bootcamp, conducted in the burning heat of the Nevada desert. Bond had been exhausted by the time the camp was over, and while sitting on the plane that took him to his stopover in New York, had decided to take a few days off to recharge his depleted batteries. So, instead of taking the New York - London flight, he had taken the next Air France flight from New York to Paris, to visit the alluring Ariane de Montrose, whom he had met during his last mission. When he arrived at the simple but elegant apartment in the heart of Paris that was the residence of Ariane and Ana Tevye  (the young orphan whom Ariane had taken in as an adopted daughter), they had both been surprised and delighted by his unexpected visit. The first day had been quite pleasant, warmed by Ariane's loving touch. However, by the second day, Bond had started to develop a sense of guilt every time he set his eyes on young Ana. Her presence always reminded him of her mother Malena, whom he had killed in self-defense during his last encounter with the new SMERSH. Although Ana appeared to be quite happy living with Ariane, Bond could not help but remember that it was he who had made her an orphan. The guilt had weighed on him so much that even Ariane's considerable charms could not persuade him to stay in Paris beyond the third day. So, he had bid adieu to Ariane and Ana, and flown back to London, and back to his usual, lonely existence.

Things had only gotten worse when Bond had walked into M's office the following day.

"Well, it's so nice of you to decide to come back to us," the steely-eyed Head of MI6 had told him. "I suppose you think that unlike other, less illustrious members of Her Majesty's Secret Service, the legendary 007 can just take off any time he wants, to do anything his heart desires. Has it occurred to you that there might have been an emergency, and we might have needed to contact you during those few days? How do you justify turning your communication devices off? Or do you think that everything can be put on hold until you get back from your impromptu field trip?"

Bond had had very little to say in his defense. He had never turned off the line of communication to MI6 while on vacation before. But this time, he had felt the need to sever all ties to his work during those precious few days in Paris, so that he could truly relax, and enjoy the company of Ariane and Ana. Of course, he had not counted on being tormented by his conscience. In hindsight, he realized that he probably should not have gone to Paris.

"It just so happened that something did come up while you were away playing hooky," M had continued, while throwing a thick dossier on the table, in front of him. "Study this file, then go talk to Moneypenny to arrange your traveling plans. You need to leave for Bangkok immediately."

The same dossier was now in front of Bond, next to the half-finished dish of fillets of sole. Bond lifted the cover once again, and found himself staring at the photograph of a young, good-looking Englishman, who appeared to be in his late twenties, with light brown hair, and an engaging smile. The paragraph below the picture informed Bond that the young man was Eric Houghton, son of the current British Ambassador to Thailand. Eric had been a bit of a playboy, a favorite of the local tabloids, which had frequently published pictures of him with various aspiring models and starlets, partying at some social events. Three nights ago, he had been murdered. His body had been found in the penthouse suite of the Bangkok Hilton.

"This is a top-priority case, 007," M had told him. "Steven Houghton, Eric's father, is a close friend of the Prime Minister, and he has asked the PM, as a personal favor, to help him find his son's murderer. The PM has, in turn, asked me to put our best man on the case, and that means you, Bond. You'll have to find the killer, and find him quickly too. Our organization's reputation is at stake here. Also, I have made this a sanction operation. We intend to make an example of this killer and how he is punished, so that terrorists worldwide will think twice before planning any attack against British citizens again."

Bond's raised his eyebrows upon hearing M uttering the word "sanction". This was a term first used by the Americans, and it meant counterassassination. During the Cold War, when the Soviet Union or the Eastern block countries killed an American Secret Service agent, CIA would launch a sanction mission to kill the people responsible for his death in retaliation. It had been a long time since M had sent any Double-O agent out on a sanction mission.

"With all due respect, M," Bond had replied, "this may not be our type of case at all. Knowing the young man's reputation, I wouldn't be surprised if the killer turns out to be a jealous boyfriend or husband."

"I don't think so. Our operative in Bangkok told me that this looks like a professional job."

"You mean somebody took out a contract on him?", Bond had asked.

"No, I mean he was killed by someone in the trade, a true professional," M had replied in an irritated voice, as if she had expected 007 to be a little more "on the ball". "Our operative mentioned something about the killing method being of the old-school type."

"Old-school? What exactly does that mean?", Bond had queried.

"I don't know," M had said with a shrug. "It's just another thing that you will have to ask our Bangkok operative. Now, go see Moneypenny. I want you in Thailand by this time tomorrow night."

Bond's cell phone started to ring, bringing him out of his reverie, back to the present. Bond answered: "Yes?"

"Are you the salesman from International Exports?", the female voice at the other end of the line wanted to know. It was a very intriguing voice, low, sultry, like Lauren Bacall's voice.

"Universal Exports," Bond corrected her.
   
 "Ah yes, excuse me. So do you deliver?"

"Yes, we do."

"Good. Please come to the warehouse at 6 PM." Then, the line went dead.

Bond glanced at the Rolex. It was only 2 PM. He decided to go back to his hotel and take a short nap before his meeting with the MI6 Bangkok operative. Hopefully, Bond thought, the person would live up to the voice. Putting a handsome tip next to his plate, he stood up, gathered up the dossier, and headed out into the street.


A High-Risk Escapade

Bond awoke with a start around 4:30 PM. Even though his nap had lasted only an hour, it had been long enough for Bond to have one of the strangest dreams that he had ever experienced. In it, he had found himself standing just outside the door of a large bedroom, which also opened to an adjoining bathroom. A woman had been sitting in front of the vanity in the bathroom, combing her hair. Even though she had been scantily clad, wearing only a silk teddy that did nothing to hide her spectacular figure, Bond had been mesmerized by the hair: long, luscious, black with a slight tinge of brown, cascading like a straight waterfall down to the middle of her back. Some women would probably have killed to have such hair.

For some reason, even though the vanity did have a large mirror, Bond hadn't been able to see her face. He later tried to reason that this was simply due to the illogical nature of dreams. In the dream, though, he had been consumed by a great desire to see her facial features, so he had taken a couple of steps into the bedroom. Immediately, as if by magic, the double doors had slammed shut behind him. Then, without turning around, the woman had started laughing. Her laugh had gone on and on, a humorless, mocking sound, reverberating off the four walls. And Bond still couldn't see her face. That was when he had awakened.

Still feeling perturbed, Bond went through a series of vigorous push-ups and sit-ups, trying to shake off the effect of the dream. Then, he went into the shower, where he spent five minutes standing under a spray of scalding hot water, followed by another five minutes under ice-cold water. Thus refreshed, Bond slipped into a light blue Sea Island shirt, and a grey Brioni suit. He lit up and enjoyed one of his special low-tar cigarettes, custom-made for him by H. Simmons of Burlington Arcade. Blowing smoke out of the open window of his room on the sixth floor of the Continental Hotel, Bond's mind drifted back to the woman in his dream. He was sure that she wasn't someone that he had already met; no, he would certainly have remembered her by her luscious hair. Bond had read that dreams were sometimes manifestations of things from the unconscious part of a person's mind, but if he had never met the woman, how could she have gotten into his unconscious mind?

Sighing, Bond gave up on the unanswerable question, and got ready to leave for his appointment with the Lauren Bacall sound-alike. He checked the clip in his Walther P99, put the gun back in its Berns-Martin holster, and went out the door.

            ********************************************************

The woman did not look like Lauren Bacall, but still made quite an impression. She seemed to be in her mid- to late-thirties, but she had been taking good care of herself, and her figure still looked stunning under a conservative Dolce & Gabbana ivory-colored suit. Her oval face held fine features, with only a hint of some lines starting to appear near the corners of her piercing blue eyes, and was framed by a mane of short blond hair that had been stylishly, and expensively, cut. Her handshake was firm, and her smile infectious.

"Welcome to Bangkok," she said. "My name is Heather St.Clair."

"Very nice to meet you, Ms. St.Clair. My name is Bond, James Bond."

"So, you are the famous 007. I've read your file. Quite impressive. And I must say, you look better in person than in the picture in your dossier."

"Thank you. Don't believe everything you read in MI6 files. By the way, do you always go through the files of the agents who passed through here?"

"Only when the agent in question intrigues me." Her smile turned flirtatious.

"Let's get down to business, shall we? What do you have for me?"

Heather was irritated by Bond's business-like tone, and decided to respond in kind. Her demeanor immediately became cold, all traces of the smile instantly vanishing from her face.

"Well, the hit was done by a woman. A real professional. She didn't leave any trace on the scene, but we got lucky. She was apparently unaware of one of the special "perks" that this particular hotel provides to its most elite clients."

"Oh? And what perk might that be?"

Heather gestured for Bond to follow her, as she led him from the living room into a small study. She started talking again as she sat down in front of a computer flat-panel monitor, and began to type away at the keyboard.

"You see, Eric Houghton's body was found in a special suite called the "honeymoon suite". It's the place where, quite frequently, the wealthy but naughty people have their illicit trysts. Some of them want to have a little souvenir of the wild times that they enjoyed there. So, the hotel management have thoughtfully installed a camera behind the see-through mirror on the bedroom wall. If you are a good friend of the management and willing to pay quite a handsome sum, in other words, if you are someone like Eric Houghton, then you can have your sexual escapades immortalized on 8mm film. Here, take a look."
 
She turned the monitor around so that Bond could see what was being displayed. At first, all that was shown was a view of an empty bedroom, opulently furnished, with a king-size, four-poster bed in the center. The camera had been positioned so that it was focused on the bed and its immediate surroundings.

Suddenly, there was the sound of a door opening, then closing. Then, laughter. A man's and a woman's. The audio was quite poor, sounding like a weakly received radio station, but by paying close attention, Bond could still make out the words as the yet unseen couple started to speak.

"So, what's the surprise that you said you've planned for me?", the man asked.

"Oh, you'll see," the woman replied, coquettishly.

There was a brief moment of silence. Then, the man spoke again: "I like it! Keep going. Take it all off!"

Bond guessed there was a striptease going on off-camera. The woman laughed. "Be patient, my dear."

Now, the couple finally stepped into the camera's field of view. The image was a bit fuzzy because the mirror through which the camera was shooting had not been cleaned properly, and there was a fine layer of dust on its surface. Still, Bond could see a woman, about 5'8'', slender, wearing a black bra and panties, playfully pushing a man, still dressed in a dark blue sportscoat and white slacks, toward the huge bed. The woman's back was turned toward the camera, but Bond recognized her with a shock. Her hair was a luscious black, with brown highlights, cascading down to the middle of her fine, slim back. She was the woman in his dream!

"Is that Eric Houghton?", Bond asked.

"Yes." Heather's eyes were wide open, staring at the screen. She looked at the scene being played out with morbid fascination, even though she had seen it many times before.

"Hey, what are you doing with those gloves?", Eric Houghton wanted to know.

Bond's eyes narrowed. He had also noticed something strange about the woman's scanty attire: she was wearing black leather driving gloves, even though she had stripped down to her underwear.

"They are part of the surprise," she replied.

"Fine. As long as it's kinky, I'll go along with it." Eric was clearly getting excited.

The mystery woman pushed him down to a sitting position on the bed, and straddled him. His hands went around her and started to caress her back. She moaned softly. Then, she reached into the left cup of her bra, and pulled out a small glass vial, which she held up in front of his face.

"Is that part of the surprise too? I just love your surprises. Whatever it is, give it to me!", Eric said, his voice husky with passion.

"You fool!", Bond whispered. He knew what was coming, but was totally powerless to stop it. He could only watch, like a pedestrian witnessing a high-speed automobile accident about to happen, knowing there was absolutely nothing he could do to prevent it.

"You asked for it." The woman's voice was calm, matter-of-fact. By exerting opposite pressures with her forefinger and thumb, she broke the vial just inches in front of Eric Houghton's face. His eyes grew wide with anticipation. Then, suddenly, a look of doubt, then fear, and finally absolute terror, crossed them. "Noooo!", he screamed, as he threw the woman off his lap. Eric's hands flew to his face to cover his nose, trying to block out the deadly vapor. However, it was too late. He had already inhaled a lungful of the poisonous gas, which now went to work inside him, searing his lungs and throat. His eyes bulged, as he convulsed on the bed, making retching sounds, his hands clawing the silk sheet.

The seizures lasted for a couple of minutes, and were extremely difficult to watch. Bond averted his eyes. He had never gotten used to seeing another human being dying of cyanide gas poisoning. Heather, apparently, did not share Bond's problem. Her eyes never left the screen throughout the whole episode.

Finally, Eric's final spasms ceased. His body was now quite still, as his eyes stared lifelessly directly at the camera. The mystery woman had been standing at the foot of the bed, watching her victim struggle in vain to hold onto life. Now, satisfied that he was dead, she quickly turned around and walked out of the camera's field of view.

"Stop! Go back!", Bond commanded.

Heather St.Clair froze the picture, then did a slow reverse search. The woman came back into the picture, walking slowly backward. Her head and body started to turn.

"Freeze it there!", Bond shouted.

The woman was caught in mid-turn, her face and upper body frozen on the screen. However, her motion had been swift, and the frozen frame was quite blurry. Her facial features were indistinct, and Bond felt like he was a near-sighted man trying to look at the face without his glasses on.

"This picture is useless! We can't see her face clearly." Bond was frustrated.

"Be patient, my dear," Heather said with a laugh.

Bond turned and gave her one of his cold, hard stares to let her know that he didn't find her attempt at humor particularly funny. Heather ignored him, as her fingers flew over the keyboard, typing out a series of commands.

"I have some very useful softwares installed in this baby. Among them is an image enhancing program, the same one that the FBI and CIA use. Just watch."

As she pressed a key, the program started working on the frozen image, beginning from the top of the screen and working its way down toward the bottom. The sections of the image that the program had processed seemed to gain more resolution; edges became sharper, blurry objects started to resolve into recognizable shapes as the software analyzed each pixel and applied sophisticated algorithms to determine what the neighboring pixels must be, then filled them in. There seemed to be a boundary crossing the screen; the part of the image above the boundary was clear, while the part below was fuzzy. The boundary moved slowly toward the bottom of the screen, and when it reached its destination, the program had completed one enhancement cycle. The features of the woman's face had become more distinct, but overall, the face was still too blurry to be used for identification.

"Don't worry. It will take a few passes to get a clean image. Why don't you make yourself comfortable?" Heather pointed toward another chair next to the desk.

Bond sat down wearily. He now realized what M had meant when talking about the killing method being of the "old-school" type. The method had been invented by the KGB at the beginning of the Cold War. It had not been used very often, simply because of the high degree of risk and difficulty involved. The killer must take an antidote for the poison just minutes before the strike. Then, he or she must get close enough to the victim before releasing the gas, because outside of an area with a radius of a few feet, the gas would have been diluted too much by the air to be lethal. Of course, the killer would also be in the "kill zone" at the time the gas was released, so he/she must hope that the antidote was effective, and that it had been taken properly.  

"What a way to kill a person, isn't it?", Heather asked, as she seemed to have read Bond's mind.

"Do you realize how few of the assassination attempts using cyanide gas were actually successful, meaning that the mark was killed, and the killer got away unharmed? Only about 10% of the times. No wonder the KGB decided to abandon the method only after a couple of years of field use. This woman, however, executed it to perfection." Bond couldn't keep a note of admiration from creeping into his voice.

"Has anyone used it again after the KGB was finished?"

"As far as I know, ever since the end of the Cold War, only one person has successfully done it. She carried out the hit back in the early 90's."

"She? So could our mystery killer be the same person?"

"No, she couldn't be. She simply couldn't." It was impossible, Bond told himself. Because...

"Ah, the image has been processed. Here's our killer..."

Bond looked at the screen. The face on it was now clear enough for Bond to notice two things: the killer was probably Eurasian, and she was a beautiful woman. Her eyes were the most striking features on her face. They were large, and of a most attractive and exotic shade of emerald. Their size and color indicated a Western origin, but they also had a slight, but noticeable, tilt upward at the corners, so that the overall effect was Oriental. Her nose was fine and high, and Bond found her mouth, with its full, sensual lower lip, quite exciting.

"Oh come on, James, don't let that pretty face fool you. Remember that this rose has some thorns, and they are very nasty indeed." Heather's teasing voice drew Bond's attention away from the screen.

"She looks vaguely familiar to me, but I can't remember where I might have seen her. Is she a model or actress?"

"No, but you are close. You see, I have scanned her picture, and passed it through our databases, as well as INTERPOL's. Turns out she is a celebrity. Here's her file." Heather gave Bond a folder.

He opened it, skimmed through the top page, and exclaimed: "I don't believe it!"

"That's what I said too, James, but it's true. After I found out, I checked her touring schedule, and she was in Thailand on the day that Eric Houghton was murdered."

The file indicated that the murderess was in fact Nicolette Le, an up-and-coming classical pianist of Vietnamese-French descent. Apparently, she preferred to be called Nikki, and that was how most magazines and newspapers around the world referred to her in their adoring articles. Her talent and beauty combined to make her an electrifying new star in the normally laid-back world of classical music. She had come to London once, and a woman that Bond was seeing at the time had wanted to persuade him to come with her to one of Nikki's concerts. She had shown him the young pianist's picture, and that was why Nikki's face had seemed familiar to Bond when he had first seen it on the computer screen.

"An internationally-known concert pianist who moonlights as an assassin? Sounds almost too ridiculous to be true," Bond muttered.

"Well, in our profession, we must expect the unexpected, right, James? Just read the bio that I've compiled for you."

Bond settled back in the chair, and started to read about the life of Nikki Le.


Once Upon A Time
 
Ha Long Bay, Vietnam, 1978
 
The air was suffocatingly thick with moisture remaining from a recent rain, and yet still oppressively hot. This condition was quite common in the tropical climate, but to visitors coming from cooler parts of the world, it was still surprising, and even sometimes unbearable. On this day, one of those visitors was Camille Carpentier. She had taken a few days off from her duties as a nurse working for the Red Cross in Hanoi, and had decided to do some exploration of the famous natural wonders of Northern Vietnam. As she pulled the conical, Vietnamese "non la", a hat made of bamboo that she had just purchased prior to stepping on the boat with the other tourists, further down her forehead to protect her fair skin against the harsh sunlight, she realized that she had been foolish to ignore her friends' advice about not visiting Vietnam during the period of June through September. She had underestimated the effects of the heat and humidity of a Vietnamese summer. However, havin g never been outside of France for the first twenty-two years of her life, she had had no frame of reference with which to judge the severity of the Southeast Asian climate.

The guide on the boat had been glancing at the auburn-haired beauty for the last fifteen minutes. She was the only tourist with a "non la", and Thanh Le thought that she looked as natural and appealing in this Vietnamese hat as any of the native women he had ever known. He looked ahead of the boat, his eyes scanning the water surface of Ha Long Bay, calm and glittering on this sunny, windless July morning. The famous rock formations that made the Bay one of the most beautiful and enchanting places in the world were still too far away to be visible, and he realized that he had some time before he would have to address the group of tourists on the boat again to tell them some interesting facts about the natural wonders that they were about to witness. He gathered up his courage, and went over to the young woman whose looks had charmed him ever since she had set foot on the boat.

"Excuse me, Miss", he said in slightly accented English, "is the heat bothering you?"

She looked up at him, and he was startled by the rich emerald color of her eyes.

"No, I'm fine. Why do you ask?". Her English was flawless, with no detectable accent. This was the result of many years of studying at an excellent private school in Provence.

"I was just thinking that, since it will take a while before we get to the really famous islands and caves, perhaps you would be more comfortable below deck."

"It's all right, thank you. I prefer to sit up here, and enjoy the refreshing ocean air." She smiled at him, and her eyes seemed to be smiling too. The gesture gave him the courage to press his luck.

"In that case, may I join you?", the young guide asked, pointing to the vacant spot on the wooden bench next to Camille.

"Of course." She smiled, and moved slightly further down the bench to make room for him. He sat down, and they began talking. The topics ranged from the weather, to the current political situation in Vietnam, to the French influence on this Southeast Asian country. After a while, it didn't matter to Thanh what topic they talked about. He enjoyed listening to the voice of this young Frenchwoman, whom he found quite enchanting. He started to tell her about his dream of one day becoming a doctor, and about how he had been working his way through medical school by taking on various odd jobs, including that of a tour guide. Camille listened attentively, because she found him to be an interesting and appealing young man, emotionally open, totally different from the stereotype of the inscrutable Oriental. They soon became so engrossed with each other's company, and oblivious to what was going on around them, that the Captain of the boat had to come to interrupt their conversation, a nd remind Thanh to perform his duties as a guide.

That night, when the boat finally docked after a full day sailing around Ha Long Bay, Thanh gathered up all of his courage and asked Camille out on a date. She shyly accepted, and gave him her local address in Ha Noi. He showed up the following evening, dressed in the best clothes his meager salary could afford, and took her to a local cinema to watch the only new movie in town, a boring Russian "epic" about World War II, heavy with propaganda. Somehow, she didn't seem to mind, and that gave him the confidence to ask for a second date. One thing led to another, and Camille ended up spending every remaining night of her stay in Hanoi in Thanh's company. Then, on the last night of her tour of duty, just before her return to France, they had become lovers.

Their affair didn't end with her leaving Vietnam. Thanh kept sending her long, romantic letters, and Camille responded to most of them. One day, her letter filled him with joy: she told him that she had just found out that she was pregnant, and that she was coming back to Vietnam on an extended tour of duty.

The next few years were the best of both of their young lives. Thanh and Camille got married in Ha Noi. Their baby was born on May 21, 1979, and they named her Nicolette, after Camille's mother. Camille would stay with her husband and daughter as long as she could on each of her tours, and when she returned to France, baby Nicolette, who was too young to travel, would stay with Thanh. Camille would petition to be allowed to go back to Vietnam as soon as possible, and with the Red Cross always being short-handed there, she never had any problem getting her requests granted.

Then, the fateful day of September 10, 1984 arrived. Thanh had just finished his residency at a hospital in Hanoi, and become a full-fledged doctor. He celebrated by bringing his young wife and daughter on a sightseeing trip to Central Vietnam. On that day, their tour bus had just reached Hue, an ancient city which had been the former capital of the country. The main highway into the city was clogged up, as an earlier accident had created a terrible traffic jam. As the bus inched along the pothole-riddled road, young Nikki's eyes caught sight of an ice-cream vendor pushing his little cart along the edge of the highway.

"May I have an ice cream, please, Papa?", Nikki implored.

"Of course you may, Nikki," Thanh grinned at her. He turned toward Camille. "The bus is not really going anywhere. Nikki and I will go get some ice cream, and we'll be right back."

Camille smiled at her husband, and nodded. He picked Nikki up in his arms, and jumped down onto the street. He put her down, and they walked over to the ice cream cart, where Nikki hungrily peered inside at the multi-colored bars and cups of goodies. Thanh fumbled around in his wallet to get the correct amount of money.

At that moment, the bus driver decided that if he couldn't move forward, he might as well pull off the road and have a little break. So, he turned the steering wheel sharply, and guided the old bus onto the grassy embankment. Little did he know that this section of the countryside was littered with land mines left over from the war. The right front wheel of the bus rolled over one such mine, and a horrific explosion ensued, as the bus disintegrated in a blinding ball of smoke and flame.

As the heat of the explosion hit his back, Thanh pushed Nikki to the ground, and fell on top of her, trying to shield her from any flying debris. Young Nikki screamed: "Mama!" as she watched her mother die in a cauldron of fire.

            ***************************************************

"Lost her mother when she was barely five. Must have been rough growing up," Bond whispered. Something in the back of his mind, some painful memories that had long been suppressed, started to stir. With an angry determination, Bond forced them back into the dark recesses where they had been locked away.

"Kind of like you, right? You lost both your parents when you were still quite young, I heard," Heather's voice cut in. The woman doesn't miss a thing, Bond thought.

Without answering, he turned his attention back to Nikki's file.

            ****************************************************

Years went by. Thanh made just enough money from his medical practice to allow Nikki and himself to lead a modest life. Unlike those of doctors in most Western countries, his income was far from substantial. All he could afford was a small, two-bedroom apartment, but at least it was in a decent, safe neighborhood near downtown Ha Noi.

Nikki attended public schools nearby. As time flew by, she grew from an adorable baby to a very pretty young girl. However, due to her French heritage, she was also quite tall by local standards. By the time she was eight, she was already a couple of inches taller than most of the girls in her class. Her beautiful green eyes and light complexion were also clear giveaways that she was a child of mixed bloods. Her different looks made other girls wary of Nikki, so they tended to avoid her. As a result, she was quite lonely at school, and she always looked forward to the times that she could spend with her father, when he would read to her children's stories in Vietnamese, and in French.

Her problems at school only worsened when she started attending high school. By that time, Nikki had developed into quite an attractive young woman, with a tall, slim, sexy figure, long black hair, fair skin, and of course those unique eyes. She attracted all the boys' attention wherever she went without any effort on her part, and that only antagonized all the girls even more. They envied her, and were convinced that if given the chance, she would steal their boyfriends in the blink of an eye. However, even though the boys were always ogling her and talking among themselves about what they would like to do with her, none actually wanted to date her because she looked so different from them. In a very homogeneous society, no one wanted to have the reputation of being the boyfriend of a half-breed with green eyes.

As a result, Nikki withdrew more and more within herself. Very often, she would look in a mirror, and instead of seeing herself as the beauty she truly was, she saw a girl with skin that was too pale, and eyes that were too big, and of a ridiculous color. She hated herself.

The day after her sixteenth birthday, something happened that would have a profound impact on Nikki. It was a Sunday, and she had just attended the morning Mass in the local church. With both of her parents being Catholics, she had been taught to attend Mass every Sunday. Every time that she was in church, her eyes would always be drawn to the old, upright piano in the corner, near the altar. Mr. Tran, a retired music teacher, would be sitting in front of it, playing pieces of choral music. To Nikki, the piano was something miraculous, a gift from God. How else could one explain that this old, wooden box could produce such heavenly sounds? On that day, having nothing planned for the whole morning, she had lingered after Mass, since she knew that Mr. Tran would be practicing, as he always did. As the old man was arranging his sheets of music, his eyes caught sight of this teenage girl sitting in the front row, with her huge emerald eyes staring at him. Peering back at her from  behind his steel-rimmed glasses, he asked: "May I help you?"

Startled, Nikki stammered: "I... I just wanted to... listen to you practicing."

"Oh? Do you play the piano yourself?"

"No." Nikki was surprised by the question. How could he even think that she, a young girl with no talent, could actually play an instrument as complicated as that?

"Would you like to learn?", Mr. Tran asked.

"Yes. But..."

"But what?"

After a moment of silence, Nikki said, looking down at the floor: "I don't have any money to pay for lessons."

"Well, I don't want your money. I'm a retired old man, with nothing but time on my hands, and I really miss teaching, so I'll tell you what: come here after Mass on Sundays, and I'll teach you. How does that sound?"

She couldn't believe her ears. Ecstatic, she exclaimed: "That sounds great! Thank you so much!"

"You're welcome. So when do you want to start?"

"How about ... now?", Nikki asked timidly.

"Well, come over here. I haven't got all day!"

Grinning, she came and sat at the piano. Mr. Tran stood, looking over her shoulders, and said: "All right, let's start with the basics. I'll teach you to play some scales. We'll begin with the right hand. Place it here, with the thumb on this key, the C key. Keep your wrist up. Come on, don't be lazy. No lazy hands in my class. Now, play the first three notes, then pass your thumb under your middle finger, like so, and continue..."

The next half-hour, spent learning how to play the C major scale first with one hand, then with both hands, seemed to fly by in a flash, but Nikki would remember every second of it for the rest of her life. That was the happiest memory that she had of Vietnam.
 
            *************************************************

For the next two years, Nikki's life became one never-ending routine. Every day, she would go to class until 3 o'clock in the afternoon. Then, as soon as her schoolday ended, she would rush over to the quaint little church where her tiny corner of Heaven on earth awaited her. The back door of the church would be left open by the janitor, who knew that she would invariably come by. She would walk into the cool, shaded interior, and make her way to the old upright piano that had become her best and only friend. She would sit down in front of the keyboard, and then, for the next two hours, lose herself in the world of Chopin, Bach, Beethoven, and other composers whose works gave her so much joy.

Her progress was phenomenal. Her technique was good, but more importantly, she possessed an uncanny ability to know, even before she had mastered a piece of music technically, what she should do to extract the most out of it emotionally. It was as if she could, simply by reading the score, understand exactly what the composer had wanted to convey through the music, and thus was able to bring it forth in her playing. This prompted Mr. Tran to one day shake his head and exclaim: "You know, Nikki, you have, within two short years, managed to learn more about how to play the piano than I have after a lifetime devoted to studying and teaching it. You play with great technical expertise, but so can some former students of mine. What separates you from them is your ability to play with such ... soul, such feeling for the music, something normally not achievable by someone so new to classical music as you."

Nikki was embarrassed. She thought that Mr. Tran was being too generous. After all, she played a piece of music the way she did because it felt right, because she couldn't even imagine how it would be possible to play it any other way. The whole process seemed so simple to her that she just assumed any other musician would be able to do exactly what she did.

Life passed by, uneventfully, until one windy, cloudy day in June, 1997. Nikki had been practicing for more than an hour in the empty church, running through her repertoire of pieces from the Romantic masters. As she finished playing the last few bars of one of Chopin's Nocturnes, the sound of hands clapping startled her. Turning around, she saw her father, who had been standing just inside the door and watching her, now walking toward her. She was quite surprised, since he normally worked very long hours, and would not leave his clinic until late in the evening.

"What are you doing here, Papa?"

"Listening to my daughter play music. You know, Mr. Tran is right. You have the potential to go very far. It would be such a waste if you were stuck here, with no teacher good enough to guide you, and allow you to become the best pianist that you can be. You deserve much better, Nikki (it was her father who had given her the nickname that she had come to love, and would use for the rest of her life). You deserve to go to a school like Juilliard, in the States, where you can get the proper training."

"Oh Papa, I'm perfectly happy here, studying under Mr. Tran. I know how difficult it is to get out of the country, let alone to go to the States. You don't have to worry about me, Papa."

"I'm your father, Nikki. Worrying about you is what I do. Sometimes, there are things that a parent notices, even without the child telling him. I know how the kids at school have been treating you, how alienated they have made you feel. (Nikki wanted to deny it, but Thanh raised his hand, indicating that it was no use, and she should let him continue). I can't help but think that your life would be much better, that you would be much more accepted in a more open society. And then, there's something else that I have been keeping from you, but I think that now I must tell you. You see, Nikki, I am dying."

She was shocked. "Papa, I don't believe it! It can't be true!", she cried, shaking her head.

"I'm afraid it is", Thanh said, while gently taking her hands and holding them. "I've been dying for a while now. It's cancer. I've been fighting it, but I can't fight it much longer. I've tried to delay the inevitable as much as I could, but now, as a doctor, I know that I don't have much longer to live. I have to make sure that you have a secure future, a bright future, before I die. That's why I've made plans for us to escape from Vietnam."

"Escape? But isn't it very dangerous to try?"

"There are risks. However, I have tried to minimize them. I have gathered up all of my savings, and given them to a very successful Snake Head. He and his organization have been smuggling people out of Vietnam by boat for years, and have had very few failures. Hopefully, we won't end up as one of them."

Two weeks later, with only a couple of backpacks containing the bare necessities, Nikki and her father boarded a boat in the middle of the night, and quietly slipped out of the country, while the Vietnamese Coast Guard, having been heavily bribed by the Snake Head, looked the other way. After five days at sea, they landed on Pulau Bidong, a small island off the coast of Malaysia, where a refugee camp had been in operations for years.