At the jetty Ken O’Hara said, “I thought you’d never get here.”
“We had problems,” Partridge told him. “Let’s move fast! Which boat?”
“This one.” It was an open wooden workboat about thirty feet long, with twin outboard motors. Two lines secured it to the jetty. “I grabbed some extra fuel from other boats.” O’Hara pointed to several plastic containers near the stern.
“Everybody aboard!” Partridge ordered.
Earlier, a three-quarters moon had been obscured by cloud, but within the past few minutes the cloud had shifted. Now everything was lighter, particularly over the water.
Fernández helped Jessica and Nicky into the boat. Jessica was shaking uncontrollably and feeling sick, both aftereffects of having killed Socorro only minutes earlier. Minh, taking pictures from the jetty, jumped in last as O’Hara, unfastening the lines, used an oar to push out from shore. Fernández grabbed a second oar. Together he and O’Hara rowed toward midstream.
Looking around, Partridge could see that O’Hara had used his waiting time effectively. Several other boats were settling in the water near shore, others drifting away.
“I pulled some plugs.” O’Hara gestured to the nearer boats. “Those can be refloated, but it’ll cause delay. Threw a couple of good motors in the river.”
“Nice going, Ken!” His decision to bring O’Hara, Partridge thought, had been vindicated several times.
There were no proper seats in the boat they were using. As with the one in which Jessica, Nicky and Angus had traveled earlier, passengers sat low on boards running fore and aft above the keel. The two rowers had positioned themselves on opposite sides and were striving hard to reach the Huallaga River’s center. As the sight of Nueva Esperanza faded in the moonlight, a strong current was already carrying them downstream.
Partridge had checked his watch as they left the jetty: 2:35 A.M. At 2:50, with the boat moving along well, following the river’s generally northwest course, he told Ken O’Hara to start the engines.
O’Hara opened a fuel-tank air vent on the port-side engine, adjusted a choke, pumped a rubber ball and pulled a flywheel rope hard. The engine fired immediately. He adjusted the engine speed to a fast idle, then followed the same procedure with the second engine. As he put both engines in gear, the boat surged forward.
The sky had stayed clear. Bright moonlight, reflected on the water, made navigation relatively easy along the river’s winding course.
Fernández asked, “Have you decided which landing strip we’ll head for?”
Partridge calculated, visualizing Fernández’s large-scale map which, by now, he almost knew by heart.
First, choosing the river for departure had ruled out a rendezvous at the highway landing point where they arrived. That left the intermediate drug traffickers’ landing strip, which they might reach in an hour and a half, or the more distant Sion airstrip which could mean three hours on the river, plus a three-mile trek through the jungle on foot—a difficult challenge, as they already knew.
To get to Sion by 8 A.M., when the AeroLibertad Cheyenne II would be overhead, might be cutting things close. On the other hand, at the intermediate strip they would be several hours early, and if a pursuit should catch them there it would mean a firefight which, outnumbered and outgunned, they would almost certainly lose.
Therefore the best and wisest course seemed to continue putting the greatest possible distance between themselves and Nueva Esperanza.
“We aim for Sion,” Partridge told the others in the boat. “When we leave the river and go ashore, we’ll have to push hard and fast through the jungle, so get whatever rest you can.”
As the time passed, Jessica became more composed; her involuntary shaking ceased, the sickness disappeared. She doubted, though, if she would ever have total peace of mind about what she had done. Certainly the memory of Socorro’s desperate, pleading whisper would haunt her for a long, long time ahead.
But Nicky was safe—at least for the moment—and that was what mattered most.
She had been watching Nicky, aware that ever since they left the prison shack he had stayed close to Harry Partridge, at moments being almost underfoot. It seemed as if Harry were a magnet to which Nicky sought to attach himself. Even now he had settled beside Harry in the boat, clearly wanting some physical contact, snuggling up close, which Harry seemed not to mind. In fact, as happened earlier, Harry had put his arm around Nicky’s shoulders and the two at this moment seemed as one.
Jessica liked that. Part of Nicky’s feeling—inevitably, she thought—was that Harry, appearing as he did, represented all that was opposite from the evil gang who engineered the horrors they had been through—Miguel, Baudelio, Gustavo, Ramón … the others known and unknown … yes, Vicente and Socorro too.
But more than that. Nicky’s instincts about people had always been good. Jessica had once loved Harry—in a way still did, especially now when gratitude and love were mingled. Therefore it did not seem strange at all that her son instinctively should share that feeling.
Nicky seemed to be sleeping. Disengaging himself gently, Partridge maneuvered his way across and sat beside her. Fernández, observing the movement, changed sides also, balancing the boat.
Partridge too had been thinking of the past—what he and Jessica had once meant to each other. And even in this short time he could see that essentially she hadn’t changed. All the things he had most admired—her quick mind, strong spirit, warmth, intelligent resourcefulness—were still in place. Partridge knew that if he were around Jessica for long, his old love would revive. A provocative thought—except it wasn’t going to happen.
She had turned toward him, perhaps reading his mind. He remembered, from the old days, that she often could.
He asked, “Back there, did you ever give up hope?”
“There were times I came close to it, though never entirely,” Jessica said. She smiled. “Of course, if I’d known you were in charge of rescue, that would have made a difference.”
“We were a team,” he told her. “Crawf was part of it. He’s gone through hell, but then so have you. When we get back, you’ll both need each other.”
He sensed she knew what he was saying too: Though he had returned briefly to her life, he would shortly disappear.
“That’s a sweet thought, Harry. And what will you do?”
He shrugged. “Go on reporting. Somewhere there’ll be another war. There always is.”
“And in between wars?”
To some questions there were no answers. He changed the subject. “Your Nicky’s fine—the kind of boy I’d liked to have had myself.”
It could have happened, Jessica thought. For both of us, all those years ago.
Without wanting to, Partridge found himself thinking of Gemma and their unborn baby boy.
Beside him he heard Jessica sigh. “Oh, Harry!”
They were silent, listening to the outboard motors’ thrum and the churning river water. Then she reached out and put her hand on his.
“Thank you, Harry,” she said. “Thank you for everything … the past, the present … my dearest love.”
17
Miguel fired three shots into the air, shattering the silence.
He knew it was the quickest way to sound an alarm.
Barely a minute ago, he had discovered the bodies of Socorro and Vicente and realized the prisoners were gone.
It was 3:15 A.M. and, though Miguel did not know it, precisely forty minutes since the boat containing Partridge, Jessica, Nicky, Minh, O’Hara and Fernández had left the Nueva Esperanza jetty.
Miguel’s anger was instantaneous, savage and explosive. Inside the prisoners’ hut he had seized the guards’ chair and hurled it against a wall; the chair had broken. Now he wanted to bludgeon, then dismember limb by limb, those responsible for the prisoners’ escape.
Unfortunately, two of them were dead already. And Miguel was painfully aware that he also shared some of the blame.
W
ithout question, he had been lax in enforcing discipline. Now that it was too late, he saw that clearly. Since coming here he had relaxed at times when he should have been attentive. At night, he had left others to oversee precautions he should have supervised himself.
The reason had been a weakness—his infatuation with Socorro.
He had wanted her sexually while at the Hackensack house, both before the kidnap and immediately after. Even now he recalled her blatant sexuality on the day of departure when, with a mocking smile she had spoken to him of catheters inserted in the prisoners for the journey: “That’s tubes in the men’s cocks and the bitch’s cunt. ¿Entiendes?”
Yes, he had understood. He had also understood that she was taunting him, just as she taunted the others at Hackensack—for example, the night of her sudden, noisy coupling with Carlos, making Rafael, whom she had refused, near-rabid with jealousy.
But at that time Miguel had other things to consider, responsibilities that kept him occupied, and he had been stern and self-disciplined about his own desire for Socorro.
It had not been that way at Nueva Esperanza.
He hated the jungle; he remembered his feelings on their first day here. Compounding that, there had been little to do. He had never taken seriously, for example, the possibility of attempts to rescue the prisoners; Nueva Esperanza, so deep in Sendero territory, had seemed remote and safe. Therefore the days passed slowly, as did the nights—until Socorro, responding to his pleas, opened the doorway to what he quickly discovered was a sexual paradise.
Since then they had had sex together, sometimes in the days, always in the nights, and she had proved the most accomplished and satisfying lover he had ever known. In the end he had become her willing vassal, and like an addict awaiting the next fix had neglected most else.
He was now paying for that addiction.
Earlier tonight, after an exceptionally satisfying orgy, he had slept deeply. Then some twenty minutes ago he awakened with an erection and, wanting Socorro once more, was unhappy to find her gone. For a while he waited for her to return. When she didn’t, he had gone to look for her, taking with him the Makarov pistol he always carried.
What he found had returned him—like a harsh, savage blow—to a world of grim reality.
Miguel thought bitterly: He would pay for what had happened, most likely with his life when Sendero Luminoso got word of this, especially if the prisoners were not recaptured. Therefore the first priority was to recapture them—at any cost!
Now alerted by his shots, with Gustavo in the lead the other guards had emerged from houses and were running toward him.
He flailed them with his tongue. “¡Maldita escoria, imbéciles inservibles! Por su estupidez … ¡Nunca vigilar! ¡Solo dormir y tomar! ¡Sin cuidar! … los presos de mierda se escaparon.”
Singling out Gustavo, he tore into him. “You fucking useless moron! A mangy dog would be a better leader! Strangers came here while you slept and you ignored them, helped them! Find out where they came and how they left. There must be traces!”
Gustavo was back within moments. He announced, “They left by the river! Some boats are gone, others sunk!”
In a tearing rage, Miguel hurried to the jetty. The havoc that he found—mooring lines cut, boats and engines missing, some boats sunk in shallow water—was enough to send him into a frenzy. He knew, though, that unless he cooled and took control, nothing would be salvaged from this disaster. With an effort of will, he began to think objectively.
Continuing in Spanish, he told Gustavo, “I want the two best boats that are left, with two motors on each. Not ready in ten minutes, but now! Use everybody! Work fast, fast, fast! Then I want everyone assembled on dock, with guns and ammunition, ready to leave.”
Weighing possibilities, he decided that whoever engineered the prisoners’ release almost certainly came by air into the area; it was the fastest, most practical means of transport. Therefore they would leave the same way, though it was unlikely they had done so yet.
Ramón had just reported that he was relieved by Vicente soon after 1 A.M., when all was well and the prisoners safely in their cells. So even if their release occurred immediately after, the maximum head start of the intruders was two hours. Miguel’s instincts—aided by the fact that Socorro’s and Vicente’s bodies were still warm when found—told him it was substantially less.
He continued reasoning: From Nueva Esperanza, a departure by river for rendezvous with an airplane involved a choice between two possible jungle airstrips. One airstrip, the nearer, had no name; it was simply used by drug planes. The other was Sion—almost twice the distance and where the Learjet bringing Miguel, the other conspirators and the prisoners had arrived slightly more than three weeks ago.
There could be reasons for using either airstrip, which was why Miguel decided to send one armed boatload to the nearer strip, a second to Sion. He decided to go with the Sion-destined boat.
Even while he had been thinking, activity around the jetty had speeded up. Two of the partially sunk boats were now pulled nearer to shore and being emptied of water. Those in the Sendero group who were working had been joined by other hamlet residents. They all knew that if Sendero Luminoso’s leadership became enraged at Nueva Esperanza, the organization could wipe out the entire populace without compunction. Similar acts had happened before.
Despite the haste, getting started took longer than Miguel would have liked. But a few minutes before 4 A.M., both boats were under way, heading northwest with the current, the twin motors on each opened to full throttle. Miguel’s boat, heading for Sion, was substantially faster and pulled ahead soon after leaving the Nueva Esperanza jetty. Gustavo was at the helm.
Miguel, nursing a Beretta submachine gun which supplemented his Makarov pistol, felt his anger rise again. He still had no idea who had released the prisoners. But when he caught them and brought them back—alive, as he intended—they would suffer slow and horrible tortures.
18
As the AeroLibertad Cheyenne II lifted off from Lima airport in the first gray light of dawn, some words remembered from an earlier time came back to Crawford Sloane: If I take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea …
Yesterday, Sunday, they had taken the wings of morning, not to the sea but inland, though without result. Today they were heading inland again—toward the jungle.
Rita was beside Sloane in the aircraft’s second row of seats. Ahead of them were the pilot, Oswaldo Zileri and a young second pilot, Felipe Guerra.
During the preceding day’s flight, which lasted three hours, they had flown over all three prearranged points. Though Sloane was informed of their arrival at each, he had difficulty distinguishing one from another, so continuous and impenetrable did the Selva seem when viewed from above. “It’s like parts of Vietnam,” he told Rita, “but more tightly knit.”
While circling each point, all four aboard scrutinized the area for any signal or sign of movement. But there was no activity of any kind.
Sloane hoped desperately that today would be different.
As dawn changed to full daylight, the Cheyenne II climbed over the Andes peaks of the Cordillera Central Range. Then, on the far side, they began a slow descent toward the Selva and the Upper Huallaga Valley.
19
Partridge knew he had miscalculated. They were seriously late.
What he had not allowed for in choosing Sion over the nearer airstrip was a problem with their boat. It happened about two hours after leaving Nueva Esperanza, with another hour to go before reaching the place where they would abandon the boat and begin their trek to the airstrip.
Both outboard motors had been running noisily but smoothly when an internal, strident horn abruptly sounded on the port-side motor. Ken O’Hara throttled back at once, took the engine out of gear and switched off. As he did, the horn and engine went silent.
The starboard engine continued operating, though the boat was now moving at a noticeably slower speed.
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Partridge moved to the stern and asked O’Hara, “Whatever it is, is it fixable?”
“Unlikely, I’m afraid.” O’Hara had removed the engine cover and was examining beneath. “The engine’s overheated; that’s why the horn sounded. The raw water intake is clear, so almost certainly the coolant pump has gone. Even if I had tools to take the engine apart, it would probably need new parts and since we don’t have either …” He let the words trail off.
“So we positively can’t repair it?”
O’Hara shook his head. “Sorry, Harry.”
“What happens if we run it?”
“It will run for a short time and go on overheating. Then everything will get so hot, the pistons and cylinder block will fuse together. After that, all an engine’s good for is the garbage dump.”
“Run it,” Partridge said. “If there’s nothing else we can do, let’s get the most out of it for as long as we can.”
“You’re the skipper,” O’Hara acknowledged, though he hated destroying an engine which, in other circumstances, could be repaired.
Exactly as O’Hara predicted, the engine ran for a few minutes then, with the horn blaring and a smell of burning, it stopped and would not start again. The boat returned to its slower speed and Partridge anxiously checked his watch.
Their speed, as far as could be judged, had been reduced by half. The remainder of their river journey, instead of taking an hour, would take two.
In fact, it took two and a quarter hours and now, at 6:50 A.M., their landing point was coming into sight. Partridge and Fernández had identified it on the large-scale map, also from signs of previous use—soda cans and other debris littering the shore. Now they would have to cover in an hour the three miles of difficult jungle trail to Sion airstrip. This was far less time than they had anticipated. Could they do it?
“We have to do it,” Partridge said, explaining their problem to Jessica and Nicky. “It may be exhausting, but there’s no time to rest, and if we have to, we’ll help each other. Fernández will lead. I’ll be in the rear.”