Earlier that morning, as soon as businesses were open, Harry Partridge had telephoned his contact, the lawyer with organized crime clients. The response was less than cordial. “Oh, it’s you. Well, I told you Friday I’d do some discreet checking and I’ve already done that twice with no result. What I don’t need is you climbing on my back.”
“I’m sorry if I …” Partridge began, but the other wasn’t listening.
“What you newshounds never realize is that in something like this, it’s my goddamn head that’s on the block. The people I deal with, my clients, trust me and I intend to keep it that way. I also know that one thing they don’t give a shit about is other people’s problems, including yours and Crawford Sloane’s, however bad you think they are.”
“I understand that,” Partridge protested. “But this is a kidnapping and …”
“Shut up and listen! I told you when we talked, I was sure none of the people I represent did the kidnapping or were even involved. I’m still sure. I also conceded that I owe you and would try to find out what I could. But I have to walk like I’m in a minefield and, second, convince anyone I talk to that it’s to their advantage to help if they know anything or have heard rumors.”
“Look, I said I’m sorry if …”
The lawyer pressed on. “So it isn’t something to be done with a bulldozer or an express train. Understand?”
Inwardly sighing, Partridge said, “I understand.”
The lawyer’s voice moderated. “Give me a few more days. And don’t call me; I’ll call you.”
Hanging up, Partridge reflected that while contacts could be useful, you didn’t necessarily have to like them.
Before his arrival at CBA News that morning Partridge had reached a decision on whether or not to reveal on the National Evening News that a known Colombian terrorist, Ulises Rodríguez, had been linked conclusively to the Sloane family kidnap.
His decision was to withhold the information for the time being.
Following the session with Cooper’s recruits, Partridge sought out special task force members to inform them. In the group conference room he found Karl Owens and Iris Everly and explained his reasoning.
“Look at it this way: Right now Rodríguez represents the only lead we have and he doesn’t know we have it. But if we broadcast what we know, chances are strong that Rodríguez himself will hear of it and we’ll have tipped our hand.”
Owens asked doubtfully, “Does that matter?”
“I think it does. Everything points to Rodríguez having been under cover, and the effect would be to drive him further under. I don’t have to tell you how much that would lessen our chances of discovering where he is—and, of course, the Sloanes.”
“I can see all that,” Iris acknowledged, “but do you really think, Harry, that a red-hot piece of news like this, already known to at least a dozen people, is going to stay conveniently under wraps until we’re ready? Don’t forget every network, every newspaper, every wire service has their best people working on this story. I give it twenty-four hours at most before everybody knows.”
Rita Abrams and Norman Jaeger had joined them and were listening.
“You may be proved right,” Partridge told Iris, “but I think it’s a risk we have to take.” He added, “I hate to sound corny but I think we should remember once in a while that this news thing we do is not some holy grail. When reporting endangers life and liberty, news has to take second place.”
“I don’t want to seem stuffy either,” Jaeger put in. “But in that, I’m with Harry.”
“There’s one other thing,” Owens said, “and that’s the FBI. By witholding this from them, we could be in trouble.”
“I’ve thought about that,” Partridge acknowledged, “and decided to take our chances. If that bothers any of you, I’ll remind you I’m the one responsible. The thing is, if we tell the FBI, we know from experience they’re as likely as not to discuss it with other news people, then we’ll have blown our exclusive that way.”
“Coming back to the main issue,” Rita said, “there are precedents for what we’d be doing. I remember one at ABC.”
Iris prompted, “So tell us.”
“You recall the TWA hijack—Beirut, 1985?”
The others nodded, reminded that during the mid-1980s Rita had worked for ABC News; also that the hijacking was a terrorist outrage, holding world attention for two weeks during which a U.S. Navy diver, a passenger aboard TWA Flight 847, was savagely murdered.
“Almost from the beginning of that hijack,” Rita said, “we knew at ABC that there were three American servicemen aboard that plane, in civilian clothes, and we believed we had the information exclusively. The question was: Should we use it on the air? Well, we never did, believing that if we did, the hijackers would learn of it and those servicemen would be as good as dead. In the end the terrorists found out themselves but we always hoped, because of doing the decent thing, we helped two of those three survive.”
“Okay,” Iris said, “I suppose I go along. Though if no one’s used the story by tomorrow, I suggest we take another look.”
“I’ll buy that,” Owens agreed, and the discussion ended.
However, because of its importance Partridge decided to share his decision with Les Chippingham and Chuck Insen.
The news president, who received Partridge in his paneled office, merely shrugged when told, and commented, “You’re the one making task force decisions, Harry; if we didn’t trust your judgment you wouldn’t be there. Thanks for telling me, though.”
The National Evening News executive producer was in his presiding seat at the Horseshoe. As he listened, Insen’s eyes brightened. At the end he nodded. “Interesting, Harry; nice piece of research. When you give it to us, we’ll run it top of the show. But not until you say so.”
Which left Partridge free to resume telephoning and he settled down in his temporary private office.
Once more he had his blue book of names and phone numbers, but unlike last week when his calls were directed mainly at U.S. sources, today Partridge tried to reach contacts in Colombia and the countries immediately adjoining—Venezuela, Brazil, Ecuador, Panama and Peru—plus Nicaragua. In all those places, from where he had frequently reported for CBA News, there were people he knew who had helped him, and for some of whom he had done return favors.
Something else different today was having the positive Rodríguez lead, which translated into a double-barreled question: Do you know of a terrorist named Ulises Rodríguez; if so, have you any idea where he is or what he’s reputed to be doing?
Although Karl Owens had talked on Friday with Latin American contacts, as far as Partridge could tell there was no overlapping—a fact not surprising since producers as well as correspondents cultivated their own sources and, once they had them, kept them to themselves.
Today, responses to the first part of the question posed were almost entirely “yes” and to the second portion, “no.” Confirming Owens’s earlier report, Rodríguez seemed to have disappeared from sight three months ago and had not been seen since. An interesting point, though, emerged from a conversation with a longtime Colombian friend, a radio news reporter in Bogotá.
“Wherever he is,” the broadcaster said, “I’d almost guarantee it isn’t this country. He’s a Colombian after all, and even though he stays out of reach of the law, he’s too well known to be in his home territory for long without word getting around. So my bet is, he’s somewhere else.” The conclusion made sense.
One country Partridge had suspicions about was Nicaragua, where the Sandinistas, despite an election defeat, were still a strong presence and continued their long antagonism to the United States. Could they be involved in some way with the kidnapping, hoping to gain from it an advantage yet to be disclosed? The question didn’t make a lot of sense, but neither did much else. However, a half-dozen calls to the capital, Managua, produced a consensus that Ulises Rodríguez was not in Nicaragua, nor had he been there.
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sp; Then there was Peru. Partridge made several calls to that country and one conversation in particular left him wondering.
He had spoken with another old acquaintance, Manuel León Seminario, owner-editor of the weekly magazine Escena, published in Lima.
After Partridge announced his name, Seminario had come on the line at once. His greeting was in impeccable English and Partridge could picture him—slight and dapper, fashionably and fastidiously dressed. “Well, well, my dear Harry. How excellent to hear from you! And where are you? In Lima, I hope.”
When informed that the call was from New York, the owner-editor expressed disappointment. “For a moment I hoped we might have lunch tomorrow at La Pizzeria. The food, I assure you, is as good as ever. So why not hop on a plane and come?”
“I’d love to, Manuel. Unfortunately I’m up to my eyebrows in important work.” Partridge explained his role in the Sloane kidnap task force.
“My god! I should have realized you’d be involved. That’s a terrible thing. We’ve followed the situation closely and we’ll have a full-page piece in this week’s issue. Is there anything new we should include?”
“There is something new,” Partridge said, “and it’s the reason I’m calling. But for now we’re keeping it under wraps, so I’d appreciate this talk being off the record.”
“Well …” The response was cautious. “As long as it’s not information we possess already.”
“We can trust each other, Manuel. On the basis you just said—okay?”
“With that understanding, okay.”
“We have reason to believe that Ulises Rodríguez is involved.”
There was a silence before the magazine man said softly, “You are speaking of bad company, Harry. Around here that name is a nasty, feared word.”
“Why feared?”
“The man is suspected of masterminding kidnappings, skulking in and out of Peru from Colombia for employment by others here. It is a way our criminal-revolutionary elements work. As you know, in Peru nowadays kidnapping is almost a way of life. Well-to-do businessmen or their families are favorite targets. Many of us employ guards and drive protected cars, hoping to forestall it.”
“I did know that,” Partridge said. “But until this moment I’d forgotten.”
Seminario sighed audibly. “You are not alone, my friend. The Western press attention to Peru is spotty, to put it kindly. As to your TV news, we might as well not exist.”
Partridge knew the statement held some truth. He was never sure why, but Americans seldom took the same continuing interest in Peru that they did in other countries. Aloud he said, “Have you heard any talk of Rodríguez being in Peru, perhaps right now, or recently working for anyone there?”
“Well … no.”
“Did I sense some hesitation?”
“Not about Rodríguez. I have not heard anything, Harry. I would tell you if I had.”
“What then?”
“Everything here, on what I call the criminal-revolutionary front, has been strangely quiet for several weeks. Scarcely anything happening. Nothing of significance.”
“So?”
“I have seen the signs before and I believe they are unique to Peru. When things are quietest it often means something big is about to happen. Usually unpleasant and of a nature unexpected.”
Seminario’s voice changed tempo, becoming businesslike. “My dear Harry, it has been a pleasure talking to you and I am glad you called. But Escena will not edit itself and I must go. Do come to see me soon in Lima, and remember: Lunch at La Pizzeria—a standing invitation.”
Through the remainder of the day the words kept coming back to Partridge: “When things are quietest it often means something big is about to happen.”
6
Coincidentally, on the same day Harry Partridge talked with the owner-editor of Escena, Peru was discussed at an ultra-private, top-echelon meeting of CBA network’s corporate owners, Globanic Industries Inc. The meeting was a twice-yearly, three-day “policy workshop” chaired by the conglomerate’s chairman and chief executive officer, Theodore Elliott. Attendance was confined to other CEO’s—those of Globanic’s nine subsidiaries, all major companies themselves, most with their own ancillaries.
At such meetings corporate confidences were exchanged and secret plans revealed, some capable of making or breaking competitors, investors and markets around the world. However, no written agenda or minutes of the biannual parleys ever existed. Security was strict and each day, before proceedings began, the meeting room was electronically swept for bugs.
Outside the meeting, but never in it, were support staffs of aides—a half dozen or so for each subsidiary company—poised to provide data or briefings that their various chiefs might need.
The locale of the meetings seldom varied. On this occasion, as on most others, it was at the Fordly Cay Club near Nassau in the Bahamas.
Fordly Cay, one of the world’s most exclusive private clubs, with a resort facility including a yacht harbor, golf course, tennis courts and white-sand beaches, occasionally allowed special VIP groups the expensive use of its facilities. Larger conventions were verboten; sales meetings, as far as Fordly Cay was concerned, did not exist.
Ordinary membership in the club was hard to come by; a waiting list caused many aspirants to linger for long periods, some in vain. Theodore Elliott was a recent member, though approval of his application had taken two years.
The day before, when everyone arrived, Elliott had been proprietorial, especially welcoming Globanic spouses who would appear only at social, tennis, golfing and sailing breaks. Today the first morning meeting was in a small, comfortable library with deep rattan chairs upholstered in beige leather, and wall-to-wall patterned carpeting. Between book-lined walls, softly lit cases held silver sporting trophies. Above a fireplace—seldom used—a portrait of the club’s founder beamed down on the select small group.
Elliott was appropriately dressed in white slacks and a light-blue polo shirt, the latter bearing the club crest—a quartered shield with palm tree rampant, engrailed crossed tennis racquets, golf clubs and a yacht, all on waves of the sea. With or without such accoutrements, Theo Elliott was classically handsome—tall, lean, broad-shouldered, with a strong jaw and a full head of hair, now totally white. The hair was a reminder that in two years’ time the chairman-in-chief would reach retirement age and be succeeded, almost certainly, by one of the others present.
Allowing for the fact that some heads of companies were too old to be eligible, there were three strong candidates. Margot Lloyd-Mason was one.
Margot was conscious of this as she reported early in the proceedings on the state of CBA.
Speaking precisely, she disclosed that since Globanic Industries’ acquisition of CBA television and radio network and affiliated stations, strict financial controls had been introduced, budgets pared and redundant personnel dismissed. As a result, third-quarter profits would be up twenty-two percent compared with the pre-Globanic year before.
“That’s a fair beginning,” Theodore Elliott commented, “though we’ll expect even better in future.” There were confirming nods from others in the room.
Margot had dressed carefully today, not wanting to appear too feminine, yet at the same time not wishing to lose the advantage of her sex. At first she considered wearing a tailored suit, as she often did in her office at Stonehenge, but decided it was inappropriate in the semitropics. In the end she chose beige linen slacks and a cotton sweater in a soft peach shade. The outfit emphasized her well-proportioned body, a judgment confirmed by lingering glances from some of the men.
Continuing her report, Margot mentioned the recent kidnapping of the Crawford Sloane family.
The chairman of International Forest Products, a hard-driving Oregonian named DeWitt, injected, “That’s too bad and we all hope they catch those people. Just the same, your network’s getting a lot of attention from it.”
“So much attention,” Margot informed him, “that our Nati
onal Evening News ratings have soared from 9.2 to 12.1 within the past five days, which means an additional six million viewers and puts us strongly in front as number one. It’s also raised the rating of our daily game show, carried by our five owned and operated stations immediately after the news. And the same is true of our prime-time shows, especially the Ben Largo Show on Friday which went from 22.5 to 25.9. The sponsors all around are delighted; as a result we’re pushing hard with next season’s advertising.”
Someone asked, “Does that spread of good ratings mean most people don’t change channels?” The question reminded Margot that even among this exalted group there was an inherent fascination with the minutiae of broadcasting.
“Networks know from experience that if viewers tune in to the evening news the odds are they will stay with that network for the next ninety minutes, sometimes more. At the same time, others join the audience.”
“So it’s an ill wind … as the old saying goes,” the forest products chief said, smiling.
Margot smiled back. “Since we’re here in private I’ll agree, though please don’t quote me.”
“No one quotes anybody,” Theo Elliott said. “Privacy and truth are why we hold these sessions.”
“Speaking of your advertisers, Margot.” The voice belonged to Leon Ironwood of West World Aviation, a tanned, athletic Californian and another of the three contenders to be Elliott’s successor. The company Ironwood headed was a successful defense contractor making fighter airplanes. “What’s the latest on that ongoing problem of video recording machines? How many households have them anyway?”
“About fifty percent,” Margot acknowledged, “and you’re right about the problem. Most of those who record network programs later zip through commercials without watching, thereby diminishing our advertising effectiveness.”
Ironwood nodded. “Especially since VCR owners represent an affluent population group. It’s how I watch TV.”
Someone else added, “And don’t forget mute buttons. I use mine whenever there’s a commercial.”