Dolores was videotaped in closeup, the sound recording of her voice in Spanish later to be faded out and a translation dubbed in. At the conclusion of her taping Fernández told Partridge, “She is reminding you that you promised her money.”
Partridge conferred with Rita who produced a thousand dollars in U.S. fifty-dollar bills. In the circumstances the payment was generous, but Dolores had provided an important break; also Partridge and Rita felt sorry for her and believed her statement that she knew nothing of the kidnap, despite her association with Baudelio.
Rita instructed Fernández, “Please explain it is against CBA policy to pay for a news appearance; therefore the money is for the use of her apartment and the information she gave us.” It was a semantic distinction, often used by networks to do exactly what they said they didn’t, but New York liked producers to go through the motions.
Judging by Dolores’s gratitude, she neither understood nor cared about the explanation. Partridge was sure that as soon as they had gone the empty gin bottle would be quickly replaced.
Now his mind was free to move on to essentials—planning a rescue expedition to Nueva Esperanza as quickly as he could. At the thought of it his excitement rose, the old addiction to danger, guns and battle stirring within him.
10
Crawford Sloane’s instinct during every day of waiting was to telephone Harry Partridge in Peru and ask, “Is there anything new?” But he restrained himself, knowing that any breaking news would come to him speedily enough. Also, he realized, it was important to leave Partridge undistracted and free to work in his own way. Sloane still had more faith in Partridge than anyone else who might have been sent on the Peru assignment.
Another reason for holding back was that Harry Partridge had proved to be considerate, calling Sloane at home in Larchmont during some evenings or early mornings to fill him in on progress and background.
It had been several days, though, since the last call from Peru and while disappointed at not hearing, Crawford Sloane assumed there was nothing to report.
He was wrong.
What Sloane did not and could not know was that Partridge had decided all communication between Lima and New York—telephone, satellite or written—was no longer secure. After the interview with General Ortiz, during which the chief of anti-terrorism police made plain that Partridge’s movements were being watched, it seemed possible that telephones were tapped and perhaps even mail examined. Satellite transmissions could be viewed by anyone with the right equipment, and using a different phone line than usual carried no guarantee of privacy.
Another reason for caution was that Lima was now crowded with journalists, including TV crews from other networks, all competing in covering the Sloane kidnap story and searching for new leads. So far, Partridge had managed to avoid the media crowd, but because of CBA’s successful coverage already, he knew there was interest in where he went and whom he saw.
For all those reasons Partridge decided not to discuss, especially by telephone, his visit to the Huancavelica Street apartment and what he had learned. He ordered the others in the CBA crew to observe the same rule, also cautioning them that the expedition they were planning to Nueva Esperanza must be veiled in total secrecy. Even CBA in New York would have to wait for word of that.
Therefore, on Thursday morning in New York, knowing nothing of the breakthrough in Lima the day before, Crawford Sloane went to CBA News headquarters, arriving slightly later than usual at 10:55.
A young FBI agent named Ivan Ungar, who had slept at the Larchmont house the night before, accompanied him. The FBI was still guarding against a possible attempt to kidnap Sloane and there were also rumors that anchor people at other networks were being protected too. However, since the original kidnappers had been heard from, the twenty-four-hour listening watch on Crawford Sloane’s home and office phones had been discontinued.
FBI Special Agent Otis Havelock was still involved with the case, and after Tuesday’s discovery of the kidnappers’ Hackensack headquarters had taken charge of FBI search efforts there. Another subject of FBI scrutiny, Sloane had learned, was Teterboro Airport because of its closeness to the Hackensack locale. An examination of outgoing flight records was being made, covering the period from immediately after the kidnap until the day it was known that the kidnap victims were in Peru. But progress was slow because of the large number of flight departures during those thirteen days.
At CBA News, as Sloane entered the main-floor lobby, a uniformed security guard gave a casual salute, but there was no sign of a New York City policeman, as there had been for more than a week after the kidnap. Today the usual stream of people was moving in and out of the building and although those entering were cleared at a reception desk, Sloane wondered if CBA security had slipped back into its old, easygoing ways.
From the lobby, accompanied by agent Ungar, he took an elevator to the fourth floor, then walked to his office adjoining the Horseshoe where several people looked up from their work to greet him. Sloane left the door of his office open. Ungar seated himself on a chair outside.
As Sloane hung up the raincoat he had been wearing, he noticed on his desk a white Styrofoam package of the kind used by takeout restaurants. There were several such establishments in the neighborhood which did a brisk business at CBA, delivering snacks or meals in response to telephone calls. Since Sloane had not ordered anything and usually had lunch in the cafeteria, he assumed the delivery was a mistake.
To his surprise, though, he found that the package, tied neatly with white string, had “C. Sloane” written on it. Without much interest, he took scissors from a drawer and snipped the string, then eased the package open. He pulled out some pieces of folded white paper before the contents were revealed.
After several seconds of staring in dazed disbelief, Crawford Sloane screamed—a tortured, earsplitting scream. Heads shot up among those working nearby. FBI agent Ungar leapt from his chair and raced in, drawing a gun as he moved. But Sloane was alone, screaming again and again, staring down at the package, his eyes wide and crazed, his face ashen.
Others jumped up and ran to Sloane’s office. Some went inside, a dozen or more blocked the doorway. A woman producer leaned over Sloane’s desk and looked into the white box. “Oh, my god!” she uttered, then, feeling sick, went back outside.
Agent Ungar examined the box, saw two human fingers, flecked with dried blood, and, swallowing his revulsion, swiftly took charge. He shouted to those in the office and crowding the doorway, “Everyone out, please!” Even while speaking, he picked up a phone, pressed the “operator” button and demanded, “Security—fast!” When there was an answer, he rapped out, “This is FBI Special Agent Ungar and I am giving you an order. Advise all guards that no one is to leave this building, as of this moment. There will be no exceptions and if anyone resists, use force. After you’ve given that order, call the city police for help. I am going to the main lobby now. I want someone from Security to meet me there.”
While Ungar had been speaking, Sloane collapsed into his chair. As someone said later, “He looked like death.”
The executive producer, Chuck Insen, elbowed his way through the growing throng outside and asked, “What’s all this about?”
Recognizing him, Ungar gestured to the white box, then instructed, “Nothing in here must be touched. I suggest you take Mr. Sloane somewhere else and lock the door until I come back.”
Insen nodded, by then having seen the contents of the box and noting, as had others, that the fingers were small and delicate, clearly those of a child. Turning to face Sloane, he asked the inevitable question with his eyes. Sloane managed to nod and whisper, “Yes.”
“Oh, Jesus!” Insen murmured.
Sloane seemed about to collapse. Insen put his arms around him, then still holding the anchorman, eased him from the room. Those at the doorway quickly cleared a path.
Insen and Sloane went to the executive producer’s office; on the way, Insen fired orders. He told a secr
etary, “Lock Mr. Sloane’s office and let no one in except that FBI man. Then talk to the switchboard; there’s a doctor on call—get him here. Say Mr. Sloane had a bad shock and may need sedation.” To a producer, “Tell Don Kettering what’s happened and get him up here; we’ll need something for the news tonight.” And to others, “The rest of you, get back to work.”
Insen’s office had a large glass window overlooking the Horseshoe, with a venetian blind for privacy when needed. After helping Sloane into a chair, Insen lowered the blind.
Control was coming back to Sloane, though he was leaning forward, his head in his hands. Speaking half to himself, half to Insen, he agonized, “Those people knew about Nicky and the piano. And how did they know? I let it out! It was me! At that press session after the kidnap.”
Insen said gently, “I remember that, Crawf. But you were answering a question; you didn’t bring it up. In any case, who could have foreseen …” He stopped, knowing that reasoning at this moment would do no good.
Afterward Insen would say to others, “I have to hand it to Crawf. He has guts. After that experience most people would have been pleading to do exactly what the kidnappers wanted. But right from the beginning Crawf’s known we shouldn’t, and couldn’t, and has never wavered.”
There was a soft knock and the secretary came in. “A doctor’s on the way,” she said.
The temporary ban on people leaving the building was lifted when everyone inside or about to leave was identified and their presence accounted for. It seemed likely that the package with the fingers had been left much earlier, and since restaurant service people came and left frequently, no one had seen anything unusual.
The FBI began an investigation at nearby takeout restaurants in an effort to determine who might have brought the package in, but nothing resulted. And while CBA Security was supposed to check all delivery people’s identity, it was established that they did so irregularly, and even then in a perfunctory way.
Any doubt about the fingers being Nicky’s was quickly dispelled by an FBI check of Nicky’s bedroom in the Sloanes’ Larchmont house. Plenty of fingerprints remained there and matched those of the two severed fingers in the package on Crawford Sloane’s desk.
In the midst of the general gloom at CBA News, another significant delivery occurred, this one to Stonehenge. Early Thursday afternoon a small package found its way to Margot Lloyd-Mason’s office suite. Inside was a videotape cassette sent by Sendero Luminoso.
Because the tape was expected—Thursday delivery had been stated in Sendero’s “The Shining Time Has Come” demand received six days earlier—arrangements had been made by Margot and Les Chippingham for the tape to be sent immediately by messenger to the CBA news president. As soon as Chippingham learned of its arrival, he called in Don Kettering and Norman Jaeger and the trio viewed the tape privately in Chippingham’s office.
All three noted at once the recording’s high quality, both technically and in presentation. The opening titles, beginning with “World Revolution: Sendero Luminoso Shows the Way,” were superimposed over the visual background of some of Peru’s most breathtaking scenery—the brooding majesty of high Andes mountains and glaciers, Machu Picchu in awesome splendor, the endless miles of green jungle, the arid coastal desert and surging Pacific ocean. It was Jaeger who recognized the majestic music accompanying the opening: Beethoven’s Third Symphony, Eroica.
“They had production people who know their business,” Kettering murmured. “I’d expected something cruder.”
“Not surprising, really,” Chippingham said. “Peru’s no backwater and they have talent there, the best equipment.”
“Which Sendero has big bucks to buy,” Jaeger added. “Plus their foxy infiltration everywhere.”
Even the extremist spiel that followed was largely over kinetic scenes—of rioting in Lima, industrial strikes, clashes between police and protest marchers, the grisly aftermath of attacks on Andes villages by government forces. “We are the world,” an unseen commentator expounded, “and the world is ready for a revolutionary explosion.”
Featured at length was an interview, stated to be with Abimael Guzmán, Sendero Luminoso’s founder and leader. Some uncertainty existed because the camera focused on the back of a seated person. The commentator explained, “Our leader has many enemies who would like to kill him. To show his face would help their vicious aims.”
Guzmán’s supposed voice began in Spanish, “Compañeros revolutionarios, nuestro trabajo y objetivo es unir los creyentes en la filosofía de Marx, Lenin, y Mao …” Then the words faded and a new voice continued, “Comrades, we must destroy worldwide a social order that is not fit to be preserved …”
“Doesn’t Guzmán speak English?” Kettering queried.
Jaeger answered, “Strangely, he’s one of the few educated Peruvians who don’t.”
What followed was predictable and had been spoken by Guzmán many times before. “Revolution is justified because of imperialist exploitation of all poor people in the world.” … “False reports blame Sendero Luminoso for inhumanity. Sendero is more humane than the superpowers who are willing to destroy mankind with nuclear arsenals, which our proletariat revolution will ban forever.” … “The United States labor movement, an elite bourgeois class, has cheated and sold out American workers.” … “Communists in the Soviet Union are no better than imperialists. The Soviets have betrayed the Lenin revolution.” … “Cuba’s Castro is a clown, an imperialist lackey.”
Guzmán’s statements were invariably general. Those seeking specifics searched his speeches and writings in vain.
“If we were running this instead of the evening news,” Chippingham commented, “we’d have lost our audience by now and ratings would be in the cellar.”
The recorded half hour ended with additional Beethoven, some more scenic beauty and a rallying cry from the commentator, “Long life to Marxism-Leninism-Maoism, our guiding doctrine!”
“All right,” Chippingham said at the end, “as we agreed, I’m putting this tape away in my safe. Only the three of us have viewed it. I suggest we don’t discuss with anyone what we’ve seen.”
Jaeger asked, “You’re still going with Karl Owens’s idea—the story that the cassette was damaged when we received it?”
“For chrissakes! Do we have anything else? We’re certainly not going to use that tape in place of Monday’s news.”
“I guess we don’t have anything else,” Jaeger acknowledged.
“As long as we understand,” Kettering said, “that our chances of being believed aren’t as good now—not after Theo Elliott’s screwup with the Baltimore Star.”
“Goddamn, I know that!” The news president’s voice reflected the strain of the past few days. He glanced at a clock: 3:53. “At four o’clock, Don, break into the network with a bulletin. Say that we’ve received a tape from the kidnappers, but it’s defective and we haven’t been able to fix it. Getting a replacement tape to us is now up to Sendero Luminoso.”
“Right!”
“Meanwhile,” Chippingham continued, “I’ll call in press relations and issue a statement for the wire services, urging them to repeat it to Peru. Now let’s move it!”
The misinformation issued by CBA News was circulated promptly and widely. Because Peru was one hour behind New York—the U.S. was still on daylight saving time, Peru wasn’t—the CBA statement was available in Lima for evening radio and TV news as well as the following day’s newspapers.
Also in the day’s news, though circulated earlier, was a report about the discovery of Nicholas Sloane’s severed fingers by his distraught father.
In Ayacucho, Sendero Luminoso leaders noted both reports. As to the second, about a damaged tape, they did not believe it. What was needed immediately, they reasoned, was some action more compelling than a small boy’s fingers.
11
Afterward, Jessica remembered, she had a sense of foreboding as soon as she awoke that morning in the half-light of dawn. She had be
en sleepless through much of the night, mentally tormented, doubting that rescue would ever come. Over the past three days her earlier confidence in eventual freedom had ebbed away, though she tried to conceal from Angus and Nicky her diminishing hope. But was it likely, she wondered, that in this obscure portion of an alien, faraway land, some friendly force could find and somehow spirit them home? As more days went by, it seemed increasingly doubtful.
What sent Jessica’s morale tumbling had been the brutal dismembering of Nicky’s right hand. Even if they got out of here, life could never again be the same for Nicky. His youthful, dearest dream, of becoming a piano maestro, was suddenly, irrevocably … so needlessly! … ended. And what other perils, including death perhaps, awaited them in days ahead?
Nicky’s fingers had been removed on Tuesday. Today was Friday. Yesterday Nicky had been less in pain, thanks to Socorro who had changed the dressings and bandage daily, but he was silent and brooding, unresponsive to Jessica’s attempts to lift him from his deep despair. And there was always the separation between them—the close-spaced bamboo stalks and strong wire screen. Since the night Socorro had allowed Jessica to join Nicky in his cell, the favor had not been repeated, despite Jessica’s pleading.
Today, therefore, the immediate future seemed bleak, with little to hope for and everything to dread. As Jessica became fully awake she understood, as she never had before, a Thomas Hood poem learned in childhood which ended:
But now, I often wish the night
Had borne my breath away!
But she knew that if applied to herself, the wish was selfish and defeatist. Despite everything else she must hang on, remaining the strong staff on which Nicky and Angus leaned.
It was soon after those thoughts, and with the arrival of full daylight, that Jessica could hear activity outside and footsteps approaching the prisoners’ shack. The first person to enter was Gustavo, leader of the guards, who went directly to Angus’s cell and opened it.