During the day, all comings and goings to and from Nueva Esperanza were by boat. No road vehicle was seen. The engines on boats did not appear to require keys; therefore it would be easy to steal a boat if that line of escape was taken. On the other hand, there were plenty of other boats with which a stolen boat could be pursued. Ken O’Hara, who was familiar with boats, identified the best ones.
A unanimous view among the observers, though it was only an opinion, was that the people being observed were almost totally relaxed, which seemed to indicate that an aggressive incursion from outside was not expected. “If one was,” Fernández pointed out, “they would have patrols out, including up here, looking for people like us.”
At dusk, Partridge called the other three together and informed them, “We’ve watched long enough. We go down tonight.”
He told Fernández, “You’ll guide us from here. I want to arrive at that hut at 2 A.M. Everyone must be silent all the way. If we need to communicate, whisper.”
Minh asked, “Is there an order of battle, Harry?”
“Yes,” Partridge answered. “I’ll go close up, look in to see what I can, then enter first. I’d like you right behind me, Minh, covering my back. Fernández will hang behind, watch the other houses for anyone appearing, but join us if we need help.”
Fernández nodded.
Partridge turned to O’Hara, “Ken, you’ll go directly to the jetty. I’ve decided we’ll leave by boat. We don’t know what kind of condition Jessica and Nicholas are in, and they may not be up to the journey we had coming here.”
“Got it!” O’Hara said. “I assume you want me to grab a boat.”
“Yes and, if you can, disable some of the others, but remember—no noise!”
“There’ll be noise when we start the motor.”
“No,” Partridge said. “We’ll have to row away, and when we get to midstream let the current take us. Fortunately it’s going in the right direction. Only when we’re out of hearing will we start the engine.”
Even as he spoke, Partridge knew he was assuming everything would go well. If not, they would improvise as best they could, which included using weapons.
Remembering the planned 8 A.M. rendezvous with Aero-Libertad’s Cheyenne II, Fernández inquired, “Have you decided which airstrip we’ll try for—Sion or the other?”
“I’ll make that choice in the boat, depending how everything else goes and how much time we have.”
What was necessary now, Partridge concluded, was to check weapons, discard unneeded equipment and make sure they could travel as light and as fast as possible.
A mixture of excitement and apprehension gripped them all.
15
Back in Lima on Saturday morning, after watching the Aero-Libertad Cheyenne II depart, Rita Abrams had been taken completely by surprise on two counts.
First, she had not expected an on-the-scene appearance by Crawford Sloane. A message awaiting her at CBA’s Entel Peru booth announced that Sloane would be in Lima by early morning, in fact could have arrived already. She promptly called Cesar’s Hotel where, according to the message, he would be staying. Crawf had not yet checked in, and she left word advising him where she was and requesting that he phone.
Second, and even more surprising, was the faxed letter from Les Chippingham, sent the previous evening to Harry Partridge. The instruction on the letter to place it in an envelope marked “Personal” had clearly not been noticed by the busy Entel fax operator and it arrived along with other mail, open so that anyone could read it. Rita did, and was incredulous.
Harry had been fired, dismissed by CBA! “Effective immediately,” the letter said, and he was to leave Peru “preferably” on Saturday—today!—“definitely” no later than Sunday. If a commercial flight to the U.S. was not available, he was authorized to charter. Big deal!
The more Rita thought about it, the more ridiculous and outrageous it was, especially now. Could Crawf’s arrival in Lima, she wondered, have anything to do with it? She was sure it did, and waited impatiently to hear from Sloane, all the while her anger over the abominable treatment of Harry intensifying.
Meanwhile, there was no way she could communicate the letter’s contents to Partridge since he was already in the jungle, on his way to Nueva Esperanza.
Sloane didn’t telephone. After arriving at the hotel and receiving Rita’s message, he took a taxi immediately to Entel. He had worked in Lima on assignment in the past and knew his way around.
His first question to Rita was, “Where’s Harry?”
“In the jungle,” she answered tersely, “risking his life trying to rescue your wife and boy.” Then she thrust the faxed letter forward. “What the hell is this?”
“What do you mean?” Crawford Sloane took the letter and read it as she watched him. He read it twice, then shook his head. “This is a mistake. It has to be.”
A sharpness still in Rita’s voice, she asked, “Are you telling me you don’t know anything about it?”
“Of course not.” Sloane shook his head impatiently. “Harry’s my friend. Right now I need him more than anyone else in the world. Please tell me what he’s doing in the jungle—isn’t that what you just said?” Sloane had clearly dismissed the letter as absurd, something he would not waste time on.
Rita swallowed hard. Tears flooded her eyes; she was angry at her own misjudgment and injustice. “Oh, Christ, Crawf! I’m sorry.” For the first time she took in the extra lines of strain on the anchorman’s face, the anguish in his eyes. He looked far worse than when she had last seen him, eight days earlier. “I thought that somehow you … Oh, never mind!”
Rita pulled herself together. “Here’s what’s happening, what Harry and the others are trying to do.” She described the expedition to Nueva Esperanza and what Partridge hoped to achieve. She filled in background, too, explaining Partridge’s doubts about telephone security—the reason his plan had not been reported to New York.
At length Sloane said, “I’d like to talk to that pilot, find out how things were when he left Harry and the others. What’s his name?”
“Zileri.” Rita looked at her watch. “He’s probably not back yet, but I’ll phone soon, and then we’ll go. Have you had breakfast?”
Sloane shook his head.
“There’s a cafeteria in the building. Let’s go down.”
Over coffee and croissants, Rita said gently, “Crawf, we were all shocked and saddened by the news about your father—Harry especially. I know he blamed himself for not moving faster, but we didn’t have the information …”
Sloane stopped her with a gesture. “I’ll never blame Harry for anything—whatever happens, even now. No one could have done more.”
“I agree,” Rita said, “which is what makes this so unbelievable.” Once more she produced the faxed letter which Les Chippingham had signed. “This is no mistake, Crawf. This was intended. People don’t make mistakes like that.”
He read it again. “When we get upstairs I’ll phone Les in New York.”
“Before you do, let’s consider this: There’s something behind it, something you and I don’t know. Yesterday in New York—did anything happen out of the ordinary?”
“You mean at CBA?”
“Yes.”
Sloane considered. “I don’t think so … well, I did hear Les was sent for by Margot Lloyd-Mason—apparently in an all-fired hurry. He was over at Stonehenge. But I’ve no idea what it was about.”
A sudden thought struck Rita. “Could it have been something to do with Globanic? Perhaps this.” Opening her purse, she took out the several clipped sheets of paper Harry Partridge had given her this morning.
Sloane took the sheets and read them. “Interesting! A huge debt-to-equity swap. Really big money! Where did you get this?”
“From Harry.” She repeated what Partridge had told her on the way to the airport—how he had received the document from the Peru radio commentator, Sergio Hurtado, who intended to broadcast the information du
ring the coming week. Rita added, “Harry told me he didn’t plan to use the story. Said it was the least we could do for Globanic which puts butter on our bread.”
“There could be a linkage between this and Harry’s firing,” Sloane said thoughtfully. “I see a possibility. Let’s go upstairs and call Les now.”
“There’s something I want to do first, when we get there,” Rita said.
The “something” was send for Victor Velasco.
When the international manager of Entel appeared a few minutes later, Rita told him, “I want a secure line to New York, with no one listening.”
Velasco looked embarrassed. “Do you have reason to suppose …”
“Yes.”
“Please come to my office. You may use a phone there.”
Rita and Crawford Sloane followed the manager to a pleasant, carpeted office on the same floor. “Please use my desk.” He pointed to a red phone. “That line is secure. I guarantee it. You may dial direct.”
“Thank you.” With Partridge en route to Nueva Esperanza, Rita had no intention of letting his whereabouts, which might be mentioned in conversation, become known to Peru authorities.
With a courteous nod, Velasco left the office, closing the door behind him.
Sloane, seated at the desk, tried Les Chippingham’s direct CBA News line first. There was no answer—not unusual on a Saturday morning. What was unusual was that the news president had not left with the CBA News switchboard a number where he could be reached. Consulting a pocket notebook, Sloane tried a third number—Chippingham’s uptown Manhattan apartment. Again no response. There was a Scarsdale number where Chippingham sometimes spent weekends. He wasn’t there either.
“It rather looks,” Sloane said, “as if he’s deliberately made himself unavailable this morning.” He sat at the desk, contemplative, weighing a decision.
“What are you thinking of?” Rita asked.
“Calling Margot Lloyd-Mason.” He picked up the red phone. “I will.”
Sloane tapped out the U.S. overseas code again and the number of Stonehenge. An operator told him, “Mrs. Lloyd-Mason is not in her office today.”
“This is Crawford Sloane. Will you give me her home number, please.”
“It’s unlisted, Mr. Sloane. I’m not allowed to give it out.”
“But you have it?”
The operator hesitated. “Yes, sir.”
“What’s your name, operator?”
“Noreen.”
“A beautiful name; I’ve always liked that. Now, please listen to me carefully, Noreen. By the way, do you recognize my voice?”
“Oh yes, sir. I watch the news every night. But lately I’ve been worried …”
“Thank you, Noreen. So have I. Now, I’m calling from Lima, Peru, and I simply have to speak with Mrs. Lloyd-Mason. If you’ll give me that number, I promise I will never breathe a word of how I got it, except that next time I’m in Stonehenge I’ll come to the switchboard room and thank you personally.”
“Oh! Would you really, Mr. Sloane? We’d all love it!”
“I always keep promises. The number, Noreen?”
He wrote it down as she read it out.
This time, the phone was answered on the second ring by a male voice which sounded like a butler’s. Sloane identified himself and asked for Mrs. Lloyd-Mason.
He waited several minutes, then Margot’s voice, which was unmistakable, said, “Yes?”
“This is Crawf. I’m calling from Lima.”
“So I was told, Mr. Sloane. I’m curious why you are calling me, particularly at home. First, though, I’d like to offer my sympathy about your father’s death.”
“Thank you.”
Unusually for someone of his stature, Sloane had never been on a first-name basis with the CBA president and clearly she intended to keep it that way. He also guessed from her tone and aloofness that he would get nowhere with direct questions. He decided to try the timeworn journalist’s trick which so often worked, even with sophisticated persons.
“Mrs. Lloyd-Mason, yesterday when you decided to fire Harry Partridge from CBA, I wonder if you realized how much he has accomplished in the whole effort to find and free my wife, son and father.”
The reply came back explosively, “Who told you that was my decision?”
He was tempted to answer, You just did! But restraining himself, he said, “In the TV news business, which is close-knit, almost nothing is secret. That’s why I called you.”
Margot snapped, “I do not wish to discuss this now.”
“That’s a pity,” Sloane said, speaking quickly, before she could hang up, “because I thought you might want to talk about the connection between Harry’s firing and that big debt-to-equity swap Globanic is arranging with Peru. Did Harry’s honest reporting offend someone with a stake in that deal?”
At the other end of the line there was a long silence in which he could hear Margot breathing. Then, her voice subdued, she asked, “Where did you hear all that?”
So there was a connection after all!
“Well,” Sloane said, “the fact is, Harry Partridge learned about the debt-to-equity arrangement. He’s a first-class reporter, you know, one of the best in our business, and right now he’s out risking his life for CBA. Anyway, Harry decided not to use the information. His words were, I understand, ‘That’s the least I can do for Globanic, which puts butter on our bread.’”
Again the silence. Then Margot asked, “So it isn’t going to be publicized?”
“Aha! That’s another matter.” In other circumstances, Sloane thought, he might have enjoyed this; as it was, he felt miserably depressed. “There’s a radio reporter in Lima who uncovered the story, has a copy of the agreement, and intends to broadcast it next week. I expect it will be picked up outside Peru. Don’t you?”
Margot didn’t answer. Wondering if she had hung up, he asked, “Are you still there?”
“Yes.”
“Are you wishing, by chance, that you hadn’t done what you did to Harry Partridge?”
“No.” The answer seemed disembodied, as if Margot’s mind was far away. “No,” she repeated, “I was thinking of other things.”
“Mrs. Lloyd-Mason”—Crawford Sloane employed the cutting tone he used occasionally for repulsive items in the news—“has anyone told you lately that you are a cold-hearted bitch?”
He replaced the red phone.
Margot, too, hung up as her phone went silent. One day soon, she decided, she would find her own way to deal with the self-important Mr. Crawford Sloane. But this was not the time. Right now, other things were more important.
The news she had just been given about Globanic and Peru had severely jolted her. But she had been jolted in the past and seldom stayed that way for long. Margot had not climbed as high and fast as she had in the world of business without serious setbacks, and almost always she contrived to turn them to her advantage. Somehow she must do so now. She paused, weighing initiatives she could take.
Without question, she must call Theo Elliott today. He never minded being disturbed about important business matters at any time, weekends included.
She would tell him she had information that word was circulating in Peru about the Globanic deal, that a Peruvian reporter had somehow obtained a copy of the draft agreement and was about to publish it. It had nothing to do with CBA or, for that matter, any other U.S. network or newspaper; it was a local Peruvian leak, though a bad one.
The whole thing was unfortunate, she would tell Theo, and she didn’t want to make judgments, though could not help wondering: Had Fossie Xenos been careless about who he talked to, particularly in Peru? It did seem possible, based on what she had heard, that the enthusiasm Fossie was noted for had made him indiscreet.
She would also tell Theo that because of the activity among the Peruvian press, the matter had come to the attention of CBA News. But Margot had given definite orders that CBA would not report it.
With luck, she thought, by
early next week any adverse attention would have shifted away from herself and landed on Fossie. Good!
During her ruminations, Margot did give brief thought to Harry Partridge. Should he be reinstated? Then she decided no. Doing that would only confuse things, and Partridge wasn’t important, so let the decision stand. Besides, Theo would still want to make his phone call to Peru’s President Castañeda on Monday saying that the troublemaker—to use Theo’s word—had been dismissed and banished from Peru.
Smiling, confident her strategy would work, she picked up the phone and tapped out the unlisted number of Theo Elliott’s home.
The AeroLibertad owner and pilot, Oswaldo Zileri, had heard of Crawford Sloane and was appropriately respectful.
“When your friends arranged their charter, Mr. Sloane, I said I did not wish to know their purpose. Now that I see you here, I can guess it, and I wish you, and them, well.”
“Thank you,” Sloane said. He and Rita were in Zileri’s modest office near Lima’s airport. “When you left Mr. Partridge and the others this morning, how did everything look?”
Zileri shrugged. “The way the jungle always looks—green, impenetrable, endless. There was no activity, other than by your friends.”
Rita told Zileri, “When we talked about extra passengers coming back, we hoped there would be three. But now it’s two.”
“I have heard the sad news about Mr. Sloane’s father.” The pilot shook his head. “We live in savage times.”
Sloane began, “I was wondering if now …”
Zileri finished for him. “… if there might be room for you and Miss Abrams to go on the other trips—one, two, or more—to bring the people back.”
“Yes.”
“It will be okay. Because one of the expected passengers is a boy, and there will be no freight or baggage, weight will not be a problem. You must be here before dawn tomorrow—and the next day, if we go.”
“We will be,” Rita said. She turned to Sloane. “Harry wasn’t optimistic about making a rendezvous the first day after going in. The flight is a precaution in case they need it. All along, he thought the second day more likely.”