Evening News

1

It was still dark, and raining, a few minutes before 6 A.m. Eastern daylight time when a Learjet 36A took off from New Jersey's Teterboro Airport for Bogota, Colombia. Aboard were Harry Partridge, Minh Van Canh and Ken O'Hara.

The 36A did not have the range for a nonstop flight to Lima, but they would be in Bogota only long enough to refuel and hoped to reach the Peruvian capital by 1:30 P.m. Eastern standard time, which Peru stayed on all year round.

Partridge and the other two had come directly from CBA News headquarters to Teterboro in a network car. During the busy night, Partridge managed to slip away for a half hour to the Inter-Continental Hotel and pack a bag. He hadn't wasted time checking out; someone from the network would do that in the morning.

He had also asked the CBA News assignment desk to arrange some sleeping facility in the Lear and was delighted to find it ready. On the right side of the passenger cabin, two facing seats had been lowered to become a bed, with a mattress, sheets and blankets invitingly in place. It was possible for another bed to be made up on the opposite side, but Minh and O'Hara would have to work that out between them. In any case, he didn't think their night had been as arduous as his own.

By the time they were in the air and on course, Partridge was asleep. He slept soundly for three hours, then awakened to find the cabin in semidarkness, someone having thoughtfully lowered all the window shades, though bright sunshine enough to see by—was visible around their edges. Across the cabin, Minh was curled up and asleep in a seat. O'Hara, also sleeping, was in another seat behind.

Partridge checked his watch: 9 A.m. New York time—still only 8 A.M. in Lima. Reaching for a flight plan the co-pilot had brought before takeoff, he calculated it would be another two hours before the refueling stop in Bogota. The hum of jet engines was steady but quiet and there was no hint of turbulence. A phrase came to Partridge: a silky journey. Enjoying the luxury, he lay down again and closed his eyes.

This time sleep did not come. Perhaps the three hours had been enough. Perhaps too much had happened in too short a time for him to rest for very long. On other occasions in the past he had found he needed little sleep during periods of stress and action, and this was such a time, or would be very soon. Yes, he was going into action—quite probably and literally into battle-and he felt his senses stir agreeably.

That feeling, he supposed, had always been dormant inside him, though Vietnam had awakened it and, afterward, other wars in other places satisfied his need. It was what made him, in TV news jargon, a "bang-bang” correspondent, a label that used to bother him but didn't anymore.

Why not? Because there were times when a "bang-bang” like himself was needed, just as Balaklava had had soldiery who performed their jobs while

Cannon to right of them,

Cannon to left of them,

Cannon in front of them ,

Volleyed and thundered..

He smiled, amused by Tennyson's romanticizing, and his own.

It hadn't always been that way with him. For a while, when he and Gemma were together, he consciously avoided wars and danger because life was sweet, too gloriously happy to risk a sudden termination. Around that time, within the network, he knew word had gone out to the effect: Give Harry some safe assignments,— he's earned them. Let the newer reporters follow the sound of gunfire for a while.

Later, all of that changed, of course. When Gemma was no longer on the scene, Partridge had ceased to be protected and was sent again to wars, in part because he was so good at them, in part because he made it known he didn't care what chances he took. That last was one reason, he supposed, why he was on this journey here and now.

How strange that since this project began he had mentally relived his time with Gemma. It was during the air journey from Toronto immediately after the kidnap that the memory came back to him of the Pope's Alitalia DC-10 and meeting Gemma . . . his own conversation with the Pope and the "Slavs-slaves” mix-up which he resolved . . . then Gemma delivering his breakfast tray and bringing him a rose.

One day later on this assignment—or was it two?—more memories at night in his hotel . . . of falling in love with Gemma and, while still continuing on the papal tour, proposing marriage . . . During a brief stopover, their taxi ride to the old city in Panama, and Gemma standing beside him while the juez in his ornate office pronounced them man and wife.

Then barely a week ago, while being driven in darkness from Larchmont to Manhattan after visiting Crawford Sloane, there had been the remembrance of Partridge and Gemma's idyllic, halcyon days in Rome where their love had grown; Gemma's shining gift of laughter and joy; the checkbook she could never balance; the car she drove like a fiend, arousing his fears . . . until she surrendered the keys on learning she was pregnant. And after that, the news of their move from Rome to London . . .

Now, here he was, on another air journey and with more quiet moments, back again with thoughts of Gemma. This time, unlike the others, he did not resist the memories but let them flow.

* * *

Their life in London was unbelievably good.

They took over a peasant furnished flat in St. John's Wood which Partridge's predecessor had vacated, Gemma quickly adding touches of her own style and color. The rooms were always filled with flowers. She hung paintings they had brought from Rome, shopped for china and table linens in Kensington and added a striking bronze sculpture by a new young artist exhibiting in Cork Street.

At the CBA News London bureau, Partridge's work went well. Some stories he covered were in Britain, others on the Continent—in France, the Netherlands, Denmark and Sweden though he was seldom away from home for long.” en he wasn't working, he and Gemma explored London together, delighting in their joint discovery of history, splendor, curiosity and oddity, often in intriguing, narrow streets, some still as Dickens had described them, or around corkscrew, convoluted corners.

The multitude of mazelike streets perplexed Gemma and she often got lost. When Partridge suggested that parts of Rome could be equally difficult, she shook her head in disagreement.”They do not say idly 'the Eternal City,' Harry caro. In Rome you move onward; it is something you can feel. London plays with you like cat and mouse; it turns you sideways and backward and you never know. But I adore it; it is like a game.”

The traffic bewildered Gemma too. Standing with Partridge on the steps of the National Gallery, watching the speeding circle of massed taxis, cars and double-deck buses rounding Trafalgar Square, she told him, "It is so dangerous, darling. They are all going the wrong way.”Fortunately, because she could not adjust mentally to driving on the left, Gemma had no desire at all to use their car and, when Partridge was not available, she either walked a great deal or traveled by Underground or taxi.

The National was one of many galleries they visited and they savored other sights too, both conventional and off beat, from the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace to viewing bricked up windows on old buildings—a holdover from the early 1800s when windows were taxed to finance the Napoleonic wars.

A guide they hired for a day showed them a statue of Queen Anne who, the guide noted, had nineteen pregnancies and was buried in a coffin four feet eight inches square. And at New Zealand House, formerly the Carlton Hotel he told them Ho Chi Minh once worked there as a kitchen porter—all of it the kind of information Gemma loved, and she squirreled it away in an ever-growing notebook.

A favorite Sunday pastime was visiting Speakers' Corner near Marble Arch where, as Partridge explained, 'prophets, loudmouths and lunatics get equal time.”

“What is so different about that, Harry?” Gemma once asked after listening.”Some speeches you report seriously on TV are no better. You should do a piece about Speakers' Corner for your news.”

Soon after, Partridge passed the suggestion to New York and the Horseshoe shot back approval. A report was done and became a much-praised, humorous "end piece” on a Friday night.

Another highlight was visiting Brown's Hotel, founded by Lord Byron's butler, and having afternoon tea—the ultimate English experience with impeccable service, dainty sandwiches, scones, strawberry jam and clotted Devonshire cream.”It is a sacred ritual, mio amore,” Gemma declared "Like communion, but tastier.”

In short, whatever they did together became a time of joy. And, all the while, Gemma's pregnancy progressed, promising supplemental happiness ahead.

It was during her seventh month of pregnancy that Partridge was sent on a one-day assignment to Paris. CBA News's Paris bureau, short-staffed, needed someone to cover accusations about an American film which portrayed critically—and inaccurately, it was claimed—the French Resistance in World War II, Partridge did the piece, which was sent by satellite to New York via London, though he doubted if it was important enough to make the National Evening News, and in the end it didn't.

Then, in the Paris bureau and about to leave to catch his homebound flight, he was handed a phone and told, "London wants you. Zeke is on the line.”

Zeke was Ezekiel Thomson, the London bureau chief—huge, tough, dour and black also, to those who worked with him, he seemed emotionless. The first thing Partridge became aware of as he listened on the phone was that Zeke's voice was choked and breaking.

”Harry, I've never had to do anything like this . . . I don't know how ... but I have to tell you..." he managed to get out.

Somehow Zeke conveyed the rest.

Gemma was dead She had begun to cross the street at a busy intersection in Knightsbridge and witnesses said she had been looking to the left instead of to the right . . . Oh, Gemma! Dearest, wonderful, scatterbrained Gemma, who believed that everyone in Britain was driving on the wrong side, who had not yet mastered which way to look when a pedestrian amid traffic A truck, coming from the right, had struck and run over her. Those who saw it happen said the truck driver should not be blamed, he didn't have a chance . . .

Their baby—a boy, Partridge discovered later—had also died.

* * *

Partridge returned to London and when what had to be done was done, alone in the flat they had shared, he wept. He stayed alone for days, refusing to see anyone while his tears poured out —not only for Gemma, but all the tears which across the years he had never shed.

He wept at last for the dead Welsh children at Aberfan whose pathetic bodies he had watched brought from that ghastly sea of mud He criedf or the starving in Africa where some had died as cameras turned and Partridge, dry-eyed, made entries in his notebook He cried for all others in those many tragic places he had visited, where he had stood among the bereaved, hearing their wailing, chronicling their grief yet was a newsman doing his job and nothing more.

Somewhere amid it all he remembered the words of the woman psychiatrist who once told him, "You're banking it all, tucking the emotion away inside you somewhere. One day everything will overflow, crack open, and you'll cry. Oh, how you'll cry!”

Afterward, as best he could, he had put his life together. CBA News had helped by keeping him busy, not giving him time for introspection, and as fast as one tough assignment ended, another took its place. Soon, wherever there was conflict or danger in the world, Harry Partridge was on the scene. He took risks and got away with them until it seemed, to himself and others, that his life was charmed. And while it happened, the months, then years slipped by.

Nowadays there were stretches of time when he was able, if not to forget Gemma, at least not to think of her for longish periods. Then there were other times—like the two weeks since the Sloane kidnap—when she was foremost in his mind.

Either way, since those desperate days after Gemma's death, he had not cried again.

* * *

Now, aboard the Learjet and still an hour out of Bogota, sleep was returning after all and in Harry Partridge's mind the past and present were merging . . . Gemma and Jessica were becoming one . . . Gemma—Jessica . . . Jessica—Gemma . . . No matter what the odds against him '. he would find her and bring her back Somehow he would save her.

Sleep came. When he awoke again the Lear was on final approach to Bogota.

2

The contrasts of Lima, Harry Partridge thought, were as stark and grimly apparent as the crises and conflicts, political and economic, that bitterly, often savagely, divided all Peru.

The immense, dry, sprawling capital city was split into several segments,, each displaying opulent wealth or squalid poverty, with hatreds like poisoned arrows speeding between the two extremes. Unlike most other cities he knew, there was seldom any middle ground. Grandiose homes surrounded by manicured gardens, all built on Lima's best land, adjoined hideous barriadas—slums jam—packed together—on the worst.

The multitude of "have-not” slum dwellers, many crowded into filthy cardboard shacks, was so visibly wretched, the anger looking out from sullen eyes so fierce, that during past visits to Peru, Partridge had had a sense of revolution in ferment. Now, from what he had already learned during his first day here, some form of insurrection seemed ready to explode.

Partridge, Minh Van Canh and Ken O'Hara had landed at Lima's Jorge Chivez Airport at 1:40 P.m. On disembarking they were met by Fernandez Pabur, CBA's regular stringer in Peru and—when required, as now—the network's fixer.

He had whisked them through Immigration and Customs ahead of others waiting—it seemed likely that at some point money had changed hands—and then escorted them to a Ford station wagon, with waiting driver.

Fernandez was heavyset, dark, swarthy and energetic, probably about thirty-five, with a protruding mouth and prominent white teeth which he flashed every few seconds in what he clearly hoped was a dazzling smile. In fact, being patently false, it wasn't—but Partridge didn't care. What he liked about Fernandez, whom he had used on other occasions, was that the fixer knew instinctively what was needed and got results.

The first result was a suite for Partridge in the elegant five star Cesar's Hotel in Miraflores, and good rooms for the other two.

At the hotel, while Partridge washed and put on a clean shirt, Fernandez phoned ahead at Partridge's request to set up the first appointment. It was with an old acquaintance, Sergio Hurtado, news editor and broadcaster for Radio Andes network.

An hour later, the radio man and Partridge were together in a small broadcast studio which doubled as an office.

”Harry my friend, I have only depressing tidings to convey,” Sergio was saying, responding to a question.” in our country the rule of law has disappeared. Democracy is not even a faqade; it is nonexistent. We are bankrupt in every sense. Massacres are commonplace, politically inspired. There are private death squads of the President's party; people simply disappear. I tell you we are nearer to a total bloodbath than ever before in the history of Peru. I wish none of this were true. Alas, it is!”

Although coining from a grotesquely obese body, the deep mellifluous voice was compelling and persuasive as ever, Partridge noted. Small wonder that Sergio commanded the country's largest audience, since radio was still the paramount news medium, more important and influential than television. TV viewers were a well-to-do concentration in larger cities only.

Sergio's chair creaked complainingly as he shifted his mountain of flesh. His jowls were like outsize sausages. His eyes, which across the years had receded as his face grew larger, were now porcine. Nothing was wrong with his brain, however, nor his distinguished American education which had included Harvard. Sergio appreciated U.S. reporters visiting him, as many did, seeking his well-informed opinions.

After an agreement that their conversation would be off the record until the following evening, Partridge described the chronology of the Sloane kidnap, then asked, "Do you have any advice for me, Sergio? Is there anything you have heard which might be helpful?”

The broadcaster shook his head.”I have heard nothing, which is not surprising. Sendero is good at secrecy, mainly because they kill any of their people who talk indiscreetly; staying alive is an incentive not to gossip. But I will help you, if I can, by putting out feelers. I have information sources in many places.”

"Thank you.”

"As to your news tomorrow night, I will obtain a satellite tape and adapt it for myself. Meanwhile we are not short of disaster subjects of our own. This country, politically, financially, every other way, is going down the tubes.”

"We hear mixed reports about Sendero Lurninoso. Are they really getting stronger?”

"The answer is yes—and not only stronger every day, but controlling more and more of the country, which is why the task you have set yourself is difficult, some might say impossible. Assuming your kidnapped people are here, there are a thousand out-of-the-way places where they may be hidden, But I am glad you came to me first because I will give you some advice.”

"Which is?”

"Do not seek official help,—that is, from the Peru armed forces or the police. In fact, avoid them as allies because they have ceased to be trustworthy, if they ever were. When it comes to murder and mayhem, they are no better than Sendero and certainly as ruthless.”

"Are there recent examples?”

"Plenty. I'll point you toward some if you wish.”

Partridge had already begun thinking about reports he would send back for the National Evening News. He had previously arranged that after the arrival Saturday of Rita Abrams and the editor, Bob Watson, they would put together a piece for Monday's broadcast. In it, Partridge hoped to have sound bites from Sergio Hurtado and others.

Now he asked, "You said democracy is nonexistent. Was that rhetoric or really true?”

"Not only true, but to huge numbers of people here the presence or absence of democracy makes no difference in their lives.”

“Pretty strong stuff, Sergio.”

"Only because of your finite viewpoint, Harry. Americans see democracy as a remedy for all ills—to be taken three times daily like prescription medicine. It works for them. Ergol—it should work for the world. What America na1vely forgets is that for democracy to function, most of a populace must have something personally that is worth preserving. Generally speaking, most Latin Americans don't. Of course, the next question is—why?”

"So I'll buy it. Why?”

"The areas of the world in deepest trouble, including ours, have two main groups of people—the reasonably educated and affluent on the one hand; on the other, the ignorant and hopeless poor who are largely unemployable. The first group breeds only moderately, the second breeds like flies, inexorably growing larger—a human time bomb ready to destroy the first.” Sergio gestured airily behind him.”Go outside and see it happening.”

"And you have a solution?”

"America could have. Not by distributing arms or money, but by flooding the world with birth-control teaching teams, sent out the way Kennedy dispatched the Peace Corps. Oh, it would take several generations, but curbing population growth could save the world.”

Partridge queried, "Aren't you forgetting something?”

"If you mean the Catholic church, I remind you I am a Catholic myself. I also have many Catholic friends—of stature, educated and with money. Strangely, almost all have small families. I have asked myself. Have they curbed their sexual passions? Knowing both the men and women, I am sure that they have not. Indeed, some speak out frankly, disavowing church dogma on birth control—which is man-made dogma, incidentally.” He added, "With American leadership, voices in opposition to that dogma could grow and grow.”

"Speaking of speaking out,” Partridge said.”Would you be willing to repeat most of what we've talked about on camera?”

Sergio threw up his hands.”Well, my dear Harry, why not? Perhaps the greatest thing America instilled in me was a passion for free speech. I have been speaking freely here on radio, though at times I wonder how long they will let me go on. Neither the government nor Sendero like what I say and both have guns and bullets. But one cannot live forever, so yes, Harry, I will do it for you.”

Beneath the gross fat, Partridge acknowledged mentally, was a person of principle and courage.

* * *

Before reaching Peru, Partridge had already decided there was only one way to go about locating the kidnap victims. That was to act as a TV news correspondent would in normal circumstances—meeting known contacts, seeking out new ones, searching for news, traveling where he could, questioning, questioning, and all the while hoping some fragment of information would emerge, providing a clue, a lead to where the captives might be held.

After that, of course, would come the greater problem of how to rescue them. But that would have to be faced when the time arrived.

Unless some lucky, sudden breakthrough happened, Partridge expected the process to be demanding, slow and tedious.

Continuing the TV correspondent routine, he next visited Entel Peru—the national telecommunications company with headquarters in downtown Lima. Entel would be CBA's base for communication with New York, including satellite transmissions. When crews from other U.S. networks arrived, as seemed likely in a day or two, they would use the same facilities.

Victor Velasco was the busy, harried international manager of Entel whom Fernandez Pabur had already contacted. In his forties, with graying hair and a permanently worried expression, Velasco was clearly preoccupied with other problems as he told Partridge, "It has been difficult to find space, but we have a booth for your editor, his equipment, and we've run in two phone lines. Your people will need security passes . . .”

Partridge was aware that in places like Peru, where politicians and military leaders strutted and got rich, it was lowprofile managers like Velasco—conscientious, overworked and underpaid—who really kept the country running. Back in his hotel suite, Partridge had put a thousand dollars in an envelope which he produced and discreetly handed over.

”A small thank-you for your trouble, Sefior Velasco. We'll be seeing you again before we leave.”

For a moment Velasco looked embarrassed and Partridge wondered if he might refuse. Then, glancing in the envelope and seeing U.S. currency, Velasco nodded and put it in a pocket.

”Thank you. And if there's anything else..."

There will be,” Partridge said.”That's the only thing I'm sure of.”

* * *

"What took you so long, Harry?” Manuel Leon Seminario inquired when Partridge phoned from the hotel shortly after 5 P.m., having just returned from Entel Peru.”I've been expecting you since our little talk.”

"I had a couple of things to do in New York.” Partridge was reminded of his phone conversation ten days earlier with the Escena magazine owner-editor; it had been at a time when Peru involvement in the Sloane family kidnapping was a possibility, though not a certainty as now. He asked, "I was wondering, Manuel, if you've a dinner engagement tonight.”

"I have indeed. I shall be dining at La Pizzeria at eight o'clock and my guest will be one Harry Partridge.”

It was now 8:15 and they were sipping Pisco sours, the popular Peruvian cocktail, piquant and delicious. La Pizzeria was a combination of bistro and traditional restaurant where the movers and shakers of Lima were often to be seen.

The magazine chief, slightly built and dapper, with a neatly trimmed Vandyke beard, was wearing high-fashion Cartier spectacles and a Brioni suit. He had brought with him to the table a slim burgundy leather briefcase.

Partridge had already reported why he was in Peru. He added, "I've been hearing that things around here are pretty bad.”

Seminario sighed.”It is true, they are. But then, our life has always been a mixture. We . . . how did Milton put it? . . . 'Can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.' Yet we limefios are survivors, something I try to reflect with Escena's covers.” He reached for the briefcase and opened it.”Consider these two our current edition and the artwork for next week. Together, I believe they say something.”

Partridge looked at the printed magazine first. Its cover was a color photograph of a tall downtown building's flat roof. The roof contained a mess of debris, obviously from an explosion. Central in the picture was a dead woman, on her back. She appeared to have been young; her face, not badly damaged, might have been beautiful. But her stomach had been blown away, with bloody entrails strewn around the body. Despite his familiarity with scenes of war, Partridge shuddered.

”I'll save you reading the story inside, Harry. A business convention was in session across the street. Sendero Luminoso, in which the woman was an activist, decided to mortar the convention center. Fortunately for the convention, but not the woman, the mortar was homemade and exploded before she could fire it.”

Partridge glanced at the picture, then away.”Sendero is increasingly active in Lima, I believe.”

"Exceedingly so. Their people move around freely and this bombing, which went wrong, was an exception. Most are successful. Nevertheless, consider next week's cover.” The editor passed across the artwork.

It was sex and cheesecake, only a hairbreadth away from pornography. A slim young girl, perhaps nineteen and scantily clad in the briefest of swimsuits, was leaning against a silken pillow, her head thrown back, blond hair tumbled, lips parted, eyes closed, legs partially spread.

”Life goes on and there are always two sides, even in Peru,” the magazine man said "Speaking of which, let us order dinner, then I will make suggestions, Harry, to ensure that your life goes on too.”

The food was Italian and excellent, the service faultless. Near the end of the meal, Seminario leaned back.

”One thing you must realize is that Sendero Luminoso may already know of your presence here; their spies are everywhere. But even if not, they will learn of it shortly, probably after your CBA broadcast tomorrow, which will be repeated widely. So beginning at once, you must have a bodyguard accompany you, particularly if you go out at night.”

Partridge smiled.”That seems to have happened already.” Fernandez Pabur had insisted on collecting Partridge from the hotel and bringing him here. Accompanying them in the Ford station wagon had been a silent, burly man who looked like a heavyweight boxer. Judging by a bulge under his jacket, he was armed. At their destination, the new man alighted first, Fernandez and Partridge remaining inside the vehicle until signaled to come out. Partridge had not asked questions, but Fernandez told him, "We will wait while you have dinner.” Presumably the retinue was still outside.

"Good,” Seminario acknowledged. ”Your man knows what he is doing. Are you carrying a gun yourself?”

Partridge shook his head.

”You must. Many of us do. And to quote American Express, 'Don't leave home without it.' Another thing: Do not go to Ayacucho, a Sendero stronghold. Sendero would learn of your being there and you would be committing suicide.”

"At some point I may have to go.”

"You mean if I, or others trying to help you, learn where your friends are being held. In that case you will have to ensure surprise by going in fast and getting out the same way. There will be no other way and you will have to use a charter airplane. Some pilots here will do that if you pay them enough risk money.”

When they had finished talking, most other diners were gone and the restaurant was preparing to close.

Outside, Fernandez and the bodyguard were waiting.

In the station wagon returning to Cesar's Hotel, Partridge asked Fernandez, "Can you get me a gun?”

"Of course. Do you have a preference?”

Partridge considered. The nature of his work had made him knowledgeable about guns and he had learned to use them.”I'd like a nine-millimeter Browning; also a silencer.”

"You will have it tomorrow. And about tomorrow—are there plans that I should know of?”

"Just like today, I'll be seeing more people.” Partridge added mentally: And in days beyond that, still more—until the breakthrough comes.

3

Friday was a (lay of action at CBA, New York. Some of the activity had been anticipated; a good deal more was unforeseen.

As usual, the network's broadcasting day began with the 6 A.M.”Sunrise Journal.” During that program a CBA News promo aired along with commercials, as it would throughout the day. The promo was a recorded message spoken on camera by Harry Partridge.

"Tonight ... on CBA National Evening News ... an exclusive report of startling new developments in the kidnapping of the Crawford Sloane family.

”And at nine p.m. Eastern time, seven central, a one-hour News Special—Wetwork in Peril: The Sloane Kidnap.'

"Be sure not to miss tonight's National Evening News and one-hour News Special,"

The choice of Partridge was appropriate since he had regularly anchored all the evening kidnap news. It was also opportune since his appearance conveyed an unspoken implication that he was in the United States, though at 6 a.m. he had already been in Peru for eighteen hours.

Les Chippingham saw the promo while having a self-serve, on-the-run breakfast in his Eighty-second Street apartment. The news president was in a hurry, knowing there would be a good deal happening during the day, and through the kitchen window he could see his CBA limo and driver already waiting outside. The limousine reminded him of Margot Lloyd-Mason's instruction at their first meeting that he should use taxis instead, an order he had ignored. He must not ignore keeping Margot informed, however, and as soon as he reached the office would call her since she was likely to have seen the promo too.

The decision was unnecessary. When he entered the car, the driver handed him a phone and Margot's voice barked instantly.

”What is all this about new developments and why haven't I been told?”

"It happened suddenly. I intended to call you as soon as I got in.”

"John Q. Public has been told. Why should I have to wait?”

"Margot, the public has not been told; they will be this evening. You, on the other hand, are going to be told as soon as I reach my desk, but not on this phone because we've no idea who's listening.”

There was a pause during which he could hear heavy breathing.”Do it immediately you get in.”

"I will.”

Some fifteen minutes later, connected again with the network president and CEO, Chippingham began, "There's quite a lot to tell.”

"Get on with it!”

"First, from your point of view the outlook is excellent. Some of our best people have achieved several exclusive breakthroughs which tonight may give CBA the largest news audience in our history, with matching ratings. Unfortunately, the news about the Sloane family is less than good for Crawf.”

"Where are they?”

"In Peru. Held by Sendero Luminoso.”

"Peru! Are you absolutely sure?”

"As I said, we've had some of our most experienced people working on this, especially Harry Partridge, and what they've discovered is convincing. I've no doubts, and am sure you won't have either.” Just the same, Margot's startled reaction at the mention of Peru surprised Chippingham, making him wonder what was behind it.

She said sharply, "I'd like to talk to Partridge.”

"I'm afraid that isn't possible. He's already in Peru, and has been since yesterday. We expect to have an update from him for Monday's news.”

"Why are you moving so quickly?”

"This is the news business, Margot. We always work that way.” The question amazed him. So did a hint of uncertainty, even nervousness, in Margot's voice. It prompted him to say, "You seem concerned about Peru. Do you mind telling me why?”

There was silence and obvious hesitation before an answer.”At the moment Globanic Industries has a substantial business arrangement there. A great deal is at stake and it's essential our alliance with the Peruvian Government remains good.”

"May I point out that CBA News doesn't have an alliance with the Peruvian Government—good or bad—or with any other government either.”

Margot said impatiently, "CBA is Globanic. Globanic has an alliance with Peru; therefore so does CBA. When will you grasp that simple fact?”

Chippingham wanted to answer, Never! But he knew he couldn't and said instead, "We're a news organization first and have to report the news the way it is. Also I'll point out, we didn't involve Peru; it's Sendero Luminoso which appears to have kidnapped our anchorman's family. In any case, as soon as our story breaks tonight, everyone else—networks, print press, you name it—will jump on the Peru story too.”

In a comer of his mind Chippingham was asking: Can this conversation really be taking place? And should I laugh or weep?

"Keep me informed,” Margot said.”If there's any change, especially about Peru, I want to know immediately, not next day.”

Chippingham heard a click as the connection was severed.

* * *

In her elegant office at Stonehenge, Margot Lloyd-Mason pondered. Uncharacteristically, she was uncertain about what to do next. Should she call Globanic Chairman Theo Elliott, or not? She recalled his cautioning words about Peru at the Fordly Cay Club meeting: "I don't want anything to damage our stilldelicate relationship . — . and thereby spoil what can evolve into the deal of the century.” In the end, she decided that she must inform him. Better he should hear the news from her than on some newscast.

When she talked with Elliott, his reaction to her information was surprisingly calm.”Well, if that Shining Path rabble did the kidnapping, I suppose there's no way it cannot be reported. But let's not forget that the Peruvian Government is in no way involved because they and the Shining Path are deadly enemies. Be sure your news people make that clear.”

"I'll see that they do,” Margot said.

”They can go even further,” Theo Elliott continued.”What's happening presents an opportunity to make the government there look good, and CBA should use it.”

The comment puzzled her.”Use in what way?”

"Well, clearly the Peruvian Government will do everything possible to find the kidnapped Americans and free them—using Peru's military and police. So while they're doing that, let's ensure they get proper credit, with upbeat pictures on our TV news. Then I can call President Castafieda, whom I know personally, and say, 'Hey, we're making you and your government look great!'—which should help us when Globanic Financial and Peru put together the final pieces of our debt-to-equity deal.”

Even Margot hesitated.”I'm not sure about going quite that far, Theo.”

"Then be sure! I know what you're thinking—that we're manipulating the news. Well, in something as important to us as this, so be it!” The Globanic chairman's voice rose.”Jesus Christ! We own the goddamn network, don't we? So once in a while let's put that ownership to our advantage. At the same time, remind your news people that this is a competitive, profit oriented business which pays their fancy salaries and they are a part of it, like it or not. If they don't like it, they've a clear choice—get out!”

“I hear you, Theo,” Margot said. While listening and making notes, she had decided on a modus vivendi which would have three stages.

First, she would call Chippingham to insist that CBA News indicate clearly the Peruvian Government's innocence of involvement in the kidnappings, precisely as Theo urged. Second, she herself, as president of CBA, would contact the U.S. State Department, asking for immediate pressure on Peru to do everything possible—including use of their military and police to rescue the three Sloane family members. Third, the cooperation of Peru's government would be reported by CBA headquarters for general release. At the same time, CBA News would report positively the actual efforts made.

Almost certainly there would be difficulties and argument, but one thing Margot was sure of. Her relationship with Theo Elliott and loyalty to Globanic were paramount, overriding everything else.

* * *

Les Chippingham was growing used to Margot's unpredictabilities; therefore receiving another call from her so soon after their earlier conversation did not surprise him. The subject matter, though, made him uneasy because this was direct corporate meddling in news content, which happened occasionally at all networks but almost never with a major story. Fortunately, in this instance it was possible to be reassuring.

”All of us know the Peruvian Government was not involved in the kidnapping,” the news president said.”I'm sure that in our news tonight that will be implied and evident.”

"I want more than implication. I want a positive statement.”

Chippingham hesitated, knowing he should take a strong stand about news department independence, but aware of his precarious personal dependency on Margot.”I'll have to look at scripts,” he told her.”Let me call you back in fifteen minutes.”

"Don't make it any longer.”

Ten minutes later, Chippingham called.”I think this will please you. It's something Harry Partridge wrote before he left for Peru and is in our news for tonight: 'The government of Peru and Sendero Luminoso have been fierce enemies for many years, dedicated to each other's destruction. Peru's President Castanida has declared, "Sendero's existence imperils Peru. Those criminals are a knife thrust in my side.”' That last statement will be a library shot and sound bite by Castaneda.”

Chippingbam's voice reflected relief as well as humor.”I guess Harry read your mind, Margot. I hope it satisfies.”

"It will do. Read it again. I want to write it down.”

After the phone call ended, Margot summoned her secretary and dictated a memo to Theo Elliott.

Theo:

Resulting from our talk, the following will be in the National Evening News tonight:

"The government of Peru and Sendero Luminoso have been fierce enemies for many years, dedicated to each other's destruction. Peru's President Costaneda has declared, 'Sendero's existence imperils Peru. Those criminals are a knife thrust in my side.”

Castaneda will be seen and heard making the last statement. Thanks for your suggestion and help.

Margot Lloyd-Mason

The memo was to be hand-delivered by special messenger to Globanic Industries headquarters.

Margot's next call was to Washington—the Secretary of State.

* * *

Throughout Friday at CBA, until the National Evening News first feed at 6:30 P.m., security was strained while outsiders nibbled at its edges, attempting to gain access to the exclusive information about which CBA News had been titillating viewers and competitors all day. News staff at other TV networks, radio stations, news wire services and the print press telephoned friends and contacts at CBA, attempting—sometimes directly, but mostly by inventive ruses—to learn the gist of what was coming. But within CBA, by carefully limiting the number of people with knowledge, and temporary isolation ot an inner core of computers, the line was held and secrecy preserved.

Consequently, when the news broke it was immediately copied and repeated throughout the world, with CBA News acknowledged as the source. At other TV networks, testy inquests would soon be held, asking: How did we miss out on this? "at could we have done, but didn't? "y didn't you check this, or you follow through on that? Didn't anyone think of calling there? How do we guard against this happening again?

Meanwhile, TV networks hastily revised their second newscast feeds, using swiftly supplied videotape displaying "Courtesy CBA,” while newspapers reshaped the next day's front pages. At the same time, all major media alerted their regular Peru contacts while rushing to get their own reporters, correspondents and video and sound crews on airplanes to Peru.

Amid it all, a major new development occurred.

Don Kettering, now heading the CBA kidnap task force, heard about it shortly before 10 P.m., as the one-hour News Special was nearing its conclusion. Kettering was still at the anchor desk, where he had presided—apparently, so far as viewers were concerned—jointly with Harry Partridge, though the Partridge contribution was on tape.

Norman Jaeger conveyed the news through an anchor desk telephone during a commercial break. Jaeger was now senior producer since Rita Abrams had left for Teterboro Airport and her Peru flight an hour ago.

”Don, there's to be a task force session immediately after we've finished.”

"Has something happened, Norm? Something hot?”

"Hot as hell! I've just had word from Les. Over at Stonehenge they've received the kidnappers' demands along with a videotape of Jessica Sloane.”

4

They ran the videotape of Jessica first.

It was 10:30 P.m. on Friday. In a private viewing room at CBA News, used normally by senior executives, ten people were assembled: Les Chippingham and Crawford Sloane; from the task force, Don Kettering, Norm Jaeger, Karl Owens and Iris Everly; from CBA corporate headquarters at Stonehenge, Margot Lloyd-Mason, an executive vice president, Tom Nortandra, and Irwin Bracebridge, president of CBA Broadcast Group; and from the FBI, Special Agent Otis Havelock.

Chance had played a part in the group's assembly. Earlier in the evening, about 7:30 P.m., a small plain package was delivered by messenger to the main lobby of Stonehenge, addressed: President, CBA Network After a routine security check it was sent to Margot Lloyd-Mason's floor where it would normally have waited, unopened, until Monday morning. However, Nortandra, whose office suite adjoined Margot's, happened to be working late, as were his two secretaries. One of the secretaries received the package and opened it. Realizing its importance, she informed Nortandra who telephoned Margot at the Waldorf where she was attending a reception and dinner honoring the President of France.

Margot abandoned the reception and hurried to Stonehenge where she, Nortandra and Bracebridge, who had also been called in, screened the videotape and read an accompanying document. Immediately they realized that the News Division must be informed and arranged a meeting at CBA News headquarters.

A few minutes before the meeting, Bracebridge, a former news president himself, took Crawford Sloane aside.”I know this is hard on you, Crawf, and I have to warn you there are some sounds on the tape I didn't like hearing. So if you'd prefer to watch the video alone first, while the rest of us wait outside, we'll do that and understand.”

Crawford Sloane had driven in from Larchmont, along with FBI Agent Havelock who had been in the Sloane house when a call about the videotape of Jessica was received. Now Sloane shook his head.”Thanks, Irwin. I'll see it with the rest of you.”

It was Don Kettering, taking charge, who called to an operator behind the small audience, "Okay, let's go!”

Lights in the viewing room dimmed. Almost at once a large, elevated TV screen went to black with scattered pinpoints of light, as was usual when running a blank tape without pictures. But sound was on the tape and was transmitted suddenly—a series of piercing screams. The group was transfixed. Crawford Sloane sat up straight, exclaiming in a broken voice, "Oh, Christ! That's Nicky!”

Then abruptly, as unexpectedly as it had begun, the screaming was cut off. A moment later a picture appeared—of Jessica's head and shoulders against a plain brown background, obviously a wall. Jessica's face was set and serious, and to those in the group who knew her, as most did, she appeared wan and under strain. But her voice, when she began, was firm and controlled, though an impression persisted that Jessica had willed herself to speak normally.

She began, "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, you must simply follow quickly and exactly—the instructions which accompany this recording, but be sure of this . . .”

At the words "be sure of this,” there was a sharp intake of breath by Crawford Sloane and a muted exclamation. The tape continued.

”. . . If you do not obey these instructions, you will not see any of us, ever again. We beg of you, do not let that happen . . . "

Again a sudden sound from Crawford Sloane—a whispered exclamation, "There!”

“We will be waiting, counting on you, desperately hoping you will make the right decision and bring us safely home.”

For a second there was a silence in which Jessica's face remained on screen, her features expressionless, her eyes apparently unfocused, looking straight ahead. Then both sound and picture ended. In the viewing room the lights came on.

”We ran all of the tape earlier,” Irwin Bracebridge said.”There's nothing else on it. And about the screams at the beginning, we think that was patched in from another tape. When you watch closely with the tape slowed right down, there's a slight visual break where two tapes were edited together.”

Someone asked, "Why would they do that? Bracebridge shrugged.”Maybe to wake us up, scare us. If so, it worked, didn't it?”

There was a murmur of agreement.

Les Chippingham asked gently, "Are you certain that first sound was Nicky, Crawf?”

Sloane said bleakly, "Positive.” Then he added, "Jessica passed two signals.”

"What kind of signals?” Chippingham sounded puzzled.

”The first was licking her lips, which means 'I am doing this against my will. Don't believe anything I'm saying'"

"Clever!” Bracebridge said.”Good for Jessica!”

'Spunky!” someone else added. Others nodded approval.

Sloane went on, "We talked about signals the night before all this happened. I thought that one day I might need them myself . . . Life's full of coincidences. I guess Jessica remembered.”

"What else was she able to tell you?” Chippingham asked.

”No, sir!” The voice of the FBI man, Havelock, cut across the conversation.”Whatever else you learned, Mr. Sloane, keep it to yourself for the time being. The fewer people who know, the better. We'll talk in a little while, please.”

"I'd like to be in on that,” Norm Jaeger said.”The task force has done pretty well in keeping secrets until now.” He added pointedly, "Discovering them too.”

The FBI agent glared.”It's my understanding you'll be hearing from our director about that—why we weren't kept informed.”

Iris Everly said impatiently, "This is wasting time. Mrs. Sloane said something on the tape about instructions. Do we have them?” Though she was the youngest person present, Iris was typically unimpressed by the influx of network heavy brass. She had worked hard all day on the one-hour News Special and was tired, but her fast mind was functioning as usual.

Margot, still wearing a lavender chiffon Oscar de la Renta gown in which she had met the French President, answered, "We have it here.” She nodded to Nortandra.”I think you'd better read it aloud.”

The executive vice president accepted a half-dozen clipped sheets from Margot, perched a pair of half-moon reading glasses on his nose, and moved under a light; it heightened his thatch of white hair and a brooding face. Nortandra had been a corporate lawyer before becoming a CBA executive; his voice had an assured authority, developed from years of addressing courtrooms.

”The title of this document—or perhaps I should say this extraordinary diatribe—is: 'The Shining Time Has Come.' I shall now read to you, without comment or interjection, exactly what is here.

"In the histories of enlightened revolutions, there have been times when the persons leading and inspiring them have chosen to remain silent, to endure and suffer, sometimes to die miserably, but always to hope and plan. And then there have been other times—moments of glory and victory in the uprising of a downtrodden and exploited majority, the overthrow of imperialism and tyranny, and the deserved destruction of an encrusted capitalist-bourgeois class."

”For Sendero Luminoso the time of silence, patience and suffering has ended. The shining time, along the Shining Path, has come. We are ready to advance."

”In the world at large the self-proclaimed superpowers, while jockeying with each other and pretending to seek peace, are in reality preparing for a catastrophic confrontation between imperialistic and socialist-imperialistic forces, both seeking world hegemony. In all of it, the already enslaved and abused majority will suffer. If left alone to further exploit the world, a few power-mad money masters will, for their own advantages, control mankind."

”But like a volcano ready to explode, revolution is simmering everywhere. The Party—Sendero, Luminoso—will lead that revolution. It has the knowledge and experience. Its growing influence is extended throughout the world."

”The time has come to make ourselves better known and understood.'

”For many years the lying capitalist-imperialist media, which prints and broadcasts only what its money-grubbing masters tell it, has ignored or misrepresented the heroic struggle of Sendero Luminoso's people."

”That will now be changed. It is why capitalist captives have been taken and are held as hostages."

”The American CBA television network is hereby ordered to do the following."

”One. Commencing with the second Monday after receipt of this demand, the program CBA National Evening News (both network feeds) will be cancelled for five weekdays—one full week "

"Two: In place of the cancelled program, another program, to be supplied in five tape cassettes delivered to CBA, will be broadcast. The program's title is, 'World Revolution: Sendero Luminoso Shows the Way.' "

"Three: During the Sendero Luminoso broadcasts no commercial advertising will be allowed "

"Four: Neither CBA nor any other agency will attempt to trace the source of the cassettes received, the first of which will reach CBA by Thursday of next week. Others will follow day by day. A single attempt to find the origin of the cassettes will result in immediate execution of one of the three prisoners held in Peru. Any further foolish attempts will bring a similar result."

”Five: These orders are not negotiable and will be obeyed exactly."

”If there is full obedience by CBA network and others with the orders in this document, the three prisoners will be released four days after the fifth Sendero Luminoso broadcast. But if the orders are not obeyed, the prisoners will not be seen again and their bodies will never be recovered."

"Then there's something else,” Nortandra said.”It's on a separate sheet of paper.

"Copies of 'The Shining Time Has Come’ and the tape cassette of the woman prisoner have been sent to other television networks and the press.

"That's all of it,” Nortandra concluded.”Neither paper is signed, but the fact it accompanied the tape makes them, I suppose, authentic.”

A silence followed the reading. No one, it seemed, wanted to be first to speak. Several people glanced at Crawford Sloane who was slumped in his chair, his face grimly set. The others shared his sense of hopelessness.

It was Les Chippingham who said finally, "Well, now we know. All along we've wondered what these people wanted. We thought it might be money. It's turned out to be much more.”

"Much, much more,” Bracebridge added.”In money terms of course it's incalculable, but obviously that isn't the issue here.”

"As I indicated at the beginning,” Nortandra observed, "the whole thing—especially all that jargon—doesn't make a lot of sense.”

Norm Jaeger spoke up.”Revolutionaries seldom do make sense, except maybe to themselves. But that's no reason not to take them seriously. We learned that from Iran.”

Jaeger glanced at a clock above their heads, which showed 10:55. He addressed Chippingham.”Les, do we want to break into the network with this? If we're fast, we can do it on the hour and use some of Mrs. Sloane on tape. If what we heard about other networks getting the tape is true, they may go with the story any time.”

"Then let them,” the news president said firmly.”This is a new element in which we are players and will not rush. We'll put out a bulletin at midnight, which gives us an hour to consider how to handle the news and, more important, what our response—if any—will be.”

"There can't be any question about a response,” Margot Lloyd-Mason declared.”It's perfectly obvious there is no way that we can accept those ridiculous terms. We will certainly not put our network evening news out of business for one whole week.”

"However, we don't have to say that, at least, not in the beginning,” Nortandra pointed out.”We can say something like, the demands are being carefully considered and we'll make an announcement later.”

"If you'll pardon my saying so,” Jaeger told him, "I doubt if that would deceive anyone, least of all Sendero Luminoso. I've spent a lot of research hours on those people and whatever else they may be, they aren't fools; they're sharp. Also, they've clearly learned about our business—for example, that the National Evening News goes out with two feeds and our news audience falls off on Saturdays and Sundays, which they've indicated they don't want.”

"So what are you suggesting?”

"That you let the news department handle everything in the way of a response. This calls for finesse, not a blunderbuss approach like speaking of 'ridiculous terms.' In CBA News we're better equipped, more finely tuned, our knowledge of the scene is greater at a signal from Chippingham, Jaeger stopped.

”Basically, I'm agreeing with Norman,” the news president said, "but since it's my responsibility I think I should say that, yes, the News Division ought to handle any response because we are better informed, we know the ground, have established contacts, and one of our best correspondents, Harry Partridge, is in Peru already and must be consulted.”

"Consult and finesse all you want,” Margot snapped; she had flushed at Jaeger's reference to her "ridiculous terms” statement.”But what's involved here is a corporate matter requiring executive decision.”

"No! Goddamn, no!” The words were shouted. Heads turned. The speaker was Crawford Sloane, no longer seated and dejected, but standing, eyes fiery, face flushed. When he spoke, his voice was emotional, at moments choked.

”Keep corporate out of this! Norman is right about a blunderbuss approach; we all just witnessed one, and it's because corporate people don't have knowledge or experience to make news judgments. Besides, a corporate decision is already made; we heard that too: Can't accept those terms. Won't put our news out of business for a week. Did we really need you to tell us? Didn't we, in news, already know that—yes, all of us, including me? You want it on the record, Mrs. Lloyd-Mason. Well, here it is: I know we can't close down CBA News and hand it over to Sendero for one week. God help me!—l accept that. You have witnesses.”

Sloane paused, swallowed, and continued.”What we can do, here at news, is use our skills, our know—how, play for time. At this moment, time is what we need the most. That, and use Harry Partridge who's the one best hope we have—my best hope to get my family home.”

Sloane remained standing, but fell silent.

Before anyone could react, Bracebridge, the long-ago news man, now a corporate wheel, tried a conciliatory tone.”A time like this is hard on everyone. It's emotional, tension is high, tempers short. Some of what's been said tonight could have been put more courteously and probably should have been.” He turned toward the network president.”Just the same, Margot, I believe that what's been presented is a viewpoint worth considering, remembering—as Crawf made clear—that your end decision is understood and accepted. There seems no question about that.”

Margot, having been offered a face-saving device, hesitated, then approved it.”Very well,” She informed Chippingham, "On that basis, you may decide a temporary, stratagem response.”

"Thank you,” the news president acknowledged.”May we clarify one thing?”

"What is it?"

"That the ultimate decision we've agreed on will, for the time being, remain confidential.”

"I suppose so. But you'd better get the same assurance from the others here. In any case, keep me informed.”

Everyone else had been listening intently. Chippingham faced them and asked, "May I have that assurance, please?”

One by one they acknowledged their agreement. While they did, Margot walked out.

* * *

When Chippingham returned to his office it was 11:25 P.m. At 11:30 he received a printout of a Reuters dispatch originating in Lima, Peru, with information about the Sendero Luminoso demands on CBA. Moments later, AP in Washington came through with a more detailed report which had "The Shining Time Has Come” document in full.

Within the next fifteen minutes, ABC, NBC and CBS all carried bulletins including short segments of the Jessica tape. Fuller details were promised on the networks' news programs next day, with more bulletins if needed. CNN, with a news broadcast in progress, simply inserted the story and was ahead of everyone else. Chippingham stayed with his original decision not to interrupt present programming, but to release at midnight a carefully constructed bulletin, now being prepared.

At 11:45 he left his office for the Horseshoe, which had been activated for the occasion. Norm Jaeger was occupying the executive producer's chair. Iris Everly, in an editing room, was working with the tape of Jessica as well as others to be used for background. Don Kettering, who would anchor the special midnight news, was in makeup, at the same time reading over and amending a draft script.

”We'll just be telling it straight,” Jaeger told Chippingham, "with no CBA reaction at all. We figure there's plenty of time for that later—whatever you want it to be. Incidentally, everyone else including the Times and Post has been phoning, asking for reactions. We've told them all we don't have any and the subject is simply being considered.”

Chippingham nodded approval.”Good.”

Jaeger gestured to Karl Owens, seated across the Horseshoe.”He has an idea, though, about what a reaction might be.”

“I'd like to hear.”

Owens, the workhorse, plodding, junior producer who had already come up with a series of ideas and whose painstaking probing had identified the terrorist as Ulises Rodriguez, consulted notes on a four-by-six card, his standard data bank.

”We were told in the Sendero Luminoso document that five tape cassettes, intended to replace our National Evening News, will be delivered to CBA—the first on Thursday of next week, the others following day by day. Unlike the tape of Mrs. Sloane which we watched tonight, those tapes will apparently be delivered to CBA only.”

"I know all that,” Chippingham said.

Jaeger smiled as Owens continued at his own pace, unperturbed.”What I'm suggesting is that we continue to hold off disclosing any CBA reaction until Tuesday. Except that on Monday, to keep interest alive, you could say there'll be an announcement the following day. Then on Tuesday that announcement would be: No further comment until we receive the tape promised for Thursday, and after that we'll make our decision known.”

"Where does all that get us?”

"It gets us to Thursday, six days from now. Then let's assume the Sendero tape comes in.”

"Okay, so it's in. What then?”

"We put it in a safe where no one can get to it, and right away go on the air—breaking into programming, generally making a big fuss—saying we've received the tape, but it's defective. It must have got damaged on the way; most of the content got wiped out. We tried to play it, then fix it, but we can't. As well as putting all that on TV, we'll feed it to the press and wire services, making sure the message is repeated to Peru, so it gets back to Sendero Luminoso.”

"I think I follow your reasoning,” Chippingham said.”But tell me anyway.”

"The Sendero gang won't know whether we're lying or not. What they will know—just as we do—is that that kind of thing can happen. So maybe they'll give us the benefit of doubt and send another tape, which could take several days . . .”

Chippingham finished the sentence for him.”. . . and would mean we couldn't possibly start their broadcasts on the day they specified.”

"Exactly.”

Jaeger added, "I guess Karl would get to this eventually, Les. But what he's saying is we'll have gained several extra days' reprieve—if it works, and it just might. What do you think?”

Chippingham said, "I think it's brilliant. It makes me glad we got the nitty-gritty shifted back to news.”

* * *

Throughout the weekend the news about Sendero Luminoso's demands and the videotape of Jessica stayed prominently in the news, with growing interest around the world. Calls flooded in to CBA requesting some comment from the network, preferably in the form of an official statement. By arrangement, all such calls were routed to CBA News. Other CDA executives and managers were advised not to respond to questions on the subject, even off the record.

At CBA News three secretaries, summoned for special weekend work, handled the calls. In every case their response to questions was the same: CBA had no comment and, no, it was not possible to say when a comment would be made.

The absence of a CBA reaction, however, did not stop others from expressing opinions. A majority view seemed to be, Hold the line! Don't give in!

A surprising number, though, saw no harm in the kidnappers' demands being met as a price of the prisoners' release, prompting Norm Jaeger to comment in disgust, "Can't those birdbrains grasp the principles involved? Don't they see that by creating a precedent we'd invite every lunatic group in the world to kidnap television people?”

On the Sunday TV talk shows "Face the Nation ... .. Meet the Press” and "This Week with David Brinkley,” the subject was debated and extracts from Crawford Sloane's book The Camera and the Truth, read aloud, particularly:

Hostages . . . should be regarded as expendable.

The only way to deal with terrorists is . . . not striking bargains or paying ransom, directly or indirectly, ever!

Within CBA, those who had promised Les Chippingham to keep secret the ultimate decision not to accept Sendero Luminoso's terms appeared to have kept their word. In fact, the only one to break it was Margot Lloyd-Mason who, on Sunday, advised Theodore Elliott by telephone of everything that had transpired the night before.

No doubt Margot would have argued she was acting correctly in keeping the Globanic chairman informed. Unfortunately, right or wrong, her action paved the way for a devastating leak.

5

Globanic Industries World Headquarters occupied a mansion style office complex set in its own private park at Pleasantville, New York, some thirty miles outside Manhattan. The intent in choosing that locale had been to remove high-level thinking and policy making from the daily pressure-cooker atmosphere of Globanic subsidiaries in industrial or financial areas. Globanic Financial, for example, which was managing the Peru debt-to-equity deal, occupied three floors of One World Trade Center in the Wall Street area.

In reality, however, many ancillary matters affecting Globanic outposts spilled into the Pleasantville headquarters. This was why, at 10 A.M. on Monday morning, Glen Dawson, a preppy young reporter for the Baltimore Star, was waiting to interview Globanic's chief comptroller on the subject of palladium. Currently the precious metal was in the news and a Globanic company owned mines producing palladium and platinum in Minas Gerais, Brazil, where labor riots were threatening supplies.

Dawson waited outside the comptroller's office in an elegant circular lounge which gave access to the suites of two other high Globanic officers, one of them the conglomerate's chairman and CEO.

The reporter, seated in an inconspicuous comer, was still waiting when one of the other office doors opened and two figures emerged. One was Theodore Elliott whom Dawson recognized instantly from photographs he had seen. The face of the other man was familiar, though Dawson couldn't place it. The two were continuing a conversation begun inside, the second man speaking.

”. . . been hearing about your CBA. Those threats from the Peru rebels put you in a difficult spot.”

The Globanic chairman nodded.”In one way, yes . . . carry on, I'll walk you to the elevator . . . We've made a decision, though it hasn't been announced. What we're not going to do is let a bunch of crazy Commies push us around.”

"So CBA won't cancel their evening news?”

"Absolutely not! As for running those Shining Path tapes, not a hope in hell . . .”

The voices faded.

Using a magazine he had been glancing through as cover for a notepad, Glen Dawson quickly scribbled the exact words he had heard. His pulse was racing. He knew he had exclusive information which countless other journalists had been seeking unsuccessfully since Saturday night.

”Mr. Dawson,” a receptionist called over, "Mr. Licata will see you now.”

On his way past her desk, he stopped and smiled.”That other gentleman with Mr. Elliott—I'm sure I've met him, but couldn't place his face.”

The receptionist hesitated; he sensed her disapproval and renewed the smile.

It worked.”It was Mr. Alden Rhodes, the Under Secretary of State.”

"Of course! How could I forget?”

Dawson had seen the Under Secretary of State for Economic Affairs once before—on television, appearing before a House committee. But all that mattered at this moment was that he had the name.

The interview with Globanic's comptroller seemed endless to Dawson, though he tried to conclude it as quickly as he could. The subject of palladium had not interested him much, anyway; he was an ambitious young man who wanted to write on subjects of wide interest, and what he had stumbled on seemed a timely ticket to a more exciting future. The comptroller, however, was unhurried in describing the history and future of palladium. He dismissed the labor unrest in Brazil as temporary and unlikely to affect supplies, which was what Dawson had principally come to find out. At length, pleading a deadline, the reporter made his escape.

Checking his watch, he decided he had time to drive to the Baltimore Star's Manhattan bureau, write both stories there, and still make the paper's main afternoon edition. Driving fast, mentally stringing words and sentences together as the miles flew by, he headed south on Saw Mill River Parkway, then Interstate 87.

* * *

Seated at a computer terminal in the bureau's modest office at Rockefeller Plaza, Glen Dawson quickly wrote the palladium story first. It was what he had been sent to do and an original obligation was now decently fulfilled.

He then began the more exciting second story. His first report had gone to the financial desk and, since he was assigned there, so would the second. He was certain, though, it would not remain at financial for very long.

His fingers danced over the keyboard, composing a lead.

As he did, Dawson wondered about an ethical question which he knew would have to be asked and answered soon: Would publication of the information he was now writing place the kidnap victims in Peru in greater peril than they were already?

More specifically: Would the Sloane family hostages be harmed by revelation of the CBA network decision to reject the demands of Sendero Luminoso, a decision which obviously, at this point, was not intended to be disclosed?

Or, on the other hand, was the public entitled to know whatever an enterprising reporter like himself was able to find out, no matter how the information was obtained?

Though such questions existed, the plain fact was, Dawson knew, they were none of his business or concern. The rules in the matter were precise and known to all parties involved.

A reporter's responsibility was to write any worthwhile story he found. If he discovered news, his job was not to suppress or modify it in any way, but to write a full and accurate report, then deliver it to the organization that employed him.

At that point what had been written would go to an editor. It was the editor, or editors, who must consider ethics.

In Baltimore, Dawson thought, where his story would be printing out at another computer terminal, that was probably happening right now.

As he concluded, he pressed a key to get a local printout for himself. However, another hand reached out and got the printout first.

It was the bureau chief, Sandy Sefton, who had just come in. A veteran general reporter, Sefton was a few years from retirement and he and Dawson were good friends. As he read the printout, the bureau chief whistled softly, then looked up.

”You got a hot one all right. Those words of Elliott's—did you write them down right when he said them?”

"Within seconds.” Dawson showed the older man his notes.

”Good! Have you talked to this other guy, Alden Rhodes?”

Dawson shook his head.

”Baltimore will probably want you to.”A telephone rang.”Want to bet that's Baltimore now?”

It was. Sefton took the call, listened briefly, then said, "My boy's gonna lead the paper tonight, right?”

He grinned as he passed the phone to Dawson.”It's Frazer.”

J. Allardyce Frazer was executive editor. He wasted no time, his voice authoritative.”You haven't spoken to Theodore Elliott directly yet. Correct?”

"Correct, Mr. Frazer.”

"Do it. Tell him what you have and ask if he has a comment. If he denies saying it, report that too. If he does deny, try for a confirmation from Alden Rhodes. You know the kind of question to ask?”

"I think so.”

"Let me talk to Sandy.”

The bureau chief took the phone. He winked at Dawson while he listened, then said, "I've seen Glen's notes. He wrote Elliott's words on the spot. They're clear. No chance of a misunderstanding.”

Replacing the phone, Sefton told Dawson.”You're not home free yet; they're debating ethics. You carry on with Elliott. I'll try to locate Rhodes; he can't have got back to Washington.” Sefton crossed the room to use another phone.

Dawson tapped out Globanic's number. After going through a switchboard, a woman's voice answered. The reporter identified himself and asked for "Mr. Theodore Elliott.”

"Mr. Elliott is not available now,” the voice said pleasantly.”I'm Mrs. Kessler. Is there something I can do?”

"Perhaps.” Dawson carefully explained why he had called.

The voice became cool.”Wait, please.”

Several minutes passed. Dawson was about to hang up and call again when the connection came alive. This time the voice was frigid.”Mr. Elliott advises that whatever you think you heard was confidential and may not be used.”

"I'm a reporter,” Dawson said.”If I hear or learn something and it wasn't told to me confidentially, I'm entitled to use it.”

“Mr. Dawson, I see no point in prolonging this conversation.”

"Just a moment, please. Does Mr. Elliott deny having used the words I read to you?”

"Mr. Elliott has no further comment.”

Dawson wrote down the question and answer, as he had the previous exchange.”Mrs. Kessler, do you mind telling me your first name?”

"There is no reason to . . . well, Diana.”

Dawson smiled, guessing Kessler had reasoned that if her name was to appear in print, it might as well be in full. About to say thank you, he realized the connection had been severed.

As he replaced the phone, the bureau chief handed him a slip of paper.”Rhodes is on his way to La Guardia in a State Department car. Here's the number of the car phone.”

Dawson lifted his phone again.

This time, after a ringing tone, a male voice answered. When Dawson asked for "Mr. Alden Rhodes,” the response was, "This is he.”

Again the reporter identified himself, aware that Sandy Sefton was listening on an extension.

”Mr. Rhodes, my paper would like to know if you have any comment on Mr. Theodore Elliott's statement that CBA network will reject the recent Sendero Luminoso, demands and, in Mr. Elliott's words, 'we're not going to let a bunch of crazy Commies push us around.”

"Theo Elliott told you that!”

“I heard him say it personally, Mr. Rhodes.”

"I thought he wanted it kept confidential.” A pause.”Now wait a minute! Were you sitting in that hall when we walked through?”

"Yes, I was.”

"Dawson, you've tricked me and I insist this entire conversation be off the record.”

"Mr. Rhodes, before we began talking I identified myself and you did not say anything about being off the record.”

"Fuck you, Dawson!”

"That last was off the record, sir. By then you'd told me.”

The bureau chief, grinning, gave a thumbs-up signal.

* * *

The ethical debate in Baltimore did not last long.

In any news organization there always existed a predilection toward disclosure. However, with some news stories—and this was one—certain questions needed to be asked and answered. The executive editor and national editor, who would oversee the story, posed them to each other.

QUESTION: Would publication of CBA's decision imperil the hostages?

ANSWER: The hostages were in peril already; it was hard to see how publication of anything could make much difference.

QUESTION: Would anyone be killed because of publication?

ANSWER: Unlikely because a dead hostage would cease to be of value.

QUESTION: Since CBA would have to make its decision known in a day or two, what difference would it make to be a little early?

ANSWER: Not much, if any.

QUESTION: Since Globanic's Theo Elliott revealed the CBA decision casually and others must know of it, was it likely to stay secret much longer?

ANSWER: Almost certainly no. At the end, the executive editor expressed the conclusion of both: "There isn't an ethical problem. We go!”

The story led the Baltimore Star's main afternoon edition with a banner headline:

CBA SAYS NO TO SLOANE KIDNAPPERS

Glen Dawson's by-line story began:

CBA will say an emphatic "No” to demands by the Sloane family's kidnappers that it cancel its televised National Evening News for a week, replacing it with propaganda videotapes supplied by the Peru Maoist rebel group Sendero Luminoso.

Sendero Luminoso, or Shining Path, has admitted holding the kidnap victims at a secret location in Peru.

Theodore Elliott, chairman and chief executive officer of Globanic Industries, the parent company of CBA, declared today, "What we're not going to do is let a bunch of crazy Commies push us around “

Speaking at Globanic's headquarters at Pleasantville, New York, he added, "As for running those Shining Path tapes, not a hope in hell.”

A Star reporter was present during the Elliott statement.

Alden Rhodes, Under Secretary of State for Economic Affairs, who was with Mr Elliott when the statement was made, declined to comment when questioned by the Star, though he did say, "I thought he wanted it kept confidential.“

An attempt late this morning to reach Mr. Elliott for additional information was unsuccessful

"Mr. Elliott is not available, "the Star was informed by Mrs. Diana Kessler, an assistant to the Globanic chairman. In response to questions, Mrs. Kessler insisted, "Mr. Elliott has no further comment.”

There was more—principally background and the history of the kidnap.

Even before the Baltimore Star hit the streets, the wire services had the story, giving credit to the Star Later that evening the Star was quoted on all network news broadcasts, including CBA's where the premature news was received with near-despair.

Next morning in Peru, where the kidnap story was already prominent in the news, newspapers, as well as radio and TV, featured the disclosure with special emphasis on Theodore Elliott's "bunch of crazy Commies"—'grupo de Comunistas locos "—description of Sendero Luminoso.

6

"I like Vicente,” Nicky said.”He's our friend.”

"I think he is too,” Angus called over from his cell. He was lying on the thin, soiled mattress of his makeshift bed and filling empty time by watching two large beetles on the wall.

”Then un-think, both of you!” Jessica snapped.”Liking anyone here is stupid and naive.”

She stopped, wanting to bite her tongue and call the words back. There was no need to have spoken sharply.

”I'm sorry,” she said.”I didn't mean that to come out the way it did.”

The trouble was that after fifteen days of close confinement in their tiny cages, the strain was telling on them all, wearing their spirits down. Jessica had done her best to keep morale, if not high, at least at a level above despair. She also made sure they all performed daily exercises, which she led. But clearly, despite best intentions, the close physical restriction, monotony and loneliness were having an inevitable effect.

Additionally, the greasy, unpalatable food was one more burden that sapped their physical resources.

Compounding those miseries, and despite their efforts to stay washed, they were usually dirty, odorous, and frequently sweating, with their soiled clothes sticking to them.

It was all very well, Jessica thought, to remind herself that her anti-terrorism course mentor, Brigadier Wade, had suffered a good deal more and for a longer period in his below-ground hellhole in Korea. But Cedric Wade was an exceptional, committed person serving his country in time of war. There was no war here to stiffen the mind or sinews. They were merely civilians caught in a petty skirmish . . . for what purpose? Jessica still didn't know.

Just the same, the thought of Brigadier Wade and Nicky's remark about liking Vicente, plus Angus's endorsement, reminded her of something she had learned from Wade. Now seemed a good time to bring it up.

Speaking softly while glancing warily at the guard on duty, she asked, "Angus and Nicky, have either of you heard of the Stockholm syndrome?”

"I think so,” Angus said.”Not sure, though.”

"Nicky?”

"No, Mom. What is it?”

The guard was the one who sometimes brought a comic book; he seemed engrossed in one now and indifferent to their talking. Jessica also knew he spoke no English.

”I'll tell you,” Jessica said.

In memory she could hear Brigadier Wade's voice informing the small study group of which she had been part, "One thing that happens in almost every terrorist hijack or kidnap situation is that after a while at least some of the hostages come to like the terrorists. Sometimes hostages go so far as to think of the terrorists as their friends and the police or troops outside, who are trying to rescue the hostages, as the enemy. That's the Stockholm syndrome.”

All of which was true, Jessica confirmed subsequently through additional reading. She had also been curious enough to go back and learn how the process got its label.

Now, dipping into memory and using her own words, she described the strange story while Nicky and Angus listened.

* * *

It happened in Stockholm, Sweden, on August 23, 1973.

That morning, at Norrmalmstorg, a central city square, an escaped convict. Jan-Erik Olsson, age thirty-two, entered Sveriges Kreditbanken, one of Stockholm's larger banks. From beneath a folded jacket Olsson produced a submachine gun which he fired into the ceiling, creating panic amid a shower of concrete and glass.

The ordeal that followed lasted six days.

In the course of it no one participating had any notion that for years and probably centuries to come, an outcropping of the experience they were sharing would become famous as the Stockholm syndrome—a medical and scientific phrase destined to be as familiar worldwide to students and practitioners as Cesarean section, anorexia, penis envy or Alzheimer's disease.

Three women and a man, all bank employees, were taken hostage by Olsson and an accomplice, Clark Olofsson, age twenty-six. The hostages were Birgitta Lundblad, thirty-one, a pretty blond; Kristin Ehnmark, twenty-three, spirited and black haired; Elisabeth Oldgren, twenty-one, small, fair and gentle; and Sven Sefstrom, twenty-five, a tall, slender bachelor. For most of the next six days this sextet was confined to a safe deposit vault from where the criminals presented their demands by telephone—for three million kronor in cash ($710,000), two pistols and a getaway car.

During the siege, the hostages suffered. They were forced to stand with ropes around their necks so that falling would strangle them. From time to time, as a machine gun was thrust into their ribs, they expected death. For fifty hours they were without food. Plastic wastebaskets became their only toilets. Within the vault, claustrophobia and fear were all-pervading.

Yet all the while a strange closeness between hostages and captors grew. There was a moment when Birgitta could have walked away but didn't. Kristin managed to give information to the police, then acknowledged, "I felt like a traitor.” The male hostage, Sven, described his captors as "kind. “Elisabeth agreed.

Stockholm's police, waging a war of attrition to free the prisoners, encountered hostility from them. Kristin said by telephone that she trusted the robbers, adding "I want you to let us go away with them . . . They have been very nice.”Of Olsson, she declared, "He is protecting us from the police.” When told " The police will not harm you, “Kristin replied, "I do not believe it “

It was revealed later that Kristin held hands with the younger criminal, Olsson. She told an investigator, "Clark gave me tenderness.”And after the hostages' release, while being taken by stretcher to an ambulance, Kristin called to Olsson, "Clark, I'll see you again.”

Lab technicians searching the vault found traces of semen. Following a week of questioning, one of the women, while denying having had sex, said that during one night while others were asleep she helped Olsson to masturbate. Investigators, while skeptical about the no-sex statement, dropped the matter.

During questioning by doctors the freed hostages referred to police as "the enemy” and believed it was the criminals to whom they owed their lives. Elisabeth accused a doctor of attempting to "brainwash away” her regard for Olsson and Olaffsson.

In 1974, nearly a year after the bank drama, Birgitta visited Olsson in jail, conversing with him for half an hour.

Investigating doctors eventually declared the hostages' reaction typical of anyone caught in "survival situations.”They quoted Anna Freud who described such reactions as "identification with the aggressor.”But it took the Swedish bank drama to create a permanent, memorable name.— the Stockholm syndrome.

* * *

"Hey, that's neat, Mom,” Nicky called out.

”I never knew all that, Jessie,” Angus added.

Nicky asked, "Got any more good stuff?”

Jessica was pleased.”A little.”

Once more she drew on her memories of the Britisher, Brigadier Wade.”I have two pieces of advice for you,” he once told his anti-terrorist class.”First, if you're a captive and a hostage: Beware the Stockholm syndrome! Second, when dealing with terrorists keep in mind that 'Love your enemies' is vapid nonsense. At the other extreme, don't squander time and effort hating terrorists, because hate is a wasteful, draining emotion. Just never for a moment trust them, or like them, and never stop thinking of them as the enemy.”

Jessica repeated the Wade advice for Nicky and Angus. She went on to describe airplane hijackings where people who had been seized and abused developed friendly feelings for their attackers. This proved true with the infamous TWA flight 847 in 1985 when some passengers expressed sympathy for the Shiite hijackers and expounded their captors' propagandist views.

More recently, Jessica explained, a released hostage from the Middle East—a pathetic figure, clearly another victim of the Stockholm syndrome—even delivered a message from his jailers to the Pope and the U.S. President, gaining much publicity while he did. The nature of the message was not disclosed, though unofficially it was called banal and pointless.

Of even greater concern to those who understood the Stockholm syndrome was the case of kidnap victim Patricia Hearst. Unfortunately for Hearst, who was arrested in 1975 and tried the following year for alleged crimes while dominated by her brutish captors, the events in Stockholm were not sufficiently known to allow either sympathy or justice. Speaking at one of the Wade anti-terrorist sessions, an American lawyer declared, "In legal and intellectual values the Patty Hearst trial must be equated with the Salem witchcraft trials of 1692.” He added, "Knowing what we do now, and remembering that the wrong done was recognized by President Carter who commuted her prison sentence, it will be a dark day of shame for our country if Patricia Hearst is allowed to die unpardoned.”

"So what you're saying, Jessie,” Angus said, "is not to be taken in by Vicente's seeming easy. He's still an enemy.”

"If he weren't,” Jessica pointed out, "we could just walk out of here while he's guarding us.”

“Which we know we can't.” Angus directed his voice to the middle cell.”Have you got that, Nicky? Your mom's right and you and I were wrong.”

Nicky nodded glumly, without speaking. One of the sadnesses of this incarceration, Jessica thought, was that Nicky was being faced—earlier than would have happened normally —with some harsh realities of human infamy.

* * *

As always in Peru, the developing news concerning the Sloane family kidnapping traveled over the longest distances and to the country's remotest places by radio.

The first news of the linkage of Peru and Sendero Luminoso to the kidnapping was reported on Saturday, the day following the CBA National Evening News broadcast in which the exclusive material assembled by the network's special task force was revealed. While the kidnapping had been reported earlier by Perru's media in a minor way, the local involvement made it instant major news. here, too, radio was the means of widest, dissemination.

Similarly, on the Tuesday morning following Monday's news breakthrough by the Baltimore Star, radio delivered to the Andes mountain city of Ayacucho and the Selva hamlet Nueva Esperanza the first report of Theodore Elliott's rejection of the kidnappers' demands and his low opinion of Sendero Luminoso.

In Ayacucho the radio report was heard by Sendero leaders and in Nueva Esperanza by the terrorist Ulises Rodriguez, alias Miguel'

Soon after, a telephone conversation took place between Miguel and a Sendero leader in Ayacucho, though neither disclosed his name while talking. Both were aware that the telephone connection was poor by modern standards and that the line passed through other locations where anyone could be listening, including the army or police. Thus they talked in generalities and veiled references, at which many in Peru were practiced, though to both men the meaning was understood.

This was: Something must be done immediately to prove to the American TV network, CBA, that they were dealing with neither fools nor weaklings. Killing one of the hostages and leaving the body to be found in Lima was a possibility. Miguel, while agreeing that would be effective, suggested for the moment keeping all three hostages alive, preserving them like capital. Instead of killing, he advised another course of action which—remembering something he had learned while at Hackensack—he believed would be devastating psychologically to those at the other end of the equation in New York.

This was promptly agreed to and, since physical transportation would be needed, a car or truck, whichever proved available, would leave Ayacucho immediately for Nueva Esperanza.

In Nueva Esperanza, Miguel began his preparations by sending for Socorro.

* * *

Jessica, Nicky and Angus looked up as a small procession filed into the area immediately outside their cells. It consisted of Miguel, Socorro, Gustavo, Ramon and one of the other men who served as guards. From their sense of purpose it was evident something was about to happen and Jessica and the others waited apprehensively to discover what.

One thing Jessica was sure of: Whatever was expected of her, she would cooperate. It was now six days since she had made the videotape recording in course of which, because of her initial defiance, Nicky had been tortured by agonizing bums. Since then, Socorro had come in daily to inspect the bums, which were sufficiently healed so that Nicky was no longer in pain. Jessica, who still felt guilty about Nicky's suffering, was determined he would not be hurt again.

Consequently, when Nicky's cell was opened and the —terrorists crowded in with Nicky, ignoring Jessica and Angus, Jessica cried out anxiously, "What are you doing? I beg of you don't hurt him. He's suffered enough. Do what you have to do to me!”

It was Socorro who swung to face Jessica and shouted through the screen between them, "Shut up! There's no way you can stop what's going to happen.”

Jessica screamed frantically, "What is happening?” Miguel, she saw, had brought a small wooden table into Nicky's cell while Gustavo and the fourth man had seized Nicky and were holding him so he was unable to move. Jessica cried again, "Oh, this isn't fair! For god's sake let him go!”

Ignoring Jessica, Socorro said to Nicky, "You're going to have two of your fingers cut off.”

At the word "fingers,” Nicky, already frantic, screamed and struggled, but to no avail.

Socorro continued, "These men will do it, and there's nothing you can do to change that. But it will hurt more if you struggle, so keep still!”

Ignoring the warning, mouthing incoherent words, his eyes moving wildly, Nicky fought even more desperately to free himself, to somehow pull back his hands, but did not succeed.

Jessica emitted a piercing wail.”Oh, no! Not fingers! Don't you understand? He plays the piano! It's his life . . .”

"I know.” This time it was Miguel who turned, a small smile on his face.”I heard your husband say so on television; he was answering a question. When he receives those fingers he'll wish he hadn't.”

On the other side of Nicky's cell, Angus was banging his screen and shouting too. He held up his hands.”Take mine! What difference will it make? Why spoil the rest of the boy's life?”

Miguel, this time his face working angrily, flared back.”What do two fingers of a bourgeois brat matter when every year sixty thousand Peru children die before the age of five?”

"We're Americans!” Angus hurled at him.”We're not to blame for that!”

"You are! The capitalist system, your system which exploits the people, is depraved, destructive. It is to blame . . .”

Miguel's statistics about the deaths of children were a quote from Abimael Guzman, Sendero Luminoso's founder. As Miguel knew, Guzman's figure might be exaggerated, but without question Peru's child malnutrition death toll was one of the highest in the world.

While the epithets flowed back and forth, it happened quickly.

The small table Gustavo had brought was moved in front of Nicky. While the boy continued to squirm and wriggle, begging and crying, pleading pitifully, Gustavo forced the boy's right index finger on top of the table so it was there alone, the other fingers curled back against the table's edge. Ramon had produced a sheath knife. Now, grinning, he tested the bright blade's razor sharpness with a thumb.

Satisfied, Ramon moved forward, placed the blade against the second joint of Nicky's exposed finger and, with a single swift movement, brought the heel of his beefy left hand down sharply against the back of the knife. With a thunk sound, a spurt of blood, and a piercing scream from Nicky, the finger was almost severed, but not quite. Ramon lifted the knife, then cut away the remaining tissue and flesh to complete the finger's severance. Nicky's despairing cries, now from pain, were shrill and harrowing.

Blood flooded the tabletop and was on the hands of the men holding Nicky. They ignored it and moved the boy's little finger, also of the right hand, from the table's edge to the top. This time the action and result were faster. With a single chop of Ramon's knife, the finger was separated from the hand, falling clear while more blood spurted. Socorro, who had collected the first severed finger and put it in a plastic bag, now added the second and passed the bag to Miguel.

Socorro was pale, her lips compressed. She glanced briefly toward Jessica whose face was covered with her hands, her body racked by sobbing. By now, Nicky—barely conscious, his features ashen white —had fallen back on the narrow bed, his screaming turned to agonized moans. As Miguel, Ramon and the fourth man moved out from the cell, taking the bloody table with them, Socorro told Gustavo whom she had signaled to wait, "Agarra el chico. Sientalo!”

Responding, Gustavo raised Nicky to a seated position and held him while Socorro moved outside, returning with a bowl of warm soapy water she had brought when the group arrived. Taking Nicky's right hand and holding it upright, Socorro carefully washed the raw stumps of the two severed fingers to forestall infection. The water turned bright red as she did. Then, after covering both wounds with several gauze pads, she securely bandaged the entire hand. Even through pads and bandage, bloodstains showed, though it appeared the flow of blood was slowing.

Through it all, Nicky, clearly in shock, his whole body trembling, neither helped nor hindered what was being done.

Miguel was still in the area outside the cells and Jessica, who had moved to her own cell doorway called to him tearfully.”Please let me go to my son! Please, please, please!”

Miguel shook his head. He said contemptuously, "No mother for a gutless chicken! Let the mocoso try to become a man!”

"He's more of a man than you will ever be.” The voice was Angus's, filled with rage and loathing; he too had moved to the doorway of his cell to face Miguel. Angus groped for the Spanish curse Nicky had taught him a week before.”You . . . Maldito hijo de puta! “

Angus remembered what it meant: Cursed son of a whore! Nicky had repeated to Angus what his playground Cuban friends had told him: To bring a man's mother into a Spanish curse was the gravest insult possible.

Slowly, deliberately, Miguel turned his head. He looked directly at Angus with eyes that were glacial, vicious and unforgiving. Then, his face set, his expression unchanged, he turned away.

Gustavo had emerged from Nicky's cell in time to hear the words and observe Miguel's reaction. Shaking his head, Gustavo said to Angus in his halting English, "Old man, you make bad mistake. He not forget.”

* * *

As the hours passed, Jessica became increasingly concerned about Nicky's mental state. She had tried talking to him, attempting to find some way, through words, to comfort him, but with no success or even a response. Part of the time Nicky lay still, occasionally moaning. Then suddenly his body would jerk several times and sharp cries escape him, followed by a bout of trembling. Jessica was sure that severed nerves caused the movement and accompanying pain. As far as she could tell, most of the time Nicky's eyes were open but his face was blank.

Jessica even pleaded for an answer.”Just a word, Nicky darling! Just a word! Please—say something, anything!” But there was no response. Jessica wondered if perhaps she was going mad herself. The inability to reach out, to touch and hold her son, to try to bring some solace physically, was a frustrating denial of what she craved.

For a while Jessica herself, close to hysteria, tried to empty her head of thoughts and, lying down, shed silent, bitter tears.

Then with a mental chiding . . . Take hold! Pull yourself together! Don't give in! . . . she resumed the attempt to talk with Nicky.

Angus joined in but the result was as unproductive as before.

Food arrived and was put into their cells. Not surprisingly, Nicky took no notice, Knowing she should preserve her strength, Jessica tried to eat but found she had no appetite and pushed the food away. She had no idea how Angus fared.

Darkness came. As the night advanced, the guard changed. Vicente came on duty. Sounds from outside grew fainter and, when only the hum of insects could be beard, Socorro arrived. She was carrying the water bowl she had used before, several more gauze pads, a bandage, and a kerosene lamp she took with her into Nicky's cell. Gently she sat Nicky upright and began to change the dressing on his hand.

Nicky seemed easier, less in pain, the jerking of his body more infrequent.

After a while Jessica called out softly, "Socorro, please . . .”

Immediately Socorro swung around. Putting a finger to her lips, she signaled Jessica to be silent. Uncertain about anything, disoriented by strain and anguish, Jessica complied.

When the bandaging was done, Socorro left Nicky's cell but didn't lock it. Instead, she came to Jessica's and opened the padlock with a key. Again, the signal for silence. Then Socorro waved Jessica out from her cell and pointed to the open door of Nicky's.

Jessica's heart lifted.

”You must go back before daylight,” Socorro whispered. She nodded in the direction of Vicente.”He will tell you when.”

About to move toward Nicky, Jessica stopped and turned. Impulsively, irrationally, she moved to Socorro and kissed the other woman's cheek. Moments later, Jessica was holding Nicky, careful of his bandaged hand.

”Oh, Mom!” he said.

As best they could, they hugged each other. Soon after, Nicky fell asleep.

7

At CBA News the systematic search of classified advertising placed in local newspapers over the past three months was about to be abandoned.

When the search had begun a little more than two weeks earlier, it seemed important to locate what had been the kidnappers' United States headquarters. At the time it was hoped that even if the kidnap victims were not found, at least some clue might have been left behind as to where they had been taken.

However, now that the Sloane family members were known to be in Peru, though only Sendero Luminoso knew exactly where, the search for the earlier base seemed less important.

Particularly from a TV news point of view, a discovery and pictures of the scene would still be of interest. But as to its being helpful in any important way, the likelihood grew less as days went by.

Still, the effort had not been a failure. Jonathan Mony's search of local papers had produced the Spanish language weekly Semana, containing information which led directly to the undertaker Alberto Godoy. Questioning of Godoy revealed his sale of caskets to, and positive identification of, the terrorist Ulises Rodriguez. And later still, pressure on Godoy provided clues leading to the American-Amazonas Bank, the apparent murder of the UN diplomat Jose Antonio Salaverry and his mistress, Helga Efferen, plus their connection with Peru.

Those developments alone, it was generally agreed, had made the advertising search project worthwhile.

But would further searching be likely to produce anything more?

Don Kettering, now heading the CBA News special kidnap task force, didn't think so. Nor did the task force senior producer, Norman Jaeger. Even Teddy Cooper, who originated the search idea and had supervised it closely from the beginning, had trouble finding reasons to continue.

The matter came up at a task force meeting on Tuesday morning.

It was now four days since Friday's disclosure of all that was known to CBA News about the kidnap, its perpetrators and the victims' presence in Peru, plus the later news on Friday evening which included the videotape of Jessica Sloane along with Sendero Luminoso's demands.

In the meantime there had been the upsetting revelation of Theodore Elliott's indiscretion, resulting in worldwide knowledge of a CBA decision intended to be kept confidential until at the earliest—the following Thursday. It was notable that no one at CBA News criticized the Baltimore Star, realizing that the Star's reporter and editors had done what any other news organization would in such circumstances, probably including CBA.

Theodore Elliott had neither explained nor apologized for what had occurred.

In Peru, Harry Partridge, Minh Van Canh and the sound man, Ken O'Hara, had been joined on Saturday by Rita Abrams and the videotape editor, Bob Watson. Their first combined report was transmitted by satellite from Lima on Monday and led CBA's National Evening News that night.

Partridge's editorial theme had been the drastically deteriorating situation in Peru—economically and in terms of law and order. Sound bites from the Peruvian radio man, Sergio Hurtado, and Manuel Leon Seminario, owner-editor of Escena, made those points, supplemented by pictures of an angry mob from the barridas looting a food store and defying police.

In the words of Hurtado, "This was a democratic land full of promise, but we are now on the same grievous voyage of self destruction as Nicaragua, El Salvador, Venezuela, Colombia and Argentina.”

And Seminario had posed the unanswerable question: "What is it in us Latin Americans that makes us chronically incapable ofstable government?” He continued, "We are such a sorry contrast to our prudent neighbors in the north. While Canada and the U.S. achieve an enlightened concord on free trade, making their nations sturdy and stable for generations to come, we in the south still polarize and slaughter.”

In an attempt to balance the report, Rita—at Partridge's suggestion—tried to arrange a recorded interview with President Castafteda. It was refused. Instead, a second-line government minister, Eduardo Loayza, was made available and had taken a placebo line. The problems of Peru were temporary, he claimed through an interpreter. The country's bankrupt economy would be turned around. The power of Sendero Luminoso was diminishing, not growing. And the American prisoners of Sendero would be found and released soon by Peru's military or police.

Loayza's remarks were included in Monday's evening news report, but the man and his message were—as Rita expressed it —"like fly piss in the wind.”

Communication between the CBA Lima contingent and CBA New York was frequent, with Partridge and Rita being filled in on stateside developments, including the videotape of Jessica, Sendero's demands and the Elliott snafu. The last left Partridge incredulous and angry that the clandestine approach he was attempting should have been so crudely undermined. Nonetheless, he resolved to continue the tactics he had begun.

It was probably because the initiative within CBA had passed from New York to Lima that at Tuesday's task force meeting so much attention was paid to the relatively minor matter of the classified advertising search.

”I brought it up,” Norm Jaeger told Les Chippingham, who had joined the meeting late, "because you were worried about the cost, which is still substantial, though we can stop it anytime.”

"Touche!” Chippingham acknowledged.”But the rest of you were proven right, so let's make a decision on the merits.” What he did not say was that the National Evening News ratings were now so extraordinarily high that being over budget had ceased to alarm him. If Margot Lloyd-Mason made a fuss, he would simply point to the fact that under no other news president had the broadcast audience been as large.

Chippingham asked Teddy Cooper, "What's your feeling, Teddy, about dropping that advertising search?”

From across the conference-room table, the young English researcher grinned.”Smashin' idea as it turned out, eh?”

"Yes. That's why I'm asking you.”

"Still could be something comin' out—like turning over cards still bopin' for an ace, then finding one. Not as likely, though. If we drop it, I'll hafta come up with another brilliant notion.”

"Which he quite likely will,” Norm Jaeger commented—a view one hundred and eighty degrees removed from his original assessment of the pushy Teddy Cooper.

In the end it was decided to terminate the advertising search the following day.

Then, three hours later, as if fate had kittenishly decided to intervene, a breakthrough in the search occurred—the kind hoped for from the beginning.

* * *

At 2 P.m. in the task force conference room, Teddy Cooper took a phone call from Jonathan Mony.

Mony, by now, had slipped into a supervisory role and for the past few days had been overseeing all the temporary researchers. An assumption was growing that when Mony's present work concluded, a permanent niche would be offered him in the News Division. On the phone he sounded breathless and excited.

”I think we found it. Can you, and maybe Mr. Kettering, come out?”

"Found what, and where are you?”

"The place the kidnappers used, I'm almost sure. And I'm at Hackensack, New Jersey. There was an ad in the Record that's the local paper—and we followed through.”

"Hold it!” Cooper said. Don Kettering and Norman Jaeger had just walked in together. Cooper removed the phone from his ear and waved it.”It's Jonathan. He thinks he found Snatchers City.”

A speakerphone was on a desk nearby. Jaeger pressed a button and the speaker came alive.

”Okay, Jonathan,” Kettering said.” Tell us what you have.”

Mony's amplified voice answered, "There was a classified ad in the Record. Seemed to fit what we were looking for. Shall I read it?”

"Go ahead.”

The trio in the conference room heard a rustling of paper as Mony continued his report.

The advertisement, they learned, had appeared on August 10—a month and four days before the Sloane kidnap, which put it within the estimated time frame of the pre-kidnap surveillance.

HACKENSACK—SALE OR LEASE

Large traditional house in 3 acres, 6 bed, servant quarters,suit multi-family or convert to nursing home, etc. Fireplaces, oil heat, air cond Spacious outbuildings good forvehicles, workshops, stables. Secluded location, privacy. Attractive price or lease. Terms allow for some repairs needed.

PRANDUS & PAIGE

Brokers / Developers

One of the young women researchers discovered the ad, buried among many others—the Record had one of the largest real estate advertising sections in the region. On reading it, she had contacted Jonathan Mony who was in the area and now carried a CBA paging device. He had joined her at the newspaper's business office from where Mony phoned the real estate brokers, Prandus & Paige.

Initially he had not been optimistic. During the preceding two weeks there had been many such alerts. But after quick enticements and follow throughs including visits to "possible” premises, all had proven worthless. The likelihood that this latest scrutiny would be different did not seem great.

In this case, as with most others, on learning that CBA was making the inquiry, the brokers were cooperative and supplied an address. What was different was some added information: First, that almost at once after the ad appeared, a one-year lease had been taken on the property with full payment in advance. Second: A recent check revealed the house and buildings to be deserted, the lessees apparently having left.

An official at the brokerage firm told Mony, "The tenants were there just over a month, and we haven't heard from them so we have no idea if they're coming back. Right now we're not sure what to do, and if you have any contact with the people, we'd appreciate hearing.”

Mony, his interest quickening, promised to keep the real estate firm informed. He then visited the property with the woman researcher.

”I know we weren't supposed to follow up directly,” he told Cooper and the others on the phone.”But that was before we heard the kidnappers were in Peru. Anyway, we've found some things we think are important and which made me decide to call you.”

He was telephoning from a cafe, he reported, about a mile from the empty house.

”First, give us the directions,” Kettering instructed.”Then go back to the house and wait. We'll be there as fast as we can.”

* * *

An hour later a CBA courier car pulled into the Hackensack property, bringing Don Kettering, Norm Jaeger, Teddy Cooper and a two-man camera crew.

As Kettering stepped from the car, he surveyed the old decaying buildings and commented, "I can see why that ad mentioned 'repairs needed.”

Cooper folded a map he had been studying.”This place is twenty-five miles from Larchmont. About what we figured.”

"You figured,” Jaeger said.

Mony introduced the young woman researcher, Cokie Vale, a petite redhead. Cooper recognized her instantly. When the temporary researchers first assembled she had asked whether, at the stage they appeared to have reached now, a camera crew would be on hand.

”I remember your question,” he told her and gestured to the crew assembling its equipment.”As you can see, the answer's 'yes.' “

She flashed him a dazzling smile.

”The first thing you should see,” Jonathan Mony said, "is on the second floor of the house.”

As the others followed, he led the way into the dilapidated main house and up a wide, curving stairway. Near the head of the stairs he opened a door and stood back while others filed in. The room they entered was in total contrast to what had been seen elsewhere. It was clean, painted a hygienic white and with new pale-green linoleum covering the floor. Mony switched on overhead fluorescent lights, also obviously new, revealing two hospital cots, both with side restraining rails and straps. In contrast to the cots was a narrow, battered metal bed; it, too, had straps attached.

Pointing to the bed, Kettering said, "It looks as if that was an afterthought. The whole place is like a first-aid station.”

Jaeger nodded.”Or set up to handle three doped people, one of them unexpected.”

Mony opened a cupboard door.”Whoever was here didn't bother to clear out all this stuff before they left.”

Facing them were some assorted medical supplies—hypodermic needles, bandages, rolls of cotton batting, gauze pads and two pharmaceutical containers, both unopened.

Jaeger picked up one of the containers and read aloud, "'Diprivan . . . propofol'—that's the generic name.” He peered at fine print on the label.”It says 'for intravenous anesthesia.' “As he and Kettering looked at each other, "It all fits. Doesn't seem much doubt.”

"Can I show you downstairs?” Mony prompted.

”Go ahead,” Kettering told him.”You're the one who's had time to look around.”

Entering a small outbuilding, Mony pointed to an iron stove, choked with ashes.”Somebody did a lot of burning here. Didn't get everything, though.” He picked up a partially burned magazine, the name Caretas visible.

”That magazine's Peruvian,” Jaeger said.”I know it well.”

They moved to a larger building. Inside, it was obvious it had been a paint shop. Virtually no attempt had been made to clear the building. Cans of paint—some partially used, others unopened, still remained. Most were labeled AUTO LACQUER.

Teddy Cooper was looking at colors.”Remember when we talked to people who saw the Sloane surveillance? Some reported seeing a green car, yet none of the kinds of motors they mentioned were manufactured in that color. Well, here's green enamel—and yellow too.”

"This is the place,” Jaeger said.”It has to be.”

Kettering nodded.”I agree. So let's get to work. We'll use this on the news tonight.”

"There is one more thing,” Mony said.”Something Cokie spotted outside.”

This time the attractive redhead took center stage. She led the group to a cluster of trees away from the house and outbuildings and explained, "Somebody's been digging here—not long ago. Afterward they tried to level the ground but didn't manage it. The grass hasn't grown back either.”

Cooper said, "It looks as if earth was taken out and something buried, which is why it hasn't packed down.”

Among the group, eyes shifted back and forth. Cooper now seemed uncertain, Jaeger looked away. If something had been buried—what? A body, or bodies? Everyone present knew that it was possible.

Jaeger said doubtfully, "We'll have to call the FBI about this place. Maybe we should wait and let them . . .”

Behind the remark was the fact that after Friday's National Evening News, the FBI Director in Washington had telephoned Margot Lloyd-Mason and strongly protested CBA's failure to inform the FBI immediately of new developments. Surprising some at CBA, the network president did not take the complaint too seriously, perhaps believing the organization could with-stand any government pressure and was unlikely to be charged in court. She merely apprised Les Chippingham of the call. The news president, in turn, cautioned the task force to keep law enforcement authorities informed unless there was some compelling reason not to do so.

Obviously, because physical evidence was involved at the Hackensack house, the FBI must be advised of the discovery certainly before broadcast time tonight.

”Sure we'll tell the FBI,” Kettering said.”But first I'd like to take a look at what's under that ground, if anything.”

"There are some shovels in the furnace room,” Mony said.

”Get them,” Kettering told him.”We're all healthy. Let's start digging.”

A short time later it became evident that what they were opening was not a grave. Instead it was a repository of discarded items left by the property's recent occupants and presumably intended to stay hidden. Some things were innocuous —food supplies, clothing, toilet objects, newspapers. Others were more significant—additional medical supplies, maps, some Spanish-language paperback books and automotive tools.

”We know they had a fleet of trucks and cars,” Jaeger said.”Maybe the FBI will find out what they did with them—if it matters at this point.”

"I don't think any of this matters right now,” Kettering ruled.”Let's quit.”

During the digging, videotaping had been started—initially a sound bite by Cokie Vale describing her search of classified advertising and how it led to the Hackensack house. On camera she was personable, expressed herself clearly and was economical with words. It would be her first appearance on television, she acknowledged afterward. Those watching had an instinct it would not be her last.

Jonathan Mony, it was felt, had earned some camera exposure too and repeated his showing of the upstairs room where the kidnapped trio had almost certainly been held. He also was effective.

”If this endeavor's done nothing else,” Jaeger commented to Don Kettering, "it's brought us some new talent.”

Mony, having returned from the house, was down in the excavated hole and had resumed digging when Kettering made the decision to quit. About to climb out, Mony felt his foot touch something solid and probed with his shovel. A moment later he had pulled out an object and called, "Hey, look at this!”

It was a cellular phone in a canvas outer cover.

Passing up the phone to Cooper, Mony said, "I think there's another underneath.”

Not only was there another, but four more after that. Soon the six were laid out, side by side.

”The people who used this place weren't short of money,” Cokie observed.

”Chances are it was drug money; anyway, they had plenty,” Don Kettering told her. He regarded the phones thoughtfully.”But maybe—just maybe we're getting somewhere.”

Jaeger asked, "Are records kept of all cellular phone calls?”

"Sure are.” Kettering, who as business correspondent had recently done a news feature on the booming cellular phone market, answered confidently.”There are also lots of other records including a regular phone user's name and billing address. For these the gang needed a local accomplice.” He turned to Cooper.”Teddy, on each phone there'll be an area code followed by a regular number, just as on a house or office line.”

"I'm tuned in,” Cooper said.”You'd like me to make a list?”

"Please!”

While Cooper worked, they continued videotaping the house and buildings. In a correspondent's standup, Kettering said:

“Some may believe discovery of the abandoned American base of the kidnappers is, at this point, too little too late. That may be true. But meanwhile the FBI and others will sift evidence found here while the world watches anxiously, continuing to hope.”

"Don Kettering, CBA News, Hackensack, New Jersey."

Before leaving, they called in the local police, asking them to inform the FBI.

* * *

Even before the National Evening News went on the air, Kettering had telephoned a friend high in NYNEX Corporation, operators of the New York and New Jersey telephone systems. Holding in his hand the list of numbers compiled by Teddy Cooper, Kettering explained what he needed—the name and address of the person or persons to whom the six telephones were registered, plus a list of all calls made to or from those numbers during the past two months.

”You realize, of course,” his friend—an executive vice president—informed him, "that not only would giving you that information be a violation of privacy, but I would be acting illegally and could lose my job. Now, if you were an investigative agency with a warrant—”

“I'm not and I can't be,” Kettering replied.”However, it's a safe bet the FBI will be asking for the same information tomorrow and they'll have one. All I want are those answers first.”

"Oh my god! How did I get mixed up with a character like you?”

"Since you ask, I remember your wanting a favor from CBA once or twice and I delivered. Come on! We've trusted each other since business school and never regretted it.”

At the other end, a sigh.”Give me the damn numbers.”

After Kettering had recited the list, his friend continued, "You said the FBI tomorrow. I suppose that means you need to know tonight.”

"Yes, but any time this side of midnight. You can call me at home. You have the number?”

"Unfortunately, yes.”

* * *

The call came at 10:45 P.m., just after Don Kettering arrived at his East Seventy-seventh Street apartment, having stayed late at CBA. His wife, Aimee, answered, then handed him the phone.

”I saw your news this evening,” his NYNEX friend said.”I presume those cellular numbers you gave me are those used by the kidnappers.”

"It looks that way,” Kettering acknowledged.

”In that case, I wish I had more for you. There isn't a lot. First, the phones are all registered to a Helga Efferen. I have an address.”

"I doubt if it's current. The lady's dead. Murdered. I hope she didn't owe you money.”

"Jesus! You news guys are cold-blooded.” After a pause, the NYNEX man went on, "About the money, it's actually the reverse. Right after numbers were issued for those phones, someone made a deposit of five hundred dollars for each account—three thousand dollars in all. We didn't ask for it, but it went on the books as a credit.”

Kettering said, "I imagine the people using the phones didn't want anyone sending bills or asking awkward questions until they were safely out of the country.”

"Well, for whatever reason, most of the money's still there. Less than a third was used and that's because, with one exception, all calls were solely between the six phones and not to other numbers. Local interphone calls get charged, but not all that heavily.”

“Everything points to the kidnappers' organization and discipline,” Kettering affirmed.”But you said there was an exception.”

"Yes—on September 13, an international direct-dial call to Peru.”

"That's the day before the kidnap. Do you have a number?”

"Of course. It was 011—that's the international access code—51, which is Peru, then 14-28-9427. My people tell me that '14' is Lima. Exactly where is something you'll have to find out.”

"I'm sure we will. And thanks!”

"I hope some of that helps. Good luck!”

Moments later, after consulting a notebook, Kettering tapped out a number for another call: 011-51-14-44-1212.

When a voice answered, "Buenas tardes, Cesar's Hotel,” Kettering requested, "Mr. Harry Partridge, por favor.”

8

It had been a discouraging day for Harry Partridge. He was tired and, in his hotel suite, had gone to bed shortly before ten o'clock. But his thoughts were still churning. He was brooding on Peru.

The whole country, he thought, was a paradox—a conflicting mixture of military despotism and free democracy. In much of the republic's remoter regions the military and so-called antiterrorist police ruled with steel fists and frequent disregard of law. They were apt to kill wantonly, afterward labeling their victims "rebels,” even when they were not—as independent inquiry often showed.

A U.S. human rights organization, Americas Watch, had done a creditable job, Partridge believed, in seeking out and recording what it called "a cascade of extrajudicial executions, arbitrary arrests, disappearances and torture,” all "central features”in the government's counterinsurgency campaign.

On the other hand, Americas Watch did not spare the rebels. In a recently published report, open beside the bed, it said Sendero Luminoso "systematically murders defenseless people, places explosives that endanger the lives of innocent bystanders and attacks military targets without minimizing the risk to the civilian population"—all "violations of the most fundamental rules of international humanitarian law.”

As to the country generally, "Peru now has the sad privilege to be counted among the most violent and dangerous places in South America.”

An inescapable conclusion, confirmed by other sources, was that little difference existed between rebel and government forces when it came to random slaughter and other assorted savagery.

Yet, at the same time, strong democratic elements existed in Peru—more real than mere faqades, a word sometimes used by critics. Freedom of the press was one, a tradition seemingly ingrained. It was that same freedom which allowed Partridge and other foreign reporters to travel, question, probe, then report however they decided, without fear of expulsion or reprisal. True, there had been exceptions to the principle but so far they were rare and isolated.

Partridge had come close to that subject today during an interview with General Raftl Ortiz, chief of anti-terrorism police.”Does it not concern you,” he had asked the erect, unsmiling figure in plain clothes, "that there are so many responsible reports of your men being guilty of brutality and illegal executions?”

"It would concern me more,” Ortiz replied in a half-contemptuous tone, "if my men were the ones executed—as they would be if they did not defend themselves from those terrorists which you and others seem to care so much about. As to the untrue reports, if our government tried to suppress them, people like you would raise great howls and keep repeating them. Thus a one-day news trifle, forgotten twenty-four hours later, is usually preferable.”

Partridge had requested the interview with Ortiz, believing he should cover the ground, though doubting that much would be gained. Through the Ministry of the Interior the meeting was arranged promptly, though a request to bring a camera crew was denied. Also, when Partridge was searched before being allowed to enter the police general's office, a mini-tape recorder in his pocket, which he had intended to ask permission to use, was removed outside. Nothing was said, though, about the talk being off the record and the general made no objection to his visitor's taking notes.

General Ortiz's unpretentious wood-paneled office was one of a warren of similar offices in an old, massive raw-cement building in downtown Lima. High walls surrounded the structure, half of which had once been a prison. Getting inside had entailed clearance by a succession of suspicious guards; then, walking across a courtyard within the walls, Partridge had passed rows of armored personnel carriers, as well as trucks with anti-riot water cannon. While talking with the general, Partridge was aware that beneath them in the building's basement were cell blocks where prisoners were often held for two weeks without any outside contact, and other cells where interrogation and torture regularly took place.

At the outset of the Ortiz interview, Partridge asked the question uppermost in his mind: whether the anti-terrorism police had any idea where the three Sloane kidnap victims were being held.

”I thought you might have come to tell me that, judging by the many people you have seen since coming here,” the General responded. It was an admission and perhaps a not-so-subtle warning, Partridge thought, that his movements were being watched. He guessed, too, that CBA's satellite transmissions to New York, as well as those of other U.S. networks were being monitored and recorded by the Peruvian Government, press freedom notwithstanding.

When Partridge declared he had no information about the location of the American captives despite his efforts, Ortiz said, "Then you are aware how devious and secretive those enemies of the state, Sendero Luminoso, can be. Also that this is a country far different from your own, with vast spaces where it is possible to hide armies. But, yes, we have ideas as to areas where your friends might be and our forces are searching those.”

"Will you tell me which areas?” Partridge asked.

”I do not believe that would be wise. In any case it would not be possible to go there yourself. Or do you, perhaps, have some such plan?”

Although Partridge did have a plan, he replied negatively.

The remainder of the interview went much the same way, neither participant trusting the other and playing cat-and mouse, attempting to obtain information without revealing all of his own. In the end neither succeeded, though in a summary for the National Evening News, Partridge did use two quotes from General Ortiz—the one about Peru's "vast spaces where it is possible to hide armies” and the cynical observation that alleged human rights violations were "a one-day news trifle, forgotten twenty-four hours later.”

Since there was no recording, New York used both quotes in print on-screen, beneath a still photo of the general.

Partridge did not, however, regard his visit as productive.

More satisfying was an interview later in the day with Cesar Acevedo, another long time friend of Partridge's and a lay leader of the Catholic Church. They met in a private office at the rear of the Archbishop's Palace on the Plaza de Armas, official center of the city.

Acevedo, a small, fast-talking, intense person in his fifties, had deep religious convictions and was a theological scholar. He was involved full-time with church administration and had considerable authority, though he had never taken the ultimate step of becoming a priest. If he had, friends were apt to say, by now he would be a bishop at the very least, and eventually a cardinal.

Cesar Acevedo had never married, though he was a prominent figure socially in Lima.

Partridge liked Acevedo because he was always what he appeared to be, as well as unassuming and totally honest. On an earlier occasion when Partridge asked why he had never entered the priesthood, he replied, "Profoundly as I love God and Jesus Christ, I have never felt willing to surrender my intellectual right to be a skeptic, should that ever happen, though I pray it never will. But if I became a priest I would have surrendered that right. As a young man, and even now, I could never quite bring myself to do it.”

Acevedo was executive secretary of the Catholic Social Action Commission and was involved with outreach programs which brought medical help to remote parts of the country where no doctors or nurses were regularly available.

”I believe,” Partridge asked early in their meeting, "that from time to time you have to deal with Sendero Luminoso.”

Acevedo smiled.”'Have to deal' is correct. The Church does not, of course, approve of Sendero—either its objectives or methods. But as a practical matter a relationship exists, though a peculiar one.”

For reasons of its own, the lay leader explained, Sendero Luminoso did not like antagonizing the Church and rarely attacked it as an institution. Yet the rebel group did not trust individual Church officials, and when some anti-government action or other insurrection was intended, the rebels wanted priests and other church workers out of the area so they could not witness it.

”They will simply tell a priest or our social workers, 'Get out of here! We don't want you around! You will be told when you can return.' “

"And your priests obey that kind of order?”

Acevedo sighed.”It does not sound admirable, does it? But usually yes, because there is little choice. If the order is disobeyed Sendero will not hesitate to kill. A live priest can go back eventually. A dead priest cannot.”

A sudden thought occurred to Partridge.”Are there any places, right at this moment, where your people have been told to leave, where Sendero Luminoso doesn't want outside attention?”

"There is one such area and it is creating a considerable problem for us. Come! I will show you on the map.” They walked to a wall where, under a plastic cover with crayon markings, a large map of Peru was mounted.

”It's this entire area right here.” Acevedo pointed to a section of San Martin Province, ringed in red.”Until about three weeks ago we had a strong medical team in here, performing an assistance program we carry out each year. A lot of what they do is vaccinate and inoculate children. It's important because the area is part of the Selva, where jungle diseases abound and can be fatal. Anyway, about three weeks ago Sendero Luminoso, which controls the area, insisted that our people leave. They protested, but they had to go. Now we want to get our medics back in. Sendero says no.”

Partridge studied the encircled section. He had hoped it would be small. Instead it was depressingly large. He read place names, all far apart: Tocache, Uchiza, Sion, Nueva Esperanza, Pachiza. Without much hope he wrote them down. In the unlikely event of the captives being at one of those places, it would do no good to enter the area without knowing which. Effecting a rescue anywhere would be difficult, perhaps impossible. The only slim chance would be total surprise.

”I suspect I know what you are thinking,” Acevedo said, "You are wondering if your kidnapped friends are somewhere in that circle.”

Partridge nodded without speaking.

”I do not believe so. If it were the case I think there would have been some rumor. I have heard none. But our church has a network of contacts. I will send out word and report to you if anything is learned.”

It was the best he could hope for, Partridge realized. But time, he knew, was running out and he was no closer to knowing the whereabouts of the imprisoned Sloane trio than when he had arrived.

The thought had depressed him while in the Archbishop's Palace. Now, in his hotel room, remembering that and the other events of the day, he had a sense of frustration and failure at his lack of progress.

Abruptly, the bedside telephone rang.”Harry, is that you?” Partridge recognized Don Kettering's voice.

They exchanged greetings, then Kettering said, "Some things have happened that I thought you ought to know about.”

* * *

Rita, also in Cesar's Hotel, answered her room phone on the second ring.

”I've just had a call from New York,” Partridge said. He repeated what Don Kettering had told him about discovery of the Hackensack house and the cellular phones, adding, "Don gave me a Lima number that was called. I want to find out who’s it is and where.”

"Give it to me,” Rita said. He repeated it: 28-9427.

”I'll try to get that Entel guy, Victor Velasco, and start him working on it. Call you back if there's any news.”

She did in fifteen minutes.”I managed to get Velasco at home. He says it isn't something his department handles and he may have a little trouble getting the information, but thinks he can have it by morning.”

"Thanks,” Partridge said and, soon after, was asleep.

9

It was not until mid afternoon on Wednesday that the Lima telephone number relayed through Don Kettering was identified. Entel Peru's international manager was apologetic about the delay.”It is, of course, restricted data,” Victor Velasco explained to Partridge and Rita, who were in CBA's Entel editing booth where they had been working with the editor, Bob Watson, on another news spot for New York.

”I had trouble persuading one of my colleagues to release the information,” Velasco continued, "but eventually I succeeded.”

"With money?” Rita asked and, when he nodded, she said, "We'll reimburse you.”

A sheet torn from a memo pad contained the information: Calderon, G-547 Huancavelica Street, 10F

"We need Fernandez,” Partridge said.

”He's on his way here,” Rita informed him, and the swarthy, energetic stringer-fixer arrived within the next few minutes. He had continued working with Partridge since his and Minh Van Canh's arrival at Lima airport and now assisted Rita in a variety of ways.

Told about the Huancavelica Street address and why it might be important, Fernandez Pabur nodded briskly.”I know it. An old apartment building near the intersection with Avenida Tacna, and not what you would call"—he struggled for an English word—"palatial.”

"Whatever it is,” Partridge told him, "I want to go there now.” He turned to Rita.”I'd like you, Minh and Ken to come along, but first let me go inside alone to see what I can find out.”

"Not alone,” Fernandez objected.”You would be attacked and robbed, maybe worse. I will be with you and so will Tomas.”

Tomas, they had discovered, was the name of the burly, taciturn bodyguard.

The station wagon Fernandez had hired, which they now used regularly, was waiting outside the Entel building. Seven people including the driver made it crowded, but the journey took only ten minutes.”There is the place,” Fernandez said, pointing out of the window.

Avenida Tacna was a wide, heavily traveled thoroughfare, Huancavelica Street crossing it at right angles. The district, while not as grim as the barriadas, had clearly fallen on bad days. Number 547 Huaricavelica was a large, drab building with peeling paint and chipped masonry. A group of men, some seated on ledges near the entrance, others standing idly around, watched while Partridge, Fernandez and Tomas stepped out of the station wagon, leaving Rita, Minh Van Canh and the sound man, Ken O'Hara, to wait with the driver.

Aware of unfriendly, calculating expressions among the onlookers, Partridge was glad of Fernandez's insistence that he not go inside alone.

Within the building an odor of urine and general decay assaulted them. Garbage was strewn on the floor. Predictably, the elevator wasn't working so the men had no choice but to climb nine flights of grimy cement stairs.

Apartment F was at the end of an uncarpeted, gloomy corridor. At the plain slab door Partridge knocked. He could hear movement inside but no one came to the door and he knocked again. This time the door opened two or three inches only, halted by an inside chain. Simultaneously a woman's high pitched voice let loose a tirade in Spanish—her speech too fast for Partridge to follow, though he caught the words, ".animales! . . . asesinos! . . . diablos!”

He felt a hand touch his arm as Fernandez's heavyset figure moved forward. With his mouth close to the opening, Fernandez spoke equally fast, but in reasonable, soothing tones. As he continued, the voice from inside faltered and stopped, then the chain was released and the door opened.

The woman standing before them was probably around age sixty. Long ago she might have been beautiful, but time and hard living had made her blowsy and coarse, her skin blotchy, her hair a mixture of colors and unkempt. Beneath plucked, penciled eyebrows her eyes were red and swollen from crying and her heavy makeup was a mess. Fernandez walked in past her and the others followed. After a moment she closed the door, apparently reassured.

Partridge glanced around quickly. The room they had entered was small and simply furnished with some wooden chairs, a sofa with worn upholstery, a plain, cluttered table and a bookcase roughly fashioned out of bricks and planks. Surprisingly, the bookcase was full, mainly with heavy volumes.

Fernandez turned to Partridge.”It seems that just a few hours ago the man she lived with here was killed—murdered. She was out and came back to find him dead; the police have taken the body. She thought we were the people who killed him, come back to finish her too. I convinced her we are friends.” He spoke to the woman again and her eyes moved to Partridge.

Partridge assured her, "We are truly sorry to hear of your friend's death. Have you any idea who killed him?”

The woman shook her head and murmured something. Fernandez said, "She speaks very little English,” and translated for her.”Lo sentimos mucho la muerte de su amigo. Sabe Ud. quien lo maffo?”

The woman nodded energetically, mouthing a stream of words ending with "Sendero Luminoso.”

It confirmed what Partridge had feared. The person they had hoped to see—whoever he was—had connections to Sendero, but was now beyond reach. The question remained: Did this woman know anything about the kidnap victims? It seemed unlikely.

She spoke again in Spanish, less rapidly, and this time Partridge understood.”Yes,” he said to Fernandez, "we would like to sit down, and tell her I would be grateful if she will answer some questions.”

Fernandez repeated the request and the woman replied, after which he translated.”She says yes, if she can. I have told her who you are and, by the way, her name is Dolores. She also asks if you would like a drink.”

"No, gracias, “Partridge said, at which Dolores nodded and went to a shelf, clearly intending to get a drink for herself But when she lifted a gin bottle she saw that it was empty. She seemed about to cry again, then murmured something before sitting down.

Fernandez reported, "She says she doesn't know how she will live. She has no money.”

Partridge said directly to Dolores, "Le dare dinero si Ud. tiene la informacion que estoy buscando.”

The mention of money produced another fast exchange between Dolores and Fernandez who reported, "She says ask your questions.”

Partridge decided not to rely on his own limited Spanish and continued with Fernandez translating. Questions and answers went back and forth.

”Your man friend who was killed—what kind of work did he do?”

"He was a doctor. A special doctor.”

"You mean a specialist?”

"He put people to sleep.”

"An anesthesiologist?”

Dolores shook her head, not understanding. Then she went to a cupboard, groped inside and produced a small, battered suitcase. Opening the case, she removed a file containing papers and leafed through them. Selecting two, she passed them to Partridge. He saw they were medical diplomas.

The first declared that Hartley Harold Gossage, a graduate of Boston University Medical School, was entitled to practice medicine. The second diploma certified that the same Hartley Harold Gossage was "a properly qualified specialist in Anesthesiology.”

With a gesture, Partridge asked if he could look at the other papers. Dolores nodded her approval.

Several documents appeared to concern routine medical matters and were of no interest. The third he picked up was a letter on stationery of the Massachusetts Board of Registration in Medicine. Addressed to "H. H. Gossage, M.D.,” it began, "You are hereby notified that your license to practice medicine has been revoked for life . . .”

Partridge put the letter down. A picture was becoming clearer. The man who had lived here, reported to have just been murdered, was presumably Gossage, a disgraced, disbarred American anesthesiologist who had some connection with Sendero Luminoso. As to that connection, Partridge reasoned, the kidnap victims had been spirited out of the United States, presumably drugged or otherwise sedated at the time. In fact when he thought about it, yesterday's discoveries at the Hackensack house, described by Don Kettering, confirmed that. It seemed likely, therefore, that the former doctor, Gossage, had done the sedating. Partridge's face tightened. He wished he had been able to confront the man while he was alive.

The others were watching him. With Fernandez's help he resumed the questioning of Dolores.

”You told us Sendero Luminoso murdered your doctor friend. Why do you believe that?”

"Because he worked for those bastardos.”A pause, then a recollection.”Sendero had a name for him—Baudelio.”

"How did you know this?”

"He told me.”

"Did he tell you other things he did for Sendero?”

"Some.” A wan smile which quickly disappeared.”When we got drunk together.”

"Did you know about a kidnapping? It was in all the newspapers.”

Dolores shook her head.”I do not read newspapers. All they print is lies.”

"Was Baudelio away from Lima recently?”

A vigorous series of nods.”For a long time. I missed him.” A pause, then, "He phoned me from America.”

"Yes, we know.” Everything was fitting together, Partridge thought. Baudelio had to have been on the kidnap scene. He asked through Fernandez, "When did he come back here?”

Dolores considered before answering.”A week ago. He was glad to be back. He was also afraid he would be killed.”

"Did he say why?”

Dolores considered.”I think he overheard something. About him knowing too much.” She began to cry.”We had been together a long time. What shall I do?”

There was one important question left. Partridge deliberately hadn't asked it yet and was almost afraid to.”After Baudelio was in America and before returning here, was he somewhere in Peru?”

Dolores nodded affirmatively.

”Did he tell you where that was?”

"Yes. Nueva Esperanza.”

Partridge could scarcely believe what so suddenly and unexpectedly had come his way. His hands were shaking as he turned back pages in his notebook—to the interview with Cesar Acevedo and the list of places where Sendero Luminoso had ordered the Catholic medical teams to stay out. A name leapt out at him: Nueva Esperanza.

He had it! He knew at last where Jessica, Nicky and Angus Sloane were being held.

* * *

He was still first and foremost a TV news correspondent, Partridge reminded himself as he discussed with Rita, Minh and O'Hara the video shots they needed—of Dolores, the apartment, and the building's exterior. They were all in the tenth-floor apartment, Tomis having been sent down to bring the other three from the station wagon.

Partridge wanted close-ups too of the medical diplomas and the Massachusetts letter consigning Gossage-cum-Baudelio to the medical profession's garbage heap. The American ex-doctor might have gone to his grave, but Partridge would make sure the vileness he had done the Sloane family was forever on record. However, even though Baudelio's apparent role in the kidnapping was important to the full news story, Partridge knew that releasing it now would be a mistake, leading others to the information that his CBA group possessed exclusively. But he wanted the Baudelio segment pre-packaged, ready for use at a moment's notice when the proper time came.

Dolores was videotaped in close-up, the sound recording of her voice in Spanish later to be faded out and a translation dubbed in. At the conclusion of her taping Fernandez told Partridge, "She is reminding you that you promised her money.”

Partridge conferred with Rita who produced a thousand dollars in U.S. fifty-dollar bills. In the circumstances the payment was generous, but Dolores had provided an important break; also Partridge and Rita felt sorry for her and believed her statement that she knew nothing of the kidnap, despite her association with Baudelio.

Rita instructed Fernandez, "Please explain it is against CBA policy to pay for a news appearance; therefore the money is for the use of her apartment and the information she gave us.” It was a semantic distinction, often used by networks to do exactly what they said they didn't, but New York liked producers to go through the motions.

Judging by Dolores's gratitude, she neither understood nor cared about the explanation. Partridge was sure that as soon as they had gone the empty gin bottle would be quickly replaced.

Now his mind was free to move on to essentials—planning a rescue expedition to Nueva Esperanza as quickly as he could. At the thought of it his excitement rose, the old addiction to danger, guns and battle stirring within him.

10

Crawford Sloane's instinct during every day of waiting was to telephone Harry Partridge in Peru and ask, "Is there anything new?” But he restrained himself, knowing that any breaking news would come to him speedily enough. Also, he realized, it was important to leave Partridge un-distracted and free to work in his own way. Sloane still had more faith in Partridge than anyone else who might have been sent on the Peru assignment.

Another reason for holding back was that Harry Partridge had proved to be considerate, calling Sloane at home in Larchmont during some evenings or early mornings to fill him in on progress and background.

It had been several days, though, since the last call from Peru and while disappointed at not hearing, Crawford Sloane assumed there was nothing to report.

He was wrong.

What Sloane did not and could not know was that Partridge had decided all communication between Lima and New York—telephone, satellite or written—was no longer secure. After the interview with General Ortiz, during which the chief of anti-terrorism police made plain that Partridge's movements were being watched, it seemed possible that telephones were tapped and perhaps even mail examined. Satellite transmissions could be viewed by anyone with the right equipment, and using a different phone line than usual carried no guarantee of privacy.

Another reason for caution was that Lima was now crowded with journalists, including TV crews from other networks, all competing in covering the Sloane kidnap story and searching for new leads. So far, Partridge had managed to avoid the media crowd, but because of CBA's successful coverage already, he knew there was interest in where he went and whom he saw.

For all those reasons Partridge decided not to discuss, especially by telephone, his visit to the Huancavelica Street apartment and what he had learned. He ordered the others in the CBA crew to observe the same rule, also cautioning them that the expedition they were planning to Nueva Esperanza must be veiled in total secrecy. Even CBA in New York would have to wait for word of that.

Therefore, on Thursday morning in New York, knowing nothing of the breakthrough in Lima the day before, Crawford Sloane went to CBA News headquarters, arriving slightly later than usual at 10:55.

A young FBI agent named Ivan Ungar, who had slept at the Larchmont house the night before, accompanied him. The FBI was stifl guarding against a possible attempt to kidnap Sloane and there were also rumors that anchor people at other networks were being protected too. However, since the original kidnappers had been heard from, the twenty-four-hour listening watch on Crawford Sloane's home and office phones had been discontinued.

FBI Special Agent Otis Havelock was still involved with the case, and after Tuesday's discovery of the kidnappers' Hackensack headquarters had taken charge of FBI search efforts there. Another subject of FBI scrutiny, Sloane had learned, was Teterboro Airport because of its closeness to the Hackensack locale. An examination of outgoing flight records was being made, covering the period from immediately after the kidnap until the day it was known that the kidnap victims were in Peru. But progress was slow because of the large number of flight departures during those thirteen days.

At CBA News, as Sloane entered the main-floor lobby, a uniformed security guard gave a casual salute, but there was no sign of a New York City policeman, as there had been for more than a week after the kidnap. Today the usual stream of people was moving in and out of the building and although those entering were cleared at a reception desk, Sloane wondered if CBA security had slipped back into its old, easygoing ways.

From the lobby, accompanied by agent Ungar, he took an elevator to the fourth floor, then walked to his office adjoining the Horseshoe where several people looked up from their work to greet him. Sloane left the door of his office open. Ungar seated himself on a chair outside.

As Sloane hung up the raincoat he had been wearing, he noticed on his desk a white Styrofoam package of the kind used by takeout restaurants. There were several such establishments in the neighborhood which did a brisk business at CBA, delivering snacks or meals in response to telephone calls. Since Sloane had not ordered anything and usually had lunch in the cafeteria, he assumed the delivery was a mistake.

To his surprise, though, he found that the package, tied neatly with white string, had "C. Sloane” written on it. Without much interest, he took scissors from a drawer and snipped the string, then eased the package open. He pulled out some pieces of folded white paper before the contents were revealed.

After several seconds of staring in dazed disbelief, Crawford Sloane screamed—a tortured, ear-splitting scream. Heads shot up among those working nearby. FBI agent Ungar leapt from his chair and raced in, drawing a gun as he moved. But Sloane was alone, screaming again and again, staring down at the package, his eyes wide and crazed, his face ashen.

Others jumped up and ran to Sloane's office. Some went inside, a dozen or more blocked the doorway. A woman producer leaned over Sloane's desk and looked into the white box.”Oh, my god!” she uttered, then, feeling sick, went back outside.

Agent Ungar examined the box, saw two human fingers, flecked with dried blood, and, swallowing his revulsion, swiftly took charge. He shouted to those in the office and crowding the doorway, "Everyone out, please!” Even while speaking, he picked up a phone, pressed the "operator” button and demanded, "Security—fast!” When there was an answer, he rapped out, "This is FBI Special Agent Ungar and I am giving you an order. Advise all guards that no one is to leave this building, as of this moment. There will be no exceptions and if anyone resists, use force. After you've given that order, call the city police for help. I am going to the main lobby now. I want someone from Security to meet me there.”

While Ungar had been speaking, Sloane collapsed into his chair. As someone said later, "He looked like death.”

The executive producer, Chuck Insen, elbowed his way through the growing throng outside and asked, "What's all this about?”

Recognizing him, Ungar gestured to the white box, then instructed, "Nothing in here must be touched. I suggest you take Mr. Sloane somewhere else and lock the door until I come back.”

Insen nodded, by then having seen the contents of the box and noting, as had others, that the fingers were small and delicate, clearly those of a child. Turning to face Sloane, he asked the inevitable question with his eyes. Sloane managed to nod and whisper, "Yes.”

"Oh, Jesus!” Insen murmured.

Sloane seemed about to collapse. Insen put his arms around him, then still holding the anchorman, eased him from the room. Those at the doorway quickly cleared a path.

Insen and Sloane went to the executive producer's office; on the way, Insen fired orders. He told a secretary, "Lock Mr. Sloane's office and let no one in except that FBI man. Then talk to the switchboard; there's a doctor on call—get him here. Say Mr. Sloane had a bad shock and may need sedation.” To a producer, "Tell Don Kettering what's happened and get him up here; we'll need something for the news tonight.” And to others, "The rest of you, get back to work.”

Insen's office had a large glass window overlooking the Horseshoe, with a venetian blind for privacy when needed. After helping Sloane into a chair, Insen lowered the blind.

Control was coming back to Sloane, though he was leaning forward, his head in his hands. Speaking half to himself, half to Insen, he agonized, "Those people knew about Nicky and the piano. And how did they know? I let it out! It was me! At that press session after the kidnap.”

Insen said gently, "I remember that, Crawf. But you were answering a question; you didn't bring it up. In any case, who could have foreseen . . .” He stopped, knowing that reasoning at this moment would do no good.

Afterward Insen would say to others, "I have to hand it to Crawf, He has guts. After that experience most people would have been pleading to do exactly what the kidnappers wanted. But right from the beginning Crawf's known we shouldn't, and couldn't, and has never wavered.”

There was a soft knock and the secretary came in.”A doctor's on the way,” she said.

* * *

The temporary ban on people leaving the building was lifted when everyone inside or about to leave was identified and their presence accounted for. It seemed likely that the package with the fingers had been left much earlier, and since restaurant service people came and left frequently, no one had seen anything unusual.

The FBI began an investigation at nearby takeout restaurants in an effort to determine who might have brought the package in, but nothing resulted. And while CBA Security was supposed to check all delivery people's identity, it was established that they did so irregularly and even then in a perfunctory way. Any doubt about the fingers being Nicky's was quickly dispelled by an FBI check of Nicky's bedroom in the Sloanes' Larchmont house. Plenty of fingerprints remained there and matched those of the two severed fingers in the package on Crawford Sloane's desk.

* * *

In the midst of the general gloom at CBA News, another significant delivery occurred, this one to Stonehenge. Early Thursday afternoon a small package found its way to Margot Lloyd-Mason's office suite. Inside was a videotape cassette sent by Sendero Luininoso.

Because the tape was expected—Thursday delivery had been stated in Sendero's "The Shining Time Has Come” demand received six days earlier—arrangements had been made by Margot and Les Chippingham for the tape to be sent immediately by messenger to the CBA news president. As soon as Chippingham teamed of its arrival, he called in Don Kettering and Norman Jaeger and the trio viewed the tape privately in Chippingham's office.

All three noted at once the recording's high quality, both technically and in presentation. The opening titles, beginning with "World Revolution: Sendero Luminoso Shows the Way,” were superimposed over the visual background of some of Peru's most breathtaking scenery—the brooding majesty of high Andes mountains and glaciers, Machu Picchu in awesome splendor, the endless miles of green jungle, the and coastal desert and surging Pacific ocean. It was Jaeger who recognized the majestic music accompanying the opening: Beethoven's Third Symphony, Eroica.

”They had production people who know their business,” Kettering murmured.”I'd expected something cruder.”

"Not surprising, really,” Chippingham said.”Peru's no backwater and they have talent there, the best equipment.”

"Which Sendero has big bucks to buy,” Jaeger added.”Plus their foxy infiltration everywhere.”

Even the extremist spiel that followed was largely over kinetic scenes—of rioting in Lima, industrial strikes, clashes between police and protest marchers, the grisly aftermath of attacks on Andes villages by government forces.”We are the world,” an unseen commentator expounded, "and the world is ready for a revolutionary explosion.”

Featured at length was an interview, stated to be with Abimael Guzman, Sendero Luminoso's founder and leader. Some uncertainty existed because the camera focused on the back of a seated person. The commentator explained, "Our leader has many enemies who would like to kill him. To show his face would help their vicious aims.”

Guzman's supposed voice began in Spanish, "Companeros revolucionarios, nuestro trabajo y objetivo es unir los creyentes en la filosofia de Marx, Lenin, y Mao . . .”Then the words faded and a new voice continued, "Comrades, we must destroy worldwide a social order that is not fit to be preserved . . .”

"Doesn't Guzman speak English?” Kettering queried.

Jaeger answered, "Strangely, he's one of the few educated Peruvians who don't.”

What followed was predictable and had been spoken by Guzman many times before.”Revolution is justified because of imperialist exploitation of all poor people in the world.”. . .”False reports blame Sendero Luminoso for inhumanity. Sendero is more humane than the superpowers who are willing to destroy mankind with nuclear arsenals, which our proletariat revolution will ban forever.”. . .”The United States labor movement, an elite bourgeois class, has cheated and sold out American workers.”...”Communists in the Soviet Union are no better than imperialists. The Soviets have betrayed the Lenin revolution.”..."Cuba's Castro is a clown, an imperialist lackey.”

Guzman's statements were invariably, general. Those seeking specifics searched his speeches and writings in vain.

”If we were running this instead of the evening news,” Chippingham commented, "we'd have lost our audience by now and ratings would be in the cellar.”

The recorded half hour ended with additional Beethoven, some more scenic beauty and a rallying cry from the commentator, "Long life to Marxism-Leninism-Maoism, our guiding doctrine!”

"All right,” Chippingham said at the end, "as we agreed, I'm putting this tape away in my safe. Only the three of us have viewed it. I suggest we don't discuss with anyone what we've seen.”

Jaeger asked, "You're still going with Karl Owens's idea the story that the cassette was damaged when we received it?”

"For chrissakes! Do we have anything else? We're certainly not going to use that tape in place of Monday's news.”

"I guess we don't have anything else,” Jaeger acknowledged.

”As long as we understand,” Kettering said, "that our chances of being believed aren't as good now—not after Theo Elliott's screw up with the Baltimore Star.”

“Goddamn, I know that!” The news president's voice reflected the strain of the past few days. He glanced at a clock: 3:53.”At four o'clock, Don, break into the network with a bulletin. Say that we've received a tape from the kidnappers, but it's defective and we haven't been able to fix it. Getting a replacement tape to us is now up to Sendero Luminoso.”

"Right!”

"Meanwhile,” Chippingham, continued, "I'll call in press relations and issue a statement for the wire services, urging them to repeat it to Peru. Now let's move it!”

* * *

The misinformation issued by CBA News was circulated promptly and widely. Because Peru was one hour behind New York—the U.S. was still on daylight saving time, Peru wasn't the CBA statement was available in Lima for evening radio and TV news as well as the following day's newspapers.

Also in the day's news, though circulated earlier, was a report about the discovery of Nicholas Sloane's severed fingers by his distraught father.

In Ayacucho, Sendero Luminoso leaders noted both reports. As to the second, about a damaged tape, they did not believe it. What was needed immediately, they reasoned, was some action more compelling than a small boy's fingers.

11

Afterward, Jessica remembered, she had a sense of foreboding as soon as she awoke that morning in the half-light of dawn. She had been sleepless through much of the night, mentally tormented, doubting that rescue would ever come. Over the past three days her earlier confidence in eventual freedom had ebbed away, though she tried to conceal from Angus and Nicky her diminishing hope. But was it likely, she wondered, that in this obscure portion of an alien, faraway land, some friendly force could find and somehow spirit them home? As more days went by, it seemed increasingly doubtful.

What sent Jessica's morale tumbling had been the brutal dismembering of Nicky's right hand. Even if they got out of here, life could never again be the same for Nicky. His youthful, dearest dream, of becoming a piano maestro, was suddenly, irrevocably . . . so needlessly! . . . ended. And what other perils, including death perhaps, awaited them in days ahead?

Nicky's fingers had been removed on Tuesday, Today was Friday. Yesterday Nicky had been less in pain, thanks to Socorro who had changed the dressings and bandage daily, but he was silent and brooding, unresponsive to Jessica's attempts to lift him from his deep despair. And there was always the separation between them—the close—spaced bamboo stalks and strong wire screen. Since the night Socorro had allowed Jessica to join Nicky in his cell, the favor had not been repeated, despite Jessica's pleading.

Today, therefore, the immediate future seemed bleak, with little to hope for and everything to dread. As Jessica became fully awake she understood, as she never had before, a Thomas Hood poem learned in childhood which ended:

But now, I often wish the night

Had borne my breath away!

But she knew that if applied to herself, the wish was selfish and defeatist. Despite everything else she must hang on, remaining the strong staff on which Nicky and Angus leaned.

It was soon after those thoughts, and with the arrival of full daylight, that Jessica could hear activity outside and footsteps approaching the prisoners' shack. The first person to enter was Gustavo, leader of the guards, who went directly to Angus's cell and opened it.

Miguel was immediately behind. He was scowling as he, too, moved toward Angus, carrying something Jessica had not seen him with before—an automatic rifle.

The ominous implication was inescapable. At the sight of the powerful, ugly weapon Jessica's heart beat faster and her breath shortened. Oh, no! Not Angus!

Gustavo had entered Angus's cell and roughly pulled the old man to his feet. Now Angus's hands were being tied behind him.

Jessica called out, "Listen to me! What are you doing? Why?”

Angus turned his head toward her, "Jessie dear, don't be distressed. There's nothing you can do. These people are barbarians, they don't understand decency or honor . . .”

Jessica saw Miguel tighten his grip on his gun until his knuckles were white. He commanded Gustavo impatiently, Dese prisa! No pierdas tiempo!”

Nicky was on his feet. He too had grasped the significance of the automatic rifle and asked, "Mom, what are they going to do to Gramps?”

Not believing her own words, Jessica answered, "I don't know.”

Angus, his hands now tied, straightened his body, squared his shoulders and looked over.”We haven't much time. Both of you—stay strong and keep believing! Remember, somewhere out there Crawford is doing everything he can. Help is coming!”

Tears were streaming down Jessica's face. Her voice choked, she managed to call, "Angus, dearest Angus! We love you so much!”

"I love you too, Jessie . . . Nicky!” Gustavo was pushing Angus forward, propelling him from the cell. They all knew now that he was going to his death.

Stumbling, Angus called again, "Nicky, how about a song? Let's try one.” Angus's voice lifted.

"I’ll be seeing you

In all the old familiar places..."

Jessica saw Nicky open his mouth but, both too choked with tears, neither he nor Jessica could join in.

Angus was outside the shack now, beyond their sight. They could still hear his voice, though it was fading.

"That this heart of mine embraces all day through

In that small cafe . . .”

The voice faded entirely. There was only silence as they waited.

Seconds passed. The wait seemed longer than it was, then the silence was broken by gunfire—four shots, closely spaced. Another brief silence, then a second burst of gunfire, the shots too fast to count.

* * *

Outside, at the edge of the jungle, Miguel stood over the dead figure of Angus Sloane.

The first four shots he fired had killed the old man instantly. Then, remembering the insult of last Tuesday "Maldito hijo de puta!'—and the contemptuous reference to "barbarians” only moments earlier, Miguel had stepped forward in a rage and emptied another fusillade from his Soviet— made AK-47 into the recumbent body.

He had fulfilled the instructions received from Ayacucho late last night. Gustavo had also been informed of a distasteful chore which was now expected of him and which, with help from others, he could begin.

A light airplane, operating for Sendero Luminoso, was now on its way to a nearby jungle airstrip which could be reached from Nueva Esperanza by boat. Very soon a boat would leave for the airstrip, after which the airplane would transport to Lima the result of Gustavo's work.

* * *

Later that same morning in Lima, a car skidded to a halt outside the American Embassy on Avenida Garcilaso de la Vega. A male figure carrying a substantial cardboard box jumped out. The man deposited the box outside the Embassy's protective railings, near a gate, then ran back to the car, which sped away.

A plainclothes guard who had seen it happen sounded an alarm and all exits from the embassy, which was built like a fortress, were temporarily closed. Meanwhile a bomb disposal squad from the Peruvian armed forces was summoned to help.

When tests revealed that the box contained no explosives, it was opened carefully, revealing the bloodstained, decapitated head of an elderly man, probably in his seventies. Alongside the head was a wallet containing a U.S. Social Security card, a Florida driver's license complete with photo, and other documents that identified the partial remains as those of Angus McMullen Sloane.

At the time the Lima incident occurred, a Chicago Tribune reporter happened to be inside the embassy. He stayed close to ensuing developments and was the first to file a story that included the victim's name. The Tribune report was quickly picked up by wire services, TV, radio and other newspapers, first in the United States, then throughout the world.

12

The plan to attempt a rescue at Nueva Esperanza was complete.

On Friday afternoon, final details were settled, the last equipment assembled. At dawn on Saturday, Partridge and his crew would fly from Lima, bound for the jungle in San Martin Province, near the Huallaga River.

Since late Wednesday, on learning of the prisoners' location, Partridge had fretted impatiently. His first inclination had been to leave at once, but Fernandez Pabur's arguments plus his own experience had persuaded him to delay.

”The jungle can be a friend; it can also be an enemy,” Fernandez pointed out.”You cannot stroll into it, the way you would visit another part of town. We will be in the jungle at least one night, perhaps two, and there are certain things we must have with us for survival. I must also choose our air transport carefully—using someone reliable we can trust. Flying us in, then returning to take us out will require coordination and good timing. We need two days to prepare; even that is barely enough.”

The "we”and "our”made clear from the beginning that the resourceful stringer-fixer intended to be part of the expedition.”You will need me,” he stated simply.”I have been in the Selva many times. I know its ways.” When Partridge felt obliged to point out there would be danger, Pabur shrugged.”All life is a risk. In my country nowadays, getting up in the morning has become one.”

Air transport was their principal concern. After disappearing for part of Thursday morning, Fernandez returned and, collecting Partridge and Rita, took them to a one-story brick building not far from Lima's Airport. The building contained several small offices. They approached one which had on its door ALSA—AEROLIBERFAD S.A. Fernandez entered first and introduced his companions to the owner of the charter flight service, also its chief pilot, Oswaldo Zileri.

Zileri, in his mid to late thirties, was good-looking and clean-cut, with a trim, athletic build. His attitude was guarded, but businesslike and direct. He told Partridge, "I understand you intend to pay a surprise visit to Nueva Esperanza, and that is all I need, or wish, to know.”

"That's fine,” Partridge said, "except we hope to have three more passengers flying back than we will have going out.”

"The airplane you are chartering is a Cheyenne II. There will be two pilots and room for seven passengers. How you fill those seven seats is your affair. Now, may we talk money?”

"Talk it with me,” Rita said.”What's your price?”

"You will pay in U.S. dollars?” Zileri queried.

Rita nodded.

”Then the regular price on each round trip will be one thousand four hundred dollars. If there is extra time at destination, required for circling, there will be an additional charge. As well, for each landing in the vicinity of Nueva Esperanza which is drug country controlled by Sendero Luminoso—there will be a special danger fee of five thousand dollars. Before we leave on Saturday, I would like a six-thousand-dollar cash deposit.”

"You'll have it,” Rita said, "and if you write all that out, making two copies, I'll sign, and keep one.”

"It will be done before you leave. Do you wish to know some details of my air service?”

"I suppose we should,” Partridge said politely.

With a touch of pride, Zileri recited an obviously standard spiel.”The Cheyenne II—we have three—is twin-engined and propeller-driven. It is a remarkably reliable aircraft and can land in a short space—important in the jungle. All our pilots, including myself, are American-trained. We know most regions, of Peru well, also the local flight controllers, civil and military, and they are used to us. Incidentally, on this flight I will be piloting you myself.”

"All that's fine,” Partridge acknowledged.”What we also need is some advice.”

"Fernandez has told me.” Zileri went to a chart table where a large-scale map of the southern portion of San Martin Province was spread open. The others joined him.

”I've assumed you will want to land sufficiently far 'from Nueva Esperanza so your arrival will not be noted.”

Partridge nodded.”Assumption right.”

"Then, on the outward journey from Lima, I recommend landing here.” With a pencil Zileri indicated a point on the map.

”Isn't that a roadway?”

"Yes, the main jungle highway, but there is little traffic, often none. But at several points like this one it's been widened and resurfaced by drug shippers so that planes can land. I've landed there before.”

Partridge wondered for what purpose. Conveying drugs, or people who dealt in them? He had heard there were few Peru air operators who were not involved with the drug trade, even if only in peripheral ways.

”Before we go in to land,” Zileri continued, "we will make sure the highway is not in use and there is no one on the ground. From that point a rough trail goes close to Nueva Esperanza.”

Fernandez interjected, "I have a good map where the trail is marked.”

"Now about your return with extra passengers,” Zjieri said.”Fernandez and I have discussed this and have a suggested plan.”

"Go ahead,” Partridge told him.

The discussion continued, decisions and salient facts emerging.

Three possible pickup points existed for the return journey. First, the bighway where the initial landing was intended. Second, Sion airstrip which, after 'leaving Nueva Esperanza, could be reached by river, plus a three-mile overland journey. Third, a very small landing strip, used by drug traffickers and known to few people, midway between the two; that, too, was reached mainly by river.

The reason for options was, as Fernandez explained, "We do not know what will happen at Nueva Esperanza, or which way will be clear, or best, for us to leave by.”

The airplane making the pickup could easily pass over all three places and respond to a signal from the ground. Partridge's group would carry a flare gun with green and red flares. A green flare would mean: Land normally, everything is clear,— a red flare: Land as quickly as possible, we are in danger!

If close—in rifle or machine—gun fire was observed from the air, it was agreed that the airplane would not land, but would return to Lima.

Since it was not known exactly when the return flight would be required, an airplane would be sent to fly over the area, first on Sunday morning at 8 A.m. and, failing any contact between ground and air, again on Monday at the same time. After that, any action would be decided by Rita who would remain in Lima during the expedition and in touch with New York, an arrangement Partridge considered essential.

At the end of operational planning, a contract was signed by Rita, on behalf of CBA News, and by Oswaldo Zileri, after which Zileri and the CBA trio formally shook hands. Looking at Partridge directly, the pilot said, "We shall keep our part of the agreement and do our best for you.”

Partridge had an instinct that he would.

* * *

After making the air arrangements, and returning to Cesar's Hotel, Partridge held a meeting in his suite with all. the CBA group members to decide who would make the Nueva Esperanza journey. Three definite selections were: Partridge; Minh Van Canh, since some visual record was essential; and Fernandez Pabur. Allowing for three extra passengers returning, this left a fourth place open.

The choice was between Bob Watson, the TV-video editor; the sound man, Ken O'Hara; or Tomis, the mostly silent bodyguard.

Fernandez favored Torads and had argued earlier, "He is strong and can fight.” Bob Watson, smoking one of his pungent cigars, urged, "Take me, Harry! In a brawl, I kin take care of myself. Found that out in Miami riots.” O’Hara simply said, "I want to go very much.”

In the end, Partridge chose O'Hara because he was a known quantity, had shown he could keep his head in a tense situation and was resourceful. Also, while they would not be carrying sound equipment—Minh would use a Betacam incorporating sound—Ken O'Hara had an instinctive way with anything mechanical, an asset that might prove useful.

Partridge left Fernandez to organize equipment and under his direction the items were accumulated in the hotel: lightweight hammocks, mosquito netting and repellent, dried foods sufficient for two days, filled water bottles, water sterilizing tablets, machetes, small compasses, binoculars, some plastic sheeting. Since each person would carry his own requirements, using a backpack, a balance was struck between necessity and weight.

Fernandez also urged that each carry a gun and Partridge agreed. It was a fact of TV life that correspondents and crews overseas sometimes went armed, though keeping weapons out of sight. Networks neither condoned nor discouraged the practice, leaving it to the judgment of people on the spot. In this case the need seemed overwhelming and was aided by the fact that all four who would be going had had experience with firearms at various points in their lives.

Partridge decided he would stay with his nine-millimeter Browning, with a silencer. He also had a Fearsum commando "killing”knife, given him by a major in the British SAS.

Minh, who would have camera equipment to carry as well as a weapon, wanted something powerful but light; Fernandez announced he could obtain an Israeli Uzi submachine gun. O'Hara said he would take whatever was available; it turned out to be a U.S. M-16 automatic rifle. Apparently any weaponry was purchasable in Lima, with no questions asked of those who had the money.

* * *

Since Wednesday, when he had learned that Nueva Esperanza was the target, Partridge had asked himself. Should he inform the Peruvian authorities, specifically the anti-terrorism police? On Thursday he had even gone back for advice to Sergio Hurtado, the radio broadcaster who had warned him not to seek help from the armed forces and police. During their meeting on Partridge's first day in Peru, Sergio had said: "Avoid them as allies because they have ceased to be trustworthy, if they ever were. When it comes to murder and mayhem, they are no better than Sendero and certainly as ruthless.”

Speaking in mutually agreed confidence, Partridge informed Sergio of the latest developments and asked if the advice was still the same?

"If anything, stronger,” Sergio answered.”In exactly the kind of situation you are looking at, the government forces are notorious for going in with maximum firepower. They take no chances. They wipe out everyone, innocent as well as guilty, and ask questions after. Then, when accused of killing people wrongfully, they'll say, 'How could we tell the difference? It was kill or be killed.' “

Partridge was reminded that General Rafil Ortiz had said much the same thing.

Sergio added, "At the same time, going in as you plan, you are taking your own life in your hands.”

"I know,” Partridge admitted.”But I see no other way.”

It was early afternoon. For the past few minutes, Sergio had been fidgeting with a paper on his desk. Now he asked, "Before you came here, Harry, had you received any bad news? I mean today.”

Partridge shook his head.

”Then I'm sorry to give you some.” Picking up the paper, Sergio passed it across.”This came in shortly before you arrived.”

"This” was a Reuters news dispatch describing the receipt of Nicholas Sloane's fingers at CBA, New York, and his father's broken-hearted grief.

”Oh, Christ!” Partridge was suddenly overwhelmed by anguish and self-reproach. Why, he grieved, had his own planned action not been undertaken sooner?

"I know what you are thinking,” Sergio said.”But there is no way you could have prevented this. Not with limited time and the little information that you had.”

Which was true, Partridge acknowledged mentally. But he knew that questions about his own pace of progress would haunt him for a long time.

”While you are here, Harry,” Sergio was saying, "there's something else. Isn't your company, CBA, owned by Globanic Industries?”

"Yes, it is.”

The broadcaster slid a desk drawer open and from it removed several clipped sheets.”I obtain my information from many sources and it may surprise you that one is Sendero Luminoso. They hate me, but use me. Sendero has sympathizers and informers in many places and one of them sent this recently, hoping I would broadcast it.”

Partridge accepted the sheets and began reading.

”As you can see,” Sergio said, "it purports to be an agreement between Globanic Financial Services—another subsidiary of Globanic: Industries—and the Peruvian Government. The agreement is what's known financially as a debt-to-equity swap.”

Partridge shook his head.”Not my specialty, I'm afraid.”

"But not all that complicated either. As part of the agreement, Globanic will receive enormous amounts of land, including two major resort locations, for what can only be called a giveaway price. In return, some of Peru's international debt, which has been 'securitized' by Globanic will be reduced.”

"Is it all honest and legal?”

Sergio shrugged.”Let's say it's borderline, though probably legal. More significant is that it's an exceedingly rich deal for Globanic, a very poor one for the people of Peru.”

"If you feel that way,” Partridge asked, "why haven't you broadcast it?”

"So far, two reasons. I never accept anything from Sendero at face value, and wanted to check how accurate the information is. I have, and it's okay. Another thing: For Globanic to get anything as super-sweet as this, someone in government has been paid off handsomely, or will be. I'm working on that and intend to do a broadcast next week.”

Partridge touched the pages he was holding.”Any chance I can have a copy?”

"Keep that one. I have another.”

* * *

During the next day, Friday, Partridge decided one other matter needed checking before Saturday's departure. Had anyone else received the telephone number which had led the CBA group to the Huancavelica Street apartment, formerly occupied by the ex-doctor known as Baudelio, and now by Dolores? If so, it would mean that someone else could know the significance of Nueva Esperanza.

As Don Kettering had explained by phone on Wednesday evening, the FBI had access to the Hackensack cellular telephones immediately after their discovery by CBA News. Therefore it seemed likely the FBI would check the calls made on those phones and learn of the Lima number Kettering had given Partridge. From that point, it was possible the FBI had passed the information to the CIA—though not certain, because rivalry between the two agencies was notorious. Alternatively, the FBI might have asked a Peruvian Government department to have the number checked.

At Partridge's request, Fernandez paid a second visit to Dolores on Friday afternoon. He found her drunk, but coherent enough to assure him that no one else had been to the apartment making inquiries. So, for whatever reason, the subject of the phone number had not been pursued by anyone but CBA.

Finally, that same afternoon, through Peruvian radio, they learned the grim and tragic news of Angus Sloane's death and discovery of his severed head at the American Embassy in Lima.

Once the news was known, Partridge was quickly on the scene with Minh Van Canh and sent a report via satellite for the National Evening News that evening. By that time, too, other network crews and print-press reporters had arrived, but Partridge managed to avoid conversation with them.

The fact was, the horrible demise of Crawf's father weighed heavily on his conscience, as had Nicky's severed fingers. To the extent that he had come to Peru hoping to save all three hostages, he had already failed, Partridge told himself.

Later, after doing what was needed, he went back to Cesar's Hotel and spent the evening lying on his bed, awake, lonely and dejected.

Next morning, he was up more than an hour before dawn, his intention to complete two tasks. One was to compose a simple, handwritten will, the other to draft a telegram. Soon after, on the way to the airport in the rented station wagon, he had Rita witness the will and left it with her. He also asked her to send the telegram, which was addressed to Oakland, California.

They also discussed the Globanic-Peru debt-to-equity agreement Partridge had learned about from Sergio Hurtado. He told Rita, "When you've read it, I suppose we should let Les Chippingham see this copy. But it has nothing to do with why we're here and I don't plan to use the information, even though Sergio will next week.” He smiled, "I suppose that's the least we can do for Globanic since they butter our bread.”

* * *

The Cheyenne II aircraft took off from Lima in the still, pre-dawn air without incident. Seventy minutes later the plane reached the portion of jungle highway where Partridge, Minh, O'Hara and Fernandez were to disembark.

By now there was ample light to see the ground below. The highway was deserted: no cars, trucks or any other sign of human activity. On either side stretched miles of jungle covering the land like a vast green quilt. Turning briefly away from the controls, the pilot, Oswaldo Zileri, called back to his passengers, "We're going in. Be ready to get out fast. I don't want to stay on the ground for a second longer than necessary.”

Then, with a steep, fast-descending turn, he lined up over the highway, touched down on its wider portion, and stopped after a surprisingly short. landing run. As quickly as they could, the four passengers tumbled out, taking their backpacks and equipment and, moments later, the Cheyenne II taxied into position and took off.

”Let's get under cover fast!” Partridge urged the others, and they headed for the jungle trail.

13

Unknown to Harry Partridge during his crowded day on Friday, a crisis concerning him erupted in New York.

While breakfasting at home on Friday morning, Margot Lloyd-Mason received a telephone message that Theodore Elliott wished to see her "immediately” at Globanic Industries' Pleasantville headquarters. After inquiry, "immediately” translated to a 10 A.m. appointment. It would be the Globanic chairman's first of the day, a secretary at Pleasantville informed Margot.

Margot then called one of her own two secretaries at home and gave instructions to cancel or reschedule all her morning appointments.

She had no idea what Theo Elliott wanted.

At Globanic headquarters, Margot was kept waiting several minutes in the senior executives' elegant outer lounge where, unknowingly, she occupied the same chair used only four days earlier by the Baltimore Star reporter Glen Dawson.

When Margot entered the chairman's office, Elliott wasted no time with preliminaries, but demanded, "Why the hell aren't you keeping better control of your goddamned news people in Peru?”

Startled, Margot asked, "What kind of control? We've been getting compliments about our coverage there. And ratings are—”

“I'm talking about dismal, depressing, downbeat reports.” Elliott slammed a hand heavily on his desk.”Last night I received a call direct from President Castafieda in Lima. He claims everything CBA has been putting out about Peru is negative and damaging. He's mad as hell with your network, and so am I”

Margot said reasonably, "The other networks and the New York Times have been taking much the same line we have, Theo.”

"Don't tell me about others! I'm talking about usl Besides, President Castafieda seems to think what's happening right now is that CBA sets the pace and others are following. He told me so.”

They were both standing. Elliott, glowering, had not asked Margot to sit down. She asked, "Is there anything specific?”

"You're damn right there is!” The Globanic chairman pointed to a half-dozen videocassettes on his desk.”After the President's call last night I sent one of my people to get tapes of your evening news programs for this week. Now I've seen them all, I can see what Castafieda means; they're full of doom and gloom—how bad things are in Peru. Nothing positive! Nothing saying Peru has a great future ahead, or that it's a wonderful place to go for a vacation, or that those lousy Shining Path rebels will be beaten very soon!”

"There's a strong consensus they won't be, Theo.”

Elliott stormed on as if he had not heard.”I can understand why President Castafieda is furious—something that Globanic can't afford to have happen, and you know why. I warned you about that, but you obviously weren't listening. Another thing —Fossie Xenos is fuming too. He even thinks you may be jeopardizing, deliberately, his big debt-to-equity deal.”

"That's nonsense, and I'm sure you know it. But perhaps we can do something to improve what's happening.” Margot was thinking quickly, realizing the situation was more serious than she had thought at first. Her own future in Globanic, she realized, could easily be at stake.

”I'll tell you exactly what you'll do.” Elliott's voice had become steely.”I want that meddling reporter—Partridge is his name—brought back on the next airplane and fired.”

"We can certainly bring him back. I'm less sure about firing him.”

"Fired, I said! Are you having trouble hearing this morning, Margot? I want the bastard out of CBA so that, first thing Monday, I can call the President of Peru and say, 'Look! We threw the troublemaker out. We're sorry we sent him to your country. It was a bad mistake, but won't happen again.”

‘Foreseeing difficulties for herself at CBA, Margot said, "Theo, I have to point out that Partridge has been with the network a long time. It must be close to twenty-five years and he has a good record.”

Elliott permitted himself a sly smile.”Then give the son of a bitch a gold watch. I don't care. Just get rid of him, so I can make that phone call Monday. And I'll warn you about something else, Margot.”

"What's that, Theo?”

Elliott retreated to his desk and sat down behind it. He waved Margot to a chair as he said, "The danger of thinking writers or reporters are something special. They aren't, although they sometimes believe they are and get exaggerated ideas about their own importance. 'The fact is, there's never a shortage of writers. Cut one down, two more spring up like weeds.”

Warming to his theme, Elliott continued, "It's people like me and you —who really count in this world, Margot. We are the doers!—the ones who make things happen every day. That's why we can buy writers whenever we want and—never forget this!—they're two-a-penny, as the English say. So when you're through with some worn-out hack like Partridge, pick up a new one—some kid fresh out of college—the way you would a cabbage.”

Margot smiled; it was evident that the worst of her superior's wrath had passed.”It's an interesting point of view.”

"Apply it. And one more thing.”

"I'm listening.”

"Don't think that people at Globanic, including me, are not aware how you and Leon Ironwood and Fossie Xenos are jockeying for position, each of you hoping one day to sit where I am now. Well, I'll tell you Margot, as between you and Fossie this morning Fossie is several noses out in front.”

The chairman waved a hand dismissingly.”That's all. Call me later today when the Peru thing is all wrapped up.”

* * *

It was late morning when Margot, back in her office at Stonehenge, sent a message to Leslie Chippingham. The news president was to report to her "immediately.”

She had not appreciated being sent for this morning, preferring to do the summoning herself She found herself pleased at the current reversal of that situation.

Something else Margot had not liked was Elliott's reference to Fossie Xenos as being "several noses out in front.” If that relative position was true, she thought, she would revise it promptly, Margot had no intention of having her own career plans disrupted by what she was already regarding as a minor organizational issue, capable of being quickly and decisively resolved.

Therefore, when Chippingham appeared shortly after noon she came as speedily to the point as Theo Elliott had with her.

”I don't want any discussion about this,” Margot stated.”I'm simply giving you an order.”

She continued, "The employment of Harry Partridge is to be terminated at once. I want him out of CBA by tomorrow. I'm aware he has a contract and you'll do whatever we have to under it. Also, he's to be out of Peru, preferably tomorrow but no later than Sunday. If that means chartering a special flight, so be it.”

Chippingham stared at her, open-mouthed and unbelieving. At length, having trouble finding words, he said, "You can't be serious!”

Margot told him firmly, "I am serious, and I said no discussion.”

"The hell with that!” Chippingham's voice was raised emotionally.”I'm not standing by, seeing one of our best correspondents who's served CBA well for twenty-odd years, thrown out without any reason.”

"The reason is none of your concern.”

"I'm the news president, aren't I? Margot, I appeal to you! What's Harry done, for chrissakes? Is it something bad? If so, I want to know about it.”

"If you must know, it's a question of his type of coverage.”

"Which is the absolute best! Honest. Knowledgeable. Unprejudiced. Ask anybody!”

"I don't need to. In any case, not everyone agrees with YOU.”

Chippingham regarded her suspiciously.”This is Globanic's work, isn't it?” Intuition came to him.”It's your friend, that cold-blooded tyrant Theodore Elliott!”

"Be carefull”she warned him, and decided the conversation had gone on long enough.

”I don't plan to do any more explaining,” Margot said coldly, "but I'll tell you this: If my order has not been carried out by the end of business today, then you are out of a job yourself, and tomorrow I'll appoint someone else acting news president and have them do it.”

"You really would, wouldn't you?” He was looking at her with a mixture of wonder and hatred.”Make no mistake about it—yes. And if you decide to stay employed, report to me by the end of this afternoon that what I wanted has been done. Now get out of here.”

After Chippingham had gone, Margot realized with satisfaction that, when necessary, she could be as tough as Theo Elliott.

* * *

Back at CBA News headquarters, knowing he was procrastinating, Les Chippingham attended to several routine matters before instructing his secretary, shortly before 3 P.m., that he was not to be disturbed and to hold telephone calls until further notice. He needed time to think.

Closing his office door from inside, he sat down in the conference area away from his desk, facing one of his favorite paintings—a desolate Andrew Wyeth landscape. But today Chippingham barely saw the painting; all he was aware of was the crucial decision he faced.

He knew he had reached a crisis in his life.

If he did as Margot had ordered and fired Harry Partridge without apparent cause, he would forfeit his self-respect. He would have done something shameful and unjust to a decent, highly skilled and respected human being, a friend and colleague, merely to satisfy another person's whim. Who that other person was and whatever was the whim, Chippingham didn't know, though he was sure that he and others would find out eventually. Meanwhile, all he was certain of was that Theodore Elliott was somehow involved—a thrust which, judging by Margot's reaction, had gone home.

Could Chippingham live with having done all that? Applying the standards he had tried to live his life by, he ought not to be able to.

On the other hand—and there was another side—if he, Les Chippingham, didn't do it, someone else would. Margot had made that clear. And she would have no trouble finding someone. There were too many ambitious people around, including some in CBA News, for it not to happen.

So Harry Partridge was going down the drain anyway—at least at CBA.

That was an important point: at CBA.

When word got around, as it quickly would, that Harry Partridge was leaving CBA and was available, he need not be unemployed for fifteen minutes. Other networks would fall over themselves vying for his services. Harry was a star, a "Big Foot"—with a reputation as a nice guy, too, which didn't harm him.

Nothing, absolutely nothing, would keep Harry Partridge down. In fact, with a new contract at a fresh network he would probably be better off.

But what about a fired and fallen news president? That was a totally different story, and Chippingham knew what he was facing if Margot kept her —word—as he knew she would—assuming he did not do as she wished.

As news president, Chippingham had a contract too, and tinder it would receive roughly a million dollars in severance payments, which sounded a lot but actually wasn't. A substantial amount would disappear in taxes. After that, because he was deeply in debt, his creditors would attach most of the remainder. And whatever was left, the lawyers handling Stasia's divorce would scrutinize covetously. So in the end, if he was left with enough for dinner for two at the Four Seasons, he would be surprised.

Then there was the question of another job. Unlike Partridge, he would not be sought out by other networks. One reason was, there could only be one news president at a network and he had heard no rumor of an opening anywhere else. Apart from that, networks wanted news presidents who were successes, not someone dismissed in doubtful circumstances; there were enough living ex-news presidents around to make that last point clear.

All of which meant that he would have to settle for a lesser job, almost certainly with a lot less money, and Stasia would still want some of that.

The prospect was daunting.

Unless—unless he did what Margot wanted.

If he expressed in dramatic terms what he was now doing, Chippingham thought, he was peeling away the layers of his soul, looking inside and not liking what he saw.

Yet a conclusion was inescapable: There were moments in life when self-preservation came first.

I hate to do this to you, Harry, he attested silently, but I don't have any choice.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, Chippingham read over the letter he had typed personally on an old, mechanical Underwood he kept—for old times' sake — on a table in his office. It began:

Dear Harry:

It is with great regret I have to inform you that your employment by CBA News is terminated, effective immediately.

Under the terms of your contract with CBA . .

Chippingham knew, because he had had occasion to review it recently, that Partridge's contract had a "pay-or-play” clause, which meant that while the network could terminate employment, it was obligated to pay full benefits until the contract's end. In Partridge's case, this was a year away.

Also in the same contract was a "non-compete” clause under which Partridge, in accepting the "pay-or-play” arrangement, agreed not to work for another network for at least six months.

In his letter, Chippingham waived the "non-compete” clause, leaving Partridge with his benefits intact but free— to accept other employment at once. Chippingham believed that in the circumstances, it was the least he could do for Harry.

He intended the letter to go by fax machine to Lima. There was a machine in his outer office and he would use it himself He had decided earlier that he could not bring himself to telephone.

About to sign what he had written, Chippingham heard a knock at his office door and saw the door open. Instinctively, he turned the letter face down.

Crawford Sloane entered. He was holding a press wire printout in his hand. When he spoke, his voice was choked. Tears were coursing down his cheeks.

”Les,” Sloane said, "I had to see you. This just came in.”

He proffered the printout which Chippingham took and read. It repeated a Chicago Tribune report from Lima. describing the finding of Angus Sloane's dismembered head.

”Oh, Christ! Crawf, I'm . . .”Unable to finish the words, Chippingham shook his head, then held out his arms and, in a spontaneous gesture, the two embraced.

As they separated, Sloane said, "Don't say anything more. I'm not sure I can handle it. I can't do the news tonight. I told them outside to call Teresa Toy . . .”

"Forget everything, Crawf!” Chippingham told him.”We'll take care of it.”

"No!” Sloane shook his head.”There's something else, something I must do. I want a Learjet to Lima. While there's still a chance . . . for Jessica and Nicky . . . I must be there.” Sloane paused, struggling for control, then added, "I'll go to Larchmont first, then to Teterboro.”

Chippingham said doubtfully, "Are you sure, Crawf? Is this wise?”

"I'm going, Les,” Sloane said.”Don't try to stop me. If CBA won't pay for an airplane, I will.”

"That won't be necessary. I'll order the Lear,” Chippingham said.

Later, he did. It would leave Teterboro that night and be in Peru by morning.

* * *

Because of the sudden, tragic news of Angus Sloane, Chippingham's letter to Partridge did not get signed and faxed to Lima until late that afternoon. After his secretary had left, Chippingham sent it to a fax number he had for Entel Peru, from where it would be delivered to the CBA booth in the same building. He added a note to the transmission, asking for the letter to be placed in an envelope addressed to "Mr. Harry Partridge”and marked "Personal.”

Chippingham had considered informing Crawford Sloane about the letter, then decided Crawf had had all the shocks he could handle in a single week. He knew the letter would outrage Crawf, as well as Partridge, and expected indignant telephone calls with demands for explanations. But that would be another day and Chippingham would have to cope with it as best he could.

Finally, Chippingham telephoned Margot Lloyd-Mason who was still in her office at 6:15 P.m. He told her first, "I have done what you asked,” then gave her the news about Crawford Sloane's father.

”I heard,” she said, "and I'm sorry. About the other, you cut it fine and I was beginning to think you wouldn't call. But thank you.”

14

Away from the highway where the Cheyenne II had landed, the trek through the jungle for Partridge and the other three was difficult and slow.

The trail—if it could be called that—was often overgrown and frequently disappeared entirely. Faced with a dense and tangled mass of vegetation, it was necessary to hack a way through using machetes, hoping for a clearer space beyond. Tall trees formed a canopy above their heads, under an over- cast sky which hinted of rain to come. Many trees had grotesquely twisted trunks, thick bark and leathery leaves; Partridge had read somewhere that eight thousand known species of trees existed in Peru. At lower levels, bamboos, ferns, lianas and parasitic plants were everywhere intertwined—the result described by the same source as "green hell.”

"Hell” was appropriate today because of the sweltering, steamy heat from which all four men were already suffering. Sweat streamed from every part of them, their condition made worse by swarms of insects. At the beginning they had soaked themselves with mosquito repellent, applying more along the way, but as Ken O'Hara put it, "The little devils seem to like the stuff.”

Fortunately, when contact with the trail was reestablished, there were areas where overhead shade from closely growing trees had made ground growth less prolific, therefore it was easier to move ahead. It was obvious that without the trail, progress would be nil.

”This route isn't used much,” Fernandez pointed out, "and that's to our advantage.”

Their objective was to approach Nueva Esperanza, but to stay well clear of it while locating a position on higher ground. From there, hidden by the jungle, they would observe the hamlet, mainly during daylight hours. Then, depending on what was seen and learned, they would devise a plan.

The entire surrounding area for a hundred or more square miles, broken only by the Huallaga River, was dense jungle over an undulating plain. But the large-scale contour map acquired by Fernandez showed several hills near their objective, one of which might work as an observation post. Nueva Esperanza itself was about nine miles from their present position—a formidable distance under these conditions.

One thing Partridge had memorized was the second message Jessica managed to convey while making her videotape recording. As reported to him by Crawford Sloane, in a sealed letter which Rita hand-carried to Peru, Jessica had scratched her left earlobe to mean: Security here is sometimes lax. An attack from outside might succeed. Sometime soon that information would be put to the test.

Meanwhile, they labored on through the jungle.

It was well into the afternoon, when everyone was near exhaustion, that Fernandez warned them Nueva Esperanza might be near.”I think we have covered about seven miles,” he said; then cautioned, "we must not be seen. If we hear sounds of anyone coming, we must melt into the jungle quickly.”

Looking at dense brush and thorns on either side, Minh Van Canh said, "Makes sense, but let's hope we don't have to.”

Soon after Fernandez's warning, the going became easier and several other trails crisscrossed their own. Fernandez explained that this whole area of slopes and hills was laced with coca fields, which at other times of the year would be bustling with activity. During a four-to-six-month growing season, coca bushes needed only minor care, so most growers lived elsewhere, coming back and occupying hilltop shacks during harvest time.

Using his contour map and compass, Fernandez continued to guide the other three; at the same time, the extra effort now required in walking told them they were gradually moving uphill. After another hour they entered a clearing and, beyond it, could see a shack amid jungle trees.

By now it had become evident to Partridge that Fernandez knew the area better than he had admitted earlier. When questioned, the stringer-fixer conceded, "I have been here several times before.”

Inwardly, Partridge sighed. Was Fernandez one more among the army of pseudo-upright people who benefited in back-door, insidious ways from the ubiquitous cocaine trade? Latin America, and the Caribbean especially, were full of such pretenders, many in high places.

As if sensing the thought, Fernandez added, "I was here one time for a 'dog-and-pony show' put on by our government for your State Department. There was a visitor—your Attorney General, I think—and the media were brought along. I was one of them.”

Despite his reaction a moment earlier, Partridge smiled at the "dog-and-pony show” description. It was one applied contemptuously by reporters when a foreign government staged an anti-drug performance designed to impress a visiting American delegation. Partridge could imagine the scene here: An "invasion” by helicopter-borne troops who would uproot and burn a few acres of coca plants and destroy a processing lab or two with dynamite. The visitors would praise the host government's anti-drug efforts, either not knowing or ignoring the fact that thousands of coca-growing areas and dozens of other labs nearby remained untouched.

Next day the visitors' photos would be in U.S. newspapers, accompanied by their approving statements, the process repeated on TV. And reporters—knowing they had been part of a charade, but unable to pass it up because others were recording it—would swallow hard and nurse their shame.

It had happened in Peru, which was neither a dictatorship nor communist but, Partridge thought, might soon be one or the other.

Fernandez inspected the clearing, they had reached, including the hut, satisfying himself that no one was there. Then he led the way eastward into the jungle again, but only for a little way, the others halting when Fernandez cautioned them with a signal. A moment later he parted a cluster of ferns and motioned the others to look. One by one they did so, observing a collection of dilapidated buildings about half a mile away and two hundred feet below. There were two dozen or so shacks located on a riverbank. A muddy path led from the buildings to a rough wooden jetty and the river, where a motley collection of boats was moored.

Partridge said softly, "Nice going, everybody!” He added with relief, "I guess we, found Nueva Esperanza.”

* * *

After having deferred to Fernandez on the trail, Harry Partridge now resumed command.

”We don't have a lot of daylight left,” he told the others. The sun was already near the horizon, the journey having taken far longer than expected.”I want to observe as much as possible before dark. Minh, bring the other binoculars and join me forward. Fernandez and Ken ' pick a sentry post and one of you keep watch to see if we're approached from behind. Work that out between you, and if someone does show, call me quickly.”

Approaching the strip of jungle, which prevented them from being seen from below, Partridge dropped to his belly and wriggled forward, carrying the binoculars he had brought. Minh, beside him, did the same, both stopping when they could see clearly but were still shielded by surrounding foliage.

Moving the binoculars slowly, Partridge studied the scene below.

There was almost no activity. At the jetty, two men were working on a boat, stripping an outboard engine. A woman left one shack, emptied a pail of slops behind it, and returned inside. A man emerged from the jungle, walked toward another house and entered. Two scrawny dogs were clawing their way into an open garbage pile. Other garbage littered the area. Viewed overall, Nueva Esperanza appeared to be a jungle slum.

Partridge began studying the buildings individually, letting the binoculars linger several minutes on each. Presumably the prisoners were being held in one of them, but no clue was evident as to which. It was already obvious, he thought, that at least a full day's observation would be needed and any idea of a rescue attempt tonight and departure by air tomorrow morning was clearly out of the question. He settled down, simply to wait and watch while the light diminished.

As always in the tropics when the sun receded, darkness followed quickly. In the houses a few dim lights had come on and now the last vestiges of day were almost gone. Partridge lowered his binoculars and wiped his eyes, which were strained after more than an hour of concentration on the scene below. There was little else, he believed, that they would learn today.

At that moment Minh touched his arm, gesturing toward the huts below. Partridge picked up his binoculars and peered again. At once he saw movement in the now dim light—the figure of a man walking down the path between two groups of houses. In contrast to other movements they had seen, this man's walk seemed purposeful. Something else was different; Partridge strained to see . . . now he had it! The man was carrying a rifle, slung over his shoulder. Partridge and Minh both followed the man's movement with their binoculars.

Away from the other buildings, standing separately, was a single shack. Partridge had seen it earlier, but there had been nothing special to attract attention. Now the man reached the building and disappeared inside. There was an opening in the front wall and dim light filtered through.

Still they continued watching, and for a few minutes nothing happened. Then, from the same shack a figure emerged and walked away. Even in the faded light two things could be distinguished: This was a different man and he, too, was carrying a gun.

Could it be, Partridge wondered excitedly, that what they had just witnessed was a changing of the prisoners' guard? More confirmation was needed and they would have to keep observing. But the probability was strong that the shack standing alone was where Jessica and Nicky Sloane were being held.

He tried not to let his mind dwell on the likelihood that, until a day or two before, Angus Sloane had been confined there too.

* * *

The hours passed.

Partridge bad advised the others, "What we need to know is how much activity there is at night in Nueva Esperanza, roughly how long it lasts, and what time everything settles down, with most lights out. I'd like a written record kept, with all times noted.”

At Partridge's request, Minh stayed another hour alone at the observation point and, later, Ken O'Hara relieved him.

”Everyone get as much rest as you can,” Partridge ordered.”But we should man the observation point and the sentry post in the clearing all the time, which means only two people can sleep at once.” After discussion it was decided they would alternate duty with sleep, using two-hour shifts.

Earlier, Fernandez had rigged hammocks with mosquito netting inside the hut they had found on arrival. The hammocks were less than comfortable, but those using them were too exhausted from the day's activity to care, and quickly fell asleep. The idea of bringing plastic sheeting was justified during the night when rain fell heavily and leaked through the hut roof. Fernandez adroitly covered the hammocks so the sleepers were protected. Those outside huddled in their own plastic protection as best they could until the rain stopped half an hour later.

Nothing specific was done about meals. Food and water were handled individually, though they all knew the dried food must be used sparingly. Their water supply, brought from Lima the preceding day, had already been consumed, and several hours earlier Fernandez had filled water bottles from a jungle stream, adding sterilizing tablets. He had warned that most local water was contaminated by chemicals used by drug processors. The water in the bottles now tasted awful and everyone drank as little as possible.

By dawn next morning, Partridge had answers to his questions concerning Neuva Esperanza at night: There was very little activity—other than the strumming of a guitar and occasional strident voices and drunken laughter somewhere indoors. Such activity as there was lasted for about three and a half hours after dark. By 1:30 A.M. the entire hamlet was silent and dark.

What they still needed to know—assuming Partridge's surmises about the guards and the prisoners' location were correct —was how often a guard change occurred, and at what times. By morning no clear picture had emerged. If there had been another guard change in the night, it escaped observation.

Their routine continued through the day.

Manning of the sentry post and observation point was maintained, and even during daytime the hammocks were available to those off duty. All took advantage of them, knowing their reserves of endurance might be needed later.

During the afternoon, while it was Harry Partridge's turn in a hammock, he contemplated what he and the others were doing . . . asking himself with a sense of unreality: Is all this really happening? Should their small, unofficial force be attempting a rescue? In a few hours, no more, they would probably have to kill or be killed themselves. Was it all madness? Like that line from Macbeth, ". . . life's fitful fever . . .”

He was a professional journalist, wasn't he? A TV correspondent, an observer of wars and conflict, not a participant. Yet suddenly, by his own decision, he had become an adventurer, a mercenary, a would—be soldier. Did this switch in any way make sense?

Whatever the answer, there was another question: If he, Harry Partridge, failed to do what was needed here and now, who would?

And something else: A journalist covering wars, especially a TV correspondent, was never far from violence, mayhem, ugly wounding, sudden death. He or she lived those perils, shared them, sometimes suffered them, then brought them nightly into the clean and tidy living rooms of urban America, an environment where they were no more than images on a screen and therefore not dangerous to those who watched.

And yet, increasingly, those images were becoming dangerous, were moving closer both in time and distance, and soon would be not only pictures on a tube but harsh reality in American cities and streets where crime already prowled. Now the violence and terrorism in the underprivileged, divided, war-torn half-world was moving nearer, ever nearer, to American soil. It was inevitable and had been expected by international scholars for a long time.

The Monroe Doctrine, once thought to be an American protection, no longer worked; nowadays few bothered even speaking of it. The kidnapping of the Sloane family within the United States by foreign agents had demonstrated that international terrorism was already there. There was more, much more, to come—terrorist bombings, hostage taking, shelling in the streets. Tragically, there was no way to avoid it. Equally tragic was that many who were not participants soon would be —like it or not.

So at this moment, Partridge thought, his involvement and that of the other three was not unreal. He suspected that Minh Van Canh, especially, saw nothing contradictory in their present situation. Minh, who had lived through and survived a terrible, divisive war within his own country, would find it easier than most to accept this undertaking now.

And, in a personal way, beyond and overshadowing all those thoughts was Jessica. Jessica, who was probably close at hand, somewhere inside that hut. Jessica—Gemma whose memories and personalities, in his mind, were intertwined.

Then . . . fatigue suddenly overwhelming him . . . he fell asleep.

On awakening, some fifteen minutes before his own observation duty, he dropped down from the hammock and went outside to check the general situation.

At the sentry post, as previously, there had been no alarms or action. The observation point, however, had produced specific information and opinions.

There was a regular change of an armed person—presumably a guard—at the same location as on the night before, suggesting that prisoners were indeed housed in the building that stood apart from others. It seemed probable that a guard change was supposed to occur every four hours, but the timing was not exact. A changeover was sometimes as much as twenty minutes late and the imprecision, Partridge believed, showed a casualness on the guards' part, confirming the message conveyed by Jessica: Security here is sometimes lax.

Since morning, what appeared to be food in containers had been delivered twice by women entering what was presumed to be the prisoners' building. The same woman who delivered food made two separate journeys out with pails which she emptied into the bush.

Within the hamlet, only at the suspected building did any guard or sentry post exist.

While members of the guard force were armed with automatic rifles, they did not seem to be soldiers or to operate as a trained unit.

During the day, all comings and goings to and from Nueva Esperanza were by boat. No road vehicle was seen. The engines on boats did not appear to require keys; therefore it would be easy to steal a boat if that line of escape was taken. On the other hand, there were plenty of other boats with which a stolen boat could be pursued. Ken O'Hara, who was familiar with boats, identified the best ones.

A unanimous view among the observers, though it was only an opinion, was that the people being observed were almost totally relaxed, which seemed to indicate that an aggressive incursion from outside was not expected.”If one was,” Fernandez pointed out, "they would have patrols out, including up here, looking for people like us.”

At dusk, Partridge called the other three together and informed them, "We've watched long enough. We go down tonight.”

He told Fernandez, "You'll guide us from here. I want to arrive at that hut at 2 a.m. Everyone must be silent all the way. If we need to communicate, whisper.”

Minh asked, "Is there an order of battle, Harry?”

"Yes,” Partridge answered.”I'll go close up, look in to see what I can, then enter first. I'd like you right behind me, Minh, covering my back. Fernandez will hang behind, watch the other houses for anyone appearing, but join us if we need help.”

Fernandez nodded.

Partridge turned to O'Hara, "Ken, you'll go directly to the jetty. I've decided we'll leave by boat. We don't know what kind of condition Jessica and Nicholas are in, and they may not be up to the journey we had coming here.”

"Got it!” O'Hara said.”I assume you want me to grab a boat.”

“Yes and, if you can, disable some of the others, but remember—no noise!”

"There'll be noise when we start the motor.”

"No,” Partridge said.”We'll have to row away, and when we get to midstream let the current take us. Fortunately it's going in the right direction. Only when we're out of hearing will we start the engine.”

Even as he spoke, Partridge knew he was assuming everything would go well. If not, they would improvise as best they could, which included using weapons.

Remembering the planned 8 A.m. rendezvous with AeroLibertad's Cheyenne II, Fernandez inquired, "Have you decided which airstrip we'll try for—Sion or the other?”

"I'll make that choice in the boat, depending how everything else goes and how much time we have.”

What was necessary now, Partridge concluded, was to check weapons, discard unneeded equipment and make sure they could travel as light and as fast as possible.

A mixture of excitement and apprehension gripped them all.

15

Back in Lima on Saturday morning, after watching the AeroLibertad Cheyenne II depart, Rita Abrams had been taken completely by surprise on two counts.

First, she had not expected an on-the-scene appearance by Crawford Sloane. A message awaiting her at CBA's Entel Peru booth announced that Sloane would be in Lima by early morning, in fact could have arrived already. She promptly called Cesar's Hotel where, according to the message, he would be staying. Crawf had not yet checked in, and she left word advising him where she was and requesting that he phone.

Second, and even more surprising, was the faxed letter from Les Chippingham, sent the previous evening to Harry Partridge. The instruction on the letter to place it in an envelope marked "Personal” had clearly not been noticed by the busy Entel fax operator and it arrived along with other mail, open so that anyone could read it. Rita did, and was incredulous.

Harry had been fired, dismissed by CBA! "Effective immediately,” the letter said, and he was to leave Peru "preferably” on Saturday—today!—"definitely” no later than Sunday. If a commercial flight to the U.S. was not available, he was authorized to charter. Big deal!

The more Rita thought about it, the more ridiculous and outrageous it was, especially now. Could Crawf's arrival in Lima, she wondered, have anything to do with it? She was sure it did, and waited impatiently to hear from Sloane, all the while her anger over the abominable treatment of Harry intensifying.

Meanwhile, there was no way she could communicate the letter's contents to Partridge since he was already in the jungle, on his way to Nueva Esperanza.

* * *

Sloane didn't telephone. After arriving at the hotel and receiving Rita's message, he took a taxi immediately to Entel. He had worked in Lima on assignment in the past and knew his way around.

His first question to Rita was, "Where's Harry?”

"In the jungle,” she answered tersely, "risking his life trying to rescue your wife and boy.” Then she thrust the faxed letter forward.”What the hell is this?”

"What do you mean?” Crawford Sloane took the letter and read it as she watched him. He read it twice, then shook his head.”This is a mistake. It has to be.”

A sharpness still in Rita's voice, she asked, "Are you telling me you don't know anything about it?”

"Of course not.” Sloane shook his head impatiently.”Harry's my friend. Right now I need him more than anyone else in the world. Please tell me what he's doing in the jungle—isn't that what you just said?” Sloane had clearly dismissed the letter as absurd, something he would not waste time on.

Rita swallowed hard. Tears flooded her eyes; she was angry at her own misjudgment and injustice.”Oh, Christ, Crawf! I'm sorry.” For the first time she took in the extra lines of strain on the anchorman's face, the anguish in his eyes. He looked far worse than when she had last seen him, eight days earlier.”I thought that somehow you . . . Oh, never mind!”

Rita pulled herself together.”Here's what's happening, what Harry and the others are trying to do.” She described the expedition to Nueva Esperanza and what Partridge hoped to achieve. She filled in background, too, explaining Partridge's doubts about telephone security—the reason his plan had not been reported to New York.

At length Sloane said, "I'd like to talk to that pilot, find out how things were when he left Harry and the others. What's his name?”

"Zileri.” Rita looked at her watch.”He's probably not back yet, but I'll phone soon, and then we'll go. Have you had breakfast?”

Sloane shook his head.

”There's a cafeteria in the building. Let's go down.”

Over coffee and croissants, Rita said gently, "Crawf, we were all shocked and saddened by the news about your father Harry especially. I know he blamed himself for not moving faster, but we didn't have the information . . .”

Sloane stopped her with a gesture.”I'll never blame Harry for anything—whatever happens, even now. No one could have done more.”

"I agree,” Rita said, "which is what makes this so unbelievable.” Once more she produced the faxed letter which Les Chippingham had signed.”This is no mistake, Crawf. This was intended. People don't make mistakes like that.”

He read it again.”When we get upstairs I'll phone Les in New York.”

"Before you do, let's consider this: There's something behind it, something you and I don't know. Yesterday in New York—did anything happen out of the ordinary?”

"You mean at CBA?"

"Yes"

Sloane considered.”I don't think so . . . well, I did hear Les was sent for by Margot Lloyd-Mason—apparently in an all fired hurry. He was over at Stonehenge. But I've no idea what it was about.”

A sudden thought struck Rita.”Could it have been something to do with Globanic? Perhaps this.” Opening her purse, she took out the several clipped sheets of paper Harry Partridge had given her this morning.

Sloane took the sheets and read them.”Interesting! A huge debt-to-equity swap. Really big money! Where did you get this?”

"From Harry.” She repeated what Partridge had told her on the way to the airport—how he had received the document from the Peru radio commentator, Sergio Hurtado, who intended to broadcast the information during the coming week. Rita added, "Harry told me he didn't plan to use the story. Said it was the least we could do for Globanic which puts butter on our bread.”

"There could be a linkage between this and Harry's firing,” Sloane said thoughtfully.”I see a possibility. Let's go upstairs and call Les now.”

"There's something I want to do first, when we get there,” Rita said.

The "something” was send for Victor Velasco.

When the international manager of Entel appeared a few minutes later, Rita told him, "I want a secure line to New York, with no one listening.”

Velasco looked embarrassed.”Do you have reason to suppose — . .”

"Yes."

"Please come to my office. You may use a phone there.”

Rita and Crawford Sloane followed the manager to a pleasant, carpeted office on the same floor.”Please use my desk.” He pointed to a red phone.”That line is secure. I guarantee it. You may dial direct.”

"Thank you.” With Partridge en route to Nueva Esperanza, Rita had no intention of letting his whereabouts, which might be mentioned in conversation, become known to Peru authorities.

With a courteous nod, Velasco left the office, closing the door behind him.

Sloane, seated at the desk, tried Les Chippingham's direct CBA News line first. There was no answer—not unusual on a Saturday morning. What was unusual was that the news president had not left with the CBA News switchboard a number where he could be reached. Consulting a pocket notebook, Sloane tried a third number—Chippingham's uptown Manhattan apartment. Again no response. There was a Scarsdale number where Chippingham sometimes spent weekends. He wasn't there either.

”It rather looks,” Sloane said, "as if he's deliberately made himself unavailable this morning.” He sat at the desk, contemplative, weighing a decision.

”What are you thinking of?” Rita asked.

”Calling Margot Lloyd-Mason.” He picked up the red phone.”I will.”

Sloane tapped out the U.S. overseas code again and the number of Stonehenge. An operator told him, "Mrs. Lloyd-Mason is not in her office today.”

"This is Crawford Sloane. Will you give me her home number, Please.”

"It's unlisted, Mr. Sloane. I'm not allowed to give it out.”

"But you have it?”

The operator hesitated.”Yes, sir.”

"What's your name, operator?”

"Noreen.”

"A beautiful name; I've always liked that. Now, please listen to me carefully, Noreen. By the way, do you recognize my voice?”

"Oh yes, sir. I watch the news every night. But lately I've been worried . . .”

"Thank you, Noreen. So have I. Now, I'm calling from Lima, Peru, and I simply have to speak with Mrs. Lloyd-Mason. If you'll give me that number, I promise I will never breathe a word of how I got it, except that next time I'm in Stonehenge I'll come to the switchboard room and thank you personally.”

"Oh! Would you really, Mr. Sloane? We'd all love it!”

"I always keep promises. The number, Noreen?”

He wrote it down as she read it out.

This time, the phone was answered on the second ring by a male voice which sounded like a butler's. Sloane identified himself and asked for Mrs. Lloyd-Mason.

He waited several minutes, then Margot's voice, which was unmistakable, said, "Yes?”

"This is Crawf. I'm calling from Lima.”

"So I was told, Mr. Sloane. I'm curious why you are calling me, particularly at home. First, though, I'd like to offer my sympathy about your father's death.”

"Thank you.”

Unusually for someone of his stature, Sloane had never been on a first-name basis with the CBA president and clearly she intended to keep it that way. He also guessed from her tone and aloofness that he would get nowhere with direct questions. He decided to try the timeworn journalist's trick which so often worked, even with sophisticated persons.

”Mrs. Lloyd-Mason, yesterday when you decided to fire Harry Partridge from CBA, I wonder if you realized how much he has accomplished in the whole effort to find and free my wife, son and father.”

The reply came back explosively, "Who told you that was my decision?”

He was tempted to answer, You just did! But restraining himself, he said, "In the TV news business, which is close-knit, almost nothing is secret. That's why I called you.”

Margot snapped, "I do not wish to discuss this now.”

"That's a pity,” Sloane said, speaking quickly, before she could hang up, "because I thought you might want to talk about the connection between Harry's firing and that big debt to-equity swap Globanic is arranging with Peru. Did Harry's honest reporting offend someone with a stake in that deal?”

At the other end of the line there was a long silence in which he could hear Margot breathing. Then, her voice subdued, she asked, "Where did you hear all that?”

So there was a connection after all!

"Well,” Sloane said, "the fact is, Harry Partridge learned about the debt-to-equity arrangement. He's a first-class reporter, you know, one of the best in our business, and right now he's out risking his life for CBA. Anyway, Harry decided not to use the information. His words were, I understand, 'That's the least I can do for Globanic, which puts butter on our bread.' “

Again the silence. Then Margot asked, "So it isn't going to be publicized?”

"Aha! That's another matter.” In other circumstances, Sloane thought, he might have enjoyed this; as it was, he felt miserably depressed.”There's a radio reporter in Lima who uncovered the story, has a copy of the agreement, and intends to broadcast it next week. I expect it will be picked up outside Peru. Don't you?”

Margot didn't answer. Wondering if she had hung up, he asked, "Are you still there?”

"Yes."

"Are you wishing, by chance, that you hadn't done what you did to Harry Partridge?”

"No.” The answer seemed disembodied, as if Margot's mind was far away.”No,” she repeated, "I was thinking of other things.”

"Mrs. Lloyd-Mason"—Crawford Sloane employed the cutting tone he used occasionally for repulsive items in the news" has anyone told you lately that you are a cold-hearted bitch?”

He replaced the red phone.

* * *

Margot, too, hung up as her phone went silent. One day soon, she decided, she would find her own way to deal with the self-important Mr. Crawford Sloane. But this was not the time. Right now, other things were more important.

The news she had just been given about Globanic and Peru had severely jolted her. But she had been jolted in the past and seldom stayed that way for long. Margot had not climbed as high and fast as she had in the world of business without serious setbacks, and almost always she contrived to turn them to her advantage. Somehow she must do so now. She paused, weighing initiatives she could take.

Without question, she must call Theo Elliott today. He never minded being disturbed about important business matters at any time, weekends included.

She would tell him she had information that word was circulating in Peru about the Globanic deal, that a Peruvian reporter had somehow obtained a copy of the draft agreement and was about to publish it. It had nothing to do with CBA or, for that matter, any other U.S. network or newspaper; it was a local Peruvian leak, though a bad one.

The whole thing was unfortunate, she would tell Theo, and she didn't want to make judgments, though could not help wondering: Had Fossie Xenos been careless about who he talked to, particularly in Peru? It did seem possible, based on what she had heard, that the enthusiasm Fossie was noted for had made him indiscreet.

She would also tell Theo that because of the activity among the Peruvian press, the matter had come to the attention of CBA News. But Margot had given definite orders that CBA would not report it.

With luck, she thought, by early next week any adverse attention would have shifted away from herself and landed on Fossie. Good!

During her ruminations, Margot did give brief thought to Harry Partridge. Should he be reinstated? Then she decided no. Doing that would only confuse things, and Partridge wasn't important, so let the decision stand. Besides, Theo would still want to make his phone call to Peru's President Castafieda on Monday saying that the troublemaker—to use Theo's word had been dismissed and banished from Peru.

Smiling, confident her strategy would work, she picked up the phone and tapped out the unlisted number of Theo Elliott's home.

* * *

The AeroLibertad owner and pilot, Oswaldo Zileri, had heard of Crawford Sloane and was appropriately respectful.

”When your friends arranged their charter, Mr. Sloane, I said I did not wish to know their purpose. Now that I see you here, I can guess it, and I wish you, and them, well.”

"Thank you,” Sloane said. He and Rita were in Zileri's modest office near Lima's airport.”When you left Mr. Partridge and the others this morning, how did everything look?”

Zileri shrugged.”The way the jungle always looks—green, impenetrable, endless. There was no activity, other than by your friends.”

Rita told Zileri, "When we talked about extra passengers coming back, we hoped there would be three. But now it's two.”

"I have heard the sad news about Mr. Sloane's father.” The pilot shook his head.”We live in savage times.”

Sloane began, "I was wondering if now . . .”

Zileri finished for him.”. . . if there might be room for you and Miss Abrams to go on the other trips—one, two, or more —to bring the people back.”

"Yes."

"It will be okay. Because one of the expected passengers is a boy, and there will be no freight or baggage, weight will not be a problem. You must be here before dawn tomorrow—and the next day, if we go.”

"We will be,” Rita said. She turned to Sloane.”Harry wasn't optimistic about making a rendezvous the first day after going in. The flight is a precaution in case they need it. All along, he thought the second day more likely.”

* * *

There was one other thing Rita felt she had to do. She did not tell Crawf, but composed a fax message to Les Chippingham, to be waiting for him Monday morning. Deliberately, she did not route the message to the fax machine in the news president's office, but to one at the Horseshoe. There it would be the reverse of private and could be read by others—just as Chippingham's letter dismissing Harry Partridge had been when it arrived at Entel Peru.

Rita addressed her communication:

L W Chippingham

President, CBA News

Copies: All Notice Boards

She had no illusions that what she had written would get on any notice board. It wouldn't. But it was a signal, which would be understood by fellow producers at the Horseshoe, that she wanted wide circulation. Someone would make a copy or copies, to be passed around, read, and probably copied again and again.

The message read:

You sordid, selfish, cowardly son of a bitch!

To fire Harry Partridge the way you did—without cause, warning or even explanation—just to satisfy your cozy crony, the Iceberg-woman, Lloyd-Mason, is a betrayal of everything which used to be fair and decent at CBA.

Harry will come out of this smelling like Chanel No. 5. You already stink like the sewer rat you are.

How I ever let myself go to bed with you regularly is beyond my understanding. But never again! If you had the last erect cock on earth, I wouldn't have it near me.

As for working for you any longer—ugh I With deep sadness for what you used to be, compared with what you have become,

Your ex-friend, ex-admirer, ex-lover, ex-producer,

Rita Abrams

Obviously, Rita thought, after that was received and digested, Harry was not the only one who would be looking for fresh employment. But she didn't care. She felt a whole lot better as she watched the fax leave Entel, knowing that a moment later it was already in New York.

16

It was 2:10 a.m. in Nueva Esperanza.

Jessica had been restless for the past several hours, drifting in and out of sleep, dreaming at times—the dreams becoming nightmares merging with reality.

Moments earlier, certain she was awake, Jessica had peered through the roughly cut window opening facing her cell, and what she thought she saw in dim light reflected from inside was the face of Harry Partridge. Then the face disappeared as suddenly as it came. Was she awake? Or could she still be dreaming? Hallucinating, maybe?

Jessica was shaking her head, trying to clear it, when the face appeared again, rising slowly above the lowest window level, and this time it stayed. A hand made a signal which she didn't understand, but she studied the face again. Could it be? Her heart leaped as she decided: Yes, it could! It was Harry Partridge.

The face was mouthing something silently, the lips making exaggerated movements, attempting to communicate. She concentrated, trying to understand, and managed to grasp the words "the guard.” That was it: Where was the guard?

The guard at the moment was Vicente. He had come on duty an hour ago—apparently very late—and there had been a heated argument between him and Ramon, who had the earlier duty. Ramon had shouted angrily. Vicente, in arguing back, sounded drunk—at least his speech was slurred. Jessica didn't care about the dispute and, as always, was glad to see Ramon go; he had a vicious streak, was unpredictable, and still insisted on the silence rule for the prisoners which, by now, none of the other guards enforced.

Turning her head, Jessica could see Vicente. He was seated in the chair which all the guards used, beyond the cells and out of sight of the window. She wasn't sure, but his eyes seemed closed. His automatic rifle was propped against the wall alongside him. Nearby a kerosene lamp hung from a beam above, and it was by the lamp's reflected light she had seen the face outside.

Being careful, in case Vicente should suddenly observe her, Jessica answered the silent question by inclining her head toward where he was seated.

At once the mouth on the face at the window—Jessiea still had trouble accepting it as Harry Partridge's—began to form words again. Once more, she concentrated. After the third time she understood the message: "Call him!”

Jessica nodded slightly, intimating that she understood. Her heart was pounding at the sight of Harry. It could only mean, she thought, that the rescue they had hoped for for so long was finally happening. At the same time, she knew that completing whatever had been started would not be easy.

”Vicente!” She raised her voice no louder than she thought was needed, but it was not enough to penetrate his dozing. A touch more strongly, she tried again.”Vicente!”

This time he stirred. Vicente's eyes opened and met Jessica's. As they did, she beckoned him.

Vicente shifted in his chair. He started to rise and, watching him, Jessica had the impression he was organizing himself mentally, trying to sober tip. He stood, started to come toward her, then quickly turned back to collect his rifle. He held it in a businesslike way, she noticed, clearly ready to use it if required.

She had better have an excuse for summoning Vicente, Jessica reasoned, and decided she would ask by gestures if she could go into Nicky's cell. The request would be refused, but at this point that didn't matter.

She had no idea what Harry had in mind. She only knew, while her anxiety and tension grew, that this was the moment she had dreamed about, yet feared might never come.

* * *

Crouched low beneath the window, Partridge gripped his nine-millimeter Browning pistol, the silencer extending from the barrel. So far tonight, everything had gone exactly as planned, but he knew the most difficult and crucial part of the action was about to begin.

The next few seconds would offer him limited alternatives, one of which he would have to choose in an instant's decision. The way it looked now, he might be able to hold up the guard, using the Browning as a threat, after which the guard would either be bound securely, gagged and left, or taken with them as a captive. The second choice would be least preferable. There was a third possibility—to kill the guard, but that was something he would prefer not to do.

One thing was working in his favon Jessica was resourceful, quick to think and understand—exactly as he remembered her.

He listened to her call twice, heard minor noises from somewhere out of sight, then footsteps as the guard walked over. Partridge held his breath, ready to slump below the window level entirely if the guard was looking in his direction.

He wasn't. The man had his back to Partridge and faced Jessica, which gave Partridge an extra second to assess the scene.

The first thing he recognized was that the guard was carrying a Kalashnikov automatic rifle, a weapon Partridge knew well, and from the way it was being handled, the guard knew how to use it. Compared with the Kalashnikov, Partridge's Browning was a peashooter.

The conclusion was inevitable and inescapable: Partridge would have to kill the guard and get his shot in first, which meant surprise.

But there was an obstacle. Jessica. She was now exactly in line with the guard and Partridge. A shot aimed at the guard could hit Jessica too.

Partridge had to gamble. There would be no other chance, could be no other choice. And the gamble would be on Jessica's fast thinking and instant action.

Taking a breath, Partridge called out loudly, clearly, "Jessica, drop to the floor—now!”

Instantly, the guard spun around, his rifle raised, the safety off. But Partridge already had the Browning raised and sighted. A moment earlier he had remembered the advice of a firearms instructor who taught him to use weapons: "If you want to kill a person, don't aim for the head. Chances are, no matter how gently you squeeze the trigger, the gun will rise and the bullet will go high, perhaps clear over the head. So aim for the heart, or slightly below. That way, even if the bullet's higher than the heart, it will do a lot of damage, probably kill, and if it doesn't, you'll have time for a second shot.”

Partridge squeezed the trigger and the Browning fired with a near-silent "pfft!” Even though he had had experience with silencers, their quietness always surprised him. He peered down the sights, ready for a second shot, but it wasn't needed. The first had hit the guard in the chest, just about where the heart should be and where blood was beginning to appear. For an instant the man looked surprised, then he fell where he was, dropping the rifle, which created the only noise.

Even before it happened, Partridge had seen Jessica drop flat to the ground, obeying his command instantly. In a crevice of his mind he was relieved and grateful. Now Jessica was scrambling to her feet.

Partridge turned toward the outside doorway to the shack, but a swiftly moving shadow was ahead of him. It was Minh Van Canh, who had stayed positioned at Partridge's rear, as ordered, but now changed places, going forward. Minh went swiftly to the guard, his own Uzi at the ready, then confirmed with a nod to Partridge, just entering, that the man was dead. Next, Minh moved to Jessica's cell, inspected the padlock which secured it and asked, "Where is the key?”

Jessica told him, "Somewhere over where the guard was sitting. Nicky's too.”

In the adjoining cell, Nicky stirred from sleep. Abruptly, he sat upright.”Mom, what's happenine.”

Jessica assured him, "It's good, Nicky. All good!”

Nicky took in the new arrivals—Partridge, approaching and holding the Kalashnikov rifle he had just picked up, and Minh collecting keys which were hanging from a nail.”Who are they, Mom?”

"Friends, dear. Very good friends.”

Nicky, still sleepy, brightened. Then he saw the fallen, still figure on the ground amid a widening pool of blood and cried out, "It's Vicente! They shot Vicente! Why?”

"Hush, Nicky!” Jessica warned.

Keeping his voice low, Partridge answered.”I didn't like doing it, Nicholas. But he was going to shoot me. If he had, I couldn't have taken you and your mother away from here, which is what we've come to do.”

With a flash of recognition, Nicky said, "You're Mr. Partridge, aren't you?”

"Yes, I am.”

Jessica said emotionally, "Oh, bless you, Harry! Dear Harry!”

Still speaking softly, Partridge cautioned, "We're not out of this yet, and we've a way to go. We all have to move quickly.”

Minh had returned with the keys and was trying them, one by one, in the padlock of Jessica's cell. Suddenly the lock opened. An instant later the door swung wide and Jessica walked out. Minh went to Nicky's cell and tried out keys there. Within seconds Nicky was free too, and he and Jessica embraced briefly in the area between the cells and the outside door.

”Help me!” Partridge told Minh. He had been dragging the body of the guard toward Nicky's cell and together they lifted the dead man onto the low wooden bed. The action would not prevent discovery of the prisoners' escape, Partridge thought, but might delay it slightly. With the same motive, he lowered the light in the kerosene lamp so it was merely a glimmer, the hut interior receding into darkness.

Nicky left Jessica and moved close to Partridge. In a stilted monotone, he said, "It's all right about shooting Vicente, Mr. Partridge. He helped us sometimes, but he was one of them. They killed my granddad and cut off two of my fingers, so I can't play the piano anymore.” He held up his bandaged hand.

"Call me Harry,” Partridge said.”Yes, I knew about your grandfather and the fingers. And I'm terribly sorry.”

Again the uptight, rigid voice.”Do you know about the Stockholm syndrome, Harry? My mom does. If you'd like her to, she'll tell you.”

Without answering, Partridge looked closely at Nicky. He had encountered shock before—in individuals affected by more exposure to danger or disaster than their minds could handleand the boy's tone and choice of words within the past few minutes held symptoms of shock. He was going to need help soon. Meanwhile, doing the best he could, Partridge reached out and put his arm around Nicky's shoulders. He felt the boy respond by drawing closer to him.

Partridge saw Jessica watching, her face showing the same concern as his own. She, too, wished the guard could have been someone other than Vicente. If it had been Ramon, she would not have been troubled in the least. Just the same, she was taken aback by Nicky's words and manner.

Partridge shook his head, trying to convey reassurance to Jessica, at the same time ordering, "Let's go.”

In his free hand he kept the Kalashnikov; it was a good fighting weapon and might be useful. He had also pocketed two spare magazines he found on the body of the guard.

Minh was ahead of them at the doorway. He had retrieved his camera from outside and now had it raised, recording their departure with the cells as background. Minh was using a special night lens, Partridge noted—infrared didn't work with tape —and he would have passable pictures, even in this dimmest light.

Since yesterday, Minh had been taking pictures from time to time, though selectively and sparingly since there had been limitations on the number of tape cassettes he could bring.

At that moment Fernandez, who had been watching the other buildings, burst in. He warned Partridge breathlessly, "Coming here—a woman! By herself. I think she's armed.” At the same moment, approaching footsteps were audible and close.

There was no time for orders or dispositions. Everyone froze where they were. Jessica was near the doorway, though off to one side. Minh faced the opening directly, the others were farther back in shadows. Partridge had the Kalashnikov raised. Though he knew that firing it would awaken the hamlet, to get at the Browning with its silencer, he would have to put the rifle down and change hands. There wasn't time.

Socorro walked in briskly. She was wearing a robe and holding a Smith and Wesson revolver pointed forward, the hammer cocked. Jessica had seen Socorro with a gun before, but it had always been holstered, never in her hand.

Despite the gun, Socorro did not appear to be expecting anything out of the ordinary, and in the almost nonexistent light at first mistook Minh, who was closest, for the guard. She said, "Pense que escuche . . .” Then she realized it wasn't the guard and glancing left, saw Jessica. Startled, she exclaimed, "Que haces . . . ?” then stopped.

What happened next occurred so swiftly that, later, no one could describe the sequence of events.

Socorro raised the revolver and, with her finger around the trigger, moved swiftly, closing on Jessica. Afterward, it was assumed she intended to seize Jessica and hold her hostage, perhaps with the pistol at her head. J

essica saw the move coming and, with equal swiftness, remembered CQB — close quarters battle—which she had learned but had not used since capture. While tempted at earlier moments to employ it, she had known that in the long term it would do no good and decided to save her skill for a moment when it really counted.

”When an opponent moves towards you, “Brigadier Wade had emphasized during lessons and demonstrations, 'Your human instinct is to move back, The opponent will expect that too. Don't do it! Instead, surprise him and go forward—move in close!”

With lightning speed, Jessica leapt at Socorro, raising her left arm, braced rigidly, upward and forcefully inside the other woman's right. With a jarring movement as the arms made contact, Socorro's arm flew involuntarily upward, forcing her hand back until the fingers opened in a reflex action and the gun dropped. The entire maneuver took barely a second, Socorro scarcely aware of what had happened.

Without pause, Jessica thrust two fingers hard into the soft flesh under Socorro's chin, the fingers compressing the trachea and impeding breathing. Simultaneously Jessica placed a leg behind Socorro and pushed her backward, throwing her off balance. Jessica then turned Socorro and placed her in a tight stranglehold, making it impossible for her to move. If this had been war—for which CQB was intended—the next step would have been to break Socorro's neck and kill.

Jessica, who had never killed anyone or ever expected to, hesitated. She felt Socorro struggling to speak and slightly eased the pressure of her fingers.

Gasping, Socorro pleaded in a whisper, "Let me go . . . I will help you . . . go with you to escape . . . know the way.”

Partridge had come close enough to hear. He asked, "Can you trust her?”

Again, Jessica hesitated. She had a moment of compassion. Socorro had not been all evil. All along, Jessica had an instinct that Socorro's days in America as a nurse had tilted her toward good. She had cared for Nicky after his bums, and later when his fingers were severed. There was the incident of the chocolate bar, tossed by Socorro into the boat when all three were hungry. Socorro had improved their living conditions by having openings cut in walls . . . had disobeyed Miguel's orders in allowing Jessica to join Nicky in his cell . . .

But it was also Socorro who had been part of the kidnap from the beginning and who, when Nicky's fingers were being cut, had called across callously, "Shut upl There's no way you can stop what's going to happen.”

And then, in her mind, Jessica heard Nicky's words, spoken only minutes earlier: "It's all right about shooting Vicente, Harry . . . He helped us sometimes, but he was one of them . . . Do you know about the Stockholm syndrome? . . . . My mom does . . .”

Beware the Stockholm syndrome!

Jessica answered Partridge's question. Shaking her head, she told him, "No!”

Their eyes met. Harry had been amazed by Jessica's demonstration of skill in hand-to-hand combat. He wondered where she bad learned it and why. At the moment, though, that didn't matter. What did matter was that she had reached a point of decision and her eyes were asking him a question. He nodded briefly. Then, not wanting to witness what came next, he turned away.

Shuddering, Jessica tightened her grip, broke Socorro's neck, then twisted the head sharply to sunder the spinal cord. There was a snapping sound, surprisingly faint, and the body Jessica was holding slumped. She let it fall.

* * *

Led by Partridge, with Jessica, Nicky, Minh and Fernandez following quietly, the group moved through the darkened hamlet, encountering no one.

At the jetty Ken O'Hara said, "I thought you'd never get here.”

"We had problems,” Partridge told him.”Let's move fast! Which boat?”

"This one.” It was an open wooden workboat about thirty feet long, with twin outboard motors. Two lines secured it to the jetty.”I grabbed some extra fuel from other boats.” O'Hara pointed to several plastic containers near the stem.

”Everybody aboard!” Partridge ordered.

Earlier, a three-quarters moon had been obscured by cloud, but within the past few minutes the cloud had shifted. Now everything was lighter, particularly over the water.

Fernandez helped Jessica and Nicky into the boat. Jessica was shaking uncontrollably and feeling sick, both after effects of having killed Socorro only minutes earlier. Minh, taking pictures from the jetty, jumped in last as O'Hara, unfastening the lines, used an oar to push out from shore. Fernandez grabbed a second oar. Together he and O'Hara rowed toward midstream.

Looking around, Partridge could see that O'Hara had used his waiting time effectively. Several other boats were settling in the water near shore, others drifting away.

”I pulled some plugs.” O'Hara gestured to the nearer boats. "Those can be refloated, but it'll cause delay. Threw a couple of good motors in the river.”

"Nice going, Ken!” His decision to bring O'Hara, Partridge thought, had been vindicated several times.

There were no proper seats in the boat they were using. As with the one in which Jessica, Nicky and Angus had traveled earlier, passengers sat low on boards running fore and aft above the keel. The two rowers had positioned themselves on opposite sides and were striving hard to reach the Huallaga River's center. As the sight of Nueva Esperanza faded in the moonlight, a strong current was already carrying them downstream.

Partridge had checked his watch as they left the jetty: 2:35 A.m. At 2:50, with the boat moving along well, following the river's generally northwest course, he told Ken O'Hara to start the engines.

O'Hara opened a fuel-tank air vent on the port-side engine, adjusted a choke, pumped a rubber ball and pulled a flywheel rope hard. The engine fired immediately. He adjusted the engine speed to a fast idle, then followed the same procedure with the second engine. As he put both engines in gear, the boat surged forward.

The sky had stayed clear. Bright moonlight, reflected on the water, made navigation relatively easy along the river's winding course.

Fernandez asked, "Have you decided which landing strip we'll head for?”

Partridge calculated, visualizing Fernandez's large-scale map which, by now, he almost knew by heart.

First, choosing the river for departure had ruled out a rendezvous at the highway landing point where they arrived. That left the intermediate drug traffickers' landing strip, which they might reach in an hour and a half, or the more distant Sion airstrip which could mean three hours on the river, plus a three-mile trek through the jungle on foot—a difficult challenge, as they already knew.

To get to Sion by 8 A.M., when the AeroLibertad Cheyenne II would be overhead, might be cutting things close. On the other hand, at the intermediate strip they would be several hours early, and if a pursuit should catch them there it would mean a firefight which, outnumbered and outgunned, they would almost certainly lose.

Therefore the best and wisest course seemed to continue putting the greatest possible distance between themselves and Nueva Esperanza.

”We aim for Sion,” Partridge told the others in the boat.”When we leave the river and go ashore, we'll have to push hard and fast through the jungle, so get whatever rest you can."

* * *

As the time passed, Jessica became more composed; her involuntary shaking ceased, the sickness disappeared. She doubted, though, if she would ever have total peace of mind about what she had done. Certainly the memory of Socorro's desperate, pleading whisper would haunt her for a long, long time ahead.

But Nicky was safe—at least for the moment—and that was what mattered most.

She had been watching Nicky, aware that ever since they left the prison shack he had stayed close to Harry Partridge, at moments being almost underfoot. It seemed as if Harry were a magnet to which Nicky sought to attach himself. Even now he had settled beside Harry in the boat, clearly wanting some physical contact, snuggling up close, which Harry seemed not to mind. In fact, as happened earlier, Harry had put his arm around Nicky's shoulders and the two at this moment seemed as one.

Jessica liked that. Part of Nicky's feeling—inevitably, she thought—was that Harry, appearing as he did, represented all that was opposite from the evil gang who engineered the horrors they had been through—Miguel, Baudelio, Gustavo, Ramon . . . the others known and unknown . . . yes, Vicente and Socorro too.

But more than that. Nicky's instincts about people had always been good. Jessica had once loved Harry—in a way still did, especially now when gratitude and love were mingled. Therefore it did not seem strange at all that her son instinctively should share that feeling.

Nicky seemed to be sleeping. Disengaging himself gently, Partridge maneuvered his way across and sat beside her. Fernandez, observing the movement, changed sides also, balancing the boat.

Partridge too had been thinking of the past—what he and Jessica had once meant to each other. And even in this short time he could see that essentially she hadn't changed. All the things he had most admired—her quick mind, strong spirit, warmth, intelligent resourcefulness—were still in place. Partridge knew that if he were around Jessica for long, his old love would revive. A provocative thought—except it wasn't going to happen.

She had turned toward him, perhaps reading his mind. He remembered, from the old days, that she often could.

He asked, "Back there, did you ever give up hope?”

"There were times I came close to it, though never entirely,” Jessica said. She smiled.”Of course, if I'd known you were in charge of rescue, that would have made a difference.”

"We were a team,” he told her.”Crawf was part of it. He's gone through hell, but then so have you. When we get back, you'll both need each other.”

He sensed she knew what he was saying too: Though he had returned briefly to her life, he would shortly disappear.

”That's a sweet thought, Harry. And what will you do?”

He shrugged.”Go on reporting. Somewhere there'll be another war. There always is.”

"And in between wars?”

To some questions there were no answers. He changed the subject.”Your Nicky's fine—the kind of boy I'd liked to have had myself.”

It could have happened, Jessica thought. For both of us, all those years ago.

Without wanting to, Partridge found himself thinking of Gemma and their unborn baby boy.

Beside him he heard Jessica sigh.”Oh, Harry!”They were silent, listening to the outboard motors' thrum and the churning river water. Then she reached out and put her hand on his.

”Thank you, Harry,” she said.”Thank you for everything . . . the past, the present . . . my dearest love.”

17

Miguel fired three shots into the air, shattering the silence.

He knew it was the quickest way to sound an alarm.

Barely a minute ago, he had discovered the bodies of Socorro and Vicente and realized the prisoners were gone.

It was 3:15 A.m. and, though Miguel did not know it, precisely forty minutes since the boat containing Partridge, Jessica, Nicky, Minh, O'Hara and Fernandez had left the Nueva Esperanza jetty.

Miguel's anger was instantaneous, savage and explosive. Inside the prisoners' hut he had seized the guards' chair and hurled it against a wall; the chair had broken. Now he wanted to bludgeon, then dismember limb by limb, those responsible for the prisoners' escape.

Unfortunately, two of them were dead already. And Miguel was painfully aware that he also shared some of the blame.

Without question, he had been lax in enforcing discipline. Now that it was too late, he saw that clearly. Since coming here he had relaxed at times when he should have been attentive. At night, he had left others to oversee precautions he should have supervised himself.

The reason had been a weakness—his infatuation with Socorro.

He had wanted her sexually while at the Hackensack house, both before the kidnap and immediately after. Even now he recalled her blatant sexuality on the day of departure when, with a mocking smile she had spoken to him of catheters inserted in the prisoners for the journey: "That's tubes in the men's cocks and the bitch's cunt. Entiendes?”

Yes, he had understood. He had also understood that she was taunting him, just as she taunted the others at Hackensack —for example, the night of her sudden, noisy coupling with Carlos, making Rafael, whom she had refused, near-rabid with jealousy.

But at that time Miguel had other things to consider, responsibilities that kept him occupied, and he had been stem and self-disciplined about his own desire for Socorro.

It had not been that way at Nueva Esperanza.

He hated the jungle; he remembered his feelings on their first day here. Compounding that, there had been little to do. He had never taken seriously, for example, the possibility of attempts to rescue the prisoners; Nueva Esperanza, so deep in Sendero territory, had seemed remote and safe. Therefore the days passed slowly, as did the nights—until Socorro, responding to his pleas, opened the doorway to what he quickly discovered was a sexual paradise.

Since then they had had sex together, sometimes in the days, always in the nights, and she had proved the most accomplished and satisfying lover he had ever known. In the end he had become her willing vassal, and like an addict awaiting the next fix had neglected most else.

He was now paying for that addiction.

Earlier tonight, after an exceptionally satisfying orgy, he had slept deeply. Then some twenty minutes ago he awakened with an erection and, wanting Socorro once more, was unhappy to find her gone. For a while he waited for her to return. When she didn't, he had gone to look for her, taking with him the Makarov pistol he always carried.

What he found had returned him—like a harsh, savage blow—to a world of grim reality.

Miguel thought bitterly: He would pay for what had happened, most likely with his life when Sendero Luminoso got word of this, especially if the prisoners were not recaptured. Therefore the first priority was to recapture them—at any cost!

Now alerted by his shots, with Gustavo in the lead the other guards had emerged from houses and were running toward him.

He flailed them with his tongue.”Maldita escoria, imbeciles inservibles! Por su estupidez . . . Nunca vigilar! Solo dormir y tomar! Sin cuidar! . . . los presos de mierda se escaparon."

Singling out Gustavo, he tore into him.”You fucking useless moron! A mangy dog would be a better leader! Strangers came here while you slept and you ignored them, helped them! Find out where they came and how they left. There must be traces!”

Gustavo was back within moments. He announced, "They left by the river! Some boats are gone, others sunk!”

In a tearing rage, Miguel hurried to the jetty. The havoc that he found—mooring lines cut, boats and engines missing, some boats sunk in shallow water—was enough to send him into a frenzy. He knew, though, that unless he cooled and took control, nothing would be salvaged from this disaster. With an effort of will, he began to think objectively.

Continuing in Spanish, he told Gustavo, "I want the two best boats that are left, with two motors on each. Not ready in ten minutes, but now! Use everybody! Work fast, fast, fast! Then I want everyone assembled on dock, with guns and ammunition, ready to leave.”

Weighing possibilities, he decided that whoever engineered the prisoners' release almost certainly came by air into the area; it was the fastest, most practical means of transport. Therefore they would leave the same way, though it was unlikely they had done so yet.

Ramon had just reported that he was relieved by Vicente soon after I a.m, when all was well and the prisoners safely in their cells. So even if their release occurred immediately after, the maximum head start of the intruders was two hours. Miguel's instincts—aided by the fact that Socorro's and Vicente's bodies were still warm when found—told him it was substantially less.

He continued reasoning: From Nueva Esperanza, a departure by river for rendezvous with an airplane involved a choice between two possible jungle airstrips. One airstrip, the nearer, had no name; it was simply used by drug planes. The other was Sion—almost twice the distance and where the Learjet bringing Miguel, the other conspirators and the prisoners had arrived slightly more than three weeks ago.

There could be reasons for using either airstrip, which was why Miguel decided to send one armed boatload to the nearer strip, a second to Sion. He decided to go with the Sion-destined boat.

Even while he had been thinking, activity around the jetty had speeded up. Two of the partially sunk boats were now pulled nearer to shore and being emptied of water. Those in the Sendero group who were working had been joined by other hamlet residents. They all knew that if Sendero Luminoso's leadership became enraged at Nueva Esperanza, the organization could wipe out the entire populace without compunction. Similar acts had happened before.

* * *

Despite the haste, getting started took longer than Miguel would have liked. But a few minutes before 4 A.m., both boats were under way, heading northwest with the current, the twin motors on each opened to full throttle. Miguel's boat, heading for Sion, was substantially faster and pulled ahead soon after leaving the Nueva Esperanza jetty. Gustavo was at the helm.

Miguel, nursing a Beretta submachine gun which supplemented his Makarov pistol, felt his anger rise again. He still had no idea who had released the prisoners. But when he caught them and brought them back—alive, as he intended they would suffer slow and horrible tortures.

18

As the Aero Libertad Cheyenne II lifted off from Lima airport in the first gray light of dawn, some words remembered from an earlier time came back to Crawford Sloane: If I take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea . . .

Yesterday, Sunday, they had taken the wings of morning, not to the sea but inland, though without result. Today they were heading inland again—toward the jungle.

Rita was beside Sloane in the aircraft's second row of seats. Ahead of them were the pilot, Oswaldo Zileri and a young second pilot, Felipe Guerra.

During the preceding day's flight, which lasted three hours, they had flown over all three prearranged points. Though Sloane was informed of their arrival at each, he had difficulty distinguishing one from another, so continuous and impenetrable did the Selva seem when viewed from above.”It's like parts of Vietnam,” he told Rita, "but more tightly knit.”

While circling each point, all four aboard scrutinized the area for any signal or sign of movement. But there was no activity of any kind.

Sloane hoped desperately that today would be different.

As dawn changed to full daylight, the Cheyenne II climbed over the Andes peaks of the Cordillera Central Range. Then, on the far side, they began a slow descent toward the Selva and the Upper Huallaga Valley.

19

Partridge knew he had miscalculated. They were seriously late.

What he had not allowed for in choosing Sion over the nearer airstrip was a problem with their boat. It happened about two hours after leaving Nueva Esperanza, with another hour to go before reaching the place where they would abandon the boat and begin their trek to the airstrip.

Both outboard motors had been running noisily but smoothly when an internal, strident horn abruptly sounded on the port-side motor. Ken O'Hara throttled back at once, took the engine out of gear and switched off. As he did, the horn and engine went silent.

The starboard engine continued operating, though the boat was now moving at a noticeably slower speed.

Partridge moved to the stern and asked O'Hara, "Whatever it is, is it fixable?”

"Unlikely, I'm afraid.” O'Hara had removed the engine cover and was examining beneath.”The engine's overheated; that's why the horn sounded. The raw water intake is clear, so almost certainly the coolant pump has gone. Even if I had tools to take the engine apart, it would probably need new parts and since we don't have either . . .” He let the words trail off.

”So we positively can't repair it?”

O'Hara shook his head.”Sorry, Harry.”

"What happens if we run it?”

"It will run for a short time and go on overheating. Then everything will get so hot, the pistons and cylinder block will fuse together. After that, all an engine's good for is the garbage dump.”

"Run it,” Partridge said.”If there's nothing else we can do, let's get the most out of it for as long as we can.”

"You're the skipper,” O'Hara acknowledged, though he hated destroying an engine which, in other circumstances, could be repaired.

Exactly as O'Hara predicted, the engine ran for a few minutes then, with the horn blaring and a smell of burning, it stopped and would not start again. The boat returned to its slower speed and Partridge anxiously checked his watch.

Their speed, as far as could be judged, had been reduced by half. The remainder of their river journey, instead of taking an hour, would take two.

In fact, it took two and a quarter hours and now, at 6:50 a.m., their landing point was coming into sight. Partridge and Fernandez had identified it on the large-scale map, also from signs of previous use—soda cans and other debris littering the shore. Now they would have to cover in an hour the three miles of difficult jungle trail to Sion airstrip. This was far less time than they had anticipated. Could they do it?

"We have to do it,” Partridge said, explaining their problem to Jessica and Nicky.”It may be exhausting, but there's no time to rest, and if we have to, we'll help each other. Fernandez will lead. I'll be in the rear.”

Minutes later the boat keel scraped on a sandy beach and they walked ashore through shallow water. An opening in what was otherwise a solid jungle wall was immediately ahead.

If they had had more time, Partridge would have attempted to hide the boat or push it toward midstream and let it drift. As it was, they left it on the beach.

Then, about to enter the jungle, Fernandez halted, motioning everyone to silence. Cocking his head to one side, he stood listening in the still morning air. He was more familiar with the jungle than the others, his hearing more finely attuned to its sounds. He asked Partridge softly, "Do you hear?”

Listening, Partridge thought he could hear a distant murmuring sound from the direction they had come, but wasn't sure. He asked, "What is it?”

"Another boat,” Fernandez answered.”Still a good distance away, but coming fast.”

Without further delay they moved into the jungle.

* * *

The trail was not nearly as difficult to follow as that from the highway landing point to Nueva Esperanza which Partridge and the others in the rescue team had traversed three days earlier. It was obvious that the trail they were on was used more frequently, because it was only slightly overgrown and not at any point impassable, as the other had been.

Just the same, it was treacherous underfoot. Uneven ground, protruding roots and soft patches where a foot could sink into mud or water were continual hazards.

”Watch very carefully where you step,” Fernandez warned from in front where he was setting a fast, forced pace.

Partridge echoed, trying to be flippant and keep spirits high, "We don't want to have to carry anyone. I'm sweating enough.”

And so they all were. As during the other jungle trek, the heat was sweltering and steamy and would get hotter as the day advanced. The insects, too, were active.

The uppermost question in Partridge's mind was: How long could Jessica and Nicky last under this grueling pressure? After a while he decided Jessica would make it; she had determination and also, apparently, the stamina. Nicky, though, showed signs of flagging.

At the beginning Nicky hung back, clearly wanting to be close to Partridge, as he had earlier. But Partridge insisted that the boy and Jessica be up forward, immediately behind Fernandez.”We'll be together later, Nicky,” he said.”Right now I want you with your mother.” With obvious reluctance, Nicky had complied.

Assuming the boat they had heard was carrying their pursuers, Partridge knew an assault would come from behind. If and when that happened, he would do his best to fight off the attack while the others continued on. He had already checked the Kalashnikov rifle he was carrying over his shoulder and had the two spare magazines in a pocket where he could get to them easily.

Again Partridge checked his watch: 7:35 A.m. They had been on the trail almost forty minutes. Remembering the eight o'clock rendezvous with AeroLibertad, he hoped they had covered three quarters of the way.

Moments later they were forced to stop.

Considered afterward, it seemed ironic that Fernandez, who warned the others about stepping carefully, should himself misstep and fall heavily, his foot trapped in a muddy mess of roots. As Partridge hurried toward him, Minh was already holding Fernandez while O'Hara struggled to free the foot; at the same time Fernandez was grimacing with pain.

”I appear to have done some damage,” he told Partridge.”I am sorry. I have let you down.”

When the foot was free, Fernandez found it impossible to walk without excruciating pain. Clearly his ankle was broken or very badly sprained.

”That's not true; you've never let us down,” Partridge said.”You've been our guide and good companion and we'll carry you. We need to make some kind of litter.”

Fernandez shook his head.”Even if possible, there is not time. I have not spoken of it, Harry, but I have heard sounds behind us. They are following, and not far away. You must go on, and leave me.”

Jessica had joined them. She told Partridge, "We can't leave him here.”

"One of us can take you on his back,” O'Hara said.”I'll try it."

"In this heat?” Fernandez was impatient.”You would not last a hundred yards and it would slow all of you.”

About to add his own protest, Partridge knew it would be an exercise in futility. Fernandez was right; there could be no other choice than leaving him. But he added, "If there's help at the airstrip and it can be done, we'll come back for you.”

"Do not waste more time, Harry. I need to say some things quickly.” Fernandez was sitting beside the trail, his back against a tree; the brush was too thick to move him farther in. Partridge knelt beside him. Jessica joined them.

”I have a wife and four children,” Fernandez said.”I would like to think someone will take care of them.”

"You work for CBA,” Partridge said, "and CBA will do it. I give you my solemn word, an official promise. The children's education—everything.”

Fernandez nodded, then motioned to an M-16 rifle he had been carrying and which lay beside him.”You had better take this. You may need it as well as what you have. But I do not intend to be taken alive. I would like a pistol.” Partridge gave him the nine-millimeter Browning, first slipping off the silencer.

”Oh, Fernandez!” Jessica's voice was choked, her eyes filled with tears.”Nicky and I owe you so much.” She leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead.

”Then go!” Fernandez urged her.”Do not squander more time and lose what we have won!”

As Jessica rose, Partridge leaned forward, held Fernandez tightly and kissed him on both cheeks. Behind him Minh and O'Hara waited to give a farewell hug.

Rising, Partridge moved forward. He did not look back.

* * *

The moment Miguel saw a boat beached at the entrance to the jungle trail, then recognized it as from Nueva Esperanza, he was glad he had made the decision to join the Sion airstrip sortie.

He was even more pleased when Ramon, leaping quickly from their own boat as it nudged into shore, ran to the other boat and announced, "Un motor esta caliente, el otro frio— fundido.”

The hot engine meant their quarry had not been in the jungle very long. The cold, burned-out engine told them the other boat's speed had been reduced, its occupants delayed in getting here.

As well as Miguel, the Sendero group comprised seven wellarmed men. Speaking in Spanish, he told them, "The bourgeois scum cannot be far ahead. We'll catch and punish them. Let us move like the wrath of Guzman!”

There was a ragged cheer as they filed quickly into the jungle.

* * *

"We're a few minutes early,” Rita Abrams told the Cheyenne 11 pilot, Oswaldo Zileri, as they approached the Sion airstrip—first point of call on their aerial itinerary. A moment ago she had checked her Watch: 7:55.

”We'll circle and watch,” he said.”In any case, this is the least likely place for your friends to be.”

As they had yesterday, all four in the plane—Rita, Crawford Sloane, Zileri and the copilot, Felipe—peered down at the quilt of green beneath them. They were looking for any sign of movement, particularly around the short, tree-lined airstrip, which was hard to see until they were directly overhead. Again, like yesterday, there was no visible activity of any kind.

* * *

Along the jungle trail, Nicky was finding it increasingly difficult to maintain the punishing pace. Jessica and Minh were helping him, each grabbing an arm and partially pulling him, partially lifting him over difficult patches as they continued forward. Eventually Nicky might have to be carried, but for the moment the others husbanded their remaining strength.

It had been about ten minutes since they left Fernandez. Ken O'Hara was now up ahead, leading. Partridge had dropped back to his position in the rear, from where he occasionally glanced backward. So far there had been no sign of movement.

Above their heads, the trees appeared to be thinning, more daylight coming through their branches; also the trail had widened. It was a sign, Partridge hoped, that they were nearing the airstrip. At one point lie thought he heard the distant sound of an airplane, but could not be sure. Again he checked his watch: nearly 7:55.

At that moment, from somewhere behind, came a short, sharp crack—unmistakably the sound of a single shot. It had to be Fernandez, Partridge reasoned. And even in using the Browning, from which Partridge had deliberately removed the silencer, the zealous stringer-fixer provided a final service—a warning that pursuit was close. As if in confirmation, several other shots followed.

Perhaps the pursuers, having seen Fernandez—presumably dead—thought they saw others ahead and had fired at random. Then, for whatever reason, the firing ceased.

Partridge himself was near exhaustion. Through the past fifty hours, with scarcely any sleep, he had pushed himself to the limit. Now he was having trouble keeping his attention focused.

In one of those moments, mentally meandering, he decided that what he wanted most was relief from action . . . When this adventure ended he would resume the vacation he had barely started and simply disappear, be unavailable . . . And wherever he went, perhaps he should take Vivien—the only woman left to him whose loving was available . . . Jessica and Gemma had been the past; Vivien could be the future. Perhaps, until now, he had treated her unfairly, should consider marriage after all . . . It was not too late . . . He knew it was something Vivien would like . . .

With an effort, he snapped back to the present,

Suddenly they had emerged from the jungle. The airstrip was in view! Overhead an airplane was circling—it was a Cheyenne! Ken O'Hara—reliable to the end, Partridge thought was loading a green-banded cartridge into the flare gun he had carried all this way. Green for Land normally, everything is clear.

With equal suddenness, from behind, came the sound of two more shots, this time much closer.

”Send up a red flare, not a green!” Partridge yelled at O'Hara.”And do it fast!”

Red for Land as quickly as possible, we are in danger!

* * *

It was several minutes past eight o'clock. In the Cheyenne II above Sion airstrip, Zileri turned his head toward Rita and Sloane. He told them, "Nothing's happening here. We'll go to the other two points.”

The plane turned away. As it did, Crawford Sloane called out, "Hold it! I think I saw something!”

Zileri aborted the turn and swung the airplane back. He asked, "Where”

“Somewhere down there.” Sloane pointed.”I'm not sure of the exact spot. It was just for a moment . . . I thought His voice mirrored his own uncertainty.

Zileri flew the plane in a circle. Again they scrutinized as much of the ground as they could. When the circle was complete the pilot said, "I don't see a thing. I think we should go on.”

At that moment, a red flare curled upward from the ground.

* * *

O'Hara fired a second red flare.

”That'll do. They've seen us,” Partridge said. The airplane had already turned toward them. What he needed to know now was which way the plane would land. Then he would pick a position to fight off the pursuers and occupy it while the others boarded first.

The answer quickly became evident. The Cheyenne II was in a tight descending turn, losing height fast, and would come in over their heads. After that, it would land facing away from the jungle trail from where the shooting had been coming.

Looking back, Partridge could still see no one in sight, despite the shots. He could only guess the reason for shooting. Perhaps someone, while advancing, was firing blindly, hoping for a lucky hit.

He told O'Hara, "Get Jessica and Nicky down by the landing strip fast, and stay with them! When the plane gets to the far end, they'll swing around and taxi back. Go forward to meet the airplane, and all of you get aboard. Did you hear that, Minh?”

"I heard.” Minh, with an eye glued to his camera, was imperturbably taking pictures, as he had at various moments throughout the journey. Partridge decided not to worry anymore about Minh. He would take care of himself.

Jessica asked anxiously, "What about you, Harry?”

He told her, "I'm going to cover you by firing down the trail. As soon as you're aboard I'll join you. Now get going!”

O'Hara put an arm around Jessica, who was holding Nicky's good hand, and hurried them away.

Even as they moved, looking back toward the jungle Partridge saw several figures now in sight, advancing on the airstrip, guns pointed forward.

Partridge dropped behind a small hillock nearby. Lying on his belly, he rested the Kalashnikov in front of him, the sights of the automatic rifle directed at the moving figures. He squeezed the trigger, and amid a burst of fire saw one of the figures fall, the others dive for cover. At the same time he heard the Cheyenne II swoop in low above his head. Though he did not turn to watch, he knew it should be landing now.

* * *

"There they are!” Crawford Sloane shouted, near-hysterical with excitement.”I see them! It's Jessica and Nicky!” The airplane was still on its landing run, traveling fast on an uneven dirt surface.

The end of the short strip was looming nearer, Zileri braking hard. As the landing run ended, employing brakes and one engine, the pilot swung the airplane around to face the way they had come. Then, using both engines for acceleration, he taxied back down the airstrip, moving fast toward its opposite end.

The Cheyenne II stopped at the point where Jessica, Nicky and O'Hara were waiting. The copilot, Felipe, had already left his seat and moved aft. From inside the fuselage he released and lowered an air-stair door.

Nicky first, then Jessica and O'Hara climbed aboard, outstretched hands, including Sloane's, helping pull them in. Minh appeared and scrambled in behind the others.

As Sloane, Jessica and Nicky emotionally hugged each other, O'Hara called out breathlessly, "Harry's up ahead. We have to get him. He's holding off the terrorists.”

"I see him,” Zileri said.”Hold on!” He opened the throttles again and the airplane shot forward, taxiing fast.

At the runway's far end he turned the airplane around once more. It was now facing the way it landed, ready for takeoff but with the passenger door still open. Gunfire could be heard through the doorway.

"Your friend will have to make a run for it.” Zileri's voice was urgent.”I want to get the hell out of here.”

"He will,” Minh said.”He's seen us and he'll come.”

* * *

Partridge had both seen and heard the airplane. Glancing over his shoulder, he knew it was as close to him as it could come. There was about a hundred yards between him and the plane. He would make it at a fast run, keeping low. First though, he had to spray fire back into the jungle trail to deter any further advance by the Sendero force. In the past few minutes he had seen several more figures appear, had fired and seen another fall. The others were now hugging the shelter of the trees. A burst of fire would hold them there, out of sight, long enough for him to reach the plane.

He had just put a fresh magazine into the Kalashnikov. Squeezing the trigger, then holding it, he poured a deadly hail of bullets along both sides of the jungle path. Since the firing began he had felt his old visceral zest for battle stir . . . that sensuous thrill; it set adrenaline running, juices flowing . . . an illogical, crazy addiction to the sights and sounds of war . . .

When the magazine had emptied, he dropped the rifle, sprang to his feet and ran, doubling over to stay low. The airplane was ahead. He knew he'd make it!

Partridge was a third of the way to the plane when a bullet struck his leg. He fell instantly. It was all so fast, it took him several seconds to grasp what had happened.

The bullet had impacted at the back of his right knee, shattering the joint. He could go no farther. A terrible pain, more pain than he had ever believed possible, swept over him. He knew, at that moment, he would never reach the airplane. He knew, too, that there was no time left. The plane must go. And he must do what Fernandez had done, barely half an hour earlier.

Summoning a final surge of strength, he raised himself, waving the Cheyenne forward. All that mattered now was that his intention should be clear.

* * *

Minh was in the airplane doorway, shooting pictures. He had Partridge in his zoom lens—a closeup—and had captured the moment when the bullet hit. The copilot, Felipe, was beside Minh.

Felipe called in, "He's hit! I think badly. He's waving for us to go.”

Inside the airplane, Sloane pushed toward the door.”We have to get him!”

Jessica cried out, "Yes! Oh yes!”

Nicky echoed, "Please don't go without Harry!”

It was Minh, the realist about war, who said, "You can't get him. There isn't time.”

Minh had seen through his lens the advancing Sendero force. Several of its members had reached the airstrip perimeter, were running forward and firing their guns. Just then, several bullets hit the plane.

”I'm leaving,” Zileri said. He had already lowered flaps for takeoff, now he pushed the throttles forward. Minh, plus camera, tumbled in. Felipe retracted and secured the air-stair door.

As airspeed built, Zileri eased back on the control column. The Cheyenne II left the airstrip and climbed.

Jessica and Nicky were holding each other, weeping. Sloane, his eyes partially closed, was shaking his head slowly, as if not believing what he had just seen.

Minh held his camera against a window, taking final shots of the scene below.

* * *

On the ground, Partridge saw the Cheyenne II go.

And saw something else. Through a haze of pain, in the doorway of the departing airplane he saw a smiling figure in Alitalia uniform. She was waving.

Partridge's tears, long held back, began to flow. Then more bullets hit him and he died.

20

Looking down at the body of Harry Partridge, Miguel vowed that never again would he let something like today's fiasco happen.

In the first stage of the kidnap enterprise, which was complex and demanding, he had been fabulously successful. In this second stage, which should have been easy and uncomplicated, he had failed abysmally.

The lesson was clear: Nothing was easy and uncomplicated. He should have learned it long ago.

He would remember it, however, from this moment on.

So what came next?

First, he must leave Peru. His life would be forfeit if he stayed; Sendero Luminoso would see to that.

He could not even go back to Nueva Esperanza.

Fortunately, he had no reason to. Before departure, foreseeing the possibility of what actually occurred, he had stowed all of his cash—including most of the fifty thousand dollars he collected from Jose Antonio Salaverry during his final visit to the United Nations—into a money belt he was wearing. He could feel it now. Uncomfortable but reassuring.

The money was ample to get him out of Peru and into Colombia.

What he intended now was to slip away into the jungle. There was an airstrip twenty-five kilometers away—not either of the two that had been targeted today—where drug-traffic planes flown by Colombian pilots came and went frequently. He knew he could buy passage to Colombia and, once there, would be safe.

If anyone in the group from Nueva Esperanza attempted to stop him, he would kill him. But Miguel doubted if anyone would. Of the seven who had accompanied him here, only four were still alive; Ramon and two others had been killed by this gringo who lay at his feet—identity unknown, though a good marksman.

Even back in Colombia, his reputation would suffer a little from the Nueva Esperanza debacle, but that would not last. And unlike Sendero Luminoso, the Colombian drug cartels were not fanatical. Ruthless, yes, but otherwise pragmatic and business like.

Miguel had eminently saleable talents as an anarchist-terrorist. The cartels had need of him. Miguel had recently learned that a long-term program was under way to convert a series of small and medium-sized countries to the same drug-cartel-dominated status as Colombia. He was certain the project would present an opportunity for his special skills.

As a functioning democracy Colombia was finished. Outwardly, some showcase trappings remained, but even those were disappearing as killings ordered by the cartels' powerful billionaire bosses eliminated the diminishing minority who believed in bygone ways.

What was needed to transform other countries into replicas of Colombia was corruption at or near the top of governments, corruption making it possible for drug cartels to move in and operate. Next, insidiously and quietly, the cartels would become stronger than the governments—after which, as in Colombia, there was never any turning back.

Four countries were mentioned nowadays as potential targets to be "Colombiaized.” They were Bolivia, El Salvador, Guatemala and Jamaica. Later, others could be added to the list.

With his unique experience and ability to survive, Miguel decided, he was likely to be busy for a long time ahead.

21

Aboard the Cheyenne II, several minutes passed before anyone felt capable of speech. Crawford Sloane was holding Jessica and Nicky close to him, the three oblivious to all else.

At length Sloane raised his head and asked Minh Van Canh, "About Harry . . . did you see anything more?”

Minh nodded sadly.”I was focused on him. He was hit again, several times. There isn't any doubt.”

Sloane sighed.”He was the best . . .”

Minh corrected him, his voice unusually strong.”The very best. As a correspondent. As a human being. I've seen a good many, and there wasn't anyone I knew who came close to Harry in all those years.” The words were spoken almost as a challenge. Minh had known Sloane and Partridge for an equal time.

If it was a challenge, Sloane did not contest it. He said simply, "I agree.”

Jessica and Nicky were listening, both busy with their thoughts.

It was Rita, the professional with responsibilities, who asked Minh, "May I see some of your pictures?” She knew that despite Harry's death, she must put a broadcast together in Lima, barely an hour away.

She also knew they bad a world exclusive story.

Minh did some rewinding, then passed his Betacam to Rita. Squinting through the viewfinder, she watched videotape shots: as usual, Minh had captured the essentials of everything. The pictures were superb. Some final shots—of Harry wounded, then falling to the fatal bullets—were stark and moving. As she handed the camera back, Rita's eyes were moist but she wiped them with the back of her hand, knowing there was no time now either to mourn Harry or to cry. Both would come later, probably when she was alone tonight.

Sloane asked, "Did Harry have anybody—a girlfriend? I know he never remarried after Gemma.”

"There was—is someone,” Rita said.”Her name is Vivien. She's a nurse and lives in a place called Port Credit; that's outside Toronto.”

"We should call. I'll talk to her if you like.”

"Yes, I would like,” Rita said.”And when you do, tell her Harry made a will before leaving and I have it. He left everything to her. Vivien doesn't know it, but she's a millionaire now. It seems Harry salted money away in tax havens all over the world. Along with the will, he left a list.”

Minh, unnoticed while they were talking, had been taking video shots of Jessica and Nicky. Now, Rita saw, the camera was directed at Nicky's bandaged right hand. It reminded her of something she had brought from Lima and, reaching into a briefcase, she produced a Teletype message received through Entel Peru.

”Before Harry left,” Rita told the others, "he asked me to send a cable to one of his friends—a surgeon in Oakland, California. Harry explained that his friend is among the world's ranking experts on injured hands. The cable asked questions about Nicholas. This is the reply.”

She passed the typed sheet to Sloane who read it aloud.

RETEL. HAVE READ INFO YOU SENT ALSO DETAILS IN NEWSPAPERS ABOUT YOUR YOUNG FRIEND'S HAND. PROSTHESES NOT RECOMMENDED. THEY WILL NOT FUNCTION OR HELP HIM PLAY PIANO, MAY EVEN GET IN WAY. INSTEAD HE SHOULD AND CAN LEARN TO ROTATE HAND DOWNWARD UNTIL WHAT REMAINS OF INDEX AND LITTLE FINGERS COMES IN CONTACT WITH PIANO KEYS. INCIDENTALLY IN A WAY HE'S LUCKY BECAUSE FOREGOING WOULD NOT BE POSSIBLE IF DIFFERENT FINGERS LOST. APPLIES ONLY TO THOSE TWO.

LEARNING TO ROTATE HAND WILL TAKE PATIENCE, PERSEVERANCE. BUT IF ENTHUSIASTIC CAN BE DONE. BEING YOUNG HELPS. HAVE WOMAN PATIENT WHO LOST SAME FINGERS NOW PLAYS PIANO. WOULD BE GLAD TO BRING TWO TOGETHER IF YOU WISH.

TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF HARRY. WARMEST REGARDS.

JACK TUPPER, M.D.

There was a silence, then Nicky said, "May I look at that, Dad?” Sloane passed the sheet across.

”Don't lose that!” Jessica cautioned Nicky.”It will give you something to remember Harry by.” The instinctive, close companionship of Harry and Nicky, she thought, had been brief yet beautiful while it lasted.

She remembered Nicky's early dispirited words to Harry at Nueva Esperanza: "They killed my granddad and cut off two of my fingers, so I can't play the piano anymore.” Obviously Nicky would never be a concert pianist, which he had dreamed of. But he would play the piano and fulfill his joy in music in other ways.

Nicky was reading the cable, holding it in his left hand while the beginning of a smile appeared on his face. He was turning his bandaged right hand in a rolling motion.

”I guess there will never be a time,” Crawford Sloane said, "when there isn't something we'll have reason to thank Harry for."

"Fernandez, too,” Jessica reminded him. They had already spoken of the stringer-fixer's sacrifice and presumed death. Now she told Crawford and Rita of the promise Harry made before leaving Fernandez beside the jungle trail.

Fernandez had spoken of his wife and four children, asking if someone would take care of them, and Harry pledged, "You work for CBA, and CBA will do it. I give you my solemn word, an official promise. The children's education—everything.”

“If Harry said that,” Sloane said, "he was speaking for CBA and it's binding like a legal document. When we get back I'll see it's put into effect.”

"There's one snag,” Rita pointed out.”It happened after Harry was fired, even though he didn't know it.”

Minh, who overheard, looked startled—a reminder that only a few people knew about the Chippingham letter of dismissal.

”It makes no difference,” Sloane said.”Harry's promise will be honored.”

"But it does bring up something we have to decide,” Rita pointed out.”Are we going to refer to Harry's firing in what we report today?”

"No,” Sloane said emphatically.”That's our internal dirty linen. We won't wash it in public.”

But it will come out, Rita thought. In the end, it always does.

Crawf still didn't know about the "You—son-of-a-bitch!” memo she had faxed to Les Chippingham via the Horseshoe. Probably within a week that would surface in the Times or Washington Post. And if not there, then later in the Columbia Journalism Review or Washington Journalism Review. Well, let it happen!

Rita was reminded that, as a result of the memo, she was probably out of a job. Among other things she had signed herself "ex-producer.” Well, however it all came out, she would see this present assignment through to its end.

Jessica spoke up.”There's something that's been bothering me. It's about the airstrip we were at, the last one.”

"Sion,” Rita prompted.

Jessica nodded.”I had the feeling, on the jungle trail and at the airstrip, that I'd been there before. I think it's where we were brought first, when we all came back from unconsciousness. Though I didn't know it was an airstrip then. And there's something else.”

"Go on,” Rita said. She had reached for a pad and was making notes.

”There was a man in a hut we were held in. I don't know who or what he was, though I'm sure he was American. I pleaded with him to help us, but he didn't. I have this, though.”

The day before, Jessica had retrieved from beneath the mattress in her cell the drawing she had made. Since then she had carried it, folded, in her brassiere.

She handed it to Rita. The drawing was of the Learjet pilot, Denis Underhill.

"Tonight,” Rita said, "we'll run this on the National Evening News and ask if anyone can identify him. With twenty million people watching, there should be someone.”

The Cheyenne II droned on, still climbing, gaining altitude to pass over the peaks of the Andes Cordillera Range, after which they would descend toward sea level and Lima. The time, Rita noted, was a few minutes past 9 a.m. The flight would take another forty minutes.

What was necessary now, she realized, was to make a firm plan for the remainder of the day, in conjunction with Crawf. She had already done some advance work, having anticipated most, though not all, of what had happened.

The dramatic story of the rescue was, at this moment, exclusively CBA's. Therefore, until New York first—feed broadcast time, which was 5:30 P.m. in Peru, Jessica and Nicky must be kept somewhere out of sight, unavailable to the remainder of the media. Crawf, she was sure, would see the need for that.

It meant that Jessica and Nicky could not yet be taken to Cesar's Hotel or Entel Peru, both of which were swarming with reporters and TV crews. The same applied to other hotels in downtown Lima.

So what Rita had arranged was for them to go to the home of the AeroLibertad owner-pilot, Oswaldo Zileri, who lived on the outskirts of Miraflores. They could remain there until 5:30, after which their being seen by others in press or television would no longer matter. In fact, it was an ordeal they would eventually have to face.

In the meantime, working with Bob Watson, the TV-video editor, Rita would put a report together for the National Evening News that night. It would be a long one and use most of Minh's best pictures—of the rescue, the death of Harry Partridge and the sad moment when Fernandez had been left beside the jungle trail.

She wouldn't even ask New York for a specific amount of time. This was one occasion when she knew she could have whatever time was needed.

Rita was certain, too, that the network would want a one hour news special in prime time tonight. Well, she had extra ingredients for that. They included the videotape recording of Dolores, the drunken companion of the American ex-doctor Hartley Gossage, alias Baudelio, who so despicably used his medical skills to transport the three kidnap victims to Peru. Harry had put that together as a package, with his own commentary; it was ready to go.

As to everything else, both for the evening news and later, Crawf would do the narration and stand-ups. That might be difficult for him. He would need to speak of the deaths of his own father, Harry Partridge and Fernandez, and of the mutilation of Nicky's hand. Crawf was sometimes emotional and might choke up. No matter, Rita thought. It would make the story more convincing, and Crawf would recover and go on. He was a professional newsperson, like Rita and the rest.

One item of news, Rita realized, could not and should not be suppressed throughout the day. That was the fact that a rescue had occurred and Nicky and Jessica were safe.

There must be a bulletin. When CBA News received it in New York, they would break instantly into network programming. Once more, CBA would be ahead of the competition.

Again Rita checked her watch: 9:23. Another twenty minutes or so of flying. Allowing time to get from the airport into Lima, the bulletin could be set for 10:30 A.m. They would send just a few pictures, transmitting "quick and dirty"—the way they had from Dallas-Fort Worth airport for the Airbus crash story she, Harry, Minh and Ken O'Hara had worked on less than a month ago.

Was it really only that short a time? It seemed much longer —another world away.

She would need satellite time for the 10:30 bulletin. Rita leaned forward and tapped Zileri on the shoulder. When he turned, she pointed to the aircraft radio.”Can you patch a phone call through? I want to call New York.”

"Sure can.”

She scribbled a number and passed it forward. In a surprisingly short time a voice on a speaker said, "CBA foreign desk.”

The copilot, Felipe, passed back a microphone.”Go ahead,” he told her.

She held the transmit button down.”This is Rita Abrams. Get me a bird out of Lima for a bulletin at 10:30 Lima time. Make sure the Horseshoe knows.”

A voice replied laconically, "You got it. Will do.”

"Thanks. Goodbye.” She handed the microphone back.

A script would be needed for the bulletin, also for later. Rita scribbled a few phrases, then decided Crawf would do the rest and find the right words. He always did. He would probably ad-lib in part. He was good at that too.

In what was left of the flight, she and Crawf must work together. Unfortunately, it meant pulling him away from the arms of Jessica and Nicky. But he would accept the need and so would they. Like everyone else in the business, they all understood that the news came first.

”Crawf,” Rita said gently, "you and I have work to do. It's time we started.”