Evening News

1

The after effects of CDA's special bulletin announcing the Sloane family kidnap were instantaneous and widespread.

NBC News, whose decent, courteous gesture of informing CBA had robbed it of a possible lead, followed with its own bulletin barely a minute later—ahead of its original plan to break the story at noon.

CBS, ABC and CNN, alerted by wire reports from AP and Reuters, were all on the air with the news within minutes. So were TV stations across the country not connected to a network, but with their own news services.

Canadian television also made the Sloane kidnapping the lead item on noon news broadcasts.

Radio stations, with their lightning immediacy, were even faster than television in spreading the story.

From coast to coast, afternoon newspapers at once began replating front pages with banner headlines. Major out-of-state papers instructed their New York correspondents to work on individual by-line stories.

News photo agencies began a frantic search for pictures of Jessica, Nicholas and Angus Sloane. There was no shortage of Crawford Sloane photos.

The main switchboard of CBA was flooded with calls for Crawford Sloane. When the callers were told politely that Mr. Sloane was not available, most left sympathetic messages.

The press and other media reporters, knowing better than to call a switchboard, used direct lines into CBA News. As a result, some telephones were constantly blocked, making outside communication difficult. Journalists who got through, wanting to interview Sloane, were advised that he was too distressed to talk with anyone and that, in any case, there was no more information than had already been broadcast.

One caller who did reach Sloane was the President of the United States.

”Crawf, I've just been told this awful news,” the President said.”I know you have too much on your mind to talk right now, but I wanted you to know that Barbara and I are thinking about you and your family, and hoping for good news very soon. Like you, we want this ordeal to be over.”

"Thank you, Mr. President,” Sloane said.”That means a lot.”

"I've given orders to the Justice Department,” the President said, "that the FBI's search for your family is to have priority, and any other resources of government that are needed will be used.”

Sloane repeated his thanks.

The substance of the President's call was immediately made public by a White House spokesman, adding to the growing flow of information which clearly would dominate the evening news broadcasts of all networks.

TV camera crews from New York stations and the networks reached Larchmont shortly after the initial bulletins, and interviewed—as an observer put it—"almost every breathing body in sight,” including some with only a tenuous connection to the case. The ex-schoolteacher, Priscilla Rhea, blossoming under all the attention, proved to be the favorite interviewee, with the Larchmont police chief a close second.

A startling new development emerged when several people living near the Sloanes came forward with information that the Sloane house had apparently been under observation for several weeks, perhaps a month. A succession of different cars, and several times a truck, had been seen to arrive. They remained parked near the house for long periods, with whoever came in the vehicles remaining inconspicuously inside. Some makes of cars were mentioned, though detailed information was sketchy. There was agreement among the observers that sometimes the cars had New York license plates, at other times New Jersey's. No one, though, remembered numbers.

One of the cars described by a neighbor matched the description of that seen by the Sloanes' maid, Florence—the same car that followed Jessica Sloane's Volvo when Jessica, Nicky and Angus left to do the household shopping.

Press and TV interviewers asked the obvious question: Why had no one reported the apparent surveillance to the police?

In each case the answer was the same. It was assumed that some kind of security protection was being provided for the famous Mr. Crawford Sloane, and why would neighbors interfere with that?

Now, belatedly, information about the various vehicles was being sought by police.

Overseas media, too, were showing keen interest in the kidnap story. While the face and voice of Crawford Sloane were not as familiar to foreigners as to North Americans, the involvement of a major TV personality seemed of international consequence in itself.

This overwhelming reaction was proof that the modem network anchorman—species Homo promulgare ancora, as the next day's Wall Street Journal would dub it—had become a special breed, ranking in public idolization with kings and queens, movie and rock stars, popes, presidents and princes.

* * *

Crawford Sloane's mind was a turmoil of emotions.

He moved through the next several hours partly in a daze, half-expecting to learn at any moment that the entire episode was a misunderstanding, a readily explained mistake. But as time went by, with Jessica's Volvo still standing unclaimed in the Larchmont supermarket parking lot, this seemed increasingly less likely.

What troubled Sloane greatly was the memory of his conversation the preceding evening with Jessica. It was he who had brought up the possibility of kidnap, and it was not the coincidence which exercised him—he knew from long experience that real life and real news were full of coincidences, sometimes incredible ones. But, as he saw it at this moment, his own selfishness and self-importance made him assume that only he could be a kidnap victim. Jessica had even asked, "What about families? Could they be targets too?” But he had dismissed the idea, not believing it could happen or that Jessica and Nicky should be protected. Now, blaming himself for indifference and neglect, his sense of guilt was overwhelming.

He was greatly concerned, of course, about his father, though clearly Angus's inclusion in today's events was accidental. He had arrived unexpectedly and, unhappily, had been caught in the kidnappers' net.

At other moments during the day Sloane fretted impatiently, wanting to take some action, any action, yet knowing there was little he could do. He considered going to Larchmont, then realized he would gain nothing and would be out of touch if any fresh news broke. Another reason for staying put was the arrival of three FBI field agents who began a flurry of activity centering around Sloane.

Special Agent Otis Havelock, who was senior in the trio, at once demonstrated himself to be, in the words of an observing Horseshoe producer, "a take-charge guy.” He insisted on being conducted directly to Crawford Sloane's office and there, after introducing himself to Sloane, demanded from his escort the presence of the head of the network's security force. Next, the FBI agent used a telephone to summon help from the New York City Police Department.

Havelock—small, dapper and balding—had deep-set green eyes and a direct gaze which seldom shifted from the person with whom he was conversing. His permanently suspicious expression appeared to say, I've seen and heard it all before. Later, Sloane and others would learn that the unspoken assertion was the truth. A twenty-year FBI veteran, Otis Havelock had spent the greater part of his life dealing with the worst of human infamies.

CBA's security chief, a grizzled retired New York police detective, arrived speedily. Havelock told him, "I want this entire floor secured immediately. The people who've taken Mr. Sloane's family may make an attempt on Mr. Sloane himself Station two of your security guards at the elevators and post other guards at any stairways. They're to check, carefully check, the identity of all persons entering or leaving the floor. As soon as that's done, begin a thorough check of everyone who is on this floor already. Is that clear?”

The older man protested, "Sure it's clear, and we're all concerned for Mr. Sloane. But I don't have unlimited people and what you're asking is excessive. I have other security responsibilities I can't neglect.”

"You've neglected them already,” Havelock snapped. He produced a plastic identity card.”Look at this! I used it to get in this building. Just showed it to the guard downstairs and he waved me past.”

The security head peered at the card on which was a photo of a man in uniform.”Whose picture is that?”

"Ask Mr. Sloane.” Havelock handed Crawford Sloane the card.

As Sloane glanced at it, despite his anxieties he burst out laughing.”It's Colonel Qaddafi.”

"I had it specially made,” the FBI man said.”I use it sometimes to prove to companies like this how lousy their security is.”

He told the crestfallen security chief, "Now get on with what I said. Secure this floor and tell your people to look at ID cards carefully, including pictures.”

When the other man had gone, Havelock told Sloane, "The reason security's bad in most big companies is because security's not a revenue-producing department; therefore budget people cut it to the bone. If you'd had proper security here, it would have included protection for you and your family at home.”

Sloane said ruefully, "I wish you'd been around to suggest it."

A few minutes earlier, when Havelock phoned the New York Police Department, he had spoken with the chief of detectives, explaining that a kidnapping had taken place and asking for police protection of Crawford Sloane. Now, from outside, the sound of several rapidly approaching sirens grew louder, then stopped. Minutes later a uniformed police lieutenant and a sergeant marched in.

”What I'd like you to do,” Havelock told the lieutenant after introductions, "is keep a couple of radio cars outside to advertise police presence, also post an officer at every outside entrance, with one inside the main lobby. Tell your men to stop and question anyone suspicious.”

The police lieutenant said, "Will do.” To Crawford Sloane, he added almost reverently, "We'll take good care of you, sir. Whenever I'm home, my wife and I always watch you on the news. We like the way you do it.”

Sloane nodded.”Thank you.”

The policemen, looking around them, seemed inclined to linger, but Havelock had other ideas.”You can do a perimeter check by sending someone up to the roof. Take a look at the building from above. Make sure all exits are covered.”

With assurances that everything possible would be done, the lieutenant and the sergeant left.

”You'll be seeing a lot of me, I'm afraid, Mr. Sloane,” the special agent said when they were alone.”I've been ordered to stay close to you. You heard me say that we think you could be a kidnap target too.”

"I've sometimes thought I might be,” Sloane said. Then, expressing the guilt that had been building in him, "It never occurred to me that my family could be in danger.”

"That's because you were thinking rationally. But clever criminals are unpredictable.”

Sloane asked nervously, "You think that's the kind of people we may be dealing with?”

The FBI man's expression did not change; he seldom wasted time with words of comfort.”We don't know yet what kind they are. But I've found it useful never to underestimate the enemy. Then if it turns out later that I overrated him, that's to my advantage.”

Havelock continued, "Some more of our people will be moving in soon, here and at your home, with electronic gadgetry. We'll want to monitor your incoming phone calls, so while in this building you should take all calls on your regular line.” He motioned to Sloane's desk.”If there's a call from the kidnappers, do the obvious thing—keep talking as long as possible, though nowadays calls can be traced much faster than they used to be, and criminals know that too.”

"You realize our phones at home have unlisted numbers?”

"Yes, but I'm assuming the kidnappers have those numbers. Quite a few people are bound to know them.” Havelock produced a notebook.”Now, Mr. Sloane, I need answers to some questions.”

"Go ahead.”

"Have you, or members of your family, received any threats that you remember? Think carefully, please.”

"I'm not aware of any.”

"Is there anything you might have reported on the news which could have caused special antagonism on the part of someone, or some group?”

Sloane threw up his hands.”Once a day, at least.”

The FBI man nodded.”I guessed that, so two of my colleagues will view tapes of your broadcasts, working backward through the past two years, to see if ideas suggest themselves. How about antagonistic mail? You must get some.”

"I never see it. People in network news are shielded from the mail. It's a management decision.”

Havelock's eyebrows went up as Sloane continued, "Everything we broadcast generates a phenomenal amount of mail. Reading all those letters would take too much time. Then we'd probably want to respond, which would take more time still. Something else management believes is that we're better able to keep our sense of perspective and fairness if protected from individual reactions to the news.” Sloane shrugged.”Some may disagree, but that's the way it is.”

"So what happens to the mail?”

"It's handled by a department called Audience Services. All letters are answered and anything judged important is sent to the News Division president.”

"I presume all incoming mail is kept.”

"I believe so,"

Havelock made a note.”We'll assign people to go through that too.”

During a pause, Chuck Insen knocked on the office door and came in.

”If I can interrupt As the other two nodded, the executive producer said, "Crawf, you know we all want to do the best we can—for you, for Jessica, Nicky..."

Sloane acknowledged, "Yes, I know.”

"We feel you shouldn't do the news tonight. For one thing, it will be heavily about you. For another, even if you anchored the remainder, it would look too much like business as usual, almost as if the network wasn't caring, which of course isn't true.”

Sloane considered, then said thoughtfully, "I suppose you're right.”

"What we're wondering is if you'd feel up to being interviewed—live.”

"Do you think I should?”

"Now that the story's out,” Insen said, "I think the wider attention it gets, the better. There's always a chance that someone watching might come through with information.”

"Then I'll do it.”

Insen nodded, then continued, "You know the other networks and the press want to interview you. How do you feel about a press conference this afternoon?”

Sloane made a gesture of helplessness, then conceded, "All right, yes.”

Insen asked, "When you're through here, Crawf, can you join Les and me in my office? We'd like your views about some other plans.”

Havelock intedected, "As much as possible, I'd like Mr. Sloane to stay in his office and be close to this telephone.”

"I'll be close to it anyway,” Sloane assured him.

* * *

Leslie Chippingham had already telephoned Rita Abrams in Minnesota with the unhappy news that their planned lovers' weekend would have to be abandoned. There was no way, he plained, that in the midst of this breaking story he could leave New York.

Rita, while disappointed, was understanding. People in TV news were used to unexpected events disrupting their lives, even their illicit affairs.

She had asked, "Do you need me on the story?”

He told her, "If we do, you'll hear soon enough.”

* * *

It appeared that Special Agent Havelock, having attached himself to Crawford Sloane, intended to follow the anchorman into the meeting in Insen's office. But Insen blocked his way.

”We're going to discuss some private network business. You can have Mr. Sloane again as soon as we've finished. In the meantime, if there's anything urgent, feel free to barge in.”

"If it's all the same to you,” Havelock said, "I'll barge in now and see where Mr. Sloane will be.” He eased determinedly past Insen and surveyed the room inside.

Behind Insen's desk were two doors. Havelock opened both. One was to a supplies closet; after looking inside, he closed it. Another opened onto a toilet and washroom. The FBI man stepped inside, looked around, then came out.

”Just wanted to be sure,” he told Insen, "that there was no other way in or out of here.”

"I could have told you there wasn't,” Insen said.

Havelock smiled thinly.”Some things I prefer to check myself.” He left the office and found himself a chair outside.

Leslie Chippingham was already seated in the office when the FBI agent made his inspection. Now, as Sloane and Insen joined him, he said, "Chuck, you spell it out for Crawf.”

"The fact is,” Insen said, looking at Sloane directly, "we do not have confidence in government agencies and their ability to handle this situation. Now, Les and I don't want to depress you, but we all remember how long it took the FBI to find Patricia Hearst—more than a year and a half. And there's something else.”

Insen reached among the papers on his desk and produced what Sloane recognized as a copy of his own book, The Camera and the Truth. Insen opened it at a page with a bookmark.

"You wrote, yourself, Crawf: 'We who live in the United States will not remain free from terrorism in our own backyard much longer. But neither mentally nor in other ways are we prepared for this pervasive, ruthless kind of warfare.' “Insen closed the book.”Les and I agree with that. Totally.”

A silence followed. The reminder of his own words startled and shocked Sloane. In the privacy of his mind he had begun to wonder if some terrorist motive, perhaps relating to himself, could be behind the seizure of Jessica, Nicky and his father. Or was the idea too preposterous even to consider? Seemingly not, as the thinking of the other experienced newsmen was obviously moving in that direction.

At length he said, "Do you seriously think that terrorists . . .”

Insen responded, "It's a possibility, isn't it?”

"Yes.” Sloane nodded slowly in agreement.”I've begun wondering too.”

"Remember,” Chippingham put in, "that at this point we've no idea who the people are who have taken your family, or what they want. It could turn out to be a conventional kidnapping with demands for ransom money and, god knows, that's bad enough. But we're also considering—because of who and what you are—other long-shot options.”

Insen picked up the thread of what had been said earlier.”We mentioned the FBI. Again, we don't want to worry you, but if Jessica and the others are spirited out of this country in some way, which is a possibility, I'm afraid, then what government has to fall back on is the CIA. Well, in all the years that U.S. nationals have been prisoners in Lebanon, the CIA, with all its power and resources, spy satellites, intelligence and infiltration, has never been able to discover where a semiliterate, ragtag band of terrorists was holding them. And that in a tiny country only slightly larger than the state of Delaware. So who can say if the same old CIA would do any better in other parts of the world?”

It was the news president who offered a conclusion.

”So that's what we mean, Crawf,” Chippingham said, "by saying we don't have confidence in the government agencies. But what we do believe is that we ourselves—an experienced news organization accustomed to investigative reporting—have a better than average chance to discover where your family has been taken.”

For the first time that day, Sloane's spirits rose.

Chippingham continued, "So what we've decided is to set up our own CBA News investigative task force. Our effort will be nationwide at first, then, if necessary, worldwide. We'll use all our resources plus investigative techniques that have worked in the past. As for people, we'll throw in the best talent we have, starting now,”

Sloane felt a surge of gratitude and relief. He started to say, "Les . . . Chuck . . .”

Chippingham stopped him with a gesture.”Don't say it. There's no need. Of course, some of this is because of you, but also it's our business.”

Insen leaned forward.”There's one thing we want to ask you at this point, Crawf. The task force needs to be headed by an experienced correspondent or producer, someone who can take charge, who's good at investigative reporting and in whom you have confidence. Is there anyone you'd like to name?”

Crawford Sloane hesitated for the briefest moment, weighing his personal feelings against what was at stake. Then he said firmly, "I want Harry Partridge.”

2

The kidnappers, like foxes returning to a hidden burrow, had gone to ground in their temporary headquarters, the rented property south of Hackensack, New Jersey.

It was a collection of old, decaying structure — a main house and three outbuildings—which had been unused for several years until Miguel, after studying alternative locations and real estate advertisements, signed a one-year lease with full payment in advance. A year was the shortest rental period suggested by the agents. Miguel, not wishing to reveal that the place would be used for little more than a month, agreed to the terms without question.

The type of property and its location—a thinly occupied, run-down neighborhood—were ideal in numerous ways. The house was large, could accommodate all seven members of the Colombian gang, and its state of disrepair didn't matter. The outbuildings made it possible to keep six vehicles under cover and out of sight. No other occupied properties were close by, and privacy was aided by surrounding trees and other foliage. A further advantage was the nearness of Teterboro Airport, not much more than a mile away. Teterboro, used mainly by private aircraft, figured largely in the kidnappers' plans.

From the beginning of the conspiracy, Miguel foresaw that immediately after the victims' seizure a hue and cry would follow, with police roadblocks and intensive searches. He therefore decided that any immediate attempt to travel a long distance would be unsafe. On the other hand, there must be a temporary hideaway, well clear of the Larchmont area.

The Hackensack property was roughly twenty-five road miles from where the kidnapping had occurred. The ease with which they had returned here and the absence of pursuit proved that Miguel's planning had been effective—so far.

The three prisoners—Jessica, Nicholas and Angus Sloane— were now in the main house. Still drugged and unconscious, they had been carried to a large room on the second floor. Unlike other rooms in the dilapidated, mildewed house, this one had been thoroughly cleaned and repainted in white. Additional electric outlets and overhead fluorescent lights had been installed. There was new pale-green linoleum on the floor. The ex-doctor, Baudelio, had specified and overseen the changes which were carried out by the group's handyman-mechanic, Rafael.

Two hospital cots with side restraining rails now stood in the center of the room. Jessica was on one, the boy, Nicholas, on the other. Their arms and legs were secured by straps—a precaution against their regaining consciousness, though for the time being that was not intended.

While anesthesiology was seldom an exact science, Baudelio was confident that his "patients"—as he now thought of them —would remain sedated for another half hour, perhaps longer.

Alongside the two cots was a narrow metal bed and mattress which had been hastily brought in and set up to accommodate Angus, whose presence had not been expected. As part of the improvisation, his limbs were secured with lengths of rope instead of straps. Even now, Miguel, watching from across the room, was unsure about what to do with the old man. Should he be killed and his body buried outside after dark? Or should he somehow be included in the original plan? A decision had to be made soon.

Baudelio was working around the three recumbent forms, setting up intravenous stands, putting fluid bags in place. On a table covered with a green cotton cloth he had laid out instruments, drug packages and trays. Although intravenous catheters for entering veins through the skin were all that was likely to be needed, Baudelio had a long-established habit of having other equipment available for use in difficulty or emergencies. Assisting him was Socorro, the woman with ties to both the Medellin cartel and Sendero Luminoso; during her several undercover years in the United States she had qualified as a nursing aide.

With raven-dark hair twisted into a bun behind her head, Socorro had a shm, lithe body, olive skin, and features that might have been beautiful had she not worn a permanently sour expression. Although she did whatever was required of her and expected no favors because of her sex, Socorro seldom spoke and never revealed what went on within her mind. She had also rejected, with blunt profanity, sexual overtures from some of the men.

For these reasons Miguel had labeled Socorro mentally "the inscrutable one.” While he was aware of her dual affiliation and that Sendero Luminoso had, in fact, insisted on Socorro's inclusion in the kidnap group, he had no reason to mistrust her. He occasionally wondered, though, if Socorro's long exposure to the American scene had diluted her Colombian and Peruvian loyalties.

The question was one Socorro herself would have had trouble answering.

On the one hand, she had always been a revolutionary, initially finding an outlet for her fervor with the Colombian M-19 guerrillas, then more recently—and profitably—with the Medellin cartel and Sendero Luminoso. Her conviction about the Colombian and Peruvian governments was that she wanted the villainous ruling class killed and would happily join the slaughter. At the same time she had been indoctrinated to consider the U.S. power structure as equally evil. Yet after three years of living in the United States and receiving friendly fairness where hostility and oppression would have been easier to handle, she found it difficult to continue despising and regarding as enemies America and its people.

Right now she was doing her best to hate these three captives—rico bourgeois scum, she assured herself—but not wholly succeeding . . . damnably not succeeding . . . because pity, in a revolutionary, was a contemptible emotion!

But once out of this perplexing country, as all of them would be very soon, Socorro was sure she could do better and be stronger, more consistent in her hatreds.

From a tilted—back chair on the far side of the room, Miguel said to Baudelio, "Tell me what it is you are doing.” His tone made clear it was an order.

”I am working quickly because the midazolam I administered will very soon wear off. When it does, I shall begin injections of propofol, an intravenous anesthetic, a longer-acting drug than the earlier one and more suitable for what is ahead.”

As he moved and spoke, Baudelio seemed transformed from his normal gaunt and ghostlike self to the teacher and practicing anesthesiologist he had once been. The same effect, a stirring of long-discarded dignity, had occurred shortly before the kidnap. But he showed no concern, then or now, that his skills were being criminally debased or that the circumstances he was sharing were despicable.

He continued, "Propofol is a tricky drug to use. The optimum dose for each individual varies, and if too much accumulates in the bloodstream death can result. So initially there must be experimental doses, closely monitored.”

Miguel asked, "Are you sure you can handle it?”

"If you have doubts,” Baudelio said sarcastically, "you are free to get someone else.”

When Miguel failed to answer, the ex-doctor went on, "Because these people will be unconscious when we transport them, we must be certain there is no vomiting and aspiration into the lungs. Therefore while we are waiting there will be a period of enforced starvation. However, they must not become dehydrated, so I shall give them fluids intravenously. Then at the end of two days, which you tell me is the time I have, we shall be ready to put them into those.” With his head, Baudelio gestured to the wall behind him.

Propped upright against the wall were two open funeral caskets, solidly constructed and silk-lined. One was smaller than the other. The ornamented hinged lids for both had been removed and stood alongside.

The caskets reminded Baudelio of a question. Pointing to Angus Sloane, he asked, "Do you want him prepared, or not?”

"If we take him, do you have the medical supplies to handle it?”

"Yes. There's a reserve of everything in case something goes wrong. But we'd need another His eyes returned to the caskets by the wall. Miguel said irritably, "I do not need to be told that.”

Still, he wondered. The original orders from Medellin and Sendero Luminoso specified abduction of the woman and the boy and then, as soon as possible afterward, their transfer to Peru. The caskets were to be a covert means of transportation; a phony cover story had been devised to forestall an exit search by U.S. Customs. Once in Peru the prisoners would become prize hostages—high-stakes bargaining chips against the fulfilment of unique demands by Sendeio Luminoso, their nature yet to be disclosed. But would the unexpected addition of Crawford Sloane's father be regarded as an added prize or, at this point, a needless risk and burden?

If there had been some way to do so, Miguel would have sought an answer from his superiors. But the only secure communication channel was not open to him at that moment, and to telephone on one of the cellular phones would leave the record of a call. Miguel had been emphatic with everyone in the Hackensack operating group that the phones were solely for vehicle-to-vehicle or vehicle-to-headquarters use. Positively no calls were to be made to other numbers. The few outside calls that were necessary had been made from public pay phones.

Therefore the decision was his alone. He must also consider that obtaining an extra casket meant taking additional risks. Was it worth it?

Miguel reasoned that it was. From experience, he knew it was almost a certainty that after Sendero Luminoso's ransom demands were made known, one of the captives would have to be killed and the body dumped where it would be found—all to make the point that the kidnappers were serious. Possession of Angus Sloane would mean an extra body for that purpose, leaving either the woman or the boy to be executed later if it became necessary to make the same point twice. So in that sense the extra captive was a bonus.

Miguel told Baudelio, "Yes, the old man goes.”

Baudelio nodded. Despite his outward assurance, he was nervous around Miguel today because, the night before, Baudeho had committed what he now recognized as a serious mistake, a possible breach of everyone's security. While he was alone, in a moment of profound loneliness and dejection, he had used one of the cellular phones to call Peru.

It was a woman he had spoken to, his slatternly live—in companion and only friend, whose frequently drunken companionship he sorely missed. It was because of Baudelio's continuing anxiety about that call that he was slow to react when suddenly, unexpectedly, a crisis confronted him.

* * *

Jessica, during the struggle outside the Larchmont supermarket, had had only a minute or two, first of shock, then horror, to grasp the enormity of what was happening. Even after her screams had been silenced by the gag slapped over her mouth, she continued to struggle fiercely and desperately, aware that Nicky, too, had been seized by the unknown brutes around them and that Angus had been savagely struck down. But moments later, as the strong injected sedative circulated through her bloodstream, blackness supervened and she fell into deep unconsciousness.

But now, without knowing how long it had lasted, she was reviving, her memory returning. She became aware, dimly at first and then more clearly, of sounds around her. She tried to move, to speak, but found she could do neither. When she transferred the effort to her eyes, they would not open.

It was as if she were at the bottom of a well of darkness, attempting to do something, anything, but able to do nothing.

Then, as more moments passed, the voices became clearer, the awful memory of events at Larchmont sharpened.

At last Jessica's eyes opened.

Baudelio, Socorro and Miguel were all looking elsewhere and failed to see it happen.

Jessica was aware of feeling coming back into her body but could not understand why her arms and legs wouldn't move, except for the smallest distance. Then she saw that her nearer arm, the left, was constricted by a strap and realized she was on what looked like a hospital bed, and that her other arm and both legs were restricted in the same way.

She turned her head slightly and froze in horror at what she saw.

Nicky was on another bed, imprisoned like herself. Beyond him Angus, too, was tied down with ropes. And then—Oh, nol Oh, god!—she glimpsed the two open funeral caskets, one smaller than the other, clearly intended for herself and Nicky.

In a single instant she began to scream and struggle wildly. Somehow, in her demmted terror, she managed to get her left arm free.

Hearing the scream, the three conspirators swung toward her. For a moment Baudelio, who should have taken instant action, was too startled to move. By then Jessica had seen them all.

Still struggling wildly, she reached out with her left hand, trying desperately to find something to use as a weapon to protect herself and Nicky. The table of instruments was beside her. As her fingers groped frantically, she seized what felt like a kitchen paring knife. It was a scalpel.

Now Baudelio, having collected his wits, raced toward her. Seeing Jessica's free arm, he tried to refasten it with Socorro's help.

But Jessica was faster. In her desperation she reached out with the metal object, slashing wildly, managing to gash Baudelio's face, then Socorro's hand. At first, thin red lines appeared on both. A moment later blood gushed out.

Baudelio ignored the pain and tried to secure that flailing arm. Miguel, hurrying forward, hit Jessica savagely with his fist, then helped Baudelio. With Baudelio's wound dripping blood onto Jessica and the cot, they managed to re-strap Jessica's arm.

Miguel retrieved the scalpel. Though Jessica still struggled, it was to no avail. Defeated and helpless, she broke down in tears.

Then, another complication. Nicky's sedation was also wearing off. Becoming aware of the shouting, and of his mother nearby, he returned to consciousness more quickly. He too began screaming, but despite his struggles couldn't free himself from the restraining straps.

Angus, who had been sedated later than the other two, did not stir.

By now the noise and confusion were overwhelming, but Baudelio and Socorro both knew their own wounds had to be treated ahead of anything else. Socorro, with the lesser injury, put a temporary adhesive dressing on her own cut hand, then turned to aid Baudelio. She taped gauze pads over his face, though they were quickly soaked with blood.

Recovering from initial shock, he nodded an acknowledgment, then pointed to the assembled equipment and murmured, “Help me.”

Socorro tightened the strap above Jessica's left elbow. Then Baudelio inserted a hypodermic needle into a vein and injected the propofol he had prepared earlier. Jessica, watching and screaming, fought against the drug's effect until her eyes closed and once more she was unconscious.

Baudelio and Socorro, moved on to Nicky and repeated the process. He, too, stopped his painful cries and slumped back, his brief period of awareness ended.

Then, rather than take a chance on the old man regaining consciousness and causing trouble, Angus was also given propofol.

Miguel, while not interfering in the latter stages, had been glowering. Now he accused Baudelio, "You incompetent asshole!” Eyes blazing, he stormed on, "Pinche cabron! You could ruin everything! Do you know what you are doing?”

"Yes, I know,” Baudelio said. Despite the gauze pads, blood was streaming down his face.”I made an error of judgment. I promise it will not happen again.”

Without replying, his face flushed with anger, Miguel stalked out.

When he had gone, Baudelio used a portable mirror to inspect his bloody wound. Immediately be knew two things. First, he would carry a scar, running the full length of his face, for the remainder of his life. Second, and more important, the gaping, open cut needed to be closed and sutured at once. In present circumstances he could not go to a hospital or another doctor. Baudelio knew there was no other choice than to do it himself, however difficult and painful that might be. As best she could, Socorro would have to help.

During his early medical training, Baudelio, like any student, had learned to suture minor wounds. Later, as an anesthesiologist, he watched hundreds of incisions being stitched. Then, while working for the Medellin cartel, he had done some wound repairs himself and knew the procedures needed now.

Feeling weak, he sat himself in front of the mirror and told Socorro to bring his regular medical bag. From it he selected surgical needles, silk thread and a local anesthetic, lidocaine.

He explained to Socorro what, between them, they would do. As usual, she said little except an occasional "Si”or "jesta bien!” Then, without further discussion, Baudelio began to inject lidocaine along the margins of his wound.

The whole procedure took almost two hours and, despite the local anesthetic, the pain was excruciating. Several times Baudelio came close to fainting. His hand shook frequently, which made the sutures uneven. Adding to his difficulties was the awkward, reverse effect of working with a mirror. Socorro passed him what he asked for and, once or twice when he was near collapse, supported him. In the end he managed to hold on and, though some clumsy sutures meant the residual scar would be worse than he had at first supposed, the gap in his cheek was closed and he knew the wound would heal.

Finally, knowing the most difficult part of his Medellin/ Sendero assignment was still ahead and that he needed rest, Baudelio took two hundred milligrams of Seconal and slept.

3

At about 11:50 A.M., in the apartment at Port Credit, Harry Partridge had switched the living room TV to a Buffalo, New York, station—a CBA affiliate. All Buffalo TV stations, whose signals had only to travel an unobstructed sixty miles across Lake Ontario, were received clearly in the Toronto area.

Vivien had gone out and would not be back until mid-afternoon.

Partridge hoped to learn, from the noon news, the latest developments following yesterday's Muskegon Airlines disaster at Dallas-Fort Worth. Consequently at 11:55, when programming was interrupted by the CBA News Special Bulletin, Partridge was watching.

He was as shocked and horrified as everyone else. Could it really be true,, he wondered, or just some incredible snafu? But experience told him that CBA News would not have put out a bulletin without satisfying itself of the story's authenticity.

As he watched Don Kettering's face on the screen and heard the continuing report, he felt, more than anything, a personal concern for Jessica. And mixed with his emotions was a surge of camaraderie and pity for Crawford Sloane.

Partridge also knew, without even thinking about it, that his vacation, which had scarcely begun, was already over.

It was no surprise, then, to receive a phone call some forty-five minutes later, asking him to come to CBA News headquarters in New York. What did surprise him was that it was a personal appeal from Crawford Sloane.

Sloane's voice, Partridge discerned, was barely under control. After the preliminaries, Sloane said, "I desperately need you, Harry. Les and Chuck are setting up a special unit; it will work on two levels—daily reports on air and deep investigation. They asked me who I wanted in charge. I told them there's only one choice—you.”

In all the years that he and Sloane had known each other, Partridge realized they had never been closer than at this moment. He responded, "Hang in there, Crawf. I'll be on the next flight.”

"Thank you, Harry. Is there anyone you especially want to work with?

"Yes. Find Rita Abrams, wherever she is—in Minnesota sornewhere—and bring her in. The same for Minh Van Canh.”

"If they're not waiting when you get here, they'll be with you soon after. Anyone else?”

Thinking quickly, Partridge said, "I want Teddy Cooper from London.”

"Cooper?” Sloane sounded puzzled, then remembered.”He's our bureau researcher, isn't he?”

"Right.”

Teddy Cooper was an Englishman, a twenty-five-year-old product of what the British snobbishly called a red-brick university, and a cheerful Cockney who might have auditioned successfully for Me and My GirL He was also, in Partridge's opinion, a near-genius at turning ordinary research into detective work and following it up with shrewd deductions.

While working in Europe, Partridge had discovered Cooper, who at the time held a minor librarian's job at the British Broadcasting Corporation. Partridge had been impressed with some inventive research work that Cooper had done for him. Later he was instrumental in having Cooper employed, with more money and better prospects, by CBA's London bureau.

”You've got him,” Sloane replied.”He'll be on the next Concorde out of England.”

"If you feel up to it,” Partridge said, "I'd like to ask some questions, so I have something to think about on the way down.”

"Of course. Go ahead.”

What followed was a near-replay of queries already put by FBI agent Havelock. Had there been threats? . . . Any special antagonism? . . . Unusual experiences? . . . Was there any notion, even the wildest, as to who . . .? Was there anything known that had not been broadcast?

The asking was necessary, but the answers were all negative.

”Is there anything at all you can think of,” Partridge persisted, "some little incident, perhaps, which you may have dismissed at the time or even hardly noticed, but which might relate to what has happened?”

"The answer's no at the moment,” Sloane said.”But I'll think about it.”

After they hung up, Partridge resumed his own preparations. Even before Sloane's call he had begun packing a suitcase that only an hour earlier he had unpacked.

He telephoned Air Canada, making a reservation on a flight leaving Toronto's Pearson International at 2:45 P.M. It was due into New York's La Guardia Airport at 4 P.m. Next, he called for a taxi to collect him in twenty minutes.

After his packing was finished, Partridge scribbled a goodbye note to Vivien. He knew she would be disappointed at his abrupt departure, as he was himself Along with the note he left a generous check to cover the. apartment refurbishing they had discussed.

As he looked around for a place to leave the note and check, a buzzer sounded in the apartment. It was the intercom from the lobby below. The taxi he ordered had arrived.

The last thing he saw before leaving was, on a sideboard, the tickets for the next day's Mozart concert. He reflected sadly that those—as well as other unused tickets and invitations in the past—represented, more than anything else, the uncertain pattern of a TV newsman's life.

* * *

The Air Canada flight was non-stop, a 727 with all-economy seating. A light passenger load enabled Partridge to have a three-seat section to himself. He had assured Sloane that he would apply his mind to the kidnapping while en route to New York and had intended to begin planning the direction he and the CBA News investigative group should take. But the information he had was sketchy, and obviously he needed more. So after a while he gave up and, sipping a vodka-tonic, allowed his thoughts to drift.

He considered, on a personal level, Jessica and himself.

Over the years since Vietnam he had grown accustomed to regarding Jessica as belonging only in the past, as someone he had once loved but who was no longer relevant to him and in any case far beyond his reach. To an extent, Partridge realized, his thinking had been an act of self-discipline, a safeguard against feeling sorry for himself, self-pity being something he abhorred.

But now, because Jessica was in danger, he admitted to himself that he cared as much about her as ever, and always had. Face it, you're still in love with her. Yes I am. And not with some shadowy memory, but with a person who was living, vital, real.

So whatever his role was to be in searching for Jessica—and Crawf himself had asked that it be a major one—Harry Partridge knew that his love for Jessica would drive and sustain him, even though he would hold that love secret, burning out of sight within himself.

Then, with what he recognized as a characteristic touch of quirky humor, he asked himself, Am I being disloyal?

Disloyal to whom? Of course, to Gemma who was dead.

Ah, dearest Gemma! Earlier today, when he had remembered the one exception to his apparent inability to cry, he had almost let memories about her crowd in. But he had pushed them away as being more than he could handle. But now thoughts of Gemma were flooding back. She will always come back he thought.

* * *

A few years after his duty tour in Vietnam and some other hard-living assignments, CBA News sent Partridge to be resident correspondent in Rome. He remained there almost five years.

Among all television networks, an assignment to a Rome bureau was considered a plum. The standard of living was high, living costs modest by comparison with big cities elsewhere, and though pressures and tensions were inevitably transmitted from New York, the local pace of life was leisurely and easy.

As well as reporting on area stories and sometimes roving far afield, Partridge covered the Vatican. Also, several times he traveled on papal airplanes, accompanying Pope John Paul II on the pontiffs international peregrinations.

It was on one of those papal journeys he met Gemma.

* * *

Partridge was often amused at the assumption by outsiders that a papal air journey was an exercise in decorum and restraint. In fact, it wasn't. In particular, in the press section at the rear of the airplane the reverse was true. Invariably there was much partying and drinking—the liquor unlimited and free and during long overnight flights, sexual dalliance was not unknown.

Partridge once heard the papal airplane described by a fellow correspondent as having different levels, ranging—as in Dante's Inferno—all the way from hell to heaven. (While there was never any permanent aircraft earmarked for the Pope's flights, the special interior configuration for each journey was usually the same.)

At the front of the airplane on every trip was a spacious cabin outfitted for the Pope. It contained a bed and two large comfortable seats, sometimes three.

The next section back was for senior members of the Pope's entourage—his Secretary of State, some cardinals, the Pope's doctor, secretary and valet. Then, behind another divider was a cabin for bishops and lower-ranking priests.

In between one of the forward cabins, and depending on the type of airplane was an open space where all the gifts the Pope received on his journey were stored. It was inevitably a large, rich pile.

Finally there was the last cabin in the plane—for journalists. The seat configuration here was tourist, but with first-class service, many flight attendants, and superb food and wine. There were generous gifts for journalists too, usually from the airline involved which, more often than not, was Alitalia. Airlines, astute in public relations, recognized a chance for good publicity when they saw one.

As to the journalists themselves, they were an average group from their profession, an international mixture of newspaper, television and radio reporters, the television people accompanied by technical crews—all with normal interests, normal skepticism, and a penchant at times for irreverent behavior.

While no TV network would ever admit it openly, they privately preferred that correspondents reporting on religious subjects, such as a papal journey, not be committed deeply to any faith. A religious adherent, they feared, would send in cloying reports. A healthy skepticism was preferred.

In that regard, Harry Partridge filled the bill.

Some seven years after his own experiences on papal flights, Partridge greatly admired a 1987 TV news report by ABCs Judd Rose who was covering a visit by Pope John Paul II to Los Angeles. Rose successfully trod a hairline between hard news and pyrrhonism with his commentary.

* * *

For the media capital that is Hollywood, it's a media event that's heaven-sent. All the pomp of a royal wedding, all the hype of a Super Bowl—all this with a cast of thousands and a star straight from central casting . . . Space age technology and dramatic imagery—it's the sort of thing John Paul favors and the camera loves.

[The Pope is] carefully crafted and controlled. He speaks out often but is seldom spoken to. The only time reporters can ask questions is in brief sessions on his plane when he travels . . . Media coverage has been exhaustive. The papal trip has become an electronic extravaganza like Live Aid or Liberty Weekend, and some Catholics wonder if anyone will know the difference.

Theology and technology—it's a powerful union and John Paul's using it to preach his message as no Pope before him ever could. The world is watching, but the real test of the great communicator is whether we're listening too.

* * *

Rose was absolutely right, Partridge reminisced, about that brief opportunity to ask the Pope questions aboard the papal airplane. In fact, if it had not been for one short question-and answer exchange, what developed between himself and Gemma might never have . . .

* * *

It was one of Pope John Paul's longer journeys—to nearly a dozen countries in Central America and the Caribbean, and was on an Alitalia DC-10. There had been an overnight flight and early the next morning, about two hours before a scheduled landing, the Pope appeared unannounced in the rear press section. He was in everyday attire — a white cassock, a zucchetto on his head, and of his feet, brown loafers—which was normal except when specially dressed for a papal mass.

He stopped near Harry Partridge, appearing pensive. Within the press cabin, TV camera lights were coming on; several reporters had tape recorders running.

Partridge stood and, hoping to ease into a reportable conversation, inquired politely, "Your Holiness, did you sleep well?”

The Pope smiled and answered, "Very few.”

Puzzled, Partridge asked, "Very few, your Holiness. Very few hours?”

There was no answer, only a slight shake of the head. While John Paul was an accomplished linguist in several languages, sometimes his English was solecistic. Partridge could have conversed adequately in Italian, but wanted the Pope's words in the language of CBA viewers.

He decided to try a more newsworthy question. For several weeks there had been discussion and controversy about a possible papal visit to the Soviet Union.”Your Holiness, “Partridge asked, "do you want to go to Russia?”

This time there was a clear, "Yes.”Then the Pope added, "The Poles, the Russians, they are all slaves. But they are all my people.”

Before anything else could be said, the Pope turned and walked away, returning to his private quarters in the airplane.

Among the reporters there was an instant hum, in several languages of questioning and speculation. The Alitalia flight attendants, who had been preparing breakfast, had stopped work and were listening intently. Someone in the press group asked, "Did you hear what he said—slaves!”

Partridge glanced at his own cameraman and sound man. Both nodded. The sound man said, "We got it.”

Somebody else was playing back a tape recording. The word "slaves”was heard distinctly.

A reporter from a British news syndicate said doubtfully, "He meant 'Slavs. ' He's a Slav himself It figures.“

“'Slaves' makes a helluva better story, “ another voice rejoined.

And so it did. Partridge knew it too. A literal reporting of the "slaves”description would arouse worldwide interest and discussion, perhaps create an international incident, with accusations and exchanges between the Kremlin, Warsaw and the Vatican. There could be embarrassment for the Pope, marring his triumphal journey.

Partridge was one of the older, more experienced hands aboard and was respected by his colleagues. Some of the others looked to him for a lead

He considered briefly, It was a lively story, something seldom encountered on a papal trip. There might not be another. His inclination, as a skeptic, was to use it. And yet . . . skepticism did not override ordinary decency; andf or some in the business, journalistic ethics did exist.

Making up his mind, Partridge said clearly, so that everyone could hear.”He meant 'Slavs.' It's obvious that he did. I'm not going to use it.”

There was no discussion, no spoken consensus or agreement, but afterward it became clear that no one else used the incident either.

As the reporters and technical crews returned to their seats, the Alitalia flight attendants resumed work

When Partridge's breakfast tray came, it contained something extra, not served to the others—a small glass vase containing a single rose.

He looked up at the young stewardess who, smiling, in her smartly tailored green and black uniform, had brought the tray. He had noticed her several times before and heard other flight attendants call her Gemma. But now he was unexpectedly breathless at her closeness and, for an instant, tongue-tied.

Forever after, especially at times of terrible loneliness, he remembered Gemma as she was at that magic moment—age twenty-three, beautiful, with long, dark, lustrous hair, brown and sparkling eyes, and joyous with life like a fragrant morning flower in fresh spring air on a green and sunlit hillside.

With unaccustomed awkwardness, he pointed to the rose. Later he would learn that she had gone forward and purloined it from the Pope's own cabin. Now he asked, "is this for me?”

She smiled down at him and, with a soft Italian accent, said, "I brought it because you are a good, sweet man. I like you.”

Even to himself his answer seemed inadequate and banal.”I like you, too.”

But banal or not, in those few moments his great and lasting love for Gemma had begun.

* * *

Partridge drew his thoughts back to the present shortly before the Air Canada flight landed in New York. He was first off the airplane and strode quickly through La Guardia terminal. With only hand baggage, he was able to leave the airport without delay, taking a taxi to CBA News headquarters.

He headed for Chuck Insen's office, but found it unoccupied. A senior producer at the Horseshoe called across, "Hi, Harry! Chuck's at a press conference that's been arranged for Crawf. The whole thing's being taped. You'll be able to see it.”

Then, as Partridge walked toward the Horseshoe, the producer added, "Oh, in case no one's told you, Crawf's on the sidelines tonight. You'll be anchoring the news.”

4

That evening, in the Medellin gang's hideaway at Hackensack, Miguel kept a radio tuned to an all-news station. With several of the others, he also watched a portable television, switching between news programs, all featuring reports on the Sloane family kidnap.

Despite the intense interest and speculation, it was evident that nothing had been learned so far about the kidnappers' identities or motivations. Nor did law enforcement authorities know the escape route taken or of any specific areas where the kidnappers and their victims might have gone to ground. Some reports suggested that by now they could be many miles from New York. Others revealed that suspicious vehicles had been stopped and detained at roadblocks as far away as Ohio, Virginia and the Canadian border. Several criminal arrests had resulted from the police activity, but none was connected to the Sloanes.

Descriptions of a Nissan passenger van believed to have been used by the kidnappers were still circulating. It meant that the van abandoned by Carlos at White Plains had not been found. Carlos had returned safely to the Hackensack house hours ago.

Among Miguel and the others there was a sense of relief, though everyone knew that police forces all over North America were looking for them and their safety was only temporary. Because of the dangers still ahead, Miguel had established a guard roster. Even now Luis and Julio were patrolling outside with Beretta submachine guns, trying to stay in the shadows of the house and outbuildings.

Miguel knew that if their hideaway was discovered and the police moved in in force, there was little chance of any of them getting away. In that event, his original orders were clear: Neither of the kidnap victims was to be taken back alive. Now, the only thing that had changed was that the order applied to three instead of two.

Of the various TV news broadcasts Miguel watched, the one that interested him most was the National Evening News from CBA. It amused him that Crawford Sloane was not in his usual anchor position; the substitute was someone named Partridge whom Miguel remembered vaguely seeing before. Sloane, however, was interviewed on air and shown at a previously recorded press conference.

* * *

The press conference had been well attended by print, television and radio reporters, along with camera and sound crews. It was held in another CBA building, a block away from news headquarters. On a sound stage, folding chairs had been hastily set up; all were occupied, with many participants standing.

There were no formal introductions and Crawford Sloane began with a brief statement. He expressed his shock and anxiety, then appealed to the news media and the public for any information which might help disclose where his wife, son and father had been taken, and by whom. He announced that a CBA phone center with a WATS line number had been set up to receive information. The center was already staffed by operators and a supervisor.

A voice injected, "You'll be swamped with crank calls.”

Sloane responded, "We'll take our chances. All we need is one solid piece of knowledge. Someone, somewhere, has it.”

Twice during his statement Sloane had to pause to control emotion in his voice. Each time there was a sympathetic silence. A Los Angeles Times report next day described him as "dignified and impressive in agonizing circumstances.”

Sloane announced that he would answer questions.

At first the questioning was also sympathetic. But then, inevitably, some in the press corps weighed in with tougher queries.

An Associated Press woman reporter asked, "Do you think it's possible, as some are already speculating, that your family may have been seized by foreign terrorists?”

Sloane shook his head.”It's too early even to think about that.”

AP objected, "You're ducking the question. I asked if you thought it possible.”

Sloane conceded, "I suppose it's possible.”

Someone from a local TV station asked the perennial question, "How do you feel about that?”

Someone else groaned and Sloane wanted to answer, How the hell would you feel? Instead he replied, "Obviously, I hope it isn't true.”

A gray-haired former CBA correspondent, now with CNN, held up a copy of Sloane's book.”Do you continue to believe, as you wrote here, that 'hostages should be expendable,' and are you still opposed to paying ransom—as you put it, 'directly or indirectly, ever'?”

Sloane had anticipated the question and answered, "I don't believe that anyone as emotionally involved as I am at this moment can be objective about that.”

"Oh, come on, Crawf,” the CNN man persisted.”If you were standing here instead of me, you wouldn't let anyone get away with that. I'll put the question another way: Do you regret having written those words?”

"At this moment,” Sloane said, "I find myself wishing they weren't being quoted against me.”

Another voice called out, "They're not being used against you and that's still no answer.”

A woman reporter from an A_BC magazine program raised her penetrating voice.”I'm sure you're aware that your statement about American hostages being expendable caused a great deal of distress to families who have relatives still imprisoned in the Middle East. Do you have more sympathy for those families now?”

"I've always had sympathy,” Sloane said, "but right now I probably have a better understanding of those people's anguish.”

"Are you telling us that what you wrote was wrong?”

"No,” he said quietly, "I'm not saying that.”

"So if a ransom is demanded, you'll say adamantly no?”

He raised his hands helplessly.”You're asking me to speculate on something that hasn't occurred. I won't do that.”

While not enjoying what was happening, Sloane acknowledged mentally that at plenty of press conferences in the past he had played hardball as an interrogator himself.

An offbeat query came from Newsday.”Not much is known about your son Nicholas, Mr. Sloane.”

"That's because we keep our family life private. In fact, my wife insists on it.”

"It isn't private anymore,” the reporter pointed out.”One thing I've been told is that Nicholas is a talented musician and might become a concert pianist one day. Is that true?”

Sloane knew that in other circumstances Jessica would object to the question as an intrusion. At this moment, though, he didn't see how he could avoid answering it.

”Our son does love music, always has, and his teachers say he's advanced for his age. As to his being a concert pianist or anything else, only time will tell.”

At length, when the questions seemed to be winding down, Leslie Chippingham stepped forward and declared the session at an end.

Sloane was immediately surrounded by some who wanted to shake his hand and wish him well. Then, as quickly as he could, he slipped away.

* * *

Miguel, having seen all the news he wanted, switched the television off and considered carefully what he had learned.

First, neither the Medellin cartel nor Sendero Luminoso was suspected of involvement in the kidnappings. At this point, that was helpful. Second, and equally helpful, was the fact that no descriptions existed of himself or the other six conspirators. If the authorities had somehow obtained descriptions, almost certainly they would have been made public by now.

All of which, Miguel reasoned, made slightly less dangerous what he proposed to do next.

He needed more money and, to get it, he must telephone tonight and arrange a meeting at, or near, the United Nations tomorrow.

From the beginning, getting sufficient money into the United States had been a problem. Sendero Luminoso, which was financing this operation, had plenty of money in Peru. The difficulty was in circumventing Peru's exchange control laws and transferring hard currency in U.S. dollars to New York, at the same time keeping the movement of money—its source, routing and destination—secret.

It had been done ingeniously, with help from a revolutionary sympathizer, a Sendero ally highly placed inside the Lima Peru, banking system. His accomplice in New York was a Peruvian diplomat, a senior aide to Peru's ambassador to the United Nations.

The amount of operating funds allocated during planning by Sendero and Medellin was $850,000. This included payments to personnel, their transportation and living expenses, leasing a secret headquarters, the purchase of six vehicles, medical supplies, the funeral caskets, payments in the Little Colombia district of Queens for covert aid and firearms, commissions in Peru and New York on money transfers, plus bribes to an American woman banker. There would also be the cost of flying the captives by private aircraft from the U.S. to Peru.

Almost all the money spent in New York had been drawn in cash by Miguel, through the United Nations source.

The way it worked was that the Lima banker surreptitiously converted the funds entrusted to him by Sendero Luminoso into U.S. dollars, $50,000 at a time. He then made transfers to a New York bank at Dag Hammarskj6ld Plaza near United Nations headquarters, where the money was placed in a special sub-account of the Peruvian UN delegation. The account's existence was known only to Jose Antonio Salaverry, the UN ambassador's trusted aide, who had authority to sign checks, and to the bank's assistant manager, Helga Efferen. The woman banker personally took care of the special account.

Jose Antonio Salaverry was another secret supporter of Sendero, though not above taking a commission on the transferred funds. Helga was sleeping regularly with the duplicitous Salaverry and both were living a lavish New York lifestyle beyond their means, partying and keeping up with the free-spending United Nations diplomatic crowd. For that reason the extra money they made by secretly channeling the incoming funds was warmly welcomed.

Whenever Miguel had needed money he telephoned Salaverry and stated the amount. A meeting was then arranged for a day or two later, usually at UN headquarters, occasionally elsewhere. In the meantime Salaverry would obtain a briefcase full of cash. Miguel would walk away with it.

Only one thing bothered Miguel. On one occasion Salaverry let slip that while not knowing the money's specific purpose or where Miguel and the others from Medellin were hiding out, he had a pretty good idea of their objective. This, Miguel realized, could only mean there had been a security leak in Peru. At this point there was nothing he could do, but it made him wary of contacts with Jose Antonio Salaverry.

Miguel glanced at the cellular phone beside him. For a moment he was tempted to use it, but knew he shouldn't and must go out. In a cafe eight blocks away was a pay phone he had used before. He checked his watch: 7:10 P.m. With luck, Salaverry would be in his mid-Manhattan apartment.

Miguel put on a topcoat and walked quickly, keeping a lookout for any sign of unusual activity in the area. There was none.

During the walk he thought again about the televised press conference with Crawford Sloane. Miguel had been interested in the reference to a book by Sloane which apparently included statements about never paying ransom and that "hostages should be expendable.” Miguel hadn't known about the book nor, he was sure, had others in the Medellin cartel or Sendero Luminoso. He doubted, though, if the knowledge would have affected the decision to abduct Sloane's family; what someone wrote for publication and what they felt and did in private were often different. But either way, it made no difference now.

Something else of interest coming out of the press conference was the description of the mocoso Sloane brat as a possible concert pianist. Without any clear notion of how he might use it, Miguel tucked the nugget of information away.

When he reached the cafe Miguel could see that only a few people were inside. Entering, he headed for the phone, which was at the rear, and dialed a number he had memorized. After three rings Salaverry answered.”Allo,” he said with a strong Spanish accent.

Miguel tapped three times on the phone mouthpiece with a fingernail, a signal that identified him. Then he said, keeping his voice low, "Tomorrow morning. Fifty cases.” A "case”was a thousand dollars.

He heard a quick gasp at the other end. The voice which came back sounded frightened.”You are crazy phoning here tonight? Where are you? Can this call be traced?”

Miguel said contemptuously, "Do you think I am a pendejo?” At the same time he realized that Salaverry had connected him with today's events; therefore meeting him would be dangerous. Still, there was no alternative. He needed cash to purchase—among other things—the additional casket for Angus Sloane. Also, Miguel knew there was plenty left in the New York account and wanted some extra money for himself before leaving the country. He was certain that more than just commissions had stuck to Jose Antonio Salaverry's grubby fingers.

”We cannot meet tomorrow,” Salaverry said.”It is too soon, and too short notice for the money. You must not . . .”

" Do not waste my time.” Miguel gripped the phone tightly, controlling his anger, still speaking softly so others in the cafe would not hear.”I am giving you an order. Get the fifty cases early. I will come to you in the usual way, shortly before noon. If you fail, you know how furious our mutual friends will be, and their arm has a long reach.”

"No, no! There is no need for their concern.” There was a hasty, conciliatory change in Salaverry's voice. A threat of vengeance by the infamous Medellin cartel was not to be taken lightly.”I will do my best.”

Miguel said curtly, "Do better than that. I will see you tomorrow.” He hung up the phone and left the cafe.

* * *

Inside the Hackensack hideaway the three captives remained sedated under Socorro's watchful guard. Throughout the night she administered additional dosages of propofol as Baudelio had instructed; she monitored vital signs and kept a record. Shortly before daylight Baudelio awakened from his own sedated sleep. After studying Socorro's medical log he nodded approval, then relieved her.

In the early morning Miguel, who had slept only fitfully, watched TV news again. The Sloane kidnapping was still the top item, though there were no reports of new leads.

Soon after, Miguel informed Luis that at eleven o'clock the two of them would be driving into Manhattan in the hearse.

The hearse was the group's sixth vehicle, a Cadillac in good condition, bought second hand. So far they had only used it twice. The remainder of the time the hearse had stayed out of sight at the Hackensack house, where it was referred to by the others as el angel negro, the black angel. The vehicle's inside floor, where a casket normally rested, was of handsome rosewood; built-in rubber rollers ensured that a casket's passage would be smooth. Interior sides and roof were lined with dark blue velvet.

Miguel had originally planned to use the hearse only as a final means of transportation before the air journey to Peru, but now, clearly, it was their safest vehicle. The cars and the GMC truck had had too much exposure, especially during the Larchmont surveillance, and it was possible that descriptions of them had by this time been given to police and circulated.

* * *

The weather had changed to pouring rain, with fiercely blowing gusts, the sky a sullen gray.

With Luis driving, they took a circuitous route from Hackensack, several times changing direction and twice stopping to be sure they were not followed. Luis handled the hearse with extra care because of slick roads and poor forward visibility beyond the monotonously slapping windshield wipers. Having gone south on the New Jersey side of the Hudson River as far as Weehawken, they entered the Lincoln Tunnel and emerged in Manhattan at 11:45 A.M.

Both Miguel and Luis were wearing dark suits and ties, appropriate to their presence in a hearse.

After leaving the tunnel they headed east on Fortieth Street. The heavy rain made for bumper-to-bumper crosstown traffic and painfully slow progress. Miguel watched pedestrians moving slowly and uncomfortably on crowded sidewalks.

The paradox of riding through New York City in a hearse amused him. On one hand the vehicle was far too conspicuous for their purpose; on the other it commanded respect. At a previous intersection, a uniformed traffic agent—a "brownie,” as New Yorkers called them—had even stopped other vehicles and waved them by.

Miguel also noticed that many people who glanced at the hearse immediately looked away. He had observed the same thing before and wondered: Was it the reminder of death, the great oblivion, that disturbed them? He had never feared his own death, though he had no intention of making it easy for others to hasten its arrival.

But whatever the reason, it didn't matter. What did was that no one in the crowds around them was likely to consider that this particular hearse, so close that they could touch it, contained two of the most sought-after criminals in the country, perpetrators of a crime that was the nation's hottest news story. The thought intrigued Miguel. It was also reassuring.

They turned north onto Third Avenue, and a little short of Forty-fourth Street Luis pulled over to the curb and let Miguel out. Turning his collar up against the driving rain, Miguel walked the last two blocks east to United Nations headquarters. Despite his earlier thoughts about the hearse, arriving in it would court attention he didn't need. In the meantime Luis had instructions to keep moving and come back to the drop-off point in an hour. If Miguel did not appear, Luis would return every subsequent half hour.

On the corner of Forty-fourth, Miguel bought an umbrella from a street vendor but found it hard to handle in the wind. A few minutes later he crossed First Avenue to the white-fronted UN General Assembly Building. Because of the rain, the many flagpoles stood forlornly bare, bereft of flags. Passing an iron grille fence and the delegates' entrance, he ascended steps to a wide platform where visitors were admitted. Miguel, empty handed, was quickly cleared through a checkpoint inside where others were having their handbags and packages opened for inspection.

In the large hall beyond, benches were filled with waiting visitors, their faces and clothes as diverse as the UN itself. A Bolivian woman in a bowler hat sat stoically. Beside her a small black child played with a stuffed white lamb. Nearby sat an old, weathered man wearing Afghan-type headgear. Two bearded Israelis argued over papers spread between them. And interspersed throughout the crowd were white-skinned Americans and British tourists.

Ignoring those waiting, Miguel walked toward a prominent "Guided Tours” sign at the far end of the hall. Beside it, holding an attaché case, Jose Antonio Salaverry was waiting.

Just like a weasel, Miguel thought, as he took in Salaverry's narrow, pinched face, receding hair and thin mustache. The Peruvian diplomat, usually exuding self importance, today appeared ill at ease.

They exchanged the slightest of nods, then Salaverry led the way to an information desk where, with a delegate's authority, he signed Miguel in, using a bogus name. Miguel received a visitor's pass.

As the two walked down an avenue flanked by pillars, a garden was visible through glass panels, and beyond it the East River. An escalator took them upward to the next floor where they entered the Indonesian Lounge, available only to diplomats and guests.

The large, impressive room, where heads of state were entertained, contained magnificent art including the curtain of the Holy Kaabe entry to Mecca, a black tapestry inlaid with gold and silver and presented by the Saudis. A deep green carpet complemented white leather sofas and chairs, the furnishings ingeniously arranged so that several meetings could take place at once, with none intruding on another. Miguel and Salaverry seated themselves in a small private section. As they faced each other, Jose Antonio Salaverry's thin lips twisted with displeasure.”I warned you it was dangerous to come here! There is already enough risk without creating more.”

Miguel asked calmly, "Why is coming here a risk?” He needed to find out how much this weakling knew.

”You fool! You know why. The television, the newspapers, are full of what you have done, those people you have seized. The FBI, the police, are throwing everything into the search for you.” Salaverry swallowed, then asked anxiously, "When are you going—all of you getting out of the country?”

"Assuming what you say is true, why do you want to know? What difference does it make to you?”

"Because Helga is frantic with anxiety. So am I”

So the loose-tongued idiot had shared what he knew with his whoring woman banker. It meant that the original breach of security had widened and was now an imminent danger which had to be erased. Though Salaverry had no means of knowing, his foolish admission had sealed the fate of his woman and himself.

”Before I answer,” Miguel said, "give me the money.”

Salaverry manipulated a combination lock on his attache case. From the case he removed a bulging pressboard wallet tied with tape, and passed it over.

Miguel opened the wallet, surveyed the money inside, then retied the tape.

Salaverry asked petulantly, "Don't you want to count it?”

Miguel shrugged.”You would not dare cheat me.” He considered, then said with apparent casualness, "So you want to know when I and certain others will leave.”

"Yes, I do.”

"Where will you and the woman be tonight?”

"In my apartment. We are too upset to go out.”

Miguel had been to the apartment and remembered the address. He told Salaverry, "Stay there. I cannot telephone because of reasons which will become clear. Therefore a messenger will come to you tonight with the information you want. He will use the name Plato. When you hear that name, it is safe to let him in.”

Salaverry nodded eagerly. He seemed relieved.

Miguel added, "I am doing you this service in return for your obtaining the money promptly.” He touched the pressboard wallet.

”Thank you. You understand I have no wish to be unreasonable . . .”

"I understand. But stay home tonight.”

"Oh, I will.”

* * *

From the UN building, Miguel crossed First Avenue to the United Nations Plaza Hotel. On the main floor he went to a pay phone near the newsstand.

He tapped out the memorized digits for a call to Queens. When a voice answered, he knew he was connected with a fortress-like private house in the Little Colombia district of Jackson Heights. Miguel spoke briefly, avoiding use of names, gave the number of the pay phone from which he was calling and then hung up.

He waited patiently by the phone; on two occasions when other people approached, he pretended to be using it. After seven minutes it rang. A voice confirmed that it was speaking from another pay phone. The call would not be traced or overheard.

Speaking softly, Miguel stated his requirements. He was assured they could be met. A contract was arranged, a price of six thousand dollars agreed. Miguel gave Salaverry's apartment address and explained that the name "Plato” would ensure admittance. He emphasized, "It is to be done tonight and must appear to be a murder-suicide.”

His instructions, he was promised, would be carried out precisely.

* * *

Miguel arrived at the Third Avenue rendezvous point a little less than an hour from the time he had left. Moments later Luis brought the hearse to the curb. Getting in, out of the rain, Miguel told Luis, "We go now to the funeral place—the same one as before. You remember?”

Luis nodded and, soon after, turned east toward the Queensboro Bridge.

5

At times, when news was quiet, a network news organization was like a slumbering giant.

It operated at considerably less than a hundred percent utilization and a substantial number of its talented people had what was referred to in the trade as "down time"—meaning they were not actively at work.

Which was why, when a major news event occurred, there were experienced hands who could be—as another trade phrase went—"grabbed and fired up.”

On Friday morning, one day after the Sloane family kidnapping, the firing-up process had begun as the special task force headed by Harry Partridge, with Rita Abrams as senior producer, began assembling within CBA News headquarters.

* * *

Rita, who had reached New York from Minnesota late the night before, came in to the newly assigned task force offices at 8 A.m. Harry Partridge, having spent the night in a luxury suite provided by the network at the Inter-Continental Hotel, joined her soon after.

Wasting no time, he asked, "Any new developments?”

"Zilch on the kidnap,” Rita answered.”But there's a mob scene outside Crawf's house.”

"What kind of mob?”

The two were in what would be the group conference room and Rita leaned back in a swivel chair. Despite the brevity of her vacation, she seemed refreshed, her usual vitality and drive restored. Nor had she lost the quirky cynicism which those who worked with her enjoyed.

”These days, everyone wants to touch the hem of an anchorman. Now that they've learned his address, Crawf's fans are pouring into Larchmont. Hundreds of them, maybe thousands. The police are having trouble coping and they're setting up road barriers.”

"We have a camera crew on site?”

"Sure have. They camped out all night. I've told them to stay in place until Crawf leaves for work. By then, I'll have another crew out to replace them.”

Partridge nodded his approval.

”It makes sense to assume the kidnappers, and therefore the action, have moved on from Larchmont,” Rita said, "but I think we should protect ourselves by being around for a couple of days in case anything fresh breaks. That is, unless you have other ideas.”

"Not yet,” he said; then added, "you know we've been given pretty much a blank check where talent is concerned?”

"I was told last night. So I've asked for three producers to begin—Norman Jaeger, Iris Everly and Karl Owens. They'll be here soon.”

“Great choices.” Partridge knew all three well. Their abilities were among the best in CBA News.

”Oh, I've allocated offices. Do you want to see yours?”

Rita led the way around five adjoining offices which would constitute the task force operating base. Network news departments were perpetually in a state of flux, with temporary projects being created and disbanded, so when need arose, required accommodation could usually be found.

Partridge would have an office to himself, as would Rita. Two other offices, already jammed with desks, would be shared by the additional producers, camera crews and support staff, some of whom were already moving in. Partridge and Rita exchanged greetings with them before returning to the fifth and largest office, the conference room, to continue planning.

”What I'd like,” Partridge said, "is to have a meeting as soon as possible with everyone who'll be working with us. We can allocate responsibilities, then begin work on a spot for tonight's news.”

Rita glanced at her watch: 8:45 A.M.

”I'll set it up for ten o'clock,” she said.”Right now I want to find out more about what's happening at Larchmont.”

* * *

"In all the years I've lived here,” the Larchmont police sergeant said, "I've never seen anything like it.”

He was speaking with FBI Special Agent Havelock who had emerged from the Sloane house a few minutes earlier to survey a throng of spectators outside. The crowd had been growing in size since dawn and now packed the sidewalks in front of the house. In some places they spilled onto the road where police officers were trying, not too successfully, to control the crowd and keep passing cars moving. Otis Havelock, having stayed in the house overnight, was concerned that Sloane, who was inside getting ready for work, might be mobbed on his way out.

Clustered by the front gate were television crews and other reporters. As Havelock appeared, TV cameras swung toward him amid shouted questions:

"Have you heard from the kidnappers?”

"How's Sloane holding up?”

"Can we talk to Crawford?”

"Who are you?”

In response Havelock shook his head and waved his hands dismissingly.

Beyond the press group, the crowd appeared orderly, though Havelock's appearance had increased the buzz of conversation.

The FBI man complained to the police sergeant, "Can't you people keep this street clear?”

"We're trying. The Chief has ordered barriers. We'll stop traffic and pedestrians, except for those who live on the street, then we'll try to clear these others out. It'll take at least an hour. The Chief doesn't want anyone hassled, not with all those cameras around.”

"Any idea where these people are from?”

"I asked a few,” the sergeant said.”They mostly drove in from outside Larchmont. I guess it's seeing all that excitement on TV, and wanting a glimpse of Mr. Sloane. The streets around are full of their cars.”

Rain had begun to fall, but it didn't seem to discourage the watchers. Instead they put up umbrellas or huddled in their coats.

Havelock returned to the house. Inside he told Crawford Sloane, who looked tired and gaunt, "When we leave, it will be in two unmarked FBI cars. I want you in the second. Crouch down in the back and we'll drive away fast.”

"No way,” Sloane said.”There are media people out there. I'm one of them and I can't sail by as if I were the President.”

"There may also be someone out there from the people who seized your wife and family.” Havelock's voice sharpened.”Who knows what they might try, including shooting you? So don't be a damn fool, Mr. Sloane. And remember I'm responsible for your safety.”

In the end they agreed to invite the camera crews and reporters into the hallway of the house for an impromptu press conference which Sloane would handle. As the journalists trooped in they looked around the luxurious home with curiosity, some with unconcealed envy. The questions and answers that followed were mostly repetitive of those the preceding day, the only new information being that there had been no communication from the kidnappers during the night.

”I can't tell you any more,” Sloane said finally.”There simply isn't anything. I wish there were.”

Havelock, while present and watchful, declined to participate in the exchanges and eventually the reporters, some of whom seemed resentful at the lack of news, left as they had come.

”Now, Mr. Sloane,” Havelock said, "I want us to leave here in the way I described—with you in the back of the car, down low and out of sight.” Reluctantly, Sloane agreed.

But in the execution of the plan, an unforeseen misfortune happened.

Crawford Sloane entered the FBI car so quickly that it was observed by only a few people in the crowd outside. However, those few promptly passed the word to others so that the message spread like fire—'Sloane's in the second car.” Within the same car Havelock and another FBI agent were in the backseat, with Sloane uncomfortably on his hands and knees between them. A third FBI agent was at the wheel.

Two more FBI men were in the first car and both cars began moving immediately.

With the crowd now apprised of Sloane's departure, some at the rear pushed forward, impelling those at the front off the sidewalk and onto the road. At that point several things occurred in swift succession.

The lead car emerged from the Sloanes' driveway, waved out by a policeman. It was traveling fast, with the second car close behind. Then suddenly, as spectators opposite the driveway were pushed even farther onto the road, the first car's previously clear path was blocked. Its driver, shocked to see a hue of people facing him, jammed on his brakes.

In other circumstances the lead car might have stopped in time. As it was, on a wet road surface slick from recent rain, it skidded sideways. To the sound of screeching tires followed by a series of horrifying thuds and human screams, the car plowed a path through the front ranks of spectators.

The occupants of the second car—excepting Sloane, who could not see—gasped in horror and braced for a similar collision. But as people scrambled hastily to the opposite side of the road, the crowd parted and Havelock, his face set grimly, ordered the driver, "Don't stop— Keep going!”Afterward, Havelock would defend his apparently callous action by explaining, "It all happened so fast, I wasn't sure of anything and figured it could be an ambush.”

Crawford Sloane, aware only that something unexpected was in progress, raised his head to peer out. At that precise moment, a TV camera already focused on the car caught Sloane's face in closeup, then stayed with the car as it sped from the accident scene. Viewers who later saw the videotape on air had no means of knowing that Sloane was pleading to go back, but Havelock insisted, "There are police right there. They'll do whatever's needed.”

The Larchmont police did control the situation and several ambulances were rushed to the scene. When the toll was reckoned, eight people had been injured—six with minor lacerations and bruises, two seriously. Of the seriously hurt, one man sustained a broken arm and crushed ribs while a young woman had a leg so badly mangled that it required amputation.

The accident, though tragic, in other circumstances would not have gained wide attention. Because of the association with the Sloane family kidnap, it received national coverage and some of the blame appeared, by implication, to attach to Crawford Sloane.

* * *

The researcher from CBA's London bureau, Teddy Cooper, had been flown in, as promised, on that morning's Concorde. He came directly to the task force offices, arriving shortly before 10 A.M., and reported first to Harry Partridge, then to Rita. The three went to the conference room where the group meeting was assembling.

On the way in, Cooper met Crawford Sloane who also had arrived a few minutes earlier, still shaken from his experience at Larchmont.

Cooper, a wiry slip of a man, radiated energy and confidence. His brown lank hair, worn longer than was now fashionable, framed a pale face that bore signs of adolescent acne. The effect was to make him seem even younger than his twenty-five years. Though a born-and-bred Londoner, he had been in the U.S. several times before and was familiar with New York.

To Crawford Sloane, he declared, "Sorry to hear about your missus and family, Mister S, but cheer up! I'm here now! I'll have those buggers before you know it. It's what I'm good at!”

Sloane, glancing at Partridge, raised his eyebrows inquiringly, as if to ask, Are you sure we want this bird?

Partridge said dryly, "Modesty has never been Teddy's problem. We'll give him some rope and see what happens.” The exchange seemed not to bother Cooper in the least.

To Partridge, Cooper said, "First thing, Harry, is to check out the reports. Then I'll suss out the scene of the crime. I want a word with the geezers who saw it happen—and I mean everyone. There's no point pissin' about. If I'm going to do this, I'm going to do it right.”

"You do it your way.” Partridge remembered previous occasions when he had witnessed Cooper at work.”You'll be in charge of research here, with two assistants.”

The assistant researchers, a young man and woman who had been borrowed from another CBA project, were already in the conference room. While waiting for the meeting to begin, Partridge introduced them.

Cooper shook hands and said, "Working with me will be a great experience for you, kids. Don't be nervous, though—I'm very informal. Just call me 'your excellency,' and you need only salute first thing each morning.”

The researchers seemed amused by Cooper and the trio began discussing a "Sequence of Events” board, already in place in the conference room and occupying an entire wall. A standard procedure in task force reporting, it would record every known detail about the Sloane kidnapping, in proper sequence. On another wall was a second large board, headed "Miscellaneous.” This would contain incidental intelligence, some of it speculation or rumor, whose sequence was irrelevant or not known. From time to time, as "miscellaneous” items developed, they would be transferred to the other board—all of it a research responsibility.

The boards' purpose was twofold: first, to apprise everyone in the task force inner circle of all available information and new developments; second, to provide a focus for progress reviews and brainstorming sessions which could, and often did, provoke new ideas.

* * *

Punctually at ten o'clock, Rita Abrams raised her voice, cutting across the general buzz of conversation.”All right, everyone! Let's get to work.”

She was seated at the head of a long table, Harry Partridge beside her. Leslie Chippingham arrived and took his place at the table too. As he caught Rita's eye, they exchanged discreet smiles.

Crawford Sloane seated himself at the far end. He did not expect to contribute to the discussion at this point and had confided to Partridge, "I feel helpless right now, like a loose nut.”

Also at the table were the three producers Rita had recruited. Norman Jaeger, oldest of the three, was a CBA veteran who had worked in every phase of news. Soft-spoken, imaginative and scholarly, he was a producer for the network's highly acclaimed magazine program, "Behind the Headlines.” His abrupt temporary reassignment today pointed up the exceptional resources of the task force.

Next to Jaeger was Iris Everly, in her mid-twenties and a brightly shining star on the news production scene. Petite, pretty, a Columbia Journalism School graduate, she had a shrewd mind which functioned at lightning speed. When working to pursue an elusive news story, her reputation for toughness and cunning matched Rasputin's.

Karl Owens, the third producer, was a workhorse who had gained his reputation through persistent, tireless plodding; sometimes his joint investigative work with correspondents succeeded after competitors had given up. Midway in age between Jaeger and Iris Everly and not as imaginative as either, Owens could be counted on for solidity and a thorough knowledge of his craft.

In other seats at the table and immediately behind were Teddy Cooper and the two assistant researchers, a staff writer borrowed from the National Evening News, Minh Van Canh, who would be senior cameraman, and a woman secretary, appointed unit manager.

”Okay, we all know why we're here,” Rita said, opening the meeting with a businesslike tone.”What we'll discuss now is how to go about our work. First, I'll talk about organization. After that, Harry will direct us on the way we should march editorially.”

Rita paused and looked the length of the table at Crawford Sloane.”Crawf, we won't make speeches here. I don't think any of us could without becoming emotional, and you have enough distress to carry without our adding to that burden. But I want to tell you, very simply and from all of us—for your sake, your family's, and our own because we care—we're going to do our damnedest!”

From the other task force members there was an approving, sympathetic murmur.

Sloane nodded twice, then managed to utter, "Thank you,” his voice choked.

”From here in,” Rita said, "we shall operate on two levels —the long-term project and the daily breaking story. Norm,” she continued, addressing the older producer, "you're to be in charge of long term.”

"Right.”

"Iris, you'll do the day-by-day, starting with a spot for the news tonight, which we'll discuss shortly.”

Iris Everly said crisply, "Got it, and the first thing I'll want is the video of that melee this morning outside Crawf's house.”

Sloane winced at the mention of the incident and glanced half pleadingly at Iris, though she took no notice.

”You'll get it,” Rita told her.”The tape's on the way in.”

To the third producer, Owens, Rita said, "Karl, you'll move between the two project sides as needed.” She added, "And I'll be working closely with all three of you.”

Her attention turned to Cooper.”Teddy, I understand you want to go to Larchmont.”

Cooper looked up with a grin.”Yes, ma'am. To dig around and make like the famed Sherlock H.” Turning his head, he added for the others, "At which I'm exceptionally good.”

"Teddy,” Partridge said, speaking for the first time, "everyone in this room is exceptionally good. It's why they're here.”

Unabashed, Cooper beamed.”Then I oughta feel right at home.”

"After we finish this meeting,” Rita advised him, "Minh will go to Larchmont, heading two fresh camera crews. You'll go with him, Teddy, and meet Bert Fisher who's a stringer for our local affiliate station. I've arranged it. Fisher was first to break the story yesterday. He'll drive you around and introduce you to whoever you want to sec.”

"Wizard! I'll make a note o' that: Go fishing with Fisher.”

Norm Jaeger said softly to Karl Owens, "Before this assignment's over I may strangle that Limey.”

"Minh,” Iris Everly said to the cameraman, "let's you and me talk, please, before you leave for Larchmont.”

Minh Van Canh, his square dark face impassive as usual, nodded.

”For the time being that takes care of the nuts and bolts,” Rita said.”Now, more important, there's editorial direction. Harry—over to you.”

"Our first objective, as I see it,” Partridge began, "is to find out more about the kidnappers. Who are they? Where are they from? What are they aiming for? Of course, very soon they may tell us that themselves; however, we won't wait for it to happen. At this point I can't tell you how we'll learn the answers to those questions, except that together we will focus our brains on everything that's occurred so far, plus each new piece of information that comes in. Today I want everyone here to study all the data that we have, memorizing details. The boards will help.” He motioned to the "Sequence of Events”and "Miscellaneous”boards, adding, "Both will be up to date later this morning.

”After everyone has caught up I want us, separately and collectively, to keep picking over the pieces, worrying at them. If we do that, based on past experience something will come out.”

Around the table the group listened attentively as Partridge continued.

”One thing I'll tell you for sure. Somewhere, those people the kidnappers—have left traces. Everybody leaves traces, no matter how carefully they try to hide them. The trick is to locate some.” He nodded to Jaeger.”Concentrating on that will be your job, Norman.”

"Got it,” Jaeger said.

”Now the short term. Iris, about our spot for tonight's evening news. I know you've been thinking. How do you see the bones? Do you have a framework?”

She answered crisply.”If there's no fresh dramatic news like communication from the kidnappers, after saying there isn't, we may go to the snafn this morning outside Crawf's house. Then, since this will be the first full day since the event, a recap of yesterday. I've watched the tape of last night; it was a mishmash. Tonight we can do better, be more orderly. Also I'd like re-interviews with witnesses at Larchmont"—Iris consulted notes—"especially the old lady, Priscilla Rhea, who's video-rich. She and the others may have remembered something new.”

"What about reactions?” Jaeger asked.”As in Washington.”

Partridge answered.”A short bite only, from the President, I think. Maybe some citizen interviews if we have time.”

"But nothing from Capitol Hill?”

"Maybe tomorrow,” Partridge said.”Maybe never. Everyone on the Hill will want to get in the act.” He motioned for Iris to continue.

”To wrap up,” she said, "we should do some analysis at the end n interview witb an authority on kidnapping.”

Partridge asked, "Anyone in mind?”

"Not yet.”

Karl Owens volunteered, "I know of a guy. Name's Ralph Salerno, an ex-New York cop, lives at Naples, Florida. He lectures about crime to police forces all over and has written books. Knows a lot about kidnap. I've seen him on air. He's good.”

"Let's get him,” Iris said, glancing at Partridge who nodded his approval.

Les Chippingham interjected, "Karl, we have an affiliate in the Naples area. Work through them if you can; otherwise fly Salerno to Miami.”

"And either way,” Iris added, "book satellite time for Harry to do the interview.”

"I'll get onto it,” Owens said, and made a note.

After another fifteen minutes of discussion, Rita tapped the table.”That'll do,” she announced.”The rap is over. Real work begins."

* * *

Amid the serious business, a marginal tempest.

For research purposes, Harry Partridge had decided to interview Crawford Sloane. Partridge believed that Sloane, like many people who became involved in a complex episode, knew more than he realized and that skilled, persistent questioning might bring out new facts. Sloane had already agreed to the session.

In the conference room after the meeting, as Partridge reminded Sloane of the arrangement, a voice behind them broke in, "If you don't mind, I'd like to sit in and listen. I may learn something too.”

Surprised, they turned. Confronting them was Special Agent Otis Havelock who had walked in as the meeting broke up.

”Well,” Partridge said, "since you ask, I do mind.”

Rita Abrams queried Havelock, "Aren't you Mr. FBI!'

He answered amiably, "You mean like 'Miss America! My colleagues might not think so.”

"What I really mean,” Rita said, "is you shouldn't be in here at all. This area is off limits to anyone except those working here.”

Havelock seemed surprised.”Part of my job is to protect Mr. Sloane. Besides, you're investigating the kidnapping. Right?”

"Yes.”

"Then we have the same objective, to locate Mr. Sloane's family. So anything you people discover, such as what goes up there"—he gestured to the "Sequence of Events” board—"the FBI needs to know as well.”

Several others in the room, among them Leslie Chippingham, had fallen silent.

”In that case,” Rita said, "it should be a two-way deal. Can I send a correspondent, right now, over to the FBI's New York office to examine all your reports that have come in?”

Havelock shook his head.”I'm afraid that isn't possible. Some are confidential.”

"Exactly!”

"Look, folks.” Havelock, aware of the growing attention around the room, was clearly trying to be restrained.”I'm not sure you fully understand that we're dealing with a crime. Anyone with knowledge has a legal obligation to pass it on, in this instance to the FBI. Failing to do so could be a criminal offense.”

Rita, seldom long on patience, objected, "For chrissakes, we're not children! We do investigations all the time and know the score.”

Partridge added, "I should tell you, Mr. Havelock, that I've worked close to the FBI on several stories and your people are notorious for taking all the information they can get and giving back nothing.”

Havelock snapped, "The FBI isn't obliged to give anything back.” His earlier restraint was gone.”We're a government agency with the power of the President and Congress behind us. What you people seem to be doing here is setting yourself up as competitors. Well, let me advise you that if anyone impedes the official investigation by withholding information, they're likely to face serious charges.”

Chippingham decided it was time to intervene.

”Mr. Havelock,” the news president said, "I assure you we are not people who break the law. However, we are free to do all the investigating we want and sometimes we're more successful at it than what you call the 'official investigation.'

"What's really involved here,” Chippingham continued, "is something called 'reporter privilege.' While I admit there are some gray areas, what's important is that reporters can investigate, then protect their sources unless a court rules otherwise. So you see, it would be an infringement on our freedom if we allowed you to have instant, total access to whatever comes in. Therefore I must tell you that while we're glad to have you here, there's a limit to your clearance and a line you may not cross—right there.” He pointed to the conference-room doorway.

"Well, sir,” Havelock said, "I'm not sure I buy all that, and you won't mind if I discuss the whole matter with the Bureau.”

"Not in the least. I'm sure they'll tell you we're acting within our rights.”

What Chippingham did not say was that CBA, like any news organization, would make its own decisions about what to reveal and when, even if it meant ruffling some FBI feathers. He knew that most others in the News Division felt the same way. As to possible consequences, the network would have to deal with those as and if they happened.

After Havelock had left to make a phone call, Chippingham told Rita, "Call the building superintendent. Ask for some keys to these offices and keep them locked.”

* * *

In the privacy of Partridge's office, he and Sloane began their interview with a tape recorder running. Partridge covered the now familiar ground, repeating earlier questions in more detailed ways, but nothing new emerged. At length, Partridge asked, "Is there anything in your mind, Crawf, even down in your subconscious that you might have to search for, something that could vaguely relate to what has happened? Is there the smallest incident you might have wondered about, then dismissed?”

"You asked me that yesterday,” Sloane answered thoughtfully. His attitude to Partridge had changed noticeably over the past twenty-four hours. In one sense it was friendlier. In another, Sloane was less wary of Partridge, even relying on him mentally in a way he never had before. Strangely, Sloane was almost deferential, as if seeing in Harry Partridge his greatest hope of getting Jessica, Nicky and his father back.

”I know I did,” Partridge said, "and you promised to think about it.”

"Well, I thought last night and maybe there is something, though I can't be sure, and it's only the vaguest feeling.” Sloane spoke awkwardly. He was never comfortable with hazy, unformed ideas.

Partridge urged, "Keep talking.”

"I think, before this happened, I might have had a feeling of being followed. Of course, it could be I'm thinking this way after discovering there was a watch on the house . . .”

"Forget that. So you think you were followed. Where and when?”

"That's the trouble. It's so hazy I could have made it up, maybe feeling I had to find something.”

"Do you think you made it up?”

Sloane hesitated.”No, I don't.”

"Give me more details.”

"I've a feeling I might have been followed sometimes while driving home. Also I have an instinct, and it's damned elusive, that someone may have been observing me here, inside CBA News~—someone who should not have been here.”

"All this over how long a period?”

"Maybe a month?” Sloane threw up his hands.”I simply can't be sure I'm not inventing. In any case, what difference does it make?”

"I don't know,” Partridge said.”But I'll talk it over with the others.”

Afterward, Partridge typed out a summary of the Sloane interview and pinned it on the conference room "Miscellaneous” board. Then, back in his office, he began the procedure known to all journalists as "working the phones.”

Open in front of him was his private "blue book"—a catalog of people he knew worldwide who had been useful before and might be again. It also included others he had helped by supplying information when they, in turn, needed it. The news business was full of debits and credits; at times like this, credits were called in. Also helpful was that most people were flattered to be sought after by TV news.

The night before, referring to the blue book, Partridge had made a list of those he would call today. The names beside him now included contacts in the Justice Department, White House, State Department, CIA, Immigration, Congress, several foreign embassies, New York's Police Department, the Royal Canadian Mounted Police in Ottawa, Mexico's Judicial Police, an author of real-life crime books, and a lawyer with organized crime clients.

The ensuing phone conversations were mostly low-key and began, "Hi, this is Harry Partridge. We haven't been in touch for a while. Just called to see how life is treating you.” The personal mode continued with inquiries about wives or husbands, lovers, children—Partridge kept notes of those names too—then eased into the current scene.”I'm working on the Sloane kidnapping. I wonder if you've heard any rumbles, or have ideas of your own.”

Sometimes the questions were more specific. Have you heard speculation on who might be responsible? Do you think terrorist involvement is a possibility,— if so, from where? Are any rumors floating, even wild ones? Will you ask around and call me back if you hear anything?

It was standard practice, at times tedious and always requiring patience. Sometimes it produced results, occasionally delayed ones, often none. From today's telephoning nothing specific emerged, though the most interesting conversation, Partridge decided afterward, was with the organized crime lawyer.

A year ago Partridge had done him a favor—or so the lawyer thought. The man's daughter, on a college trip to Venezuela, had been part of a messy drug orgy that made U.S. national news. Eight students were involved; two had died. Through a Caracas agency, CBA News had obtained exclusive on-the-spot pictures, with close-ups of participants—the lawyer's daughter among them—being arrested by police. Partridge, who was in Argentina, flew north to cover the story.

In New York, the girl's father somehow learned about the coverage, also the pictures, and tracked Partridge down by phone. He pleaded with Partridge not to use his daughter's name or image, arguing she was the youngest of the group, had never been in trouble before, and national exposure would ruin her life.

Partridge had by that time seen the pictures; he knew about the girl and had decided not to use her in his story. Ever. so, keeping his options open, he merely promised to do the best he could.

Later, when it became clear that CBA had made no direct reference to the girl, the lawyer sent Partridge a check for a thousand dollars. Partridge returned the check with a polite note, and since then the two had not communicated.

Today, aftei listening to Partridge's casual opener, the lawyer responded bluntly, "I owe you. Now you want something. Tell me what it is.”

Partridge explained.

”I haven't heard anything, except on TV,” the lawyer said, "and I'm sure as I can be that none of my clients are involved. It isn't the kind of thing they'd touch. Sometimes, though, they get to hear about things that others don't. Over the next few days I'll do some discreet asking around. If I find out anything I'll call you.”

Partridge had a feeling that he would.

At the end of an hour, when he had covered half the names on his list, Partridge took a break and went to the conference room to pour himself coffee. Returning, he did what almost everyone in TV news did daily—went through the New York Times and Washington Post. It always surprised visitors to TV news centers to see how many copies of those newspapers were around. The fact was, despite TV's own news achievements, a subtle, ingrained attitude persisted that nothing was really news until printed in the Times or Post.

The strong voice of Chuck Insen broke into Partridge's reading.

”I bring tonight's lineup, Harry,” the executive producer said, entering the office.”The word is, we'll do a split-anchor news. You're to be half the horse.”

"Rear end or front?”

Insen smiled faintly.”Which of us ever knows? Anyway, from tonight on, you'll anchor anything to do with the Sloane family kidnap which—unless the President gets shot before air time—will be our lead again. Crawf will anchor the rest of the news as usual, the point being that all of us feel we're damned if a bunch of thugs, whoever they are, are going to dictate how life goes on at CBA.”

"Fine with me,” Partridge said.”I presume it is with Crawf.”

"Frankly, it was Crawf's idea. Like any king he feels insecure if off his throne too long. Besides which, his staying invisible would achieve nothing. Oh, another thing—right at the end of the news, Crawf will say a few spontaneous words thanking those who've sent messages about his family, or otherwise care.”

"Spontaneous?”

"Of course. We have. three writers toiling over them now.”

Amused, despite the circurnstances, Partridge said, "You two are managing to agree for the time being.”

Insen nodded.”We've declared an unspoken armistice until all this is over.”

"And afterward?”

"Let's wait and see.”

6

Almost a month earlier, soon after Miguel had entered the United States illegally, he had attempted to buy funeral caskets to be used for transporting his two intended kidnap victims to Peru. The plan had been developed well before his arrival on the scene and Miguel assumed their purchase could he accomplished quickly and quickly—a simple matter. He discovered it was not.

He had gone to a funeral home in Brooklyn, wanting to spread out his activities rather than confine them to the Little Colombia area of Queens, his operating center at the time. The establishment he chose was near Prospect Park—an elegant white building labeled "Field's,” with a spacious parking lot.

Miguel entered through heavy oak doors which opened onto a 1cbby with golden-beige carpeting, tall potted plants and paintings of peaceful landscapes. Inside he was greeted by a decorous middle-aged man wearing a black jacket with a white carnation, black-and-gray-striped trousers, white shirt and a dark tie.

”Good morning, sir,” the sartorial paragon said.”I am Mr. Field. How can I be of service?”

Miguel had rehearsed what he would say.”I have two elderly parents who wish certain planning to be done about their eventual . . . er, passing.”

With an inclination of his head, Field conveyed approval and sympathy.”I understand, sir. Many older people, at the sunset of their years, wish to be comfortable and assured about their future.”

"Exactly. Now, what my parents would like "Excuse me, sir. It might be more suitable if we stepped into my office.”

"Very well.”

Field led the way. Perhaps intentionally, they passed several salon-type rooms with settees and armchairs, one with rows of chairs prepared for a service. In each room was a corpse, gilded with cosmetics and propped on a frilly pillow in its open casket. Miguel noticed a few visitors, but some rooms were empty.

The office was at the end of a corridor, discreetly hidden. On the walls were framed diplomas, much as in a doctor's office, except that one was for "beautification”of dead bodies (it was adorned with purple ribbons), and another for embalming. At Field's gesture, Miguel took a chair.

”May I ask your name, sir.”

"Novack,” Miguel lied.

”Well, Mr. Novack, to begin we should discuss the overall arrangements. Do you or your parents have a cemetery plot chosen and obtained?”

"Well, no.”

"Then that must be our first consideration. We ought to get that for you right away because it's becoming difficult to obtain a plot, especially a choice one. Unless, of course, you are considering cremation.”

Miguel, curbing his impatience, shook his head.”No. But what I really want to talk about . . . "

"Then there's the question of your parents' religion. What service will be required? And there are other decisions to be made. Perhaps you would care to study this.”

Field passed over what resembled an elaborate restaurant menu. It included a long list of separate items and costs such as, "Bathing, disinfecting, handling and cosmetizing of deceased—$250,” “Special care for autopsied cases—$125”and "Clerical assistance in the completion of various forms—$ 100.”A "full traditional service”at $5,900 included, among other things, a $30 crucifix placed in the deceased's hands. A casket was extra, ranging up to $20,600.

”It's the caskets I came to discuss,” Miguel said.

”Certainly.” Field stood up.”Please come with me.”

This time he led the way down a stairway to a basement. They entered a display room where the carpeting was red and Field went first to the $20,600 casket.”This is our very best. It's of 18-gauge steel, has three covers—glass, brass and quilted brass—and will last and last and last.” Elaborate ornaments adorned the casket's exterior. The inside was lined with lavender velvet.

”Maybe something a little simpler,” Miguel told him.

They settled on two caskets, one smaller than the other, priced at $2,300 and $1,900.”My mother is a tiny lady,” Miguel explained. About the size of an eleven-year-old boy, he thought.

Miguel's curiosity had been piqued by several plain, simple boxes. When asked about them, Field explained, "They are for religious Jews who require simplicity. The boxes have two holes in the bottom, the theory being 'earth to earth.' You are not Jewish?” When Miguel shook his head, Field confided, "Frankly, that is not the kind of repository I would choose for my own loved ones.”

They went back to the office where Field said, "Now I suggest we go over the other matters. The burial plot first.”

"That's not necessary,” Miguel said.”What I would like to do is pay for the caskets and take them.”

Field looked shocked.”That isn't possible.”

"Why not?”

"It simply isn't done that way.”

"Perhaps I should have explained.” Miguel was beginning to see that this might not be as simple as expected.”What my parents would like is to have their caskets now, in their present home, placing them where they can be seen each day. That way they can get used, so to speak, to their future accommodation.”

Field appeared devastated.”We couldn't possibly do that. What we arrange here is—if I may use that word—a 'package.' It would be possible for your parents to come to view the caskets they will eventually rest in. But after that we would insist on keeping them until the need arose.”

"Couldn't you . . .”

"No, sir, absolutely not.”

Miguel had sensed the other man losing interest, even possibly becoming suspicious.

”Very well. I'll think about it and perhaps come back.”

Field escorted Miguel out. Miguel had not the slightest intention of coming back. As it was, he knew he'd already left too strong an impression.

The next day he tried two more funeral homes farther afield, making his inquiries shorter. But the response was the same. No one would sell him caskets separate from "the package."

At that point Miguel decided the attempt to move away from his operating center had been a mistake and he returned to Queens and his Little Colombia contacts. After a few days' delay they sent him to a small, drab funeral home in Astoria, not far from Jackson Heights. There he met Alberto Godoy.

In terms of funeral establishments, Godoy's was to Field's what K mart was to Tiffany—geared to a down—scale clientele. Not only that, but shabbiness prevailed, extending to the proprietor himself.

Godoy was obese, bald, with nicotine-stained fingers and the bloated features of a heavy drinker. Food stains were conspicuous on his undertaker's uniform of black coat and gray striped pants. His voice was raspy and punctuated by a smoker's cough. During the meeting with Miguel, which began in Godoy's tiny, cluttered office, he smoked three cigarettes, lighting one from another.

"My name is Novack, and I've come for information,” Miguel had said. Godoy nodded, "Yes, I know.”

"I have two elderly parents "

"Oh, is that the line?”

Miguel persisted, repeating his earlier story while Godoy listened with a mixture of boredom and disbelief. At the end his only question was, "How will you pay?”

"Cash."

Godoy became a shade more friendly.”This way.”

Once more a basement provided the setting for sample caskets, though here the carpeting was dull brown and worn, with the choices fewer than at Field's. Expeditiously Miguel found two suitable caskets, one of average size, the other smaller. Godoy announced, "For the regular size, three thousand dollars. For the child's, twenty-five hundred.”

Though the "child” reference ran counter to his story and was dangerously near the truth, Miguel ignored it. Also, while convinced the $5,500 total was at least twice the normal price, he agreed to it without discussion. He had brought cash and paid in hundred-dollar bills. Godoy asked for another $454 for New York City sales tax which Miguel added, though he doubted that the city's coffers would ever see the money.

Miguel backed his recently acquired GMC truck to a loading dock where, under Godoy's watchful supervision, the caskets were wheeled aboard. Miguel then took them to the safe house where they were stored until their later transfer to Hackensack.

Now, almost a month later, he had returned to Alberto Godoy's establishment in search of one more casket.

* * *

Miguel was uneasy about going back because of the risks involved. He remembered Godoy's offhand reference to the second casket being for a child. So was there a chance, Miguel wondered, that Godoy had connected yesterday's kidnapping of a woman and boy with the earlier purchase of the caskets? It wasn't likely, but one reason Miguel had survived so long as a terrorist was by weighing every possibility. However, having decided to transport the third captive to Peru, at this point there was no alternative to Godoy. The risk had to be taken.

Slightly more than an hour after leaving the United Nations, Miguel instructed Luis to park their hearse a block from the Godoy Funeral Home. Again Miguel used his umbrella in the pouring rain.

Inside the funeral home a woman receptionist spoke to Godoy via an intercom, then directed Miguel to the proprietor's office.

From behind a cloud of cigarette smoke the fat man regarded Miguel warily.”So it's you again. Your friends didn't tell me you were coming.”

"No one knew."

"What do you want?” Whatever Godoy's motivations in doing business with Miguel in the first place, it was clear he now had reservations.

”I've been asked to do a favor for an elderly friend. He's seen the caskets I bought for my parents, likes the idea, and asked if I would . . .”

"Aw, cut it out!” An old-fashioned cuspidor was beside Godoy's desk. Removing his cigarette, he spat into it.”Listen, mister, don't waste time with what both of us know is a potful of crap. I said what is it you want?”

"One casket. To be paid for as before.”

Godoy peered forward through shifty eyes.”I run a business here. Sure, sometimes I oblige your friends; they do the same for me. But what I want to know from you is: Am I setting myself up to land in some shit?”

"There'll be no shit. Not if you cooperate.” Miguel let his own voice take on menace and it had an effect.

”All right, you got it,” Godoy said, his tone more moderate.”But since last time the price has gone up. For that same adult model, four thousand.”

Without speaking, Miguel opened the pressboard wallet Jose Antonio Salaverry had given him and began counting hundred-dollar bills. He handed forty to Godoy who said, "Plus two hundred 'n' fifty New York tax.”

Re-tying the tape of the the pressboard wallet, Miguel told Godoy, "You and New York go fuck yourselves.” Then: "I have transport outside. Get the casket to your loading dock.”

On the dock, Godoy was mildly surprised to see a hearse appear. The two previous caskets, he remembered, had been taken away in a truck. Still suspicious of his visitor, Godoy memorized the numbers and letters on the hearse's New York license plate and, when back in his office, wrote them down, though not really knowing why. He pushed the piece of scratch paper into a drawer and promptly forgot it.

* * *

Despite a belief that he had been involved in something it would be safer not to know more about, Godoy smiled as he put away the four thousand dollars in an office safe. Some of the previous cash his recent visitor had paid a month ago was also in the safe, and not only did Godoy have no intention of paying New York sales tax on either transaction, he did not intend to declare it on his tax returns either. Juggling his business inventory to make the three caskets disappear from his books would be easy. The thought so cheered him that he decided to do what he often did—go to a nearby bar for a drink.

Several of Godoy's cronies at the bar welcomed him. A short time later, mellowed by three Jack Daniel's whiskeys, he related to the group how some punk had bought two caskets and put them—so he said—in his parents' home, ready for the old folks to croak, and then come back for another casket, all of it like he was buying chairs or saucepans.

As the others roared with laughter, Godoy further confided that he'd outsmarted the dumb punk by charging three times the caskets' regular price. At that, one of his friends added a cheer to the laughter, prompting Godoy—all his worry now dissipated—to order another round.

Among those at the bar was a former Colombian, now a U.S. resident, who wrote a column for an obscure Spanish language weekly published in Queens. On the back of an envelope, using a stub of pencil, the man wrote the gist of Godoy's story, translating it to Spanish as he did. It would make a good little item, he thought, for next week's column.

7

At CBA News it had been a frantic day, especially for the Sloane kidnap task force.

Producing a comprehensive report on the kidnapping for the National Evening News continued to be the focus of activity, though other events, some major, were happening elsewhere in the world.

The kidnap story had been allotted five and a half minutes —an extraordinary duration in a business where fifteen-second segments were fiercely fought over. As a result, almost the entire effort of the task force was devoted to that day's production, leaving virtually no time for longer-term planning or reflection.

With Harry Partridge anchoring the opening portion of the news, the evening broadcast began:

"After thirty-six hours of agonized waiting there is no fresh news about the family of CBA anchorman Crawford Sloane, whose wife, young son and father were kidnapped yesterday morning in Larchmont, New York The where- abouts of Mrs. Jessica Sloane, eleven-year-old Nicholas, and Mr. Angus Sloane remain unknown.”

As each name was mentioned, a still photo appeared over Partridge's shoulder.

"Also unknown are the identities, objectives, or affiliations of the kidnappers"

A fast cut to Crawford Sloane's troubled face filling the screen. Sloane's distraught voice pleaded, "Whoever you are, wherever you are, for god's sake make yourself known! Let us hear from you!”

Partridge's voice returned over an exterior shot of FBI headquarters, the J. Edgar Hoover Building in Washington. “While the FBI, now in charge of the investigation, is withholding comment . ."

“Briefly the scene changed to the FBI press office and a spokesman saying, "At this moment it would not be helpful to make any statement.”

Partridge again: "...privately, FBI officials admit no progress has been made."

"Since yesterday an outpouring of concern and anger have come from highest levels — “

A dissolve to the White House press room, the President speaking: "Such evil has no place in America. The criminals will be hounded down and punished.”

Partridge: ". . . and in humbler places..."

From Pittsburgh, a hard-hatted black steelworker, his face shining in the light from a fiery furnace: "I'm ashamed something like this could happen in my country.”

In a bright Topeka kitchen, a white housewife: "I cannot understand why no one foresaw what's happened and took precautions. My heart goes out to Crawford.”Gesturing to a TV set: "In this house he's like family.”

Seated at her classroom desk in California, a young, softvoiced Eurasian girl: "I'm worried about Nicholas Sloane. It isn't fair they took him.”

* * *

During the day, camera crews of CBA and affiliated stations across the country had sought public reactions. The network had viewed fifty and selected those three.

* * *

The scene shifted to the Sloane house at Larchmont that morning in the rain—a long shot of the waiting crowd in the street, then, moving in close, a pan across their faces. Over the image, Partridge's voice: "In part because of intense public interest, today new tragedy intruded.”

The voice-over continued, alternating with natural sound, more pictures: emergence of the two unmarked FBI cars from the driveway . . . the surge of onlookers into the first car's path . . . the first car braking, then out of control and sliding a shriek of tires followed by screams from the injured . . . others frantically scrambling clear of the second car, which then continued on . . . a close-up of Crawford Sloane's bewildered face . . . the second car speeding away.

During editing, some objections had been raised about including the shots of Sloane's face and the disappearing car. Sloane himself claimed, "It gives a wrong impression.”

But Iris Everly, who put most of the spot together, working through the day with one of CBA's best tape editors, Bob Watson, argued for its inclusion and won.”Whether Crawf likes it or not.” she pointed out, "it's news and we should stay objective. Also, we're looking at the only piece of action since yesterday.” Rita and Partridge had supported Iris.

* * *

The tempo changed to a skillful recap of the previous day. It began with Priscilla Rhea, the frail and elderly ex-schoolteacher, again describing the brutal seizure of Jessica, Nicky and. Angus Sloane outside the Larchmont supermarket.

* * *

Minh Van Canh had used his camera creatively, going in for an extreme close-up of Miss Rhea's face. It showed the deep lines of age with every wrinkle in sharp relief, but also brought out her intelligence and sturdy character. Minh had coaxed her with geride questions, an occasionally used procedure. When no correspondent was present, experienced camera people sometimes asked questions of those they were photographing. The questions were erased later from the audio recording, but the answers remained for use as statements.

* * *

After describing the struggle on the parking lot and the Nissan van's departure, Miss Rhea said of the kidnappers, her voice rising, "They were brutal men, beasts, savages!”

Next, the Laremont police chief confirmed that there had been no breakthrough in the case and the kidnappers had not been heard from.

Following the recap was an interview with the criminologist, Ralph Salerno.

* * *

With Salerno in a Miami studio and Harry Partridge in New York, the interview had been recorded via satellite late that afternoon. The recommendation by Karl Owens proved a good one and Salerno, an authoritative figure, was eloquent and well informed. He so impressed Rita Abrams that she arranged for him to be available exclusively to CBA for the duration of the crisis. He would be paid $1,000 for each broadcast appearance, with a minimum guarantee of four.

Although TV networks claimed not to pay for news interviews—a statement not always true—a consultant fee was different and acceptable.

"The progress of investigation after any efficiently executed kidnap, “ Ralph Salerno declared, "depends on hearing from the kidnappers. Unless and until that happens, there is usually a stalemate.”

Answering a question by Partridge, he continued: "The FBI has a high success ratio in kidnappings; they solve ninety-two percent of cases. But if you look carefully at who was caught and how, you'll find most solutions depended on first hearing from the kidnappers, then trapping them during negotiations or payment of a ransom.”

Partridge prompted, "So the likelihood is that not much will happen until these kidnappers are heard from."

”Exactly.”

A final statement in the special news segment was made by CBA's corporate president, Margot Lloyd-Mason.

* * *

It had been Leslie Chippingham's idea to include Margot. Soon after breaking into the network with the kidnap bulletin yesterday, he reported to her by telephone and did so again this morning. Her reaction had, on the whole, been sympathetic and after their first conversation she telephoned Crawford Sloane, expressing hope that his family would be recovered quickly. While speaking with the news president, though, she added two caveats.

”Part of the reason something like this happens is that networks have misguidedly let anchor people become larger than life, so the public thinks of them as something extra-special, almost gods.” She did not elaborate on how a network could control public concepts, even if it wished, and for his part, Chippingham saw no point in arguing the obvious.

The other proviso concerned the kidnap task force.

”I don't want anyone—and that principally means you,” Margot Lloyd—Mason asserted, "going wild about spending money. You should be able to do whatever is necessary within the existing news budget.”

Chippingham said doubtfully, "I'm not so sure of that.”

"Then I'll give you a firm ruling. No activity exceeding budget is to be embarked on without my advance approval. Is that clear?”

Chippingham wondered whether the woman had blood in her veins or ice?

Aloud, he answered, "Yes, Margot, it's clear, though I'll remind you that our ratings for the National Evening News shot up last night and I expect that to continue while this crisis lasts.”

"Which merely goes to show,” she answered coolly, "that unfortunate events can be turned to profit.”

While involving the corporate president in this evening's broadcast seemed appropriate, Chippingham also hoped it might soften her attitude toward some special expenditures which, in his view, would be needed.

On air, Margot spoke with authority, using words scripted for her but with revisions of her own.

"I am speaking for all the people of this network and our parent company, Globanic Industries, “Margot said, "when I declare that our total resources are available in the search for the missing members of the Sloane family. For all of us, in fact, it is a family affair.”

"We deplore what has happened. We urge law enforcement agencies to continue their strongest efforts to bring the criminals to justice. We hope to see our friend and colleague, Crawford Sloane, united with his wife, son and father in the shortest possible time.”

In the original draft there had been no reference to Globanic Industries. When Margot proposed it while reviewing her script in the privacy of Chippingham's office, he advised, "I wouldn't do that. The public has an image of CBA as an entity, a piece of Americana. Bringing in Globanic's name makes that image cloudy, to no one's advantage.”

"What you'd like to pretend,” Margot retorted, "is that CBA is some kind of crown jewel, and independent. Well, it's neither. Over at Globanic they're more apt to think of CBA as a pimple on their ass. The reference stays in. What you can take out, d propos Sloane, are those words, 'our friend and colleague.' Kidnap or not, I might choke on them.”

Chippingham suggested dryly, "How about a trade-off? I'll promise to love Globanic if, for one broadcast, you'll be Crawford's friend.”

For once, Margot laughed aloud.”Shit, yes.”

* * *

The lack of progress after a frantic first day for the task force did not surprise Harry Partridge. He had been involved in similar projects in the past and knew it took members of any new team at least a day to orient themselves. Just the same, it was imperative there be no more delay in formulating plans.

”Let's have a working dinner,” he told Rita during the afternoon.

She then arranged for the six principals in the task force Partridge, Rita, Jaeger, Iris, Owens, Cooper—to meet for Chinese food immediately after the National Evening News. Rita chose Shun Lee West on West Sixty—fifth, near Lincoln Center, a favorite with TV news folk. In making the reservation she told the maitre d', Andy Yeung, "Don't bother us with menus. You order a good meal and give us a table out of the mainstream, where we can talk.”

* * *

During a commercial that followed the five-minute kidnap report at the top of the National Evening News, Partridge eased out of the anchor desk chair and Crawford Sloane moved in. As he did, Sloane gripped Partridge's arm and murmured, "Thank you, Harry—for everything.”

"Some of us will be working tonight,” Partridge assured him, "trying to come up with ideas.”

"I know. I'm grateful.”Routinely, Sloane skimmed through the scripts an assistant placed in front of him and, watching, Partridge was shocked by the other man's appearance. Not even makeup could conceal ravages the past day and a half had wrought. Sloane's cheeks appeared hollow, there were bags beneath his eyes, which were red-rimmed; perhaps, Partridge thought, he had been crying in private.

”Are you okay?” he whispered.”Sure you want to do this?”

Sloane nodded.”Those bastards won't put me out of action.”

The studio floor manager called out, "Fifteen seconds.”

Partridge moved from camera range, then quietly left the news studio. Outside he watched a monitor until satisfied that Sloane would make it through to the end of the news. Then he left by taxi for Shun Lee West.

* * *

Their table was at the rear of the restaurant in a relatively quiet comer.

Near the end of the first course—a steaming, delicately flavored winter melon soup—Partridge addressed Cooper. The young Englishman had spent most of the day in Larchmont, talking with everyone who had knowledge of the kidnapping, including the local police. He had returned to task force head- quarters in the late afternoon.

”Teddy, let's hear your impressions so far, and any ideas on where we go from here?”

Cooper pushed his empty soup dish away and wiped his lips. He opened a well-worn exercise book and answered, "Okay, impressions first.”

The pages in front of him were crowded with scribbled notes.

"First off, it was a pro job all the way. The blokes who put this together didn't muck about. They planned it like a railway timetable and made sure they left no evidence behind. Secondly, these were pros who had lotsa money.”

Norman Jaeger asked, "How do you know?”

"Hopin' you'd ask.” Cooper grinned as he looked around the table.”For one thing, everything suggests that whoever did the snatch kept a close eye on the house for a long time before they made their move. You've heard about the neighbors who now say they saw the motors outside the Sloane house, and once or twice vans, and thought the people in 'em were protecting Mr. S, not spying on him? Well, five people've reported that since yesterday; today I talked to four. They all said they saw those motors on and off for three weeks, maybe a month. Then we've got to consider Mr. S, who now believes he was followed.”

Cooper glanced at Partridge.”Harry, I read your notes on the info board and I believe Mr. S was right; he was trailed. I've a theory about that.”

While they were talking, fresh dishes had appearedsaut6ed shrimp with peppers, fried prawns, snow peas, fried rice. There was a pause to enjoy the hot food, then Rita urged, "How about that theory, Teddy?”

"Okay. Mr. S is a big TV star; he's used to being a public figure, watched wherever he goes, and that becomes a way of life. So as a sort of counterbalance he builds up a subconscious feeling of invisibility. He's not going to let stares from strangers, the turning heads or pointing fingers bother him. That's why he may have screened out the notion of being followed which I reckon he was, because it fits in with full-blown reconnaissance of the whole Sloane family.”

"Even if that's true,” Karl Owens asked, "where does it get us?”

Partridge said, "It helps us build a picture of the kidnappers. Keep going, Teddy.”

"Okay, so it cost the snatchers to take all that time and do all that spying. The same thing goes for all those motors they used; also a van, maybe two, and the Nissan van yesterday—a regular fleet. And there's something special about those motors.”

Cooper turned a notebook page.”The Larchmont cops let me see those motor reports. Some interesting things come out.

”Now, when somebody sees a car, they may not remember much about it, but one thing most of us do remember is the color. Well, those people who reported seeing the motors described eight different colors. So I asked myself. Did the gang really have eight different cars?”

"They could have,” Iris Everly said, "if they were rental cars.,,

Cooper shook his head.”Not our lads; they'd be too cagey. They'd know that renting motors means identification—drivers' licenses, credit cards. Also, rental cars have license plates which can be traced.”

"So you've another theory,” Iris prompted.”Right?”

"Right. What I think happened is the snatchers most probably had three motors and resprayed them, say once a week, hoping to lessen the chances of being noticed. Okay, it worked. Only thing was, in the respraying these blokes made a stupid mistake.”

More food had arrived—two heaped platters of Peking duck. The others reached out with chopsticks and ate hungrily while Cooper continued.

”Let's go back a mo. One of those Larchmont neighbors noticed more than the others about these motors. That's because he's in the motor insurance business, knows makes and models.”

Jaeger interrupted.”All this is interesting, my British friend, but if you want any of this delicious duck you'd best dive in before us greedy Yanks finish it.”

"International duck!” Cooper joined with relish in the eating, then resumed.

”Anyway, this insurance geezer noticed the makes and models of the motors and he says he saw three, no more—a Ford Tempo, a Chevy Celebrity and a Plymouth Reliant, all this year's models, and he remembers some of the colors.”

Partridge asked, "So how do you figure the repainting?”

“This afternoon,” Cooper said, "your mate, Bert Fisher, phoned some car dealers for me. What came out was that some of the colors people say they saw aren't available for those models. For instance, the insurance geezer, he said he saw a yellow Ford Tempo, but there's no such color made. Same goes for a blue Plymouth Reliant. Someone else described a green motor, yet not one of those three makes comes in green.”

Owens said thoughtfully, "You may be on to something. It's possible, of course, that one car could have been in an accident and repainted, but not likely three.”

"Something else about that,” Jaeger put in, "is that when auto body shops repaint cars, they mostly do it in manufacturer's colors. Unless somebody asks for an offbeat shade.”

"Which wouldn't be likely,” Iris contributed, "remembering what Teddy said just now about the people we're looking for being savvy. They'd want to be inconspicuous, not the other way.”

"All of which I agree with, folks,” Cooper said, "and it leads to the thought that the mob we're looking for did the spray jobs themselves, not giving much thought to current colors, perhaps riot even knowing about them.”

Partridge said doubtfully, "That's moving pretty far into supposition country.”

It was Rita who asked, "But is it? Let me remind you of what Teddy pointed out earlier. That the people we're talking about practically ran a fleet of vehicles—at least three cars, one truck and maybe two, a Nissan passenger van for the kidnap . . . Anyway, five we know of. Now, it makes sense that they'd want to keep them together in one place, which would have to be sizable. So isn't it likely it would be somewhere big enough to include a paint shop?”

"An operating headquarters is what you mean,” Jaeger said. He turned to Teddy; an increasing respect had replaced the older man's skepticism of the morning.”Isn't that what you're talking about? Where you're leading us?”

"Yep.” Cooper beamed.”Sure am.”

Their meal—eventually to include eight courses—had continued. Now before the group was saut6ed lobster with ginger and scallions. They reached for portions thoughtfully, concentrating on what had just been said.

”An operating center,” Rita mused.”Maybe for the people involved, whoever they are, as well as vehicles. We know from the old lady's description there were either four or five men at the kidnap scene. There could be others offstage. Wouldn't it make sense for everything to ic together?”

"Including the hostages,” Jaeger added.

”If we assume all that,” Partridge said, "and okay, let's do it for the moment, obviously the next question is where?”

"We don't know, of course,” Cooper said, "but some hard thinking might suggest the kind of place it could be; also, maybe, how far it was—or is—from Larchmont.”

With amusement, Iris queried, "Hard thinking you've already done?”

"Well,” Cooper said, "since you ask

"Quit showing off, Teddy,” Partridge said sharply.”Get to the point.”

Cooper responded, unperturbed, "I tried to think the way a snatcher would plan. So I asked the question: After the snatch, when I'd grabbed what I wanted, what would I want next?”

"How's this for an answer?” Rita said.”To be safe from pursuit; therefore go like hell and get under cover quickly.”

Cooper smacked his palms together.”Bleedin' right! And where better to be under cover than at that HQ hangout?”

Owens asked, "Am I reading you right? You're suggesting the HQ wasn't far away?”

"Here's how I see it,” Cooper said.”First off, it needs to be well clear of Larchmont; staying anywhere in the area would be too risky. But, second, it shouldn't be too far. The snatchers would know that in the shortest time, maybe minutes, there'd be an alarm and police crawling all over the place. Therefore they'd have calculated how much time they'd got.”

Rita asked, "If you're still inside their minds, how much time?”

"Guessing, I'd say half an hour. Even that long would be a bit iffy, but they'd have to chance it to get far enough away.”

Owens said slowly, "Translating that into miles remembering the area . . . I'd say twenty-five.”

"Just what I figured.” Cooper produced a folded New York area map and opened it. On the map, taking Larchmont as the center, he had drawn a crayon circle. He prodded within the circle with a finger.”Twenty-five-mile radius. I reckon the headquarters is somewhere inside here.”

8

At 8:40 P.m. on Friday evening, while the CBA News group was still dining at Shun Lee West, a buzzer sounded in the mid Manhattan apartment of the Peruvian diplomat, Jose Antonio Salaverry. It signaled a visitor.

The apartment, on Forty-eighth Street near Park Avenue, was part of a twenty-floor complex. Although a doorman was stationed on the main floor, visitors used an outside intercom system to announce their arrival, then were admitted directly by the building's tenants.

Salaverry had been edgy since his meeting with Miguel that morning at United Nations headquarters and was anxious to hear that the Medellin/Sendero Luminoso group was safely out of the country. Their departure, he thought, would end his own association with the frightening matter that had filled his mind since yesterday.

He and his banker friend, Helga Efferen, had been drinking vodka-tonics in front of a fireplace for more than an hour, neither of them feeling inclined to go to the kitchen to prepare food or to telephone and order it sent in. While the liquor had relaxed them physically, it had removed none of their anxiety.

They were an oddly matched pair— Salaverry, small and weasely; Helga, whom the single word "ample”best described. She was big-boned, abundantly fleshed, with cornucopian breasts, and a natural blonde. Nature, however, had stopped short of making her beautiful; there was a harshness to her face and an acidic manner that repelled some men, though not Salaverry. From their first meeting in the bank he had been drawn to Helga, perhaps seeing in her a reflection of himself and sensing, too, her hidden but strong sexuality.

If so, he had been right on both counts. They shared the same points of view, which were based mainly on pragmatism, selfishness and avarice. As to sex, during their frequent fornicating an aroused Helga became a frenzied whale to Jose Antonio's Jonah, surrounding and almost swallowing him. He loved it. Helga was also given to crying out loudly, sometimes screaming, at her climax, which made him feel macho and—in every way—bigger than he was.

A rare exception to this erogenous enjoyment had occurred earlier that evening. They had begun copulating, hoping to erase, even temporarily, their great worry. But it didn't happen and after a while they both realized that they didn't have their hearts in the enterprise and gave up.

The mental empathy, though, remained intact and was typified by their attitude to the Sloane family kidnapping.

Both were aware that they possessed important knowledge about a sensational crime which dominated the news and whose victims and perpetrators were being sought by almost every law enforcement agency in the country. Worse, they had aided and abetted the financing of the kidnap gang.

However, it was not the safety of the kidnap victims that troubled Jose Antonio and Helga. It was their own. Salaverry knew that if his involvement were exposed, not even his diplomatic immunity would save him from exceedingly unpleasant consequences, including expulsion from the UN and the United States, the extinction of his career and, more than probably, the vengeance of Sendero Luminoso back in Peru. Helga, with no diplomatic protection, could be sent to prison for criminally withholding information and also, perhaps, for accepting bribes to channel funds secretly in the bank she worked for.

Those thoughts were running through her mind when the buzzer sounded and her paramour jumped up, hurrying to the wall-mounted intercom connected with the main floor entrance. Pressing a button, he queried, "Yes?”

A voice, made metallic by the system, announced, "This is Plato.”

With relief, Salaverry informed Helga, "It's him.” Then into the intercom, "Come up, please.” He pressed a button which would release an entrance lock downstairs.

* * *

Seventeen floors below, the man who had been speaking with Salaverry entered the apartment building through a heavy plate-glass door. He was of average build, thin-faced and swarthy, with deep-set, brooding eyes and glossy dark hair. His age could have been anywhere from thirty-eight to fifty-five. He wore a trench coat, unbuttoned at the front, over an unremarkable brown suit. He had come in wearing lightweight gloves and despite the building's warmth did not remove them.

A uniformed doorman who had seen the man arrive and use the intercom waved him to an elevator. Three other people already waiting in the lobby entered the elevator too. The man in the trench coat ignored them. After pressing a button for the eighteenth floor, he stood expressionless, looking straight ahead. By the time the elevator reached his floor, the other occupants had left.

He followed an arrow to the apartment he sought, carefully noting there were three other apartments on the floor and an emergency stairway to the right. He did not expect to use the information, but memorizing escape routes was a habit, At the apartment doorway he pressed a button and heard a soft chime inside. Almost at once the door opened.

The man asked, "Mr. Salaverry?” His voice was soft, with a Latin accent.

”Yes, yes. Come in. Let me take your coat?”

"No. I will not be staying.” The visitor looked swiftly around. Seeing Helga, he inquired, "This woman is the banker?”

It seemed an ungracious way of putting it, but Salaverry answered, "Yes, Miss Efferen. And your name?”

"Plato will do.” Nodding to the area in front of the fire, "Can we go there?”

"Of course.” Salaverry noticed that the man kept his gloves on. Maybe, he thought, it was a personal fetish or perhaps the fellow had a deformity.

They were now in front of the fireplace. After the slightest of nods to Helga, the man asked, "Is anyone else here?”

Salaverry shook his head.”We are alone. You may speak freely."

"I have a message,” the man said, reaching into his trench coat. When his hand emerged, it was holding a nine-millimeter Browning pistol with a silencer on the muzzle.

The liquor he had drunk slowed Salaverry's reactions, though even had they been normal it was unlikely he could have done anything to change what happened next. While the Peruvian froze in amazement, and before he could move, the man put the gun against Salaverry's forehead and squeezed the trigger. In his last brief moment of life the victim's mouth hung open in surprise and disbelief.

The wound was small where the bullet entered—a neat red circle surrounded by a powder bum. But the exit wound at the rear of the head was large and messy as bone fragments, brain tissue and blood splattered out. In an instant before the body fell, the man in the raincoat had time to notice the powder bum, an effect he had intended. Then he turned to the woman.

Helga, too, had been riveted by shock. By now, however, surprise had turned to terror. She began to scream, and at the same time attempted to run.

In both efforts she was too late. The man, an accurate marksman, put one bullet through her heart. She fell and died, her blood pouring onto the rug where she had fallen.

The hit man, who was Miguel's paid assassin dispatched from Little Colombia, paused to listen carefully. The silencer on the Browning had effectively muffled the sound of both shots, but he took no chances, waiting for possible intervention from outside. If there had been any noise from neighbors or other signs of curiosity, he would have left immediately. As it was, the silence continued and he proceeded, swiftly and efficiently, with the remaining things he had been instructed to do.

First, he removed the silencer from the pistol and pocketed it. He put the pistol down temporarily near Salaverry's body. Then, from another pocket of his coat, he produced a small can of spray paint. Crossing to a wall of the apartment, he sprayed across it in large black letters the word CORNUDO.

Returning to Salaverry, he allowed some of the black paint to drip onto the dead man's right hand, then wrapped the limp fingers around the can and pressed them, so Salaverry's fingerprints were on the can. The hit man stood the can on a nearby table, then picked up the gun and placed it in the dead man's hand, again squeezing the fingers so that Salaverry's prints were on the gun. He arranged the gun and the hand so it would appear Salaverry had shot himself, then fallen to the floor.

The hit man did nothing to the woman's body, leaving it where it had fallen.

Next, the intruder took a folded sheet of stationery from his pocket on which were typed words. They read:

So you would not believe me when I told you she is a nymphomaniac whore, unworthy of you. You think she loves you when all she feels for you is con tempt. You trusted her, gave her a key to your apartment. What she did with it was take other men there for vile sexual games. Here are photographs to prove it. She brought the man and allowed his photographer friend to take pictures. Her nymphomania extends to collecting such pictures for herself. Surely, her use of your home so monstrously is the ultimate insult to a machismo man such as you.

—Your Former (and True) Friend

Moving from the living room, the hit man entered what obviously had been Salaverry's bedroom. He crumpled the typed sheet into a ball and threw it into a wastebasket. When the apartment was searched by police, as it would be, the paper was certain to be found. The probability was strong that it would be regarded as a semi-anonymous letter, the authorship known only to Salaverry when he was alive.

A final touch was an envelope, also produced by the hit man, containing some fragments of black-and-white glossy photos, each fragment burned at the edges. Entering a bathroom that adjoined the bedroom, he emptied the envelope's contents into the toilet bowl, leaving the pieces floating.

The pieces were too small to be identified. However, a reasonable assumption would be that Salaverry, after receiving the accusatory letter, had burned the accompanying photos and flushed the ashes down the toilet, though a few unburned portions still remained. Then, having learned of his apparent betrayal by his beloved Helga, in a jealous rage he shot and killed her.

Salaverry would then have sprayed the single word on the wall, a pathetic message describing what he felt himself to be. (If the investigating police officers did not speak Spanish, someone would quickly enlighten them that the English version of the word was "cuckold.”

There was even a touch of artistry in that crudely printed parting cry. While not, perhaps, the kind of thing an Anglo-Saxon or native American might do, it bespoke the volatile frenzy of a Latin lover.

A final assumption: In despair, unwilling to face the consequences of his act, Salaverry killed himself, the powder bum on his forehead being typical of a self-inflicted head wound.

As the experienced planners of the scene well knew, in New York City where unsolved homicides were commonplace and the police detective force severely overburdened, little time and effort would be spent investigating a crime where the circumstances and solution were so plainly in view.

The hit man surveyed the apartment living room, making a final check, then quietly left. When he walked out of the building unhindered, he had been inside less than fifteen minutes. A few blocks away, he peeled off his gloves and threw them into a sidewalk trash can.

9

Norman Jaeger asked, "Do you think Teddy Cooper will come up with something?”

"It wouldn't surprise me,” Partridge said.”He has before.”

It was after 10:30 and they were walking south on Broadway, near Central Park. The dinner meeting at Shun Lee West had broken up a quarter of an hour earlier, shortly after Cooper's declared opinion that the kidnap gang's headquarters was within a twenty-five-mile radius of Larchmont. He had followed the first opinion with a second.

The kidnappers and their victims, he believed, were at that operating center now, the gang members lying low until the initial searching eased up and police roadblocks were decreased or abandoned—both of which would inevitably happen soon. Then the gang and prisoners would move to some more distant location, perhaps in the United States, possibly elsewhere.

Cooper's reasoning had been considered seriously by the others. As Rita Abrams put it, "It makes as much sense as anything so far.”

But Karl Owens pointed out, "That's an enormous area you're talking about, densely populated, and there's no way of searching it effectively, even with an army.” He added, needling Cooper, "That is, unless you have another brilliant idea breezing up behind.”

"Not right now,” Cooper had answered.”I need a good night's kip. Then maybe I'll come up with—as you so kindly put it—something 'brilliant' in the morning.”

They ended the discussion there, and though the next day was Saturday, Partridge had summoned another task force meeting for 10 A.m. For tonight, most of the group went their separate ways by taxi, though Partridge and Jaeger, enjoying the night air, decided to walk to their hotels.

"Where did you latch on to this guy Cooper?” Jaeger asked.

Partridge told him about discovering Teddy at the BBC, being impressed with his work and, soon after, finding him a better job with CBA.

”One of the first things he did for us ir London,” Partridge continued, "was in 1984, at the time the Red Sea was being mined. A lot of ships were getting blown up and sunk all over the place, but no one knew who the hell was laying the mines. Remember?”

"Sure I remember,” Jaeger said.”Iran and Libya were prime suspects, but nothing more. Obviously a ship was doing the filthy work, but no one knew what ship, or whose it was.”

Partridge nodded.”Well, Teddy started researching and spent days and days at Lloyds of London, patiently going through their records of ship movements. He began by believing that whatever ship had done the mine laying had passed through the Suez Canal. So he made lists of all the ships that had gone through Suez since just before the mine sinkings started—and that was a helluva lot of ships.

”Then he went through more records and traced the subsequent movements of each ship he'd listed as it went from port to port, comparing those movements with the dates of mine sinkings in particular areas. Finally—and I mean after a long, long search—he came up with the name of one ship, the Ghat. It had been everywhere where other ships had struck mines, and in each case just a day or two before. Talk about a 'smoking gun. Teddy found it.”

Partridge went on, "As we know now, the ship was Libyan and once the name was in the open, it didn't take long to put proof together that Qaddafi was behind it all.”

"I knew we were ahead of others on the story,” Jaeger said.”But I didn’t know the rest of the yarn behind it.”

"Isn't that usually the way?”

Partridge grinned.”We correspondents get credit for work that guys like you and Teddy do.”

"I'm not complaining,” Jaeger said.”And I'll tell you one thing, Harry—I wouldn't change places with you, especially at my age.” He ruminated, then went on.”Cooper's just a kid. They're all kids. This has become a kids' business. They have the energy and the smarts. Do you have days like me when you get to feeling old?”

Partridge grimaced.”Just lately, all too often.”

They had reached Columbus Circle. To their left was the formidable darkness of Central Park where few New Yorkers ventured at night. Immediately ahead lay West Fifty-ninth Street, beyond it the brighter lights of mid-Manhattan. Partridge and Jaeger carefully crossed the confluence of thoroughfares as traffic swirled about them.

”You and I have seen a lot of changes in this business,” Jaeger said.”I guess, with luck, we'll be around for more.”

Partridge asked, "What do you think's ahead?”

Jaeger considered before answering.”I'll tell you first what I don't see happening, and that's network news disappearing or even changing much, despite some dire predictions. Maybe CNN will move into top rank—it has the distribution; all that's needed is network quality. But the important thing is, there's an enormous appetite out there for news, more than ever before in history, and in every country.”

"Television did it.”

"Damn right! TV's the twentieth-century equivalent of Gutenberg and Caxton. What's more, for all of television's failings, its news has made people hungry to know more. It's why newspapers are stronger and will stay that way.”

"I doubt they'll give us credit,” Partridge said

"They may not give credit, but they give attention. Don Hewitt at CBS has pointed out that the New York Times has four times as many people assigned full-time to television as they have reporters covering the United Nations. And a lot of that writing is about us—TV news, its people, what we do.

”Turn it around, though,” Jaeger continued.”When was there anything important enough about the Times to be featured on TV? All of that applies to the rest of the print press, and so you ask yourself, which is being acknowledged as the more important medium?”

Partridge chuckled.”Color me important.”

"Color!” Jaeger seized the word.”That's something else TV has changed. Newspapers are looking more like television screens—something USA Today began. You and I, Harry, will live to see four colors on the New York Times front page. The public will demand it and the old gray Times will heed the writing on the tube.”

"You're full of homespun tonight,” Partridge said.”What else do you foresee?”

"I see the weekly newsmagazines disappearing. They're dinosaurs. When Time and Newsweek get to subscribers, much of what's inside is a week to ten days old, and nowadays who wants to read stale news? Incidentally, the way I hear it, advertisers are asking the same question.”

Jaeger went on, "So despite their dishonest cover dates and classy writing, eventually the weekly newsies will go the way of Collier's, Look and the Saturday Evening Post. Incidentally, most kids working in news nowadays have never heard of those.”

They had come to the Parker-Meridian on West Fifty-seventh, where Jaeger was staying. Partridge had preferred what he thought of as the more cozy Inter-Continental on East Forty-eighth.

”We're a couple of old war-horses, Harry,” Jaeger said.”See you in the morning.” They shook hands and said good night.

* * *

A half hour later, in bed and surrounded by several newspapers he had bought on the way to his hotel, Partridge began reading. But before long the newsprint blurred and be pushed the papers aside. He would go through them in the morning along with fresh editions which would arrive with breakfast.

Still, sleep did not come easily. Too much had happened in the preceding thirty-six hours. His mind was full—a kaleidoscope of events, ideas, responsibilities, all of them intertwined with thoughts of Jessica, the past, the present memories revived . . .

Where was Jessica now? Was Teddy right about a twenty-five-mile radius? Was there a chance that somehow he, Harry the Seasoned Warrior, like some medieval knight in shining armor, could successfully lead a crusade to find and free his former love?

Cut the whimsy! Save thoughts about Jessica and the others for tomorrow. He tried to clear his mind to rest, or at least to think of something else.

Inevitably, that something else became Gemma . . . the other great love of his life.

Yesterday, during the journey from Toronto, he had relived that memorable papal flight: The Alitalia DC-10 . . . the press section and an encounter with the Pope . . . Partridge's decision not to use the pontiffs "slaves” remark, rewarded by a rose from Gemma . . . the beginning of their mutual passion and commitment . . .

No longer avoiding thoughts of Gemma, as he had for so long, he resumed in memory where he had ended the day before.

* * *

That papal tour, through Central America and the Caribbean, was long and arduous— It was one of the most ambitious undertaken by the Pope. The itinerary included eight countries and long flights, with some at night.

From the moment of their initial encounter, Partridge decided he wanted to know Gemma better, but his CBA reporting duties allowed him little time to see her during stops. Yet they became increasingly aware of each other and sometimes in the air, when Gemma wasn't busy, she came to sit beside him. Soon they began holding hands and once, before leaving, she leaned over and they kissed.

When it happened, his already strong desire for her increased.

They talked as often as they could and he began to learn about her background.

Gemma was born in Tuscany, the youngest of three sisters, in a small mountain resort town, Vallombrosa, not far from Florence.”It is not a fashionable place where the rich go, Harry caro, but very beautiful “

Vallombrosa, she told him, was a haven of the Italian middle class, who stayed there during summers. A mile away was Il Paradisino where John Milton once lived and, legend claimed, found the inspiration for Paradise Lost.

Gemma's father was a talented artist who made a good living restoring paintings and frescoes; he often worked in Florence. Her mother was a music teacher. Art and music were an integral part of the family's life and continued to be part of Gemma`s.

She had joined Alitalia three years earlier.”I wanted to see the world. There was no other way I could afford it.”

Partridge asked, "This way, have you seen very much?”

"Some pieces. Not as many as I would like, and I am growing tired of being a carneriera del cielo.”

He laughed.”You're much more than a waitress in the sky. But you must have met many people.”With a jealous twinge, he added, "A lot of men?”

Gemma shrugged "Most I would not want to meet again outside an airplane.”

“But there were others?”

She smiled, that flashing sweet smile, so much a part of her.”There has been no one I have liked as much as you.”

It was said simply and Partridge, the professional skeptic, wondered if he was being naive and foolish in believing her. Then he thought, Why shouldn't I believe when I feel exactly the same way, when no other woman since Jessica has had the same effect on me as Gemma?

Both of them, he sensed, felt the journey was going too quickly. So little time remained At the end of it they would probably walk away, never seeing each other again.

Perhaps because of that sense of time running out, one memorable night when the cabin lights were turned low and most others were asleep, Gemma curled up beside him and, under a blanket, they made love. In the confines of a tourist three-seat section, they should have been uncomfortable but somehow weren't, and he remembered it always as among the more beautiful experiences of his life.

It was immediately after their lovemaking—on impulse, and reminded that he had lost Jessica through indecision—he whispered, "Gemma, will you marry me?”

She had whispered back, "Oh, arnor mio, of course I will."

The next stop would be Panama. In a low voice, Partridge asked questions and made plans while Gemma, laughing softly, mischievously in the semidarkness, agreed to everything.

In daylight they landed at Panama's Tocumen Airport. The Alitalia DC-10 taxied in. The Pope disembarked and, like the trained actor he had once been, smoothly kissed the ground as a multitude of cameras zoomed in. After that, the standard formalities began.

Before the landing, Partridge had talked with his field producer and camera crew, asking them to cover the Pope's activities during the next few hours without him. He would join them later in narrating and helping edit the regular National Evening News report. Panama, which did not have daylight saving time, was only an hour behind New York so there would be sufficient time.”

While clearly curious, the other CBA staffers asked no questions, though Partridge knew it was unlikely that his and Gemma's growing attachment had passed unnoticed.

He also approached the New York Times reporter on the flight, who happened to be Graham Broderick, asking if he would share his notes for that day with Partridge. Broderick, while raising his eyebrows quizzically, agreed. Working journalists often made such trades, never knowing when they might need help themselves.

When the others disembarked, Partridge held back. He had no idea what explanation Gemma gave to her chief the senior purser, but she joined him and they left the DC-10 together. Gemma, still in Alitalia uniform, began explaining she had no means of changing into other clothes. But he stopped her and said, "I love you as you are.”

She turned to face him, her expression serious.”Do you truly, Harry?”

He nodded slowly.”Truly.”

They looked into each other's eyes and each seemed satisfied with what they saw.

Inside the airport terminal, Partridge left Gemma briefly. Going to a tourist booth, he asked several questions of a pimply youth behind a counter. The young man, smirking, told him he must go with the sefiora to Las Bovedas, part of the Old City wall in the Plaza de Francia. There he would find the Juzgado Municipal.

Partridge and Gemma took a taxi to the Old City. They got out near a towering obelisk topped by a chanticleer, the crowing rooster commemorating French canal builders, among them the famed Ferdinand de Lesseps.

Some twenty minutes later, inside the old wall and standing before a juez in an ornate office that had once been a prison cell, Harry Partridge and Gemma Baccelli became husband and wife. During a five-minute ceremony the judge, casually dressed in a cotton guayabera, signed an Acta Matrimonial which cost twenty-five dollars and Partridge paid twenty dollars each to two stenographers who served as witnesses.

The bride and groom were informed that the additional formality of registering their marriage was optional and, in fact, unnecessary until they came back for a divorce.

”We will register, “Partridge said, "and we will not be back."

At the end, without great conviction, the juez wished them, 'Il Que vivan los novios!”They had the feeling he had said it many times before.

Both then and later, Partridge wondered how Gemma, who unhesitatingly agreed to a civil ceremony, reconciled it with her religion. She had been born Catholic and her early education, she had told him, was at a Sacre Coeur school. But each time he asked, she merely shrugged and said, "God will understand.”It was, he supposed, typical of a casualness many Italians had about religion. He had once heard someone say that Italians always assumed God to be Italian too.

Inevitably, aboard the papal airplane the news of the marriage spread—as the London Times correspondent put it, quoting Revelation, faster than "the four winds of the earth.”In the press section, after takeoff from Panama, a celebratory party was held with great quantities of champagne, liquor and caviar. As much as their duties allowed, the pursers and cabin crew joined in and told Gemma there would be no work for her through the remainder of that day. Even the Alitalia captain left the flight deck briefly to come back with congratulations.

Amid the revelry and good wishes, Partridge sensed strong doubts by some that the marriage would last, but also among the men, a feeling of envy.

Notably, but not surprisingly, there was no representation at the party from the ecclesiastics, and for the remainder of the trip Partridge was aware of their coolness and disapproval Whether or not the Pope was ever informed of what had happened was something none of the journalists learned, despite inquiries. However, on that journey the Pope did not visit the press section again.

In the limited time they were able to spend together, Partridge and Gemma began planning for their future.

* * *

In a New York hotel room . . . slowly, sadly . . . the image of Gemma faded. The present replaced the past. At last, exhausted, Harry Partridge slept.

10

In the kidnappers' Hackensack base Miguel received a message by telephone at 7:30 Saturday morning. He took the call in a small room on the first floor of the main building, which he had kept for himself as an office and for sleeping.

Of the six portable cellular phones the group had used, one was earmarked to receive special calls, the number known only to those with authority to make them. Miguel always kept that phone close to him.

The caller, following orders, was using a public pay phone so the call could not be traced, in or out.

Miguel, alert and waiting, had been expecting the call for the past hour. He picked up the handset on the first ring and answered, "Si?”

The caller then challenged him with a prearranged code word, "Tiempo?” to which Miguel responded, "Reldmpago.”

There was an alternative reply. If Miguel's answer to the query "weather?” had been "thunder” instead of "lightning,” it would have meant that, for whatever reason, his group required a twenty-four hours' delay. As it was, "relampago” conveyed: "We are ready to go. Name place and time.”

The crucial message followed: "Sombrero profundo sur twenty hundred.”

Sombrero was Teterboro Airport, slightly more than a mile away, profundo sur the airport's southern end gate. The words "twenty hundred” indicated the time—2000 hours or 8 p.m.when the kidnap victims and those to accompany them would board a Colombia—registered Learjet 55LR which would he there, waiting. The 55, as Miguel already knew, was a larger model with a more spacious interior than the familiar 20 and 30 series Lears. The LR signified Long Range.

Miguel acknowledged curtly, "Lo comprendo, “and the conversation ended.

The caller had been another diplomat, this time attached to the Colombian Consulate General in New York; he had been a conduit for messages since Miguel's arrival in the United States a month earlier. Both the Peruvian and Colombian diplomatic corps were riddled with defectors, either Sendero Luminoso sympathizers or on the Medellin cartel payroll, sometimes both, and performing their double-crosses for the large amounts of money which Latin American drug lords paid.

After receiving the call, Miguel walked through the house and buildings and informed the others, though preparations for departure were already in hand and each group member knew what was required. Those to travel on the Learjet, accompanying the kidnap victims in their caskets, were Miguel, Baudelio, Socorro and Rafael. Julio would remain behind in the United States, resuming his previous identity and becoming, once more, a Medellin cartel sleeping agent. Carlos and Luis would quietly leave the country within the next few days, flying separately to Colombia.

Julio, Carlos and Luis, though, had a concluding duty after the Learjet had gone: to disperse the remaining vehicles and abandon them.

Miguel had given considerable thought about what to do with the Hackensack hideaway. He had considered, as a final act, burning the whole place down, vehicles with it. The collection of buildings was old and would go up like a furnace, especially with the help of gasoline.

But a fire would draw attention and, if investigated, the ashes might yield clues. While in some ways it wouldn't matter since everyone would be gone, it went against reason to make things easier for the American law agencies. So the idea of a fire was out.

If they simply vacated the building, leaving it as it was, their use of the place as a kidnap way station might not be discovered for weeks or months, perhaps never. But that required the disposition of the vehicles—driving them all in different directions for a good distance and then abandoning them. True, there were risks involved, specifically for those who would drive the three cars, the GMC truck and the hearse, but Miguel believed they weren't great. In any case it was what he had decided on.

He encountered Rafael first and told him, "We leave here this evening at 7:40.”

The burly handyman-mechanic, who was in the outbuilding they used as a paint shop, grunted and nodded, seeming more interested in the GMC truck, which he had repainted the day before. The former white truck with the legend "Superbread” had been transformed to an almost totally black one with the name "Serene Funeral Homes” in discreet gold lettering on both sides.

Miguel had ordered the change himself. Satisfied, he told Rafael, "Bien hecho! A pity it will only be used once.”

The big man swung around, clearly pleased, a slight smile on his scarred and brutish face. It was strange, Miguel thought, that Rafael who could be so savage in action, taking demoniac delight in inflicting suffering or killing, at other moments behaved like a child in need of approval.

Miguel pointed to the truck's New Jersey license plates.”These are fresh ones?”

Again Rafael nodded.”From the last set. Ain't been used yet, an' I switched the others.”

It meant that all five remaining vehicles now had license plates which could not have been seen during the Larchmont surveillance, so that driving and abandoning them would be that much safer.

Miguel went outside to where, within a cluster of trees, Julio and Luis were digging a deep hole. The ground was wet from yesterday's rain and the work heavy going. Julio was using his spade to sever a rugged tree root and, seeing Miguel, he stopped, wiped his swarthy, sweating face with a sleeve, and cursed.

”Pinche abrol! This is shit work—for oxen, not men.”

On the point of snapping back an obscenity, Miguel checked himself. The ugly knifing scar on Julio's face was turning crimson, a signal of the man's foul temper and that he was spoiling for a fight.

”Take a rest,” Miguel said curtly.”There's time. We all leave at 7:40.”

Brawling in these last few hours would be a stupid waste. Besides, Miguel needed the men to finish digging the hole in which they would bury all the cellular phones and some medical equipment Baudelio would leave behind.

Burying the phones, in particular, was not an ideal arrangement and Miguel would have preferred to dump them somewhere in deep water. But while there was plenty of water in the New Jersey—New York area, the chances of doing something like that without being observed were not good—at least in the short time available.

Later that day, when the hole was refilled, Julio and Luis should be able to rake leaves over the surface, leaving no trace of what was beneath.

Carlos, to whom Miguel went next, was in another of the outbuildings, burning papers in an iron stove. Carlos, young and well educated, had organized the month-long surveillance records and photos of visitors to the Sloane house, all of which was now feeding the fire.

When Miguel told him about the evening departure, Carlos seemed relieved. His thin lips twitched and he said, "Que buenol”Then his eyes resumed their normal hardness.

Miguel had been aware of the strain of the past forty-eight hours on everyone, Carlos especially, perhaps because of his youth. But commendably the younger man had kept himself under control and Miguel foresaw a command terrorism role for Carlos before too long.

A small pile of what appeared to be Rafael's clothing was beside the stove. Miguel, Rafael and Baudelio would all wear dark suits during the departure process by air when, to anticipate a possible U.S. Government inspection, they would pose as mourners, using a carefully designed cover story. Everything else would be left behind.

Miguel pointed to the clothes, "Don't burn those—too much smoke. Go through the pockets, take everything out and remove any labels. Then bury the rest.” He gestured in the direction of the digging outside.”Tell the others.”

"Okay.” When he had attended to the fire again, Carlos said, "We should have flowers.”

"Flowers?”

"Some on the casket that goes in the hearse, maybe on the others. It's what a family would do.”

Miguel hesitated. He knew Carlos was right and it was something he hadn't thought of himself in planning their exit from the U.S., first via Teterboro, then aboard the Learjet to Opa Locka. Airport, Florida, from where they would fly directly to Peru.

Originally, when Miguel had expected only two unconscious captives, he had planned to make two journeys with the hearse between the Hackensack house and Teterboro Airport, conveying one casket at a time, which was all the hearse would hold. But three journeys with three caskets were too many and would entail too great a risk; therefore Miguel had devised a new plan.

One casket—Baudelio would decide which—would be transported to Teterboro in the hearse. The repainted GMC truck of "Serene Funeral Homes”would carry the other two.

The Lear 55LR, Miguel knew, was configured with a cargo door that allowed plenty of room for loading two caskets. Getting a third in might be difficult, but he was sure it could be done.

Still weighing Carlos's suggestion, he thought: The addition of flowers would make their cover story more convincing. At Teterboro they would have to pass through airport security. Probably, too, there would be supplemental police because of the kidnap alert, and questions were almost certain to be asked about the caskets and their contents. Some tense moments were likely and Teterboro, as Miguel saw it, was the key to their safe departure. At Opa Locka, from where they would actually leave the U.S., he anticipated no problems.

Miguel decided to take a small risk now to help offset the large one later. He nodded.”Yes, flowers.”

"I'll take one of the cars,” Carlos said.”I know where to go in Hackensack. I'll be careful.”

"Use the Plymouth.” It had been repainted dark blue and had license plates not previously used, as Rafael had pointed out.

After leaving Carlos, Miguel sought out Baudelio. He found him, with Socorro, in the large room on the second floor of the main house which by this time resembled a hospital ward. Baudelio, appearing like a patient himself, had dressings over the right side of his face, covering the stitches he had put in following Jessica's wild slashing during her brief consciousness.

Normally Baudelio appeared gaunt, pallid and older than he was, but today the effect was intensified. His face was sickly white and his movements clearly required an effort. But he was continuing with preparations for departure and after Carlos informed him of the 7:40 P.m. time, Baudelio acknowledged, "We will be ready.”

Under prompting from Miguel, the ex-doctor confirmed that his day and a half of experimenting with the drug propofol had shown him how much should be administered to each of the three captives to achieve deep unconsciousness for specific periods. This knowledge was necessary for the times when each "patient” would be left unattended and unmonitored in one of the sealed caskets.

Also, the enforced starvation period for all three—which would be fifty-six hours by departure time—was satisfactory. There should be no vomiting or aspiration into the lungs, though as extra precautions against choking and suffocation, Baudelio added, an airway tube would be placed in each throat and the bodies turned on their sides before the caskets were closed. Meanwhile, the intravenous injection of fluids had prevented dehydration. From transparent bags of glucose, on stands beside each of the unconscious trio, drip tubes led to catheters in their arms.

Miguel paused, looking down at the three bodies. They appeared peaceful, their faces untroubled. The woman had a certain beauty, he thought; later, if opportunity arose, he might make use of her sexually. The man looked dignified, like an old soldier at rest which, according to news reports, he was. The boy seemed frail, his face thin; perhaps the enforced starvation had left him weak, which didn't matter as long as he was alive on arrival in Peru, as had been promised to Sendero Luminoso. All three were pale with only a little color in their cheeks, but were breathing evenly. Satisfied, Miguel turned away.

The funeral caskets into which Angus, Jessica and Nicky would be moved shortly before the general exodus to Teterboro Airport were horizontal on trestles. Miguel was aware, because he had watched Rafael do it under guidance from Baudelio, that a series of tiny vent holes had been drilled into each. Almost invisible, they would admit fresh air.

”What is that?” Miguel pointed to a jar of crystals next to the caskets.

”Soda lime granules,” Baudelio answered.”They're spread around inside to counter carbon dioxide from exhaled breath. There'll also be an oxygen cylinder, controllable from outside.”

Mindful that during the difficult hours ahead Baudelio's medical skills would be vital to them all, Miguel queried, "What else?”

The ex-doctor motioned to Socorro.”Tell him. You'll be doing it with me.”

Socorro had been watching and listening, her face inscrutable as always. Miguel still had questions in his mind about the woman's total commitment, but today was distracted by her provocative body, its sensuous movements, her blatant sexuality. As if she read his thoughts, there was a hint of taunting in her voice.

”If any of them needs to piss, even unconscious, they might move and make noise. So before closing those"—Socorro pointed to the caskets—"we'll insert catheters. That's tubes in the men's cocks and the bitch's cunt. Entiendes?”

Miguel said testily, "I know about catheterization.” On the point of telling her his father was a doctor, he checked himself. A moment's weakness, the influence of a woman, had almost led him to reveal a detail of his background, something he never did.

Instead he asked Socorro, "When we need it, can you cry?”

As part of the planned tableau, she also would be a grieving mourner.

"Si."

Baudelio added, with the professional pride which occasionally surfaced, "I will place a grain of pepper beneath each of her lower eyelids. The same for mine. The tears are then copious and will not stop until the pepper is out.” He regarded Miguel.”I will do the same for you if you wish.”

"We'll see.”

Baudelio completed his strategy catalog.”Finally, in all three caskets will be tiny monitors to record breathing and depth of sedation. I'll have a connection to read them from outside. The propofol infusion can be adjusted from outside too.”

Reviewing their exchange, and despite earlier misgivings, Miguel felt satisfied that Baudelio knew what he was doing. Socorro too.

Now it was simply a question of waiting through the day. The hours ahead seemed interminable.

11

At CBA News headquarters on Saturday morning, the special task force meeting called for 10 A.m. had scarcely begun when it was abruptly interrupted.

Harry Partridge, seated at the head of the conference table, had opened a discussion when a speakerphone broke in—an announcement from the main newsroom. Partridge paused as he and the six others at the table listened.

"Assignment desk. Richardson. This bulletin just in from UPI . . .

”White Plains, New York—A passenger van, believed to be the vehicle used in Thursday's kidnap of the Crawford Sloane family, exploded violently a few minutes ago. At least three persons are dead, others injured. Police were on their way to inspect the van when the explosion occurred in a parking building adjoining Center City shopping mall. It happened as many weekend shoppers were arriving in their cars. The building is extensively damaged. Firefighters, rescue crews and ambulances are on the scene which a witness describes as 'like a nightmare from Beirut.”

Even as the bulletin was continuing, chairs in the conference room were being pushed back, the task force members scrambling to their feet. As the speakerphone fell silent, Partridge was first out, on the run, hurrying to the newsroom one floor below, with Rita Abrams close behind.

* * *

Saturday morning in any network news department was a relatively informal time. Most of the Monday-to-Friday staff stayed home. The few on weekend duty, while sometimes under pressure, were aware of the absence of the high command. For this reason dress was casual, jeans predominating, and men showed up without ties.

The main CBA newsroom was eerily quiet, with barely a third of the desks occupied and that day's assignment manager, Orv Richardson, covering for the national desk as well. Young, fresh-faced and eager, Richardson had recently come to the network from a regional bureau. While not unhappy to be in charge, the important breaking story from White Plains made him slightly nervous. He wanted to be sure of doing the right thing.

It was with some relief, therefore, that he saw a Big Foot correspondent, Harry Partridge, and a senior producer, Abrams, burst into the newsroom and hurry his way.

While Partridge skimmed a printout of the United Press bulletin and read a follow-up story feeding in on a computer monitor, Rita told Richardson, "We should go on air immediately. Who has authority?”

"I have a number.” With a phone tucked into his shoulder and consulting a note, the assignment manager tapped out digits for a CBA News vice president available at home. When the man answered, Richardson explained the situation and asked for authorization to take air with a special bulletin. The vice president shot back, "You have it. Go!”

What followed was a near-replay of Thursday's intrusion into the network when the kidnap news broke shortly before noon. The differences were the nature of today's report and the cast involved. Partridge was in the flash facility studio, occupying the correspondent's hot seat, Rita was acting executive producer, and in the control room a different director appeared, having come hastily from another section of the building after hearing a "special bulletin”call.

CBA was on air within four minutes after receiving the UPI bulletin. The other networks—observed from control room monitors—broke into their own programming at almost the same time.

Harry Partridge was, as always, collected and articulate, the ultimate professional. There was no time to write a script or use a Teleprompter. Partridge simply memorized the contents of the wire reports and ad-libbed.

The special broadcast was over in two minutes. There were the bare facts only, few details, and no on-scene pictures merely hastily gathered stills, projected over Partridge's shoulder, of the Sloane family, their Larchmont home and the Grand Union store where the Thursday kidnap had taken place. A fuller report with pictures from White Plains, Partridge promised viewers, would be aired later on CBA's Saturday National Evening News.

As soon as the red camera lights went out in the flash studio, Partridge phoned Rita in the control room.”I'm going to White Plains,” he told her.”Will you set it up?”

"I have already. Iris, Minh and I are going as well. Iris will produce a piece for tonight. You can do a standup there and cut a sound track later. There's a car and driver waiting.”

* * *

The city of White Plains had a long history going back to 1661 when it was an encampment of the Siwanoy Indians who called it Quarropas—which means white plains, or white balsam—after the trees that grew there. In the eighteenth century it was an important iron-mining center and a transportation crossroads. In 1776, during the American Revolution, a battle on nearby Chatterton Hill forced Washington's retreat, but in the same year a Provincial Congress in White Plains approved the Declaration of Independence and the creation of New York State. There were other milestones, good and bad, though none exceeded in infamy the explosion engineered by the Medellin cartel and Sendero Luminoso in the Center City Mall parking building.

There was, it became clear later, a certain inevitability to the cycle of events.

During the preceding night a patrolling security guard had recorded the license numbers and makers' names of vehicles left there overnight—a normal procedure and a precaution against cheating by drivers who might claim to have lost their parking stub and to have parked for one day only.

The presence of a Nissan passenger van with New York plates had also been noted the night before which, again, was not unusual. Sometimes, for a variety of reasons, vehicles were left parked for a week or more. But during the second night a different and more alert security guard wondered if the Nissan van could be the one he had heard about as being sought in connection with the Sloane family kidnapping.

He wrote a query to that effect on his report and the maintenance supervisor, on reading it next morning, promptly called the White Plains Police who ordered a patrol car to investigate. The time, according to police records, was 9:50 A.M.

The maintenance supervisor, however, did not wait for the police arrival. Instead he went to the Nissan van, taking along a large bunch of car keys he had accumulated over the years. It was a source of pride with him that there were few locked vehicles which, aided by his key collection, he could not open.

All of this was at a time when Saturday shoppers, in their cars, were beginning to stream into the parking building.

Quite quickly the supervisor found a key that fitted the Nissan van and opened the driver's door. It was his final act in the few remaining seconds of his life.

With a roar which someone later described as "like fifty thunderstorms,” the Nissan van disintegrated in an intense, engulfing ball of flame. So did a substantial part of the building and several cars nearby, fortunately unoccupied, though what was left of them burned fiercely. The explosion punched wide holes in the parking building above and below where the Nissan van had been and caused flaming cars to cascade through the holes to the lower floors.

Nor was the effect confined to the parking building. The Center City Mall itself sustained structural damage and, in the mall and beyond, windows and glass doors were shattered. Other debris, initially blown upward, descended on adjoining streets, traffic and people.

The shock effect was total. When the initial roar subsided, apart from the quieter sound of fires and falling objects, there was a measurable silence. Then the screams began, followed by incoherent shouts and curses, hysterical pleas for help, unintelligible orders and, soon after, sirens approaching from all directions.

In the end it seemed extraordinary that the human toll, when added up, was no greater than it was. In addition to the maintenance supervisor's instant death, two others died soon after from their injuries and four more victims were critically hurt and hovering between life and death. Twenty-two more, including a half-dozen children, were injured and hospitalized.

Overall, the reference to Beirut in the UPI bulletin did not seem inappropriate.

Afterward there would be debate, focusing on the question: Would the explosion have happened if the maintenance supervisor had awaited the arrival of police? The police said no, claiming they would have called the FBI whose forensic experts would have examined the van, discovered the explosive material, and then disarmed it. But others were skeptical, believing the police would have opened the van anyway, either themselves or using the maintenance man's keys. Eventually, though, the discussion was seen as pointless and petered out.

One thing became self-evident. The destroyed Nissan van had indeed been used by the kidnappers of the Sloane family members two days earlier. The proximity to Larchmont, the van's recorded appearance in the Center City parking building Thursday and the fact that it was booby-trapped all pointed to that conclusion. So did the license number which, when checked against motor vehicle records, was shown as belonging to a 1983 Oldsmobile sedan. However, the owner name, address and insurance data in official files were quickly discovered to be phony; also the registration and insurance fees had been paid in cash, the payer leaving no true identity behind.

What it all meant was that the Oldsmobile had disappeared, probably junked, but its registration was kept alive for illicit use. Thus the license plates on the Nissan were illegal, though not on any police "hot list.”

A question was raised because a witness at Larchmont had described the Nissan van as having New Jersey plates, whereas those seen in the White Plains parking building were New York's. But, as investigators later pointed out, it was normal for criminals to switch license plates immediately after a crime was committed.

One other conclusion was expressed by the White Plains police chief at the explosion scene. He told reporters grimly, "This was clearly the work of hardened terrorists.”

When asked if, extending that reasoning, it was foreign terrorists who had abducted the Sloane family trio, the chief answered, "That didn't happen on my turf, but I would think so.”

* * *

"Let's make that foreign terrorist theory our main focus for this evening's news,” Harry Partridge told Rita and Iris Everly when he heard about the police chief's comment.

The CBA contingent had arrived a few minutes ago in two vehicles—the camera crew aboard a Jeep Wagoneer, Partridge, Rita, Iris and Teddy Cooper in a Chevrolet sedan driven by a network courier—both having covered the twenty-five miles from mid-Manhattan in a sizzling thirty minutes. As well as an assemblage of news people at the scene, a growing crowd of spectators was being herded behind police barriers. Minh Van Canh and the sound man, Ken O'Hara, were already getting videotape and natural sound of the wrecked building, the injured who continued to be removed, and of piles of twisted, tortured vehicles, some still burning. They had also joined an impromptu press conference in time to tape the police chief's statement.

After making a general assessment of the situation, Partridge summoned Minh and O'Hara and began conducting on camera interviews with some of those involved in rescue efforts as well as several spectators who had witnessed the explosion. It was work that could have been performed by the camera crew alone or with a producer. But it gave Partridge a sense of involvement, being in action, of touching the story directly for the first time.

Touching an ongoing news story was psychologically essential to a correspondent, no matter how well informed he or she might be about that story's background. Partridge had been working on the Sloane family kidnap for some forty-two hours, but until now without direct contact with any of its elements. At moments he had felt caged, with only a desk, a telephone and a computer monitor connecting him with the reality outside. Going to White Plains, tragic as the circumstances were, fulfilled a need. He knew the same applied to Rita.

The thought of her caused him to seek Rita out and ask, "Has anyone talked with Crawf?”

"I just phoned him at home,” she said.”He was about to come here, but I pleaded with him not to. For one thing, he'd be mobbed. For another, seeing what those bastards are capable of would upset him terribly.”

"Still, he'll see the pictures.”

"He wants to. He'll meet us at the network, so will Les, and I have what's been shot already.” Rita was holding several tape cassettes. She added, "I think you and I should go. Iris and Minh can stay a while longer.”

Partridge nodded.”Okay, but give me a minute.”

They were on the third floor of the parking garage. Leaving Rita, he walked to an unoccupied, undamaged comer. It provided a view of White Plains and the city going about its regular business. In the distance was the highway to New England and, beyond, the green hills of Westchester—all scenes of normalcy in contrast to the devastation close at hand.

He had walked away from that chaos, wanting a quiet moment to think, to ask and answer a tormenting question: Having accepted a commitment to somehow find and perhaps free Jessica, her son and Crawford's father, was there any hope . . . the slightest hope . . . of his succeeding? At this moment Partridge feared the answer would be no.

What had happened here today, observing what his adversaries were capable of, had been a chastening encounter. It raised still more questions: Could such merciless savagery be matched? Now that a terrorist connection was virtually confirmed, were any civilized resources capable of tracking and outwitting so evil an enemy? And even if the answer happened to be yes, and despite initial optimism at CBA News headquarters, wasn't it an empty conceit to believe that an unarmed news reporting cadre could succeed where police, governments, intelligence and military so often failed?

As to himself, Partridge thought, this was no open battle, the kind of warfare which, perversely or not, excited him and set his juices flowing. This was furtive and filthy, the enemy unknown, the victims innocent, the contest sickening . . .

But personal feelings aside, should he advise for pragmatic reasons the abandonment of active engagement by CBA, advocate their return to a standard role of news observing or, failing that, at least pass on responsibility to someone else? He was conscious of movement behind him. Turning, he saw that it was Rita. She asked, "Can I help?”

He told her, "We've never had one quite like this before, with so much depending not just on what we report, but what we do.”

"I know,” she said.”Were you thinking of turning it in, handing the burden back?”

Rita had surprised him before with her perceptiveness. He nodded.”Yes, I was.”

"Don't do it, Harry,” she urged.”Don't give up! Because if you do, there isn't anyone else that's half as good as you.”

12

Partridge, Rita and Teddy Cooper rode back to Manhattan together—at a pace considerably less frantic than their drive out. Partridge was in the front seat with the network driver, Teddy and Rita in the rear.

Cooper, whose decision to go to White Plains had been made at the last moment, had stayed in the background there, observing; then and now he appeared preoccupied, as if concentrating on a problem. Partridge and Rita, too, at first seemed disinclined to talk. For both, this morning's experience had been portentous. While they had witnessed, many times, the effects of terrorism overseas, to observe its invasion of American suburbia was traumatic. It was as if barbarian madness had at last arrived, poisoning an environment which, if not calm, had until now possessed a base of reason. The erosion of that base begun today, they suspected, would be extensive and perhaps irreversible.

After a while Partridge turned in his seat, facing the other two, and said, "The British were convinced that imported terrorism couldn't happen in their country, but it did. A good many believed the same thing here.”

"They were wrong from the beginning,” Rita said.”It was always inevitable, never if but when?”

Both assumed with some certainty—acknowledged by the White Plains police chief—that the Sloane kidnapping had been a foreign terrorist act.

”So who the hell are they?” Partridge pounded a fist into his palm.”That's what we must concentrate on. Who?”

It was clear to Rita that Harry had put behind him the notion of abdicating the leadership of CBA's task force. She answered, "It's natural to think first of the Mideast—Iran, Lebanon, Libya . . . the religious lineup: Hezbollah, Amal, Shiites, Islamic Jihad, FARL, PLO, you name it.”

Partridge acknowledged, "I've been thinking that way too. Then I ask myself, "y would they? Why would they bother extending their reach so far, taking the risks of operating here, with so many easier targets close to home?”

"To make an impression, perhaps. To convince the 'great Satan' there's no safety anywhere.”

Partridge nodded slowly.”You might be right.” He looked at Cooper.”Teddy, should we consider the IRA as possibles?”

The researcher snapped out of his reverie.”I don't think so. The IRA are scum who'll do anything, though not in America because there are still idiot Irish-Americans who feed them money. If they went active here, they'd cut that payola off.”

"Any other thoughts?”

"I agree with what you say, Harry, about the Mideast mob. Maybe you should be looking south.”

"Latin America,” Rita said.”It makes sense. Nicaragua's the most likely, Honduras or Mexico possibilities, even Colombia.”

They continued to theorize but had reached no conclusion when Partridge said to Teddy, "I know something's at work in that convoluted mind of yours. Are you ready to share it with us?”

"I guess so.” Cooper considered, then began, "I reckon they've left this country.”

"The kidnappers?”

The researcher nodded.”And taken Mr. S's family. What happened back there this morning"—he inclined his head toward White Plains—"was like a signature. To let us know the kind of people they are, how rough they play. It's a reminder for later on, for anyone who has to deal with them.”

"Let's be sure I read you,” Partridge said.”You believe they estimated how long it would take for the van to be discovered and blow up, and planned to have it happen after they had gone?”

"That's the size of it.”

Partridge objected, "You're simply guessing. You could be wrong.”

Cooper shook his head.”Better than guessing—say an intelligent assessment. Which is probably dead right.”

Rita asked, "Supposing you are right, where does that leave us?”

"It leaves us,” Cooper said, "having to decide if we want to make a big expensive effort to find their hideaway, even though it's empty when we get there.”

"Why would we care about that if, as you assume, the birds have flown?”

"Because of what Harry said yesterday: Everybody leaves traces. No matter how careful they've been, these blokes will have too.”

Their network car was nearing Manhattan. They were on the Major Deegan Expressway, the Third Avenue Bridge ahead, and the driver slowed in increased traffic. Partridge looked out, confirmed his bearings, then returned his attention to the other two.

”Last night,” he reminded Cooper, "you told us you'd try for an idea to locate the gang's headquarters. Is that 'big expensive effort' part of it?”

"It would be. It would also be a long shot.”

Rita said, "Let's hear about that.”

Cooper consulted a notebook and began, "What I figured on first was the kind of a place this mob would need to do all those things we discussed last night—park at least five vehicles, most likely out of sight, set up a workshop big enough to spray those motors, then have enough living, sleeping and eating quarters for four people and probably a couple more for good measure. They'd want space for storage, then somewhere safe to lock up the three Sloanes after they'd snatched 'em, and—for that size of operation—an office of some kind. So it wouldn't be anything small, especially not some ordinary house with nosey parker neighbors around.”

"Okay,” Partridge agreed, "I'll buy that for starters.”

"So what kind of place would it be?” Cooper continued.”Well, the way I see it, it would most likely be one of three things—either a small disused factory, or an empty warehouse, or a big house with outbuildings. But whichever, it would need to be somewhere with not much going on around—isolated, lonely—and as we've already agreed, it shouldn't be more than twenty-five miles from Larchmont.”

"You've already agreed,” Rita pointed out.”The rest of us have gone along because we couldn't think of anything better.”

"The trouble is,” Partridge objected, "even in that twenty-five-mile radius there could be twenty thousand places answering that description.”

Cooper shook his head.”Not that many. After our dinner last night, I talked with some of the others and what we reckoned, when you include the lonely part, was maybe one to three thousand.”

"Even then, how in hell would we find the one we want?”

"I already said it would be a long shot, but there might just be a way.”

As Partridge and Rita listened, Cooper described his plan.

”Start out by mulling this over: When those snatchers got here, wherever they came from, they had to set up base close to Larchmont, but not too close—just the way we said. So how would they most likely find one? First, pick a general area. After that, do what anyone else would, 'specially when they're short of time—look through the newspaper property ads, and the kind of place they'd need to lease or rent would be in the classifieds. Of course we can't be certain, but there's a good chance that's how they got the setup they used.”

"Sure it's a possibility,” Partridge said.”It's also a possibility they had local advance help, with the base set up before they got here.”

Cooper sighed.”Too bloody true! But when all you have to work with is possibles, you go for those you can put your hands on.”

"So I'm being a devil's advocate, Teddy. Keep going.”

"Okay, moving on . . . What we should do now is study the estate agents' ads in every paper, regional and local, published over the last three months inside that twenty-five-mile radius, with Larchmont as the center. Going through those papers, we'd look for ads of certain types—for the kinds of buildings we just talked about—.especially any ad that ran for a while, then suddenly stopped.”

Rita gasped.”Have you any idea how many papers, dailies and weeklies, and how many people—”Partridge told her, "I'm thinking the same way, but let him finish.”

Cooper shrugged.”Do I know the number of papers? No, not exactly, except it's a bleedin' lot. But what we'd do is hire people—bright young kids—to go around and look through them all. I'm told there's a book , . .” Cooper paused to check his notes.”Editor and Publisher International Year Book, which lists every paper, big and small. We'd start with that. From there we'd go to libraries which have files of newspapers, some on microfilm. For the others we'd go direct to the papers and ask to look through their back numbers. It'll take a lot of bodies, and it has to be done fast, before the trail gets cold.”

Partridge said, "And you figure three months of advertising would cover — . .”

"Look, we know these people were snooping on the Sloanes for about a month and, when it started, you can bet they had their pad set up. So three months is a sane spread.”

"What happens when we find some advertising that fits the kind of place we're searching for?”

"There should be a big number of 'possibles,' “Cooper said.

”We'd sort them into priorities, then have some of the same people we hired to check the newspapers do the follow-up too. First, by contacting the advertisers and asking the odd question. After that, according to the answers, we'd decide which places we should take a look at.” Cooper shrugged.”Most of the look—sees would be goose eggs, but some might not. I'd expect to do some of the follow-up myself.”

There was a silence as Partridge and Rita weighed what they had heard.

Partridge announced his judgment first.”I salute you for an original idea, Teddy, but you said it was a long shot and it sure as hell is. A long, long shot. Right at this moment, I just can't see it working.”

"Frankly,” Rita said, "I think what you'd be trying to do is impossible. First, because of the number of papers involved there's a multitude! Second, the amount of help you'd need would cost a fortune.”

"Wouldn't it be worth it,” Cooper asked her, "to get Mr. S's family back?”

"Of course it would. But what you're suggesting wouldn't get them back. At best it might produce some information and even that's unlikely.”

"Either way,” Partridge ruled, "we're not making a decision here. Because of the money, Les Chippingham will do that. When we meet with him later today, Teddy, you can spell out your idea again.”

* * *

The two-and-a-half-minute spot produced by Iris Everly for the Saturday National Evening News was dramatic, shocking and—as the jargon went—video-rich. At White Plains, Minh Van Canh had, as always, employed his camera creatively. Iris, back at CBA News headquarters and working again with the tape editor, Bob Watson, had fashioned a small masterpiece of news theater.

The process began with Iris and Partridge joining Watson in a tiny editing room—one of a half dozen side by side and in constant use as air time neared. There the three viewed all available videotapes while Iris made rough logs of the contents of each cassette. A late tape certain to be used showed the arrival of FBI agents at the White Plains explosion scene. Asked if there had been any communication from the kidnappers, the senior FBI man gestured around him and said, grimfaced, "Just this.”

Other tapes included scenes of devastation and Partridge's on-scene interviews.

When they had finished viewing, Iris said, "I think we should begin with that pile of burning cars, show where those floors of the building were torn apart, then cut to the dead and injured being carried out.” Partridge agreed and, with more discussion, they crafted a general plan.

Next, still in the editing booth, Partridge recorded an audio track, the correspondent's commentary over which pictures would be superimposed. Reading from a hastily typed script, he began, "Today, any remaining doubt that the kidnappers of the Crawford Sloane family are full-fledged terrorists was savagely dispelled . . . "

That evening, Partridge's participation in the broadcast would differ from the two preceding days when, on Thursday, he had anchored the news, then the following evening been coanchor with Crawford Sloane. Tonight he would be in his normal role as a correspondent, since CBA's Saturday news had its own regular anchor person, Teresa Toy, a charming and popular Chinese-American. Teresa had initially discussed with Partridge and Iris the general line their report would take. From then on, aware that she was dealing with two of the network's top professionals, she wisely left them alone.

When Partridge finished the audio track, he left to do other things. After that it took Iris and Watson another three hours to complete the painstaking editing process, a facet of TV news seldom understood by viewers who watched the polished end result.

Externally, Bob Watson seemed an unlikely candidate for the meticulous, patient work his editing job required. He was chunky and simian, with stubby fingers. Though he shaved each morning, by mid-afternoon he looked as if he had a three day growth of beard. And he chain-smoked fat, pungent cigars which those obliged to work with him in his tiny cubicle repeatedly complained about. However, he told them, "If I can't smoke, I don't think so good, then you get a piss-poor piece.” Producers like Iris Everly suffered the smoke because of Watson's skill.

The video and sound editing of TV news reports was done in network headquarters, distant bureaus around the world, or could even be on the spot near some breaking news scene. The news served up daily by the networks consisted of all three.

The standard tools of a TV editor, which Watson faced with the petite, strong-willed Iris seated beside him, were two machines, each an elaborate video recorder with precise controls and meters. Linked to the recorders and displayed above them was an array of TV monitors and speakers. Alongside and behind the editor, racks contained dozens of tape cassettes received from network cameramen, the network's tape library or affiliate stations.

The objective was to transfer to a master tape, inserted in the left recorder, snippets of scenes and sounds from a multitude of other tapes which were reviewed and rereviewed in the recorder on the right. Transferring a scene, seldom more than three seconds long, from a right-hand tape to the master required artistic and news judgment, infinite patience and a watchmaker's delicacy of touch. In the end, the contents of the master tape would be broadcast on air.

Watson began putting together the opening sequence already agreed on—the burning cars and shattered building. With the speed of a mail sorter, he plucked cassettes from racks, inserted one into the right-hand video machine and, using fast forward, found the required scene. Dissatisfied, he fiddled with rewind, went back and forth, stopped at another shot, returned to the first.”No,” he said, "somewhere there's a wide shot from the opposite angle that's better.” He switched cassettes, viewed and discarded a second, then chose a third and found what he sought.”We should start with this, then go to the first for a closeup.”

Iris agreed and Watson transferred images and sound to the master tape. Dissatisfied with his first and second tries, he wiped them out, then was happy with the third.

Sometime later, Iris said, "Let's see that stock shot of a Nissan.” They viewed it for a second time; it showed a new and spotless Nissan passenger van moving in sunshine down a leafy country lane.”Idyllic,” she commented.”What do you think of using it, then cutting to what's left of the kidnap van after the explosion?”

"It'll work.” After several experiments, Watson combined the two with maximum shock value.

”Beautiful!” Iris murmured.

”You ain't so dumb yourself, kid.” The tape editor picked up his cigar and emitted a cloud of smoke.

Ideas and exchanges continued flowing back and forth. The working alliance of a line producer and tape editor had been described as a duet. It often was.

Within the process, though, the possibilities for prejudice and distortion were infinite. Individuals could be shown doing things out of sequence. A political candidate, for example, might be seen laughing at the sight of homeless people when in reality he had wept, the laughter having occurred earlier and been directed at something else. Using a technique known as "slipping audio,” sound or speech could be transposed from one scene to another, with only an editor and producer knowing of the change. When such things were about to be done, a correspondent who happened to be in an editing room was asked to leave. The correspondent might guess what was intended but prefer not to know.

Officially such practices were frowned on, though they happened at all networks.

Iris had once asked Bob Watson if he ever let his political prejudices—known to be strongly socialist—influence his editing. He answered, "Sure, at election times if I think I can get away with it. It ain't hard to make someone look good, bad or downright ridiculous, providing the producer goes along.”

"Don't ever try it with me,” Iris had said, "or you'll be in trouble.”

Watson had touched his forehead in mock salute.

Now, continuing with the White Plains report, Iris suggested, "Try that shot with the doughnut effect.”

"It's better—Oh, goddamn that inconsiderate schmuck!” The head of a still photographer had popped up, ruining the video shot, a reminder of a perpetual war between press photographers and TV camera crews.

At one point, pictures on the master tape didn't fit the sound track. Watson said, "We need Harry to change some words.”

"He will. Let's finish our stuff first.”

Watson chafed over limiting to three seconds the length of several shots.”In British TV news they let their shots run five; you can build a mood that way, use sound to help. Did you know the Brits have a longer attention span than we do?”

"I've heard people say so.”

"Over here, if you use five-second shots more than occasionally, twenty million assholes'll get bored and change channels.”

When they took a few minutes' break for coffee and Watson had a fresh cigar going, Iris asked him, "How did you get into this?”

He chuckled.”If I told you, you wouldn't believe.”

"Try me."

"I lived in Miami, was the night janitor for a local TV station. One of the young news guys who was on at night saw I was interested and showed me how the edit machines worked; that was back when they were using film, not tape. After that, I'd work like hell to get the cleaning work done fast, Come three or four in the morning, I'd be in an edit room splicing yesterday's outtakes they'd thrown away, putting stories together. After a while I guess I got good.”

"So what happened.”

"One time in Miami, while I was still a janitor, there was a race riot. It was at night. Everything was going wild, a lot of the black area, Liberty City, burning up. The TV station I worked for had called in all its people, but some had trouble getting through. They didn't have a film editor, needed one real bad.”

Iris said, "So you volunteered.”

"At first, nobody'd believe I could do it. Then they got desperate and let me try. Right away, my stuff was going on air. They sent some to the network. The network used it all next day. I stayed on the job ten hours. Then the station manager came in and fired me.”

"Fired you!”

"As a janitor. Said I was goofing off, didn't have my mind on my work.” Watson laughed.”Then he hired me as an editor. Haven't looked back since.”

"That's a lovely story,” Iris said.”When I write my book someday, I'll use it.”

Soon after, at Watson and Iris's suggestion, Partridge changed some words of commentary to match the editing and Watson slipped the rerecording in. Partridge also recorded a final standup for the piece, facing a camera on the street outside the CBA News building.

Since returning from White Plains, Partridge had thought deeply, at moments agonized, about what he would say. If this had been a normal news story a summation would have been easy. What made this story different was Crawford Sloane's involvement. Some of the words he had considered using would, Partridge knew, bring anguish to Crawf. So should he soften them, waffle just a little, or be the hard-nosed newsman with a single standard—objectivity?

In the end, the decision simply happened. Outside the CBA News building, with a camera crew waiting and curious pedestrians watching, Partridge scribbled the sense of what he would say, then, memorizing the notes, ad-libbed.

"The events in White Plains today—a monstrous tragedy for that city's innocent victims—is also the worst of news for my friend and colleague, Crawford Sloane. It means, without doubt, that his wife, young son and father are in the hands of savage, merciless outlaws, their identities and origins unknown. The only thing clear is that whatever their motives, they will stop at nothing to achieve them.

”The nature and timing of the crime at White Plains also raise a question which many are now asking: Have the kidnap victims by this time been removed from the United States and conveyed to some distant place, wherever that may be?

"Harry Partridge, CBA News, New York..”

13

Teddy Cooper was wrong. The kidnappers and their victims had not left the United States. However, according to present plans, a few more hours would see them gone.

For the Medellin group still holed up at Hackensack on Saturday afternoon, tension was at a peak, nerves stretched to their limit. The immediate cause for concern was radio and TV reports about that morning's events at White Plains.

Miguel, restless and anxious, snapped back answers to questions from the others, several times swearing at those who asked them. When Carlos, usually the mildest of the five Colombian men, suggested angrily that booby-trapping the Nissan van with explosives had been una idea, Miguel snatched up a knife. Then, gaining control of himself, he put it down.

In truth, Miguel knew that booby-trapping the passenger van at White Plains had been a bad mistake. The intention was to provide a harsh warning about the kidnappers' seriousness, after they had gone.

After was the operative word.

Miguel had been confident that because of changes in the van's appearance made following the kidnap—eliminating the dark windows and switching from New Jersey to New York license plates—it would remain unnoticed in the White Plains parking garage for five or six days, perhaps much longer.

Clearly, his judgment had been wrong. Worse, that morning's explosion and aftermath had refocused national attention on the Sloane family's kidnappers and raised police and public alertness to a peak, just when they were ready to steal quietly out of the country.

Neither Miguel nor the others cared in the least about the deaths and general mayhem at White Plains. In other circumstances they would have been amused. They cared only to the extent that they themselves were now in greater peril and it need not have occurred.

The conspirators at Hackensack batted questions back and forth: Would police roadblocks, which according to news reports had eased since Thursday, be reinstated? If so, would there be one or more between the hideaway and Teterboro Airport? And what about the airport? Would security be tighter because of the new alert? And even if the four who were going, plus captives, managed to leave Teterboro safely in the private Learjet, what of the stop at Florida's Opa Locka Airport? How great was the danger there?

No one, including Miguel, had any answers. All they knew for sure was that they were committed to going; the machinery of their transfer was in motion and they must take their chances.

Another reason for tension, perhaps inevitable, was the increasing disenchantment of the conspirators with one another. Having been in close confinement for more than a month with only the most limited outside contacts, some personal irritations became magnified into something close to hatred.

Particularly obnoxious to the others was Rafael's habit of coughing up mucus, then spitting it out wherever he found himself, including at the meal table. At one mealtime Carlos was so offended that he called Rafael jun bruto odiosol, prompting Rafael to grab Carlos by the shoulders, throw him against a wall, then pummel him with hamlike fists. Only Miguel's intervention saved Carlos from injury. Since then, Rafael had not changed his habit though Carlos seethed.

Luis and Julio had also become antagonists. The week before, Julio had accused Luis of cheating at cards. A fistfight ensued which neither won, but next day they had swollen faces and the two had scarcely spoken since.

Now, Socorro was another source of friction. Despite her earlier rejection of sexual overtures, last night she had bedded with Carlos. The animal noises had aroused envy in the other men and intense jealousy in Rafael, who had wanted Socorro for himself and reminded her this morning. But, she told him in front of the others during breakfast, "You will have to change your filthy manners before you stick your Yerga in me.”

That situation was complicated by Miguel's own strong desire for Socorro. But as the group's leader he continually reminded himself that he could not afford to join in the competition over her.

His leadership role, he realized, had had other eflects as well. Looking in his shaving mirror recently, he realized he was shedding his unremarkable "everyman”appearance. Less and less did he resemble an innocuous clerk or minor manager, which had once been his natural camouflage. Age and responsibility were giving him the look of what he was—a seasoned, strong commander.

Well, he thought today, all commanders made mistakes and White Plains clearly had been one of his.

Thus, for everyone's varying reasons, it was a big relief as 7:40 P.m. neared and final pullout procedures got underway.

* * *

Julio would drive the hearse, Luis the "Serene Funeral Homes” truck. Both vehicles were loaded and ready.

The hearse contained a single casket in which Jessica lay, under deep sedation. Angus and Nicholas, also unconscious and in closed caskets, were in the truck. On top of each casket Carlos had placed a garland of white chrysanthemums and pink carnations, the flowers he had obtained that morning.

Strangely, the sight of the caskets and flowers subdued the conspirators, as if the roles they had rehearsed in their minds and were about to act out had somehow become easier to assume.

Only Baudelio, fussing around the three caskets, taking lastminute readings with his external equipment, remained solely attuned to immediate concerns, this being one of several times during the next few hours when the success of the enterprise would depend totally on his prior judgments. If one of the captives should regain consciousness and struggle or cry out while the group was en route, especially while being questioned, all could be lost.

Even a suspicion that the caskets were in any way unusual could result in their being opened and the entire plan foiled—as happened at Britain's Stansted Airport in 1984. On that occasion a Nigerian, Dr. Umaru Dikko, having been kidnapped and drugged, was about to be flown to Lagos in a sealed crate. Airport workers reported a strong "medicine-type smell”and British Customs officers insisted that the crate be opened. The victim was discovered, unconscious but alive.

Miguel and Baudelio both knew of that 1984 incident and wanted no repetition.

As the moment to leave for Teterboro approached, Socorro had appeared, strikingly seductive in a black linen dress with matching jacket trimmed with braid. Her hair was tucked under a black cloche and she wore gold earrings and a thin gold necklace. She was crying copiously, the result of Baudelio's prescription of a grain of pepper beneath each lower eyelid. She now gave the same treatment to Rafael; at first he had objected, but Miguel insisted and the big man gave in. Soon after Rafael adjusted to the mild discomfort, his tears rolled out too.

Rafael, Miguel and Baudelio, each wearing their dark suits and ties, looked suitably cast as mourners. If questions were asked, Rafael and Socorro would pose as brother and sister of a dead Colombian woman, killed in a fiery auto accident while visiting the U.S., whose remains were being flown home for burial. And since the woman's young son—so the cover story went—was one of two others killed in the same accident, Rafael and Socorro would be Nicky's sorrowful uncle and aunt. The third "dead”person, Angus, would be described as an older distant relative who had been traveling with the other two.

Baudelio would be a supportive member of the bereaved family, Miguel a close family friend.

Elaborate documentation corroborated the cover story fake death certificates from Pennsylvania where the fatal accident supposedly occurred, graphic photos of a turnpike traffic disaster scene, and even press clippings purportedly from the Philadelphia Inquirer, but in fact printed on a private press. The documents had included new passports for Miguel, Rafael, Socorro and Baudelio and two spare death certificates, one of which had since been used for Angus. The document "package”had been obtained through another of Miguel's Little Colombia contacts and cost more than twenty thousand dollars.

Included in the cover story and false news reports was a critical feature: All three bodies were so badly mangled and burned that they were unrecognizable. Miguel counted on that to deter any opening of the caskets during their removal from the United States.

The hearse and truck now had their engines running and behind them was the Plymouth Reliant, with Carlos in the driver's seat. He would follow the other vehicles at a distance, though ready to intervene in case of trouble. With the exception of Baudelio, they were all armed.

The immediate plan was to proceed directly to the airport, which should take about ten minutes, fifteen at the most.

In the courtyard of the Hackensack house, Miguel checked his watch. 7:35 P.m. He instructed the others, "Everyone aboard.”

Alone he made a final inspection of the house and outbuildings, satisfying himself that no significant traces of their occupancy remained. Only one thing troubled him. The ground where the hole had been dug to bury the cellular phones and other equipment was uneven compared with the area surrounding it. Julio and Luis had done their best to level the earth and spread leaves, but signs of disturbance remained. Miguel supposed it didn't matter greatly and at this point nothing could be done.

Returning to the hearse, he climbed into the front seat and told Julio tersely, "Go!”

Dusk had settled in, with the last traces of sunset on their right as they headed for Teterboro.

* * *

Luis was first to see the flashing police lights ahead. He swore softly as he braked. From the passenger side of the hearse, Miguel saw the lights too, then craned to survey their own position in relation to other traffic. Socorro was in the middle, seated between the two men.

They were on State Highway 17 headed south, with the elevated Passaic Expressway a mile behind. Traffic both ways on 17 was heavy. Between themselves and the flashing lights there was no turnoff to the right, and central dividers made a U-turn out of the question. Miguel, beginning to sweat, tightened his hold on himself and instructed Luis, "Keep going.” He checked to make sure the "Serene Funeral Homes” truck was immediately behind.

Carlos in the Plymouth would be farther back, though it was impossible to see him.

Now they could see that the traffic ahead was being funneled into two right-hand lanes by several state troopers. Between the lanes was some kind of portable structure like a tollbooth and additional troopers appeared to be speaking with drivers as they stopped. Off to the right were more state police vehicles and flashing lights.

Miguel told the other two, "Stay cool. Leave any talking to me.,,

They inched forward for another ten minutes before gaining a better view of the head of the line. Even then it was not clear exactly what was happening; by now it was dark, the many lights confusing. It appeared, though, that after exchanges between the police and each vehicle's occupants, some cars and trucks were being directed to the side for closer examination, others waved on.

Miguel checked his watch. Almost 8 P.m. There was no way they could make the Learjet rendezvous on time.

Despite warning the others to stay cool, Miguel's own tension was mounting. After their remarkable success so far, was this to be the end of the line, resulting in capture or death in a shoot-out with police? Of the two, Miguel knew he would prefer death. The chances of bluffing their way out of this present jeopardy seemed slight. He wondered: Was it best to make a run for it now, at least put up a fight, or should they continue sitting here, letting the minutes tick away, with their only hope the unlikely gamble of getting through?

Luis muttered, "The fuckers are looking for us!” Reaching under his coat, he produced a Walther P38 pistol and laid it on the seat beside him.

Miguel snarled, "Keep that out of sight!”

Luis covered the gun with a newspaper.

Beside him, Miguel felt Socorro tremble. He put a hand on her arm and the movement stopped. He saw her looking steadily ahead, her eyes on an approaching state trooper.

The uniformed figure appeared to be alone, unattached to the group at the head of the line. He was glancing into stopped cars as he passed, pausing occasionally, apparently responding to questions. When the officer was a few yards away Miguel decided to take the initiative. He depressed the switch which lowered the electric window beside him.

”Officer,” Miguel called out, "can you please tell me what this is about?”

The state trooper, who seemed little more than a youth, came closer. A name tag identified him as "Quiles.”

"It's just a driver sobriety check, sir, in the interest of public safety,” he said with a smile that seemed forced.

Miguel didn't believe him.

Then, as the trooper took in the hearse and its contents, he added, "I hope you haven't all come from a wake where there was a big booze-up.”

It was a feeble lunge at humor which came out clumsily, but Miguel saw his chance and grabbed it. Riveting Trooper Quiles with a glare, he said sternly, "If that was meant as a joke, officer, it was in extremely poor taste.”

The young trooper's expression changed instantly. He said, chagrined, "I'm sorry . . .”

As if he hadn't heard, Miguel pressed on, "The lady beside me has been visiting this country with her sister. That is her beloved sister in the casket behind us—tragically killed in a traffic accident, along with two others in the funeral van behind. Their bodies are being flown from here to be buried in their own land. We have an airplane waiting at Teterboro and we appreciate neither your humor nor the delay.”

Taking her cue, Socorro turned her head so the trooper could see tears streaming down her face.

Quiles said penitently, "I said I was sorry, sir and madam. It just slipped out. I do apologize.”

"We accept your apology, officer,” Miguel said with dignity.”Now, I wonder if you could help us proceed on our way.”

"Hold on, please.” The trooper walked quickly forward to the head of the line where he consulted a sergeant. The sergeant listened, looked their way, then nodded. The young officer returned.

He told Miguel, "I'm afraid we're all a bit on edge, sir.” Then lowering his voice in confidence, "The truth is, what's happening here is a cover and we're really looking for those kidnappers. Did you hear what they did in White Plains today?”

"Yes, I did,” Miguel answered gravely.”It was terrible.”

The car immediately ahead had moved forward, leaving a gap.

”Both of your drivers can pass around to the left, sir. Just follow me to the barrier, then join the onward traffic. Again, I'm sorry for what I said.”

The trooper motioned the hearse and GMC truck out of line, at the same time signaling a car behind to continue forward. Glancing back, Miguel could still see no sign of the Plymouth Reliant. Well, he reasoned, Carlos would have to take care of himself. The trooper preceded them on foot until they were level with the portable booth they had seen from a distance, then waved them by. The road ahead was clear.

As the hearse passed him, Trooper Quiles snapped a smart salute, holding it until both vehicles were gone.

Put to its first test, Miguel thought, their cover story had worked. With the challenge of Teterboro still to come, he wondered: Would it work again?

* * *

During the weeks they had been at Hackensack, Miguel had visited Teterboro Airport twice to study the layout.

It was a busy airport used exclusively by private planes. During an average twenty-four hours some four hundred flights might land and take off, many of them at night. About a hundred aircraft made Teterboro their base and were parked along the northeast perimeter. Along the northwest perimeter were the headquarters buildings of six companies which provided operating services for visiting and resident aircraft. Each company had a private entrance to the airport and handled its own security.

Of Teterboro's six service companies, the largest was Brunswick Aviation, the one which, at Miguel's suggestion, the incoming Leatjet 55LR from Colombia would use.

During one of his visits Miguel masqueraded as the owner of a private plane and met with Brunswick's general manager as well as the managers of two other companies. From those meetings it became evident that, for the purpose of loading an aircraft, certain areas of the airport were more secluded and private than others. The least private and most popular arrival and parking area was known as the Table, centrally located near the operators' buildings.

The least-used parking area, regarded as inconvenient, was at the south end. Requests for space there were granted gladly since it relieved pressure at the Table. Also nearby was a locked gate, opened on request by any of the Teterboro operating companies.

Armed with this knowledge, Miguel had sent a message to Bogoti through his contact at New York's Colombian consulate, advising that the incoming Leaijet should request space at the south end near the gate. Then today, making one final use of a cellular phone, he had called Brunswick Aviation requesting that the south gate be opened from 7:45 to 8:15 P.m.

Miguel knew from his earlier conversations at Teterboro that such a request was not unusual. Owners of private aircraft often had business they preferred others not to know about and the airport's operators had a reputation for discretion. One of the airport managers had even described to Miguel an incident concerning an incoming load of marijuana.

After observing suspicious-looking bales being moved from an airplane to a truck, the manager had telephoned police, prompting the drug traffickers' arrest. But afterward the aircraft owner, a regular Teterboro user, complained bitterly about invasion of his privacy when, as he put it, "This is supposed to be a discreet, dependable airport.”

Now, as the hearse and truck neared Teterboro, Miguel directed Luis toward the south gate. Though he did not expect to avoid security attention entirely, he was gambling on its being more informal there than at a main entrance.

There had been a stressful silence in the hearse since the encounter with the State Police. But with tensions easing, Socorro told Miguel, "Back there you were magnifico”

“Yeah,” Luis added.

Miguel shrugged.”Don't relax. There may be more to come.”

As they neared the airport fence, he checked his watch: 8:25. They were already a half hour late, also ten minutes after the time he had asked for the south gate to stay open.

When the headlights of the hearse lit up the gate, it was closed and locked. Beyond was darkness—no one in sight. Frustrated, Miguel slammed a fist onto the dashboard, exclaiming, "Mierda”

Luis got out of the hearse to inspect the lock. From the truck behind, Rafael joined him, then walked back to the hearse.”I can blow that mother open with one bullet,” he told Miguel.

Miguel shook his head, wondering why one of the Learjet pilots had not met them here. In the darkness he could make out several parked aircraft inside the fence, but no lights or activity. Could the flight have been delayed? Whatever the answer, he knew they must use the Brunswick Aviation main entrance.

He told Luis and Rafael, "Get back in.”

As they turned away from the south gate, the Plymouth Reliant fell in behind. Obviously, Carlos had come safely through the police roadblock. His instructions were to follow as far as the airport entrance, then wait outside until the hearse and truck returned.

Approaching the brightly lit Brunswick building, they saw that another gate blocked their way. Beside it, at the doorway to a guard post, stood a uniformed security man. Next to him a tall, balding man in civilian clothes was peering intently at the oncoming hearse. A police detective? Once more Miguel felt a tightening of his gut.

The second man stepped forward. Probably in his early fifties, he moved with authority. Luis lowered his window and the man asked, "Do you have an uncommon shipment for Seftor Pizarro?”

A wave of relief swept over Miguel. It was a coded question, prearranged. He used an answering code he had memorized, "The consignment is ready for transfer and all papers are in order.”

The newcomer nodded.”I'm your pilot. Name's Underhill.” His accent was American.”Goddamn, you're late!”

"We had problems.”

"Don't bother me with them. I've filed a flight plan. Let's get going.” As he went around to the passenger side, Underhill motioned to the guard and the gate swung open.

Clearly, there was to be no security check, no police inspection. Their cover story, so painstakingly prepared, was not needed. Miguel found he didn't mind at all.

It was a squeeze with four on the hearse front seat, but they managed to close the door. The pilot directed Luis as the hearse moved onto a taxi strip between blue lights and headed for the airport's south side. The GMC truck was behind.

Several aircraft loomed ahead. The pilot pointed to the largest, a Learjet 55LR. From its shadows a figure emerged.

Underhill said tersely, "Faulkner. Copilot.”

On the Learjet's left side a clamshell door was open; the lower half included steps from the fuselage to the ground. The copilot had gone inside and lights were coming on.

Luis maneuvered the back of the hearse close to the Lear's steps for unloading. The truck stopped a short distance away and from it, Julio, Rafael and Baudelio jumped down.

With everyone assembled around the Learjet doorway, Underhill asked, "How many live ones are flying?”

"Four,” Miguel answered.

”I need those names for the manifest,” the pilot said, "also the names of the dead. Apart from that, Faulkner and I don't want to, know anything about you or your business. We're providing a contract charter flight. Nothing else.”

Miguel nodded. He had no doubt both pilots would earn golden pay for this journey tonight. The Latin America-U.S. air routes were loaded with air crews, Americans and others, who flirted with the law, taking high risks for big money. As for these two, Miguel didn't care one way or the other about their wish to distance themselves from what was happening. He doubted, though, that it would make any difference if they fell into real trouble. The pilots would share it too.

With the copilot supervising and Rafael, Julio, Luis and Miguel lifting, the first casket containing Jessica was transferred from the hearse to the jet. Making the turn through the fuselage doorway was difficult, with barely an inch to spare. Inside, the right-side seats had been removed. Straps to hold cargo in place—in this instance the caskets—were attached to tracks on the floor and other fittings overhead.

By the time the first casket was loaded, the hearse had been moved away and the truck backed in. The other two caskets followed speedily, after which Miguel, Baudelio, Socorro and Rafael boarded and the clamshell door was closed. No one bothered with goodbyes. As Miguel seated himself and looked through a window, the lights of the two vehicles were already receding.

With the copilot still fastening straps around the caskets, the pilot flipped switches in the cockpit and the whine of engines began. The copilot went forward and the radio crackled as tower clearance was asked for and received. Moments later they were taxiing.

Reaching over from his seat, Baudelio began connecting external monitoring equipment to the caskets. He continued to work at it as the Learjet took off, climbed swiftly through the darkness and headed south for Florida.

* * *

On the ground, some unfinished business remained.

As the hearse and GMC truck emerged from the airport, Carlos, waiting outside, put the Plymouth in gear and followed the hearse to Paterson, some ten miles west. There Luis drove the hearse to a modest funeral home which had been randomly selected in advance and parked on the establishment's lot. He left the keys inside, walked quickly to the Plymouth and drove away with Carlos.

Perhaps, in the morning, the funeral home owner would wrestle with his conscience about calling police or waiting to see what happened, if anything, about an apparent gift of a valuable hearse. Whatever the outcome, Carlos, Luis and the others would be far away.

From Paterson, Carlos and Luis traveled six miles north to Ridgewood where Julio had, by this time, driven the GMC truck. He left it outside the premises of a used-truck dealership which had closed for the night. It seemed possible that an unclaimed, almost-new truck might eventually be absorbed, its presence never reported.

The other two picked up Julio at a prearranged point nearby, then the trio returned to the Hackensack hideaway for the last time. There, Julio and Luis switched to the Chevrolet Celebrity and Ford Tempo. Without further delay, they and Carlos dispersed.

They would leave the cars at widely divergent points, with the doors unlocked and ignition keys in place—the last in the hope that someone would steal the cars, thus making any connection with the Sloane family kidnapping highly improbable.

14

It was not until after the first-feed Saturday National Evening News that the special task force meeting, interrupted by that morning's harrowing events at White Plains, resumed at CDA News headquarters. By then it was 7:10 P.m. and the task force members had resignedly canceled any weekend plans. It was often said of TV news people that their irregular working hours, long absences from home and the impossibility of leading any predictable social life produced one of the highest occupational divorce rates.

Seated once more at the head of the conference-room table, Harry Partridge surveyed the others—Rita, Norman Jaeger, Iris Everly, Karl Owens, Teddy Cooper. Most looked tired; Iris, for once, was less than immaculate, her hair awry and white blouse ink-stained. Jaeger, in shirtsleeves, had his chair tilted back, feet up on the table.

The room itself was messy, with waste containers overflowing, ash trays full, dirty coffee cups abounding and discarded newspapers littering the floor. A price paid for keeping the task force offices locked was that cleaners had been unable to get in. Rita reminded herself to arrange for the place to be spruced up before Monday morning.

The "Sequence of Events”and "Miscellaneous”boards had been added to considerably. The most recent contribution was a summary of that morning's White Plains havoc, typed by Partridge. Frustratingly, though, there was still nothing conclusive on the boards about the kidnappers' identities or their victims' whereabouts.

”Reports, anyone?” Partridge asked.

Jaeger, who had lowered his feet and propelled his chair to the table, raised a hand.

”Go ahead, Norm.”

The veteran producer spoke in his quiet, scholarly fashion.”For most of today I've been telephoning Europe and the Middle East—our bureau chiefs, correspondents, stringers, fixers asking questions: What have they heard that is fresh or unusual about terrorist activity? Are there signs of peculiar movements of terrorism people? Have any terrorists, especially groups, disappeared from sight recently? If they have, is it possible they could be in the United States? And so on.”

Jaeger paused, shuffling notes, then continued, "There are some semi-positive answers. A whole group of Hezbollah disappeared from Beirut a month ago and haven't surfaced. But rumor puts them in Turkey, planning a new attack on Jews, and there's confirmation from Ankara that the Turkish police are searching for them. No proof, though. They could be anywhere.”The FARL—Lebanese Armed Revolutionary Factions are said to have people on the move, but three separate reports, including one from Paris, say that they're in France. Again no proof. Abu Nidal has disappeared from Syria and is believed to be in Italy where there are rumbles that he, the Islamic Jihad and Red Brigades are plotting something vicious.” Jaeger threw up his hands.”All these hoodlums are like slippery shadows, though the sources I've used have been reliable in the past.”

Leslie Chippingham entered the conference room, followed a moment later by Crawford Sloane. They joined the others at the table. As the meeting fell silent, the news president urged, "Carry on, please.”

As Jaeger continued, Partridge observed Sloane and thought the anchorman looked ghastly, even more pale and gaunt than yesterday, though it was not surprising with the growing strain.

Jaeger said, "The intelligence grapevine reports some more individual terrorist movements. I won't bother you with details except to say they're apparently confined to Europe and the Middle East. More important, the people I talked to don't believe there's been any terrorist exodus, certainly not in sizable numbers, to the U.S. or Canada. If there were, they say it's unlikely there'd be no word at all. But I've told everybody to keep looking, listening and reporting.”

"Thanks, Norm.” Partridge turned to Karl Owens.”I know you've been inquiring southward, Karl. Any results?”

"Nothing really positive.” The younger producer had no need to shuffle notes from his day of telephoning. Typical of his precise methodology, he had each phone call summarized on a four-by-six card, the handwriting neat, the cards sorted into order.

”I've talked with the same kind of contacts as Norm, asking similar questions—mine in Managua, San Salvador, Havana, La Paz, Buenos Aires, Tegucigalpa, Lima, Santiago, BogotA, Brasilia, Mexico City. As always, there's terrorist activity in most of those places, also reports about terrorists changing countries, crossing borders like commuters switching trains. But nothing in the intelligence mill fits a group movement of the kind we're looking for. I did stumble on one thing. I'm still working on it . . .”

"Tell us,” Partridge said.”We'll take it raw.”

"Well, it's something from Colombia. About a guy called Ulises Rodriguez.”

"A particularly nasty terrorist,” Rita said.”I've heard him referred to as the Abu Nidal of Latin America.”

"He's all of that,” Owens agreed, "and he's also believed to have been involved in several Colombian kidnappings. They don't get reported much here, but they happen all the time. Well, three months ago Rodriguez was reported as being in Bogota, then he simply disappeared. Those who should know are convinced he's active somewhere. There was a rumor he might have gone to London, but wherever he is, he's stayed successfully out of sight since June.”

Owens paused, referring to a card.”Now something else: On a hunch I called a Washington contact in U.S. Immigration and floated Rodriguez's name. Later, my source called me back and said that three months ago, which is about the time Rodriguez dropped out of sight, Immigration was warned by the CIA that he might attempt a U.S. entry through Miami. There's a federal arrest warrant out for him and Miami Immigration and Customs went on red alert. But he didn't show.”

"Or managed to get through undetected,” Iris Everly added.

”That's possible. Or he could have come in through a different doorway—from London, perhaps, if the rumor I mentioned was right. That's something else about him. Rodriguez studied English at Berkeley and speaks it without an accent—or, rather, with an American accent. What I'm saying is, he can blend in.”

"This gets interesting,” Rita said.”Is there anything more?”

Owens nodded.”A little.”

The others around the table were listening intently and Partridge reflected that only those in the news business understood just how much information could be assembled through contacts and persistent telephoning.

”The little that's on record about Rodriguez,” Owens said, "includes what I've just told you and that be graduated from Berkeley with the class of '72.”

Partridge asked, "Are there pictures of him?”

Owens shook his head.”I asked Immigration and came up nil. They say no one has a photo, which includes the CIA. Rodriguez has been careful. However, on that score we may have got lucky.”

"For chrissakes, Karl!” Rita complained.”If you must act like a novelist, get on with the story!”

Owens smiled. Patient plodding was his personal style. It worked and he had no intention of changing it for Abrams or anyone else.

”After learning about Rodriguez I called our San Francisco bureau and asked to have someone sent over to Berkeley to do some checking.” He glanced at Chippingham.”I invoked your name, Les. Said you'd authorized zip priority.”

The news president nodded as Owens continued.

”They sent Fiona Gowan who happens to be a Berkeley graduate, knows her way around. Fiona got lucky, especially on Saturday and—if you'll believe it—located an English Department faculty member who actually remembers Rodriguez from the Class of '72.”

Rita sighed.”We believe it.” Her tone said: Get on!

"Rodriguez, it seems, was a loner, had no close friends. Something else the faculty guy recalled was that Rodriguez was camera-shy, would never let anyone take his picture. The Daily Cal, the student newspaper, wanted to feature him in a group of foreign students; he turned them down. Eventually it got to be a joke, so a classmate who was a pretty good artist did a charcoal sketch of Rodriguez without his knowing. When the artist showed it around, Rodriguez flew into a rage. Then he offered to buy the picture and did, paying more than it was worth. The Catch-22 was that the artist had already made a dozen copies which he doled out to his friends. Rodriguez never knew that.”

"Those copies Partridge began.

”We're on to it, Harry.” Owens smiled, still refusing to be hurried.”Fiona's back in San Francisco, been working the phones all afternoon. It was a big job because the Berkeley English class of '72 had three hundred and eighty-eight members. Anyway she managed to scrape up names and some alumni home numbers, one leading to another. Just before this meeting she called me to say she's located one of the copy sketches and will have it by tomorrow. Soon as it's in, San Fran bureau will transmit it to us.”

There was an approving murmur around the table.”Nice staff work,” Chippingham said.”Thank Fiona for me.”

"We should keep a sense of proportion, though,” Owens pointed out.”At the moment we've nothing more than coincidence and it's only a guess that Rodriguez might be involved with our kidnap. Also, that charcoal drawing is twenty years old.”

"People don't change all that much, even in twenty years,” Partridge said.”What we can do is show the picture around Larchmont and ask if anyone remembers seeing him. Anything else?”

"Washington bureau checked in,” Rita said.”They say the FBI has nothing new. Their forensic people are working on what was left of the Nissan van at White Plains, but they're not hopeful. Just as Salerno said on Friday's broadcast, the FBI in kidnap cases depend on the kidnappers making contact.”

Partridge looked down the table toward Sloane.”I'm sorry, Crawf, but that seems to be all we have.”

Rita reminded him, "Except for Teddy's idea.”

Sloane said sharply, "What idea? I haven't heard it.”

"Best let Teddy explain,” Partridge said. He nodded to the young Englishman, also seated at the table, and Cooper brightened as attention focused on him.

”It's a possible way to find out where the snatchers had their hideout, Mr. S. Even though by now I'm sure they've scarpered.”

Chippingham asked, "If they've gone, what good would that do us?”

Sloane gestured impatiently.”Never mind that. I want to hear the idea.”

Despite the intervention, Cooper answered Chippingham first.”Traces, Mr. C. There's always a chance people leave traces, showing who they are, where they came from, maybe even where they've gone.”

Including the others in his remarks, Cooper repeated the proposal made to Partridge and Rita earlier that day . . . described the kind of property and location he visualized as the kidnappers' headquarters . . . his belief the kidnappers could have obtained their base by responding to newspaper advertising . . . the plan to examine classified ads appearing over the past three months in newspapers within twenty-five miles of Larchmont . . . Objective of the search: to match the theoretical HQ description . . . The detail work, in libraries and newspaper offices, to be done by bright young people hired especially . . . Later, the same group, under supervision, would investigate possible locations the search produced . . .

Cooper ended, "It's a long shot, I admit.”

"I wouldn't even put it that high,” Chippingham said. He had been frowning during the recital, his frown deepening as the hiring suggestion emerged.”How many people are we talking?”

Rita said, "I've done some checking. In the area we're speaking of, there are approximately a hundred and sixty newspapers, including dailies and weeklies. Libraries don't carry back numbers of more than a few of those, so mostly it would mean going to publication offices and searching through files. Doing that, reading back through three months of ads and making notes, would be a monumental job. But if it's to be of value, it will need to be done fast . . .”

Chippingham cut in.”Will someone please answer my question. How many people?”

"I estimate sixty,” Rita told him.”On top of that, some supervision.”

Chippingham turned to Partridge.”Harry, are you seriously recommending this?” His tone conveyed, You couldn't be that crazy!

Partridge hesitated. He shared Chippingham's doubts. This morning, during the drive back from White Plains, he had mentally labeled Teddy's notion a harebrained scheme; nothing since then had changed his mind. Then he reasoned: Sometimes taking a stand was a good idea, even with a long shot.

”Yes, Les,” he said, "I'm recommending it. It's my opinion that we ought to try everything. Right now, we aren't overburdened with leads or fresh ideas.”

Chippingham was unhappy with the answer. He felt apprehensive at the thought of employing sixty extra people, plus their travel and other expenses, for what could turn out to be several weeks—to say nothing of the supervisory help Rita had mentioned. That kind of hiring always added up to horrendous sums. Of course, in the old free-spending days of TV news he wouldn't have thought twice about it. No one did. But now, Margot Lloyd-Mason's edict about the kidnap task force echoed in his mind: "I don't want anyone . . . going wild about spending money . , . No activity exceeding budget is to be embarked on without my advance approval.

”Well, Chippingham thought, as much as anyone else he wanted to find out where Jessica, the Sloane kid and the old man had been taken and, if he had to, he'd go to bat with Margot on the money crunch. But it would have to be on behalf of something he believed in and not this piece of idiot shit from the arrogant Limey.

”Harry, I'm going to veto that one, at least for the time being,” Chippingham said.”I simply don't think it has enough possibility to justify the effort.” Even now, he supposed, if the others knew the part of his thinking that included Margot, they would call him craven. Well, never mind, he had problems including hanging on to his own job—they didn't know about.

Jaeger began, "I would have thought, Les . . .”

Before he could finish, Crawford Sloane said, "Norm, let me.” As Jaeger subsided, the anchorman's voice sharpened.”When you talk about not justifying the effort, Les, aren't you really saying you won't spend the money?”

"That's a factor; you know it always is. But mostly it's a judgment call. What's been suggested isn't a good idea.”

"Perhaps you have a better one,”

“Not at this moment.”

Sloane said icily, "Then I have a question and I'd like an honest answer. Has Margot Lloyd-Mason put a spending freeze on?”

Chippingham said uneasily, "We've discussed budget, that's all.” He added, "Can you and I talk privately?”

"No!” Sloane roared, jumping to his feet, glaring at Chippingham.”No goddamn privacy for that cold-hearted bitch! You answered my question. There is a money freeze.”

"It's not significant. For anything worthwhile, I'll simply call Stonehenge . . .”

Sloane stormed, "And what I'll call is a press conference right here, tonight! To tell the world that while my family is suffering in some hellhole, god knows where, this wealthy network is huddling with accountants, reviewing budgets, haggling over pennies . . .”

Chippingham protested, "No one's haggling! Crawf, this isn't necessary. I'm sorry.”

"And what the hell good does that do?”

The others around the table could scarcely believe what they were hearing: In the first place, that a spending freeze had been applied secretly to their own project, and second, in the present desperate situation, not to try all possibilities was inconceivable.

Something else was equally incredible: That CBA should so offend its most illustrious citizen, the senior anchorman. Margot Lloyd-Mason had been mentioned; therefore it could only be concluded she represented the ax-wielding hand of Globanic Industries.

Norman Jaeger stood up too, the simplest form of protest. He said quietly, "Harry thinks we should give Teddy's idea a chance. So do I”

Karl Owens joined him.”Me too.”

"Add me to the list.” Iris Everly.

Rita, a touch reluctantly, caring about Chippingham, said, "I guess you'd better count me in.”

"Okay, okay, let's cut the histrionics,” Chippingham said. He realized he had been guilty of misjudgement, knew that either way he was the loser, and silently cursed Margot.”I reverse myself. Maybe I was wrong. Crawf, we'll go ahead.”

But he wouldn't, Chippingham, decided, go to Margot and ask for approval; he knew too well, had known from the beginning, what her response would be. He would authorize the expense and take his chances.

Rita, practical as always and seeking to defuse the scene, said, "If we're moving on this, we can't afford to lose time. We should have researchers working by Monday. So where do we begin?”

"We'll call in Uncle Arthur,” Chippingham said.”I'll speak to him at home tonight and have him here tomorrow to begin recruiting.”

Crawford Sloane brightened.”A good idea.”

Teddy Cooper, seated beside Jaeger, whispered, "Who the hell is Uncle Arthur?”

Jaeger chuckled.”You haven't met Uncle Arthur! Tomorrow, my young friend, you are in for a unique experience.”

* * *

"The drinks are on me,” Chippingham said. Mentally he added, I brought you all here to bind up any minor wounds.

He and the others had adjourned to Sfuzzi, a restaurant and bar near Lincoln Center with a nouveau—Ancient Roman decor. It was a regular rendezvous for TV news people. Though Sfuzzi's was crowded on a Saturday night, they managed to squeeze around a table supplemented by extra chairs.

Chippingham had invited everyone who had been at the task force meeting, including Sloane, but the anchorman declined, deciding to go home to Larchmont with his FBI escort, Otis Havelock. There they would wait through another night for the hoped—for telephone message from the kidnappers.

When everyone had their drinks and with tensions eased, Partridge said, "Les, there's something I think needs saying. At the best of times, I wouldn't want your job. But especially right now, I'm certain that none of us here could juggle the priorities and people that you're having to—at least, not any better.”

Chippingham looked at Partridge gratefully and nodded. It was a testament of understanding from someone Chippingham. respected and was a reminder from Partridge to the others that not all issues were straightforward or decisions easy.

”Harry,” the news president said, "I know the way you work, and that you get a 'feel' for situations quickly. Has that happened with this story?”

"I think so, yes.” Partridge glanced toward Teddy Cooper.”Teddy believes our birds have flown the country; I've come to that conclusion too. But something else I have an instinct about is that we're close to a breakthrough—either through our doing or it will happen. Then we'll know about the kidnappers: who and where.”

"And when we do?”

"When it happens,” Partridge said.”I'll be on my way. Wherever the break leads, I want to be there fast and first.”

"You shall be,” Chippingham said.”And I promise you'll get all the support you need.”

Partridge laughed and looked around the table.”Remember that, everybody. You all heard.”

"We sure did,” Jaeger said.”Les, if we have to, we'll remind you of those words.”

Chippingham shook his head.”That won't be needed.”

The talk continued. While it did, Rita appeared to be searching in her bag, though what she was doing was scribbling on a piece of paper. Discreetly, under the table, she put it into Chippingham's hands.

He waited until attention was directed away from him, then looked down. The note read: Les, feel like getting laid? Let's get out of here.

15

They went to Rita's. Her apartment was on West Seventy-second, only a short taxi ride from Sfuzzi's. Chippingham was living farther uptown in the Eighties while his and Stasia's divorce was being fought over, but the apartment was small, cheap for New York, and he wasn't proud of it. He missed the plush Sutton Place co-op he and Stasia had shared for a decade before their breakup. The co-op was forbidden territory to him now, a lost utopia. Stasia's lawyers had seen to that.

Anyway, right now he and Rita wanted the nearest private place. Their hands were busy in the taxi until he told her, "If you keep doing that, I'll explode like Vesuvius and it may be months before the volcano's in business again.”

She laughed and said, "Not you!” but desisted just the same.

On the way, Chippingham had the cab driver stop at a newsstand. He left the taxi and returned burdened with the early Sunday editions of the New York Times, Daily News, and Post.

”At least I know where I rate in your priorities,” Rita observed.”I only hope you're not planning to read those before . . .”

“Later,” he assured her.”Much, much later.”

Even as he spoke, Chippingham wondered if he would ever grow up where women were concerned. Probably not, or at least not until his libido burned lower. Some men, he knew, would envy his virility which, with his fiftieth birthday only a few months away, was almost as good as when he was half that age. On the other hand, a permanent hominess had its penalties.

While Rita excited him now, as she had on earlier occasions, and he knew there was pleasure ahead for them both, he knew also that in an hour or two he would ask himself. Was it worth all the trouble? Along the same lines, he often wondered: Had his sexual dalliances been worth losing a wife he genuinely cared about and, at the same time, putting his entire career in jeopardy—the last a reality made clear by Margot Lloyd-Mason during their recent meeting at Stonehenge?

Why did he do it? In part, because he could never resist a carnal romp when opportunity arose and, in the news business, such openings were legion. Then there was the thrill of the chase, which never lessened, and finally the invasion and physical fulfilment—getting and giving, both equally important.

Les Chippingham kept a notebook, carefully hidden, recording his sexual conquests—a list of names in a special code that only he could decipher. All the names were women he had liked and some who, for a while, he truly loved.

Rita's name, recently added to his book, was the one hundred and twenty-seventh entry. Chippingham tried not to think of the list as a scorecard, though in a way it was.

Some people who led quieter or more innocent lives might find that figure excessive, perhaps difficult to believe. But those employed in television or working in any other creative field artists, actors, writers—would have no trouble believing it at all.

He doubted if Stasia had any idea of the number of his side excursions—which brought to mind another recurring question: Was there any way to repair their marriage, a chance of returning to the closeness he and Stasia had enjoyed even while she knew of his philandering? He wished the answer could be yes, but knew it was too late. Stasia's bitterness and hurt were overwhelming now. A few weeks ago he had tried writing her a letter with a tentative approach. Stasia's lawyer had replied, warning Chippingham not to communicate directly with his client again.

Well, he reflected, even if that particular ball game was lost, nothing would hinder the pleasure of the next hour or two with Rita.

Rita, too, had been considering relationships, though on a simpler level. She had never married, never having met an available man to whom she wanted to tie herself permanently. As to her current affair with Les, she knew there was no long term future. Having known and watched him for a long time, she believed Les incapable of fidelity. He moved from one woman to the next with the casualness that other men changed underwear. What he did have, though, was that big, long body with accessories to match, so that a sexual escapade with him was a euphoric, joyous, heavenly dream, As they arrived at her apartment building and Les paid off the taxi, she was dreaming of it now.

* * *

Rita shut and bolted her apartment door and a moment later they were kissing. Then, wasting no more time, she led the way to her bedroom as Les followed, dropping his jacket, tossing his tie aside, unbuttoning his shirt.

The bedroom was typical Rita—organized, yet in a casual, comfortable way with pastel-colored chintzes, and cushions everywhere. Deftly, she pulled back and roughly folded the bedspread, throwing it onto a nearby armchair. She undressed quickly, flinging her clothes in all directions, an instinctive lover's gesture of shedding inhibitions too. As each garment flew she smiled across at Les. He in turn appraised her as he slipped out of his undershorts, sending them sailing after Rita's panties and brassiere.

As he had before, he liked what he saw.

Rita, a natural brunette, began dying her hair in her early thirties when a few gray strands appeared. But after changing her job and image from correspondent to producer, she let nature have its way and now her hair was an attractive mixture of dark brown and silver. Her figure, too, had matured and she carried an extra ten pounds over an earlier sleek hundred and twenty.”You could say,” she told Les on the first occasion he had viewed her nude, "that I went from Aphrodite to a comfortable Venus.”

"I'll take your Venus,” he had said.

Either way, Rita's five-foot-six body was in excellent shape, the hips well rounded, breasts high and firm.

As her eyes dropped, she knew Les needed no further arousal. Yet he came to her slowly, bending down to kiss her forehead, her eyelids and her mouth. Then, gently cupping his hands around her breasts, he drew the nipples, each in turn, into his mouth. A quiver of bliss ran through her as she felt them harden.

Breathing deeply, each movement of her body a growing delight, Rita's hands reached down to Les's groin, moving her fingers gently, slowly, her touch feather—light, experienced. She felt his whole body stiffen, heard the sharp intake of his breath and a soft low sigh of pleasure.

Gently, Chippingham. pushed her down on the bed, his hands and tongue continuing to explore the sweet, warm wetness of her body. When neither could wait any longer, he slid inside her. Rita cried out, then moments later soared to a final, glorious peak.

Rita floated for a while, savoring the lazy moments until her ever-active mind posed questions. Each time, their lovemaking was so smooth, so perfect, so experienced, that she wondered: Was it always like this for the women who had sex with Les? She supposed it must be. He had a way of handling a woman's body that had given Rita—and probably all the others —an undiluted ecstasy. And Rita's own excitement undoubtedly enhanced his own. Only after her exquisite climax—and how wonderful not to have to fake or strain toward it!—did he, too, explode within her.

Later, bodies damp, sweat mingling in its own sweet union, they lay side by side breathing deeply, evenly.

”Leslie Chippingham,” Rita said, "has anyone told you you're the world's most perfect lover?”

He laughed, then kissed her.”Loving is poetry. Poetry feeds on inspiration. At this moment, you are mine.”

"You're good with words, too,” she told him.”Maybe you should be in the news business.”

After a while they slept, then, awakening, made love again.

* * *

Eventually, inevitably, Chippingham and Rita turned from sex to the pile of Sunday papers which Les had stopped to buy. They spread them on the bed and he started with the Times, Rita the Post.

Both devoured the latest developments from the Sloane family kidnap, emphasis being on Saturday morning's explosion at White Plains in the vehicle the kidnappers had used, and the resulting devastation. From a professional viewpoint, Rita was pleased to see that CBA News had missed nothing major in its Saturday evening coverage. While the print press had longer stories with more reactions, the essentials were the same.

From the kidnap, Rita and Les moved on to major national and international stories to which they had paid less than usual attention in the past few days. Neither spent any time reading, and scarcely noticed, a single-column report appearing only in the Post and buried on an inside page.

UN DIPLOMAT

SLAYS LOVER, AND SELF

IN JEALOUS RAGE

A United Nations diplomat, Jose Antonio Salaverry, and his woman friend, Helga Efferen, were found shot dead Saturday in Salaverry's 48th St. apartment. Police describe the shootings as "a jealous lover's murder-suicide.”

Salaverry was a member of the Peruvian delegation to the UN. Efferen, an American citizen, formerly a Lebanese immigrant, was employed by the American-Amazonas Bank at its Dag Hammarskjold Plaza branch.

The bodies of the dead couple were discovered early Saturday by a janitor. A medical examiner fixed the time of death between 8 and 11 p.m. the previous day. Substantial evidence, police say, points to the discovery by Salaverry that Efferen was using his apartment as a base for her sexual affairs with other men. Enraged, he shot her, then himself.

16

With the grace of a gull the Learjet 55LR descended through the night, its powerful engines momentarily curbed. It settled toward two parallel strands of lights ahead, marking runway one-eight of Opa Locka Airport. Beyond the airport were the myriad lights of Greater Miami, their reflection a vast halo in the sky.

From his seat in the passenger cabin Miguel peered through a window, hoping that America's lights and all they represented would be behind him soon.

He checked his watch. 11: 18 P.m. The flight from Teterboro had taken slightly more than two and a quarter hours.

Rafael, in the seat ahead, was watching the approaching lights. Socorro, beside him, appeared to be dozing.

Miguel turned his head toward Baudelio who, a few feet away, was continuing to monitor the three caskets, using the external equipment he had fastened to them. Baudelio nodded, indicating all was well, and Miguel turned his mind to another potential problem which had just arisen.

A few minutes earlier he had gone forward to the flight deck and asked, "At Opa Locka, how quickly can you do what's needed and get us on our way?”

"Shouldn't take more than half an hour,” the pilot, Underhill, had said.”All we have to do is refuel and file a flight plan.”He hesitated, then added, "Though if Customs decide to take a look at us, it could be longer.”

Miguel said sharply, "We don't have to clear Customs here.”

The pilot nodded.”Normally true; they don't bother with outgoing flights. Lately, though, I've heard they've been making occasional checks, sometimes at night.” Though attempting to sound casual, his voice betrayed concern.

Miguel was jolted by the information. His own and the Medellin cartel's intelligence about the rules and habits of U.S. Customs was the reason Opa Locka had been chosen as the airport of departure.

Like Teterboro, Florida's Opa Locka was used by private aircraft only. Because of incoming flights from overseas, it had a U.S. Customs office—a small, makeshift affair housed in a trailer, with a correspondingly small staff. Compared with Customs departments at important international airports like Miami, New York, Los Angeles or San Francisco, Opa Locka was a poor relation, obliged to use less exacting procedures than elsewhere. Usually no more than two Customs officers were on duty, and even then only from 11 A.M. to 7 P.m. on weekdays and 10 A.M. to 6 P.m. Sundays. The present Learjet journey had been scheduled on the assumption that by this late hour Customs would be closed, the staff long gone.

Underhill added, "If anyone's in Customs and their airport radio is on, they'll hear us talking with the tower. After that, they may be interested in us, maybe not.”

Miguel realized there was nothing he could do except go back to his seat and wait. When he was there he mentally ran over possibilities.

If they did encounter U.S. Customs tonight, unlikely as it seemed, the cover story was in place and they could use it. Socorro, Rafael and Baudelio would play their parts, Miguel his. Baudelio could quickly disconnect his controls connected to the caskets. No, the problem was not with the cover story and all that supported it, but with the rules a Customs inspector was supposed to follow when a dead body left the country.

Miguel had studied the official regulations and knew them by heart. Specific papers were required for each body—a death certificate, a permit of disposition from a county health department, an entry permit from the country of destination. The dead person's passport was not needed, but—most critically—a casket must be opened, its contents inspected by a Customs officer, then the casket sealed.

With careful foresight Miguel had obtained all the needed documents; they were forgeries, but good ones. Supplementary were the gory traffic accident photographs, unidentified but fitting the general story, also the bogus press clippings, the latter stating that the bodies were so badly burned and mangled as to be unrecognizable.

So if a Customs man was on duty at Opa Locka and came their way, all papers were in order, but would he insist on looking into the caskets? Equally to the point, having read the descriptions, would he want to?

Once more Miguel felt himself tense as the Learjet landed smoothly and taxied in to Hangar One.

* * *

Customs Inspector Wally Amsler figured that some game plan—happy bureaucrat in Washington must have dreamed up Operation Egress. Whoever it was, he (or maybe she) was probably in bed and asleep by now, which was where Wally would prefer to be instead of wandering around this godforsaken Opa Locka Airport, which was off the beaten track in daytime and lonely as hell at night. It was half an hour before midnight and there were two more hours after that before he and the other two Customs guys on special duty here could put Egress behind them and go home.

The grouchiness was unusual for Amsler who was basically cheerful and friendly, except to those who broke the laws he upheld. Then he could be cool and tough, his sense of duty inflexible. Mostly he liked his work, though he had never cared for night duty and avoided it whenever possible. But a week ago he had had a bout with flu and still didn't feel good; earlier tonight he had considered calling in sick, though he decided not to. And something else had been distressing him lately—his status in the Customs Service.

Despite doing his job conscientiously for more than twenty years, he hadn't advanced to where he believed he should have been by his present age, a few months short of fifty. His status was Inspector, GS-9, which was really a journeyman grade, no more. There were plenty of others younger than himself and with far less experience who were already Senior Inspectors, GS- 11. Amsler took orders from them.

He had always assumed that someday he would move up to Senior Inspector but now, being realistic, he knew his chances were remote. Was that fair? He wasn't sure. His record was good and he had always put duty to the Service above other considerations, including some personal ones. At the same time, he had never pushed hard to become a leader and nothing he had done in line of duty was spectacular; perhaps that had been the problem. Of course, even as a GS-9, the pay wasn't bad. With overtime, working a six-day week, he earned about $50,000 a year and there would be a good pension in another fifteen years.

But pay and pension weren't, by themselves, enough. He needed to activate his life, to do something by which, even in a modest way, he would be remembered. He wished it would happen and he felt he deserved it. But at Opa Locka, late at night and working Operation Egress, it wasn't likely to.

Egress was a program involving the random inspection of aircraft about to depart the United States for other countries.

There was no way all of them could be checked; Customs didn't have the staff. So a blitz-type operation was used in which a team of inspectors descended on an airport unannounced and for the next several hours boarded foreign—destined flights—mostly private planes. The program was often in effect at night.

Officially the objective was to search for high-tech equipment being exported illegally. Unofficially, Customs was also looking for currency in excess of authorized amounts, particularly large sums of drug money. The latter motive had to be unofficial because legally, under the Fourth Amendment, there could be no search for money without "probable cause.” However, if a lot of money was discovered during another type of search, Customs had the right to deal with it.

Sometimes Egress produced results—occasionally sensational. But nothing of that kind had happened when Amsler was around, a reason he wasn't enthusiastic about the program. Just the same, Egress was why he and two other inspectors were at Opa Locka tonight, though outbound foreign flights had been fewer than usual and it seemed unlikely there would be many more.

One of the few was preparing to leave shortly—a Learjet that had arrived from Teterboro and, a few minutes ago, filed a flight plan for Bogota, Colombia. Amsler was now on his way to Hangar One to take a look at it.

* * *

In contrast to most of southern Florida, the small town of Opa Locka was an unattractive place. Its name derived from a Seminole Indian word, opatishawockalocka, meaning "high, dry hummock.” The description fitted, as did a more recent one by author T. D. Allman who described Opa Locka as an impoverished "ghetto” appearing like "a long-abandoned and vandalized amusement park.” The adjoining airport, though busy, had few buildings, and the area's overall dry flatness—on top of that natural hummock—conveyed the impression of a desert.

Amid that desert, Hangar One was an oasis.

It was a modem, attractive white building, only part of which was a hangar, the whole comprising a luxury terminal catering to private aircraft, their passengers and pilots.

Seventy people worked at Hangar One, their duties ranging from vacuuming incoming planes' interiors and disposing of their trash, through restocking galleys with meals and beverages, to mechanical maintenance—minor repairs or a major overhaul. Other staffers tended to VIP lounges, showers, and a conference room equipped with audiovisual, fax, telex and copying aids.

Across an almost but not quite invisible dividing line, similar facilities existed for pilots, plus a comprehensive flight planning area. It was in that area that Customs Inspector Wally Amsler approached the Learjet pilot, Underhill, who was studying a printout of weather data.

”Good evening, Captain. I believe you're scheduled out for Bogota.”

Underhill looked up, not entirely surprised at the sight of the uniform.”That's right.”

In fact, both his answer and the flight plan were lies. The Learjet's destination was a dirt landing strip in the Andes near Sion in Peru and the flight there would be nonstop. But the exacting instructions Underhill had been given, and for which the pay would be munificent, specified that his departure data should show Bogota. In any case, it didn't matter. As soon as he had shed U.S. Air Traffic Control, shortly after takeoff, he could fly anywhere he chose and no one would check or care.

”If you don't mind,” Amsler said politely, "I'd like to inspect your ship and your people aboard.”

Underhill did mind, but knew it would do no good to say so. He only hoped that his oddball quartet of passengers could satisfy this Customs guy sufficiently to have him clear the airplane and let the flight get on its way. He was uneasy, all the same, not for the passengers but about his own potential involvement with whatever was going on.

There was something unusual, possibly illegal, about those caskets, Denis Underhill suspected. His best guess was that either they contained items other than bodies, being smuggled out of the country, or, if bodies, they were victims of some kind of Colombian-Peruvian gang war and were being removed before U.S. authorities realized it. Not for a moment did he believe the story told to him at the time the charter was arranged in Bogota, about accident victims and a grieving family. If that was true, why all the cloak-and-dagger secrecy? Added to that, Underhill was sure at least two of those people aboard the Lear were armed. Why, also, the obvious attempt to avoid what had now happened—an encounter with U.S. Customs?

Though Underhill didn't own the Learjet—it belonged to a wealthy Colombian investor and was registered in that country —he managed it, and along with salary and expenses received a generous share of profits. He was certain his employer knew that comers were sometimes cut with charters that were either downright illegal or on the borderline, but the man trusted Underhill to handle such situations and keep his investment and his airplane out of jeopardy.

Remembering that trust and his own vested interest, Underhill decided to use the accident victims yarn now, thereby putting himself on the record and, he hoped, the Learjet in the clear whatever else might happen.

”It's a sad situation,” he told the Customs man and went on to describe the tale he had been told in BogotA, which—though Underhill didn't know it—tallied with the documents in Miguel's possession.

Amsler listened noncommittally, then said, "Let's go, Captain."

He had encountered Underhill's type before and was not impressed. Amsler assessed the pilot as a soldier of fortune who for the right kind of money would fly anywhere with any cargo, then later, if trouble erupted, depict himself as an innocent victim deceived by his hirers. All too often, in Amsler's opinion, such people were flagrant lawbreakers who got away with it.

They walked together from the Hangar One main building to the Learjet 55LR, parked under an overhead canopy. The Lear's clamshell door was open and Underhill preceded Inspector Amsler up the steps into the passenger cabin. He announced, "Lady and gentlemen, we have a friendly visit from United States Customs.”

* * *

During the preceding fifteen minutes, since landing and taxiing in, the four Medellin group members had remained aboard the Learjet on Miguel's orders. Then, after the engines were shut down and both pilots left—Underhill to file a flight plan, Faulkner to supervise refueling—Miguel talked seriously to the other three.

He warned them of the possibility of a Customs inspection and that they must be prepared to play their rehearsed roles. There was a sense of tension, clearly some anxiety, but all indicated they were ready. Socorro, using the mirror in a makeup compact, slipped a grain or two of pepper beneath each lower eyelid. Almost at once her eyes filled with tears. Rafael this time said no to the pepper and tears; Miguel didn't argue. Baudelio had already disconnected his exterior equipment from the three caskets, after making sure their occupants were still deeply sedated and would not stir for an hour or more if left unattended.

Miguel made clear he would be principal spokesman. The others would respond to his prompting.

Consequently it was not a total shock when Underhill made his announcement and a Customs officer appeared.

”Good evening, folks.” Amsler used the same polite tone he had with Underhill. At the same time he looked around, taking in the caskets secured on one side of the cabin and the passengers on the other—three of them seated, Miguel standing.

Miguel answered, "Good evening, officer.” He was holding a sheaf of documents and four passports. He proffered the passports first.

Amsler accepted them but didn't look down. Instead he asked, "Where are you all going and what is the purpose of this flight?”

Having seen the flight plan, Amsler already knew the declared destination and Underhill had described to him the journey's motive. But a Customs and Immigration technique was to start people talking; sometimes their manner, plus any sign of nervousness, revealed more than actual answers.

”This is a tragic journey, officer, and a once happy family is now overwhelmed with grief.”

"And you, sir. What is your name?”

"I am Pedro Palacios, not a member of the bereaved family but a close friend who has come to this country to give help in time of need.” Miguel was using a new alias for which he had a matching Colombian passport. The passport was real and the picture inside was of himself, but the name and other details, including a U.S. entry visa dated a few days earlier, were skillful fakes. He added, "My friends have asked me to speak for them because they are not proficient in English.”

Amsler looked at the passports in his hand, located Miguel's and, glancing up, compared the photo with the face in front of him.”You speak English very well, Seftor Palacios.”

Miguel thought quickly, then answered with assurance, "Part of my education was at Berkeley. I love this country dearly. If it were for some reason other than the present one, I would be happy to be here.”

Opening the remaining passports, Amsler compared the photos in them with the other three people, then addressed Socorro.”Madam, have you understood what we have been saying?”

Socorro raised her tear-streaked face. Her heart was beating fast. Haltingly, forsaking her normal fluent English, she answered, "Yes . . . a little.”

Nodding, Amsler returned to Miguel.”Tell me about those.” He gestured to the caskets.

”I have all the required documents "I'll look at them later. Tell me first.”

Miguel let his voice become choked.”There was a terrible accident. This lady's sister, her sister's young son, an older gentleman also of the family, were on vacation in America. They had reached Philadelphia and were driving . . . A truck, out of control, crossed the turnpike at great speed . . . It struck the family's car head-on, killing everyone. Traffic was heavy . . . eight more vehicles crashed into the wreckage, with other deaths . . . a fierce fire burned and the bodies Oh, my god, the bodies!”

At the mention of bodies, Socorro wailed and sobbed. Rafael had his head down in his hands, his shoulders shaking; Miguel conceded mentally that it was more convincing than the tears. Baudelio simply looked wan and sad. While speaking, Miguel had watched the Customs inspector carefully. But the man revealed nothing and simply stood waiting, listening, his expression inscrutable. Now Miguel thrust the remaining documents forward.”It is all here. Please, officer, I ask you—read for yourself.”

This time Amsler took the papers and leafed through them. The death certificates appeared to be in order; so did the body disposition permits and the entry permissions for Colombia. He went on to read the press clippings, and at the words "bodies burned . . . mutilated beyond recognition,” his stomach turned. The photographs were next. One glance was enough and he covered them quickly. He was reminded that earlier tonight he had considered calling in sick. Why in hell hadn't he? At this moment he felt physically nauseated, and sicker still at the thought of what he had to do next.

Miguel, facing the Customs inspector, had no idea that the other man was worrying as well, but for a different reason.

Wally Amster believed what had been told to him. The documentation was okay, the other material supportive and nobody, he decided, could fake the kind of grief he had witnessed in the past few minutes. A decent family man himself, Amster's sympathy went out to these people and he wished he could send them on their way right now. But he couldn't. By law the caskets had to be opened for inspection and that was the cause of his own distress.

For Wally had a quirk. He could not bear to see dead bodies and was filled with horror at the thought of seeing the mutilated remains described, first by Palacios, then in the news clippings he had read.

The problem had started when Wally, at age eight, had been forced to kiss his dead grandmother lying in a coffin. The memory of waxen, lifeless flesh against his lips while he struggled and screamed in protest still caused him to shudder, so that for the rest of his life Wally never wanted to see a dead person again. As an adult he teamed that psychiatry had a name for what he felt—necrophobia. Wally didn't care about that. All he asked was that the dead be kept away from him.

Only once before in his many years as a Customs inspector had he viewed a dead body in line of duty. That was when the corpse of an American arrived late at night from overseas when Amster was at work alone. An accompanying passport showed the deceased's weight as a hundred and fifty pounds, yet the shipment weight was three hundred pounds. Even allowing for a coffin and container, the difference seemed suspicious and Amster reluctantly ordered the coffin opened. The result was horrible.

The dead man inside was gross, having put on tremendous weight since issuance of the passport. Even worse, death and a botched embalming job had horribly bloated the body, causing it to putrefy and produce an unbelievably offensive stench. As Amsler breathed the disgusting air, he frantically motioned for the coffin to be closed. Then he ran outside and was violently sick. The sense of sickness and that awful smell remained with him for days afterward and the memory, never eclipsed, came back to him now.

Yet stronger than memory, stronger than his fears, was that inflexible sense of duty. He told Miguel, "I'm truly sorry, but regulations require that the caskets be opened for inspection.”

It was what Miguel had most feared. He made one last attempt to win by reason.”Oh, please, officer. I beg of you! There has been so much anguish, so much pain. We are friends of America. Surely, for compassion's sake, an exception can be made.”

He spoke in Spanish to Socorro, "El hombre quiere abrir los atades.”

She screamed in horror, "ay, no! Madre de Dios, no!”

Rafael joined in. 'Le suplicarnos, senor. En el nombre de decencia, Por favor, nol”

Baudelio, his face ashen, whispered, "Por favor, no lo haga, senior! No lo haga!”

Without knowing all the words, Amsler grasped the essentials of what was being said. He told Miguel, "Please inform your friends that I did not write the regulations. Sometimes I have no pleasure in enforcing them, but it is my job, my duty.”

Miguel didn't bother. There was no point in prolonging this charade. A moment of decision had arrived.

The Customs idiot was prattling on.”I suggest the caskets be taken from the airplane to somewhere private. Your pilot can arrange it. He will get help from Hangar One.”

Miguel knew he could not allow it. The caskets must not leave the plane. Therefore only one recourse remained—armed force. They had not come this far to be defeated by a single Customs cabron, and he would either kill the man here in the airplane or take him prisoner and execute him later in Peru. The next few seconds would decide. The pilots, too, must be held at gunpoint; otherwise, fearful of later consequences, they would refuse to take off. Miguel's hand slipped under his coat. He felt the Makarov nine-millimeter pistol he was carrying and slid off the safety. Glancing at Rafael, he saw the big man nod. Socorro had reached into her handbag.

”No,” Miguel said, "the caskets will not be moved.” He shifted position slightly, placing himself between the Customs man, both pilots and the clamshell door. His fingers tightened on the gun. This was the moment. Now!

In that same instant, a new voice spoke.”Echo one-seven-two. Sector.”

It startled everyone except Wally Amsler, who was used to hearing the walkie-talkie he carried on his belt. Unaware that anything had changed, he lifted the radio to his lips.”Sector, this is Echo one-seven-two.”

"Echo one-seven-two,” the male voice rasped back, "Alpha two-six-eight requests you terminate present assignment and contact him immediately by landline at four-six-seven twentyfour twenty-four. Do not, repeat do not, use radio.”

"Sector. Ten-four. This is Echo one-seven-two out.” Transmitting the acknowledgment, Amsler found it hard to keep elation from his voice. At this very last moment before removing the caskets he had received an honorable reprieve—a clear order he could not disobey. Alpha two-six-eight was the code number of his sector boss for the Miami area and "immediately,” in his superior's parlance, meant "move your ass!” Amsler also recognized the phone number given; it was in the cargo section at Miami International.

What the message most likely meant was that an intelligence tip had been received about an incoming flight carrying contraband—most big Customs breaks came that way—and Amsler was needed to assist. A need to protect the intelligence would be the reason for using landline instead of radio. He must get to a phone fast.

”I have been summoned away, Senior Palacios,” he said.”Therefore I will clear your flight now and you may leave.”

Scribbling to complete the needed paper work, Amsler was unaware of the suddenly lowered tension and relief, not only of the passengers but of the pilots. Underhill and Miguel exchanged glances. The pilot, who had sensed that guns were about to be produced, wondered if he should demand that they be turned over to him before takeoff. Then, assessing Miguel and those glacial eyes, he decided to leave well enough alone. There had already been delay and complication. They would take their clearance and go.

Moments later, as Amsler hurried toward the interior of Hangar One and a phone, he heard the Lerjet's clamshell door close and the engines turning over. He was glad to have that minor episode behind him and wondered what was ahead at Miami International. Would it be the big, important opportunity he had waited for so long?

* * *

The Learjet 55LR, clear of United States air space and on course for Sion, Peru, climbed . . . upward, upward . . . through the night.