Evening News

1

Within CBA News, Arthur Nalesworth— urbane, dignified and nowadays known to everyone as Uncle Arthur—had, in his younger years, been a very big wheel. During three decades at the network he worked his way to a series of top appointments, among them vice president of world news coverage, executive producer of the National Evening News,. and executive vice president of the entire News Division. Then his luck changed and, like many before and since, he was shunted to the sidelines at age fifty-six, informed that his days of big responsibility were over and given the choice of early retirement or a minor, makework post.

Most people faced with those alternatives chose retirement out of pride. Arthur Nalesworth, not consumed by self-importance but with a great deal of eclectic philosophy, chose to keep a job—any job. The network, not having expected that decision, then had to find him something to do. First they made it known he would have the title of vice president.

As Uncle Arthur himself was apt to tell it later, "Around here we have three kinds of vice presidents—working veeps who do honest, productive jobs and earn their keep; headquarters—bureaucrat vice presidents who are nonproducing but positioned to take the blame for those above them if anything goes wrong; and 'has-been' vice presidents, now in charge of paper clips, and I am one of those.”

Then, if encouraged, he would confide still further, "One thing those of us who achieve some success in this business should all prepare for, but most don't, is the day we cease to be important. Near the top of the greasy pole we ought to remind ourselves that sooner than we think we'll be discarded, quickly forgotten, replaced by someone younger and probably better. Of course”. . . and here Uncle Arthur liked to quote Tennyson's Ulysses . . .”Death closes all but something ere the end, Some work of noble note, may yet be done ...”

Unexpectedly, after his high-flying days ended, and surprising both the network and himself, Uncle Arthur found his own "work of noble note.”

It involved young people, candidates for jobs.

TV executives found it a nuisance and sometimes a dilemma when asked an almost identical question by a succession of people—friends, relatives, business contacts, politicos, doctors, dentists, optometrists, stockbrokers, guests at parties, a list ad infinitum. The question was: "Will you help my son/daughter/ nephew/niece/godchild/pupil/protege get a job in television news?”

There were days, especially at college graduation time, when it seemed to those already in the business that an entire generation of young people was attempting to batter down the gates and enter.

As to their would—be sponsors, some could be brushed off easily by the TV executives so approached, but by no means all. Among the non-brushables were important advertisers or their agencies, members of CBA's board of directors, Washingtonians having clout at the White House or on Capitol Hill, other politicians whom it would be foolish to offend, important news sources, and many more.

In BUA days—the initials signifying "Before Uncle Arthur"—CBA executives would spend more time than they should making phone calls to one another about vacancies, then attempting to placate those whose sons/daughters, et al, simply could not be accommodated.

But not anymore. Arthur Nalesworth's assignment, created partly out of desperation by CBA News management, saved his colleagues all of that trouble.

Now, when confronted by a job applicant's sponsor, a CBA big shot could say, "Certainly I'll help. We have a special vice president to deal with bright young people. Tell your candidate to call this number, mention my name, and he (or she) will be given an appointment for an interview.”

The interview was always given, because Arthur Nalesworth, in the tiny, windowless office he had been assigned, interviewed everybody. There had never been so many job applicant interviews before and all were lengthy, lasting an hour, sometimes more. During the interview wide-ranging questions were asked and answered, confidences exchanged. At the end, the interviewee left feeling good about CBA even if no job resulted—as was mostly the case—and Nalesworth was left with a perceptive insight into the personality and potential of the young person he had faced across his desk.

At first the number of interviews and the time they took became a news department joke, with sardonic references to "time filling” and "empire building.” Also, because of Nalesworth's sympathetic encouragement of every applicant, promising or not, the description "Uncle Arthur”was coined and stuck. But gradually a grudging respect replaced the skepticism. It evolved still further when Uncle Arthur strongly urged employing certain young people who, when hired, moved quickly and successfully into the news department's mainstream. In time it became a source of pride, like possessing a diploma, to have been an Uncle Arthur choice.

Now, with Uncle Arthur in his sixty-fifth year and normal retirement only five months away, there was talk among the News Division brass of pleading with him not to go. Suddenly, to everyone's surprise, Arthur Nalesworth was important once again.

Thus, on a Sunday morning in the third week of September, Uncle Arthur arrived at CBA News headquarters to play his part in the search for Jessica, Nicholas and Angus Sloane. As instructed by Les Chippingham. on the telephone the night before, he came to the special task force conference room where Partridge, Rita and Teddy Cooper were on hand to greet him.

The man they met was broad-shouldered and stocky, of medium height, with a cherubic face and a full head of carefully brushed and parted silver hair. He had an assured, easy manner. Acknowledging that it was not a regular working day, instead of his usual dark suit Uncle Arthur wore a brown Harris tweed jacket, light gray slacks with a knife-edge crease, a bolo tie and highly polished brogues.

When Uncle Arthur spoke it was with a sonorous, almostChurchillian delivery. A former colleague once remarked that any opinion Arthur Nalesworth expressed was as if engraved on tablets of stone.

After shaking hands with Partridge and Rita and being introduced to Cooper, Uncle Arthur said, "I understand you need sixty of my brightest and best—if I can assemble that many at short notice. First, though, I suggest you tell me what's in the wind.”

"Teddy will do that,” Partridge said. He motioned to Cooper to begin.

Uncle Arthur listened while the British researcher described the attempts to identify the kidnappers and the apparent dead end now reached. Cooper then outlined his idea of searching through newspaper real estate advertising in an attempt to locate the headquarters the kidnappers might have used, based on his theory of their renting space within a twenty-five-mile radius of the crime scene.

Partridge added, "We know it's a long shot, Arthur, but at the moment it's the best we have.”

"My own experience,” Uncle Arthur replied, "is that when you have nothing whatever to proceed on, long shots are the way to go.”

"I'm glad you think so, sir,” Cooper said.

Uncle Arthur nodded.”A thing about long shots is that while you seldom find exactly what you're looking for, you're likely to stumble over something else that will help you in a different way.” He added, speaking to Cooper directly, "You'll also find, young man, that among the young people I'm about to call, some are dynamos, very much like yourself.”

Cooper accompanied Uncle Arthur to his small office where the older man spread files and index cards around until they covered the surface of his desk. He then began telephoning—a steady procession of calls having a common pattern, though each sounding personal and as if a familiar friend were on the line.

”. . . Well, Ian, you said you wanted an opportunity to get into this business, no matter how modest, and one has just come up.” . . .”No, Bernard, I cannot guarantee that two weeks' work will lead to something permanent, but why not take a chance? .. . . . .. Quite so, Pamela, I agree this temporary job isn't much for a journalism major. Remember, though, that some of broadcasting's biggest names began as gofers.” . . .”Yes, Howard, you're right in saying five dollars fifty cents an hour is not a bountiful wage. But if money's your main concern, forget a news career and head for Wall Street.” . . .”Felix, I do understand the timing may not be convenient; it seldom is. If you wish to be a TV news person you'll have to walk out, if necessary, on your wife's birthday party ... . . .”Don't lose sight of the fact, Erskine, that you'll be able to put on your r6sum6 you did a special job for CBA.”

At the end of an hour Uncle Arthur had made twelve calls resulting in seven "sures” who would report for work the following day, plus one probable. He continued to work patiently through his lists.

One call made outside his lists by Uncle Arthur was to his long-time friend Professor Kenneth K. Goldstein, associate dean of the Columbia School of Journalism. When the CBA network problem was explained, the educator was instantly sympathetic and helpful.

While both men knew that heavy scholastic pressures made the involvement of undergraduate students impossible, some graduate students working on master's degrees in journalism would likely be interested and available. So might other recent graduates who had not yet found employment.

”What we'll do here,” the associate dean said, "is rate this an emergency. I'll do my best to come up with a dozen or so names and will be back to you later.”

"Columbia forever!” Uncle Arthur affirmed, then continued with other phoning.

Teddy Cooper, meanwhile, returned to the conference room to prepare a task plan for the temporary workers who would arrive the next day. His two assistant researchers had come in to help and together they pored over Editor and Publisher International Year Book, local maps and phone directories, selecting libraries and newspaper offices to be visited and routes and schedules to be followed.

At the same time Cooper drew up specifications to guide the young recruits who would sift through three months of classified advertising in some one hundred and sixty newspapers. What would they look for?

As well as the proviso of being within twenty-five miles of Larchmont, Cooper envisaged:

A relatively lonely location with little other activity around. The people being sought would want privacy, also the ability to come and go without arousing curiosity. Any house or premises in a busy or densely populated location should be discounted.

The premises would probably be a small abandoned factory or warehouse, or a large house. If a house, most likely old, run-down and therefore not much sought after. The house probably with outbuildings having space to garage several vehicles and contain a vehicle paint shop. An untenanted farm a strong possibility. Other types of accommodation matching the general concept to be looked for and imagination utilized.

Living accommodation for at least four or five people and possibly other housing space. However, the occupants would be capable of "roughing it,” so living quarters might not be evident in any advertised description. (In "other housing” Cooper mentally included imprisonment of the kidnap victims, but would not mention that specifically.)

The location and premises might be undesirable to someone seeking normal business space or somewhere to live. Therefore special attention should be paid to any advertisement appearing for an extended time, then abruptly stopping. That sequence might indicate no takers, followed by a sudden renting or sale for an unusual purpose.

The cost of renting, leasing or even ownership should not be a factor in the advertising search. The people being pursued almost certainly had ample funds.

That was sufficient, Cooper decided. While he wanted to convey a broad general idea, he didn't wish to be too limiting or discourage initiative. He also intended to talk to Uncle Arthur's recruits when they arrived early the next day and had asked Rita to arrange a suitable place.

Shortly after noon, Cooper joined Uncle Arthur for lunch in the CBA News cafeteria. Uncle Arthur chose a tuna sandwich and milk, Cooper a rectangle of meat covered by glutinous gravy, a canary-yellow pie and—with a look of resignation—a cup of warm water and a tea bag.

”Unfortunately,” Uncle Arthur said apologetically, “'21' is closed today. Perhaps some other time.”

Because it was Sunday, with fewer people than usual in the building, they had a table to themselves. Soon after settling down Cooper began, "I'd like to ask you, sir . . .”

Uncle Arthur stopped him with a gesture.”Your British respect is refreshing. But you are now in the land of great leveling where commoners address kings as 'Joe' or 'Hey you!' and a decreasing number of people use 'Mr.' on an envelope. Here I'm known to all and sundry by my first name.”

"Well, Arthur,” Cooper said, a shade awkwardly, "I was only wondering how you feel about TV news right now compared with when . . .”

“Compared with the olden days when I counted for something? Well, my answer may surprise you. It's much better all around. The people who do reporting and producing are an improvement over those in my time, including myself. But that's because coverage of the news is always getting better. It always has.”

Cooper raised his eyebrows.”Lotsa people feel the other way.,

"That's because, my dear Teddy, there are those who suffer from nostalgia constipation. What those people need is a mental enema. One way to get it is to visit the Museum of Broadcasting here in New York and watch—as I did recently some of the old news broadcasts, from the sixties for example. Measured by the standards of today, most seem weak, even amateurish, and I speak not just of technical quality but the depth of journalistic probing.”

"Some who don't like us say nowadays we probe too much.”

"A criticism coming usually from those with something to hide.”

As Cooper chuckled, Uncle Arthur continued expansively, "One measure of our improving journalism is that fewer things which ought to be exposed stay hidden. Abuses of the public trust are dragged into the open. Of course, even the good people in public life pay penalties for that. Their loss of privacy is one. But in the end society is better served.”

"So you don't think the old-time reporters were better than those today?”

"Not only were they not better, but most didn't have the ruthlessness, the indifference to authority, the willingness to go for the jugular that a first-rate newsperson requires today. Of course, the old reporters were good by the standards of their times and a few were exceptional. But even those, if around today, would be embarrassed by the sainthood now conferred on them.”

Cooper wrinkled his eyes in curiosity.”Sainthood?”

"Oh, yes. Didn't you know we dedicated news people regard our calling as a religion? We use buzz words like news being a 'sacred trust.' We pontificate about a 'golden age of television'—in the past, naturally—and then we canonize our journalistic stars. Over at CBS they've created Saint Ed Murrow—who was outstanding, no doubt about it. But Ed had his worldly weaknesses, though legend prefers to overlook them. Eventually CBS will create Saint Cronkite, though Walter, I'm afraid, will have to die first. A living person can't sustain such eminence. And that's just CBS, the senior news establishment. The other, younger networks will create their saints in time ABC inevitably will have Saint Arledge. After all, Roone, more than any other single person, shaped network news into its modem form.”

Uncle Arthur rose.”Listening to your views, my dear Teddy, has been most enlightening. But I must now return to that ubiquitous master of our lives, the telephone.”

By the end of the day Uncle Arthur made known that fifty-eight of his "brightest and best”would be reporting for duty Monday morning.

2

Early on Sunday the Learjet 55LR entered airspace over San Martin Province in the sparsely populated Selva, or jungle, region of Peru. Aboard the jet Jessica, Nicholas and Angus Sloane were still in caskets and sedated.

After a five-and-a-quarter-hour flight from Opa Locka, Florida, the Lear was nearing its destination—Sion airstrip in the Andes foothills. The local time was 4:15 A.M.

On the dimly lighted flight deck both pilots craned forward, their eyes searching the darkness ahead. The airplane's altitude was 3,500 feet above sea level, though only 1,000 feet above the jungle floor below. Not far ahead were high mountain ranges.

Eighteen minutes earlier they had left a regular airway with its dependable radio beacons and, to locate the airstrip, had switched to a GNS-500 VLF navigation system, a device so precise that pilots sometimes described it as "able to find a pimple on a fly's ass.” However, when they were near or over the airstrip, there should be a visual signal from the ground.

They had reduced airspeed substantially, but were still cruising at more than 300 knots.

The copilot, Faulkner, was first to see the white light of the ground beacon. It flashed three times, then went out, but not before Faulkner, who was at the controls, had put the aircraft into a turn and settled on a compass heading to where the light had been.

Captain Underhill, who had seen the light a moment after Faulkner, was now busy with a radio, using a special frequency and a message in code. 'Atencion, amigos de Huallaga. Este es el avion La Dorada.'Les traemos el embarque Pizarro.”

The prearranged call sign had been given to Underhill when the charter was negotiated. It worked, and a reply shot back, "Somos sus amigos de la tierra. Les estamos esperando. Ea Dorada, ' se Puede aterrizar. No hay viento.”

The permission to land was welcome, but the news of no ground wind to help slow the heavy 55LR was not. However, as Underhill transmitted an acknowledgment, the same beacon light came on again and continued flashing intermittently. Moments later, beyond it, three flares sprang into view along the hard-dirt strip. Underhill, who had been here twice before, was sure the radio that had just been used was hand-held field equipment and probably carried on the same truck as a portable searchlight. The sophisticated gear did not surprise him. Drug traffickers frequently landed here, and when it came to equipment the drug cartels spent freely.

”I'll take us in,” Underhill said, and the copilot surrendered the controls.

Staying a thousand feet above the ground, the pilot made a pass over the area, sizing up what little could be seen of the airstrip and gauging his approach. He knew they would need every foot of ground available, knew too there were trees and heavy foliage on both sides of the landing strip, so for all reasons, touchdown would have to be perfectly placed. Satisfied, he began an approach pattern, swinging onto a downwind leg, flying parallel with the strip and losing height.

Beside him, Faulkner was performing a pre-landing check. At "gear down,” the rumble of descending wheels began. As they turned left onto a base leg, the landing gear's three green lights winked on.

On final approach their two bright landing lights sliced the darkness ahead and Underhill let the speed fall back to 120 knots. He found himself wishing this landing could have been in daylight, but they had too little fuel to stooge around until sunrise at six o'clock. As the strip became nearer, Underhill realized they were too high. He reduced power. Now the threshold was barely fifty feet distant. Throttles right back, power off, trimmed at nearly full nose-up. This was it! They touched the rough, uneven ground with a bump. Hard rudder to stay straight, those trees a blur of shadows in the landing lights. Reverse thrust . . . brakes! Now they had passed the middle flare and were slowing. Was it slow enough? The end of the strip was disconcertingly close, but speed was almost off. They were going to make it and they did—with nothing to spare.

”Nice,” Faulkner said. He didn't like Underhill much; his superior was selfish, inconsiderate and usually aloof. Just the same he was a superb pilot.

As Underhill swung the Lear around and taxied back toward the approach end of the airstrip, they caught glimpses of a truck and several moving figures. Beyond the truck and off to one side was a small, roughly constructed hut, beside it a dozen or to metal drums.

”There's our fuel,” Underhill said, pointing.”Those guys will help you pump it in, and do it fast because I want us the hell out of here at first light.” Bogota, Colombia, was their next destination and the culmination of this charter. Once airborne, it would be a short and easy flight.

Something else Underhill knew was that this area of jungle was a no-man's-land, regularly fought over by Sendero Luminoso, the Peruvian Army, and sometimes the government's anti-terrorism police. With all three groups noted for extreme brutality, it was not a place to linger. But the Learjet's passengers would be disembarking here, so Underhill motioned to Faulkner who reached behind him and opened the door between the flight deck and the main cabin.

* * *

Miguel, Socorro, Rafael and Baudelio were relieved to be on the ground after the descent through darkness. But with relief came an awareness that a new part of their enterprise was be 310ginning. In particular, Baudelio, who had been monitoring the caskets with external instruments, began to diminish the sedation, knowing that very soon the caskets would be opened and his patients—as he continued to think of them—removed.

Moments later the Learjet stopped, the engines fell silent and Faulkner left his seat to open the clamshell door. In sudden contrast to the controlled temperature inside, the outside air was suffocatingly hot and humid.

As the airplane's occupants filed out it was evident that the attention and respect of those waiting on the ground were focused on Miguel and Socorro. Obviously, Miguel's reception was due to his role as leader and Socorro's because of her affiliation with Sendero Luminoso.

The waiting force comprised eight men. Even in the darkness, reflected light made it possible to see their light brown, weathered faces and that all were sturdy peasant types, stockily built. The youngest-looking of the eight stepped forward and quickly identified himself as Gustavo. To Miguel he said, "Tenemos ordenes de ayudarle cuando lo necesite, senior.”

Having acknowledged his willingness to accept orders, Gustavo turned to Socorro with a bow, "Seniora, la destinacion de sus prisioneros sera Nueva Esperanza. El viaje sera noventa kilometros, la mayor parte por el rio. El barco estalisto.”

Underhill emerged in time to hear the last exchange. He asked sharply, "What prisoners are to be taken ninety kilometers by boat?”

Miguel had not wanted Underhill to hear the name of their final destination, Nueva Esperanza. But in any case he had had more than enough of this imperious pilot, remembering the greeting at Teterboro, "Goddamn, you're late!” and other times during the journey when the pilot's hostility had been thinly veiled. Now that Miguel was on ground where the other man had no authority, he said contemptuously, "This is not your business.”

Underhill snapped back, "Everything that happens in this airplane is my business.” He glanced toward the caskets. Originally he had insisted that the less he knew about them, the better. Now, more from instinct than reason, he decided for his own protection later he had better know.”What is in those?”

Ignoring the pilot, Miguel told Gustavo, "Digale a los hombres que descarguen los ataudes cuidadosamente sin moverlos dernasiado, y que los lleven adentro de la choza.”

“No!” It was Underhill. He blocked the clamshell doorway.”You will not unload those caskets until you have answered me!” Already, responding to the heat, sweat was streaming down his face and balding head.

Miguel caught Gustavo's eye and nodded. Instantly there was a flurry of movement, a series of sharp metallic clicks and Underhill found himself looking into the barrels of six Kalashnikov rifles, all held steady by the ground-force men, safeties off, their fingers curled around the triggers.

With sudden nervousness the pilot called out, "For chrissakes, all right!” His eyes swung from the weapons to Miguel.”You've made your point. Just let us take on fuel and get out of here.”

Ignoring the request, Miguel snarled, "Move your ass away from that door!” When Underhill had done so, Miguel nodded again, the rifles were lowered and four of the ground men entered the airplane, going to the caskets. The copilot accompanied them, releasing the cargo straps, then one by one the caskets were unloaded and carried into the small hut. Baudelio and Socorro followed.

* * *

An hour and a half had passed since the Learjet's landing and now, a few minutes before sunrise, the landing strip and its surroundings were becoming clearer. During the intervening time the Learjet had been refueled for the flight to Bogota, the fuel taken from the drums and transferred through a portable pump. Underhill was now looking for Miguel to inform him of their imminent departure.

Miguel and the others were in the makeshift hut, Gustavo indicated. Underhill walked toward it.

The hut door was partially closed and, hearing voices inside, the pilot pushed it open. The next instant he stopped, shocked and horrified at what he saw.

Seated on the dirt floor of the hut were three figures, their backs to the wall, heads lolling, mouths open, comatose but certainly alive. Two of the caskets taken from the Learjet—now open and empty—had been placed on either side of the trio to help prop them up. A single oil lantern illuminated the scene.

Underhill knew immediately who the three were. It was impossible not to know. He listened daily to U.S. radio news and read American newspapers, available at foreign airports and hotels. Colombian news media, too, had carried reports about the kidnapped family of a famous U.S. anchorman.

Fear, icy fear, crept over Denis Underhill. He had skirted the borderlines of crime before—anyone flying Latin American charters inevitably did. But he had never, ever before, been involved in anything as utterly felonious as this. He knew, without having to think about it, that if his role in conveying these people became known in the U.S., he could go to jail for life.

He knew others in the hut were watching him—the three men and the woman who had been his passengers from Teterboro through Opa Locka to Sion. They too appeared to have been startled by his entry.

It was at that moment that the semiconscious woman on the ground stirred. She raised her head weakly. Looking directly at Underhill, her eyes came into focus and she moved her lips though no sound emerged. Then she managed to gasp, "Help . . . please help . . . tell someone . . .”Abruptly her eyes lost their focus, her head slumped forward.

From the far side of the hut a figure moved quickly toward Underhill. It was Miguel. With a Makarov nine-millimeter pistol in his hand, he motioned.”Out!”

Underhill moved ahead of Miguel and his gun to the jungle outside. There, Miguel said matter-of-factly, "I can kill you now. No one will care.”

A sense of numbness overwhelmed Underhill. He shrugged.”You've done me in anyway, you bastard. You've made me part of kidnapping those people, so whatever comes next won't make a helluva lot of difference.” His eyes dropped to the Makarov; the safety catch was off. Well, it figured, he thought. He had been in tight situations before and this looked like one he wouldn't get out of. He had known others like this thug Palacios—or whatever his real name was. A human life meant nothing to them, snuffing one out no more than spitting in the dust. He just hoped the guy would shoot straight. That way it should be quick and painless . . . Why hadn't he done it yet? . . . Suddenly, despite his reasoning, desperate fear seized Underhill. Though sweat still poured from him, he was shivering. He opened his mouth to plead, but saliva filled it and words failed him.

For some reason, he perceived, the man facing him with the gun was hesitating.

In fact, Miguel was calculating. If he killed one pilot, he would have to kill both, which meant the Learjet could not be flown out for the time being—a complication he could do without. He knew also that the airplane's Colombian owner had friends in the Medellin cartel. The owner could make trouble . . .

Miguel thumbed the safety on. He said menacingly, "Maybe you just thought you saw something. Maybe you didn't after all. Maybe, this whole journey, you saw nothing.”

Underhill's mind flashed a message: For a reason he didn't understand, he was being given a chance. He responded hastily, breathlessly, "That's right. Didn't see a goddamn thing.”

"Get the fucking airplane out of here,” Miguel snarled, "and afterward keep your mouth shut. If you don't, I promise wherever you are you'll be found and killed. Is that clear?”

Trembling with relief, knowing he had been closer to death than ever before in his life, and also that the closing threat was real, Underhill nodded.”It's clear.” Then he turned and walked back to the airstrip.

* * *

Morning mist and broken cloud hung over the jungle. The Learjet passed through it as they climbed. The ascending sun was blurry amid haze, the sign of a scorching, steamy day ahead for those left on the ground.

But Underhill, going through piloting motions automatically, was thinking only of what lay ahead.

He reasoned that Faulkner, seated beside him, hadn't seen the Sloane family captives and knew nothing of Underhill's involvement or what had happened just a few minutes ago. And they would keep it that way. Not only was there no need for Faulkner to be told now that there had been live, kidnapped people in those caskets they had carried, but if he weren't told, the copilot could swear later on that Underhill didn't know either.

That was the essential thing for Underhill to insist on whenever inquiry was made, as he was certain it would be: He didn't know. From beginning to end, he didn't know about the Sloanes.

Would he be believed? Perhaps not, but it didn't matter, he thought with growing confidence. It made no difference as long as there was no one who could prove the contrary.

He was reminded of the woman who had spoken to him. Her name was Jessica, he recalled from the reports. Would she remember seeing him? Could she identify him later? Considering her state, it was highly unlikely. It was also unlikely, the more he thought about it, that she would ever leave Peru alive.

He signaled for Faulkner to take over the flying. Leaning back in his seat, the hint of a smile crossed the senior pilot's face.

At no point did Underhill give any thought to a possible rescue of the Sloane family captives. Nor did he consider reporting to authorities who was holding them and where.

3

After less than three full days of investigation an important success had been achieved by the CBA News special task force.

In Larchmont, New York, an infamous Colombian terrorist, Ulises Rodriguez, had been positively identified as one of the kidnappers of the Sloane family trio and, perhaps, the leader of the kidnap gang.

On Sunday morning—as had been promised the preceding day—a copy of a charcoal sketch of Rodriguez, drawn twenty years earlier by a fellow student at the University of California at Berkeley, arrived at CBA News headquarters. Producer Karl Owens, who had uncovered Rodriguez's name through contacts in Bogota and U.S. Immigration, personally received the sketch and later took it to Larchmont. A camera crew and a hastily summoned New York correspondent accompanied him.

As the camera rolled, Owens had the correspondent show six photos to Priscilla Rhea, the retired schoolteacher who had witnessed the kidnap on the Grand Union parking lot. One photo was of the Rodriguez sketch, the other five had been taken from files and were of men of similar appearance. Miss Rhea pointed instantly to the Rodriguez picture.

”That's him. That's the one who shouted that they were making a movie. He's younger in the picture, but it's the same man. I'd know him anywhere.” She added, "When I saw him, it seemed he was in charge.”

At this point CBA News had the information exclusively.

(It was not, of course, known that Ulises Rodriguez was using the code name Miguel or that during the Learjet flight to Peru he employed the alias Pedro Palacios. But since a terrorist habitually used many names, this was not important.)

The discovery was discussed late Sunday at an informal session by four task force members—Harry Partridge, Rita Abrams, Karl Owens and Iris Everly, Owens, justly pleased by his breakthrough, urged that the new development be included in Monday's edition of the National Evening News.

When Partridge hesitated, Owens argued forcefully.

”Look, Harry, no one else has this yet. We're ahead of the whole pack. If we go on air tomorrow, everyone else will pick it up and have to give us credit which includes—even though we know they hate doing it—the New York Times and Washington Post. But if we hold off and wait too long, word about Rodriguez may get out and we'll lose our exclusive. You know as well as I do, people talk. There's the Rhea woman in Larchmont; she may tell someone and they'll pass it on. Even our own people blab, and there's a chance of someone at another network hearing.”

"I second all that,” Iris Everly said.”You're expecting me to do a follow-up tomorrow, Harry. Without Rodriguez, I have nothing new.”

"I know,” Partridge said.”I'm thinking about going with it, but there are also some reasons to wait. I won't make a decision until tomorrow.”

With that, the others had to be content.

One decision Partridge made privately was that Crawford Sloane must be informed of the fresh discovery. Crawf, he reasoned, was suffering such mental agony that any forward step, even though an inconclusive one, would come as a relief. Late as it was—nearing 10 P.m.—Partridge decided to visit Sloane himself. Obviously he could not telephone. All phone calls to Sloane's Larchmont house were being monitored by the FBI and Partridge was not ready yet to give the FBI the new information.

Using a phone in his temporary private office, he ordered a CBA car and driver to meet him at the news building's main entrance.

* * *

"I'm grateful you came out, Harry,” Crawford Sloane said after Partridge made his report.”Will you go on air with this tomorrow?”

"I'm not sure.” Partridge described his reasoning both ways, adding, "I want to sleep on it.”

They were having drinks in the living room where, only four evenings earlier, Sloane thought sadly, he had sat talking with Jessica and Nicholas after his own return from work.

On Partridge's way in, an FBI agent had regarded him inquiringly. The agent was substituting that night for Otis Havelock who was at home with his family. But Sloane had firmly closed the door connecting with the outside hallway and the two newsmen talked in low voices.

”Whatever you decide,” Sloane said, "I'll back your judgment. Either way, do you have enough reason to take off for Colombia?”

Partridge shook his head.”Not yet, because Rodriguez is a gun-for-hire. He's operated all over Latin America, Europe too. So I need to know more—specifically, where this operation is based. Tomorrow I'll work the phones again. The others will do the same.”

One call in particular Partridge intended to make was to the lawyer for organized crime figures he had spoken to on Friday, but who hadn't yet called back. Instinct told him that anyone operating in the U.S. as Rodriguez appeared to have done would need an organized crime connection.

As Partridge was leaving, Sloane put his hand on the other's shoulder.”Harry, my friend,” he said, his voice emotional, "I've come to believe that the only —chance I have of getting Jessica, Nicky and my Dad back is through you.” He hesitated, then went on.”I guess there have been times when you and I weren't the closest companions, or even allies, and whatever's been my fault in that, I'm sorry. But apart from that, I just want you to know that most of what I have and care about in this world is riding on you.”

Partridge tried to find words to reply, but couldn't. Instead he nodded several times, touched Sloane on the shoulder too, and said, "Good night.”

* * *

"Where to, Mr. Partridge?” the CBA driver inquired.

It was close to midnight and Partridge answered tiredly, "The Inter-Continental Hotel, please.”

Leaning back in the car and remembering Sloane's parting words, Partridge thought that, yes, he did know what it meant to have lost, or face the chance of losing, someone you loved. In his own case, long ago, there had first been Jessica, though the circumstances then were in no way comparable to Crawf's desperate situation now. Then later there was Gemma . . .

He stopped. Not He would not let himself think of Gemma tonight. The remembrance of her had come back to him so much lately . . . it seemed to happen with tiredness . . . and always, along with memory, there was pain.

Instead, he forced his mind back to Crawf who, in circumstances equally dire as those affecting Jessica, was also suffering the loss of a child, his son. Partridge himself had never known what it was to have a child. Still, he knew that the loss of one must be unbearable, perhaps the most unbearable burden of all. He and Gemma had wanted children . . .

He sighed . . . Oh, dearest Gemma . . .

He gave in . . . relaxed as the smoothly moving car closed the distance to Manhattan . . . allowed his mind to drift.

* * *

For always, after that simple marriage ceremony in Panama City when he and Gemma stood before the municipal juez in his cotton guayabera and took their unpretentious vows, Partridge nursed a conviction that simple ceremonies produced the better marriages and flamboyant, ritzier circuses were more likely to be followed by divorce.

He admitted it was a prejudice, based heavily on his own experience. His first marriage, in Canada, had begun with a "white wedding” complete with bridesmaids, several hundred guests and incantations in a church—the bride's mother insisting on it all—and preceded by theatrical rehearsals which seemed to rob the ceremony itself of meaning. Afterward the marriage simply didn't work, something Partridge conceded to be at least fifty percent his fault, and the rhetorical pledge of "until death us do part” was—by mutual agreement, this time in court before a judge—shortened to a year.

The marriage to Gemma, however, from its unlikely beginning aboard the Pope's airplane, had strengthened as their love had grown. At no point in his life had Partridge ever been happier.

He continued to be the network's correspondent in Rome where foreign journalists were able, as a colleague working for CBS expressed it, "to live like kings.”Almost at once after returning from the papal flight Partridge and Gemma found an apartment in a sixteenth-century palazzo. Located midway between the Spanish Steps and the Trevi Fountain, it had eight rooms and three balconies. In those days, when networks consumed money as if there were no tomorrow, correspondents found their own accommodation and were reimbursed More recently, with leaner budgets and accountants in catbird seats, the network supplied living quarters—of lesser quality and cheaper.

As it was, on looking over what would be their first home, Gemma declared, "Harry, mio amore, it is heaven now. I will make it seven heavens for you.”And she did.

Gemma had a gift for imparting laughter and joy and love of living. As well, she ran the home proficiently and was a superb cook What she could not do, as Partridge quickly learned, was manage money or balance a checkbook. When Gemma wrote a check she often forgot to fill in a counterfoil, so the balance in their account was invariably less than she believed Coupled with that, even when she remembered the counterfoil her arithmetic was unreliable—she would sometimes add instead of subtract so that Gemma and the bank were constantly at odds.”Harry, tesoro,” she complained after one stern lecture from the manager, "bankers have no tenderness. They are . . . what is that English word?”

He said, amused, "How about pragmatic?”

"Oh, Harry, you have such a clever mind! Yes, “Gemma said decisively, "bankers are too pragmatic.”

Partridge found the solution easy. He simply took over their household finances, which seemed a small contribution in return for the many agreeable condiments now added to his life.

Another problem with Gemma required more delicate handling. She adored cars, owned a dilapidated Alfa Romeo and, like many other Italians, drove like a crazed fiend There were times when Partridge, seated beside her either in the Alfa or his own BMW, which she enjoyed driving too, closed his eyes, convinced that disaster was about to happen. Each time it didn't, he equated himself with a cat having lost one more of its nine lives.

He was down to four when he summoned the courage to ask Gemma if she would consider not driving anymore.”It's because I love you so much, “he assured her.”When I'm away I have nightmares, dreading something may happen with the car and you may be hurt when I get back.”

“But Harry, “Gemma protested, not understanding at all, "I am a safe, prudent driver.”

For the moment Partridge left it there, though managing to bring the subject up again from time to time, his revised strategy being that Gemma was indeed a safe driver but he himself was neurotically nervous. The best he could get, though, was a conditional promise.

”Mio amore, as soon as I am pregnant I will not drive a car. That I swear to you.”

It was a reminder of how much they both wanted children.”At least three, “Gemma announced soon after their marriage and Partridge saw no reason to disagree.

Meanwhile he traveled away from Rome periodically on CBA News assignments and, at the beginning, Gemma continued with her stewardess job. Very quickly, though, it became evident they would see little of each other that way because sometimes when Partridge returned from a trip Gemma would be flying; at others the reverse was true. It was Gemma who decided she would make the adjustment for them both by ceasing to fly.

Fortunately, when she let it be known at Alitalia that she was prepared to quit, the airline assigned her to ground duties that kept her permanently in Rome. Both Gemma and Partridge were delighted because now they had much more time together.

They used their spare hours to explore and enjoy Rome, dipping into its millennium of history about which, Partridge discovered, Gemma's mind held a treasure trove of bric-a-brac.

”The Emperor Augustus, Harry.—he was Julius Caesar's stepson—started a fire brigade of slaves. But there was a big fire they didn't put out, so he got rid of the slaves and had freemen as firemen, vigiles, who were better. That's because people who are free want to put out fires.”

Partridge said doubtfully, "Is all that true?” Gemma only smiled, though later research showed him she was right and that the switch to freemen happened in A.D. 6. Subsequently, when the United Nations held a Freedom Symposium in Rome, which Partridge covered, he adroitly slipped the ancient fire brigade story into his CBA News script.

On another occasion: "The Sistine Chapel, Harry, where new popes are chosen, was named after Pope Sixtus IV He licensed brothels in Rome and had sons, one by his own sister. He made three of his sons cardinals.”

And "Our famous Spanish Steps, Scala di Spagna, have a wrongful name. They ought to be Scala di Francia. The French suggested the steps, a Frenchman left the money for them in his will. The Spanish Embassy—just happened to be there. Spain had nothing, nothing, Harry, to do with those steps at all.”

When work and time permitted, Partridge and Gemma journeyed farther afield to Florence, Venice and Pisa. It was while returning from Florence by train that Gemma appeared pale and excused herself several times to enter the toilet. When Partridge expressed concern, she dismissed it as unimportant.”I probably ate something I should not. Do not worry.”

In Rome, away from the train, Gemma seemed her normal self and next day Partridge went as usual to the CBA bureau. In the evening, however, when he returned home he was surprised to find an extra small plate at his dinner place and, on it, the keys of Gemma's Alfa Romeo.When he asked about them, Gemma, a small smile on her face, answered, "A promise isfor keeping.”

For a moment he was puzzled, then with a surge of love and a shout of joy, he remembered her statement, "As soon as I am pregnant I will not drive a car.”

Gemma had tears of happiness in her eyes as they kissed and held each other tightly.

* * *

One week later Partridge received word from CBA News that he would no longer be Rome correspondent and was being given a more important assignment—as senior correspondent in London.

His immediate reaction was to wonder how Gemma would feel about the change. He need not have been concerned.

”It is wondrous news, Harry caro,” she told him.”I adore London. I flew there with Alitalia. We will make a good life there together.”

* * *

"We're here, Mr. Partridge.”

Partridge, who had closed his eyes in the CBA car—momentarily, as he thought—opened them to discover they had reached Manhattan and were on Forty-eighth Street outside the Inter-Continental Hotel. He thanked the driver, said good night, then went inside.

In the elevator on the way to his room he realized it was now Monday—the beginning of what was likely to be a crucial week.

4

Jessica was trying desperately to hold on to awareness, to keep her mind functioning and to understand what was going on around her, but mostly she was not succeeding. She would have moments of clarity in which she could see other people and feel her own body—its pain and discomfort, nausea, an acute thirst. Yet even while this was happening, panic possessed her with one dominating thought: Nicky! "Where was he? "What had happened? Then abruptly everything would ebb away, becoming a swirling, misty montage in which she could grasp nothing mentally, not even who she was. During such lapses she seemed engulfed by some sluggish, opaque liquid.

Somehow, even while teetering in and out of consciousness, she managed to hold on to memories of what she had briefly perceived. She knew that something which had been connected to her arm was now removed and in its place was a throbbing ache. She was aware of being helped from some resting place, then partly walked and partly carried to wherever she was now seated, which seemed—again in moments of awareness—to be a flat surface. There was something solid—she wasn't sure what —behind her back.

In between such thoughts, as fright and panic returned, she tried to tell herself what she knew to be important: Keep control!

One thing she was clear about was the sudden sight, and now the memory, of a man. The image of him was sharp and strong. He was tall and partly bald, held himself straight, and looked as if he had authority. It was that impression of authority which made her attempt to speak to him, to plead for help. She knew he had been startled by her voice; that response was also precisely etched, though the reality of the man had disappeared. But did her plea get through? Would he return to help? . . . Oh god! Who knew?

Now . . . once more awareness had swirled in. There was another man, this time leaning over her . . . Wait. She had seen this one before, recognized his cadaverous face . . . Yes! Just minutes ago, while she was desperately fighting with some kind of knife, she had slashed his face, seen blood spurt out . . . But why wasn't he bleeding now? How was it that his face was bandaged?

In Jessica's mind her long interval of unconsciousness did not exist . . .

She reasoned: This man was an enemy. Now she remembered: He had done something to Nicky. Oh, how she hated him/ . . . Wild anger sent adrenaline pumping, brought back movement to her limbs. She reached up, seized the adhesive bandage and pulled it off. Then, following through, her nails raked flesh and scab.

With a startled cry, Baudelio leaped back. Putting a hand to his cheek, it came away red with blood . . . That goddamn woman! She had messed up his face again. Instinctively he had been thinking like a doctor, and of her as a patient, but not now! Enraged, he clenched a fist, leaned forward and hit her hard.

An instant later, for clinical reasons, he regretted having done it. He had wanted to see how far all three captives were advanced in consciousness—up to this point they had come out of sedation satisfactorily and their pulses and breathing were okay. The woman had seemed a little ahead of the others. He thought ruefully: She had just proved it.

They would all suffer after effects, of course—from his anesthesiology experience he knew them well. There would be a sense of confusion probably followed by depression, some numbness, a severe headache, almost certainly nausea. The general effect would be much like a drunkard's hangover. They should all be given water soon; he would attend to that. No food, though—at least not until they had reached their next destination. Hell camp, Baudelio thought.

Socorro appeared beside him and he told her about the need for water. She nodded and went out to see what she could find. Paradoxically, as Baudelio knew, in this sparsely inhabited, damp jungle, drinking water was a problem. Rivers and streams, though plentiful, were fouled by chemicals—sulfuric acid, kerosene and other by—products used by drug dealers in transforming coca leaves into coca paste, the substance of cocaine. As well, there were dangers of malaria and typhoid, so that even impoverished peasants drank soft drinks, beer and, when possible, boiled water.

Miguel had entered the hut in time to see the incident involving Jessica and Baudelio and hear the latter's instruction to Socorro. He called after her, "And get something to tic these scumbags' hands, then do it—behind their backs.”

Turning to Baudelio, Miguel ordered, "Get the prisoners ready to move. First we go by truck. After that, everyone will walk.”

Jessica, now only feigning unconsciousness, heard it all.

In hitting her, Baudelio had actually done a favor. The blow's jolting effect had brought her borderline awareness suddenly into focus.

She now knew who she was and memory was returning. But instinct cautioned her to keep that knowledge, for the moment, to herself. She knew she had been frightened and panicked a few minutes ago, but now must try to keep her thinking orderly. First: Where was she? How had she got here?

Answers accumulated . . . Everything was coming back. The Grand Union supermarket and the report conveyed to her about Crawford and an accident-obviously a lie. Then in the parking lot, the brutal seizure of herself, Nicky and . . .

Nicky! Had he been harmed? Where was he now?

Still striving to maintain control, she remembered glimpsing Nicky briefly on some kind of bed, tied down . . . and so was Angus. Oh, poor Angus! She'd seen them while she struggled with the man and cut his face . . . Was she still in that same place? She didn't think so. More important, was Nicky with her? Barely opening her eyes, keeping her head low, she shifted to look. Oh, thank god! Nicky was right alongside! His eyes were opening and closing; he was yawning.

And Angus? Yes! Angus was beyond Nicky, eyes closed, but she could see that he was breathing.

Which raised the question: Why had the three of them been taken? She decided the answer to that would have to be postponed.

More immediately: "ere were they? Jessica's quick glimpses of this place had shown her a small semi darkened room, windowless and lit by an oil lantern. Why no electricity? She and the other two were seated on what felt like a dirt floor and she thought she could feel insects, though she tried not to think about them. It was incredibly hot and sticky here, which puzzled her since September this year had been unusually cool and no change was forecast.

So . . . because this was a different place from where Nicky and Angus had been tied down, how had they got here? Had she been drugged? The thought caused her to recall something else: the pad over her nose and mouth after she had been pulled into the van on the Grand Union parking lot.

She remembered nothing more that happened in the van; therefore she had been drugged, probably the other two as well. For how long. Half an hour, she estimated-an hour at the most. The memory of the skirmish on the parking lot was too close for it to be more.

So the likelihood was, they were still not far from Larchmont, which meant somewhere in New York State, New Jersey or Connecticut. Jessica considered Massachusetts and Pennsylvania, then dismissed them. Both were too far away . . . Voices interrupted . . .

”The bitch is faking,” Miguel said.

”I know,” Baudelio replied.”She's fully conscious and thinks she's cunning. She's been listening to what we're saying.,,

Miguel extended his right shoe and shoved it hard into Jessica's ribs.”On your feet, bitch! We have places to go.”

The shoe made her wince and because there seemed no advantage in pretending, Jessica lifted her head and opened her eyes. She recognized both men looking down at her-the one whose face she had cut, the other whom she had caught sight of briefly in the van. Her mouth was dry and her voice raspy, but she managed to say, "You'll be sorry for this. You'll be caught. Punished.”

"Silence!” Miguel used his foot again, this time to kick her stomach.”From now on, you will speak only when questioned.”

From beside her, she heard Nicky stir and say, "What's happened? Where are we?” She sensed in his voice the same panic she had experienced herself.

It was Angus who answered softly, "It looks to me, old son, as if we've been kidnapped by some pretty nasty people. But keep your cool! Be strong! Your Dad'll find us.”

Jessica, still fighting pain from the savage kick, felt a hand placed on her arm and heard Nicky's voice say gently, "Mom, are you okay?”

Tears sprang to her eyes at the thought that Nicky's concern should be for her. Turning her head, she tried to nod reassuringly, only to see Nicky being kicked viciously too. In a moment of horror she thought: What was all this doing to him?

Miguel shouted, "That silence rule means you too, idiot boy! Remember it!”

"Oh, he'll remember.” It was Angus, his voice dry and cracked, but he managed to impart contempt.”Who could forget a piece of human offal, so brave he'll kick a helpless woman and a boy?” The old man was struggling to rise.

Jessica breathed, "Angus, don't!” She knew that nothing at this moment could improve their situation; hard words would make it worse.

Angus had trouble balancing and rising to his feet. In the meantime Miguel looked around him and seized part of a tree branch lying on the floor. He crossed to Angus and belabored him savagely about the head and shoulders. The old man fell back, one eye closed where the wood had struck him, grunting with the pain.

"All of you will use that as a lesson!” Miguel barked.”Keep silent!” He turned to Baudelio.”Get them ready to go.”

Socorro had returned carrying a water jug in a wicker cover and a length of coarse rope.

”They should have water first,” Baudelio said. He added with a hint of petulance, "That is, if you want them kept alive.”

"First tie their hands,” Miguel ordered.”I want no more trouble.”

Scowling, he left the hut. Outside, as the sun ascended, the humid heat was overpowering.

* * *

Jessica was growing increasingly puzzled about their location.

A few minutes ago she, Nicky and Angus had been moved from what Jessica now realized was a crudely constructed hut and were in the grimy back portion of an open truck, along with a miscellaneous cargo of crates, boxes and sacks. After being marched out of the hut with their hands tied behind them, the three were partially lifted, partially shoved roughly over the truck's tailgate by several pairs of hands. Then a half-dozen motley-dressed men, who could have been farmhands except they carried guns, had boarded also, followed by the man Jessica labeled mentally "Cutface,” and another man whom she remembered vaguely having seen before. After that the tailgate was raised and fastened.

While it was all happening she had concentrated on their surroundings, trying to see as much as she could, but it hadn't helped. There were no other buildings in view, nothing but dense woodland all around, and the dirt track to the hut could scarcely be called a road. She attempted to see the truck's license plate, but if there was one the lowered tailgate covered it.

Physically, Jessica felt better for having received water. Before leaving the hut, Nicky and Angus had been given water too, by a sour-faced woman whom Jessica also remembered seeing briefly before-she believed during her initial struggle with Cutface.

Trying to appeal as one woman to another, Jessica whispered softly between mouthfuls fed to her from a battered tin cup.”Thank you for the water. Please!-will you tell me where we are and why?”

The response was harsh and unexpected. Putting down the cup, the woman administered two hard slaps, forehand and backhand, to Jessica's face, each time sending her reeling sideways. The woman hissed, "You heard the order. Silencio! Speak again and you will go without water for a day.”

After that, Jessica stayed silent. So did Nicky and Angus.

The same woman was now in the front seat of the truck, next to the driver who had just started the engine. Also in front was the man who had kicked Jessica and Nicky and beaten Angus. Jessica had heard one of the others call him Miguel and he appeared to be in charge. The truck began to move, bouncing unevenly over rugged ground.

The heat was even more intense than in the hut. Perspiration streamed from everyone. So where were they? Jessica's notion about being in the general area of New York State seemed less plausible every minute. Nowhere she could think of would be as hot at this time of year. Unless . . .

Was it possible, Jessica wondered, that she and the others had been unconscious, drugged, much longer than she first believed? And if so, could they have been taken to someplace much farther away, farther south, like Georgia or Arkansas? The more she thought about the type of country they were in, the more it resembled the remoter parts of those states, and it would be hot there too. The prospect dismayed her because, if true, the hope of imminent rescue had just receded.

Still seeking clues, she began listening to snatches of speech between the men with the guns. She recognized the language as Spanish and while Jessica didn't speak it, she knew a smattering of words. . . .

”Maldito camion! Me hace dano en la espalda. 'Por que no te acuestas encima de la mujer? Ella es una buena almohada.”. . . Some raucous laughter . . .”No, esperare hasta que termine el vidje. Entonces, ella debe tener cuidadol”. . .”Los Sinchis, esos cabrones, torturaron a mi hermano antes de matarlo.”. . .”El rio no puede llegar tan pronto como yo desearia que llegara. La Selva ve y oye todo.”. . .

Hearing them, she supposed they were recent immigrants; so many Hispanics nowadays were flooding into the United States. Abruptly she remembered the man who first accosted her in the Larchmont supermarket. He spoke English with a Spanish accent. Was there a connection? She couldn't think of one.

The thought of Larchmont, though, reminded her of Crawf. What torment he must be going through! There was something that Angus had said to Nicky in the hut.”Your Dadllfind us.”For sure, by now, Crawf would be moving heaven and earth in the search for them, and he had plenty of influence, lots of friends in high places who would help. But would they have any idea of where to look? Somehow she must discover where they were and devise a way to get word back to Crawf.

Something else Angus had said to Nicky was that they had been kidnapped. Jessica hadn't thought that through before there hadn't been time--but she supposed Angus was right. But why kidnapped? For money? Wasn't that the usual reason? Well, sure the Sloanes had money, but not in huge amounts, not the kind Crawf sometimes talked about as "industrial or Wall Street money.”

And how incredible, Jessica thought, that only last evening -if it was last evening; she was losing track of time-Crawf had spoken of the possibility of being kidnapped himself . . .

Her thoughts were distracted by the sight of Nicky. Since the truck began moving, Nicky had had trouble keeping his body upright and now, because of his tied hands, had slid down horizontally so that with every bump his head was hitting the floor.

Jessica, frantic and unable to help, was about to break silence and appeal to Cutface when she saw one of the gun-toting men take notice of Nicky's plight and move toward him. Partially lifting Nicky, the man moved the boy so his back was against a sack and his feet touching a box, ensuring that he wouldn't slip again. Jessica tried to thank the man with her eyes and a half smile. In return he gave the slightest of nods. It was small reassurance, she thought, but at least there was someone among these brutal people who had feelings.

The man continued to sit near Nicky. He mumbled some words which Nicky, having recently begun Spanish lessons at school, seemed to understand. As the journey continued, there were two more exchanges between the man and the boy.

After about twenty minutes, at a point where the track they had been driving on disappeared and there were only trees, the truck stopped. Jessica, Nicky and Angus were again partially shoved and lifted off the truck. When they were standing, Miguel came around from the front and announced curtly, "From here we walk.”

Gustavo and two other armed men led the way through thick foliage over an uneven, barely discernible trail. Leaves and branches pressed in on either side and though the trees overhead provided shade, the incredible heat persisted amid a constant buzz of insects.

At moments, the three captives were close together. At one point Nicky said in a low voice, "This leads to a river, Mom. Then we're going in a boat.”

Jessica whispered back, "Did that man tell you?”

"Yes.”

Soon after, Jessica heard Angus murmur, "I'm proud of you, Nicky. You're being brave.”

It was the first time Jessica had heard Angus's voice since leaving the hut. She was relieved the old man was at least coping, though she dreaded the effect of this awful experience on him and, for that matter, on Nicky too. Jessica still kept wondering about rescue. What were their chances? When and how would help arrive?

Nicky awaited an opportunity, then answered Angus softly, "It's the way you told me, Gramps. When you're really scared, hang on.”

With sudden emotion Jessica remembered the conversation at breakfast-the four of them, including Crawf, talking about that bombing raid on Germany . . . Schweinfurt? . . . What Nicky had said just now was almost exactly Angus's words then. And how long ago was that breakfast? . . . Today; yesterday; the day before? . . . Again she realized she had lost all reckoning of time.

A little later, Nicky asked, "Gramps, how about you?”

"There's life in this old dog.” Another pause, then, "Jessie -how is it with you?”

At the next opportunity she said, "I've been trying to guess where we are. Georgia? Arkansas? Where?”

It was Nicky who supplied the answer.”They took us out of America, Mom. The man told me. We're in Peru.”

5

"Earlier this morning,” Teddy Cooper told the rows of attentive young faces in front of him, "I was planning to stand here and spin you a cock-n-bull story about why you've been hired and what you'll be doing. Like a real smart-ass, I had what I thought was a convincing cover story all worked out. But a few minutes ago, after talking to some of you, I realized you're all too smart to be taken in. Also, I believe that when you know the real facts, you'll leave here keen, tight-lipped and caring. So sit up straight, lads and lassies. You're about to be trusted with the truth.”

The approach was rewarded by some smiles and continued attention.

It was 9:30 A.M. Monday. Within the past half hour exactly sixty young men and women, the sexes almost equally divided, had reported for temporary work at CBA News, Uncle Arthur having persisted with his telephoning through Sunday evening to make up the full complement required. All were now assembled in the CBA auxiliary building a block away from news headquarters, which the preceding Thursday had been used for the press conference conducted by Crawford Sloane. On the same sound stage, folding chairs had again been set up, facing a lectern.

Most of the recruits were about twenty-two years old and recent university graduates with good scholastic records. They were also articulate, competitive and anxious to break into the TV news milieu.

About a third of the group was black and among these was one Uncle Arthur had drawn to Cooper's attention—Jonathan Mony.”You may want to use Jonathan as a supervisor,” the older man advised.”He's a Columbia Journalism graduate who's been working as a waiter because he needs the money. But if you're as impressed as I am, when this is over maybe the two of us can somehow bring him into CBA.”

Mony, who had been one of the earliest to report this morning, had the build and agility of a professional basketball player. His features were finely cut, with compelling, confident eyes. Mony's voice was a clear baritone and he spoke without jargon in concise sentences. His first question to Cooper after introducing himself was, "May I help you set this up?”

Cooper, who liked Mony instantly, responded, "Sure,” and handed over the batch of forms which the network required all of today's newcomers to complete. Within minutes, Mony was showing fresh arrivals to seats and explaining the forms he had glanced over only moments before.

Soon after, Cooper asked Mony to make two phone calls and pass along messages. Without asking any questions, Mony simply nodded and disappeared. A few minutes later he was back, reporting, "Okay, Mr. Cooper. Both answers were yes.”

That was ten minutes ago. Now Teddy Cooper was continuing his introductory remarks, having paused for effect after telling his audience they would be "trusted with the truth.”

"So what this is really all about is the kidnapping—which of course you've heard of—of Mrs. Crawford Sloane, Master Nicholas Sloane and Mr. Angus Sloane. The work you'll be doing is aimed at helping those kidnap victims and is triple-X important. When you leave here you'll be detailed off to local newspaper offices and certain libraries where you will read every issue published over the past three months. Not just reading, though, but Sherlock Holmesing for clues on which I'll brief you, clues which could lead us to the body snatchers.”

Interest on the faces before him was now even greater than before, accompanied by a hum of conversation which quickly quieted as Cooper continued.”As soon as I'm through sounding off up here, you'll be divided into groups and given the gen about where to go and what to do. Some of the newspaper offices have already been phoned by us this morning; they're cooperative and expecting you. At others you'll have to introduce yourselves, saying you represent CBA. Before leaving here everyone gets a CBA identification card. Save it—a souvenir for your grandchildren.

”About transport, we have some motors waiting which will take several groups each day, dropping off one person at a time at their starting point. After that, you'll make your own way. You all have initiative; you'll get the chance to use it. Some of you will get where you're going by bus and train. Either way, travel expenses are on CBA.

”You needn't come back here at the end of each day, but you must report by telephone—we'll give you numbers—and also call immediately if you find anything important.”

The arrangements Teddy Cooper was describing had been worked on through Sunday and early this morning by himself, his two assistant researchers and a secretary borrowed from the news staff. Some backup work, including phoning local papers, was continuing.

”Now,” Cooper declared, "that was for starters. Next let's get to the big picture. Somewhere about now you should be getting several sheets of paper . . . Yes, here they are.”

The ebullient Jonathan Mony had been consulting with Cooper's assistants, busy at a desk across the room. Mony now returned, burdened by a pile of papers—copies of the task plan and guidelines developed yesterday by Cooper and printed overnight. Mony began handing copies to his fellow temporaries.

"When you get to those local newspaper offices,” Cooper said, "You'll ask first to see issues published three months back from last Thursday—that is, starting June 14. When you have them in front of you, go to classified ads for estate agents and look for any ad offering to rent a small factory, or a warehouse, or a large old house—but not just any old place like that . . .and to get specific, let's turn to page one of those notes you just received.”

As he explained his reasoning and planning, Teddy Cooper was relieved about his decision to disclose the truth. How much or how little he should tell these helpers had been left to his discretion, and now not using a bogus story made everything simpler. There were risks involved, of course. One was the chance that what CBA News was attempting would become known to a competitor, another network perhaps, who would either publicize the fact or run a parallel project of its own. Cooper intended to caution these young people not to reveal any details of CBA's behind-scenes purpose. He hoped his trust would be justified. Surveying his audience, still attentive and with a majority scribbling notes, he believed it would.

Cooper was also keeping his eye on an outer doorway. The phone calls he had asked Jonathan Mony to make were messages to Harry Partridge and Crawford Sloane requesting they make a brief appearance here. He had been pleased when the response from both was positive.

They arrived together. Cooper, in the midst of describing his imagined picture of the kidnappers' operating base, stopped and pointed to the door. All heads turned and despite the group's sophistication, there was an audible gasp as Sloane came forward, followed by Partridge.

With suitable deference, Cooper stepped down from the lectern. He would not presume to introduce the National Evening News anchorman, but simply made way.

”Hello, Teddy,” Sloane said.”What would you like me to do?”

"Mostly, sir, I think everyone would like to meet you.”

Sloane kept his voice low.”Tell me, how much have you let these people know?”

Partridge had joined them near the lectern and was listening.

"Pretty much the lot. I decided they'll be more keen that way and we should trust them.”

"I go along with that,” Partridge said.

Sloane nodded.”Okay by me.” He moved toward the rows of chairs, ignoring the lectern. His face was serious; no one would expect him to be smiling and happy today, and when he spoke his voice matched the sober mood.

”Ladies and gentlemen, it may be that in days to come, what anyone or some of you are about to do will contribute directly to the safe return of my wife, my son and my father. If by great good fortune that should happen, you may be sure I will seek you out to thank you personally. For the time being I would like to express my appreciation of your being here, and wish you well. Good luck to us all!”

Sloane remained in place as many of the young people rose to their feet and some came forward, reaching out to shake his hand and offer genuine good wishes; among them Teddy Cooper saw a few eyes glistening with tears. At the end, Sloane signaled goodbye and left as unobtrusively as he had come. Partridge, who also shook hands and spoke with some of the temporary workers, went with him.

Cooper continued his briefing, describing what these investigative neophytes should look for. When he invited questions several hands shot up.

A youth in an NYU sweat shirt was first.”Okay, so one of us has found an ad that fits the specs you've given, and it might be the place you're looking for. So we phone it in. What next?”

"For starters,” Cooper replied, "we find out who placed the ad. Usually a name will be there and you'll tell us. If there's no name, just a box number, try to get the info from the paper where you are, and if they're sticky about that, let us handle it.”

"And after that?”

"If we can, we'll contact the advertiser by phone and ask some questions. If we can't, we'll go to visit them. Then, if the lead still looks promising, we'll take a look—very cautiously — at the place that was advertised.”

"You've been saying 'we.” ' The new questioner was an attractive young woman in a fashionable beige suit.”Does that mean just you and other big shots, or will some of us here get to share the interesting part, where the action is?”

There were some cheers, and laughter in which Teddy Cooper joined.

”Let's get something straight,” he responded, "I'm a little shot, and be careful how you spell it.” (More laughter.) "But this I promise you: As far as we can, we'll bring you in on any developments, especially those you have a hand in launching. One reason is, we'll need you. We don't have many bodies for this job and if there's a target, chances are you'll be headed for it.”

"When you get to that stage,” a petite redhead asked, "will there be camera crews?”

"You mean might you be on camera?”

She smiled.”Something like that.”

"That won't be my decision, but I'd say it's likely.”

When the questions ended, Cooper concluded with some thoughts he had discussed with no one else, but had considered carefully the night before.

”As well as looking for the kind of advertised buildings I've described, I want you to use the chance, with those three months of newspapers in front of you, to look at every page and be alert for anything unusual.

”Don't ask me what that might be because I have no clue myself

But remember this: Those kidnappers we're trying to track down have been lurking in this area we reckon for at least a month, probably two. In that time, no matter how careful they've tried to be, possibly they've done some small thing which left a trace behind. The other possibility is that that small thing may somehow have found its way into print.”

"Sounds pretty chancy,” someone said.

Teddy Cooper nodded agreement.”You could say it's a chance in ten thousand that something happened which got reported, and another long-shot chance that one of you will find it if it did. So okay, the odds are against us. But don't forget that someone always wins the lottery when the odds are a million to one.

”All I can tell you is think, think, think! Look hard, and look intelligently. Use your imagination. You were hired because we think you're smart, so prove us right. Yep, search for our first target—the ads for premises—but watch out for that other long shot as you go.”

At the end of his remarks, to Cooper's considerable surprise, the young people facing him rose to their feet and applauded.

* * *

Earlier that morning, as soon as businesses were open, Harry Partridge had telephoned his contact, the lawyer with organized crime clients. The response was less than cordial.”Oh, it's you. Well, I told you Friday I'd do some discreet checking and I've already done that twice with no result. What I don't need is you climbing on my back.”

"I'm sorry if I Partridge began, but the other wasn't listening.

”What you newshounds never realize is that in something like this, it's my goddamn head that's on the block. The people I deal with, my clients, trust me and I intend to keep it that way. I also know that one thing they don't give a shit about is other people's problems, including yours and Crawford Sloane's, however bad you think they are.”

"I understand that,” Partridge protested.”But this is a kidnapping and . . .”

"Shut up and listen! I told you when we talked, I was sure none of the people I represent did the kidnapping or were even involved. I'm still sure. I also conceded that I owe you and would try to find out what I could. But I have to walk like I'm in a minefield and, second, convince anyone I talk to that it's to their advantage to help if they know anything or have heard rumors.”

"Look, I said I'm sorry if... "

The lawyer pressed on.”So it isn't something to be done with a bulldozer or an express train. Understand?”

Inwardly sighing, Partridge said, "I understand.”

The lawyer's voice moderated.”Give me a few more days. And don't call me; I'll call you.”

Hanging up, Partridge reflected that while contacts could be useful, you didn't necessarily have to like them.

* * *

Before his arrival at CBA News that morning Partridge had reached a decision on whether or not to reveal on the National Evening News that a known Colombian terrorist, Ulises Rodriguez, had been linked conclusively to the Sloane family kidnap.

His decision was to withhold the information for the time being.

Following the session with Cooper's recruits, Partridge sought out special task force members to inform them. In the group conference room he found Karl Owens and Iris Everly and explained his reasoning.

”Look at it this way: Right now Rodriguez represents the only lead we have and he doesn't know we have it. But if we broadcast what we know, chances are strong that Rodriguez himself will hear of it and we'll have tipped our hand.”

Owens asked doubtfully, "Does that matter?”

"I think it does. Everything points to Rodriguez having been under cover, and the effect would be to drive him further under. I don't have to tell you how much that would lessen our chances of discovering where he is—and, of course, the Sloanes.”

"I can see all that,” Iris acknowledged, "but do you really think, Harry, that a red-hot piece of news like this, already known to at least a dozen people, is going to stay conveniently under wraps until we're ready? Don't forget every network, every newspaper, every wire service has their best people working on this story. I give it twenty-four hours at most before everybody knows.”

Rita Abrams and Norman Jaeger had joined them and were listening.

”You may be proved right,” Partridge told Iris, "but I think it's a risk we have to take.” He added, "I hate to sound corny but I think we should remember once in a while that this news thing we do is not some holy grail. When reporting endangers life and liberty, news has to take second place.”

"I don't want to seem stuffy either,” Jaeger put in.”But in that, I'm with Harry.”

"There's one other thing,” Owens said, "and that's the FBI. By withholding this from them, we could be in trouble.”

"I've thought about that,” Partridge acknowledged, "and decided to take our chances. If that bothers any of you, I'll remind you I'm the one responsible. The thing is, if we tell the FBI, we know from experience they're as likely as not to discuss it with other news people, then we'll have blown our exclusive that way.”

"Coming back to the main issue,” Rita said, "there are precedents for what we'd be doing. I remember one at ABC.”

Iris prompted, "So tell us.”

"You recall the TWA hijack—Beirut, 1985?”

The others nodded, reminded that during the mid-1980s Rita had worked for ABC News; also that the hijacking was a terrorist outrage, holding world attention for two weeks during which a U.S. Navy diver, a passenger aboard TWA Flight 847, was savagely murdered.

”Almost from the beginning of that hijack,” Rita said, "we knew at ABC that there were three American servicemen aboard that plane, in civilian clothes, and we believed we had the information exclusively. The question was: Should we use it on the air? Well, we never did, believing that if we did, the hijackers would learn of it and those servicemen would be as good as dead. In the end the terrorists found out themselves but we always hoped, because of doing the decent thing, we helped two of those three survive.”

"Okay,” Iris said, "I suppose I go along. Though if no one's used the story by tomorrow, I suggest we take another look.”

"I'll buy that,” Owens agreed, and the discussion ended.

However, because of its importance Partridge decided to share his decision with Les Chippingham and Chuck Insen.

The news president, who received Partridge in his paneled office, merely shrugged when told, and commented, "You're the one making task force decisions, Harry; if we didn't trust your judgment you wouldn't be there. Thanks for telling me, though."

The National Evening News executive producer was in his presiding seat at the Horseshoe. As he listened, Insen's eyes brightened. At the end he nodded.”Interesting, Harry; nice piece of research. When you give it to us, we'll run it top of the show. But not until you say so.”

Which left Partridge free to resume telephoning and he settled down in his temporary private office.

Once more he had his blue book of names and phone numbers, but unlike last week when his calls were directed mainly at U.S. sources today Partridge tried to reach contacts in Colombia and the countries immediately adjoining—Venezuela, Brazil, Ecuador, Panama and Peru—plus Nicaragua. In all those places, from where he had frequently reported for CBA News, there were people he knew who had helped him, and for some of whom he had done return favors.

Something else different today was having the positive Rodriguez lead, which translated into a double-barreled question: Do you know of a terrorist named Ulises Rodriguez,— if so, have you any idea where he is or what he's reputed to be doing?

Although Karl Owens had talked on Friday with Latin American contacts, as far as Partridge could tell there was no overlapping—a fact not surprising since producers as well as correspondents cultivated their own sources and, once they had them, kept them to themselves.

Today, responses to the first part of the question posed were almost entirely "yes” and to the second portion, "no.” Confirming Owens's earlier report, Rodriguez seemed to have disappeared from sight three months ago and had not been seen since. An interesting point, though, emerged from a conversation with a long time Colombian friend, a radio news reporter in Bogota.

”Wherever he is,” the broadcaster said, "I'd almost guarantee it isn't this country. He's a Colombian after all, and even though he stays out of reach of the law, he's too well known to be in his home territory for long without word getting around. So my bet is, he's somewhere else.” The conclusion made sense.

One country Partridge had suspicions about was Nicaragua, where the Sandinistas, despite an election defeat, were still a strong presence and continued their long antagonism to the United States. Could they be involved in some way with the kidnapping, hoping to gain from it an advantage yet to be disclosed? The question didn't make a lot of sense, but neither did much else. However, a half-dozen calls to the capital, Managua, produced a consensus that Ulises Rodriguez was not in Nicaragua, nor had he been there.

Then there was Peru. Partridge made several calls to that country and one conversation in particular left him wondering.

He had spoken with another old acquaintance, Manuel Leon Seminario, owner-editor of the weekly magazine Escena, published in Lima.

After Partridge announced his name, Serninario had come on the line at once. His greeting was in impeccable English and Partridge could picture him—slight and dapper, fashionably and fastidiously dressed.”Well, well, my dear Harry. How excellent to hear from you! And where are you? In Lima, I hope.”

When informed that the call was from New York, the owner-editor expressed disappointment.”For a moment I hoped we might have lunch tomorrow at La Pizzeria. The food, I assure you, is as good as ever. So why not hop on a plane and come?”

"I'd love to, Manuel. Unfortunately I'm up to my eyebrows in important work.” Partridge explained his role in the Sloane kidnap task force.

”My god! I should have realized you'd be involved. That's a terrible thing. We've followed the situation closely and we'll have a full-page piece in this week's issue. Is there anything new we should include?”

"There is something new,” Partridge said, "and it's the reason I'm calling. But for now we're keeping it under wraps, so I'd appreciate this talk being off the record.”

"Well . . .” The response was cautious.”As long as it's not information we possess already.”

"We can trust each other, Manuel. On the basis you just said—okay?”

"With that understanding, okay.”

"We have reason to believe that Ulises Rodriguez is involved.”

There was a silence before the magazine man said softly, "You are speaking of bad company, Harry. Around here that name is a nasty, feared word.”

"Why feared?”

"The man is suspected of masterminding kidnappings, skulking in and out of Peru from Colombia for employment by others here. It is a way our criminal—revolutionary elements work. As you know, in Peru nowadays kidnapping is almost a way of life. Well-to-do businessmen or their families are favorite targets. Many of us employ guards and drive protected cars, hoping to forestall it.”

"I did know that,” Partridge said.”But until this moment I'd forgotten.”

Seminario sighed audibly, "You are not alone, my friend. The Western press attention to Peru is spotty, to put it kindly. As to your TV news, we might as well not exist.”

Partridge knew the statement held some truth. He was never sure why, but Americans seldom took the same continuing interest in Peru that they did in other countries. Aloud he said, "Have you heard any talk of Rodriguez being in Peru, perhaps right now, or recently working for anyone there?”

"Well . . . no.”

“Did I sense some hesitation?”

"Not about Rodriguez. I have not heard anything, Harry. I would tell you if I had.”

"What then?”

"Everything here, on what I call the criminal-revolutionary front, has been strangely quiet for several weeks. Scarcely anything happening. Nothing of significance.”

"So?”

"I have seen the signs before and I believe they are unique to Peru. When things are quietest it often means something big is about to happen. Usually unpleasant and of a nature unexpected.”

Seminario's voice changed tempo, becoming businesslike.”My dear Harry, it has been a pleasure talking to you and I am glad you called. But Escena will not edit itself and I must go. Do come to see me soon in Lima, and remember: Lunch at La Pizzeria—a standing invitation.”

Through the remainder of the day the words kept coming back to Partridge: "When things are quietest it often means something big is about to happen.”

6

Coincidentally, on the same day Harry Partridge talked with the owner-editor of Escena, Peru was discussed at an ultra private, top-echelon meeting of CBA network's corporate owners, Globanic Industries Inc. The meeting was a twice yearly, three-day "policy workshop” chaired by the conglomerate's chairman and chief executive officer, Theodore Elliott. Attendance was confined to other CEO's—those of Globanic's nine subsidiaries, all major companies themselves, most with their own ancillaries.

At such meetings corporate confidences were exchanged and secret plans revealed, some capable of making or breaking competitors, investors and markets around the world. However, no written agenda or minutes of the biannual parleys ever existed. Security was strict and each day, before proceedings began, the meeting room was electronically swept for bugs.

Outside the meeting, but never in it, were support staffs of aides—a half dozen or so for each subsidiary company—poised to provide data or briefings that their various chiefs might need.

The locale of the meetings seldom varied. On this occasion, as on most others, it was at the Fordly Cay Club near Nassau in the Bahamas.

Fordly Cay, one of the world's most exclusive private clubs, with a resort facility including a yacht harbor, golf course, tennis courts and white-sand beaches, occasionally allowed special VIP groups the expensive use of its facilities. Larger conventions were verboten; sales meetings, as far as Fordly Cay was concerned, did not exist.

Ordinary membership in the club was hard to come by; a waiting list caused many aspirants to linger for long periods, some in vain. Theodore Elliott was a recent member, though approval of his application had taken two years.

The day before, when everyone arrived, Elliott had been proprietorial, especially welcoming Globanic spouses who would appear only at social, tennis, golfing and sailing breaks. Today the first morning meeting was in a small, comfortable library with deep rattan chairs upholstered in beige leather, and wall-to-wall patterned carpeting. Between book-lined walls, softly lit cases held silver sporting trophies. Above a fireplace— seldom used—a portrait of the club's founder beamed down on the select small group.

Elliott was appropriately dressed in white slacks and a light-blue polo shirt, the latter bearing the club crest—a quartered shield with palm tree rampant, engrailed crossed tennis racquets, golf clubs and a yacht, all on waves of the sea. With or without such accoutrements, Theo Elliott was classically handsome—tall, lean, broad shouldered, with a strong jaw and a full head of hair, now totally white. Ile hair was a reminder that in two years' time the chairman-in-chief would reach retirement age and be succeeded, almost certainly, by one of the others present.

Allowing for the fact that some heads of companies were too old to be eligible, there were three strong candidates. Margot Lloyd-Mason was one.

Margot was conscious of this as she reported early in the proceedings on the state of CBA.

Speaking precisely, she disclosed that since Globanic Industries' acquisition of CBA television and radio network and affiliated stations, strict financial controls had been introduced, budgets pared and redundant personnel dismissed. As a result, third-quarter profits would be up twenty-two percent compared with the pre-Globanic year before.

”That's a fair beginning,” Theodore Elliott commented, "though we'll expect even better in future.” There were confirming nods from others in the room.

Margot had dressed carefully today, not wanting to appear too feminine, yet at the same time not wishing to lose the advantage of her sex. At first she considered wearing a tailored suit, as she often did in her office at Stonehenge, but decided it was inappropriate in the semi tropics. In the end she chose beige linen slacks and a cotton sweater in a soft peach shade. The outfit emphasized her well-proportioned body, a judgment confirmed by lingering glances from some of the men.

Continuing her report, Margot mentioned the recent kidnapping of the Crawford Sloane family.

The chairman of International Forest Products, a hard driving Oregonian named DeWitt, injected, "That's too bad and we all hope they catch those people. Just the same, your network's getting a lot of attention from it.”

"So much attention,” Margot informed him, "that our National Evening News ratings have soared from 9.2 to 12.1 within the past five days, which means an additional six million viewers and puts us strongly in front as number one. It's also raised the rating of our daily game show, carried by our five owned and operated stations immediately after the news. And the same is true of our prime-time shows, especially the Ben Largo Show on Friday which went from 22.5 to 25.9. The sponsors all around are delighted; as a result we're pushing hard with next season's advertising.”

Someone asked, "Does that spread of good ratings mean most people don't change channels?” The question reminded Margot that even among this exalted group there was an inherent fascination with the minutiae of broadcasting.

”Networks know from experience that if viewers tune in to the evening news the odds are they will stay with that network for the next ninety minutes, sometimes more. At the same time, others join the audience.”

"So it's an ill wind . . . as the old saying goes,” the forest products chief said, smiling. Margot smiled back.”Since we're here in private I'll agree, though please don't quote me.”

"No one quotes anybody,” Theo Elliott said.”Privacy and truth are why we hold these sessions.”

"Speaking of your advertisers, Margot.” The voice belonged to Leon Ironwood of West World Aviation, a tanned, athletic Californian and another of the three contenders to be Elliott's successor. The company Ironwood headed was a successful defense contractor making fighter airplanes.”What's the latest on that ongoing problem of video recording machines? How many households have them anyway?”

"About fifty percent,” Margot acknowledged, "and you're right about the problem. Most of those who record network programs later zip through commercials without watching, thereby diminishing our advertising effectiveness.”

Ironwood nodded.”Especially since VCR owners represent an affluent population group. It's how I watch TV.”

Someone else added, "And don't forget mute buttons. I use mine whenever there's a commercial.”

"The truth is,” Margot said, "the whole VCR and mute problems are like permanent storm clouds over us, which is why networks have dragged their feet in researching their effects. There could have been a measuring technique long ago, except we don't want to know the bad news, and in that we have an ally—advertising agencies who fear that knowledge would turn off big advertisers, depriving the agencies of enormous business.”

"I'm sure,” Elliott prompted, "that your fiscal planning has taken that into account.”

"It has, Theo. Looking ahead and accepting that network advertising money will diminish, we're seeking additional revenue sources, and it's why CBA and others have quietly bought up TV cable operators and will acquire more. The networks have the capital and one day soon cable TV may wake up to find itself almost entirely owned by broadcast networks. At the same time, we're exploring joint-venture agreements with the phone companies.”

"Joint venture?” Ironwood asked

"I'll explain. First, accept the fact that terrestrial broadcasting—over-the-air television—is near the end of its useful life. Within ten to fifteen years about the only place you'll find an old-fashioned TV antenna is the Smithsonian; also by then, TV stations will have abandoned their conventional transmitters as uneconomic.”

"With cable and satellite dishes taking over?”

"Partly, but not entirely.” Margot smiled. She was dealing with a familiar subject as well as demonstrating, she hoped, her own farsightedness.

”The next thing to realize,” she continued, "is that there is no important future in this business for cable operators alone. To survive, they must pool resources—and so shall we—with the telephone people whose lines already go into every home.”

Several nodded approvingly as Margot declared, "The technology for a combination phone and TV line, using fiber-optic cable, is available now. It's simply a matter of getting the system working, which includes a network like ours developing specialized cable programming. The potential revenues are enormous.”

"Aren't there government restrictions,” Ironwood asked, "on phone companies entering the broadcast business?”

"Restrictions which the Congress will change. We're working on that; in fact legislation has been drafted.”

"And you're convinced Congress will go along?”

Theo Elliott laughed.”If she is, it's with good reason. I assume most of us here have read the book The Best Congress Money Can Buy. If not, it's must reading for people like ourselves . . . What's the author's name?”

"Philip Stern,” Margot said.

”Right. Well, just the way Stem described, Globanic Industries contributes handsomely to every Political Action Committee affecting our concerns, which means congressional votes are bought and ready when we need them. When Margot wants those regulations changed, she can let me know. I'll pass the word.”

"There's talk of abolishing the PAC system,” DeWitt said.

”And that's all it is—talk,” Elliott responded.”Besides, even if the name is changed, you can be sure those in Congress will find some other way to do exactly what they're doing now.”

The forthright, off-the-record talk continued. However, the subject of the Sloane family kidnapping was not brought up again.

Late in the morning it was the turn of K. Phocis ("Fossie") Xenos, chairman of Globanic Financial Services, to address his fellow CEO's.

Three years earlier Tri-Trade Financial Services, as it was then, was a consumer credit enterprise making loans to middleclass Americans from a chain of storefront offices; it also sold life and casualty insurance. Globanic then bought out TriTrade, Theo Elliott seeing it as a ready-made base—much simpler than starting a new company—for attracting international investors seeking entrepreneurial risk and glamour. He put Fossie Xenos in charge—a young second-generation Greek-American with an MBA degree from Wharton, who had come to Elliott's attention through some artful investment-bank maneuvers.

Almost the first thing Xenos did was dispose of the consumer credit business, which produced only modest profits, and close the storefront offices; soon after, he terminated the insurance activity, describing it as "small-time humdrum for mental midgets.” He was more interested in something fresh and exciting on the monetary scene—leveraged buyouts, known as LBO's, financed by junk bonds.

Since then, working with whatever happened to be "hot” financially, Fossie Xenos had created sparkling profits for Global Financial, plus a dynamic reputation for himself. The last was why Margot Lloyd-Mason viewed Fossie, who was the third possible candidate for the conglomerate chairmanship, as her most formidable rival.

Despite his manipulative skills and conquests, Fossie retained a boyish manner, appearing at least eight years younger than the forty-one he was. His clothes were mostly casual, his hair untidy, the result of running his hands through it as he talked in a rapid-fire staccato. He was persuasive and convincing; that and a dazzling smile he flashed at everyone were his personality strengths.

Today Fossie Xenos reported on a complex, delicate and largely secret project, now in its early stages but expected to produce a multibillion-dollar bonanza for Global. It involved so-called debt-to-equity swaps and a gigantic real estate investment fund, both relating to Peru, with Globanic working hand-n-glove with that country's government.

As described by Fossie to his fellow CEO's, the steps and conditions were:

Currently, Peru had more than $16 billion of foreign debt on which it had defaulted, thereby cutting itself off from the international financial community which would lend it no more money. Peru, however, suffering a desperate economic crisis, was anxious to get back into reputable status and begin borrowing once more.

Globanic Financial Services had quietly bought up $4.5 billion of Peru's outstanding debt—better than one quarter —paying an average five cents on the dollar, an outlay of $225 million. The original lenders of the money, mainly U.S. banks, were glad to sell even at that low price since they long ago figured they would get nothing back at all. Globanic had now "securitized”the Peruvian debt—that is, converted it into negotiable paper.

The government of Peru, through three of its ministers controlling finance, tourism and public works, had been informed they now had a matchless opportunity to wipe out that $4.5 billion of debt by buying the securitized debt from Globanic for ten cents on the dollar, but with all bookkeeping payments in Peru's own weak currency, the inti. This was Fossie's cleverly baited hook because in that way the country's small and precious store of other countries' hard currency—mainly dollars—would remain untouched.

Three critical conditions were attached to Globanic's acknowledgment of Peruvian currency. Globanic didn't want cash but instead the debt-to-equity swap, giving it total ownership of two spectacular resort locations now owned by the Peruvian Government. Globanic Financial would develop and eventually operate these, believing both to have gigantic potential as premium holiday destinations. One resort city with a coastal location was foreseen as the "Punta del Este of the Pacific.” The other, a mountain-locked site in the Andes, would be a sensational staging point for excursions to Machu Picchu and Cuzco, among the world's most popular tourist attractions.

Along with those vast amounts of land would go government guarantees that Globanic could do the developing freely, in its own way. At the same time Globanic would bring in hard currency to pay for development while also creating massive local employment, both helpful to Peru.

The final condition, to be secret between the Peruvian Government and Globanic, was that the price paid for the two resort sites should be twenty-five percent less than their real value.

Globanic would benefit in several ways: Initially by selling the securitized debt for twice what it paid—an instant bonus of $225 million. Next, by obtaining two magnificent locations for only three quarters of their worth. After that, attracting worldwide investment for the resorts' development and eventually reaping gargantuan profits from their operation.

Fossie's report ended with the information that following long and delicate negotiations, agreement between the Peruvian Government and Globanic Financial had been reached a few days earlier, with all of Globanic's demands accepted.

As K. Phocis Xenos concluded and sat down, there was spontaneous applause from the small, high-powered audience.

Theo Elliott, beaming, inquired, "Questions, anyone?”

"About those government ministers you spoke of,” a CEO named Warren Graydon began; he headed Empire Chemical Corporation.”Is there any kind of assurance that they'll keep their word?”

"Let me handle that one,” Elliott said.”The answer is yes, we have taken precautions. But I don't believe we need lay out details, even here.”

There were subtle smiles, the answer indicating that bribery was involved. In fact, when the Peru—Globanic agreement was signed and sealed, the three ministers would receive Swiss bank accounts, opened in their names, with a million and a half dollars deposited in each. They would also have the free use, whenever required, of luxury condominiums in London, Paris and Geneva, with accompanying fringe benefits. International companies like Globanic Industries frequently made such arrangements for their political friends.

Margot spoke up.”Tell us about Peru's stability, Fossie. Lately there's been an increase in revolutionary activity, not just in the usual Andes areas, but in Lima and elsewhere. Under those circumstances will resorts be practical? Will vacationers want to go there?”

She was walking a tightrope, Margot knew. On one hand, because of their competitive relationship, she could not afford to let Fossie Xenos get away with his presentation entirely unchallenged; also if something went wrong with the resort scheme later, she wanted it remembered that she had doubts in the beginning. On the other hand, if Margot became Globanic Industries' new chairman, she would need Fossie's friendship and his impressive contributions to conglomerate revenues. Keeping that in mind, she tried to make her questions rational and down the middle.

If Fossie sensed the maneuvering, he showed no sign of it and answered cheerfully.”All my information is that the revolutionary outlook is short-term and over the long haul Peru will survive with a solid, law-abiding democracy favorable to expanded tourism. Supporting that, there's a long tradition in the country based on democratic values.”

Margot made no further contribution but noted that Fossie had just exhibited a weakness which someday she might exploit. She had observed the same thing before with others, especially in real estate deals where glamorous objectives could outweigh normally cautious judgments. Psychologists called it the suspension of reality and, as Margot viewed it, anyone who believed an end was in sight to armed insurrection in Peru had done exactly that.

Of course, she reasoned, the resorts could still go ahead and be protected; after all, there were an increasing number of places in the world where holiday-making and danger existed side by side. But in Peru's case, only time and large expenditures would make the outcome clear.

Theo Elliott clearly did not share Margot's doubts.”If that's all the questioning,” he pronounced, "let me just say this: For some time I've known what Fossie has just told you, but have brought you into it today for two good reasons. First, I know all of us can keep secrets and it's to our advantage to keep this one. Second, I don't want anything to damage our still delicate relationship with the government of Peru and thereby spoil what can evolve into the deal of the century.” The chairman rose.”Now that's understood, let's have lunch.”

7

It took several minutes for Jessica to accept the possibility that what Nicky had told her—that they were actually in Perumight conceivably be true.

It couldn't have happened! Surely there had not been time!

But gradually, discarding earlier assumptions and with specific memories returning, the likelihood grew stronger. Wasn't it possible, she reasoned, that she, Nicky and Angus had been unconscious far longer than she had considered possible, even when she thought they might be in a southern U.S. state? Obviously, yes.

Yet if this was Peru, how had they been brought here? It could not have been easy to smuggle three unconscious people . . .

A sudden flash of memory! An image sharp and clear, yet totally forgotten until now.

During that brief interval when she struggled and managed to wound Cutface . . . in those desperate moments she had seen two empty funeral caskets, one smaller than the other. That terrifying sight had convinced her she and Nicky were about to be killed.

But now, with a shudder, Jessica realized they must have been brought here in those caskets—like dead people! The thought was so horrific that she wouldn't, couldn't think of it. Instead, she forced her mind back to the present, grim and painful as it was.

Jessica, Nicky and Angus, with their hands tied behind them, were still walking, stumbling over the narrow trail hemmed in by densely growing trees and undergrowth. Some armed men were ahead, others behind. At any sign of slowing, those behind shouted, "Andale! Apurense! “ prodding with their rifles to urge the captives on.

And it was hot. Incredibly hot. Sweat poured from them all.

Jessica worried desperately about the other two. She herself was suffering an intense headache, nausea, and a myriad of buzzing insects she was unable to brush away. How long could this go on? Nicky had said they were going to a river. Surely they must get there soon!

Yes, Jessica decided, Nicky's informant must have been right. This was Peru and, realizing how far from home they had come and how remote were the chances of their being rescued here, she felt like weeping.

The ground beneath her feet had become soggy, making it increasingly difficult to walk. Suddenly, behind her, Jessica heard a sharp cry, a commotion and a thud. Turning, she saw that Angus had fallen. His face was in mud.

Gamely, the old man struggled to get up, but failed because of his tied hands. Behind him the men with guns laughed. One of them lunged forward with his rifle, ready to thrust the barrel in Angus's back.

Jessica screamed at the man, "No, no, no!”

The words briefly startled him and before he could recover, Jessica ran to Angus and dropped to her knees beside him. She managed to keep her body upright, even with her hands tied, though was helpless to assist Angus to his feet. The man with the gun moved angrily toward her, but stopped at the sound of Miguel's sharp voice. From the front of the column, Miguel now appeared, with Socorro and Baudelio behind him.

Before anyone else could speak, Jessica raised her voice, strong with emotion.”Yes, we are your prisoners. We don't know why, but we know we can't escape, and so do you. Why, then, tie our hands? All we want is to help ourselves, to keep from falling. Look what happens when we can’t Please, please, show some mercy! I beg you, free our hands!”

For the first time, Miguel hesitated, especially as Socorro told him softly, "If one of them breaks a leg or arm, or even has a cut, it could be infected. In Nueva Esperanza we'll have no means of dealing with infection.”

Beside her, Baudelio said, "She's right.”

Miguel, with an impatient gesture, snapped an order in Spanish. One of the men with guns stepped forward—the same man who had helped Nicky in the truck. From a sheath fastened to his belt he produced a knife and reached behind Jessica. She felt the rope binding her wrists loosen, then fall away. Nicky was next. Angus was propped up while his bonds were severed too, then Jessica and Nicky helped him stand.

Amid shouted commands, they again moved forward.

In the past few minutes, despite her emotion, Jessica had learned several things. First, their destination was Nueva Esperanza, though the name meant nothing to her. Second, the man who had befriended Nicky was Vicente—she'd heard his name used when he cut the bonds. Third, the woman who interceded with Miguel, the same one who struck Jessica in the hut, possessed some medical knowledge. So did Cutface. Possibly one or the other was a doctor, perhaps both,

She squirreled the nuggets of information away, instinct telling her that whatever she could learn might prove useful later.

Moments later, as the column rounded a bend in the trail, a wide river appeared ahead.

* * *

Miguel remembered reading in his early nihilist days that a successful terrorist must divest himself of conventional human emotions and achieve his ends by instilling terror in those who opposed his wishes and his will. Even the emotion of hatred, while useful in providing terrorists with psychic passion, could be a liability in excess, obscuring judgment.

In his terrorist career, Miguel had followed those dicta faithfully, adding one more: Action and danger were a terrorist's stimulants. For himself, he needed them the way an addict needed drugs.

Which was the reason for his disenchantment with what lay immediately ahead.

For four months, commencing with his flight to London and his acquisition of the illegal passport he used to enter the United States, he had been driven by the zest of ever-present danger, the life-and-death necessity for careful planning, more recently the heady flavor of success and, overall, a constant vigilance to assure survival.

But now, in these jungle backwaters of Peru, the dangers were less great. While there was always a possibility of government forces appearing suddenly, spraying automatic weapons fire and asking questions after, most other pressures were reduced or absent. Yet Miguel had contracted to remain here—or at least in Nueva Esperanza, the small village they would reach today—for an unspecified length of time because when this deal was made with the Medellin cartel, Sendero Luminoso had wanted it that way. For what reason? Miguel didn't know.

Nor did he know precisely why the prisoners had been taken and what would happen now they had been brought here. He did know they were to be strictly guarded, which was probably the reason for his staying on since he had a reputation for reliability. As to anything more, that was presumably in the hands of Abimael Guzman, the raving lunatic—as Miguel thought of him nowadays—who had founded Sendero Luminoso and considered himself the immaculate Maoist—Jesus. Of course, that was assuming Guzman was still alive. Rumors that he was or wasn't came with the persistence—and unreliability —of jungle rain.

Miguel hated the jungle—or Selva, as Peruvians called it. Hated the all—pervading dampness, decay and mold . . . the sense of confinement, as if the swiftly growing, impenetrable undergrowth was forever closing in . . . the never-ceasing dissonance of insects until you longed for a few minutes of silence and relief . . . the loathsome legion of soundless, slithering snakes. And the jungle was huge: almost twice the size of California and representing three fifths of Peru, though only five percent of the country's inhabitants lived there.

Peruvians were fond of declaring there were three Perus: the bustling coastal region with a thousand miles of cities, commerce, beaches; the South Andean mountains, their magnificent peaks rivaling the Himalayas and the area perpetuating Inca history and tradition; and finally this jungle, the Amazonian Selva Indian, wild and tribal. Well, Miguel could take and even enjoy the first and second. Nothing, though, would change his aversion to the third. The jungle was asquerosa.

His thoughts returned to Sendero Luminoso—the "Shining Path”to revolution, the name taken from the writings of Peru's late Marxist philosopher, Jose Carlos Maridtegui. In 1980, Abimael Guzmin followed that lead, soon afterward anointing himself "the fourth sword of world revolution,” his predecessors, as he saw it, being Marx, Lenin and Mao Tse-tung. All other revolutionaries were spurned by Guzman as pallid charlatans, the rejects including Lenin's Soviet successors and Cuba's Castro.

The guerrillas of Sendero Luminoso believed they would overthrow the existing government and rule all of Peru. But not quickly. The movement claimed to count time in decades, not in years. Yet Sendero was large and strong already, its corps of leaders and its power growing, and Miguel expected to see the overthrow happen in his lifetime. Not, however, from this odiosa jungle.

For the moment, though, Miguel was awaiting instructions about the prisoners, instructions which would probably originate in Ayacucho, a historic town in the Andes foothills where Sendero exercised almost total control. Not that Miguel cared who gave the orders as long as some, involving action, reached him soon.

But now, the Huallaga River was directly ahead—a sudden opening in the constricting jungle scene. He paused to survey it.

Wide and a muddy orange-brown from Andean lateritic silt, the Huallaga flowed steadily toward its confluence with the Marafion River three hundred miles away and, soon after, its merging with the mighty Amazon. Centuries ago, Portuguese explorers named this whole Amazon complex O Rio Mar, The River Sea.

As they drew nearer, Miguel could see two wooden workboats, each about thirty-five feet long and with twin outboard motors, moored close to the riverbank. Gustavo, leader of the small force that had met them at the airstrip, was giving orders about loading stores the arriving group had brought. He also indicated how those traveling in the boats would be divided; the prisoners were to be in the first. Miguel noted approvingly that Gustavo's instructions included posting two armed guards while loading was taking place, a precaution against a sudden appearance by government forces.

Satisfied with what was being done, Miguel saw no reason to interfere. He would resume full command at Nueva Esperanza.

* * *

For Jessica, the river magnified the sense of isolation she felt. It seemed to her a desolate opening to an unknown world, unconnected to the one behind them. Prodded by guns, she, Nicky and Angus waded knee-deep through water to board one of the boats and, after climbing in, were ordered to sit on the damp boat bottom, a flat surface formed by boards running fore and aft above the keel. It was possible to lean back, if they chose, against the edge of a single board athwart the top of the boat, but this merely provided a choice between two discomforting positions, neither one endurable for long.

Jessica noticed then that Nicky had gone pale and was suddenly racked by vomiting. Though nothing came from his mouth except a little mucus, his chest heaved. Jessica moved closer and held him, at the same time looking desperately for help.

She immediately saw Cutface who had waded out from shore and was beside the boat. Before Jessica could speak, the woman she had observed several times before appeared and Cutface ordered, "Give them all more water—the boy first.”

Socorro filled a tin cup with water and passed it to Nicholas who drank greedily; as he did, the shaking of his body subsided. Then he said in a weak voice, "I'm hungry.”

"There is no food here,” Baudelio told him.”You will have to wait.”

Jessica protested, "There must be something he can have.”

Cutface did not answer, but the order he had given about water had made his status clear and Jessica said accusingly, "You're a doctor!”

"That is no concern of yours.”

"And he's American,” Angus added.”Listen to his voice.” The water seemed to have revived Angus who turned toward Baudelio.”That's right isn't it, you disgusting bastard? Don't you ever feel ashamed?”

Baudelio merely turned away and climbed into the other boat.

”Please, I'm hungry,” Nicky repeated. He turned to Jessica.”Mom, I'm scared.”

Jessica, holding him again, admitted, "Darling, so am I"

Socorro, who heard all the exchanges, appeared to hesitate. Then reaching into her shoulder bag, she produced a large bar of Cadbury's chocolate. Without speaking, she tore open the package, broke off a half-dozen squares and offered two to each prisoner. Angus was last and shook his head.”Give mine to the boy."

Socorro clucked her annoyance, then impulsively tossed the entire chocolate bar into the boat. It fell at Jessica's feet. At the same time Socorro moved away, boarding the second boat.

Some of the armed men who had been in the truck and on the wooded trail now climbed into the same boat as the prisoners and both boats started to move. Jessica noticed that other men who had been in charge of the boats were also armed. Even the two helmsmen, each seated forward of the twin outboard motors, had rifles across their knees and looked ready to use them. The chances of getting away, even if there were somewhere to go, seemed nonexistent.

* * *

As both boats headed upriver against the current, Socorro fumed at herself for what she had done. She hoped no one else had seen, because giving the prisoners that good chocolate, unobtainable in Peru, was a sign of weakness, of foolish pity—a contemptible sentiment in a revolutionary.

The problem was, she had moments of vacillation within herself, a psychic tug-of-war.

Less than a week ago, Socorro had reminded herself of the need to guard against banal emotions. That was the evening following the kidnap while the Sloane woman, the boy and the old man were unconscious in the second floor medical room of the Hackensack house. At that time Socorro was doing her best to hate the captives—rico bourgeois scum, she had labeled them mentally, and still did. But the hatred had to be forced on that other occasion and even now, she thought to her discredit, the same seemed true.

Earlier today, in the airstrip hut when the Sloane woman asked a question after Miguel ordered silence, Socorro deliberately hit her hard, sending the woman reeling. At the time, believing Miguel was watching, Socorro had simply tried to be supportive. Yet moments later she felt ashamed at what she had done. Ashamed! She should not feel that way.

Socorro told herself, She must be resolute in putting behind her, once and for all, memories of those things she had likedcorrection: deluded herself into liking—during her three years in the United States. She had to hate, hate hate America. And these prisoners too.

Soon afterward, while the river and its dense green uninhabited shores slipped by, she dozed. Then, some three hours after departure, both boats slowed, their bows turning from the main river into a smaller stream, the banks on either side closing in and rising steeply as the boats progressed. They were nearing Nueva Esperanza, Socorro presumed, and there, she assured herself, she would strengthen and revive her radical fervor.

* * *

Baudelio, watching the boat ahead lead the way along a side valley from the Huallaga River, knew this journey was almost ended and he was glad. His time spent with this project was close to ending too, and very soon he hoped to be in Lima. That had been promised him as soon as the captives were delivered here in a healthy state.

Well, they were healthy, even in this ghastly, humid heat.

As if the thought of humidity had prompted more of the same, the sky overhead suddenly darkened to a somber gray and a torrent of rain arrived in sheets, soaking everything in sight. While a protruding jetty could be seen ahead, with other boats moored or beached, there were still several minutes to go before landing and, for captives and captors both, there was nothing to do but sit and get wet.

Baudelio was indiffierent to the rain as he was indifferent nowadays to most else that came his way—for example, the abuse directed at him by the old man prisoner and the Sloane woman. He was long past caring about that, and any humane feelings he once had concerning those he worked on medically had been extinguished years ago.

What he really longed for at this moment was a drink several drinks; in fact, Baudelio wanted to get drunk as soon as possible. While he had continued taking the Antabuse tablets which made it impossible to drink liquor without becoming violently ill—Miguel still insisted on the alcoholic ex-doctor swallowing one tablet in his presence daily—Baudelio intended to stop the Antabuse the instant he and Miguel parted company. As far as Baudelio was concerned, that could not be too soon.

Something else Baudelio wanted was his woman in Lima. He knew she was a slut, had been a prostitute, and was a drunkard like himself, but in the messy detritus of his shattered life, she was all he had and he missed her. His own empty loneliness had been the reason for his illicit use, a week ago, of one of the cellular phones to call his woman from the Hackensack house. Since making that call, against Miguel's orders, Baudelio had worried a lot, dreading that Miguel would find out. But the call had apparently gone undiscovered, for which he was relieved.

Oh, how he needed that drink!

* * *

The chocolate, while not a lasting substitute for food, had helped.

Jessica did not waste mental effort wondering why the sour faced woman had so impetuously left a chocolate bar, apart from noting that she was a person of unpredictable moods. Instead Jessica concealed the chocolate in a pocket of her dress, keeping it out of sight of the armed men aboard.

While traveling upriver, Jessica gave most of the chocolate to Nicky, but ate some herself and insisted that Angus have some too. It was important, she pointed out, keeping her voice low, that they all preserve their strength—which was clearly ebbing after the time in the open truck, then the exhausting march through the jungle and now their several hours in the boat.

As to the length of time the three of them had been unconscious, Jessica realized there was a clue in Angus's growth of beard. She hadn't noticed before, but the unshaved gray hairs on his face were surprisingly long. When she pointed this out, Angus felt his face and estimated it was four or five days since his last shave.

Perhaps that wasn't important now, but Jessica was still absorbing all the information she could, a reason she tried to stay alert during the river journey.

There wasn't much to see, except thickly growing trees and foliage on both banks, and the river itself winding sinuously, hardly ever in a straight line. Several times small canoes were visible in the distance, but none came close.

Throughout the journey Jessica was plagued by constant itching. Earlier, in the hut where she first returned to consciousness seated on the dirt floor, she had been aware of insects crawling on her. Now she realized they were fleas, which had stayed with her and were biting persistently. But short of stripping, there was no way she could remove them. She hoped that wherever she and the others were being taken, there would be ample water so she could wash the fleas away.

Like everyone else, Jessica, Nicky and Angus were soaked in the deluge of rain shortly before landing at Nueva Esperanza. But as their boat made fast against a crude wooden jetty, the rain stopped as suddenly as it had begun, and at that same moment the spirits of all three sank as they saw the awful, forbidding place ahead.

Beyond a rough and muddy path from the riverbank was a series of dilapidated houses, about two dozen in all, some merely shacks built partly from old packing cases and rusted corrugated iron and supplemented by bamboo stems. Most of the houses were windowless, though two had what appeared to be small storefronts. Thatched roofs showed disrepair, and some had gaping holes. Discarded cans and other garbage littered the surrounding area. A few scrawny chickens ran loose. Off to one side, a dead dog was being pecked by buzzards.

Could there possibly be something better farther on? The dismal answer appeared when a rough, now muddy road leading out of the hamlet came into sight. The road climbed a hill and on either side, beyond the few houses already in view, was nothing but two barricading walls of jungle. At the top of the hill the road disappeared.

Later, Jessica and the others would learn that Nueva Esperanza was basically a fishing village, though Sendero Luminoso used it from time to time for purposes the organization wanted hidden.”

"Vayanse a tierra! Muevanse! Apurense!” Gustavo shouted at the prisoners, at the same time signaling them to move. Dejected, dreading whatever was to come, Jessica and the other two obeyed.

What happened minutes later was even worse than they had feared.

After being escorted by Gustavo and four more armed men up the muddy path, they were herded into a shack which stood farthest from the river. Inside, it took a few moments for their eyes to adjust to the semidarkness. When they did, Jessica screamed in anguish.

”Oh, my god, no! You can't shut us in those! Not in cages, like animals! Please! Please no!”

What she had seen set against the far wall were three partitioned cells about eight feet square. Thin but strong bamboo stalks, securely fastened, were a substitute for bars. Additionally, between each cell, wire screening had been nailed so there could be no physical contact between adjoining occupants or anything passed from one enclosure to another. At the front of each cell was a door fitted with a sliding steel bar and, outside, a heavy padlock.

Inside each cell was a low wooden bed and a thin, soiled mattress, alongside the bed a galvanized pail, presumably intended as a toilet. The whole place stank.

While Jessica pleaded and protested, Gustavo seized her. Though she continued struggling, his hands were like steel. Impelling her forward, he ordered, "Vete para adentro!” Then in halting English, "You go in there.”

"In there” was the enclosure farthest from the shack's outer door and, with a forceful shove, Gustavo pushed Jessica to the inside wall. As she fell against it, the cell door closed and she heard the padlock's metallic click. Outside, at the opposite end of the shack, she could hear Angus fighting and arguing too, but he was subdued, thrown in, and the padlock fastened. In the cell next to her own, Jessica heard Nicky sobbing.

Tears of rage, frustration and despair coursed down her cheeks.

8

A week and a half had passed since the sixty temporary recruits had been turned loose by CBA News to make a study of the region's local newspapers, searching for a headquarters that the Sloane family's kidnappers might have used. However, no progress had been made, nor had there been developments in other areas.

The FBI, while not saying specifically it had reached a dead end, had nothing new to report. The CIA, now rumored to be involved, would make no statement.

What everyone was waiting for, it seemed, was some word from the kidnappers, presumably accompanied by demands. So far it hadn't happened.

The kidnap story was still very much in the news, though on TV newscasts it had ceased to be the lead item, and in newspapers was usually on an inside page.

Despite the apparent waning of the public interest, there was no shortage of speculation. Among the news media there appeared a growing belief that the kidnap victims had somehow been spirited from the country and were overseas. As to precisely where, most hypotheses centered on the Middle Fast.

Only at CBA News were there contrary indications. Because of the special task force identification of a Colombian terrorist, Ulises Rodriguez, as a kidnap gang participant and perhaps the gang's leader, Latin America had become the focus of attention. Unfortunately, no particular country had been determined as the kidnappers' base.

To the surprise of everyone involved, knowledge of the Rodriguez connection remained exclusively with CBA News. It had been expected that the discovery would quickly be duplicated by other networks and newspapers and thus become public information, but while that could still occur at any time, it hadn't yet. There was even some unease at CBA about the News Division's continuing to withhold its knowledge concerning Rodriguez from the FBI.

Meanwhile CBA, more than other networks, kept the kidnap story aggressively alive, using a technique borrowed from rival CBS. During the 1979-81 Iran hostage crisis, Walter Cronkite, then CBS Evening News anchorman, concluded each broadcast with the words, "And that's the way it is [the date], the _th day of captivity for the American hostages in Iran.” (The number of days eventually totaled 444).

As Barbara Matusow, broadcasting's historian and conscience, recorded in her book The Evening Stars, Cronkite made "a decision that the hostages . . . were so important that the spotlight of national attention should not stray from them, even for a single night.”

Similarly, Harry Partridge, still acting as second anchor for any item concerning the Sloane kidnap, now began, "On this the [numbered] day since the brutal kidnapping of the wife, son and father of CBA News anchorman Crawford Sloane The item itself then followed.

As a matter of policy, approved by Les Chippingham and agreed to by executive producer Chuck Insen, there was always a Sloane kidnap reference in every National Evening News, even if only to record the absence of any new development.

But on a Wednesday morning, ten days after the search of local newspapers began, an event occurred which put everything at CBA News in high gear once more. It also ended the inactivity that had frustrated all members of the special task force.

At the time Harry Partridge was in his private office. He looked up to see Teddy Cooper in the doorway and, behind him, Jonathan Mony, the young black man who had made so strong an impression earlier when the temporary researchers were assembling.

”We may have something, Harry,” Cooper said.

Partridge waved the two in.

”Jonathan will tell you.” Cooper motioned to Mony.”Go ahead.”

"Yesterday I went to a local newspaper in Astoria, Mr. Partridge,” Mony began confidently.”That's in Queens, near Jackson Heights. Did all the things you said, found nothing. Then, coming out, I saw the office of a Spanish-language weekly called Sernana. It wasn't on the list, but I went in.”

"You speak Spanish?”

Mony nodded.”Pretty well. Anyway, I asked to check their issues for those dates we've been watching and they let me. Nothing there either, but as I was leaving they gave me their latest issue. I took it home, looked through it last night.”

"And brought it to me this morning,” Cooper said. He produced a tabloid-style newspaper which he spread on Partridge's desk.”Here's a column we think will interest you, and a translation Jonathan has written.”

Partridge glanced at the paper, then read the translation, typed on a single sheet.

Hello, You wouldn't think, would you, that some people buy funeral caskets the way you and me pick up cheese at the grocery. Happens, though; ask Alberto Godoy of Godoy's Funeral Home.

Seems this guy came in from the street and bought two caskets just like that off the shelf—one regular, one small, Said he wanted to take them to his old Mom and Dad, the tiny one for Morn. Hey, how's that for a hint to the old folks? "Time to beat it, Mom and Dad, the party's over!”

Don't go away, there's more. Last week, that's six weeks later, this same guy comes back, he wants another casket like before, regular size. He took it away, paid cash, same as he did for the other two. Didn't say who this one was for. Wonder if his wife's been cheating.

Tell you who doesn't care, that's Albert Godoy. Says he's ready and eager for more business of the same kind

"There's something else, Harry,” Cooper said.”A few minutes ago we phoned the Semana office. Jonathan talked and we got lucky. The bloke who wrote the column was there.”

"What he told me,” Mony said, "was that the day he wrote the piece you read was a week ago last Friday. He'd just seen Godoy in a bar and Godoy had sold the third casket that same day."

"Which also,” Cooper added, "happened to be right after the snatch, the very next day.”

"Wait,” Partridge said.”Don't talk. Let me think.” While the others were silent, he considered.

Stay calm, he told himself. Don't get carried away! But the possibilities were unmistakable: The first two caskets, purchased six weeks before the kidnap, only slightly ahead of the estimated one-month surveillance of the Sloane family, and within the three-months' maximum operation time also estimated by the task force. Then the size of the two caskets: one regular, one small, the second said to be for an old woman, but it could also be for an eleven-year-old boy.

Next, the third casket—according to the newspaper, a regular size. Established fact: Crawf's father, the old man, Angus, had arrived at the Sloane house virtually unexpected, having phoned only the day before. So if the family hadn't expected him, neither had the kidnappers. Yet they captured him and took him with Jessica and the boy. Three captives instead of two.

Questions: Did the kidnappers already have two caskets? Did the old man cause them to acquire a third? Was it for —him the extra one was bought from Godoy's Funeral Home the next day after the kidnap?

Or was the whole thing merely an incredible coincidence? It might be. Or might not.

Partridge raised his eyes to the other two who were regarding him intently.

Cooper said, "Raise a few questions, don't it?”

"Do you think.—.”

"What I think is, we may have found how Mrs. Sloane and the others could have been taken out of the country.”

"In caskets? Do you believe they were dead?”

Cooper shook his head.”Doped. It's been done before.”

The statement confirmed what Partridge was already thinking.”

What happens next, Mr. Partridge?” The question was from Mony.

”As soon as we can, we'll interview that funeral man Partridge glanced at the typed translation to which had been added the funeral home's address.”Godoy. I'll do it myself."

"I'd like to come with you.”

"I think he earned it, Harry,” Cooper urged.

”So do I” Partridge smiled at Mony.”Nice going, Jonathan.”

The young researcher beamed.

They would leave immediately and take a cameraman, Partridge decided. He instructed Cooper, "Minh Van Canh is in the conference room, I think. Tell him to grab his gear and join US.”

As Cooper left, Partridge picked up a telephone and ordered a network car.

On the way out, passing through the main newsroom, he and Mony encountered Don Kettering, CBA's business correspondent. When news of the Sloane kidnap broke, it had been Kettering who was assigned to the flash studio "hot seat” and became first to go on the air with a special bulletin.

Now he asked, "Anything new, Harry?” Impeccably dressed in a brown tailored suit, his thin mustache neatly trimmed, Kettering, as always, looked like a prosperous businessman himself.

About to make a perfunctory answer and hurry by, Partridge hesitated. He respected Kettering not only as a specialist, but as a first class reporter. With his background, Kettering might be more at home than Partridge with the subject they were about to tackle.

”Something has come up, Don. What are you doing now?”

"Not much. Wall Street's quiet today. Need some help?”

"Could be. Come with us. I'll explain as we go.”

"Let me tell the Horseshoe.” Kettering picked up a phone on the nearest desk.”Be right behind you.”

A network Jeep Wagoneer reached the main entrance of CBA News headquarters less than a minute after Partridge, Mony and Minh Van Canh emerged onto the street. The cameraman climbed into the rear seat with his equipment, Mony helping. Partridge took the front seat beside the driver. As the front door slammed, Don Kettering arrived and squeezed into the rear.

”We're going to Queens,” Partridge told the driver. He had brought the Semana newspaper and Mony's translation with him and read out the Godoy's Funeral Home address.

Making a fast U-turn and facing east, the driver headed for the Queensboro Bridge.

”Don,” Partridge said, swiveling around in his seat.”Here's what we know and what we're wondering . . .”

* * *

Twenty minutes later, in Alberto Godoy's cluttered, smoky office, Harry Partridge, Don Kettering and Jonathan Mony faced the obese, bald funeral home proprietor across his desk. The trio had simply walked in after resisting questions from a woman receptionist.

On Partridge's instructions, Minh Van Canh remained outside in the Jeep Wagoneer. If any pictures were needed, he would be called in later. Meanwhile, from the vehicle, Van Canh was discreetly videotaping the Godoy building.

From behind his usual lighted cigarette, the undertaker regarded the visitors suspiciously. For their part, they had already taken in the shabby establishment, Godoy's bloated features which suggested heavy drinking, and the food stains on his black coat and gray-striped pants. This was not a quality establishment and probably not a scrupulously run one either.

”Mr. Godoy,” Partridge said, "as I told your lady outside, we're all from CBA News.”

Godoy's expression changed to interest.”Ain't I seen you on the tube? Comin' from the White House?”

"That's John Cochran; people sometimes mix us up. He works for NBC. I'm Harry Partridge.”

Godoy slapped a hand against his knee.”You been doin' all them kidnap bits.”

"Yes, I have, and that's partly why we're here. May we sit down?”

Godoy motioned to chairs. Partridge and the others sat facing him.

Producing his copy of Semana, Partridge asked.”May I ask if you've seen this?”

Godoy's features soured.”That lousy, snooping son of a bitch! He had no right to print something he overheard, that wasn't said to him.”

"Then you have seen the paper and know what's in it.”

"Sure I know. So what?”

"We'd appreciate your answering some questions, Mr. Godoy. First, what was the name of the man who bought the caskets? What did he look like? Can you describe him to us?”

The undertaker shook his head.”All that's my private business.”

"It is important.” Deliberately, Partridge kept his voice low-keyed and friendly.”It's even possible there's a connection to something you just mentioned—the Sloane family kidnapping.

"Don't see how there could be.” Then Godoy added stubbornly, "Anyway, it's private, so nothin' doing. And if you all don't mind, I've got work to do.”

Don Kettering spoke for the first time.”How about the price you charged for those caskets, Godoy? Want to tell us what it was?”

The undertaker's face flushed.”How many times I gotta tell you people? I'm minding my business. You mind yours.”

"Oh, we'll do that,” Kettering said.”In fact we'll make it our business to go directly from here to the New York City sales tax office. Even though it says in this report"—he touched the copy of Semana—that you were paid all cash for those three caskets, I'm sure you collected, reported and paid New York sales tax, which will be a matter of public record, including the purchaser's name.” Kettering turned to Partridge.”Harry, why don't we leave this uncooperative person and go to the sales tax people now?”

Godoy who a moment earlier had paled, now spluttered, "Hey, hold it! Just a minute!”

Kettering turned, his expression innocent.”Yes?”

"Maybe I . . ."

”Maybe you didn't pay any sales tax, didn't report it either, though I'll bet you charged it.” Kettering's voice became harsh; abandoning any pretense of friendliness, he leaned forward over the undertaker's desk. Partridge, who had not seen the business correspondent in action in this way before, was delighted he had brought him.

”Listen to me carefully, Godoy,” Kettering continued.”A network like ours has a lot of clout and if we have to, we'll use it, especially because right now we're fighting for one of our own against a filthy crime, the seizure of his family. We need answers to questions fast, and if you help us we'll try to help you by not revealing what isn't important as far as we're concerned, like the sales tax or income tax—you've probably cheated the IRS, too. But if we don't get honest answers, we'll bring in—here, today—the FBI, the New York police, the sales tax force and the IRS. So take your choice. You can deal with us or them.”

Godoy was licking his lips.”I'll answer your questions, fellas.” His voice sounded strained.

Kettering nodded.”Your turn, Harry.”

"Mr. Godoy,” Partridge said, "who was it bought those caskets?”

"He said his name was Novack. I didn't believe him.”

"You were probably right. Know anything else about him?”

"No.,,

Partridge reached into a pocket.”I'm going to show you a picture. Simply tell me your reaction.” He held out a photocopy of the twenty-year-old charcoal sketch of Ulises Rodriguez.

Without hesitation Godoy said, "That's him. That's Novack. He's older than the picture . . .”

"Yes, we know. You're absolutely sure?”

"Dead sure. Seen him twice. He sat where you are.”

For the first time since today's procession of events began, Partridge felt a surge of satisfaction. Once more the special task force had scored an investigative breakthrough. A positive connection between the caskets and the kidnap was established. Glancing at Kettering and Mony, he knew they realized it too.

”Let's go over this Novack's conversation with you,” he told Alberto Godoy.”From the beginning.”

During the questions and answers following, Partridge extracted as much from the undertaker as he could. In the end, however, it was not a lot and it became clear that Ulises Rodriguez had been careful not to leave a trail behind him.

Partridge asked Kettering, "Any other thoughts, Don?”

"One or two.”

Kettering addressed Godoy.”About that cash Novack paid you. I believe you said, adding both lots, it was nearly $ 10,000, mainly in hundred-dollar bills. Right?”

"Right.”

"Anything special about them?”

Godoy shook his head.”What's special about money, except it's money?”

"Were they new bills?”

The undertaker considered.”A few may have been, but mostly no.”

"What has happened to all that cash?”

"It's gone. I used it, spent it, paid some bills.” Godoy shrugged.”Nowadays money goes fast.”

Jonathan Mony had been watching the undertaker intently throughout the questioning. Earlier, when the talk turned to the cash, he was sure he detected nervousness on Godoy's part. He had the same feeling now. On a notepad he scribbled a message and passed it to Kettering. It read: He's lying. He has some of the cash left. He's scared to tell us because he's still worrying about taxes—sales and income.

The business correspondent read the note, gave the slightest of nods and passed it back. Speaking mildly, at the same time rising as if ready to leave, he asked Godoy, "Is there anything else you remember, or that you might have, which could be helpful to us?” As he concluded, Kettering turned away.

Godoy, now relaxed and confident, obviously wanting this to end, answered, "Not a damn thing.”

Kettering spun on his heels. His face contorted, red with anger, he strode to the desk, leaned over and gripped the undertaker by the shoulders. Pulling the other forward until their faces were close, Kettering spat out the words, "You're a goddamn liar, Godoy. You still have some of that cash. And since you won't show it to us, we'll see if the IRS can get to see it. I told you we wouldn't call them if you helped us. Well, that's all over now.”

Kettering pushed Godoy back into his chair, reached into a pocket for a slim address book and pulled a desk telephone toward him.

Godoy shouted, "No!” He wrenched the telephone away. Breathing heavily, he growled, "You bastard! All right, I'll show you.”

"Understand,” Kettering said, "this is the last time we fool around. After this . . .”

Godoy, standing, was already removing a framed embalmer's certificate from the wall behind his desk. It revealed a safe. The undertaker spun the combination lock.

A few minutes later, while the others watched, Kettering carefully examined the cash Godoy had extracted from the safe —nearly $4,000. During his inspection the business correspondent looked closely at both sides of every bill, at the same time separating them into three piles—two fairly small, the third larger. At the end he pushed the larger pile toward Godoy and motioned to the two remaining.

”We need to borrow these. We'll give you a proper receipt on behalf of CBA News. You can add the serial numbers if you like, and Mr. Partridge and I will both sign the receipt. I personally guarantee you will have all the money back within forty-eight hours with no more questions.”

Godoy said grudgingly, "I guess that's okay.”

Kettering motioned Partridge and Mony closer to the two small piles of bills. All were of one-hundred dollar denomination.

”Lots of business people,” Kettering said, "are wary of hundred-dollar bills for fear they might be counterfeit. So what they often do is write on a bill, showing where it came from. For instance, if you take out a rental car and pay with hundred dollar bills when turning it in, Hertz or whoever will write the rental contract number on each bill, which means they can trace you later if a bill is bad. For the same reason some tellers in banks note the depositor's name or account number on hundred-dollar bills paid in.”

"I've seen that on hundreds sometimes,” Partridge said, "and wondered why.”

"Not me,” Mony interjected.”That kind of paper doesn't come my way.”

Kettering smiled.”Stick with TV, kid. It will in time.”

The business correspondent continued, "All those marks on money are illegal, of course. Defacing the currency can be a criminal offense, though it's seldom, if ever, enforced. Anyway, what we have in this first stack of bills is written numbers, and in the second, names. If you like, Harry, I'll show the number groups to banking friends who may recognize who uses them, then will float them through computers. As to the names, I'll go through the phone book and try to locate whoever had those hundred-dollar bills and used them.”

"I think I see where we're headed,” Partridge said.”But just spell out, Don, exactly what we're looking for.”

"We're looking for banks. Whatever information we get should lead us to banks which at some point received those bills; maybe someone in a bank wrote on them the names or numbers that you see. Then, if we're exceptionally lucky, we may identify the bank that actually handled all of this money and paid it out.”

"I get it,” Mony said.”Paid it out to the kidnappers who used it to buy those caskets from Mr. Godoy.”

Kettering nodded.”Exactly. Of course, it's all a long shot, but if it works we shall know the bank the kidnappers used and where they probably had an account.” The business correspondent shrugged.”Once we have that, Harry, your investigation can move on from there.”

"That's great, Don,” Partridge said.”And we've done well on long shots so far.”

Catching sight of the copy of Semana that had brought them here, he remembered Uncle Arthur's words when the search of local newspapers was begun: "A thing about long shots is that while you seldom find exactly what you're looking for, you're likely to stumble over something else that will help you in a different way."

9

In Alberto Godoy's office, tensions were easing.

Now that the demands of his high-pressure visitors from TV news were satisfied and the overhanging threat to himself removed, the funeral director relaxed. After all, Godoy reminded himself, he had done nothing illegal in selling the three caskets to Novack, or whatever his real name was. How was he supposed to know the goddamn caskets would be used for something criminal? Oh sure, he had suspicions about Novack both times he came in, and hadn't believed a word of his phony story about why he wanted caskets. But let anyone try to prove that. No way! They couldn't!

The two things he had been worried about when today's shindig started were the city sales tax, which he collected for the first two caskets but hadn't reported, and the fact that he'd cooked his books so that the ten grand cash he took from Novack didn't appear anywhere as income. If the IRS found out, they'd create seventeen kinds of shit from that. Well, these TV dudes had promised not to squeal about either of those finagles and he reckoned they'd keep their word. The way he'd heard it, making those kinds of deals was how TV news people gathered a lot of their information. And he had to admit, now that it was over, he'd got a charge out of watching them at work. But he sure as hell wouldn't talk about anything that happened today if that snooping asshole from the Sernana rag was anywhere around.

”If you'll give me a sheet of paper,” Don Kettering said, pointing to the two small piles of bills still remaining on the desk, "I'll write out a receipt for this money we'll be taking.”

Godoy opened a drawer behind his desk in which he kept odds and ends and removed a pad of lined paper. As he was closing the drawer, he caught sight of a single sheet torn from a scratch pad, bearing his own handwriting. He had stuffed the paper in more than a week ago and forgotten it until now.

”Hey, here's something! That second time Novack showed . . .”

"What is it?” Partridge asked sharply.

”I told you he had a Caddy hearse, with another guy driving. They took the casket away in it.”

"Yes, you did.”

Godoy held out the scratch-pad sheet.”This was the hearse license number. I wrote it down, put it in here, forgot.”

Kettering asked, "Why did you do that?”

"Maybe a hunch.” Godoy shrugged.”Does it matter?”

"No,” Partridge said, "it doesn't. Anyway, thanks; we'll check this out.” He folded the paper and put it in a pocket, though was not hopeful about the outcome. He remembered that the license number of the Nissan van in the White Plains explosion had been phony and led nowhere. Still, any lead had to be pursued, nothing taken for granted. Partridge's thoughts moved on to more specific reporting. He reasoned that some or most of what they had uncovered, including the involvement of Ulises Rodriguez, would have to go on air soon, almost certainly within the next few days. There was a limit to how much information could remain dammed up at CBA; though luck had been with them so far, it could change at any moment. Also they were in the news business. Partridge felt his excitement rise at the prospect of reporting progress and decided that right now he had to think in terms of presentation.

”Mr. Godoy,” Partridge said, "we may have got off on the wrong foot to begin, but you've been pretty helpful to us. How would you feel about making a video recording, repeating most of what you've told us here?”

The idea of being on TV, and a network no less, appealed to Godoy. Then he realized the publicity would expose him to all kinds of questions, including those about taxes which had worried him earlier. He shook his head.”No thanks.”

As if reading his mind, Partridge said, "We needn't say who you are or show your face. We can do what's called a silhouette interview, using backlighting so viewers will only see a shadow. We can even disguise your voice.”

"It'll sound like it's coming through a coffee grinder,” Kettering added.”Your own wife won't recognize it. Come on, Godoy, what have you got to lose? We've a cameraman sitting outside who's a real expert, and you'll be helping us get those kidnapped people back.”

"Well . . .” The undertaker hesitated.”Would you guys promise to keep it confidential, not to tell anybody else?”

"I promise that,” Partridge said.”Me too,” Kettering agreed. Mony added, "Count me in.”

Kettering and Partridge glanced at each other, aware that the promise they had made and would keep—the way honest journalists did, no matter what the consequences—could cause them problems later. The FBI and others might object to the secrecy, demanding to know who the silhouette subject was. Well, the network's lawyers would have to handle that; there had been brouhahas of the same kind before.

Partridge remembered when NBC in 1986 had secured a much-sought-after but controversial interview with the Palestinian terrorist Mohammed Abul Abbas. Afterward, a bevy of critics denounced NBC, not only for holding the interview but for a prior agreement—which the network honored—not to disclose its location. Even a few media people joined in, though clearly some professional jealousy was involved. While argument thrived, a U.S. State Department spokesman huffed and puffed and the Justice Department threatened subpoenas and interrogation of an on-the-scene TV crew, but eventually nothing happened. (The then Secretary of State, George Shultz, only said when questioned, "I believe in freedom of the press.” )

The fact was, and everyone knew it, broadcast networks were in many ways a law unto themselves. For one thing, few government departments or politicians wanted to tangle with them legally. Also, free-world journalism, on the whole, stood for disclosure, freedom and integrity. Sure, it wasn't totally that way; standards fell short more often than they should because journalism's practitioners were human too. But if you became an inexorable opponent of what journalism stood for, the chances were you belonged on the side of "dirty” instead of "clean.”

While Harry Partridge considered those fundamentals of his craft, Minh Van Canh was setting up for the videotape interview of Alberto Godoy which Don Kettering would conduct.

Partridge had suggested that Kettering do the interview, in part because the business correspondent clearly wanted to continue his involvement with the Sloane kidnapping—it was, after all, a subject close to the hearts and minds of the entire News Division. Also, there were other aspects of the subject that Partridge intended to handle himself.

He had already decided that he would leave for Bogota, Colombia, as soon as lie could get away. Despite sharing the opinion of his Colombian radio reporter friend that Ulises Rodriguez was not in that country, Partridge believed the time had come to begin his own search of Latin America, and Colombia was the obvious place to start.

Minh Van Canh announced he was ready to begin.

A few minutes earlier, on being called in from outside and looking around the funeral establishment, Minh had decided to set up the interview in the basement where caskets were exhibited. Because of the special backlighting, not much of the display room would be seen; only the wall behind where Godoy was seated was floodlit, with the interviewee in gloom. However, alongside the silhouette of Godoy was now another of a casket, an ingeniously macabre effect. The disguising of the undertaker's voice would be done later at CBA News headquarters.

Today there was no sound man present and Minh was using one-man equipment, a Betacam with half-inch tape incorporating picture and sound. He had also brought along a small viewing monitor and placed it so that Godoy, now seated, could observe exactly what the camera was seeing—a technique calculated to make the subject, in such special circumstances, more relaxed.

Godoy was not only relaxed, but amused.”Hey,” he told Kettering, seated nearby, off camera, "you cats are smart.”

Kettering, who had his own ideas about the way this interview should go, gave only a thin smile as he looked up from notes scribbled a few minutes earlier. At a nod from Minh, he began, having allowed for an introduction to be written later, which would precede the on-air showing.

”The first time you saw the man whom you now know to have been the terrorist Ulises Rodriguez, what was your impression?”

"Nothing special. Seemed ordinary to me.” Even under this concealment, Godoy decided, he wasn't going to admit being suspicious of Novack-alias-Rodriguez.

"So it didn't trouble you at all when you sold him two caskets initially, then one more later on?”

The silhouette shrugged.”Why should it? That's the business I'm in.”

“'Why should it? you say.”Repeating Godoy's words, Kettering managed to convey skepticism.”But isn't that kind of sale exceedingly unusual?”

“Maybe . . . sort of.”

"And as a funeral director, don't you normally arrange, or sell, what's called a package—a complete funeral?”

"Most of the time, sure.”

"In fact, isn't it true that before you made those two sales to the terrorist Rodriguez, you had never, ever, sold caskets in that way before?” Kettering was guessing, but reasoned Godoy wouldn't know he was, and in a recorded exchange would not lie.

“I guess so,” Godoy muttered. The interview was already not going the way he had expected. In the partial gloom he glared at Kettering, but the newsman persisted.

”In other words, the answer is no, you hadn't sold caskets that way before.”

The undertaker's voice rose.”I figured it was none of my business what he wanted them for.”

"Did you give any thought at all to communicating with authorities—the police, for example—and saying something like, 'Look, I've been asked to do something strange, something I've never been asked before, and I wonder if you'd like to check this person out.' Did you consider that?”

"No, I didn't. There was no reason to.”

"Because you weren't suspicious?”

"Right.”

Kettering bored in.”Then if you were not suspicious, why is it that on the second occasion Rodriguez visited you, you covertly wrote down the license number of the hearse he was using to take away the casket and kept that information hidden until today?”

Godoy roared angrily, "Now, look! Because I told you something confidential, it don't mean..."

“Correction, Mr. Funeral Director! You did not say anything about that being confidential.”

"Well, I meant to.”

"There's quite a difference. And incidentally, neither did you say it was confidential when you revealed before this interview that the price you charged for those three take—out caskets was almost ten thousand dollars. For the kind of caskets you described, wasn't that a high price?”

"The guy who bought them didn't complain. Why should you?”

"Perhaps he didn't complain for his own good reasons.” Kettering's voice became icy and accusatory.”Didn't you ask that excessively high price because you knew the man would pay it, knew all the time there was something suspicious, and you could take advantage of the situation, get yourself some extra money . . .”

"Hey, I don't have to sit here and take that garbage! Forget all this! I'm getting out,” Angrily, Godoy rose from his chair and walked away, the line from a microphone separating as he did. The route brought him closer to the Betacam, and Minh, swinging it as a reflex action, caught him full-face and in light so, in effect, Godoy violated his own confidentiality. There would be discussion later as to whether that closing sequence should be used or not.

”You bastard!” Godoy stormed at Kettering.

The business correspondent told him, "I don't like you either.”

“Listen,” Godoy said to Partridge, "I cancel the arrangement.”

He pointed to the Betacam.”You're not to use that. Understand?”

"I understand what you're saying,” Partridge said.”But I can't guarantee we won't use it. That will be up to the network.”

"Get the hell out of here!” Alberto Godoy glowered as the recording equipment was dismantled and the CBA News quartet departed from his premises.

* * *

During the ride back from Queens, Don Kettering announced, "I'd like to drop off as soon as we're in Manhattan. I want to start tracing that marked money and there's an office on Lex where I can do some phoning.”

"Is it possible,” Jonathan Mony said, "that I could come with you?” He glanced at Partridge.”I'd very much like to see how the other half of what we did today works out.”

"Okay with me,” Kettering assured him.”If Harry says yes, I'll show you some nuts-and-bolts reporting.”

Partridge agreed and they separated after crossing the Queensboro Bridge. While the Jeep Wagoneer continued on to CBA News, Kettering and Mony took a taxi to a brokerage office off Lexington Avenue near the Summit Hotel.

On entering, they were in a spacious room where about two dozen people—some seated, others standing—faced an overhead screen displaying swiftly moving stock market quotations. A dark green carpet contrasted with light green walls; comfortable chairs, fixed to the floor in rows, were upholstered in green and orange tweed. Some of those intently watching the market figures held notebooks with pencils poised; others were less concerned. A young oriental man was studying sheets of music; a few more were reading newspapers; several dozed.

Off to one side was a row of computers and some extension phones, a sign above them reading, LIFT RECEIVER FOR TRADING. Several phones were in use; despite lowered voices, snatches of conversation could be heard.”You bought two thousand? Sell.”. . .”Can you get five hundred at eighteen? Do it.”. . .”Okay, get out at fifteen and a quarter.”

On the room's far side a receptionist saw the two newsmen come in and with a smile of recognition at Kettering, picked up a telephone. Behind her were several doors, some open, leading to interior offices.

”Take a look around you,” Kettering told Mony.”This kind of stock shop will be history soon; this is one of the last. Most others have disappeared the way speakeasies did after prohibition ended.”

"Stock trading hasn't ended, though.”

"True. But brokers looked at their costs and found places like this don't pay. Too many people coming in to rest or just out of curiosity. Then the homeless began joining them—in winter, what better place to spend a warm, relaxing day? Unfortunately, the homeless don't generate a lot of brokerage commissions.”

"Maybe you should do a piece for the news,” Mony said.”Nostalgic, the way you just said, before the last of these goes.”

Kettering looked at him sharply.”That's a helluva good idea, young fella. Why didn't I think of it? I'll talk to the Horseshoe next week.”

Behind the receptionist, a closed door opened and a beetle browed, burly man came forward, greeting Kettering warmly.”Don, it's good to see you. You haven't been around lately, though we're your faithful followers on the news. Is there something we can do?”

"Thanks, Kevin.” Kettering pointed to Mony.”My young colleague, Jonathan, would like the name of a stock he can buy today which will quadruple in value by tomorrow. Apart from that, is there a desk and a phone I can use for half an hour?”

"The desk and phone, no problem. Come through to the back and use mine; you'll be more private. About the other thing—sorry, Jonathan, our crystal ball's out being serviced. If it comes back while you're here, I'll let you know.”

They were shown into a small comfortable office with a mahogany desk, two leather chairs, the inevitable computer and a phone. A name on the door read: Kevin Fane.

”Make yourself at home,” Fane said, "and I'll send in coffee and sandwiches.”

When they were alone, Kettering told Mony, "When Kevin and I were at college, during summers we worked as runners on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange and we've kept in touch since. Want some professional advice?”

Mony nodded.”Sure do.”

"As a correspondent, which it looks as if you may be, always keep lots of contacts, not just at high levels but lower ones too, and drop in to keep them green, the way we're doing now. It's a means of picking up information, sometimes when you least expect. Also remember that people like to help TV reporters; even just letting you use their phone makes them feel closer to you and, in a strange way, grateful.”

While speaking, Kettering had withdrawn from an inside pocket the several hundred-dollar bills borrowed from Alberto Godoy, and spread them on the desk. He opened a drawer and found a sheet of paper to make notes.

”First we'll try our luck with the bills that have names written on them. Later, if needed, we'll work on those with account numbers only.” Picking up a bill, he read out, "James W. Mortell” and addcd, "this hundred smackeroos passed through his hands at some time. See if you can find him in the Manhattan phone book, Jonathan.”

Within moments Mony announced, "He's here.” He read the number aloud while Kettering tapped out digits on the phone. After two rings a pleasant woman's voice answered, "Mortell Plumbing.”

"Good morning. Is Mr. Mortell in, please?”

"He's out on a job. This is his wife. Can I help?” Not only pleasant, but young and charming, Kettering thought.

”Thank you, Mrs. Mortell. My name is Don Kettering. I'm the business correspondent of CBA News.”

A pause, then a hesitant response.”Is this a joke?”

"No joke, ma'am.” Kettering was relaxed and affable. ”At CBA we're making some inquiries and think Mr. Mortell may be able to help us. In his absence, perhaps you can.”

"You are Don Kettering. I recognize the voice. How could we help you?” A soft laugh.”Unless you have a water leak over there.”

“Not that I know of, though if I hear about one I'll remember you. Actually, it's concerning a hundred-dollar bill which has your husband's name written on it.”

"We've done nothing wrong, I hope.”

"Absolutely not, Mrs. Mortell. It simply looks as if the bill passed through your husband's hands and I'm trying to discover where it went.”

The woman on the phone said thoughtfully, "Well, we have customers who pay cash, including hundred-dollar bills. But we never ask questions.”

"No reason why you should.”

"Later on at the bank, when we pay those big bills in, sometimes a teller will write our name on them. I think they're not supposed to, but some do.” A pause, then, "I once asked why. The teller said there are so many counterfeit hundreds, it's a precaution to protect themselves.”

"Aha! Precisely what I thought, and probably how the bill I'm looking at got marked.” While speaking, Kettering gave Mony a thumbs-up sign.”Do you have any objection, Mrs. Mortell, to telling me the name of your bank?”

"I don't see why not. It's Citibank.” She named an uptown branch.

”Thank you! That's all the information I need.”

"Just a moment, Mr. Kettering. May I ask a question?”

"Of course.”

"Is something about this going to be on the news? And if so, how can I be sure not to miss it?”

"Easy! Mrs. Mortell, you've been so helpful that I promise, the day it goes on, I'll call you personally and let you know.”

As Kettering hung up the phone, Jonathan Mony said, "I thought I might learn something. I just did.”

"What was that?”

"How to make a friend.”

Kettering smiled. He had already decided that the Mortell woman sounded so charming, and with a hint of invitation in her voice, that instead of phoning he would drop in to see her. He made a note of the address; it was uptown, not far away. He might be disappointed, of course. Voices were deceptive and she could be older than she sounded and look like the back of a bus, though instinct told him otherwise. Something else Jonathan would undoubtedly learn in time was that a fringe benefit of being on television was frequent romantic opportunities, leading—if one were so inclined—to pleasant sexual dalliance.

He selected another hundred-dollar bill. ”Let's try this one,” he told Mony and motioned to the phone book.”The name is Nicolini Brothers.”

It turned out to be a bakery and pastry store on Third. A man who answered was suspicious at first and after a question or two seemed inclined to hang up. But Kettering, politely persistent, persuaded him otherwise. Eventually the name of a bank was obtained where receipts from the store—including large bills—were regularly paid in. It was the American-Amazonas Bank at Dag Hammarskjeld Plaza.

The names on the next two bills which Kettering chose did not appear in the Manhattan phone book.

The bill after that produced results in the way of a cooperative manager of a men's clothing store. The store, he disclosed, had an account at Bank Leumi, the branch at Third and Sixty-seventh.

Another name on a bill was untraceable. The next led to a distrustful and abusive woman with whom Kettering could make no headway and he gave up.

The fifth phone call resulted in communication with an eighty-six-year-old man. living in an East End Avenue apartment. He was too weak to speak on the phone and a nursing attendant did it for him, though clearly there was nothing wrong with tile old mail's mind. He could be heard whispering cheerfully that his son, who owned several night clubs, often dropped in and gave his father hundred-dollar bills, which were subsequently paid into a bank account that, the eighty-six-year old declared with a faint chuckle, he was setting aside for his old age. And, oh yes, the account was at American-Amazonas Bank, Dag Hammarskjeld Plaza.

The next call, to a seafood restaurant near Grand Central, resulted in Kettering speaking at length with several people, none of whom would take the responsibility of telling him anything important. Eventually the restaurant owner was located and said impatiently, "What the hell! Sure you can know the name of our bank; in return, I hope you'll give us a mention on the news. Anyway, the bank's on that damn square I never can spell—Dag Hammarskjeld—and is American-Amazonas,”

When he hung up, Kettering scooped up the hundred-dollar bills and told Mony, "We hit the jackpot. No more calls needed. We have the answer.”

In response to a questioning glance he added, "Look at it this way: Three out of five people naming the same bank is too much to be coincidence. So those other names, on the bills which went through Citibank and Leumi, had to have been put on earlier and the bills recirculated, probably through American-Amazonas too.

”So that's where the money came from which Novack-Rodriguez paid Godoy for the caskets.”

"Exactly!” Kettering's voice hardened.”I'll also wager that same bank is where those fucking kidnappers drew their cash and had—maybe still have—an account.”

Mony prompted, "So next step—Dag Hammarskjeld Plaza.”

Kettering pushed his chair back from the desk and rose.”Where the bell else? Let's go.”

10

Don Kettering was recognized immediately on entering the American-Amazonas Bank and had an instinct early on that his presence was not a total surprise.

When he asked to see the manager, a matronly secretary informed him, "He has someone with him now, Mr. Kettering, but I'll interrupt and tell him you're here.” She glanced at Jonathan Mody.”I'm sure he won't keep you gentlemen long.”

While waiting, Kettering surveyed the bank. It was located on the main floor of an elderly brick building near the Plaza's north extremity and, viewed from outside, the bank's slate gray entrance was unimposing. The interior, however, while small for a New York bank, was attractive and colorful. Instead of a conventional tiled floor, a patterned carpet in muted cherry, red and orange shades ran the entire length and width of the business area; a small, gold-lettered panel noted it was woven in Amazonas, Brazil.

While furnishings were conventional—a line of tellers' counters on one side, three officers' desks on the other—the woodwork everywhere was of highest quality. Occupying most of one wall, where customers would view it, was a striking mural—a revolutionary scene of panting horses with tousled manes carrying uniformed soldiers.

Kettering was studying the mural when the secretary advised, "Mr. Armando is free now. Will you come in, please.”

As they entered a partially glass-walled office which provided a view of the operations area outside, the manager came forward with his hand extended. A desk plaque identified him as Emiliano W. Armando, Jr.

”Mr. Kettering, a pleasure to meet you. I see you often and admire much of what you say. But I suppose you hear that all the time.”

"Even so, I still appreciate it.” The business correspondent introduced Mony. At a gesture from Armando, the three sat down, the visitors facing a hanging tapestry in bright blues and yellows which continued the bank's thematic decor.

Kettering watched the manager, a small figure with a wrinkled face showing signs of tiredness, thinning white hair and bushy eyebrows. Armando moved with a nervous quickness, his expression worried, the general effect reminding Kettering of an aging terrier, uneasy with the changing world around him. Instinctively, though, he found himself liking the man—in contrast to his recent encounter with Alberto Godoy.

Leaning back in a swivel chair, the banker sighed.”I rather guessed that you or someone like you would be around soon. It's been an unhappy, perplexing time for us here, as I'm sure you understand.”

Kettering leaned forward. The manager assumed he knew something that he didn't. He acknowledged cautiously, "Yes, that's all too often true.”

"As a matter of interest, how did you get to hear?”

The business correspondent resisted saying, "Hear what?” and smiled.”In TV news we have sources of information, even though at times we can't reveal them.” He noticed Mony following the conversation with interest while keeping his face impassive. Well, that ambitious young man was getting a journalism lesson in spades today.

"I wondered if it was the Post report,” Armando said.”It left many unanswered questions.”

Kettering wrinkled his forehead.”I may have read that. Do you happen to have a copy?”

"Of course.” Armando opened a desk drawer and produced a news clipping encased in plastic. The heading read:

UN DIPLOMAT

SLAYS LOVER, AND SELF

IN JEALOUS RAGE

Kettering skimmed the report, noting it was from a ten-day old paper, dated the Sunday before last. As he observed references to the two who had died—Helga Efferen of American Amazonas Bank and Jose Antonio Salaverry, a member of the United Nations Peruvian delegation—the cause of the manager's distress became clear. What was not clear was whether or not the incident had any connection to the matter that had brought CBA News here.

Kettering passed the report to Mony and returned his attention to Armando, prompting, "Unanswered questions, I believe you said.”

The manager nodded.”What the newspaper described is how the police say it happened. Personally, I don't believe it.”

Still groping for a possible linkage, Kettering asked, "Would you mind telling me why?”

"The whole business is too complex for that simple explanation."

"Obviously, you knew the woman who was employed here. Did you know the man, Salaverry?”

"Unfortunately—as it's since turned out—yes.”

'Will you explain that?”

Armando hesitated before answering.”My inclination is to be frank with you, Mr. Kettering, mostly because I think that what we've learned at this bank during the past ten days will come out anyway, and I know you to be fair in your reporting. However, I have an obligation to the bank. We are a substantial and respected establishment in Latin America, as well as having this and other toeholds in the United States. Is it possible you could wait a day or two, giving me time to consult with senior management outside this country?”

There was a connection! Kettering's instincts again, and he shook his head decisively.”It isn't possible to wait. There's a critical situation involving safety and lives.” It was time, he decided, to do some revealing of his own.

”Mr. Armando, at CBA we have reason to believe your bank was involved in some way with the kidnapping two weeks ago of Mrs. Crawford Sloane and two other members of the Sloane family. I'm certain you've heard about it. So the question arises: Is this other episode—the deaths of Efferen and Salaverry—related to the kidnap?”

If Armando had been troubled before, Kettering's pronouncement had the effect of an incremental bolt of lightning. Apparently overwhelmed, he put his elbows on his desk and his head in his hands. After several seconds he raised his eyes.

”Yes, it's possible,” he said in a whisper.”Now I see it. It's not only possible, it's likely.” He went on wearily, "A selfish notion, I know, but I'm due to retire in just a few months and my thought right now is: Why couldn't all this have waited until I had gone?”

"I understand your feelings.” Kettering tried to curb his impatience.”But the fact is, you and I are here and we are involved. Obviously we each have different information and, equally obviously, we'll both be ahead if we exchange it.”

"I agree,” Armando conceded.”Where should we begin?”

"Let me. A large sum of money, at least ten thousand dollars in cash and probably a good deal more, is known to have passed through your bank and aided the kidnappers.”

The manager nodded gravely.”Putting together your knowledge and mine, it is definitely a great deal more money.” He stopped.”If I help fill in some details, is it essential that you quote me directly?”

Kettering considered.”Probably not. There's an arrangement called 'background, not for attribution.' If you wish, we'll talk on that basis.”

"I'd prefer it.” Armando paused, collecting his thoughts. "Within this bank we have a number of accounts for several delegations to the United Nations. I won't go into those, except to say our bank has strong ties with certain countries; it's why this office is conveniently close to the UN. Various people in UN delegations have authority over those accounts and one in particular was controlled by Mr. Salaverry.”

"An account belonging to the Peruvian delegation?”

"Connected with the Peruvian delegation—yes. Though I'm not sure how many people knew about that account, other than Salaverry who had authority to sign and use it. You should understand that any UN delegation may have a number of accounts, some for special purposes.”

"Okay, but let's concentrate on the important one.”

"Well, for the past several months, substantial sums have been coming into that account and going out—all legitimately, with nothing irregular being done by the bank, except for one unusual thing.”

“Which was?”

'Miss Efferen, who had considerable responsibilities here as an assistant manager, went out of her way to handle the account herself, at the same time shielding me and others from direct knowledge of the account's existence or what was going on.

"In other words, the source of the money coming in and who it was paid out to was kept secret.”

Armando nodded.”That's the way it was.”

"And to whom was it paid out?”

"In every instance to Jose Antonio Salaverry, on his signature. There are no other signatures in the account and every payment was in cash.”

"Let's go back a bit,” Kettering said.”You've told us you reject the police conclusion about the way Efferin and Salaverry died. Why?”

"When I began to discover things last week and this, I thought that whoever was passing money through that account —assuming Salaverry to be an intermediary, which I think he was—probably did the killings, arranging them to look like murder-suicide. But now you tell me that the kidnappers of the Sloane family were involved, it seems likely they could have been the ones.”

Though the wizened little manager had been under strain and was near retirement, his reasoning powers were still good, Kettering thought. He observed that Mony was fidgeting and advised, "If you have questions, Jonathan, ask away.”

Mony put aside some notes he had been making and sat forward in his chair.”Mr. Armando, if what you say is true, can you make a guess why those two people were killed?”

The manager shrugged.”In my opinion they probably knew too much.”

"For instance—the names of the kidnappers?”

"Again, from what Mr. Kettering has told me, that would seem a probability.”

"And what about the source of the money that the man, Salaverry, controlled. Do you know where that money came from?”

For the first time the manager hesitated.”Since Monday, I've had discussions with members of the Peruvian delegation at the UN—they are conducting an investigation of their own. What they've discovered so far and we've conferred about has been confidential . . .”

Kettering cut in, "We're not quoting you directly; we already agreed on that. So come on—let's have it! Who did the money come from?”

Armando sighed.”Let me ask you a question, Mr. Kettering. Have you ever heard of an organization called Sendero Luminoso or—”

Mony completed the sentence.”The Shining Path?”

Kettering's face tightened as he answered grimly, "Yes, I have.”

"We're not certain,” the manager said, "but they could be the ones who shoveled money into that account.”

* * *

After leaving Kettering and Mony on the Manhattan side of the Queensboro Bridge, Harry Partridge and Minh Van Canh took time out for an early lunch at Wolf's Delicatessen at West Fifth-seventh and Sixth. Over their mutual choice of gigantic hot pastrami sandwiches, Partridge regarded Minh who had seemed thoughtful today, unusually preoccupied, though it had not affected his efficient work at Godoy's Funeral Home. From across the restaurant table, Minh's squarish pockmarked face above his stocky figure looked back impassively between mouthfuls of mustard-laden pastrami.

”Something on your mind, old friend?” Partridge asked.

”A few things.” The answer was typical Van Canh and Partridge knew better than to press his question. Minh would respond with more detail in his own way, in his own good time.

Meanwhile Partridge confided to Minh his intention to fly to Colombia, perhaps the following day. He added that he wasn't sure whether anyone else should travel with him; he would talk with Rita about that. But when there was need for a camera crew, either tomorrow or later, he wanted Minh.

Van Canh considered, weighing a decision. Then he nodded.”Okay, I do it for you, Harry, and for Crawf. But it will be the last time, the last adventure.”

Partridge was startled.”You mean you're quitting?”

"I promised my family; we talked last night. My wife wants me at home more. Our children need me, my business too. So after we come back, I go.”

"But this is so damn sudden!”

Van Canh gave one of his rare faint smiles.”Sudden like an order at three in the morning to go to Sri Lanka or Gdansk?”

"I know what you mean, though I'll miss you like hell; things won't be the same without you.” Partridge shook his head sadly, though the decision did not surprise him. As a Vietnamese working for CBA News, Minh had survived extraordinary perils in the Vietnam war, near the end managing to get his wife and two children airlifted from the country before the fall of Saigon and all the while taking superb pictures of history on the run.

In the years following, the Van Canh family adapted to their new American life—the children, like so many Vietnamese immigrants, studying hard and earning high grades at school and now college. Partridge knew them well and admired, sometimes envied the family's solidarity. As part of it, they lived frugally while Minh saved and invested most of his substantial CBA pay, his economies so obvious that among colleagues a rumor now existed that Minh was a millionaire.

The last was possible, Partridge knew, because over the past five years Minh had purchased several small camera stores in New York suburbs, linking them and significantly enlarging their business with the aid of his wife, Thanh.

It was reasonable, too, that at this point in his life Minh should decide he had had enough of travel and prolonged absences, and had taken sufficient risks, including joining Harry Partridge on dangerous assignments.

”Speaking of your business, how is it going?” Partridge asked.

”Very well.” Again Minh smiled, adding, "But it has become more than Thanh can manage while I am away.”

"I'm pleased for you,” Partridge said, "because no one deserves it more. And I hope we'll still see each other once in a while.”

"You can count on it, Harry. In our home your name will stay first on our list of honored guests.”

On the way back from lunch, after leaving Van Canh, Partridge stopped at a sporting goods store to buy some heavy socks, a pair of hiking boots and a sturdy flashlight. He suspected he might need all three quite soon. By the time he returned to CBA, it was mid afternoon.

In the task force conference room, Rita Abrams waved him over.”A man's been trying to reach you. He's called three times since this morning. Wouldn't leave his name, but said it's essential he speak to you today. I told him sooner or later you'd be back.”

"Thanks. There's something I want to tell you. I've decided I should go to Bogota . . .”

Partridge stopped as he and Rita looked up at the sound of hurried footsteps approaching the conference room. A moment later Don Kettering entered with Jonathan Mony close behind.

”Harry! Rita!” Kettering said, his voice breathless from hurrying, "I think we have the can of worms—wide open!”

Rita glanced around her, aware of others in the room. "Let's go in a private office,” she said, and led the way to her own.

It took twenty minutes for Kettering, aided occasionally by Mony, to describe all that they had learned. Kettering produced the New York Post report of the Salaverry-Efferen alleged murder-suicide, a copy made by the American-Amazonas Bank manager before they left. The two correspondents and Rita knew that when this meeting was over, CBA News research would routinely obtain all other material on the same subject.

After Rita read the clipping, she asked Kettering, "Do you think we should start investigative work on those two deaths?”

"Maybe some, though it's incidental now. The real story is the Peru connection.”

"I agree,” Partridge said, "and Peru has come up before.” He remembered his conversation two days ago with Manuel Leon Seminario, owner-editor of the Lima-based Escena. While nothing specific had emerged, Seminario had said, "In Peru nowadays kidnapping is almost a way of life.”

"Even though we have a Peru involvement,” Rita pointed out ' "let's not forget that we don't know for sure whether the kidnap victims have been taken out of this country.”

"I'm not forgetting,” Partridge said.”Don, do you have anything more?”

Kettering nodded.”Yes. Before I left the bank I had the manager agree to an inteiview on camera, maybe later today. He knows he may be sticking his neck out with the bank's owners, but he's a good old guy with a sense of responsibility and says he'll take his chances. If you like, Harry, I'll do that one too.”

"I do like. Anyway, it's your story.” Partridge turned to Rita.”Cancel what I said about going to Bogota. Now it's Lima. I want to be there early tomorrow.”

"And how much do we broadcast, when?”

'Everything we know, and soon. Exactly when, we'll discuss with Les and Chuck, but if possible I'd like a clear twenty four hours in Peru before an army of other correspondents gets there, which will happen as soon as we go with what we have.”

He continued, "So starting right now, we'll work all night putting everything together. Call everyone on the task force in for a meeting"— Partridge glanced at his watch: 3:15 P.m.—"at five o'clock.”

"Yessir!” Rita, enjoying action, smiled.

At the same moment, the phone on her desk rang. After answering, she covered the mouthpiece and told Partridge, "It's the same man—the one who's been trying to get you all day.,'

He took the phone.”This is Harry Partridge.”

"Don't use my name at any point in this conversation. Is that clear?” The caller's words sounded muffled, perhaps deliberately, but Partridge recognized the voice of his contact, the organized crime lawyer.

”Yes, it's clear.”

"You know who I am?”

"I do.”

"I'm calling from a pay phone, so the call's not traceable. And something else: If you ever name me as the source of what I'm about to tell you, I shall swear you're a. liar and deny it. That clear too?”

"It is."

"I've taken big risks to get what I have, and if certain people knew of this conversation it could cost me my life. So when this call ends, ray debt to you is paid in full. Understood?”

"Fully understood.”

The other three in the small office were silent, their eyes fixed on Partridge as the muffled voice, audible only to him, continued.

”Some clients I do business with have Latin American connections.” Connections with the cocaine trade, Partridge thought, but didn't say it.

”Just as I already told you, they wouldn't touch the kind of thing you've been inquiring about, but there are other things they get to hear.”

"I understand that,” Partridge said.

”All right, here it is, and the information is solid, I guarantee it. The people you are looking for were flown out of the United States last Saturday and are now imprisoned in Peru. Got that?”

"I have it.,” Partridge said.”May I ask one question?”

"No.”

"I need a name,” Partridge pleaded.”Who's responsible? Who is holding them?”

"Goodbye.”

"Wait, please wait! All right, I won't ask you to give a name, only do this: I'll speak a name and if I'm wrong, give me some kind of signal saying no. If I'm right, don't say anything. Will you do that?”

A pause, then, "Make it fast.”

Partridge took a breath before mouthing, "Sendero Luminoso.”

At the other end, silence. Then a click as the caller hung up.

11

Almost from the beginning, when Jessica regained consciousness in the darkened hut at Sion and discovered soon after that she, Nicky and Angus were prisoners in Peru, Jessica had accepted that she alone must provide their beleaguered trio with leadership and inspiration. Both qualities, she realized, were essential to their survival while they waited and hoped for eventual rescue. The alternative was profound despair, leading to an emotional surrender which could perhaps destroy them all.

Angus was courageous, but too old and weak to be more than supportive, and ultimately even he might need to draw from Jessica's strength. Nicky, as always, must be Jessica's first concern.

Assuming they came through this nightmare safely—and Jessica refused to consider any other outcome—it was possible for it to leave forever a mental scar on Nicky. Jessica's intention, no matter what ordeals and privations lay ahead, was to see that it did not. She would teach Nicky, and Angus if necessary, that above all they must retain their self-respect and dignity.

And she knew how. She had taken a training course which some of her friends had thought of as a whim. It happened because Crawford, who really ought to have taken the course himself, had lacked the time. Jessica, feeling someone in the family should, had gone instead.

Oh, thank you and bless you, Brigadier Wade! I never dreamed, when I attended those drills and listened to your lectures, that I would need and make use of what you taught me.

Brigadier Cedric Wade, MC, DCM, had been a British Army sergeant in the Korean War and later an officer in the elite British SAS. Now retired and living in New York, he conducted small-scale anti-terrorism courses. His reputation was such that the U.S. Army sometimes sent him pupils.

In Korea, in 1951, Sergeant Wade was captured by the North Korean forces and for nine and a half months held in solitary confinement in an earthen pit below ground level, approximately ten feet square. Above his head were securely fastened bars, open to the sun and rain. At no point while imprisoned was he ever released from that lonely cell. During his time there he had minimal communication with his guards, had nothing to read, and could see only the sky above.

As he quietly described his experience in a lecture, which even now Jessica remembered almost word for word, "I knew at the start they intended to break my spirit. I was determined they never would and that however bad it got, even if I died in that hole, I would not lose my self-respect.”

He kept it, Brigadier Wade told members of his classes, by hanging on to whatever threads of normalcy and order he could. To begin, he assigned each corner of his tiny cell a separate function. An unpleasant one came first. He had no choice but to urinate and defecate on the cell floor. One corner was kept for that purpose only; he saw to it that no other portion of the cell was similarly debased.”At first, the odor was terrible and sickening. After a while I got used to it because I knew I had to."

The opposite comer, as far away from the first as possible, was used for eating the meager food passed down to him. A third comer was for sleeping, the fourth for sitting to meditate. The center of the cell was used for exercises three times daily, including running in place.”I reasoned that stayingfit was another way to keep myself a person, and preserve my dignity.”

He received a ration of drinking water daily, but none for ablutions. From the drinking water, he always saved a small portion with which he washed.”It wasn't easy and I was sometimes tempted to drink it all, but I didn't and instead was always clean—something very important in the way you feel about yourself “

At the end of nine months, taking advantage of a guard's carelessness, Sergeant Wade escaped. Three days later he was recaptured and returned to the cell, but within two weeks American forces overran the North Koreans' position and released him. He made friendships then which, long afterward, resulted in his residence in the United States.

Something else Brigadier Wade taught Jessica and others was CQB—close quarters battle, a form of unarmed combat in which even a small, lightweight person with the proper skills could disarm an attacker and either blind that person or break an arm, a leg or the neck. Jessica had proved an agile and fast learning pupil.

Since arriving in Peru as a captive, there had been opportunities to make use of her CQB training, but each time Jessica had restrained herself, knowing such action would be self-defeating. Instead she kept her ability concealed, in reserve for some moment—if one should arise—when it could become decisive.

No such moment had arisen yet at Nueva Esperanza. Nor did the chance of one seem probable.

During those terrible first minutes when Jessica, Nicky and Angus were thrust into their separate cages, and Jessica wept on hearing Nicky sobbing, there was a period of mental dislocation and misery which even the best intentions could not bridge. Jessica, like the others, had succumbed to it.

But not for long.

Before ten minutes had passed, Jessica called out softly, "Nicky, can you hear me?”

After a pause, a subdued answer came back, "Yes, Mom,” The reply was followed by movement as Nicky approached the screen between their cells. Their eyes had adjusted to the semidarkness and the two could see each other, though not touch.

Jessica asked, "Are you okay?”

"I think so.” Then in a voice which quivered, "I don't like it here.”

"Oh, darling, neither do I. But until we can do something, we have to hold on. Keep reminding yourself that your father and a lot of others are searching for us.” Jessica hoped her voice sounded reassuring.

”I hear you, Jessie. You too, Nicky.” It was Angus, speaking from the cell on the far side of Nicky's, though his voice seemed weak.”Keep believing that we'll all get out of here. And we will.”

"Try to get some rest, Angus.” Jessica was remembering the beating her fattier-in-law had taken from Miguel in the hut where they all returned to consciousness, the grueling trek through the jungle and Angus's fall, the long journey by boat, and then his struggle here.

As she spoke, a shuffling of feet could be heard and from the shadows beyond the cells a figure moved into view. It was one of the gunmen who had accompanied them on the journey, a heavyset mustachioed man they would later identify as Ramon. He carried a Kalashnikov rifle and, aiming it at Jessica, ordered, "Silencio!”

About to protest, Jessica heard Angus advise softly, "Jessie, don't!” She curbed her impulse and they all fell silent. After a pause, the gun was lowered and Ramon returned to a chair in which he had been seated.

The experience proved to be their first with a succession of armed guards, one of whom was always on duty in the hut, the individual changing every four hours.

As they quickly discovered, the strictness of the guards varied. The most easygoing was Vicente, the man who had helped Nicky in the truck and, on Miguel's orders, had cut the ropes binding their wrists. Apart from motioning them to keep their voices lowered, Vicente allowed them to talk as much as they wished. Ramon was the strictest, permitting no talking at all, with the other guards somewhere in between.

During the times they talked, Jessica shared with Nicky and Angus recollections of her anti-terrorism course, especially the ordeal and precepts of Brigadier Wade. Nicky seemed fascinated with the Wade story—probably as a relief from the confinement and monotony. It was a cruel restriction for an active, highly intelligent eleven-year-old, and several times a day Nicky would ask, "What do you think Dad's doing right now, Mom, to get us out of here?”

Jessica always tried answering imaginatively, at one point saying, "Your father knows so many people that there isn't anyone he can't call on for help. I'm sure he must have spoken with the President, who can get lots of people working, looking for us.”

Even if true, it was a piece of vanity which in normal times Jessica would not have uttered. But if it bolstered Nicky's hopes, that was all that mattered.

Jessica urged the other two to follow as much of Brigadier Wade's example as they could. In the matter of using the makeshift toilet facilities, they respected each other's privacy by turning away when asked and not commenting about the inevitable odors. On the second day they all began exercising, Jessica again taking the lead.

As the first few days passed, a pattern of living—mainly miserable—took shape. Three times daily, a diet of unappetizing, greasy food—principally cassava, rice and noodles—was brought to them. The first day, Nicky choked on the grease which tasted sour and Jessica came close to vomiting; hunger eventually outweighed distaste and they forced it down. Every forty-eight hours, more or less, the stinking sanitary pails were removed and emptied by an Indian woman. If they were washed at all, it was superficially; when returned they smelled almost as bad. Drinking water was handed in to each cell in used soft-drink bottles; occasionally there were bowls and other water with which to wash. The guards warned the prisoners by hand signals that they should not drink the washing water which was a muddy brown.

Nicky's morale, which was the most important to Jessica, while not high at least remained stable; he also proved himself to be resilient once the initial shock of being there had passed. Jessica, who in New York did part-time social work among underprivileged families, had observed that in tragic situations, children often coped better than adults. Possibly, she thought, it was because children's thinking was less complicated and more honest; or perhaps children became mentally adult when the need was thrust upon them. In Nicky's case, for whatever reason, he was visibly coping.

He began attempting conversations with the guards. Nicky's Spanish was rudimentary, but depending on the patience and good nature of the other party, he managed to achieve exchanges and gain information. Vicente was the most cooperative.

From Vicente they learned of the impending departure of "the doctor"—obviously the one whom Jessica thought of as Cutface—and who, Vicente believed, was "going home to Lima.” However, "the nurse” would stay on, and this was clearly the sour-faced woman whose name they discovered was Socorro.

They speculated among themselves on why Vicente was different from the other guards and apparently kinder. It was Jessica who cautioned Nicky and Angus, "It's not so much that he's different. Vicente's still one of those who brought us here and are keeping us prisoners — Don't let's forget that. But he's not as mean or thoughtless as the others, so by comparison he seems kind.”

There were other facets of the subject that Jessica wanted to talk about, but she decided to save them for later. There would be need of fresh themes for thought and discussion during what she foresaw as lonely days ahead. Meanwhile, she added, "Because he's the way he is, let's make all the use of Vicente that we can.”

At Jessica's suggestion, Nicky asked Vicente if the prisoners were to be allowed out of the cells at all, to go outside. To this question, Vicente shook his head, though it was not clear whether the answer was negative or he didn't understand. Jessica, persisting, asked to have a message passed to Socorro that the prisoners would like to see her. Nicky did his best, but once more a headshake was the only response, making it seem doubtful the request would be delivered.

Nicky's relative success with the language surprised Jessica since his Spanish lessons at school had begun only a few months earlier. When she mentioned this, Nicky told her that two of his friends at school were Cuban immigrants who chattered in Spanish in the playground.”Some of us listened, we picked up things . . .” Nicky paused, chuckling.”You won't like this, Mom, but they know all the dirty words. They taught us those.”

Angus, who had been listening, asked, "Did you learn any dirty insults, too?”

"Sure did, Gramps.”

"Could you teach me a few? So I can use them on the people here, if I have to.”

"I'm not sure Mom would like..."

"Go ahead,” Jessica said.”I won't mind.” Nicky's laughter had been wonderful to hear.

”All right, Gramps. If you really want to bad mouth somebody, you could say . . .” Nicky crossed his cell and whispered to his grandfather through their separating screen.

They had, Jessica reflected, stumbled on one more way to pass the time.

And later that day Socorro came, responding to the message.

She stood in the outer doorway, her slim, lithe body a distinctive silhouette, surveying the three cells, her nose wrinkling at the all—pervading smell.

Without waiting, Jessica spoke.”We know you're a nurse, Socorro. It's why you cared enough to speak up and have our hands untied, and why you gave us chocolate.”

Socorro said crossly, "Not a nurse, a nursing aide.” She came closer to the cells, her lips set tightly.

”It make no difference, not here anyway,” Jessica said. "Now that the doctor's going, you'll be the one who knows about medicine.”

"You're trying to be smart; it won't help you. You wanted to see me. Why?”

"Because you've already shown you want to keep us alive and well. But unless we get out of here, into some fresh air for a while, we'll all be desperately ill.”

"You have to stay inside. They don't want you to be seen.”

"Why not! And who are 'they'?”

"That is not your concern, and you have no right to ask questions.”

Jessica slammed back, "I have a mother's right to care about my son: also about my father-in-law who is old and has been treated brutally.”

"He deserved it. He talks too much. So do you.”

Instinct told Jessica that some of Socorro's antagonism was contrived. She attempted a compliment.”Your English is excellent. You must have lived in America a long time.”

"That is none of your . . .” Socorro stopped and shrugged.”Three years. I hated it. It is a filthy, corrupt country.”

Jessica said softly, "I don't think you really believe that. I think you were treated well, and now you are having trouble hating us.”

"Think what you want,” Socorro snapped as she walked away, then in the doorway turned.”I will try to have more air let in here.” Her lips twitched in the nearest thing to a smile.”It will be healthier for the guards.”

Next day two men arrived with tools. They cut open several spaces, creating unblocked windows in the walls facing the cells. Immediately, the daytime semidarkness was replaced by light so the three captives could see each other clearly, and also the guard. As well, there was a flow of air through the building, occasionally a breeze, and while foul odors were not eliminated, they were greatly reduced.

It was a victory for Jessica and also, she thought, an indication that beneath the surface Socorro was not as hostile as she tried to appear—a vulnerability perhaps to be exploited later in some larger way.

But the light-and-air victory was minor and, as it proved, there were major agonies still to be endured. One, unknown to Jessica, was already taking shape.

12

Six days after the captives and their escorts arrived at Nueva Esperanza, Miguel received a series of written orders from Sendero Luminoso, orders originating in Ayacucho. They were delivered by a messenger traveling in a truck that took two days to cover the five hundred tortuous road miles, a journey extending over perilous mountain passes and soggy jungle trails. Several items of specialized equipment were also delivered.

The most important instruction involved making a videotape recording of the woman prisoner. A script was supplied and no deviation from its wording would be permitted. The project was to be personally supervised by Miguel.

Another instruction confirmed that Baudelio's duties were at an end. He would accompany the messenger in the truck back to Ayacucho, from where he would fly to Lima. The truck would return to Nueva Esperanza in a few days' time to bring more supplies and collect the completed videotape.

The news that Baudelio was going home to Lima, even though expected, displeased Miguel. For one thing, the ex-doctor knew too much. For another, he was certain to resume his alcoholic ways, hard liquor and a loose tongue inevitably went together. Therefore Baudelio at large was a threat not only to the security of their small garrison but also—more importantly, as Miguel saw it —to his own safety.

In other circumstances he would have forced Baudelio to take a walk in the jungle from which only Miguel would return. But Sendero Luminoso, while ruthless in many ways, could become belligerent about an outsider killing one of its own people, for whatever reason.

What Miguel did was send confidentially with the messenger a strongly worded note pointing out the dangers of having Baudelio remain in circulation. Sendero would quickly make its own decision. Miguel had little doubt what that would be.

One thing pleased him. Among the general instructions he received was one to "keep the three hostages in good health until otherwise ordered.” The reference to "three hostages,” which Sendero's high command would have learned of through news reports, conveyed approval of Miguel's decision to include the old man in the kidnap, something originally not planned.

He turned his attention to the special equipment brought from Ayacucho for the video and sound recording session. It comprised a Sony Camcorder with cassettes, a tripod, photoflood kit and a portable 110-volt generator, gasoline-powered. None of it presented a problem to Miguel, who had handled recording sessions with kidnap victims before.

He realized, though, that he would need support and certain stem measures to ensure obedience from the woman, who he suspected would be difficult. To help him he chose Gustavo and Ramon, both of whom he had observed being tough with the prisoners and who were unlikely to be squeamish, whatever punishment they were asked to inflict. The recording session, Miguel decided, would take place the following morning.

* * *

As soon as there was sufficient daylight, Jessica was busy at work.

Soon after she, Angus and Nicky had recovered consciousness in Peru, all three discovered that at some point almost the entire contents of their pockets had been removed, including any money they had had. A handbag Jessica had been carrying at Larchmont, not surprisingly, had disappeared. Among the few things left were some paper clips, a comb of Jessica's, and a small notebook in Angus's back pants pocket, which apparently was overlooked. Also, in the lining of Nicky's jacket was a ballpoint pen which had fallen through a hole in a pocket and had not been found.

At Jessica's urging, the notebook and pen were carefully hidden and used only if the guard on duty was one of those known to be more easygoing than the martinets like Rarnon.

Yesterday Jessica had borrowed the notebook from Angus, and Nicky's ballpoint pen. Although the screens between the prisoners' cages prevented them from passing anything to each other, Vicente, while on guard duty, obligingly collected the objects and handed them to her.

What Jessica intended was to make drawings of the people she had encountered while strong memories of them still renamed. While not an accomplished artist, she was a competent amateur and was sure the faces in her drawings would be recognizable if eventually she was able to use them for identifying those involved in the kidnap and this aftermath.

The first drawing, which she had begun the preceding day and was still working on, was of the tall, balding, authoritative man whom Jessica had become aware of as consciousness returned to her in the first darkened hut. Although not totally alert at the time, she did remember her desperately mouthed plea, "Help! . . . please help . . . tell someone . . .”A subsequent impression, sharp and clear, was of the man in question reacting, looking startled, but afterward doing nothing, as was now apparent.

Who was he? Why was he there? Since he was present, he had to be involved. Jessica believed that the man was American. Whether he was or wasn't, she hoped that one day her drawing would help track him down.

When she had finished, Jessica had sketched a recognizable likeness of the Learjet pilot, Captain Denis Underhill.

The sound of footsteps outside caused her to fold the drawing hastily and conceal it in her brassiere, the first place she thought of. The notebook and pen she thrust beneath the thin mattress of her bed.

Almost at once, Miguel, Gustavo and Ramon appeared. All three were carrying equipment which Jessica recognized instantly.”Oh, no!” she called out to Miguel.”Don't waste your time setting that up. We will not help you by making any recording.”

Miguel ignored her. Taking his time, he installed the Camcorder on its tripod and arranged the photoflood lights which he plugged into an extension cable. The cable ran out of doors where the sound of a generator starting up could be heard. Moments later the area in front of the three cells was brightly lit, the lights focused on an empty chair which the Camcorder faced.

Still unhurriedly, Miguel walked forward to Jessica's cage. His voice was cold and hard.”You will do precisely what I tell you, when I tell you, bitch.” He held out three handwritten pages.”This is what you will say—exactly that and no more, with not one word changed.”

Jessica took the pages, read them quickly, then tore them into pieces which she threw outward through the bamboo bars.”I told you I wouldn't do it, and I won't.”

Miguel did not react but looked toward Gustavo who was waiting nearby. Miguel nodded.”Get the boy.”

Despite her determination a moment earlier, a shiver of apprehension ran through Jessica.

While she watched, Gustavo opened the padlock securing Nicky's cage. Going inside, he seized Nicky by a shoulder and one arm; then, twisting the arm, propelled him outside until both were in front of Jessica's cell. Nicky, though plainly frightened, said nothing.

Becoming frantic, and now sweating, Jessica demanded of the men, "What are you going to do?”

No one answered.

Instead, Ramon brought from the other side of the building the chair usually occupied by the armed guard. Gustavo pushed Nicky into the chair where the two men tied him with rope. Before securing his arms, Gustavo loosened Nicky's shirt, exposing his small chest. Ramon, meanwhile, was lighting a cigarette.

Jessica, with a sense of what was coming, cried out to Miguel, "Wait! Perhaps I was hasty. Please wait! We can talk!”

Miguel did not answer. Stooping to the floor, he picked up several pieces of the paper which Jessica had thrown.”Those were three pages,” he said.”Fortunately I thought you might do something foolish so I gave you a copy. But three is the figure you have set us, just the same.”

He signalled to Ramon, holding up three fingers. 'Quomelo bien . . . tres veces.”

Ramon inhaled, bringing the tip of the cigarette in his mouth to a glowing red. Then deliberately, with a single swift movement, he removed the cigarette and pressed the burning end against Nicky's chest. For the briefest moment the boy was so surprised that no sound escaped him. Then as he felt the burning, searing agony, he screamed.

Jessica was screaming too—wildly, incoherently, tearfully pleading for the torture to cease, assuring Miguel she would do whatever he wanted.”Anything! Anything! I don't care! Just tell me what it is! But stop! Oh, stop!”

From the third cell, Angus was banging his hands against the screen of his cage and shouting too. His words intermingled with the other din, though a few could be heard.”You filthy bastards! Cowards! You're animals, not men!”

Ramon watched and listened, a slight smile around his lips. Then he returned the cigarette to his mouth, drawing his breath in hard several times to reignite the glow. When it was again strong and red, he quashed the cigarette once more against another part of Nicky's chest. Nicky's screams intensified while, for the third time, Ramon drew on the cigarette and repeated the process. By this time, a smell of burning flesh accompanied the boy's screams and desperate sobbing.

Miguel remained coolly impassive, outwardly indifferent to it all.

After the third burn he waited until some of the noise had subsided, then informed Jessica, "You will sit in front of the camera and speak when I signal you. I have written on cards what you are to say. It is the same as you read and the cards will be held up. You will follow them exactly. Is that understood?”

"Yes,” Jessica said dully, "it's understood.”

Hearing her voice, choked and dry, Miguel told Gustavo, "Give her some water.”

Jessica protested, "I don't It's Nicky who needs attention—something for those bums. Socorro will know . . .”

"Shut up!” Miguel snarled.”If you give any more trouble, the boy will suffer again. He will stay as he is. You will obey!” He glared at Nicky, who was whimpering.”You shut up too!” Miguel turned his head.”Ramon, keep the hot poker ready!”

Ramon nodded.”Si jefe.”He inhaled until his cigarette was again a glowing red.

Jessica closed her eyes. Her own obstinacy, she thought, had brought them to this. Maybe one day Nicky would forgive her. To protect him now, she would concentrate on what had to be done, completing it without a mistake. But even then, a sudden thought occurred.

At home in Larchmont, the night before the kidnap when Jessica and Crawf were talking, Crawf had described signals which a hostage making a video recording could transmit surreptitiously. The point was that someone back home would know of the signals and be able to recognize them. Crawf had had the notion that someday he might be kidnapped and make such a recording. But now it was Jessica instead—something neither of then had dreamed of—and she struggled to remember the signals, knowing Crawf would see this tape... What were they?

The conversation at Larchmont was coming back . . . her memory had always been good . . . Crawf had said, "Licking my lips with my tongue would mean, I am doing this against my will. Do not believe anything I am saying.' . . . Scratching or touching my right earlobe—My captors are well organized and strongly armed' . . . Left earlobe—Security here is sometimes lax. An attack from outside might succeed' “. . . There were other signals, Crawf had said, though he hadn't described them. So the three—or rather two, since she could only use one of the earlobe messages—would have to do.

Jessica's cell was opened by Gustavo who motioned her to move outside.

Her impulse when she emerged was to run to Nicky, but Miguel's face was glowering and Ramon, also watching, had lighted a new cigarette Jessica stopped, her eyes meeting Nicky's, and she knew he understood. Guided by Gustavo, she sat in the chair facing the photofloods and Camcorder. Obediently, she sipped water that he gave her.

The message she would speak was written in large letters on two cards which Gustavo now held up. Miguel had moved to the Camcorder and was squinting into an eyepiece. He ordered, "When I drop my hand, begin.”

The signal came and Jessica spoke, trying to keep her voice even.

”We have all been treated well and fairly. Now that the reason we were taken has been explained to us, we understand why it was necessary. We also have been told how easy it will be for our American friends to ensure our safe return home. To have us released..."

"Stop!”

Miguel's face was red, his features working angrily.

”Bitch! You are reading like you would a laundry list without expression, trying to be clever, making it sound unbelieving, as if being forced . . .”

"I am being forced!” It was a flash of spirit which, an instant later, Jessica regretted.

Miguel signaled to Ramon who applied his hot cigarette to Nicky's chest, prompting another scream.

Jessica, almost out of her mind, was on her feet, pleading.”No! No more! I'll do it better! . . . The way you want! . . . I promise!”

To her relief this time, there was no second bum. Miguel put a fresh cassette into the Camcorder and waved Jessica back into the chair. Once more Gustavo gave her water. Moments later she began again.

Steeling herself, she did her best to make the opening phrases sound convincing, then continued, "To have us released, you must simply follow—quickly and exactly—the instructions which accompany this recording . . .”

Immediately after the word "recording,” Jessica moistened her lips with her tongue. She knew she was taking a risk, for herself and Nicky too, but believed the action would seem natural and pass unnoticed. The absence of objection proved her right and she had now confirmed to Crawf and others that the words she was speaking were not her own. Despite all else that had happened, she felt a thrill of satisfaction as she continued reading from the cards Gustavo held.

”. . . but be sure of this: If you do not obey those instructions, you will not see any of us, ever again. We beg of you, do not let that happen . . .”

What were the instructions—the price of their release which the kidnappers were asking? Jessica could only wonder, by now knowing better than to ask. Meanwhile, only a little time remained, and how about her other message? A choice must be made . . . left earlobe or right . . . Which?

It was true the people here were armed and perhaps well organized, but security was lax at times, and often at night their guards fell asleep; sometimes one or the other could be heard snoring . . . Making her decision, Jessica reached up and casually scratched her left earlobe. It was done! No one had noticed! She continued with the closing words.

”We will be waiting, counting on you, desperately hoping you will make the right decision and . . .”

Seconds later, it was over. As Jessica closed her eyes in relief, Miguel switched off the floodlights and stepped back, a small smile of satisfaction on his face.

* * *

It was an hour before Socorro came, an hour of pain for Nicky and of anguish for Jessica and Angus, who could hear Nicky moaning softly on his bed but could not go to him. Jessica had begged the guard on duty—using words and gestures—to let her leave her cell and join Nicky in his, and it was clear the man, while not speaking English, understood what she was asking. But he had shaken his head and insisted, "No se permite.”

An overpowering sense of guilt seized Jessica. She told Nicky through the screen, "Oh, darling, I'm so desperately sorry. If I'd known what they would do, I'd have made the recording right away. I never even thought . . . “

"Don't worry, Mom.” Despite his pain, Nicky had tried to reassure her.”It wasn't your fault.”

"No one could have believed what those savages did, Jessie,” Angus had called out from his cell on the far side.”Does it still hurt a lot, old chap?”

"It's pretty bad.” Nicky's voice quavered.

Jessica appealed to the guard again.”Get Socorro! The nurse! You understand? Socorro!”

This time the man took no notice. He was seated, reading what appeared to be a comic book, and did not look up.

Eventually Socorro came, apparently of her own volition.

”Please help Nicky,” Jessica asked.”Your friends burned him.”

"He probably deserved it.” Socorro signaled to the guard to open Nicky's cell and went in. As she saw the four bums, she made a clucking sound with her mouth, then turned away and left the cell, the guard locking it behind her.

Jessica called, "You are coming back?”

For a moment Socorro looked as if she would make another sharp answer. Then she nodded curtly and left. A few minutes later she returned, carrying a bowl, a jug of water and a package of what proved to be folded cloths and gauze.

Watching through the screen, Jessica observed Socorro gently bathe the bums with water, Nicky wincing as she did, though he did not cry out. Socorro blotted the bums dry with a cloth, then placed a gauze pad over each, securing the dressings with adhesive tape.

Jessica spoke warily.”Thank you. You are good at that. May I ask . . .”

“They are second-degree burns and will heal. I will take the dressings off in several days.”

"Can you do something for the pain?”

"This is not a hospital. He must endure it.” Socorro turned to Nicky, her voice edgy, her face unsmiling.”Lie still today, boy. It will hurt less tomorrow.”

Jessica decided on one more appeal.”Please, may I be with him? He's eleven years old and I'm his mother. Can't we be together, even if only for the next few hours?”

"I asked Miguel. He said no.” Moments later, Socorro was gone.

There was a silence, then Angus said softly, "I wish there were something I could do for you, Nicky. Life isn't fair. You don't deserve any of this.”

A pause. Then, "Gramps.”

"Yes, old son?”

"There is something.”

"That I can do? Tell me.”

"Talk about those old songs. And maybe sing one.”

Angus's eyes moistened. It was a request that did not need explaining.

Anything about songs and music fascinated Nicky, and sometimes on summer evenings at the Sloanes' lakeside cottage near Johnstown in upstate New York, the grandfather and grandson would talk and listen to songs of World War Il which, two generations earlier in other arduous times, had sustained Angus and many like him. Nicky never seemed to tire of those exchanges and Angus struggled now to remember words and phrases he had used before.

”Those of us who were flyboys in the Army Air Forces, Nicky, cherished our collections of seventy-eight r.p.m. records . . . Those seventy-eights disappeared long ago . . . bet you've never seen any . .”

"I did once. The father of one of my friends had some.”

Angus smiled. As Nicky knew too, an identical dialog had taken place a few months earlier.

”Anyway, we carried those records personally from air base to air base and because they were so breakable, no one would trust anyone else with transporting them. And every BOQ—that's Bachelor Officers Quarters—was alive with music of the big bands: Benny Goodman, Tommy Dorsey, Glenn Miller. And the singers were young Frank Sinatra, Ray Eberle, Dick Haymes. We'd hear their songs and sing them ourselves in the shower.”

"Sing one now, Gramps.”

"My goodness, I'm not sure. My voice is getting old.”

"Try, Angus!” Jessica urged.”If I can, I'll join you.”

He groped in memory. When they had done this before was there a special song Nicky liked? He remembered—yes, there was. Steadying his breathing he began, though glancing first toward the guard, wondering if he would enforce the oppressive silence rule. But the man seemed not to mind them talking and was turning pages of his comic book.

Angus had had a good singing voice once; now, like the rest of him, it was weak and quavery. But the words were clear in his mind, their recollection sharp . . .

I'll be seeing you

In all the old familiar places

That this heart of mine embraces all day thru...

Jessica joined in, her memory finding the lyric from somewhere. A moment later, Nicky's young tenor was added.

In that small cafe,

The park across the way,

The children's carousel,

The chestnut trees, the wishing well.

I'll be seeing you

In every lovely summer's day,

In everything that's light and gay,

I'll always think of you that way,

I'll find you in the morning sun;

And when the night is new,

I'll be looking at the moon

But I'll be seeing you!

For Angus, the years fell away. Jessica's spirits lifted. For Nicky, briefly, the anguish from his bums was eased.

13

From the moment on Wednesday afternoon when Harry Partridge announced his decision to leave for Peru early the following day, the CBA News special task force moved feverishly into high gear.

Partridge's accompanying decision—to open the floodgates of information some thirty-six hours after his departure—resulted in meetings and consultations during which a priority program covering the next three days was structured and approved.

Immediately ahead, to be written and partially recorded overnight, was a report anchored by Partridge which would dominate the National Evening News on Friday. This would contain all that was known concerning the Sloane family kidnapping, including the latest information about Peru and Sendero Luniinoso; identification of the terrorist, Ulises Rodriguez alias Miguel; the caskets and the undertaker, Alberto Godoy; Amazonas-American Bank and the alleged murder-suicide, now suspected to have been a double murder, of Jose Antonio Salaverry and Helga Efferen.

However, before any preparations began, Harry Partridge visited Crawford Sloane in the anchorman's office on the fourth floor. Partridge still felt that Sloane should be among the first to be informed of any new development or plan.

Since the kidnapping thirteen days earlier, Crawford Sloane had continued to work, though at times it seemed he was merely filling each day and his heart and mind were not immersed in work at all. Today he appeared more gaunt than ever, his eyes more tired, the lines on his face even deeper than a few days earlier. He was conferring with a woman writer and a male producer and looked up as Partridge appeared.”You need to see me, Harry?”

When Partridge nodded, Sloane asked the other two, "Do you mind leaving? We'll finish later.”

Sloane waved Partridge to a chair.”You look serious. Is it bad news?”

"I'm afraid it is. We've established that your family is out of the country. They're prisoners in Peru.”

Sloane slumped forward, elbows on his desk; he rubbed a hand across his face before responding.”I've been expecting something like this—or rather, dreading it. Do you know who has them?”

"We believe Sendero Luminoso.”

"Oh god! Not those fanatics!”

"I'm leaving for Lima in the morning, Crawf.”

"I'll go with you!”

Partridge shook his head.”We both know you can't, that it wouldn't work. Besides, the network would never allow it.”

Sloane sighed, but didn't argue. He asked, "Do we have any idea what those Sendero jackals want?”

"Not yet. I'm sure we'll hear.” A silence followed, then Partridge said, "I've called a task force meeting for five o'clock. I thought you'd like to be there. After that, most of us will work all night.” He went on to describe developments during the day and the plan to broadcast all information that they had on Friday.

”I'll be at the meeting,” Sloane acknowledged, "and thanks.” Then as Partridge rose to leave, "Do you have to go right now?”

Partridge hesitated. He had a great deal to do and time was short, but he sensed a desire on the other's part to talk. He shrugged.”I guess a few minutes won't make any difference.”

There was a pause before Sloane said awkwardly, "I'm not sure I know how to say this, or even if I should. But at a time like this you get to thinking about all kinds of things.” Partridge waited, curious, as Sloane continued.”Anyway, Harry, I've been wondering what your feelings are about Jessica. After all, years ago you two were pretty close.”

So that was it: A secret thought voiced after all this time. Partridge chose his words carefully, knowing this moment was important.”Yes, I do care about Jessica, in part because we were close—as you put it —years ago. But mostly I care because she's your wife and you're my friend. As for anything that once existed between Jessica and me, it finished the day she married you.”

"I suppose I'm saying this now because of all that's happened, but there were times when I used to wonder about that.”

"I know you did, Crawf, and there were times I wanted to tell you what I just did; also that I never had any resentment, either about your marrying Jessica or making it big at the anchor desk. No reason why I should. But I always had the feeling that if I did say it, you wouldn't have believed.”

"You're probably right.” Sloane paused, considering.”But if it's of any interest, Harry, I believe it now.”

Partridge nodded. Enough had been said, and he needed to go. At the doorway he turned.”I'll do my damnedest when I get to Lima, Crawf. I truly will.”

* * *

On reaching Sloane's office, Partridge had noticed the absence of FBI Agent Otis Havelock, whose presence had been so prominent for a week after the kidnapping. While pausing outside at the Horseshoe, where he informed Chuck Insen of the task force meeting, Partridge asked about the FBI man.

”He's still around a lot,” the evening news executive producer said, "though I think he's following other leads.”

"Do you know if he's coming back today?”

"I've no idea.”

Partridge found himself hoping the FBI man would continue whatever he was doing for the remainder of the day. If he did, it would be easier to keep the knowledge of tonight's activity and Partridge departure tomorrow restricted to a few people at CBA only. On Friday, of course, assuming word was released in advance that CBA would have new revelations on its evening news, the FBI would probably demand to know what was going on and would have to be stalled until broadcast time. But Partridge would be in Peru by then, and someone else would have that responsibility.

Just the same, he decided coping with the FBI was one more item to be factored into plans for the next two days.

* * *

The five o'clock meeting in the task force conference room was well attended. Les Chippingham and Crawford' Sloane were there. Chuck Insen stayed for fifteen minutes, then left because the National Evening News first feed was looming close, and another Horseshoe producer took his place. Partridge was at the head of the long conference table, with Rita Abrams beside him. Iris Everly, who had produced a kidnap segment for the evening news—though it contained none of that day's new material—arrived several minutes late. Teddy Cooper was present, having spent the day with the temporary researchers who were still visiting local newspaper offices to review classified advertising—so far with no positive result. Minh Van Canh came in, as did producers Norman Jaeger and Karl Owens. A new, face at the table was Don Kettering's. Jonathan Mony had stayed on and was introduced around. Various support staff members were in attendance.

Partridge began with a summation of what had happened during the day, his intention to leave for Peru early the next morning, and the decision to broadcast everything they knew on Friday evening's news.

Les Chippingham cut in.”I agree with everything you've said, Harry, but I think we should go one step further and do a one-hour News Special, also on Friday night, covering the whole kidnap sequence at length, including the new material.”

Around the table there were murmurs of approval as the news president continued.”I remind you we have a prime-time news show already scheduled for the nine o'clock slot which we can yank. You guys sound as if you have plenty to fill an hour.”

"Plenty and more,” Rita Abrams assured him. A short time earlier she had screened the silhouette interrogation of Alberto Godoy and viewed Don Kettering's interview with the American-Amazonas bank manager, Emiliano Armando, which had just come in. She was enthusiastic about both.

After the screening there had been a discussion between Rita, Partridge and Kettering as to whether the funeral director's identity should be protected after all, since during his antagonistic termination of the interview, Godoy voluntarily brought his face into light and camera range. There was a temptation to reveal his face on television since protecting Godoy's identity could clearly cause the network trouble. Yet because of the original agreement with him, some complex ethics were involved.

In the end, it was decided that since Godoy had not known, technically, what he was doing, the original pact must be honored. To make sure the decision was safeguarded, Partridge erased on an editing machine the portion of tape showing Godoy's face, so it could not be retrieved with outtakes later. At this point the erasure was not a legal offense, though it would be if done after official inquiries were begun.

Everyone at the conference room table realized the decision to have a one-hour special was relatively easy since the primetime hour in question belonged to the News Division anyway; therefore the network's programming brass need not be consulted. The show originally scheduled for nine o'clock Friday was "Behind the Headlines,” a newsmagazine on which Norman Jaeger was normally a producer and to which he would undoubtedly return when this present work was over. Chippingham. decided privately that he need not report immediately to Margot Lloyd-Mason on the change, though sometime during Friday he would advise her of what was coming up that evening.

From there, other decisions flowed.

Partridge announced that Minh Van Canh and Ken O'Hara, the sound mail who had been present at the Dallas Fort Worth air crash two weeks ago, would accompany him to Peru.

Rita, glancing down the table at Chippingham, added, "Les, the assignment desk has chartered a Learjet for Harry and the others, out of Teterboro at Six A.M. tomorrow. I need your okay.”

"Are you sure Chippingham, conscious of mounting expenses, had been about to continue, ". . . there isn't a commercial flight available, “when he caught sight of Crawford Sloane's steely eyes fixed on him. Changing his mind, the news president said tersely, "I approve.”

Rita, it was decided, would remain in New York for overall supervision of the Friday evening news report and one-hour special, with Iris doing general production on the first, Norm Jaeger and Karl Owens on the second. Then, during Friday night, Rita would follow Partridge and the others to Lima, with Jaeger taking over in New York as senior producer.

Partridge, who had discussed the subject earlier with Chippingham, disclosed that after his own departure, Don Kettering would head the kidnap task force in New York. Temporarily, Kettering's business correspondent duties would be handled by an assistant.

However, Partridge pointed out, neither the National Evening News report of Friday nor the one-hour special later—on both of which he would be featured—should convey any hint that he had already left for Peru. In fact, if it could be made to appear at some point that he was broadcasting live—though without actually being deceptive—so much the better.

While other networks and the print press were unlikely to be deceived by such tactics, anything that might lessen their own urgency in dispatching reporting teams to Peru would be an advantage. From a practical point of view, apart from competitiveness, Partridge stood a better chance of making investigative headway alone, instead of amid a swarm of other reporters.

Which led to the question of security.

Everything that would happen through that night and the next two days, Les Chippingham declared, must not be discussed, even with others in the News Division who were uninvolved, and certainly not with outsiders, including families. The criterion for discussion was: Need to know.”And that's not a request; it's an order.”

The news president continued, looking in turn at everyone around the table.”Let us not do or say anything that could release our news prematurely and deprive Harry of the twenty-four hours' lead time he so clearly needs. Above all, remember lives are at stake"—he glanced toward Crawford Sloane,'very special lives, close and important to us all.”

Other security measures were arranged.

Tomorrow and the next day, while a studio and control room were being used to produce the one-hour News Special, security guards would be posted outside, admitting only those persons on a list to be compiled by Rita. Also, the normal studio output line would be disconnected so that no one beyond the studio and control room could view on a monitor what was happening inside.

It was agreed, however, that on Friday morning security would be relaxed slightly, to the extent of doing broadcast promotional advertising during the day. This would advise viewers that important new information about the Sloane kidnapping would be revealed on that evening's National Evening News and the one-hour special. Also during the day as a professional courtesy, other networks, news wire services and the print press would be advised of the same thing, though no details would be disclosed.

At length, Partridge asked, "Is there anything else, or can we get to work?”

"One more detail.” It was Rita, a touch of mischief in her voice.”Les, I need your approval for another Learjet, this one for Friday night when it's my turn for Peru. I'm taking an editor—Bob Watson—and an editpak. Also, I'll have the bankroll.”

There was a chuckle among insiders at the table and even a smile from Crawford Sloane. Rita was enhancing her chances of traveling by private plane, first by taking an editor and editpak, the latter consisting of bulky editing equipment, hard to transport otherwise. Second, it was considered unwise to travel commercially with large amounts of U.S. cash; though Rita hadn't mentioned the amount, it would be fifty thousand dollars. Yet hard currency was essential in a country such as Peru where local money was close to worthless and dollars would buy almost anything, including special privileges which were certain to be needed.

Chippingham sighed inwardly. Inconsiderately, he thought, and despite their affair which continued to flourish, Rita had put him on the spot.

”Go ahead,” he told her.”Book it.”

* * *

Only minutes after the meeting ended, Partridge was at a computer terminal working on his co-anchor introduction for Friday's National Evening News.

Several startling new developments, he wrote, have come to light concerning the kidnapping, fifteen days ago, of the wife, son and father of CBA News anchorman Crawford Sloane. Investigative reporting by CBA has led us to believe that the three kidnap victims have been transported to Peru where they are being held by the Maoist revolutionary guerrillas Sendero Luminoso, or Shining Path, who have terrorized large portions of Peru for many years.

A motive for the kidnapping is not yet known.

What is known is that a United Nations diplomat, using a New York bank account, supplied money to the kidnappers, which made the abduction, as well as other acts of terrorism, possible.

Our extensive coverage begins, as so many other crimes begin, with money. CBA's business correspondent Don Kettering explained.

It would be, Partridge reflected as he began to revise what he had written, the first of many similar introductions he must compose and record before leaving Manhattan for Teterboro Airport at 5 a.m.