Julio, Carlos and Luís, though, had a concluding duty after the Learjet had gone: to disperse the remaining vehicles and abandon them.
Miguel had given considerable thought about what to do with the Hackensack hideaway. He had considered, as a final act, burning the whole place down, vehicles with it. The collection of buildings was old and would go up like a furnace, especially with the help of gasoline.
But a fire would draw attention and, if investigated, the ashes might yield clues. While in some ways it wouldn’t matter since everyone would be gone, it went against reason to make things easier for the American law agencies. So the idea of a fire was out.
If they simply vacated the building, leaving it as it was, their use of the place as a kidnap way station might not be discovered for weeks or months, perhaps never. But that required the disposition of the vehicles—driving them all in different directions for a good distance and then abandoning them. True, there were risks involved, specifically for those who would drive the three cars, the GMC truck and the hearse, but Miguel believed they weren’t great. In any case it was what he had decided on.
He encountered Rafael first and told him, “We leave here this evening at 7:40.”
The burly handyman-mechanic, who was in the outbuilding they used as a paint shop, grunted and nodded, seeming more interested in the GMC truck, which he had repainted the day before. The former white truck with the legend “Superbread” had been transformed to an almost totally black one with the name “Serene Funeral Homes” in discreet gold lettering on both sides.
Miguel had ordered the change himself. Satisfied, he told Rafael, “¡Bien hecho! A pity it will only be used once.”
The big man swung around, clearly pleased, a slight smile on his scarred and brutish face. It was strange, Miguel thought, that Rafael who could be so savage in action, taking demoniac delight in inflicting suffering or killing, at other moments behaved like a child in need of approval.
Miguel pointed to the truck’s New Jersey license plates. “These are fresh ones?”
Again Rafael nodded. “From the last set. Ain’t been used yet, an’ I switched the others.”
It meant that all five remaining vehicles now had license plates which could not have been seen during the Larchmont surveillance, so that driving and abandoning them would be that much safer.
Miguel went outside to where, within a cluster of trees, Julio and Luís were digging a deep hole. The ground was wet from yesterday’s rain and the work heavy going. Julio was using his spade to sever a rugged tree root and, seeing Miguel, he stopped, wiped his swarthy, sweating face with a sleeve, and cursed.
“¡Pinche árbol! This is shit work—for oxen, not men.”
On the point of snapping back an obscenity, Miguel checked himself. The ugly knifing scar on Julio’s face was turning crimson, a signal of the man’s foul temper and that he was spoiling for a fight.
“Take a rest,” Miguel said curtly. “There’s time. We all leave at 7:40.”
Brawling in these last few hours would be a stupid waste. Besides, Miguel needed the men to finish digging the hole in which they would bury all the cellular phones and some medical equipment Baudelio would leave behind.
Burying the phones, in particular, was not an ideal arrangement and Miguel would have preferred to dump them somewhere in deep water. But while there was plenty of water in the New Jersey-New York area, the chances of doing something like that without being observed were not good—at least in the short time available.
Later that day, when the hole was refilled, Julio and Luís should be able to rake leaves over the surface, leaving no trace of what was beneath.
Carlos, to whom Miguel went next, was in another of the outbuildings, burning papers in an iron stove. Carlos, young and well educated, had organized the month-long surveillance records and photos of visitors to the Sloane house, all of which was now feeding the fire.
When Miguel told him about the evening departure, Carlos seemed relieved. His thin lips twitched and he said, “¡Que bueno!” Then his eyes resumed their normal hardness.
Miguel had been aware of the strain of the past forty-eight hours on everyone, Carlos especially, perhaps because of his youth. But commendably the younger man had kept himself under control and Miguel foresaw a command terrorism role for Carlos before too long.
A small pile of what appeared to be Rafael’s clothing was beside the stove. Miguel, Rafael and Baudelio would all wear dark suits during the departure process by air when, to anticipate a possible U.S. Government inspection, they would pose as mourners, using a carefully designed cover story. Everything else would be left behind.
Miguel pointed to the clothes, “Don’t burn those—too much smoke. Go through the pockets, take everything out and remove any labels. Then bury the rest.” He gestured in the direction of the digging outside. “Tell the others.”
“Okay.” When he had attended to the fire again, Carlos said, “We should have flowers.”
“Flowers?”
“Some on the casket that goes in the hearse, maybe on the others. It’s what a family would do.”
Miguel hesitated. He knew Carlos was right and it was something he hadn’t thought of himself in planning their exit from the U.S., first via Teterboro, then aboard the Learjet to Opa Locka Airport, Florida, from where they would fly directly to Peru.
Originally, when Miguel had expected only two unconscious captives, he had planned to make two journeys with the hearse between the Hackensack house and Teterboro Airport, conveying one casket at a time, which was all the hearse would hold. But three journeys with three caskets were too many and would entail too great a risk; therefore Miguel had devised a new plan.
One casket—Baudelio would decide which—would be transported to Teterboro in the hearse. The repainted GMC truck of “Serene Funeral Homes” would carry the other two.
The Lear 55LR, Miguel knew, was configured with a cargo door that allowed plenty of room for loading two caskets. Getting a third in might be difficult, but he was sure it could be done.
Still weighing Carlos’s suggestion, he thought: The addition of flowers would make their cover story more convincing. At Teterboro they would have to pass through airport security. Probably, too, there would be supplemental police because of the kidnap alert, and questions were almost certain to be asked about the caskets and their contents. Some tense moments were likely and Teterboro, as Miguel saw it, was the key to their safe departure. At Opa Locka, from where they would actually leave the U.S., he anticipated no problems.
Miguel decided to take a small risk now to help offset the large one later. He nodded. “Yes, flowers.”
“I’ll take one of the cars,” Carlos said. “I know where to go in Hackensack. I’ll be careful.”
“Use the Plymouth.” It had been repainted dark blue and had license plates not previously used, as Rafael had pointed out.
After leaving Carlos, Miguel sought out Baudelio. He found him, with Socorro, in the large room on the second floor of the main house which by this time resembled a hospital ward. Baudelio, appearing like a patient himself, had dressings over the right side of his face, covering the stitches he had put in following Jessica’s wild slashing during her brief consciousness.
Normally Baudelio appeared gaunt, pallid and older than he was, but today the effect was intensified. His face was sickly white and his movements clearly required an effort. But he was continuing with preparations for departure and after Carlos informed him of the 7:40 P.M. time, Baudelio acknowledged, “We will be ready.”
Under prompting from Miguel, the ex-doctor confirmed that his day and a half of experimenting with the drug propofol had shown him how much should be administered to each of the three captives to achieve deep unconsciousness for specific periods. This knowledge was necessary for the times when each “patient” would be left unattended and unmonitored in one of the sealed caskets.
Also, the enforced starvation period for all three—which would be
fifty-six hours by departure time—was satisfactory. There should be no vomiting or aspiration into the lungs, though as extra precautions against choking and suffocation, Baudelio added, an airway tube would be placed in each throat and the bodies turned on their sides before the caskets were closed. Meanwhile, the intravenous injection of fluids had prevented dehydration. From transparent bags of glucose, on stands beside each of the unconscious trio, drip tubes led to catheters in their arms.
Miguel paused, looking down at the three bodies. They appeared peaceful, their faces untroubled. The woman had a certain beauty, he thought; later, if opportunity arose, he might make use of her sexually. The man looked dignified, like an old soldier at rest which, according to news reports, he was. The boy seemed frail, his face thin; perhaps the enforced starvation had left him weak, which didn’t matter as long as he was alive on arrival in Peru, as had been promised to Sendero Luminoso. All three were pale with only a little color in their cheeks, but were breathing evenly. Satisfied, Miguel turned away.
The funeral caskets into which Angus, Jessica and Nicky would be moved shortly before the general exodus to Teterboro Airport were horizontal on trestles. Miguel was aware, because he had watched Rafael do it under guidance from Baudelio, that a series of tiny vent holes had been drilled into each. Almost invisible, they would admit fresh air.
“What is that?” Miguel pointed to a jar of crystals next to the caskets.
“Soda lime granules,” Baudelio answered. “They’re spread around inside to counter carbon dioxide from exhaled breath. There’ll also be an oxygen cylinder, controllable from outside.”
Mindful that during the difficult hours ahead Baudelio’s medical skills would be vital to them all, Miguel queried, “What else?”
The ex-doctor motioned to Socorro. “Tell him. You’ll be doing it with me.”
Socorro had been watching and listening, her face inscrutable as always. Miguel still had questions in his mind about the woman’s total commitment, but today was distracted by her provocative body, its sensuous movements, her blatant sexuality. As if she read his thoughts, there was a hint of taunting in her voice.
“If any of them needs to piss, even unconscious, they might move and make noise. So before closing those”—Socorro pointed to the caskets—“we’ll insert catheters. That’s tubes in the men’s cocks and the bitch’s cunt. ¿Entiendes?”
Miguel said testily, “I know about catheterization.” On the point of telling her his father was a doctor, he checked himself. A moment’s weakness, the influence of a woman, had almost led him to reveal a detail of his background, something he never did.
Instead he asked Socorro, “When we need it, can you cry?”
As part of the planned tableau, she also would be a grieving mourner.
“Sí.”
Baudelio added, with the professional pride which occasionally surfaced, “I will place a grain of pepper beneath each of her lower eyelids. The same for mine. The tears are then copious and will not stop until the pepper is out.” He regarded Miguel. “I will do the same for you if you wish.”
“We’ll see.”
Baudelio completed his strategy catalog. “Finally, in all three caskets will be tiny monitors to record breathing and depth of sedation. I’ll have a connection to read them from outside. The propofol infusion can be adjusted from outside too.”
Reviewing their exchange, and despite earlier misgivings, Miguel felt satisfied that Baudelio knew what he was doing. Socorro too.
Now it was simply a question of waiting through the day. The hours ahead seemed interminable.
11
At CBA News headquarters on Saturday morning, the special task force meeting called for 10 A.M. had scarcely begun when it was abruptly interrupted.
Harry Partridge, seated at the head of the conference table, had opened a discussion when a speakerphone broke in—an announcement from the main newsroom. Partridge paused as he and the six others at the table listened.
“Assignment desk. Richardson. This bulletin just in from UPI …
“White Plains, New York—A passenger van, believed to be the vehicle used in Thursday’s kidnap of the Crawford Sloane family, exploded violently a few minutes ago. At least three persons are dead, others injured. Police were on their way to inspect the van when the explosion occurred in a parking building adjoining Center City shopping mall. It happened as many weekend shoppers were arriving in their cars. The building is extensively damaged. Fire fighters, rescue crews and ambulances are on the scene which a witness describes as ‘like a nightmare from Beirut.’”
Even as the bulletin was continuing, chairs in the conference room were being pushed back, the task force members scrambling to their feet. As the speakerphone fell silent, Partridge was first out, on the run, hurrying to the newsroom one floor below, with Rita Abrams close behind.
Saturday morning in any network news department was a relatively informal time. Most of the Monday-to-Friday staff stayed home. The few on weekend duty, while sometimes under pressure, were aware of the absence of the high command. For this reason dress was casual, jeans predominating, and men showed up without ties.
The main CBA newsroom was eerily quiet, with barely a third of the desks occupied and that day’s assignment manager, Orv Richardson, covering for the national desk as well. Young, fresh-faced and eager, Richardson had recently come to the network from a regional bureau. While not unhappy to be in charge, the important breaking story from White Plains made him slightly nervous. He wanted to be sure of doing the right thing.
It was with some relief, therefore, that he saw a Big Foot correspondent, Harry Partridge, and a senior producer, Abrams, burst into the newsroom and hurry his way.
While Partridge skimmed a printout of the United Press bulletin and read a follow-up story feeding in on a computer monitor, Rita told Richardson, “We should go on air immediately. Who has authority?”
“I have a number.” With a phone tucked into his shoulder and consulting a note, the assignment manager tapped out digits for a CBA News vice president available at home. When the man answered, Richardson explained the situation and asked for authorization to take air with a special bulletin. The vice president shot back, “You have it. Go!”
What followed was a near-replay of Thursday’s intrusion into the network when the kidnap news broke shortly before noon. The differences were the nature of today’s report and the cast involved. Partridge was in the flash facility studio, occupying the correspondent’s hot seat, Rita was acting executive producer, and in the control room a different director appeared, having come hastily from another section of the building after hearing a “special bulletin” call.
CBA was on air within four minutes after receiving the UPI bulletin. The other networks—observed from control room monitors—broke into their own programming at almost the same time.
Harry Partridge was, as always, collected and articulate, the ultimate professional. There was no time to write a script or use a Teleprompter. Partridge simply memorized the contents of the wire reports and ad-libbed.
The special broadcast was over in two minutes. There were the bare facts only, few details, and no on-scene pictures—merely hastily gathered stills, projected over Partridge’s shoulder, of the Sloane family, their Larchmont home and the Grand Union store where the Thursday kidnap had taken place. A fuller report with pictures from White Plains, Partridge promised viewers, would be aired later on CBA’s Saturday National Evening News.
As soon as the red camera lights went out in the flash studio, Partridge phoned Rita in the control room. “I’m going to White Plains,” he told her. “Will you set it up?”
“I have already. Iris, Minh and I are going as well. Iris will produce a piece for tonight. You can do a standup there and cut a sound track later. There’s a car and driver waiting.”
The city of White Plains had a long history going back to 1661 when it was an encampment of the Siwanoy Indians who called it Quarropas—which means w
hite plains, or white balsam—after the trees that grew there. In the eighteenth century it was an important iron-mining center and a transportation crossroads. In 1776, during the American Revolution, a battle on nearby Chatterton Hill forced Washington’s retreat, but in the same year a Provincial Congress in White Plains approved the Declaration of Independence and the creation of New York State. There were other milestones, good and bad, though none exceeded in infamy the explosion engineered by the Medellín cartel and Sendero Luminoso in the Center City Mall parking building.
There was, it became clear later, a certain inevitability to the cycle of events.
During the preceding night a patrolling security guard had recorded the license numbers and makers’ names of vehicles left there overnight—a normal procedure and a precaution against cheating by drivers who might claim to have lost their parking stub and to have parked for one day only.
The presence of a Nissan passenger van with New York plates had also been noted the night before which, again, was not unusual. Sometimes, for a variety of reasons, vehicles were left parked for a week or more. But during the second night a different and more alert security guard wondered if the Nissan van could be the one he had heard about as being sought in connection with the Sloane family kidnapping.
He wrote a query to that effect on his report and the maintenance supervisor, on reading it next morning, promptly called the White Plains Police who ordered a patrol car to investigate. The time, according to police records, was 9:50 A.M.
The maintenance supervisor, however, did not wait for the police arrival. Instead he went to the Nissan van, taking along a large bunch of car keys he had accumulated over the years. It was a source of pride with him that there were few locked vehicles which, aided by his key collection, he could not open.