“Nice,” Faulkner said. He didn’t like Underhill much; his superior was selfish, inconsiderate and usually aloof. Just the same he was a superb pilot.
As Underhill swung the Lear around and taxied back toward the approach end of the airstrip, they caught glimpses of a truck and several moving figures. Beyond the truck and off to one side was a small, roughly constructed hut, beside it a dozen or so metal drums.
“There’s our fuel,” Underhill said, pointing. “Those guys will help you pump it in, and do it fast because I want us the hell out of here at first light.” Bogotá, Colombia, was their next destination and the culmination of this charter. Once airborne, it would be a short and easy flight.
Something else Underhill knew was that this area of jungle was a no-man’s-land, regularly fought over by Sendero Luminoso, the Peruvian Army, and sometimes the government’s anti-terrorism police. With all three groups noted for extreme brutality, it was not a place to linger. But the Learjet’s passengers would be disembarking here, so Underhill motioned to Faulkner who reached behind him and opened the door between the flight deck and the main cabin.
Miguel, Socorro, Rafael and Baudelio were relieved to be on the ground after the descent through darkness. But with relief came an awareness that a new part of their enterprise was beginning. In particular, Baudelio, who had been monitoring the caskets with external instruments, began to diminish the sedation, knowing that very soon the caskets would be opened and his patients—as he continued to think of them—removed.
Moments later the Learjet stopped, the engines fell silent and Faulkner left his seat to open the clamshell door. In sudden contrast to the controlled temperature inside, the outside air was suffocatingly hot and humid.
As the airplane’s occupants filed out it was evident that the attention and respect of those waiting on the ground were focused on Miguel and Socorro. Obviously, Miguel’s reception was due to his role as leader and Socorro’s because of her affiliation with Sendero Luminoso.
The waiting force comprised eight men. Even in the darkness, reflected light made it possible to see their light brown, weathered faces and that all were sturdy peasant types, stockily built. The youngest-looking of the eight stepped forward and quickly identified himself as Gustavo. To Miguel he said, “Tenemos ordenes de ayudarle cuarido lo necesite, señor.”
Having acknowledged his willingness to accept orders, Gustavo turned to Socorro with a bow, “Señora, la destinacíon de sus prisioneros será Nueva Esperanza. El viaje será noventa kilometros, la mayor parte por el río. El barco está listo.”
Underhill emerged in time to hear the last exchange. He asked sharply, “What prisoners are to be taken ninety kilometers by boat?”
Miguel had not wanted Underhill to hear the name of their final destination, Nueva Esperanza. But in any case he had had more than enough of this imperious pilot, remembering the greeting at Teterboro, “Goddamn, you’re late!” and other times during the journey when the pilot’s hostility had been thinly veiled. Now that Miguel was on ground where the other man had no authority, he said contemptuously, “This is not your business.”
Underhill snapped back, “Everything that happens in this airplane is my business.” He glanced toward the caskets. Originally he had insisted that the less he knew about them, the better. Now, more from instinct than reason, he decided for his own protection later he had better know. “What is in those?”
Ignoring the pilot, Miguel told Gustavo, “Dígale a los hombres que descarguen los ataudes cuidadosamente sin moverlos demasiado, y que los lleven adentro de la choza.”
“No!” It was Underhill. He blocked the clamshell doorway. “You will not unload those caskets until you have answered me!” Already, responding to the heat, sweat was streaming down his face and balding head.
Miguel caught Gustavo’s eye and nodded. Instantly there was a flurry of movement, a series of sharp metallic clicks and Underhill found himself looking into the barrels of six Kalashnikov rifles, all held steady by the ground-force men, safeties off, their fingers curled around the triggers.
With sudden nervousness the pilot called out, “For chrissakes, all right!” His eyes swung from the weapons to Miguel. “You’ve made your point. Just let us take on fuel and get out of here.”
Ignoring the request, Miguel snarled, “Move your ass away from that door!” When Underhill had done so, Miguel nodded again, the rifles were lowered and four of the ground men entered the airplane, going to the caskets. The copilot accompanied them, releasing the cargo straps, then one by one the caskets were unloaded and carried into the small hut. Baudelio and Socorro followed.
An hour and a half had passed since the Learjet’s landing and now, a few minutes before sunrise, the landing strip and its surroundings were becoming clearer. During the intervening time the Learjet had been refueled for the flight to Bogotá, the fuel taken from the drums and transferred through a portable pump. Underhill was now looking for Miguel to inform him of their imminent departure.
Miguel and the others were in the makeshift hut, Gustavo indicated. Underhill walked toward it.
The hut door was partially closed and, hearing voices inside, the pilot pushed it open. The next instant he stopped—shocked and horrified at what he saw.
Seated on the dirt floor of the hut were three figures, their backs to the wall, heads lolling, mouths open, comatose but certainly alive. Two of the caskets taken from the Learjet—now open and empty—had been placed on either side of the trio to help prop them up. A single oil lantern illuminated the scene.
Underhill knew immediately who the three were. It was impossible not to know. He listened daily to U.S. radio news and read American newspapers, available at foreign airports and hotels. Colombian news media, too, had carried reports about the kidnapped family of a famous U.S. anchorman.
Fear, icy fear, crept over Denis Underhill. He had skirted the borderlines of crime before—anyone flying Latin American charters inevitably did. But he had never, ever before, been involved in anything as utterly felonious as this. He knew, without having to think about it, that if his role in conveying these people became known in the U.S., he could go to jail for life.
He knew others in the hut were watching him—the three men and the woman who had been his passengers from Teterboro through Opa Locka to Sion. They too appeared to have been startled by his entry.
It was at that moment that the semiconscious woman on the ground stirred. She raised her head weakly. Looking directly at Underhill, her eyes came into focus and she moved her lips though no sound emerged. Then she managed to gasp, “Help … please help … tell someone …” Abruptly her eyes lost their focus, her head slumped forward.
From the far side of the hut a figure moved quickly toward Underhill. It was Miguel. With a Makarov nine-millimeter pistol in his hand, he motioned. “Out!”
Underhill moved ahead of Miguel and his gun to the jungle outside. There, Miguel said matter-of-factly, “I can kill you now. No one will care.”
A sense of numbness overwhelmed Underhill. He shrugged. “You’ve done me in anyway, you bastard. You’ve made me part of kidnapping those people, so whatever comes next won’t make a helluva lot of difference.” His eyes dropped to the Makarov; the safety catch was off. Well, it figured, he thought. He had been in tight situations before and this looked like one he wouldn’t get out of. He had known others like this thug Palacios—or whatever his real name was. A human life meant nothing to them, snuffing one out no more than spitting in the dust. He just hoped the guy would shoot straight. That way it should be quick and painless … Why hadn’t he done it yet? … Suddenly, despite his reasoning, desperate fear seized Underhill. Though sweat still poured from him, he was shivering. He opened his mouth to plead, but saliva filled it and words failed him.
For some reason, he perceived, the man facing him with the gun was hesitating.
In fact, Miguel was calculating. If he killed one pilot, he would have to kill both, which meant the Learjet cou
ld not be flown out for the time being—a complication he could do without. He knew also that the airplane’s Colombian owner had friends in the Medellín cartel. The owner could make trouble …
Miguel thumbed the safety on. He said menacingly, “Maybe you just thought you saw something. Maybe you didn’t after all. Maybe, this whole journey, you saw nothing.”
Underbill’s mind flashed a message: For a reason he didn’t understand, he was being given a chance. He responded hastily, breathlessly, “That’s right. Didn’t see a goddamn thing.”
“Get the fucking airplane out of here,” Miguel snarled, “and afterward keep your mouth shut. If you don’t, I promise wherever you are you’ll be found and killed. Is that clear?”
Trembling with relief, knowing he had been closer to death than ever before in his life, and also that the closing threat was real, Underhill nodded. “It’s clear.” Then he turned and walked back to the airstrip.
Morning mist and broken cloud hung over the jungle. The Learjet passed through it as they climbed. The ascending sun was blurry amid haze, the sign of a scorching, steamy day ahead for those left on the ground.
But Underhill, going through piloting motions automatically, was thinking only of what lay ahead.
He reasoned that Faulkner, seated beside him, hadn’t seen the Sloane family captives and knew nothing of Underhill’s involvement or what had happened just a few minutes ago. And they would keep it that way. Not only was there no need for Faulkner to be told now that there had been live, kidnapped people in those caskets they had carried, but if he weren’t told, the copilot could swear later on that Underhill didn’t know either.
That was the essential thing for Underhill to insist on whenever inquiry was made, as he was certain it would be: He didn’t know. From beginning to end, he didn’t know about the Sloanes.
Would he be believed? Perhaps not, but it didn’t matter, he thought with growing confidence. It made no difference as long as there was no one who could prove the contrary.
He was reminded of the woman who had spoken to him. Her name was Jessica, he recalled from the reports. Would she remember seeing him? Could she identify him later? Considering her state, it was highly unlikely. It was also unlikely, the more he thought about it, that she would ever leave Peru alive.
He signaled for Faulkner to take over the flying. Leaning back in his seat, the hint of a smile crossed the senior pilot’s face.
At no point did Underhill give any thought to a possible rescue of the Sloane family captives. Nor did he consider reporting to authorities who was holding them and where.
3
After less than three full days of investigation an important success had been achieved by the CBA News special task force.
In Larchmont, New York, an infamous Colombian terrorist, Ulises Rodríguez, had been positively identified as one of the kidnappers of the Sloane family trio and, perhaps, the leader of the kidnap gang.
On Sunday morning—as had been promised the preceding day—a copy of a charcoal sketch of Rodríguez, drawn twenty years earlier by a fellow student at the University of California at Berkeley, arrived at CBA News headquarters. Producer Karl Owens, who had uncovered Rodríguez’s name through contacts in Bogotá and U.S. Immigration, personally received the sketch and later took it to Larchmont. A camera crew and a hastily summoned New York correspondent accompanied him.
As the camera rolled, Owens had the correspondent show six photos to Priscilla Rhea, the retired schoolteacher who had witnessed the kidnap on the Grand Union parking lot. One photo was of the Rodríguez sketch, the other five had been taken from files and were of men of similar appearance. Miss Rhea pointed instantly to the Rodríguez picture.
“That’s him. That’s the one who’ shouted that they were making a movie. He’s younger in the picture, but it’s the same man. I’d know him anywhere.” She added, “When I saw him, it seemed he was in charge.”
At this point CBA News had the information exclusively.
(It was not, of course, known that Ulises Rodríguez was using the code name Miguel or that during the Learjet flight to Peru he employed the alias Pedro Palacios. But since a terrorist habitually used many names, this was not important.)
The discovery was discussed late Sunday at an informal session by four task force members—Harry Partridge, Rita Abrams, Karl Owens and Iris Everly. Owens, justly pleased by his breakthrough, urged that the new development be included in Monday’s edition of the National Evening News.
When Partridge hesitated, Owens argued forcefully.
“Look, Harry, no one else has this yet. We’re ahead of the whole pack. If we go on air tomorrow, everyone else will pick it up and have to give us credit which includes—even though we know they hate doing it—the New York Times and Washington Post. But if we hold off and wait too long, word about Rodríguez may get out and we’ll lose our exclusive. You know as well as I do, people talk. There’s the Rhea woman in Larchmont; she may tell someone and they’ll pass it on. Even our own people blab, and there’s a chance of someone at another network hearing.”
“I second all that,” Iris Everly said. “You’re expecting me to do a follow-up tomorrow, Harry. Without Rodríguez, I have nothing new.”
“I know,” Partridge said. “I’m thinking about going with it, but there are also some reasons to wait. I won’t make a decision until tomorrow.”
With that, the others had to be content.
One decision Partridge made privately was that Crawford Sloane must be informed of the fresh discovery. Crawf, he reasoned, was suffering such mental agony that any forward step, even though an inconclusive one, would come as a relief. Late as it was—nearing 10 P.M.—Partridge decided to visit Sloane himself. Obviously he could not telephone. All phone calls to Sloane’s Larchmont house were being monitored by the FBI and Partridge was not ready yet to give the FBI the new information.
Using a phone in his temporary private office, he ordered a CBA car and driver to meet him at the news building’s main entrance.
“I’m grateful you came out, Harry,” Crawford Sloane said after Partridge made his report. “Will you go on air with this tomorrow?”
“I’m not sure.” Partridge described his reasoning both ways, adding, “I want to sleep on it.”
They were having drinks in the living room where, only four evenings earlier, Sloane thought sadly, he had sat talking with Jessica and Nicholas after his own return from work.
On Partridge’s way in, an FBI agent had regarded him inquiringly. The agent was substituting that night for Otis Have-lock who was at home with his family. But Sloane had firmly closed the door connecting with the outside hallway and the two newsmen talked in low voices.
“Whatever you decide,” Sloane said, “I’ll back your judgment. Either way, do you have enough reason to take off for Colombia?”
Partridge shook his head. “Not yet, because Rodríguez is a gun-for-hire. He’s operated all over Latin America, Europe too. So I need to know more—specifically, where this operation is based. Tomorrow I’ll work the phones again. The others will do the same.”
One call in particular Partridge intended to make was to the lawyer for organized crime figures he had spoken to on Friday, but who hadn’t yet called back. Instinct told him that anyone operating in the U.S. as Rodríguez appeared to have done would need an organized crime connection.
As Partridge was leaving, Sloane put his hand on the other’s shoulder. “Harry, my friend,” he said, his voice emotional, “I’ve come to believe that the only chance I have of getting Jessica, Nicky and my Dad back is through you.” He hesitated, then went on. “I guess there have been times when you and I weren’t the closest companions, or even allies, and whatever’s been my fault in that, I’m sorry. But apart from that, I just want you to know that most of what I have and care about in this world is riding on you.”
Partridge tried to find words to reply, but couldn’t. Instead he nodded several times, touched Sloane on the shoulde
r too, and said, “Good night.”
“Where to, Mr. Partridge?” the CBA driver inquired.
It was close to midnight and Partridge answered tiredly, “The Inter-Continental Hotel, please.”
Leaning back in the car and remembering Sloane’s parting words, Partridge thought that, yes, he did know what it meant to have lost, or face the chance of losing, someone you loved. In his own case, long ago, there had first been Jessica, though the circumstances then were in no way comparable to Crawf’s desperate situation now. Then later there was Gemma …
He stopped. No! He would not let himself think of Gemma tonight. The remembrance of her had come back to him so much lately … it seemed to happen with tiredness … and always, along with memory, there was pain.
Instead, he forced his mind back to Crawf who, in circumstances equally dire as those affecting Jessica, was also suffering the loss, of a child, his son. Partridge himself had never known what it was to have a child. Still, he knew that the loss of one must be unbearable, perhaps the most unbearable burden of all. He and Gemma had wanted children …
He sighed … Oh, dearest Gemma …
He gave in … relaxed as the smoothly moving car closed the distance to Manhattan … allowed his mind to drift.
For always, after that simple marriage ceremony in Panama City when he and Gemma stood before the municipal juez in his cotton guayabera and took their unpretentious vows, Partridge nursed a conviction that simple ceremonies produced the better marriages and flamboyant, ritzier circuses were more likely to be followed by divorce.
He admitted it was a prejudice, based heavily on his own experience. His first marriage, in Canada, had begun with a “white wedding” complete with bridesmaids, several hundred guests and incantations in a church—the bride’s mother insisting on it all—and preceded by theatrical rehearsals which seemed to rob the ceremony itself of meaning. Afterward the marriage simply didn’t work, something Partridge conceded to be at least fifty percent his fault, and the rhetorical pledge of “until death us do part” was—by mutual agreement, this time in court before a judge—shortened to a year.