Seated once more at the head of the conference-room table, Harry Partridge surveyed the others—Rita, Norman Jaeger, Iris Everly, Karl Owens, Teddy Cooper. Most looked tired; Iris, for once, was less than immaculate, her hair awry and white blouse ink-stained. Jaeger, in shirtsleeves, had his chair tilted back, feet up on the table.
The room itself was messy, with waste containers overflowing, ash trays full, dirty coffee cups abounding and discarded newspapers littering the floor. A price paid for keeping the task force offices locked was that cleaners had been unable to get in. Rita reminded herself to arrange for the place to be spruced up before Monday morning.
The “Sequence of Events” and “Miscellaneous” boards had been added to considerably. The most recent contribution was a summary of that morning’s White Plains havoc, typed by Partridge. Frustratingly, though, there was still nothing conclusive on the boards about the kidnappers’ identities or their victims’ whereabouts.
“Reports, anyone?” Partridge asked.
Jaeger, who had lowered his feet and propelled his chair to the table, raised a hand.
“Go ahead, Norm.”
The veteran producer spoke in his quiet, scholarly fashion. “For most of today I’ve been telephoning Europe and the Middle East—our bureau chiefs, correspondents, stringers, fixers—asking questions: What have they heard that is fresh or unusual about terrorist activity? Are there signs of peculiar movements of terrorism people? Have any terrorists, especially groups, disappeared from sight recently? If they have, is it possible they could be in the United States? And so on.”
Jaeger paused, shuffling notes, then continued, “There are some semipositive answers. A whole group of Hezbollah disappeared from Beirut a month ago and haven’t surfaced. But rumor puts them in Turkey, planning a new attack on Jews, and there’s confirmation from Ankara that the Turkish police are searching for them. No proof, though. They could be anywhere.
“The FARL—Lebanese Armed Revolutionary Factions—are said to have people on the move, but three separate reports, including one from Paris, say that they’re in France. Again no proof. Abu Nidal has disappeared from Syria and is believed to be in Italy where there are rumbles that he, the Islamic Jihad and Red Brigades are plotting something vicious.” Jaeger threw up his hands. “All these hoodlums are like slippery shadows, though the sources I’ve used have been reliable in the past.”
Leslie Chippingham entered the conference room, followed a moment later by Crawford Sloane. They joined the others at the table. As the meeting fell silent, the news president urged, “Carry on, please.”
As Jaeger continued, Partridge observed Sloane and thought the anchorman looked ghastly, even more pale and gaunt than yesterday, though it was not surprising with the growing strain.
Jaeger said, “The intelligence grapevine reports some more individual terrorist movements. I won’t bother you with details except to say they’re apparently confined to Europe and the Middle East. More important, the people I talked to don’t believe there’s been any terrorist exodus, certainly not in sizable numbers, to the U.S. or Canada. If there were, they say it’s unlikely there’d be no word at all. But I’ve told everybody to keep looking, listening and reporting.”
“Thanks, Norm.” Partridge turned to Karl Owens. “I know you’ve been inquiring southward, Karl. Any results?”
“Nothing really positive.” The younger producer had no need to shuffle notes from his day of telephoning. Typical of his precise methodology, he had each phone call summarized on a four-by-six card, the handwriting neat, the cards sorted into order.
“I’ve talked with the same kind of contacts as Norm, asking similar questions—mine in Managua, San Salvador, Havana, La Paz, Buenos Aires, Tegucigalpa, Lima, Santiago, Bogotá, Brasilia, Mexico City. As always, there’s terrorist activity in most of those places, also reports about terrorists changing countries, crossing borders like commuters switching trains. But nothing in the intelligence mill fits a group movement of the kind we’re looking for. I did stumble on one thing. I’m still working on it …”
“Tell us,” Partridge said. “We’ll take it raw.”
“Well, it’s something from Colombia. About a guy called Ulises Rodríguez.”
“A particularly nasty terrorist,” Rita said. “I’ve heard him referred to as the Abu Nidal of Latin America.”
“He’s all of that,” Owens agreed, “and he’s also believed to have been involved in several Colombian kidnappings. They don’t get reported much here, but they happen all the time. Well, three months ago Rodríguez was reported as being in Bogotá, then he simply disappeared. Those who should know are convinced he’s active somewhere. There was a rumor he might have gone to London, but wherever he is, he’s stayed successfully out of sight since June.”
Owens paused, referring to a card. “Now something else: On a hunch I called a Washington contact in U.S. Immigration and floated Rodríguez’s name. Later, my source called me back and said that three months ago, which is about the time Rodríguez dropped out of sight, Immigration was warned by the CIA that he might attempt a U.S. entry through Miami. There’s a federal arrest warrant out for him and Miami Immigration and Customs went on red alert. But he didn’t show.”
“Or managed to get through undetected,” Iris Everly added.
“That’s possible. Or he could have come in through a different doorway—from London, perhaps, if the rumor I mentioned was right. That’s something else about him. Rodríguez studied English at Berkeley and speaks it without an accent—or, rather, with an American accent. What I’m saying is, he can blend in.”
“This gets interesting,” Rita said. “Is there anything more?”
Owens nodded. “A little.”
The others around the table were listening intently and Partridge reflected that only those in the news business understood just how much information could be assembled through contacts and persistent telephoning.
“The little that’s on record about Rodríguez,” Owens said, “includes what I’ve just told you and that he graduated from Berkeley with the class of ’72.”
Partridge asked, “Are there pictures of him?”
Owens shook his head. “I asked Immigration and came up nil. They say no one has a photo, which includes the CIA. Rodríguez has been careful. However, on that score we may have got lucky.”
“For chrissakes, Karl!” Rita complained. “If you must act like a novelist, get on with the story!”
Owens smiled. Patient plodding was his personal style. It worked and he had no intention of changing it for Abrams or anyone else.
“After learning about Rodríguez I called our San Francisco bureau and asked to have someone sent over to Berkeley to do some checking.” He glanced at Chippingham. “I invoked your name, Les. Said you’d authorized zip priority.”
The news president nodded as Owens continued.
“They sent Fiona Gowan who happens to be a Berkeley graduate, knows her way around. Fiona got lucky, especially on Saturday and—if you’ll believe it—located an English Department faculty member who actually remembers Rodríguez from the Class of ’72.”
Rita sighed. “We believe it.” Her tone said: Get on!
“Rodríguez, it seems, was a loner, had no close friends. Something else the faculty guy recalled was that Rodríguez was camera-shy, would never let anyone take his picture. The Daily Cal, the student newspaper, wanted to feature him in a group of foreign students; he turned them down. Eventually it got to be a joke, so a classmate who was a pretty good artist did a charcoal sketch of Rodríguez without his knowing. When the artist showed it around, Rodríguez flew into a rage. Then he offered to buy the picture and did, paying more than it was worth. The Catch-22 was that the artist had already made a dozen copies which he doled out to his friends. Rodríguez never knew that.”
“Those copies …” Partridge began.
“We’re on to it, Harry.” Owens smiled, still refusing to be hurried. “Fiona’s back in San Fr
ancisco, been working the phones all afternoon. It was a big job because the Berkeley English class of ’72 had three hundred and eighty-eight members. Anyway she managed to scrape up names and some alumni home numbers, one leading to another. Just before this meeting she called me to say she’s located one of the copy sketches and will have it by tomorrow. Soon as it’s in, San Fran bureau will transmit it to us.”
There was an approving murmur around the table. “Nice staff work,” Chippingham said. “Thank Fiona for me.”
“We should keep a sense of proportion, though,” Owens pointed out. “At the moment we’ve nothing more than coincidence and it’s only a guess that Rodríguez might be involved with our kidnap. Also, that charcoal drawing is twenty years old.”
“People don’t change all that much, even in twenty years,” Partridge said. “What we can do is show the picture around Larchmont and ask if anyone remembers seeing him. Anything else?”
“Washington bureau checked in,” Rita said. “They say the FBI has nothing new. Their forensic people are working on what was left of the Nissan van at White Plains, but they’re not hopeful. Just as Salerno said on Friday’s broadcast, the FBI in kidnap cases depend on the kidnappers making contact.”
Partridge looked down the table toward Sloane. “I’m sorry, Crawf, but that seems to be all we have.”
Rita reminded him, “Except for Teddy’s idea.”
Sloane said sharply, “What idea? I haven’t heard it.”
“Best let Teddy explain,” Partridge said. He nodded to the young Englishman, also seated at the table, and Cooper brightened as attention focused on him.
“It’s a possible way to find out where the snatchers had their hideout, Mr. S. Even though by now I’m sure they’ve scarpered.”
Chippingham asked, “If they’ve gone, what good would that do us?”
Sloane gestured impatiently. “Never mind that. I want to hear the idea.”
Despite the intervention, Cooper answered Chippingham first. “Traces, Mr. C. There’s always a chance people leave traces, showing who they are, where they came from, maybe even where they’ve gone.”
Including the others in his remarks, Cooper repeated the proposal made to Partridge and Rita earlier that day … described the kind of property and location he visualized as the kidnappers’ headquarters … his belief the kidnappers could have obtained their base by responding to newspaper advertising … the plan to examine classified ads appearing over the past three months in newspapers within twenty-five miles of Larchmont … Objective of the search: to match the theoretical HQ description … The detail work, in libraries and newspaper offices, to be done by bright young people hired especially … Later, the same group, under supervision, would investigate possible locations the search produced …
Cooper ended, “It’s a long shot, I admit.”
“I wouldn’t even put it that high,” Chippingham said. He had been frowning during the recital, his frown deepening as the hiring suggestion emerged. “How many people are we talking?”
Rita said, “I’ve done some checking. In the area we’re speaking of, there are approximately a hundred and sixty newspapers, including dailies and weeklies. Libraries don’t carry back numbers of more than a few of those, so mostly it would mean going to publication offices and searching through files. Doing that, reading back through three months of ads and making notes, would be a monumental job. But if it’s to be of value, it will need to be done fast …”
Chippingham cut in. “Will someone please answer my question. How many people?”
“I estimate sixty,” Rita told him. “On top of that, some supervision.”
Chippingham turned to Partridge. “Harry, are you seriously recommending this?” His tone conveyed, You couldn’t be that crazy!
Partridge hesitated. He shared Chippingham’s doubts. This morning, during the drive back from White Plains, he had mentally labeled Teddy’s notion a harebrained scheme; nothing since then had changed his mind. Then he reasoned: Sometimes taking a stand was a good idea, even with a long shot.
“Yes, Les,” he said, “I’m recommending it. It’s my opinion that we ought to try everything. Right now, we aren’t overburdened with leads or fresh ideas.”
Chippingham was unhappy with the answer. He felt apprehensive at the thought of employing sixty extra people, plus their travel and other expenses, for what could turn out to be several weeks—to say nothing of the supervisory help Rita had mentioned. That kind of hiring always added up to horrendous sums. Of course, in the old free-spending days of TV news he wouldn’t have thought twice about it. No one did. But now, Margot Lloyd-Mason’s edict about the kidnap task force echoed in his mind: “I don’t want anyone … going wild about spending money … No activity exceeding budget is to be embarked on without my advance approval.”
Well, Chippingham thought, as much as anyone else he wanted to find out where Jessica, the Sloane kid and the old man had been taken and, if he had to, he’d go to bat with Margot on the money crunch. But it would have to be on behalf of something he believed in and not this piece of idiot shit from the arrogant Limey.
“Harry, I’m going to veto that one, at least for the time being,” Chippingham said. “I simply don’t think it has enough possibility to justify the effort.” Even now, he supposed, if the others knew the part of his thinking that included Margot, they would call him craven. Well, never mind, he had problems—including hanging on to his own job—they didn’t know about.
Jaeger began, “I would have thought, Les …”
Before he could finish, Crawford Sloane said, “Norm, let me.” As Jaeger subsided, the anchorman’s voice sharpened. “When you talk about not justifying the effort, Les, aren’t you really saying you won’t spend the money?”
“That’s a factor; you know it always is. But mostly it’s a judgment call. What’s been suggested isn’t a good idea.”
“Perhaps you have a better one.”
“Not at this moment.”
Sloane said icily, “Then I have a question and I’d like an honest answer. Has Margot Lloyd-Mason put a spending freeze on?”
Chippingham said uneasily, “We’ve discussed budget, that’s all.” He added, “Can you and I talk privately?”
“No!” Sloane roared, jumping to his feet, glaring at Chippingham. “No goddamn privacy for that cold-hearted bitch! You answered my question. There is a money freeze.”
“It’s not significant. For anything worthwhile, I’ll simply call Stonehenge …”
Sloane stormed, “And what I’ll call is a press conference—right here, tonight! To tell the world that while my family is suffering in some hellhole, god knows where, this wealthy network is huddling with accountants, reviewing budgets, haggling over pennies …”
Chippingham protested, “No one’s haggling! Crawf, this isn’t necessary. I’m sorry.”
“And what the hell good does that do?”
The others around the table could scarcely believe what they were hearing: In the first place, that a spending freeze had been applied secretly to their own project, and second, in the present desperate situation, not to try all possibilities was inconceivable.
Something else was equally incredible: That CBA should so offend its most illustrious citizen, the senior anchorman. Margot Lloyd-Mason had been mentioned; therefore it could only be concluded she represented the ax-wielding hand of Globanic Industries.
Norman Jaeger stood up too, the simplest form of protest. He said quietly, “Harry thinks we should give Teddy’s idea a chance. So do I.”
Karl Owens joined him. “Me too.”
“Add me to the list.” Iris Everly.
Rita, a touch reluctantly, caring about Chippingham, said, “I guess you’d better count me in.”
“Okay, okay, let’s cut the histrionics,” Chippingham said. He realized he had been guilty of misjudgment, knew that either way he was the loser, and silently cursed Margot. “I reverse myself. Maybe I was wrong. Crawf, we’ll g
o ahead.”
But he wouldn’t, Chippingham decided, go to Margot and ask for approval; he knew too well, had known from the beginning, what her response would be. He would authorize the expense and take his chances.
Rita, practical as always and seeking to defuse the scene, said, “If we’re moving on this, we can’t afford to lose time. We should have researchers working by Monday. So where do we begin?”
“We’ll call in Uncle Arthur,” Chippingham said. “I’ll speak to him at home tonight and have him here tomorrow to begin recruiting.”
Crawford Sloane brightened. “A good idea.”
Teddy Cooper, seated beside Jaeger, whispered, “Who the hell is Uncle Arthur?”
Jaeger chuckled. “You haven’t met Uncle Arthur? Tomorrow, my young friend, you are in for a unique experience.”
“The drinks are on me,” Chippingham said. Mentally he added, I brought you all here to bind up any minor wounds.
He and the others had adjourned to Sfuzzi, a restaurant and bar near Lincoln Center with a nouveau-Ancient Roman décor. It was a regular rendezvous for TV news people. Though Sfuzzi’s was crowded on a Saturday night, they managed to squeeze around a table supplemented by extra chairs.
Chippingham had invited everyone who had been at the task force meeting, including Sloane, but the anchorman declined, deciding to go home to Larchmont with his FBI escort, Otis Havelock. There they would wait through another night for the hoped-for telephone message from the kidnappers.
When everyone had their drinks and with tensions eased, Partridge said, “Les, there’s something I think needs saying. At the best of times, I wouldn’t want your job. But especially right now, I’m certain that none of us here could juggle the priorities and people that you’re having to—at least, not any better.”
Chippingham looked at Partridge gratefully and nodded. It was a testament of understanding from someone Chippingham respected and was a reminder from Partridge to the others that not all issues were straightforward or decisions easy.