“The truth is,” Margot said, “the whole VCR and mute problems are like permanent storm clouds over us, which is why networks have dragged their feet in researching their effects. There could have been a measuring technique long ago, except we don’t want to know the bad news, and in that we have an ally—advertising agencies who fear that knowledge would turn off big advertisers, depriving the agencies of enormous business.”
“I’m sure,” Elliott prompted, “that your fiscal planning has taken that into account.”
“It has, Theo. Looking ahead and accepting that network advertising money will diminish, we’re seeking additional revenue sources, and it’s why CBA and others have quietly bought up TV cable operators and will acquire more. The networks have the capital and one day soon cable TV may wake up to find itself almost entirely owned by broadcast networks. At the same time, we’re exploring joint-venture agreements with the phone companies.”
“Joint venture?” Ironwood asked
“I’ll explain. First, accept the fact that terrestrial broadcasting—over-the-air television—is near the end of its useful life. Within ten to fifteen years about the only place you’ll find an old-fashioned TV antenna is the Smithsonian; also by then, TV stations will have abandoned their conventional transmitters as uneconomic.”
“With cable and satellite dishes taking over?”
“Partly, but not entirely.” Margot smiled. She was dealing with a familiar subject as well as demonstrating, she hoped, her own farsightedness.
“The next thing to realize,” she continued, “is that there is no important future in this business for cable operators alone. To survive, they must pool resources—and so shall we—with the telephone people whose lines already go into every home.”
Several nodded approvingly as Margot declared, “The technology for a combination phone and TV line, using fiber-optic cable, is available now. It’s simply a matter of getting the system working, which includes a network like ours developing specialized cable programming. The potential revenues are enormous.”
“Aren’t there government restrictions,” Ironwood asked, “on phone companies entering the broadcast business?”
“Restrictions which the Congress will change. We’re working on that; in fact legislation has been drafted.”
“And you’re convinced Congress will go along?”
Theo Elliott laughed. “If she is, it’s with good reason. I assume most of us here have read the book The Best Congress Money Can Buy. If not, it’s must reading for people like ourselves … What’s the author’s name?”
“Philip Stern,” Margot said.
“Right. Well, just the way Stern described, Globanic Industries contributes handsomely to every Political Action Committee affecting our concerns, which means congressional votes are bought and ready when we need them. When Margot wants those regulations changed, she can let me know. I’ll pass the word.”
“There’s talk of abolishing the PAC system,” DeWitt said.
“And that’s all it is—talk,” Elliott responded. “Besides, even if the name is changed, you can be sure those in Congress will find some other way to do exactly what they’re doing now.”
The forthright, off-the-record talk continued. However, the subject of the Sloane family kidnapping was not brought up again.
Late in the morning it was the turn of K. Phocis (“Fossie”) Xenos, chairman of Globanic Financial Services, to address his fellow CEO’s.
Three years earlier Tri-Trade Financial Services, as it was then, was a consumer credit enterprise making loans to middle-class Americans from a chain of storefront offices; it also sold life and casualty insurance. Globanic then bought out Tri-Trade, Theo Elliott seeing it as a ready-made base—much simpler than starting a new company—for attracting international investors seeking entrepreneurial risk and glamour. He put Fossie Xenos in charge—a young second-generation Greek-American with an MBA degree from Wharton, who had come to Elliott’s attention through some artful investment-bank maneuvers.
Almost the first thing Xenos did was dispose of the consumer credit business, which produced only modest profits, and close the storefront offices; soon after, he terminated the insurance activity, describing it as “small-time humdrum for mental midgets.” He was more interested in something fresh and exciting on the monetary scene—leveraged buyouts, known as LBO’s, financed by junk bonds.
Since then, working with whatever happened to be “hot” financially, Fossie Xenos had created sparkling profits for Global Financial, plus a dynamic reputation for himself. The last was why Margot Lloyd-Mason viewed Fossie, who was the third possible candidate for the conglomerate chairmanship, as her most formidable rival.
Despite his manipulative skills and conquests, Fossie retained a boyish manner, appearing at least eight years younger than the forty-one he was. His clothes were mostly casual, his hair untidy, the result of running his hands through it as he talked in a rapid-fire staccato. He was persuasive and convincing; that and a dazzling smile he flashed at everyone were his personality strengths.
Today Fossie Xenos reported on a complex, delicate and largely secret project, now in its early stages but expected to produce a multibillion-dollar bonanza for Global. It involved so-called debt-to-equity swaps and a gigantic real estate investment fund, both relating to Peru, with Globanic working hand-in-glove with that country’s government.
As described by Fossie to his fellow CEO’s, the steps and conditions were:
Currently, Peru had more than $16 billion of foreign debt on which it had defaulted, thereby cutting itself off from the international financial community which would lend it no more money. Peru, however, suffering a desperate economic crisis, was anxious to get back into reputable status and begin borrowing once more.
Globanic Financial Services had quietly bought up $4.5 billion of Peru’s outstanding debt—better than one quarter—paying an average five cents on the dollar, an outlay of $225 million. The original lenders of the money, mainly U.S. banks, were glad to sell even at that low price since they long ago figured they would get nothing back at all. Globanic had now “securitized” the Peruvian debt—that is, converted it into negotiable paper.
The government of Peru, through three of its ministers controlling finance, tourism and public works, had been informed they now had a matchless opportunity to wipe out that $4.5 billion of debt by buying the securitized debt from Globanic for ten cents on the dollar, but with all bookkeeping payments in Peru’s own weak currency, the inti. This was Fossie’s cleverly baited hook because in that way the country’s small and precious store of other countries’ hard currency—mainly dollars—would remain untouched.
Three critical conditions were attached to Globanic’s acknowledgment of Peruvian currency. Globanic didn’t want cash but instead the debt-to-equity swap, giving it total ownership of two spectacular resort locations now owned by the Peruvian Government. Globanic Financial would develop and eventually operate these, believing both to have gigantic potential as premium holiday destinations. One resort city with a coastal location was foreseen as the “Punta del Este of the Pacific.” The other, a mountain-locked site in the Andes, would be a sensational staging point for excursions to Machu Picchu and Cuzco, among the world’s most popular tourist attractions.
Along with those vast amounts of land would go government guarantees that Globanic could do the developing freely, in its own way. At the same time Globanic would bring in hard currency to pay for development while also creating massive local employment, both helpful to Peru.
The final condition, to be secret between the Peruvian Government and Globanic, was that the price paid for the two resort sites should be twenty-five percent less than their real value.
Globanic would benefit in several ways: Initially by selling the securitized debt for twice what it paid—an instant bonus of $225 million. Next, by obtaining two magnificent locations for only three quarters of their worth. After that, attracting worldwide investmen
t for the resorts’ development and eventually reaping gargantuan profits from their operation.
Fossie’s report ended with the information that following long and delicate negotiations, agreement between the Peruvian Government and Globanic Financial had been reached a few days earlier, with all of Globanic’s demands accepted.
As K. Phocis Xenos concluded and sat down, there was spontaneous applause from the small, high-powered audience.
Theo Elliott, beaming, inquired, “Questions, anyone?”
“About those government ministers you spoke of,” a CEO named Warren Graydon began; he headed Empire Chemical Corporation. “Is there any kind of assurance that they’ll keep their word?”
“Let me handle that one,” Elliott said. “The answer is yes, we have taken precautions. But I don’t believe we need lay out details, even here.”
There were subtle smiles, the answer indicating that bribery was involved. In fact, when the Peru-Globanic agreement was signed and sealed, the three ministers would receive Swiss bank accounts, opened in their names, with a million and a half dollars deposited in each. They would also have the free use, whenever required, of luxury condominiums in London, Paris and Geneva, with accompanying fringe benefits. International companies like Globanic Industries frequently made such arrangements for their political friends.
Margot spoke up. “Tell us about Peru’s stability, Fossie. Lately there’s been an increase in revolutionary activity, not just in the usual Andes areas, but in Lima and elsewhere. Under those circumstances will resorts be practical? Will vacationers want to go there?”
She was walking a tightrope, Margot knew. On one hand, because of their competitive relationship, she could not afford to let Fossie Xenos get away with his presentation entirely unchallenged; also if something went wrong with the resort scheme later, she wanted it remembered that she had doubts in the beginning. On the other hand, if Margot became Globanic Industries’ new chairman, she would need Fossie’s friendship and his impressive contributions to conglomerate revenues. Keeping that in mind, she tried to make her questions rational and down the middle.
If Fossie sensed the maneuvering, he showed no sign of it and answered cheerfully. “All my information is that the revolutionary outlook is short-term and over the long haul Peru will survive with a solid, law-abiding democracy favorable to expanded tourism. Supporting that, there’s a long tradition in the country based on democratic values.”
Margot made no further contribution but noted that Fossie had just exhibited a weakness which someday she might exploit. She had observed the same thing before with others, especially in real estate deals where glamorous objectives could outweigh normally cautious judgments. Psychologists called it the suspension of reality and, as Margot viewed it, anyone who believed an end was in sight to armed insurrection in Peru had done exactly that.
Of course, she reasoned, the resorts could still go ahead and be protected; after all, there were an increasing number of places in the world where holiday-making and danger existed side by side. But in Peru’s case, only time and large expenditures would make the outcome clear.
Theo Elliott clearly did not share Margot’s doubts. “If that’s all the questioning,” he pronounced, “let me just say this: For some time I’ve known what Fossie has just told you, but have brought you into it today for two good reasons. First, I know all of us can keep secrets and it’s to our advantage to keep this one. Second, I don’t want anything to damage our still delicate relationship with the government of Peru and thereby spoil what can evolve into the deal of the century.” The chairman rose. “Now that’s understood, let’s have lunch.”
7
It took several minutes for Jessica to accept the possibility that what Nicky had told her—that they were actually in Peru—might conceivably be true.
It couldn’t have happened! Surely there had not been time!
But gradually, discarding earlier assumptions and with specific memories returning, the likelihood grew stronger. Wasn’t it possible, she reasoned, that she, Nicky and Angus had been unconscious far longer than she had considered possible, even when she thought they might be in a southern U.S. state? Obviously, yes.
Yet if this was Peru, how had they been brought here? It could not have been easy to smuggle three unconscious people …
A sudden flash of memory! An image sharp and clear, yet totally forgotten until now.
During that brief interval when she struggled and managed to wound Cutface … in those desperate moments she had seen two empty funeral caskets, one smaller than the other. That terrifying sight had convinced her she and Nicky were about to be killed.
But now, with a shudder, Jessica realized they must have been brought here in those caskets—like dead people! The thought was so horrific that she wouldn’t, couldn’t think of it. Instead, she forced her mind back to the present, grim and painful as it was.
Jessica, Nicky and Angus, with their hands tied behind them, were still walking, stumbling over the narrow trail hemmed in by densely growing trees and undergrowth. Some armed men were ahead, others behind. At any sign of slowing, those behind shouted, “¡Andale! ¡Apúrense!,” prodding with their rifles to urge the captives on.
And it was hot. Incredibly hot. Sweat poured from them all.
Jessica worried desperately about the other two. She herself was suffering an intense headache, nausea, and a myriad of buzzing insects she was unable to brush away. How long could this go on? Nicky had said they were going to a river. Surely they must get there soon!
Yes, Jessica decided, Nicky’s informant must have been right. This was Peru and, realizing how far from home they had come and how remote were the chances of their being rescued here, she felt like weeping.
The ground beneath her feet had become soggy, making it increasingly difficult to walk. Suddenly, behind her, Jessica heard a sharp cry, a commotion and a thud. Turning, she saw that Angus had fallen. His face was in mud.
Gamely, the old man struggled to get up, but failed because of his tied hands. Behind him the men with guns laughed. One of them lunged forward with his rifle, ready to thrust the barrel in Angus’s back.
Jessica screamed at the man, “No, no, no!”
The words briefly startled him and before he could recover, Jessica ran to Angus and dropped to her knees beside him. She managed to keep her body upright, even with her hands tied, though was helpless to assist Angus to his feet. The man with the gun moved angrily toward her, but stopped at the sound of Miguel’s sharp voice. From the front of the column, Miguel now appeared, with Socorro and Baudelio behind him.
Before anyone else could speak, Jessica raised her voice, strong with emotion. “Yes, we are your prisoners. We don’t know why, but we know we can’t escape, and so do you. Why, then, tie our hands? All we want is to help ourselves, to keep from falling. Look what happens when we can’t! Please, please, show some mercy! I beg you, free our hands!”
For the first time, Miguel hesitated, especially as Socorro told him softly, “If one of them breaks a leg or arm, or even has a cut, it could be infected. In Nueva Esperanza we’ll have no means of dealing with infection.”
Beside her, Baudelio said, “She’s right.”
Miguel, with an impatient gesture, snapped an order in Spanish. One of the men with guns stepped forward—the same man who had helped Nicky in the truck. From a sheath fastened to his belt he produced a knife and reached behind Jessica. She felt the rope binding her wrists loosen, then fall away. Nicky was next. Angus was propped up while his bonds were severed too, then Jessica and Nicky helped him stand.
Amid shouted commands, they again moved forward.
In the past few minutes, despite her emotion, Jessica had learned several things. First, their destination was Nueva Esperanza, though the name meant nothing to her. Second, the man who had befriended Nicky was Vicente—she’d heard his name used when he cut the bonds. Third, the woman who interceded with Miguel, the same one who struck Jessica in the hut,
possessed some medical knowledge. So did Cutface. Possibly one or the other was a doctor, perhaps both.
She squirreled the nuggets of information away, instinct telling her that whatever she could learn might prove useful later.
Moments later, as the column rounded a bend in the trail, a wide river appeared ahead.
Miguel remembered reading in his early nihilist days that a successful terrorist must divest himself of conventional human emotions and achieve his ends by instilling terror in those who opposed his wishes and his will. Even the emotion of hatred, while useful in providing terrorists with psychic passion, could be a liability in excess, obscuring judgment.
In his terrorist career, Miguel had followed those dicta faithfully, adding one more: Action and danger were a terrorist’s stimulants. For himself, he needed them the way an addict needed drugs.
Which was the reason for his disenchantment with what lay immediately ahead.
For four months, commencing with his flight to London and his acquisition of the illegal passport he used to enter the United States, he had been driven by the zest of ever-present danger, the life-and-death necessity for careful planning, more recently the heady flavor of success and, overall, a constant vigilance to assure survival.
But now, in these jungle backwaters of Peru, the dangers were less great. While there was always a possibility of government forces appearing suddenly, spraying automatic weapons fire and asking questions after, most other pressures were reduced or absent. Yet Miguel had contracted to remain here—or at least in Nueva Esperanza, the small village they would reach today—for an unspecified length of time because when this deal was made with the Medellín cartel, Sendero Luminoso had wanted it that way. For what reason? Miguel didn’t know.
Nor did he know precisely why the prisoners had been taken and what would happen now they had been brought here. He did know they were to be strictly guarded, which was probably the reason for his staying on since he had a reputation for reliability. As to anything more, that was presumably in the hands of Abimael Guzmán, the raving lunatic—as Miguel thought of him nowadays—who had founded Sendero Luminoso and considered himself the immaculate Maoist-Jesus. Of course, that was assuming Guzmán was still alive. Rumors that he was or wasn’t came with the persistence—and unreliability—of jungle rain.