“Keep that one. I have another.”
During the next day, Friday, Partridge decided one other matter needed checking before Saturday’s departure. Had anyone else received the telephone number which had led the CBA group to the Huancavelica Street apartment, formerly occupied by the ex-doctor known as Baudelio, and now by Dolores? If so, it would mean that someone else could know the significance of Nueva Esperanza.
As Don Kettering had explained by phone on Wednesday evening, the FBI had access to the Hackensack cellular telephones immediately after their discovery by CBA News. Therefore it seemed likely the FBI would check the calls made on those phones and learn of the Lima number Kettering had given Partridge. From that point, it was possible the FBI had passed the information to the CIA—though not certain, because rivalry between the two agencies was notorious. Alternatively, the FBI might have asked a Peruvian Government department to have the number checked.
At Partridge’s request, Fernández paid a second visit to Dolores on Friday afternoon. He found her drunk, but coherent enough to assure him that no one else had been to the apartment making inquiries. So, for whatever reason, the subject of the phone number had not been pursued by anyone but CBA.
Finally, that same afternoon, through Peruvian radio, they learned the grim and tragic news of Angus Sloane’s death and discovery of his severed head at the American Embassy in Lima.
Once the news was known, Partridge was quickly on the scene with Minh Van Canh and sent a report via satellite for the National Evening News that evening. By that time, too, other network crews and print-press reporters had arrived, but Partridge managed to avoid conversation with them.
The fact was, the horrible demise of Crawf’s father weighed heavily on his conscience, as had Nicky’s severed fingers. To the extent that he had come to Peru hoping to save all three hostages, he had already failed, Partridge told himself.
Later, after doing what was needed, he went back to Cesar’s Hotel and spent the evening lying on his bed, awake, lonely and dejected.
Next morning, he was up more than an hour before dawn, his intention to complete two tasks. One was to compose a simple, handwritten will, the other to draft a telegram. Soon after, on the way to the airport in the rented station wagon, he had Rita witness the will and left it with her. He also asked her to send the telegram, which was addressed to Oakland, California.
They also discussed the Globanic-Peru debt-to-equity agreement Partridge had learned about from Sergio Hurtado. He told Rita, “When you’ve read it, I suppose we should let Les Chippingham see this copy. But it has nothing to do with why we’re here and I don’t plan to use the information, even though Sergio will next week.” He smiled, “I suppose that’s the least we can do for Globanic since they butter our bread.”
The Cheyenne II aircraft took off from Lima in the still, pre-dawn air without incident. Seventy minutes later the plane reached the portion of jungle highway where Partridge, Minh, O’Hara and Fernández were to disembark.
By now there was ample light to see the ground below. The highway was deserted: no cars, trucks or any other sign of human activity. On either side stretched miles of jungle covering the land like a vast green quilt. Turning briefly away from the controls, the pilot, Oswaldo Zileri, called back to his passengers, “We’re going in. Be ready to get out fast. I don’t want to stay on the ground for a second longer than necessary.”
Then, with a steep, fast-descending turn, he lined up over the highway, touched down on its wider portion, and stopped after a surprisingly short landing run. As quickly as they could, the four passengers tumbled out, taking their backpacks and equipment and, moments later, the Cheyenne II taxied into position and took off.
“Let’s get under cover fast!” Partridge urged the others, and they headed for the jungle trail.
13
Unknown to Harry Partridge during his crowded day on Friday, a crisis concerning him erupted in New York.
While breakfasting at home on Friday morning, Margot Lloyd-Mason received a telephone message that Theodore Elliott wished to see her “immediately” at Globanic Industries’ Pleasantville headquarters. After inquiry, “immediately” translated to a 10 A.M. appointment. It would be the Globanic chairman’s first of the day, a secretary at Pleasantville informed Margot.
Margot then called one of her own two secretaries at home and gave instructions to cancel or reschedule all her morning appointments.
She had no idea what Theo Elliott wanted.
At Globanic headquarters, Margot was kept waiting several minutes in the senior executives’ elegant outer lounge where, unknowingly, she occupied the same chair used only four days earlier by the Baltimore Star reporter Glen Dawson.
When Margot entered the chairman’s office, Elliott wasted no time with preliminaries, but demanded, “Why the hell aren’t you keeping better control of your goddamned news people in Peru?”
Startled, Margot asked, “What kind of control? We’ve been getting compliments about our coverage there. And ratings are—”
“I’m talking about dismal, depressing, downbeat reports.” Elliott slammed a hand heavily on his desk. “Last night I received a call direct from President Castañeda in Lima. He claims everything CBA has been putting out about Peru is negative and damaging. He’s mad as hell with your network, and so am I!”
Margot said reasonably, “The other networks and the New York Times have been taking much the same line we have, Theo.”
“Don’t tell me about others! I’m talking about us! Besides, President Castañeda seems to think what’s happening right now is that CBA sets the pace and others are following. He told me so.”
They were both standing. Elliott, glowering, had not asked Margot to sit down. She asked, “Is there anything specific?”
“You’re damn right there is!” The Globanic chairman pointed to a half-dozen videocassettes on his desk. “After the President’s call last night I sent one of my people to get tapes of your evening news programs for this week. Now I’ve seen them all, I can see what Castañeda means; they’re full of doom and gloom—how bad things are in Peru. Nothing positive! Nothing saying Peru has a great future ahead, or that it’s a wonderful place to go for a vacation, or that those lousy Shining Path rebels will be beaten very soon!”
“There’s a strong consensus they won’t be, Theo.”
Elliott stormed on as if he had not heard. “I can understand why President Castañeda is furious—something that Globanic can’t afford to have happen, and you know why. I warned you about that, but you obviously weren’t listening. Another thing—Fossie Xenos is fuming too. He even thinks you may be jeopardizing, deliberately, his big debt-to-equity deal.”
“That’s nonsense, and I’m sure you know it. But perhaps we can do something to improve what’s happening.” Margot was thinking quickly, realizing the situation was more serious than she had thought at first. Her own future in Globanic, she realized, could easily be at stake.
“I’ll tell you exactly what you’ll do.” Elliott’s voice had become steely. “I want that meddling reporter—Partridge is his name—brought back on the next airplane and fired.”
“We can certainly bring him back. I’m less sure about firing him.”
“Fired, I said! Are you having trouble hearing this morning, Margot? I want the bastard out of CBA so that, first thing Monday, I can call the President of Peru and say, ‘Look! We threw the troublemaker out. We’re sorry we sent him to your country. It was a bad mistake, but won’t happen again.’”
Foreseeing difficulties for herself at CBA, Margot said, “Theo, I have to point out that Partridge has been with the network a long time. It must be close to twenty-five years and he has a good record.”
Elliott permitted himself a sly smile. “Then give the son of a bitch a gold watch. I don’t care. Just get rid of him, so I can make that phone call Monday. And I’ll warn you about something else, Margot.”
“What’s that, Theo?”
&n
bsp; Elliott retreated to his desk and sat down behind it. He waved Margot to a chair as he said, “The danger of thinking writers or reporters are something special. They aren’t, although they sometimes believe they are and get exaggerated ideas about their own importance. The fact is, there’s never a shortage of writers. Cut one down, two more spring up like weeds.”
Warming to his theme, Elliott continued, “It’s people like me and you who really count in this world, Margot. We are the doers!—the ones who make things happen every day. That’s why we can buy writers whenever we want and—never forget this!—they’re two-a-penny, as the English say. So when you’re through with some worn-out hack like Partridge, pick up a new one—some kid fresh out of college—the way you would a cabbage.”
Margot smiled; it was evident that the worst of her superior’s wrath had passed. “It’s an interesting point of view.”
“Apply it. And one more thing.”
“I’m listening.”
“Don’t think that people at Globanic, including me, are not aware how you and Leon Ironwood and Fossie Xenos are jockeying for position, each of you hoping one day to sit where I am now. Well, I’ll tell you Margot, as between you and Fossie—this morning Fossie is several noses out in front.”
The chairman waved a hand dismissingly. “That’s all. Call me later today when the Peru thing is all wrapped up.”
It was late morning when Margot, back in her office at Stonehenge, sent a message to Leslie Chippingham. The news president was to report to her “immediately.”
She had not appreciated being sent for this morning, preferring to do the summoning herself. She found herself pleased at the current reversal of that situation.
Something else Margot had not liked was Elliott’s reference to Fossie Xenos as being “several noses out in front.” If that relative position was true, she thought, she would revise it promptly. Margot had no intention of having her own career plans disrupted by what she was already regarding as a minor organizational issue, capable of being quickly and decisively resolved.
Therefore, when Chippingham appeared shortly after noon she came as speedily to the point as Theo Elliott had with her.
“I don’t want any discussion about this,” Margot stated. “I’m simply giving you an order.”
She continued, “The employment of Harry Partridge is to be terminated at once. I want him out of CBA by tomorrow. I’m aware he has a contract and you’ll do whatever we have to under it. Also, he’s to be out of Peru, preferably tomorrow but no later than Sunday. If that means chartering a special flight, so be it.”
Chippingham stared at her, open-mouthed and unbelieving. At length, having trouble finding words, he said, “You can’t be serious!”
Margot told him firmly, “I am serious, and I said no discussion.”
“The hell with that!” Chippingham’s voice was raised emotionally. “I’m not standing by, seeing one of our best correspondents who’s served CBA well for twenty-odd years, thrown out without any reason.”
“The reason is none of your concern.”
“I’m the news president, aren’t I? Margot, I appeal to you! What’s Harry done, for chrissakes? Is it something bad? If so, I want to know about it.”
“If you must know, it’s a question of his type of coverage.”
“Which is the absolute best! Honest. Knowledgeable. Unprejudiced. Ask anybody!”
“I don’t need to. In any case, not everyone agrees with you.”
Chippingham regarded her suspiciously. “This is Globanic’s work, isn’t it?” Intuition came to him. “It’s your friend, that cold-blooded tyrant Theodore Elliott!”
“Be careful!” she warned him, and decided the conversation had gone on long enough.
“I don’t plan to do any more explaining,” Margot said coldly, “but I’ll tell you this: If my order has not been carried out by the end of business today, then you are out of a job yourself, and tomorrow I’ll appoint someone else acting news president and have them do it.”
“You really would, wouldn’t you?” He was looking at her with a mixture of wonder and hatred.
“Make no mistake about it—yes. And if you decide to stay employed, report to me by the end of this afternoon that what I wanted has been done. Now get out of here.”
After Chippingham had gone, Margot realized with satisfaction that, when necessary, she could be as tough as Theo Elliott.
Back at CBA News headquarters, knowing he was procrastinating, Les Chippingham attended to several routine matters before instructing his secretary, shortly before 3 P.M., that he was not to be disturbed and to hold telephone calls until further notice. He needed time to think.
Closing his office door from inside, he sat down in the conference area away from his desk, facing one of his favorite paintings—a desolate Andrew Wyeth landscape. But today Chippingham barely saw the painting; all he was aware of was the crucial decision he faced.
He knew he had reached a crisis in his life.
If he did as Margot had ordered and fired Harry Partridge without apparent cause, he would forfeit his self-respect. He would have done something shameful and unjust to a decent, highly skilled and respected human being, a friend and colleague, merely to satisfy another person’s whim. Who that other person was and whatever was the whim, Chippingham didn’t know, though he was sure that he and others would find out eventually. Meanwhile, all he was certain of was that Theodore Elliott was somehow involved—a thrust which, judging by Margot’s reaction, had gone home.
Could Chippingham live with having done all that? Applying the standards he had tried to live his life by, he ought not to be able to.
On the other hand—and there was another side—if he, Les Chippingham, didn’t do it, someone else would. Margot had made that clear. And she would have no trouble finding someone. There were too many ambitious people around, including some in CBA News, for it not to happen.
So Harry Partridge was going down the drain anyway—at least at CBA.
That was an important point: at CBA.
When word got around, as it quickly would, that Harry Partridge was leaving CBA and was available, he need not be unemployed for fifteen minutes. Other networks would fall over themselves vying for his services. Harry was a star, a “Big Foot”—with a reputation as a nice guy, too, which didn’t harm him.
Nothing, absolutely nothing, would keep Harry Partridge down. In fact, with a new contract at a fresh network he would probably be better off.
But what about a fired and fallen news president? That was a totally different story, and Chippingham knew what he was facing if Margot kept her word—as he knew she would—assuming he did not do as she wished.
As news president, Chippingham had a contract too, and under it would receive roughly a million dollars in severance payments, which sounded a lot but actually wasn’t. A substantial amount would disappear in taxes. After that, because he was deeply in debt, his creditors would attach most of the remainder. And whatever was left, the lawyers handling Stasia’s divorce would scrutinize covetously. So in the end, if he was left with enough for dinner for two at the Four Seasons, he would be surprised.
Then there was the question of another job. Unlike Partridge, he would not be sought out by other networks. One reason was, there could only be one news president at a network and he had heard no rumor of an opening anywhere else. Apart from that, networks wanted news presidents who were successes, not someone dismissed in doubtful circumstances; there were enough living ex-news presidents around to make that last point clear.
All of which meant that he would have to settle for a lesser job, almost certainly with a lot less money, and Stasia would still want some of that.
The prospect was daunting.
Unless—unless he did what Margot wanted.
If he expressed in dramatic terms what he was now doing, Chippingham thought, he was peeling away the layers of his soul, looking inside and not liking what he saw.
Yet a conc
lusion was inescapable: There were moments in life when self-preservation came first.
I hate to do this to you, Harry, he attested silently, but I don’t have any choice.
Fifteen minutes later, Chippingham read over the letter he had typed personally on an old, mechanical Underwood he kept—for old times’ sake—on a table in his office.
It began:
Dear Harry:
It is with great regret I have to inform you that your employment by CBA News is terminated, effective immediately.
Under the terms of your contract with CBA …
Chippingham knew, because he had had occasion to review it recently, that Partridge’s contract had a “pay-or-play” clause, which meant that while the network could terminate employment, it was obligated to pay full benefits until the contract’s end. In Partridge’s case, this was a year away.
Also in the same contract was a “non-compete” clause under which Partridge, in accepting the “pay-or-play” arrangement, agreed not to work for another network for at least six months.
In his letter, Chippingham waived the “non-compete” clause, leaving Partridge with his benefits intact but free to accept other employment at once. Chippingham believed that in the circumstances, it was the least he could do for Harry.
He intended the letter to go by fax machine to Lima. There was a machine in his outer office and he would use it himself. He had decided earlier that he could not bring himself to telephone.
About to sign what he had written, Chippingham heard a knock at his office door and saw the door open. Instinctively, he turned the letter face down.
Crawford Sloane entered. He was holding a press wire printout in his hand. When he spoke, his voice was choked. Tears were coursing down his cheeks.
“Les,” Sloane said, “I had to see you. This just came in.”
He proffered the printout which Chippingham took and read. It repeated a Chicago Tribune report from Lima describing the finding of Angus Sloane’s dismembered head.
“Oh, Christ! Crawf, I’m …” Unable to finish the words, Chippingham shook his head, then held out his arms and, in a spontaneous gesture, the two embraced.