The last was possible, Partridge knew, because over the past five years Minh had purchased several small camera stores in New York suburbs, linking them and significantly enlarging their business with the aid of his wife, Thanh.
It was reasonable, too, that at this point in his life Minh should decide he had had enough of travel and prolonged absences, and had taken sufficient risks, including joining Harry Partridge on dangerous assignments.
“Speaking of your business, how is it going?” Partridge asked.
“Very well.” Again Minh smiled, adding, “But it has become more than Thanh can manage while I am away.”
“I’m pleased for you,” Partridge said, “because no one deserves it more. And I hope we’ll still see each other once in a while.”
“You can count on it, Harry. In our home your name will stay first on our list of honored guests.”
On the way back from lunch, after leaving Van Canh, Partridge stopped at a sporting goods store to buy some heavy socks, a pair of hiking boots and a sturdy flashlight. He suspected he might need all three quite soon. By the time he returned to CBA, it was midafternoon.
In the task force conference room, Rita Abrams waved him over. “A man’s been trying to reach you. He’s called three times since this morning. Wouldn’t leave his name, but said it’s essential he speak to you today. I told him sooner or later you’d be back.”
“Thanks. There’s something I want to tell you. I’ve decided I should go to Bogotá …”
Partridge stopped as he and Rita looked up at the sound of hurried footsteps approaching the conference room. A moment later Don Kettering entered with Jonathan Mony close behind.
“Harry! Rita!” Kettering said, his voice breathless from hurrying, “I think we have the can of worms—wide open!”
Rita glanced around her, aware of others in the room. “Let’s go in a private office,” she said, and led the way to her own.
It took twenty minutes for Kettering, aided occasionally by Mony, to describe all that they had learned. Kettering produced the New York Post report of the Salaverry-Efferen alleged murder-suicide, a copy made by the American-Amazonas Bank manager before they left. The two correspondents and Rita knew that when this meeting was over, CBA News research would routinely obtain all other material on the same subject.
After Rita read the clipping, she asked Kettering, “Do you think we should start investigative work on those two deaths?”
“Maybe some, though it’s incidental now. The real story is the Peru connection.”
“I agree,” Partridge said, “and Peru has come up before.” He remembered his conversation two days ago with Manuel León Seminario, owner-editor of the Lima-based Escena. While nothing specific had emerged, Seminario had said, “In Peru nowadays kidnapping is almost a way of life.”
“Even though we have a Peru involvement,” Rita pointed out, “let’s not forget that we don’t know for sure whether the kidnap victims have been taken out of this country.”
“I’m not forgetting,” Partridge said. “Don, do you have anything more?”
Kettering nodded. “Yes. Before I left the bank I had the manager agree to an interview on camera, maybe later today. He knows he may be sticking his neck out with the bank’s owners, but he’s a good old guy with a sense of responsibility and says he’ll take his chances. If you like, Harry, I’ll do that one too.”
“I do like. Anyway, it’s your story.” Partridge turned to Rita. “Cancel what I said about going to Bogotá. Now it’s Lima. I want to be there early tomorrow.”
“And how much do we broadcast, when?”
“Everything we know, and soon. Exactly when, we’ll discuss with Les and Chuck, but if possible I’d like a clear twenty-four hours in Peru before an army of other correspondents gets there, which will happen as soon as we go with what we have.”
He continued, “So starting right now, we’ll work all night putting everything together. Call everyone on the task force in for a meeting”—Partridge glanced at his watch: 3:15 P.M.—“at five o’clock.”
“Yessir!” Rita, enjoying action, smiled.
At the same moment, the phone on her desk rang. After answering, she covered the mouthpiece and told Partridge, “It’s the same man—the one who’s been trying to get you all day.”
He took the phone. “This is Harry Partridge.”
“Don’t use my name at any point in this conversation. Is that clear?” The caller’s words sounded muffled, perhaps deliberately, but Partridge recognized the voice of his contact, the organized crime lawyer.
“Yes, it’s clear.”
“You know who I am?”
“I do.”
“I’m calling from a pay phone, so the call’s not traceable. And something else: If you ever name me as the source of what I’m about to tell you, I shall swear you’re a liar and deny it. That clear too?”
“It is.”
“I’ve taken big risks to get what I have, and if certain people knew of this conversation it could cost me my life. So when this call ends, my debt to you is paid in full. Understood?”
“Fully understood.”
The other three in the small office were silent, their eyes fixed on Partridge as the muffled voice, audible only to him, continued.
“Some clients I do business with have Latin American connections.” Connections with the cocaine trade, Partridge thought, but didn’t say it.
“Just as I already told you, they wouldn’t touch the kind of thing you’ve been inquiring about, but there are other things they get to hear.”
“I understand that,” Partridge said.
“All right, here it is, and the information is solid, I guarantee it. The people you are looking for were flown out of the United States last Saturday and are now imprisoned in Peru. Got that?”
“I have it,” Partridge said. “May I ask one question?”
“No.”
“I need a name,” Partridge pleaded. “Who’s responsible? Who is holding them?”
“Goodbye.”
“Wait, please wait! All right, I won’t ask you to give a name, only do this: I’ll speak a name and if I’m wrong, give me some kind of signal saying no. If I’m right, don’t say anything. Will you do that?”
A pause, then, “Make it fast.”
Partridge took a breath before mouthing, “Sendero Luminoso.”
At the other end, silence. Then a click as the caller hung up.
11
Almost from the beginning, when Jessica regained consciousness in the darkened hut at Sion and discovered soon after that she, Nicky and Angus were prisoners in Peru, Jessica had accepted that she alone must provide their beleaguered trio with leadership and inspiration. Both qualities, she realized, were essential to their survival while they waited and hoped for eventual rescue. The alternative was profound despair, leading to an emotional surrender which could perhaps destroy them all.
Angus was courageous, but too old and weak to be more than supportive, and ultimately even he might need to draw from Jessica’s strength. Nicky, as always, must be Jessica’s first concern.
Assuming they came through this nightmare safely—and Jessica refused to consider any other outcome—it was possible for it to leave forever a mental scar on Nicky. Jessica’s intention, no matter what ordeals and privations lay ahead, was to see that it did not. She would teach Nicky, and Angus if necessary, that above all they must retain their self-respect and dignity.
And she knew how. She had taken a training course which some of her friends had thought of as a whim. It happened because Crawford, who really ought to have taken the course himself, had lacked the time. Jessica, feeling someone in the family should, had gone instead.
Oh, thank you and bless you, Brigadier Wade! I never dreamed, when I attended those drills and listened to your lectures, that I would need and make use of what you taught me.
Brigadier Cedric Wade, MC, DCM, had been a British Army sergeant in the Korean War and later an
officer in the elite British SAS. Now retired and living in New York, he conducted small-scale anti-terrorism courses. His reputation was such that the U.S. Army sometimes sent him pupils.
In Korea, in 1951, Sergeant Wade was captured by the North Korean forces and for nine and a half months held in solitary confinement in an earthen pit below ground level, approximately ten feet square. Above his head were securely fastened bars, open to the sun and rain. At no point while imprisoned was he ever released from that lonely cell. During his time there he had minimal communication with his guards, had nothing to read, and could see only the sky above.
As he quietly described his experience in a lecture, which even now Jessica remembered almost word for word, “I knew at the start they intended to break my spirit. I was determined they never would and that however bad it got, even if I died in that hole, I would not lose my self-respect.”
He kept it, Brigadier Wade told members of his classes, by hanging on to whatever threads of normalcy and order he could. To begin, he assigned each corner of his tiny cell a separate function. An unpleasant one came first. He had no choice but to urinate and defecate on the cell floor. One corner was kept for that purpose only; he saw to it that no other portion of the cell was similarly debased. “At first, the odor was terrible and sickening. After a while I got used to it because I knew I had to.”
The opposite corner, as far away from the first as possible, was used for eating the meager food passed down to him. A third corner was for sleeping, the fourth for sitting to meditate. The center of the cell was used for exercises three times daily, including running in place. “I reasoned that staying fit was another way to keep myself a person, and preserve my dignity.”
He received a ration of drinking water daily, but none for ablutions. From the drinking water, he always saved a small portion with which he washed. “It wasn’t easy and I was sometimes tempted to drink it all, but I didn’t and instead was always clean—something truly important in the way you feel about yourself.”
At the end of nine months, taking advantage of a guard’s carelessness, Sergeant Wade escaped. Three days later he was recaptured and returned to the cell, but within two weeks American forces overran the North Koreans’ position and released him. He made friendships then which, long afterward, resulted in his residence in the United States.
Something else Brigadier Wade taught Jessica and others was CQB—close quarters battle, a form of unarmed combat in which even a small, lightweight person with the proper skills could disarm an attacker and either blind that person or break an arm, a leg or the neck. Jessica had proved an agile and fast-learning pupil.
Since arriving in Peru as a captive, there had been opportunities to make use of her CQB training, but each time Jessica had restrained herself, knowing such action would be self-defeating. Instead she kept her ability concealed, in reserve for some moment—if one should arise—when it could become decisive.
No such moment had arisen yet at Nueva Esperanza. Nor did the chance of one seem probable.
During those terrible first minutes when Jessica, Nicky and Angus were thrust into their separate cages, and Jessica wept on hearing Nicky sobbing, there was a period of mental dislocation and misery which even the best intentions could not bridge. Jessica, like the others, had succumbed to it.
But not for long.
Before ten minutes had passed, Jessica called out softly, “Nicky, can you hear me?”
After a pause, a subdued answer came back, “Yes, Mom.” The reply was followed by movement as Nicky approached the screen between their cells. Their eyes had adjusted to the semi-darkness and the two could see each other, though not touch.
Jessica asked, “Are you okay?”
“I think so.” Then in a voice which quivered, “I don’t like it here.”
“Oh, darling, neither do I. But until we can do something, we have to hold on. Keep reminding yourself that your father and a lot of others are searching for us.” Jessica hoped her voice sounded reassuring.
“I hear you, Jessie. You too, Nicky.” It was Angus, speaking from the cell on the far side of Nicky’s, though his voice seemed weak. “Keep believing that we’ll all get out of here. And we will.”
“Try to get some rest, Angus.” Jessica was remembering the beating her father-in-law had taken from Miguel in the hut where they all returned to consciousness, the grueling trek through the jungle and Angus’s fall, the long journey by boat, and then his struggle here.
As she spoke, a shuffling of feet could be heard and from the shadows beyond the cells a figure moved into view. It was one of the gunmen who had accompanied them on the journey, a heavyset mustachioed man they would later identify as Ramón. He carried a Kalashnikov rifle and, aiming it at Jessica, ordered, “¡Silencio!”
About to protest, Jessica heard Angus advise softly, “Jessie, don’t!” She curbed her impulse and they all fell silent. After a pause, the gun was lowered and Ramón returned to a chair in which he had been seated.
The experience proved to be their first with a succession of armed guards, one of whom was always on duty in the hut, the individual changing every four hours.
As they quickly discovered, the strictness of the guards varied. The most easygoing was Vicente, the man who had helped Nicky in the truck and, on Miguel’s orders, had cut the ropes binding their wrists. Apart from motioning them to keep their voices lowered, Vicente allowed them to talk as much as they wished. Ramón was the strictest, permitting no talking at all, with the other guards somewhere in between.
During the times they talked, Jessica shared with Nicky and Angus recollections of her anti-terrorism course, especially the ordeal and precepts of Brigadier Wade. Nicky seemed fascinated with the Wade story—probably as a relief from the confinement and monotony. It was a cruel restriction for an active, highly intelligent eleven-year-old, and several times a day Nicky would ask, “What do you think Dad’s doing right now, Mom, to get us out of here?”
Jessica always tried answering imaginatively, at one point saying, “Your father knows so many people that there isn’t anyone he can’t call on for help. I’m sure he must have spoken with the President, who can get lots of people working, looking for us.”
Even if true, it was a piece of vanity which in normal times Jessica would not have uttered. But if it bolstered Nicky’s hopes, that was all that mattered.
Jessica urged the other two to follow as much of Brigadier Wade’s example as they could. In the matter of using the makeshift toilet facilities, they respected each other’s privacy by turning away when asked and not commenting about the inevitable odors. On the second day they all began exercising, Jessica again taking the lead.
As the first few days passed, a pattern of living—mainly miserable—took shape. Three times daily, a diet of unappetizing, greasy food—principally cassava, rice and noodles—was brought to them. The first day, Nicky choked on the grease which tasted sour and Jessica came close to vomiting; hunger eventually outweighed distaste and they forced it down. Every forty-eight hours, more or less, the stinking sanitary pails were removed and emptied by an Indian woman. If they were washed at all, it was superficially; when returned they smelled almost as bad. Drinking water was handed in to each cell in used soft-drink bottles; occasionally there were bowls and other water with which to wash. The guards warned the prisoners by hand signals that they should not drink the washing water which was a muddy brown.
Nicky’s morale, which was the most important to Jessica, while not high at least remained stable; he also proved himself to be resilient once the initial shock of being there had passed. Jessica, who in New York did part-time social work among underprivileged families, had observed that in tragic situations, children often coped better than adults. Possibly, she thought, it was because children’s thinking was less complicated and more honest; or perhaps children became mentally adult when the need was thrust upon them. In Nicky’s case, for whatever reason, he was visibly coping.
He bega
n attempting conversations with the guards. Nicky’s Spanish was rudimentary, but depending on the patience and good nature of the other party, he managed to achieve exchanges and gain information. Vicente was the most cooperative.
From Vicente they learned of the impending departure of “the doctor”—obviously the one whom Jessica thought of as Cutface—and who, Vicente believed, was “going home to Lima.” However, “the nurse” would stay on, and this was clearly the sour-faced woman whose name they discovered was Socorro.
They speculated among themselves on why Vicente was different from the other guards and apparently kinder. It was Jessica who cautioned Nicky and Angus, “It’s not so much that he’s different. Vicente’s still one of those who brought us here and are keeping us prisoners—don’t let’s forget that. But he’s not as mean or thoughtless as the others, so by comparison he seems kind.”
There were other facets of the subject that Jessica wanted to talk about, but she decided to save them for later. There would be need of fresh themes for thought and discussion during what she foresaw as lonely days ahead. Meanwhile, she added, “Because he’s the way he is, let’s make all the use of Vicente that we can.”
At Jessica’s suggestion, Nicky asked Vicente if the prisoners were to be allowed out of the cells at all, to go outside. To this question, Vicente shook his head, though it was not clear whether the answer was negative or he didn’t understand. Jessica, persisting, asked to have a message passed to Socorro that the prisoners would like to see her. Nicky did his best, but once more a headshake was the only response, making it seem doubtful the request would be delivered.
Nicky’s relative success with the language surprised Jessica since his Spanish lessons at school had begun only a few months earlier. When she mentioned this, Nicky told her that two of his friends at school were Cuban immigrants who chattered in Spanish in the playground. “Some of us listened, we picked up things …” Nicky paused, chuckling. “You won’t like this, Mom, but they know all the dirty words. They taught us those.”