The Evening News

  Seconds later, it was over. As Jessica closed her eyes in relief, Miguel switched off the floodlights and stepped back, a small smile of satisfaction on his face.

  It was an hour before Socorro came, an hour of pain for Nicky and of anguish for Jessica and Angus, who could hear Nicky moaning softly on his bed but could not go to him. Jessica had begged the guard on duty—using words and gestures—to let her leave her cell and join Nicky in his, and it was clear the man, while not speaking English, understood what she was asking. But he had shaken his head and insisted, “No se permite.”

  An overpowering sense of guilt seized Jessica. She told Nicky through the screen, “Oh, darling, I’m so desperately sorry. If I’d known what they would do, I’d have made the recording right away. I never even thought …”

  “Don’t worry, Mom.” Despite his pain, Nicky had tried to reassure her. “It wasn’t your fault.”

  “No one could have believed what those savages did, Jessie,” Angus had called out from his cell on the far side. “Does it still hurt a lot, old chap?”

  “It’s pretty bad.” Nicky’s voice quavered.

  Jessica appealed to the guard again. “Get Socorro! The nurse! You understand? Socorro!”

  This time the man took no notice. He was seated, reading what appeared to be a comic book, and did not look up.

  Eventually Socorro came, apparently of her own volition.

  “Please help Nicky,” Jessica asked. “Your friends burned him.”

  “He probably deserved it.” Socorro signaled to the guard to open Nicky’s cell and went in. As she saw the four burns, she made a clucking sound with her mouth, then turned away and left the cell, the guard locking it behind her.

  Jessica called, “You are coming back?”

  For a moment Socorro looked as if she would make another sharp answer. Then she nodded curtly and left. A few minutes later she returned, carrying a bowl, a jug of water and a package of what proved to be folded cloths and gauze.

  Watching through the screen, Jessica observed Socorro gently bathe the burns with water, Nicky wincing as she did, though he did not cry out. Socorro blotted the burns dry with a cloth, then placed a gauze pad over each, securing the dressings with adhesive tape.

  Jessica spoke warily. “Thank you. You are good at that. May I ask …”

  “They are second-degree burns and will heal. I will take the dressings off in several days.”

  “Can you do something for the pain?”

  “This is not a hospital. He must endure it.” Socorro turned to Nicky, her voice edgy, her face unsmiling. “Lie still today, boy. It will hurt less tomorrow.”

  Jessica decided on one more appeal. “Please, may I be with him? He’s eleven years old and I’m his mother. Can’t we be together, even if only for the next few hours?”

  “I asked Miguel. He said no.” Moments later, Socorro was gone.

  There was a silence, then Angus said softly, “I wish there were something I could do for you, Nicky. Life isn’t fair. You don’t deserve any of this.”

  A pause. Then, “Gramps.”

  “Yes, old son?”

  “There is something.”

  “That I can do? Tell me.”

  “Talk about those old songs. And maybe sing one.”

  Angus’s eyes moistened. It was a request that did not need explaining.

  Anything about songs and music fascinated Nicky, and sometimes on summer evenings at the Sloanes’ lakeside cottage near Johnstown in upstate New York, the grandfather and grandson would talk and listen to songs of World War II which, two generations earlier in other arduous times, had sustained Angus and many like him. Nicky never seemed to tire of those exchanges and Angus struggled now to remember words and phrases he had used before.

  “Those of us who were flyboys in the Army Air Forces, Nicky, cherished our collections of seventy-eight r.p.m. records … Those seventy-eights disappeared long ago … bet you’ve never seen any …”

  “I did once. The father of one of my friends had some.”

  Angus smiled. As Nicky knew too, an identical dialog had taken place a few months earlier.

  “Anyway, we carried those records personally from air base to air base and because they were so breakable, no one would trust anyone else with transporting them. And every BOQ—that’s Bachelor Officers Quarters—was alive with music of the big bands: Benny Goodman, Tommy Dorsey, Glenn Miller. And the singers were young Frank Sinatra, Ray Eberle, Dick Haymes. We’d hear their songs and sing them ourselves in the shower.”

  “Sing one now, Gramps.”

  “My goodness, I’m not sure. My voice is getting old.”

  “Try, Angus!” Jessica urged. “If I can, I’ll join you.”

  He groped in memory. When they had done this before was there a special song Nicky liked? He remembered—yes, there was. Steadying his breathing he began, though glancing first toward the guard, wondering if he would enforce the oppressive silence rule. But the man seemed not to mind them talking and was turning pages of his comic book.

  Angus had had a good singing voice once; now, like the rest of him, it was worn and quavery. But the words to “I’ll Be Seeing You” were clear in his mind, their recollection sharp …

  Jessica joined in, her memory finding the lyric from somewhere. A moment later, Nicky’s young tenor was added.

  For Angus, the years fell away. Jessica’s spirits lifted. For Nicky, briefly, the anguish from his burns was eased.

  13

  From the moment on Wednesday afternoon when Harry Partridge announced his decision to leave for Peru early the following day, the CBA News special task force moved feverishly into high gear.

  Partridge’s accompanying decision—to open the floodgates of information some thirty-six hours after his departure—resulted in meetings and consultations during which a priority program covering the next three days was structured and approved.

  Immediately ahead, to be written and partially recorded overnight, was a report anchored by Partridge which would dominate the National Evening News on Friday. This would contain all that was known concerning the Sloane family kidnapping, including the latest information about Peru and Sendero Luminoso; identification of the terrorist, Ulises Rodríguez alias Miguel; the caskets and the undertaker, Alberto Godoy; Amazonas-American Bank and the alleged murder-suicide, now suspected to have been a double murder, of José Antonio Salaverry and Helga Efferen.

  However, before any preparations began, Harry Partridge visited Crawford Sloane in the anchorman’s office on the fourth floor. Partridge still felt that Sloane should be among the first to be informed of any new development or plan.

  Since the kidnapping thirteen days earlier, Crawford Sloane had continued to work, though at times it seemed he was merely filling each day and his heart and mind were not immersed in work at all. Today he appeared more gaunt than ever, his eyes more tired, the lines on his face even deeper than a few days earlier. He was conferring with a woman writer and a male producer and looked up as Partridge appeared. “You need to see me, Harry?”

  When Partridge nodded, Sloane asked the other two, “Do you mind leaving? We’ll finish later.”

  Sloane waved Partridge to a chair. “You look serious. Is it bad news?”

  “I’m afraid it is. We’ve established that your family is out of the country. They’re prisoners in Peru.”

  Sloane slumped forward, elbows on his desk; he rubbed a hand across his face before responding. “I’ve been expecting something like this—or rather, dreading it. Do you know who has them?”

  “We believe Sendero Luminoso.”

  “Oh god! Not those fanatics!”

  “I’m leaving for Lima in the morning, Crawf.”

  “I’ll go with you!”

  Partridge shook his head. “We both know you can’t, that it wouldn’t work. Besides, the network would never allow it.”

  Sloane sighed, but didn’t argue. He asked, “Do we have any idea what those Sendero jackals want?
”

  “Not yet. I’m sure we’ll hear.” A silence followed, then Partridge said, “I’ve called a task force meeting for five o’clock. I thought you’d like to be there. After that, most of us will work all night.” He went on to describe developments during the day and the plan to broadcast all information that they had on Friday.

  “I’ll be at the meeting,” Sloane acknowledged, “and thanks.” Then as Partridge rose to leave, “Do you have to go right now?”

  Partridge hesitated. He had a great deal to do and time was short, but he sensed a desire on the other’s part to talk. He shrugged. “I guess a few minutes won’t make any difference.”

  There was a pause before Sloane said awkwardly, “I’m not sure I know how to say this, or even if I should. But at a time like this you get to thinking about all kinds of things.” Partridge waited, curious, as Sloane continued. “Anyway, Harry, I’ve been wondering what your feelings are about Jessica. After all, years ago you two were pretty close.”

  So that was it: A secret thought voiced after all this time. Partridge chose his words carefully, knowing this moment was important. “Yes, I do care about Jessica, in part because we were close—as you put it—years ago. But mostly I care because she’s your wife and you’re my friend. As for anything that once existed between Jessica and me, it finished the day she married you.”

  “I suppose I’m saying this now because of all that’s happened, but there were times when I used to wonder about that.”

  “I know you did, Crawf, and there were times I wanted to tell you what I just did; also that I never had any resentment, either about your marrying Jessica or making it big at the anchor desk. No reason why I should. But I always had the feeling that if I did say it, you wouldn’t have believed.”

  “You’re probably right.” Sloane paused, considering. “But if it’s of any interest, Harry, I believe it now.”

  Partridge nodded. Enough had been said, and he needed to go. At the doorway he turned. “I’ll do my damnedest when I get to Lima, Crawf. I truly will.”

  On reaching Sloane’s office, Partridge had noticed the absence of FBI Agent Otis Havelock, whose presence had been so prominent for a week after the kidnapping. While pausing outside at the Horseshoe, where he informed Chuck Insen of the task force meeting, Partridge asked about the FBI man.

  “He’s still around a lot,” the evening news executive producer said, “though I think he’s following other leads.”

  “Do you know if he’s coming back today?”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  Partridge found himself hoping the FBI man would continue whatever he was doing for the remainder of the day. If he did, it would be easier to keep the knowledge of tonight’s activity and Partridge departure tomorrow restricted to a few people at CBA only. On Friday, of course, assuming word was released in advance that CBA would have new revelations on its evening news, the FBI would probably demand to know what was going on and would have to be stalled until broadcast time. But Partridge would be in Peru by then, and someone else would have that responsibility.

  Just the same, he decided coping with the FBI was one more item to be factored into plans for the next two days.

  The five o’clock meeting in the task force conference room was well attended. Les Chippingham and Crawford Sloane were there. Chuck Insen stayed for fifteen minutes, then left because the National Evening News first feed was looming close, and another Horseshoe producer took his place. Partridge was at the head of the long conference table, with Rita Abrams beside him. Iris Everly, who had produced a kidnap segment for the evening news—though it contained none of that day’s new material—arrived several minutes late. Teddy Cooper was present, having spent the day with the temporary researchers who were still visiting local newspaper offices to review classified advertising—so far with no positive result. Minh Van Canh came in, as did producers Norman Jaeger and Karl Owens. A new face at the table was Don Kettering’s. Jonathan Mony had stayed on and was introduced around. Various support staff members were in attendance.

  Partridge began with a summation of what had happened during the day, his intention to leave for Peru early the next morning, and the decision to broadcast everything they knew on Friday evening’s news.

  Les Chippingham cut in. “I agree with everything you’ve said, Harry, but I think we should go one step further and do a one-hour News Special, also on Friday night, covering the whole kidnap sequence at length, including the new material.”

  Around the table there were murmurs of approval as the news president continued. “I remind you we have a prime-time news show already scheduled for the nine o’clock slot which we can yank. You guys sound as if you have plenty to fill an hour.”

  “Plenty and more,” Rita Abrams assured him. A short time earlier she had screened the silhouette interrogation of Alberto Godoy and viewed Don Kettering’s interview with the American-Amazonas bank manager, Emiliano Armando, which had just come in. She was enthusiastic about both.

  After the screening there had been a discussion between Rita, Partridge and Kettering as to whether the funeral director’s identity should be protected after all, since during his antagonistic termination of the interview, Godoy voluntarily brought his face into light and camera range. There was a temptation to reveal his face on television since protecting Godoy’s identity could clearly cause the network trouble. Yet because of the original agreement with him, some complex ethics were involved.

  In the end, it was decided that since Godoy had not known, technically, what he was doing, the original pact must be honored. To make sure the decision was safeguarded, Partridge erased on an editing machine the portion of tape showing Godoy’s face, so it could not be retrieved with outtakes later. At this point the erasure was not a legal offense, though it would be if done after official inquiries were begun.

  Everyone at the conference room table realized the decision to have a one-hour special was relatively easy since the prime-time hour in question belonged to the News Division anyway; therefore the network’s programming brass need not be consulted. The show originally scheduled for nine o’clock Friday was “Behind the Headlines,” a newsmagazine on which Norman Jaeger was normally a producer and to which he would undoubtedly return when this present work was over. Chippingham decided privately that he need not report immediately to Margot Lloyd-Mason on the change, though sometime during Friday he would advise her of what was coming up that evening.

  From there, other decisions flowed.

  Partridge announced that Minh Van Canh and Ken O’Hara, the sound man who had been present at the Dallas–Fort Worth air crash two weeks ago, would accompany him to Peru.

  Rita, glancing down the table at Chippingham, added, “Les, the assignment desk has chartered a Learjet for Harry and the others, out of Teterboro at six A.M. tomorrow. I need your okay.”

  “Are you sure …” Chippingham, conscious of mounting expenses, had been about to continue, “… there isn’t a commercial flight available,” when he caught sight of Crawford Sloane’s steely eyes fixed on him. Changing his mind, the news president said tersely, “I approve.”

  Rita, it was decided, would remain in New York for overall supervision of the Friday evening news report and one-hour special, with Iris doing general production on the first, Norm Jaeger and Karl Owens on the second. Then, during Friday night, Rita would follow Partridge and the others to Lima, with Jaeger taking over in New York as senior producer.

  Partridge, who had discussed the subject earlier with Chippingham, disclosed that after his own departure, Don Kettering would head the kidnap task force in New York. Temporarily, Kettering’s business correspondent duties would be handled by an assistant.

  However, Partridge pointed out, neither the National Evening News report of Friday nor the one-hour special later—on both of which he would be featured—should convey any hint that he had already left for Peru. In fact, if it could be made to appear at some point that he was broadcasting live—th
ough without actually being deceptive—so much the better.

  While other networks and the print press were unlikely to be deceived by such tactics, anything that might lessen their own urgency in dispatching reporting teams to Peru would be an advantage. From a practical point of view, apart from competitiveness, Partridge stood a better chance of making investigative headway alone, instead of amid a swarm of other reporters.

  Which led to the question of security.

  Everything that would happen through that night and the next two days, Les Chippingham declared, must not be discussed, even with others in the News Division who were uninvolved, and certainly not with outsiders, including families. The criterion for discussion was: Need to know. “And that’s not a request; it’s an order.”

  The news president continued, looking in turn at everyone around the table. “Let us not do or say anything that could release our news prematurely and deprive Harry of the twenty-four hours’ lead time he so clearly needs. Above all, remember lives are at stake”—he glanced toward Crawford Sloans—“very special lives, close and important to us all.”

  Other security measures were arranged.

  Tomorrow and the next day, while a studio and control room were being used to produce the one-hour News Special, security guards would be posted outside, admitting only those persons on a list to be compiled by Rita. Also, the normal studio output line would be disconnected so that no one beyond the studio and control room could view on a monitor what was happening inside.

  It was agreed, however, that on Friday morning security would be relaxed slightly, to the extent of doing broadcast promotional advertising during the day. This would advise viewers that important new information about the Sloane kidnapping would be revealed on that evening’s National Evening News and the one-hour special. Also during the day as a professional courtesy, other networks, news wire services and the print press would be advised of the same thing, though no details would be disclosed.

  At length, Partridge asked, “Is there anything else, or can we get to work?”