The marriage to Gemma, however, from its unlikely beginning aboard the Pope’s airplane, had strengthened as their love had grown. At no point in his life had Partridge ever been happier.
He continued to be the network’s correspondent in Rome where foreign journalists were able, as a colleague working for CBS expressed it, “to live like kings.” Almost at once after returning from the papal flight Partridge and Gemma found an apartment in a sixteenth-century palazzo. Located midway between the Spanish Steps and the Trevi Fountain, it had eight rooms and three balconies. In those days, when networks consumed money as if there were no tomorrow, correspondents found their own accommodation and were reimbursed. More recently, with leaner budgets and accountants in catbird seats, the network supplied living quarters—of lesser quality and cheaper.
As it was, on looking over what would be their first home, Gemma declared, “Harry, mio amore, it is heaven now. I will make it seven heavens for you.” And she did.
Gemma had a gift for imparting laughter and joy and love of living. As well, she ran the home proficiently and was a superb cook. What she could not do, as Partridge quickly learned, was manage money or balance a checkbook. When Gemma wrote a check she often forgot to fill in a counterfoil, so the balance in their account was invariably less than she believed. Coupled with that, even when she remembered the counterfoil her arithmetic was unreliable—she would sometimes add instead of subtract—so that Gemma and the bank were constantly at odds. “Harry, tesoro,” she complained after one stern lecture from the manager, “bankers have no tenderness. They are … what is that English word?”
He said, amused, “How about pragmatic?”
“Oh, Harry, you have such a clever mind! Yes,” Gemma said decisively, “bankers are too pragmatic.”
Partridge found the solution easy. He simply took over their household finances, which seemed a small contribution in return for the many agreeable condiments now added to his life.
Another problem with Gemma required more delicate handling. She adored cars, owned a dilapidated Alfa Romeo and, like many other Italians, drove like a crazed fiend. There were times when Partridge, seated beside her either in the Alfa or his own BMW, which she enjoyed driving too, closed his eyes, convinced that disaster was about to happen. Each time it didn’t, he equated himself with a cat having lost one more of its nine lives.
He was down to four when he summoned the courage to ask Gemma if she would consider not driving anymore. “It’s because I love you so much,” he assured her. “When I’m away I have nightmares, dreading something may happen with the car and you may be hurt when I get back.”
“But Harry,” Gemma protested, not understanding at all, “I am a safe, prudente driver.”
For the moment Partridge left it there, though managing to bring the subject up again from time to time, his revised strategy being that Gemma was indeed a safe driver but he himself was neurotically nervous. The best he could get, though, was a conditional promise.
“Mio amore, as soon as I am pregnant I will not drive a car. That I swear to you.”
It was a reminder of how much they both wanted children. “At least three,” Gemma announced soon after their marriage and Partridge saw no reason to disagree.
Meanwhile he traveled away from Rome periodically on CBA News assignments and, at the beginning, Gemma continued with her stewardess job. Very quickly, though, it became evident they would see little of each other that way because sometimes when Partridge returned from a trip Gemma would be flying; at others the reverse was true. It was Gemma who decided she would make the adjustment for them both by ceasing to fly.
Fortunately, when she let it be known at Alitalia that she was prepared to quit, the airline assigned her to ground duties that kept her permanently in Rome. Both Gemma and Partridge were delighted because now they had much more time together.
They used their spare hours to explore and enjoy Rome, dipping into its millennium of history about which, Partridge discovered, Gemma’s mind held a treasure trove of bric-a-brac.
“The Emperor Augustus, Harry—he was Julius Caesar’s stepson—started a fire brigade of slaves. But there was a big fire they didn’t put out, so he got rid of the slaves and had freemen as firemen, vigiles, who were better. That’s because people who are free want to put out fires.”
Partridge said doubtfully, “Is all that true?” Gemma only smiled, though later research showed him she was right and that the switch to freemen happened in A.D. 6. Subsequently, when the United Nations held a freedom Symposium in Rome, which Partridge covered, he adroitly slipped the ancient fire brigade story into his CBA News script.
On another occasion: “The Sistine Chapel, Harry, where new popes are chosen, was named after Pope Sixtus IV. He licensed brothels in Rome and had sons, one by his own sister. He made three of his sons cardinals.”
And: “Our famous Spanish Steps, Scala di Spagna, have a wrongful name. They ought to be Scala di Francia. The French suggested the steps, a Frenchman left the money for them in his will. The Spanish Embassy—poof!—just happened to be there. Spain had nothing, nothing, Harry, to do with those steps at all.”
When work and time permitted, Partridge and Gemma journeyed farther afield to Florence, Venice and Pisa. It was while returning from Florence by train that Gemma appeared pale and excused herself several times to enter the toilet. When Partridge expressed concern, she dismissed it as unimportant. “I probably ate something I should not. Do not worry.”
In Rome, away from the train, Gemma seemed her normal self and next day Partridge went as usual to the CBA bureau. In the evening, however, when he returned home he was surprised to find an extra small plate at his dinner place and, on it, the keys of Gemma’s Alfa Romeo. When he asked about them, Gemma, a small smile on her face, answered, “A promise is for keeping.”
For a moment he was puzzled, then with a surge of love and a shout of joy, he remembered her statement, “As soon as I am pregnant I will not drive a car.”
Gemma had tears of happiness in her eyes as they kissed and held each other tightly.
One week later Partridge received word from CBA News that he would no longer be Rome correspondent and was being given a more important assignment—as senior correspondent in London.
His immediate reaction was to wonder how Gemma would feel about the change. He need not have been concerned.
“It is wondrous news, Harry caro,” she told him. “I adore London. I flew there with Alitalia. We will make a good life there together.”
“We’re here, Mr. Partridge.”
Partridge, who had closed his eyes in the CBA car—momentarily, as he thought—opened them to discover they had reached Manhattan and were on Forty-eighth Street outside the Inter-Continental Hotel. He thanked the driver, said good night, then went inside.
In the elevator on the way to his room he realized it was now Monday—the beginning of what was likely to be a crucial week.
4
Jessica was trying desperately to hold on to awareness, to keep her mind functioning and to understand what was going on around her, but mostly she was not succeeding. She would have moments of clarity in which she could see other people and feel her own body—its pain and discomfort, nausea, an acute thirst. Yet even while this was happening, panic possessed her with one dominating thought: Nicky! Where was he? What had happened? Then abruptly everything would ebb away, becoming a swirling, misty montage in which she could grasp nothing mentally, not even who she was. During such lapses she seemed engulfed by some sluggish, opaque liquid.
Somehow, even while teetering in and out of consciousness, she managed to hold on to memories of what she had briefly perceived. She knew that something which had been connected to her arm was now removed and in its place was a throbbing ache. She was aware of being helped from some resting place, then partly walked and partly carried to wherever she was now seated, which seemed—again in moments of awareness—to be a flat surface. There was something solid—she w
asn’t sure what—behind her back.
In between such thoughts, as fright and panic returned, she tried to tell herself what she knew to be important: Keep control!
One thing she was clear about was the sudden sight, and now the memory, of a man. The image of him was sharp and strong. He was tall and partly bald, held himself straight, and looked as if he had authority. It was that impression of authority which made her attempt to speak to him, to plead for help. She knew he had been startled by her voice; that response was also precisely etched, though the reality of the man had disappeared. But did her plea get through? Would he return to help? … Oh god! Who knew?
Now … once more awareness had swirled in. There was another man, this time leaning over her … Wait! She had seen this one before, recognized his cadaverous face … Yes! Just minutes ago, while she was desperately fighting with some kind of knife, she had slashed his face, seen blood spurt out … But why wasn’t he bleeding now? How was it that his face was bandaged?
In Jessica’s mind her long interval of unconsciousness did not exist …
She reasoned: This man was an enemy. Now she remembered: He had done something to Nicky. Oh, how she hated him! … Wild anger sent adrenaline pumping, brought back movement to her limbs. She reached up, seized the adhesive bandage and pulled it off. Then, following through, her nails raked flesh and scab.
With a startled cry, Baudelio leaped back. Putting a hand to his cheek, it came away red with blood … That goddamn woman! She had messed up his face again. Instinctively he had been thinking like a doctor, and of her as a patient, but not now! Enraged, he clenched a fist, leaned forward and hit her hard.
An instant later, for clinical reasons, he regretted having done it. He had wanted to see how far all three captives were advanced in consciousness—up to this point they had come out of sedation satisfactorily and their pulses and breathing were okay. The woman had seemed a little ahead of the others. He thought ruefully: She had just proved it.
They would all suffer aftereffects, of course—from his anesthesiology experience he knew them well. There would be a sense of confusion probably followed by depression, some numbness, a severe headache, almost certainly nausea. The general effect would be much like a drunkard’s hangover. They should all be given water soon; he would attend to that. No food, though—at least not until they had reached their next destination. Hell camp, Baudelio thought.
Socorro appeared beside him and he told her about the need for water. She nodded and went out to see what she could find. Paradoxically, as Baudelio knew, in this sparsely inhabited, damp jungle, drinking water was a problem. Rivers and streams, though plentiful, were fouled by chemicals—sulfuric acid, kerosene and other by-products used by drug dealers in transforming coca leaves into coca paste, the substance of cocaine. As well, there were dangers of malaria and typhoid, so that even impoverished peasants drank soft drinks, beer and, when possible, boiled water.
Miguel had entered the hut in time to see the incident involving Jessica and Baudelio and hear the latter’s instruction to Socorro. He called after her, “And get something to tie these scumbags’ hands, then do it—behind their backs.”
Turning to Baudelio, Miguel ordered, “Get the prisoners ready to move. First we go by truck. After that, everyone will walk.”
Jessica, now only feigning unconsciousness, heard it all.
In hitting her, Baudelio had actually done a favor. The blow’s jolting effect had brought her borderline awareness suddenly into focus. She now knew who she was and memory was returning. But instinct cautioned her to keep that knowledge, for the moment, to herself.
She knew she had been frightened and panicked a few minutes ago, but now must try to keep her thinking orderly. First: Where was she? How had she got here?
Answers accumulated … Everything was coming back: The Grand Union supermarket and the report conveyed to her about Crawford and an accident—obviously a lie. Then in the parking lot, the brutal seizure of herself, Nicky and …
Nicky! Had he been harmed? Where was he now?
Still striving to maintain control, she remembered glimpsing Nicky briefly on some kind of bed, tied down … and so was Angus. Oh, poor Angus! She’d seen them while she struggled with the man and cut his face … Was she still in that same place? She didn’t think so. More important, was Nicky with her? Barely opening her eyes, keeping her head low, she shifted to look. Oh, thank god! Nicky was right alongside! His eyes were opening and closing; he was yawning.
And Angus? Yes! Angus was beyond Nicky, eyes closed, but she could see that he was breathing.
Which raised the question: Why had the three of them been taken? She decided the answer to that would have to be postponed.
More immediately: Where were they? Jessica’s quick glimpses of this place had shown her a small semidarkened room, windowless and lit by an oil lantern. Why no electricity? She and the other two were seated on what felt like a dirt floor and she thought she could feel insects, though she tried not to think about them. It was incredibly hot and sticky here, which puzzled her since September this year had been unusually cool and no change was forecast.
So … because this was a different place from where Nicky and Angus had been tied down, how had they got here? Had she been drugged? The thought caused her to recall something else: the pad over her nose and mouth after she had been pulled into the van on the Grand Union parking lot.
She remembered nothing more that happened in the van; therefore she had been drugged, probably the other two as well. For how long? Half an hour, she estimated—an hour at the most. The memory of the skirmish on the parking lot was too close for it to be more.
So the likelihood was, they were still not far from Larchmont, which meant somewhere in New York State, New Jersey or Connecticut. Jessica considered Massachusetts and Pennsylvania, then dismissed them. Both were too far away … Voices interrupted …
“The bitch is faking,” Miguel said.
“I know,” Baudelio replied. “She’s fully conscious and thinks she’s cunning. She’s been listening to what we’re saying.”
Miguel extended his right shoe and shoved it hard into Jessica’s ribs. “On your feet, bitch! We have places to go.”
The shoe made her wince and because there seemed no advantage in pretending, Jessica lifted her head and opened her eyes. She recognized both men looking down at her—the one whose face she had cut, the other whom she had caught sight of briefly in the van. Her mouth was dry and her voice raspy, but she managed to say, “You’ll be sorry for this. You’ll be caught. Punished.”
“Silence!” Miguel used his foot again, this time to kick her stomach. “From now on, you will speak only when questioned.”
From beside her, she heard Nicky stir and say, “What’s happened? Where are we?” She sensed in his voice the same panic she had experienced herself.
It was Angus who answered softly, “It looks to me, old son, as if we’ve been kidnapped by some pretty nasty people. But keep your cool! Be strong! Your Dad’ll find us.”
Jessica, still fighting pain from the savage kick, felt a hand placed on her arm and heard Nicky’s voice say gently, “Mom, are you okay?”
Tears sprang to her eyes at the thought that Nicky’s concern should be for her. Turning her head, she tried to nod reassuringly, only to see Nicky being kicked viciously too. In a moment of horror she thought: What was all this doing to him?
Miguel shouted, “That silence rule means you too, idiot boy! Remember it!”
“Oh, he’ll remember.” It was Angus, his voice dry and cracked, but he managed to impart contempt. “Who could forget a piece of human offal, so brave he’ll kick a helpless woman and a boy?” The old man was struggling to rise.
Jessica breathed, “Angus, don’t!” She knew that nothing at this moment could improve their situation; hard words would make it worse.
Angus had trouble balancing and rising to his feet. In the meantime Miguel looked around him and seized part of a tree
branch lying on the floor. He crossed to Angus and belabored him savagely about the head and shoulders. The old man fell back, one eye closed where the wood had struck him, grunting with the pain.
“All of you will use that as a lesson!” Miguel barked. “Keep silent!” He turned to Baudelio. “Get them ready to go.”
Socorro had returned carrying a water jug in a wicker cover and a length of coarse rope.
“They should have water first,” Baudelio said. He added with a hint of petulance, “That is, if you want them kept alive.”
“First tie their hands,” Miguel ordered. “I want no more trouble.”
Scowling, he left the hut. Outside, as the sun ascended, the humid heat was overpowering.
Jessica was growing increasingly puzzled about their location.
A few minutes ago she, Nicky and Angus had been moved from what Jessica now realized was a crudely constructed hut and were in the grimy back portion of an open truck, along with a miscellaneous cargo of crates, boxes and sacks. After being marched out of the hut with their hands tied behind them, the three were partially lifted, partially shoved roughly over the truck’s tailgate by several pairs of hands. Then a half-dozen motley-dressed men, who could have been farmhands except they carried guns, had boarded also, followed by the man Jessica labeled mentally “Cutface,” and another man whom she remembered vaguely having seen before. After that the tailgate was raised and fastened.
While it was all happening she had concentrated on their surroundings, trying to see as much as she could, but it hadn’t helped. There were no other buildings in view, nothing but dense woodland all around, and the dirt track to the hut could scarcely be called a road. She attempted to see the truck’s license plate, but if there was one the lowered tailgate covered it.
Physically, Jessica felt better for having received water. Before leaving the hut, Nicky and Angus had been given water too, by a sour-faced woman whom Jessica also remembered seeing briefly before—she believed during her initial struggle with Cutface.