Miguel was immediately behind. He was scowling as he, too, moved toward Angus, carrying something Jessica had not seen him with before—an automatic rifle.
The ominous implication was inescapable. At the sight of the powerful, ugly weapon Jessica’s heart beat faster and her breath shortened. Oh, no! Not Angus!
Gustavo had entered Angus’s cell and roughly pulled the old man to his feet. Now Angus’s hands were being tied behind him.
Jessica called out, “Listen to me! What are you doing? Why?”
Angus turned his head toward her, “Jessie dear, don’t be distressed. There’s nothing you can do. These people are barbarians, they don’t understand decency or honor …”
Jessica saw Miguel tighten his grip on his gun until his knuckles were white. He commanded Gustavo impatiently, “¡Dese prisa! ¡No pierdas tiempo!”
Nicky was on his feet. He too had grasped the significance of the automatic rifle and asked, “Mom, what are they going to do to Gramps?”
Not believing her own words, Jessica answered, “I don’t know.”
Angus, his hands now tied, straightened his body, squared his shoulders and looked over. “We haven’t much time. Both of you—stay strong and keep believing! Remember, somewhere out there Crawford is doing everything he can. Help is coming!”
Tears were streaming down Jessica’s face. Her voice choked, she managed to call, “Angus, dearest Angus! We love you so much!”
“I love you too, Jessie … Nicky!” Gustavo was pushing Angus forward, propelling him from the cell. They all knew now that he was going to his death.
Stumbling, Angus called again, “Nicky, how about a song? Let’s try one.” Angus’s voice lifted as he sang “I’ll Be Seeing You.”
Jessica saw Nicky open his mouth but, both too choked with tears, neither he nor Jessica could join in.
Angus was outside the shack now, beyond their sight. They could still hear his voice, though it was fading.
Eventually the voice faded entirely. There was only silence as they waited.
Seconds passed. The wait seemed longer than it was, then the silence was broken by gunfire—four shots, closely spaced. Another brief silence, then a second burst of gunfire, the shots too fast to count.
Outside, at the edge of the jungle, Miguel stood over the dead figure of Angus Sloane.
The first four shots he fired had killed the old man instantly. Then, remembering the insult of last Tuesday—“¡Maldito hijo de puta!”—and the contemptuous reference to “barbarians” only moments earlier, Miguel had stepped forward in a rage and emptied another fusillade from his Soviet-made AK-47 into the recumbent body.
He had fulfilled the instructions received from Ayacucho late last night. Gustavo had also been informed of a distasteful chore which was now expected of him and which, with help from others, he could begin.
A light airplane, operating for Sendero Luminoso, was now on its way to a nearby jungle airstrip which could be reached from Nueva Esperanza by boat. Very soon a boat would leave for the airstrip, after which the airplane would transport to Lima the result of Gustavo’s work.
Later that same morning in Lima, a car skidded to a halt outside the American Embassy on Avenida Garcilaso de la Vega. A male figure carrying a substantial cardboard box jumped out. The man deposited the box outside the Embassy’s protective railings, near a gate, then ran back to the car, which sped away.
A plainclothes guard who had seen it happen sounded an alarm and all exits from the embassy, which was built like a fortress, were temporarily closed. Meanwhile a bomb disposal squad from the Peruvian armed forces was summoned to help.
When tests revealed that the box contained no explosives, it was opened carefully, revealing the bloodstained, decapitated head of an elderly man, probably in his seventies. Alongside the head was a wallet containing a U.S. Social Security card, a Florida driver’s license complete with photo, and other documents that identified the partial remains as those of Angus McMullen Sloane.
At the time the Lima incident occurred, a Chicago Tribune reporter happened to be inside the embassy. He stayed close to ensuing developments and was the first to file a story that included the victim’s name. The Tribune report was quickly picked up by wire services, TV, radio and other newspapers, first in the United States, then throughout the world.
12
The plan to attempt a rescue at Nueva Esperanza was complete.
On Friday afternoon, final details were settled, the last equipment assembled. At dawn on Saturday, Partridge and his crew would fly from Lima, bound for the jungle in San Martín Province, near the Huallaga River.
Since late Wednesday, on learning of the prisoners’ location, Partridge had fretted impatiently. His first inclination had been to leave at once, but Fernández Pabur’s arguments plus his own experience had persuaded him to delay.
“The jungle can be a friend; it can also be an enemy,” Fernández pointed out. “You cannot stroll into it, the way you would visit another part of town. We will be in the jungle at least one night, perhaps two, and there are certain things we must have with us for survival. I must also choose our air transport carefully—using someone reliable we can trust. Flying us in, then returning to take us out will require coordination and good timing. We need two days to prepare; even that is barely enough.”
The “we” and “our” made clear from the beginning that the resourceful stringer-fixer intended to be part of the expedition. “You will need me,” he stated simply. “I have been in the Selva many times. I know its ways.” When Partridge felt obliged to point out there would be danger, Pabur shrugged. “All life is a risk. In my country nowadays, getting up in the morning has become one.”
Air transport was their principal concern. After disappearing for part of Thursday morning, Fernández returned and, collecting Partridge and Rita, took them to a one-story brick building not far from Lima’s Airport. The building contained several small offices. They approached one which had on its door ALSA—AEROLIBERTAD S.A. Fernández entered first and introduced his companions to the owner of the charter flight service, also its chief pilot, Oswaldo Zileri.
Zileri, in his mid to late thirties, was good-looking and clean-cut, with a trim, athletic build. His attitude was guarded, but businesslike and direct. He told Partridge, “I understand you intend to pay a surprise visit to Nueva Esperanza, and that is all I need, or wish, to know.”
“That’s fine,” Partridge said, “except we hope to have three more passengers flying back than we will have going out.”
“The airplane you are chartering is a Cheyenne II. There will be two pilots and room for seven passengers. How you fill those seven seats is your affair. Now, may we talk money?”
“Talk it with me,” Rita said. “What’s your price?”
“You will pay in U.S. dollars?” Zileri queried.
Rita nodded.
“Then the regular price on each round trip will be one thousand four hundred dollars. If there is extra time at destination, required for circling, there will be an additional charge. As well, for each landing in the vicinity of Nueva Esperanza—which is drug country controlled by Sendero Luminoso—there will be a special danger fee of five thousand dollars. Before we leave on Saturday, I would like a six-thousand-dollar cash deposit.”
“You’ll have it,” Rita said, “and if you write all that out, making two copies, I’ll sign, and keep one.”
“It will be done before you leave. Do you wish to know some details of my air service?”
“I suppose we should,” Partridge said politely.
With a touch of pride, Zileri recited an obviously standard spiel. “The Cheyenne II—we have three—is twin-engined and propeller-driven. It is a remarkably reliable aircraft and can land in a short space—important in the jungle. All our pilots, including myself, are American-trained. We know most regions of Peru well, also the local flight controllers, civil and military, and they are used to us. Incidentally, on this flight I will be p
iloting you myself.”
“All that’s fine,” Partridge acknowledged. “What we also need is some advice.”
“Fernández has told me.” Zileri went to a chart table where a large-scale map of the southern portion of San Martín Province was spread open. The others joined him.
“I’ve assumed you will want to land sufficiently far from Nueva Esperanza so your arrival will not be noted.”
Partridge nodded. “Assumption right.”
“Then, on the outward journey from Lima, I recommend landing here.” With a pencil Zileri indicated a point on the map.
“Isn’t that a roadway?”
“Yes, the main jungle highway, but there is little traffic, often none. But at several points like this one it’s been widened and resurfaced by drug shippers so that planes can land. I’ve landed there before.”
Partridge wondered for what purpose. Conveying drugs, or people who dealt in them? He had heard there were few Peru air operators who were not involved with the drug trade, even if only in peripheral ways.
“Before we go in to land,” Zileri continued, “we will make sure the highway is not in use and there is no one on the ground. From that point a rough trail goes close to Nueva Esperanza.”
Fernández interjected, “I have a good map where the trail is marked.”
“Now about your return with extra passengers,” Zileri said. “Fernández and I have discussed this and have a suggested plan.”
“Go ahead,” Partridge told him.
The discussion continued, decisions and salient facts emerging.
Three possible pickup points existed for the return journey. First, the highway where the initial landing was intended. Second, Sion airstrip which, after leaving Nueva Esperanza, could be reached by river, plus a three-mile overland journey. Third, a very small landing strip, used by drug traffickers and known to few people, midway between the two; that, too, was reached mainly by river.
The reason for options was, as Fernández explained, “We do not know what will happen at Nueva Esperanza, or which way will be clear, or best, for us to leave by.”
The airplane making the pickup could easily pass over all three places and respond to a signal from the ground. Partridge’s group would carry a flare gun with green and red flares. A green flare would mean: Land normally, everything is clear; a red flare: Land as quickly as possible, we are in danger!
If close-in rifle or machine-gun fire was observed from the air, it was agreed that the airplane would not land, but would return to Lima.
Since it was not known exactly when the return flight would be required, an airplane would be sent to fly over the area, first on Sunday morning at 8 A.M. and, failing any contact between ground and air, again on Monday at the same time. After that, any action would be decided by Rita who would remain in Lima during the expedition and in touch with New York, an arrangement Partridge considered essential.
At the end of operational planning, a contract was signed by Rita, on behalf of CBA News, and by Oswaldo Zileri, after which Zileri and the CBA trio formally shook hands. Looking at Partridge directly, the pilot said, “We shall keep our part of the agreement and do our best for you.”
Partridge had an instinct that he would.
After making the air arrangements, and returning to Cesar’s Hotel, Partridge held a meeting in his suite with all the CBA group members to decide who would make the Nueva Esperanza journey. Three definite selections were: Partridge; Minh Van Canh, since some visual record was essential; and Fernández Pabur. Allowing for three extra passengers returning, this left a fourth place open.
The choice was between Bob Watson, the TV-video editor; the sound man, Ken O’Hara; or Tomás, the mostly silent bodyguard.
Fernández favored Tomás and had argued earlier, “He is strong and can fight.” Bob Watson, smoking one of his pungent cigars, urged, “Take me, Harry! In a brawl, I kin take care of myself. Found that out in Miami riots.” O’Hara simply said, “I want to go very much.”
In the end, Partridge chose O’Hara because he was a known quantity, had shown he could keep his head in a tense situation and was resourceful. Also, while they would not be carrying sound equipment—Minh would use a Betacam incorporating sound—Ken O’Hara had an instinctive way with anything mechanical, an asset that might prove useful.
Partridge left Fernández to organize equipment and under his direction the items were accumulated in the hotel: lightweight hammocks, mosquito netting and repellent, dried foods sufficient for two days, filled water bottles, water sterilizing tablets, machetes, small compasses, binoculars, some plastic sheeting. Since each person would carry his own requirements, using a backpack, a balance was struck between necessity and weight.
Fernández also urged that each carry a gun and Partridge agreed. It was a fact of TV life that correspondents and crews overseas sometimes went armed, though keeping weapons out of sight. Networks neither condoned nor discouraged the practice, leaving it to the judgment of people on the spot. In this case the need seemed overwhelming and was aided by the fact that all four who would be going had had experience with firearms at various points in their lives.
Partridge decided he would stay with his nine-millimeter Browning, with a silencer. He also had a Fairburn commando “killing” knife, given him by a major in the British SAS.
Minh, who would have camera equipment to carry as well as a weapon, wanted something powerful but light; Fernández announced he could obtain an Israeli Uzi submachine gun. O’Hara said he would take whatever was available; it turned out to be a U.S. M-16 automatic rifle. Apparently any weaponry was purchasable in Lima, with no questions asked of those who had the money.
Since Wednesday, when he had learned that Nueva Esperanza was the target, Partridge had asked himself: Should he inform the Peruvian authorities, specifically the anti-terrorism police? On Thursday he had even gone back for advice to Sergio Hurtado, the radio broadcaster who had warned him not to seek help from the armed forces and police. During their meeting on Partridge’s first day in Peru, Sergio had said: “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.”
Speaking in mutually agreed confidence, Partridge informed Sergio of the latest developments and asked if the advice was still the same?
“If anything, stronger,” Sergio answered. “In exactly the kind of situation you are looking at, the government forces are notorious for going in with maximum firepower. They take no chances. They wipe out everyone, innocent as well as guilty, and ask questions after. Then, when accused of killing people wrongfully, they’ll say, ‘How could we tell the difference? It was kill or be killed.’”
Partridge was reminded that General Raúl Ortiz had said much the same thing.
Sergio added, “At the same time, going in as you plan, you are taking your own life in your hands.”
“I know,” Partridge admitted. “But I see no other way.”
It was early afternoon. For the past few minutes, Sergio had been fidgeting with a paper on his desk. Now he asked, “Before you came here, Harry, had you received any bad news? I mean today.”
Partridge shook his head.
“Then I’m sorry to give you some.” Picking up the paper, Sergio passed it across. “This came in shortly before you arrived.”
“This” was a Reuters news dispatch describing the receipt of Nicholas Sloane’s fingers at CBA, New York, and his father’s broken-hearted grief.
“Oh, Christ!” Partridge was suddenly overwhelmed by anguish and self-reproach. Why, he grieved, had his own planned action not been undertaken sooner?
“I know what you are thinking,” Sergio said. “But there is no way you could have prevented this. Not with limited time and the little information that you had.”
Which was true, Partridge acknowledged mentally. But he knew that questions about his own pace of progress would haunt him for a long time.
“While you are here, Harry,” Sergio was saying, “there’s something else. Isn’t your company, CBA, owned by Globanic Industries?”
“Yes, it is.”
The broadcaster slid a desk drawer open and from it removed several clipped sheets. “I obtain my information from many sources and it may surprise you that one is Sendero Luminoso. They hate me, but use me. Sendero has sympathizers and informers in many places and one of them sent this recently, hoping I would broadcast it.”
Partridge accepted the sheets and began reading.
“As you can see,” Sergio said, “it purports to be an agreement between Globanic Financial Services—another subsidiary of Globanic Industries—and the Peruvian Government. The agreement is what’s known financially as a debt-to-equity swap.”
Partridge shook his head. “Not my specialty, I’m afraid.”
“But not all that complicated either. As part of the agreement, Globanic will receive enormous amounts of land, including two major resort locations, for what can only be called a giveaway price. In return, some of Peru’s international debt, which has been ‘securitized’ by Globanic will be reduced.”
“Is it all honest and legal?”
Sergio shrugged. “Let’s say it’s borderline, though probably legal. More significant is that it’s an exceedingly rich deal for Globanic, a very poor one for the people of Peru.”
“If you feel that way,” Partridge asked, “why haven’t you broadcast it?”
“So far, two reasons. I never accept anything from Sendero at face value, and wanted to check how accurate the information is. I have, and it’s okay. Another thing: For Globanic to get anything as super-sweet as this, someone in government has been paid off handsomely, or will be. I’m working on that and intend to do a broadcast next week.”
Partridge touched the pages he was holding. “Any chance I can have a copy?”