There was one other thing Rita felt she had to do. She did not tell Crawf, but composed a fax message to Les Chippingham, to be waiting for him Monday morning. Deliberately, she did not route the message to the fax machine in the news president’s office, but to one at the Horseshoe. There it would be the reverse of private and could be read by others—just as Chippingham’s letter dismissing Harry Partridge had been when it arrived at Entel Peru.
Rita addressed her communication:
L. W. Chippingham
President, CBA News
Copies: All Notice Boards
She had no illusions that what she had written would get on any notice board. It wouldn’t. But it was a signal, which would be understood by fellow producers at the Horseshoe, that she wanted wide circulation. Someone would make a copy or copies, to be passed around, read, and probably copied again and again.
The message read:
You sordid, selfish, cowardly son of a bitch!
To fire Harry Partridge the way you did—without cause, warning or even explanation—just to satisfy your cozy crony, the Iceberg-woman, Lloyd-Mason, is a betrayal of everything which used to be fair and decent at CBA.
Harry will come out of this smelling like Chanel No. 5. You already stink like the sewer rat you are.
How I ever let myself go to bed with you regularly is beyond my understanding. But never again! If you had the last erect cock on earth, I wouldn’t have it near me.
As for working for you any longer—ugh!
With deep sadness for what you used to be, compared with what you have become,
Your ex-friend, ex-admirer, ex-lover, ex-producer,
Rita Abrams
Obviously, Rita thought, after that was received and digested, Harry was not the only one who would be looking for fresh employment. But she didn’t care. She felt a whole lot better as she watched the fax leave Entel, knowing that a moment later it was already in New York.
16
It was 2:10 A.M. in Nueva Esperanza.
Jessica had been restless for the past several hours, drifting in and out of sleep, dreaming at times—the dreams becoming nightmares merging with reality.
Moments earlier, certain she was awake, Jessica had peered through the roughly cut window opening facing her cell, and what she thought she saw in dim light reflected from inside was the face of Harry Partridge. Then the face disappeared as suddenly as it came. Was she awake? Or could she still be dreaming? Hallucinating, maybe?
Jessica was shaking her head, trying to clear it, when the face appeared again, rising slowly above the lowest window level, and this time it stayed. A hand made a signal which she didn’t understand, but she studied the face again. Could it be? Her heart leaped as she decided: Yes, it could! It was Harry Partridge.
The face was mouthing something silently, the lips making exaggerated movements, attempting to communicate. She concentrated, trying to understand, and managed to grasp the words “the guard.” That was it: Where was the guard?
The guard at the moment was Vicente. He had come on duty an hour ago—apparently very late—and there had been a heated argument between him and Ramón, who had the earlier duty. Ramón had shouted angrily. Vicente, in arguing back, sounded drunk—at least his speech was slurred. Jessica didn’t care about the dispute and, as always, was glad to see Ramón go; he had a vicious streak, was unpredictable, and still insisted on the silence rule for the prisoners which, by now, none of the other guards enforced.
Turning her head, Jessica could see Vicente. He was seated in the chair which all the guards used, beyond the cells and out of sight of the window. She wasn’t sure, but his eyes seemed closed. His automatic rifle was propped against the wall alongside him. Nearby a kerosene lamp hung from a beam above, and it was by the lamp’s reflected light she had seen the face outside.
Being careful, in case Vicente should suddenly observe her, Jessica answered the silent question by inclining her head toward where he was seated.
At once the mouth on the face at the window—Jessica still had trouble accepting it as Harry Partridge’s—began to form words again. Once more, she concentrated. After the third time she understood the message: “Call him!”
Jessica nodded slightly, intimating that she understood. Her heart was pounding at the sight of Harry. It could only mean, she thought, that the rescue they had hoped for for so long was finally happening. At the same time, she knew that completing whatever had been started would not be easy.
“Vicente!” She raised her voice no louder than she thought was needed, but it was not enough to penetrate his dozing. A touch more strongly, she tried again. “Vicente!”
This time he stirred. Vicente’s eyes opened and met Jessica’s. As they did, she beckoned him.
Vicente shifted in his chair. He started to rise and, watching him, Jessica had the impression he was organizing himself mentally, trying to sober up. He stood, started to come toward her, then quickly turned back to collect his rifle. He held it in a businesslike way, she noticed, clearly ready to use it if required.
She had better have an excuse for summoning Vicente, Jessica reasoned, and decided she would ask by gestures if she could go into Nicky’s cell. The request would be refused, but at this point that didn’t matter.
She had no idea what Harry had in mind. She only knew, while her anxiety and tension grew, that this was the moment she had dreamed about, yet feared might never come.
Crouched low beneath the window, Partridge gripped his nine-millimeter Browning pistol, the silencer extending from the barrel. So far tonight, everything had gone exactly as planned, but he knew the most difficult and crucial part of the action was about to begin.
The next few seconds would offer him limited alternatives, one of which he would have to choose in an instant’s decision. The way it looked now, he might be able to hold up the guard, using the Browning as a threat, after which the guard would either be bound securely, gagged and left, or taken with them as a captive. The second choice would be least preferable. There was a third possibility—to kill the guard, but that was something he would prefer not to do.
One thing was working in his favor: Jessica was resourceful, quick to think and understand—exactly as he remembered her.
He listened to her call twice, heard minor noises from somewhere out of sight, then footsteps as the guard walked over. Partridge held his breath, ready to slump below the window level entirely if the guard was looking in his direction.
He wasn’t. The man had his back to Partridge and faced Jessica, which gave Partridge an extra second to assess the scene.
The first thing he recognized was that the guard was carrying a Kalashnikov automatic rifle, a weapon Partridge knew well, and from the way it was being handled, the guard knew how to use it. Compared with the Kalashnikov, Partridge’s Browning was a peashooter.
The conclusion was inevitable and inescapable: Partridge would have to kill the guard and get his shot in first, which meant surprise.
But there was an obstacle. Jessica. She was now exactly in line with the guard and Partridge. A shot aimed at the guard could hit Jessica too.
Partridge had to gamble. There would be no other chance, could be no other choice. And the gamble would be on Jessica’s fast thinking and instant action.
Taking a breath, Partridge called out loudly, clearly, “Jessica, drop to the floor—now!”
Instantly, the guard spun around, his rifle raised, the safety off. But Partridge already had the Browning raised and sighted. A moment earlier he had remembered the advice of a firearms instructor who taught him to use weapons: “If you want to kill a person, don’t aim for the head. Chances are, no matter how gently you squeeze the trigger, the gun will rise and the bullet will go high, perhaps clear over the head. So aim for the heart, or slightly below. That way, even if the bullet’s higher than the heart, it will do a lot of damage, probably kill, and if it doesn’t, you’ll have time for a second shot.”
Partridge squeezed the
trigger and the Browning fired with a near-silent “pfft!” Even though he had had experience with silencers, their quietness always surprised him. He peered down the sights, ready for a second shot, but it wasn’t needed. The first had hit the guard in the chest, just about where the heart should be and where blood was beginning to appear. For an instant the man looked surprised, then he fell where he was, dropping the rifle, which created the only noise.
Even before it happened, Partridge had seen Jessica drop flat to the ground, obeying his command instantly. In a crevice of his mind he was relieved and grateful. Now Jessica was scrambling to her feet.
Partridge turned toward the outside doorway to the shack, but a swiftly moving shadow was ahead of him. It was Minh Van Canh, who had stayed positioned at Partridge’s rear, as ordered, but now changed places, going forward. Minh went swiftly to the guard, his own Uzi at the ready, then confirmed with a nod to Partridge, just entering, that the man was dead. Next, Minh moved to Jessica’s cell, inspected the padlock which secured it and asked, “Where is the key?”
Jessica told him, “Somewhere over where the guard was sitting. Nicky’s too.”
In the adjoining cell, Nicky stirred from sleep. Abruptly, he sat upright. “Mom, what’s happening?”
Jessica assured him, “It’s good, Nicky. All good!”
Nicky took in the new arrivals—Partridge, approaching and holding the Kalashnikov rifle he had just picked up, and Minh collecting keys which were hanging from a nail. “Who are they, Mom?”
“Friends, dear. Very good friends.”
Nicky, still sleepy, brightened. Then he saw the fallen, still figure on the ground amid a widening pool of blood and cried out, “It’s Vicente! They shot Vicente! Why?”
“Hush, Nicky!” Jessica warned.
Keeping his voice low, Partridge answered. “I didn’t like doing it, Nicholas. But he was going to shoot me. If he had, I couldn’t have taken you and your mother away from here, which is what we’ve come to do.”
With a flash of recognition, Nicky said, “You’re Mr. Partridge, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am.”
Jessica said emotionally, “Oh, bless you, Harry! Dear Harry!”
Still speaking softly, Partridge cautioned, “We’re not out of this yet, and we’ve a way to go. We all have to move quickly.”
Minh had returned with the keys and was trying them, one by one, in the padlock of Jessica’s cell. Suddenly the lock opened. An instant later the door swung wide and Jessica walked out. Minh went to Nicky’s cell and tried out keys there. Within seconds Nicky was free too, and he and Jessica embraced briefly in the area between the cells and the outside door.
“Help me!” Partridge told Minh. He had been dragging the body of the guard toward Nicky’s cell and together they lifted the dead man onto the low wooden bed. The action would not prevent discovery of the prisoners’ escape, Partridge thought, but might delay it slightly. With the same motive, he lowered the light in the kerosene lamp so it was merely a glimmer, the hut interior receding into darkness.
Nicky left Jessica and moved close to Partridge. In a stilted monotone, he said, “It’s all right about shooting Vicente, Mr. Partridge. He helped us sometimes, but he was one of them. They killed my granddad and cut off two of my fingers, so I can’t play the piano anymore.” He held up his bandaged hand.
“Call me Harry,” Partridge said. “Yes, I knew about your grandfather and the fingers. And I’m terribly sorry.”
Again the uptight, rigid voice. “Do you know about the Stockholm syndrome, Harry? My mom does. If you’d like her to, she’ll tell you.”
Without answering, Partridge looked closely at Nicky. He had encountered shock before—in individuals affected by more exposure to danger or disaster than their minds could handle—and the boy’s tone and choice of words within the past few minutes held symptoms of shock. He was going to need help soon. Meanwhile, doing the best he could, Partridge reached out and put his arm around Nicky’s shoulders. He felt the boy respond by drawing closer to him.
Partridge saw Jessica watching, her face showing the same concern as his own. She, too, wished the guard could have been someone other than Vicente. If it had been Ramón, she would not have been troubled in the least. Just the same, she was taken aback by Nicky’s words and manner.
Partridge shook his head, trying to convey reassurance to Jessica, at the same time ordering, “Let’s go.”
In his free hand he kept the Kalashnikov; it was a good fighting weapon and might be useful. He had also pocketed two spare magazines he found on the body of the guard.
Minh was ahead of them at the doorway. He had retrieved his camera from outside and now had it raised, recording their departure with the cells as background. Minh was using a special night lens, Partridge noted—infrared didn’t work with tape—and he would have passable pictures, even in this dimmest light.
Since yesterday, Minh had been taking pictures from time to time, though selectively and sparingly since there had been limitations on the number of tape cassettes he could bring.
At that moment Fernández, who had been watching the other buildings, burst in. He warned Partridge breathlessly, “Coming here—a woman! By herself. I think she’s armed.” At the same moment, approaching footsteps were audible and close.
There was no time for orders or dispositions. Everyone froze where they were. Jessica was near the doorway, though off to one side. Minh faced the opening directly, the others were farther back in shadows. Partridge had the Kalashnikov raised. Though he knew that firing it would awaken the hamlet, to get at the Browning with its silencer, he would have to put the rifle down and change hands. There wasn’t time.
Socorro walked in briskly. She was wearing a robe and holding a Smith and Wesson revolver pointed forward, the hammer cocked. Jessica had seen Socorro with a gun before, but it had always been holstered, never in her hand.
Despite the gun, Socorro did not appear to be expecting anything out of the ordinary, and in the almost nonexistent light at first mistook Minh, who was closest, for the guard. She said, “Pensé que escuché …” Then she realized it wasn’t the guard and glancing left, saw Jessica. Startled, she exclaimed, “¿Qué haces …?” then stopped.
What happened next occurred so swiftly that, later, no one could describe the sequence of events.
Socorro raised the revolver and, with her finger around the trigger, moved swiftly, closing on Jessica. Afterward, it was assumed she intended to seize Jessica and hold her hostage, perhaps with the pistol at her head.
Jessica saw the move coming and, with equal swiftness, remembered CQB—close quarters battle—which she had learned but had not used since capture. While tempted at earlier moments to employ it, she had known that in the long term it would do no good and decided to save her skill for a moment when it really counted.
“When an opponent moves towards you,” Brigadier Wade had emphasized during lessons and demonstrations, “your human instinct is to move back. The opponent will expect that too. Don’t do it! Instead, surprise him and go forward—move in close!”
With lightning speed, Jessica leapt at Socorro, raising her left arm, braced rigidly, upward and forcefully inside the other woman’s right. With a jarring movement as the arms made contact, Socorro’s arm flew involuntarily upward, forcing her hand back until the fingers opened in a reflex action and the gun dropped. The entire maneuver took barely a second, Socorro scarcely aware of what had happened.
Without pause, Jessica thrust two fingers hard into the soft flesh under Socorro’s chin, the fingers compressing the trachea and impeding breathing. Simultaneously Jessica placed a leg behind Socorro and pushed her backward, throwing her off balance. Jessica then turned Socorro and placed her in a tight stranglehold, making it impossible for her to move. If this had been war—for which CQB was intended—the next step would have been to break Socorro’s neck and kill.
Jessica, who had never killed anyone or ever expected to, hesitated. She fel
t Socorro struggling to speak and slightly eased the pressure of her fingers.
Gasping, Socorro pleaded in a whisper, “Let me go … I will help you … go with you to escape … know the way.”
Partridge had come close enough to hear. He asked, “Can you trust her?”
Again, Jessica hesitated. She had a moment of compassion. Socorro had not been all evil. All along, Jessica had an instinct that Socorro’s days in America as a nurse had tilted her toward good. She had cared for Nicky after his burns, and later when his fingers were severed. There was the incident of the chocolate bar, tossed by Socorro into the boat when all three were hungry. Socorro had improved their living conditions by having openings cut in walls … had disobeyed Miguel’s orders in allowing Jessica to join Nicky in his cell …
But it was also Socorro who had been part of the kidnap from the beginning and who, when Nicky’s fingers were being cut, had called across callously, “Shut up! There’s no way you can stop what’s going to happen.”
And then, in her mind, Jessica heard Nicky’s words, spoken only minutes earlier: “It’s all right about shooting Vicente, Harry … He helped us sometimes, but he was one of them … Do you know about the Stockholm syndrome? … My mom does …”
Beware the Stockholm syndrome!
Jessica answered Partridge’s question. Shaking her head, she told him, “No!”
Their eyes met. Harry had been amazed by Jessica’s demonstration of skill in hand-to-hand combat. He wondered where she had learned it and why. At the moment, though, that didn’t matter. What did matter was that she had reached a point of decision and her eyes were asking him a question. He nodded briefly. Then, not wanting to witness what came next, he turned away.
Shuddering, Jessica tightened her grip, broke Socorro’s neck, then twisted the head sharply to sunder the spinal cord. There was a snapping sound, surprisingly faint, and the body Jessica was holding slumped. She let it fall.
Led by Partridge, with Jessica, Nicky, Minh and Fernández following quietly, the group moved through the darkened hamlet, encountering no one.