The broadcaster shook his head. “I have heard nothing, which is not surprising. Sendero is good at secrecy, mainly because they kill any of their people who talk indiscreetly; staying alive is an incentive not to gossip. But I will help you, if I can, by putting out feelers. I have information sources in many places.”
“Thank you.”
“As to your news tomorrow night, I will obtain a satellite tape and adapt it for myself. Meanwhile we are not short of disaster subjects of our own. This country, politically, financially, every other way, is going down the tubes.”
“We hear mixed reports about Sendero Luminoso. Are they really getting stronger?”
“The answer is yes—and not only stronger every day, but controlling more and more of the country, which is why the task you have set yourself is difficult, some might say impossible. Assuming your kidnapped people are here, there are a thousand out-of-the-way places where they may be hidden. But I am glad you came to me first because I will give you some advice.”
“Which is?”
“Do not seek official help—that is, from the Peru armed forces or the police. In fact, avoid them as allies because they have ceased to be trustworthy, if they ever were. When it comes to murder and mayhem, they are no better than Sendero and certainly as ruthless.”
“Are there recent examples?”
“Plenty. I’ll point you toward some if you wish.”
Partridge had already begun thinking about reports he would send back for the National Evening News. He had previously arranged that after the arrival Saturday of Rita Abrams and the editor, Bob Watson, they would put together a piece for Monday’s broadcast. In it, Partridge hoped to have sound bites from Sergio Hurtado and others.
Now he asked, “You said democracy is nonexistent. Was that rhetoric or really true?”
“Not only true, but to huge numbers of people here the presence or absence of democracy makes no difference in their lives.”
“Pretty strong stuff, Sergio.”
“Only because of your finite viewpoint, Harry. Americans see democracy as a remedy for all ills—to be taken three times daily like prescription medicine. It works for them. Ergo!—it should work for the world. What America naïvely forgets is that for democracy to function, most of a populace must have something personally that is worth preserving. Generally speaking, most Latin Americans don’t. Of course, the next question is—why?”
“So I’ll buy it. Why?”
“The areas of the world in deepest trouble, including ours, have two main groups of people—the reasonably educated and affluent on the one hand; on the other, the ignorant and hopeless poor who are largely unemployable. The first group breeds only moderately, the second breeds like flies, inexorably growing larger—a human time bomb ready to destroy the first.” Sergio gestured airily behind him. “Go outside and see it happening.”
“And you have a solution?”
“America could have. Not by distributing arms or money, but by flooding the world with birth-control teaching teams, sent out the way Kennedy dispatched the Peace Corps. Oh, it would take several generations, but curbing population growth could save the world.”
Partridge queried, “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
“If you mean the Catholic church, I remind you I am a Catholic myself. I also have many Catholic friends—of stature, educated and with money. Strangely, almost all have small families. I have asked myself: Have they curbed their sexual passions? Knowing both the men and women, I am sure that they have not. Indeed, some speak out frankly, disavowing church dogma on birth control—which is man-made dogma, incidentally.” He added, “With American leadership, voices in opposition to that dogma could grow and grow.”
“Speaking of speaking out,” Partridge said. “Would you be willing to repeat most of what we’ve talked about on camera?”
Sergio threw up his hands. “Well, my dear Harry, why not? Perhaps the greatest thing America instilled in me was a passion for free speech. I have been speaking freely here on radio, though at times I wonder how long they will let me go on. Neither the government nor Sendero like what I say and both have guns and bullets. But one cannot live forever, so yes, Harry, I will do it for you.”
Beneath the gross fat, Partridge acknowledged mentally, was a person of principle and courage.
Before reaching Peru, Partridge had already decided there was only one way to go about locating the kidnap victims. That was to act as a TV news correspondent would in normal circumstances—meeting known contacts, seeking out new ones, searching for news, traveling where he could, questioning, questioning, and all the while hoping some fragment of information would emerge, providing a clue, a lead to where the captives might be held.
After that, of course, would come the greater problem of how to rescue them. But that would have to be faced when the time arrived.
Unless some lucky, sudden breakthrough happened, Partridge expected the process to be demanding, slow and tedious.
Continuing the TV correspondent routine, he next visited Entel Peru—the national telecommunications company with headquarters in downtown Lima. Entel would be CBA’s base for communication with New York, including satellite transmissions. When crews from other U.S. networks arrived, as seemed likely in a day or two, they would use the same facilities.
Victor Velasco was the busy, harried international manager of Entel whom Fernández Pabur had already contacted. In his forties, with graying hair and a permanently worried expression, Velasco was clearly preoccupied with other problems as he told Partridge, “It has been difficult to find space, but we have a booth for your editor, his equipment, and we’ve run in two phone lines. Your people will need security passes …”
Partridge was aware that in places like Peru, where politicians and military leaders strutted and got rich, it was low-profile managers like Velasco—conscientious, overworked and underpaid—who really kept the country running. Back in his hotel suite, Partridge had put a thousand dollars in an envelope which he produced and discreetly handed over.
“A small thank-you for your trouble, Señor Velasco. We’ll be seeing you again before we leave.”
For a moment Velasco looked embarrassed and Partridge wondered if he might refuse. Then, glancing in the envelope and seeing U.S. currency, Velasco nodded and put it in a pocket.
“Thank you. And if there’s anything else …”
“There will be,” Partridge said. “That’s the only thing I’m sure of.”
“What took you so long, Harry?” Manuel León Seminario inquired when Partridge phoned from the hotel shortly after 5 P.M., having just returned from Entel Peru. “I’ve been expecting you since our little talk.”
“I had a couple of things to do in New York.” Partridge was reminded of his phone conversation ten days earlier with the Escena magazine owner-editor; it had been at a time when Peru involvement in the Sloane family kidnapping was a possibility, though not a certainty as now. He asked, “I was wondering, Manuel, if you’ve a dinner engagement tonight.”
“I have indeed. I shall be dining at La Pizzeria at eight o’clock and my guest will be one Harry Partridge.”
It was now 8:15 and they were sipping Pisco sours, the popular Peruvian cocktail, piquant and delicious. La Pizzeria was a combination of bistro and traditional restaurant where the movers and shakers of Lima were often to be seen.
The magazine chief, slightly built and dapper, with a neatly trimmed Vandyke beard, was wearing high-fashion Cartier spectacles and a Brioni suit. He had brought with him to the table a slim burgundy leather briefcase.
Partridge had already reported why he was in Peru. He added, “I’ve been hearing that things around here are pretty bad.”
Seminario sighed. “It is true, they are. But then, our life has always been a mixture. We … how did Milton put it? … ‘Can make a heav’n of hell, a hell of heav’n.’ Yet we limeños are survivors, something I try to reflect with Escena’s covers.” He reached for the briefcase
and opened it. “Consider these two—our current edition and the artwork for next week. Together, I believe they say something.”
Partridge looked at the printed magazine first. Its cover was a color photograph of a tall downtown building’s flat roof. The roof contained a mess of debris, obviously from an explosion. Central in the picture was a dead woman, on her back. She appeared to have been young; her face, not badly damaged, might have been beautiful. But her stomach had been blown away, with bloody entrails strewn around the body. Despite his familiarity with scenes of war, Partridge shuddered.
“I’ll save you reading the story inside, Harry. A business convention was in session across the street. Sendero Luminoso, in which the woman was an activist, decided to mortar the convention center. Fortunately for the convention, but not the woman, the mortar was homemade and exploded before she could fire it.”
Partridge glanced at the picture, then away. “Sendero is increasingly active in Lima, I believe.”
“Exceedingly so. Their people move around freely and this bombing, which went wrong, was an exception. Most are successful. Nevertheless, consider next week’s cover.” The editor passed across the artwork.
It was sex and cheesecake, only a hairbreadth away from pornography. A slim young girl, perhaps nineteen and scantily clad in the briefest of swimsuits, was leaning against a silken pillow, her head thrown back, blond hair tumbled, lips parted, eyes closed, legs partially spread.
“Life goes on and there are always two sides, even in Peru,” the magazine man said. “Speaking of which, let us order dinner, then I will make suggestions, Harry, to ensure that your life goes on too.”
The food was Italian and excellent, the service faultless. Near the end of the meal, Seminario leaned back.
“One thing you must realize is that Sendero Luminoso may already know of your presence here; their spies are everywhere. But even if not, they will learn of it shortly, probably after your CBA broadcast tomorrow, which will be repeated widely. So beginning at once, you must have a bodyguard accompany you, particularly if you go out at night.”
Partridge smiled. “That seems to have happened already.” Fernández Pabur had insisted on collecting Partridge from the hotel and bringing him here. Accompanying them in the Ford station wagon had been a silent, burly man who looked like a heavyweight boxer. Judging by a bulge under his jacket, he was armed. At their destination, the new man alighted first, Fernández and Partridge remaining inside the vehicle until signaled to come out. Partridge had not asked questions, but Fernández told him, “We will wait while you have dinner.” Presumably the retinue was still outside.
“Good,” Seminario acknowledged. “Your man knows what he is doing. Are you carrying a gun yourself?”
Partridge shook his head.
“You must. Many of us do. And to quote American Express, ‘Don’t leave home without it.’ Another thing: Do not go to Ayacucho, a Sendero stronghold. Sendero would learn of your being there and you would be committing suicide.”
“At some point I may have to go.”
“You mean if I, or others trying to help you, learn where your friends are being held. In that case you will have to ensure surprise by going in fast and getting out the same way. There will be no other way and you will have to use a charter airplane. Some pilots here will do that if you pay them enough risk money.”
When they had finished talking, most other diners were gone and the restaurant was preparing to close.
Outside, Fernández and the bodyguard were waiting.
In the station wagon returning to Cesar’s Hotel, Partridge asked Fernández, “Can you get me a gun?”
“Of course. Do you have a preference?”
Partridge considered. The nature of his work had made him knowledgeable about guns and he had learned to use them. “I’d like a nine-millimeter Browning; also a silencer.”
“You will have it tomorrow. And about tomorrow—are there plans that I should know of?”
“Just like today, I’ll be seeing more people.” Partridge added mentally: And in days beyond that, still more—until the breakthrough comes.
3
Friday was a day of action at CBA, New York. Some of the activity had been anticipated; a good deal more was unforeseen.
As usual, the network’s broadcasting day began with the 6 A.M. “Sunrise Journal.” During that program a CBA News promo aired along with commercials, as it would throughout the day. The promo was a recorded message spoken on camera by Harry Partridge.
“Tonight … on CBA National Evening News … an exclusive report of startling new developments in the kidnapping of the Crawford Sloane family.
“And at nine P.M. Eastern time, seven central, a one-hour News Special—‘Network in Peril: The Sloane Kidnap.’
“Be sure not to miss tonight’s National Evening News and one-hour News Special.”
The choice of Partridge was appropriate since he had regularly anchored all the evening kidnap news. It was also opportune since his appearance conveyed an unspoken implication that he was in the United States, though at 6 A.M. he had already been in Peru for eighteen hours.
Les Chippingham saw the promo while having a self-serve, on-the-run breakfast in his Eighty-second Street apartment. The news president was in a hurry, knowing there would be a good deal happening during the day, and through the kitchen window he could see his CBA limo and driver already waiting outside. The limousine reminded him of Margot Lloyd-Mason’s instruction at their first meeting that he should use taxis instead, an order he had ignored. He must not ignore keeping Margot informed, however, and as soon as he reached the office would call her since she was likely to have seen the promo too.
The decision was unnecessary. When he entered the car, the driver handed him a phone and Margot’s voice barked instantly.
“What is all this about new developments and why haven’t I been told?”
“It happened suddenly. I intended to call you as soon as I got in.”
“John Q. Public has been told. Why should I have to wait?”
“Margot, the public has not been told; they will be this evening. You, on the other hand, are going to be told as soon as I reach my desk, but not on this phone because we’ve no idea who’s listening.”
There was a pause during which he could hear heavy breathing. “Do it immediately you get in.”
“I will.”
Some fifteen minutes later, connected again with the network president and CEO, Chippingham began, “There’s quite a lot to tell.”
“Get on with it!”
“First, from your point of view the outlook is excellent. Some of our best people have achieved several exclusive breakthroughs which tonight may give CBA the largest news audience in our history, with matching ratings. Unfortunately, the news about the Sloane family is less than good for Crawf.”
“Where are they?”
“In Peru. Held by Sendero Luminoso.”
“Peru! Are you absolutely sure?”
“As I said, we’ve had some of our most experienced people working on this, especially Harry Partridge, and what they’ve discovered is convincing. I’ve no doubts, and am sure you won’t have either.” Just the same, Margot’s startled reaction at the mention of Peru surprised Chippingham, making him wonder what was behind it.
She said sharply, “I’d like to talk to Partridge.”
“I’m afraid that isn’t possible. He’s already in Peru, and has been since yesterday. We expect to have an update from him for Monday’s news.”
“Why are you moving so quickly?”
“This is the news business, Margot. We always work that way.” The question amazed him. So did a hint of uncertainty, even nervousness, in Margot’s voice. It prompted him to say, “You seem concerned about Peru. Do you mind telling me why?”
There was silence and obvious hesitation before an answer. “At the moment Globanic Industries has a substantial business arrangement there. A great deal is at stake and it’s essenti
al our alliance with the Peruvian Government remains good.”
“May I point out that CBA News doesn’t have an alliance with the Peruvian Government—good or bad—or with any other government either.”
Margot said impatiently, “CBA is Globanic. Globanic has an alliance with Peru; therefore so does CBA. When will you grasp that simple fact?”
Chippingham wanted to answer, Never! But he knew he couldn’t and said instead, “We’re a news organization first and have to report the news the way it is. Also I’ll point out, we didn’t involve Peru; it’s Sendero Luminoso which appears to have kidnapped our anchorman’s family. In any case, as soon as our story breaks tonight, everyone else—networks, print press, you name it—will jump on the Peru story too.”
In a corner of his mind Chippingham was asking: Can this conversation really be taking place? And should I laugh or weep?
“Keep me informed,” Margot said. “If there’s any change, especially about Peru, I want to know immediately, not next day.”
Chippingham heard a click as the connection was severed.
In her elegant office at Stonehenge, Margot Lloyd-Mason pondered. Uncharacteristically, she was uncertain about what to do next. Should she call Globanic Chairman Theo Elliott, or not? She recalled his cautioning words about Peru at the Fordly Cay Club meeting: “I don’t want anything to damage our still-delicate relationship … and thereby spoil what can evolve into the deal of the century.” In the end, she decided that she must inform him. Better he should hear the news from her than on some newscast.
When she talked with Elliott, his reaction to her information was surprisingly calm. “Well, if that Shining Path rabble did the kidnapping, I suppose there’s no way it can not be reported. But let’s not forget that the Peruvian Government is in no way involved because they and the Shining Path are deadly enemies. Be sure your news people make that clear.”
“I’ll see that they do,” Margot said.
“They can go even further,” Theo Elliott continued. “What’s happening presents an opportunity to make the government there look good, and CBA should use it.”