Paris: A Love Story Read Free

it easy. He was traveling too much, and to such terrible places. Oh, I am so sorry. But he will be better. He is a strong man and we are all praying for him.” Zardari sounded like an old friend. Genuinely concerned. Human to human.
    •   •   •
    The third call as Samantha, her son Declan, and I were leaving the church was from President Obama. “Michelle and I are praying for you both,” the president said. “Richard is a strong man. He’ll pull through. We need him back.” The next time I left the tightly sealed world of the hospital was to attend a State Department event at which both President Obama and the secretary of state were to speak about Richard. It was a holiday party for the diplomatic corps, and Christmas carolers were circling around dignitaries and their spouses in their festive attire. I had changed my clothes for the first time sinceRichard was admitted, but I neither looked nor felt festive. There was still hope then, but not enough to make the sound of “Jingle Bells” anything but jarring. I felt utterly disembodied as I shook hands with State Department colleagues of Richard’s and led our children into the ornate reception room of the secretary of state. Hillary was her warm, compassionate self. She had spent hours at the hospital, often silently holding my hand as we sat waiting. It was no effort to be with someone who loved Richard as much as she did. President Obama spoke eloquently to the gathered diplomats, calling Richard the greatest diplomat of his generation, now fighting for his life. Then the president took time to speak with me and each of our four children. I have White House photographs recording this event, but subsequent events have erased the memory of what he said to me.
    As we set off from the State Department for the short walk back to the hospital, a black official SUV pulled up. “Mrs. Holbrooke,” the driver said, “I am with the FBI and I was attached to your husband’s security detail in Kabul. Let me drive you back to GW.” We all climbed in, and now I wish I had noted the agent’s name. He was there when everything turned and he was a kind man.
    My cell rang. “Hello, Kati, this is Farzad Najam.” “Oh hello,” I answered, trying to sound bright. “Which paper are you with,” I asked, having been told Pakistani journalists were waiting at the hospital to interview me about Richard’s condition. “Kati, this is Dr. Najam,” he said. “Oh, I apologize, Doctor,” I said, my tone slipping. Lulled by the surreal holiday partyand the presidential attention, for just a moment I had stopped thinking about the doctors and the vigil in the ICU. “How far are you?” Dr. Najam asked. “A few minutes away,” I answered. “Okay, then. See you when you get back,” he said. I suppose my body language gave me away, for, though I said nothing, the previously talkative agent fell silent and picked up speed.
    We trooped into the windowless room set aside for the family on the ICU floor. Dr. Najam and his team were waiting there. “Mrs. Holbrooke.” The handsome Pakistani cardiologist was now formal and, for the first time, unsmiling. “Richard is telling us he wants to go.”
    I dropped my head in my hands for a minute or two. The room was very quiet. Then I followed the doctor to the ICU. “Take your time,” he said. “Take all the time you like.” The ICU felt different now. The feverish activity of the past three days had ceased. With the machines turned off, it was as quiet as a battlefield after defeat. The doctors and nurses looked grim and deflated, as they silently removed their masks. I said a few loving words to Richard, but he was no longer my Richard. Life leaves the body so quickly.
    Our children followed. David, Anthony, Elizabeth, and Chris each said his own good-bye.
    I crossed the hospital’s lobby, where hundreds of people had gathered—a blur of outstretched arms and tear-stained faces. How had word spread so fast?
    Admiral