Evening News

by Arthur Hailey

  When he hung up, Kettering scooped up the hundred-dollar bills and told Mony, "We hit the jackpot. No more calls needed. We have the answer.”

  In response to a questioning glance he added, "Look at it this way: Three out of five people naming the same bank is too much to be coincidence. So those other names, on the bills which went through Citibank and Leumi, had to have been put on earlier and the bills recirculated, probably through American-Amazonas too.

  ”So that's where the money came from which Novack-Rodriguez paid Godoy for the caskets.”

  "Exactly!” Kettering's voice hardened.”I'll also wager that same bank is where those fucking kidnappers drew their cash and had—maybe still have—an account.”

  Mony prompted, "So next step—Dag Hammarskjeld Plaza.”

  Kettering pushed his chair back from the desk and rose.”Where the bell else? Let's go.”

  10

  Don Kettering was recognized immediately on entering the American-Amazonas Bank and had an instinct early on that his presence was not a total surprise.

  When he asked to see the manager, a matronly secretary informed him, "He has someone with him now, Mr. Kettering, but I'll interrupt and tell him you're here.” She glanced at Jonathan Mody.”I'm sure he won't keep you gentlemen long.”

  While waiting, Kettering surveyed the bank. It was located on the main floor of an elderly brick building near the Plaza's north extremity and, viewed from outside, the bank's slate gray entrance was unimposing. The interior, however, while small for a New York bank, was attractive and colorful. Instead of a conventional tiled floor, a patterned carpet in muted cherry, red and orange shades ran the entire length and width of the business area; a small, gold-lettered panel noted it was woven in Amazonas, Brazil.

  While furnishings were conventional—a line of tellers' counters on one side, three officers' desks on the other—the woodwork everywhere was of highest quality. Occupying most of one wall, where customers would view it, was a striking mural—a revolutionary scene of panting horses with tousled manes carrying uniformed soldiers.

  Kettering was studying the mural when the secretary advised, "Mr. Armando is free now. Will you come in, please.”

  As they entered a partially glass-walled office which provided a view of the operations area outside, the manager came forward with his hand extended. A desk plaque identified him as Emiliano W. Armando, Jr.

  ”Mr. Kettering, a pleasure to meet you. I see you often and admire much of what you say. But I suppose you hear that all the time.”

  "Even so, I still appreciate it.” The business correspondent introduced Mony. At a gesture from Armando, the three sat down, the visitors facing a hanging tapestry in bright blues and yellows which continued the bank's thematic decor.

  Kettering watched the manager, a small figure with a wrinkled face showing signs of tiredness, thinning white hair and bushy eyebrows. Armando moved with a nervous quickness, his expression worried, the general effect reminding Kettering of an aging terrier, uneasy with the changing world around him. Instinctively, though, he found himself liking the man—in contrast to his recent encounter with Alberto Godoy.

  Leaning back in a swivel chair, the banker sighed.”I rather guessed that you or someone like you would be around soon. It's been an unhappy, perplexing time for us here, as I'm sure you understand.”

  Kettering leaned forward. The manager assumed he knew something that he didn't. He acknowledged cautiously, "Yes, that's all too often true.”

  "As a matter of interest, how did you get to hear?”

  The business correspondent resisted saying, "Hear what?” and smiled.”In TV news we have sources of information, even though at times we can't reveal them.” He noticed Mony following the conversation with interest while keeping his face impassive. Well, that ambitious young man was getting a journalism lesson in spades today.

  "I wondered if it was the Post report,” Armando said.”It left many unanswered questions.”

  Kettering wrinkled his forehead.”I may have read that. Do you happen to have a copy?”

  "Of course.” Armando opened a desk drawer and produced a news clipping encased in plastic. The heading read:

  UN DIPLOMAT

  SLAYS LOVER, AND SELF

  IN JEALOUS RAGE

  Kettering skimmed the report, noting it was from a ten-day old paper, dated the Sunday before last. As he observed references to the two who had died—Helga Efferen of American Amazonas Bank and Jose Antonio Salaverry, a member of the United Nations Peruvian delegation—the cause of the manager's distress became clear. What was not clear was whether or not the incident had any connection to the matter that had brought CBA News here.

  Kettering passed the report to Mony and returned his attention to Armando, prompting, "Unanswered questions, I believe you said.”

  The manager nodded.”What the newspaper described is how the police say it happened. Personally, I don't believe it.”

  Still groping for a possible linkage, Kettering asked, "Would you mind telling me why?”

  "The whole business is too complex for that simple explanation."

  "Obviously, you knew the woman who was employed here. Did you know the man, Salaverry?”

  "Unfortunately—as it's since turned out—yes.”

  'Will you explain that?”

  Armando hesitated before answering.”My inclination is to be frank with you, Mr. Kettering, mostly because I think that what we've learned at this bank during the past ten days will come out anyway, and I know you to be fair in your reporting. However, I have an obligation to the bank. We are a substantial and respected establishment in Latin America, as well as having this and other toeholds in the United States. Is it possible you could wait a day or two, giving me time to consult with senior management outside this country?”

  There was a connection! Kettering's instincts again, and he shook his head decisively.”It isn't possible to wait. There's a critical situation involving safety and lives.” It was time, he decided, to do some revealing of his own.

  ”Mr. Armando, at CBA we have reason to believe your bank was involved in some way with the kidnapping two weeks ago of Mrs. Crawford Sloane and two other members of the Sloane family. I'm certain you've heard about it. So the question arises: Is this other episode—the deaths of Efferen and Salaverry—related to the kidnap?”

  If Armando had been troubled before, Kettering's pronouncement had the effect of an incremental bolt of lightning. Apparently overwhelmed, he put his elbows on his desk and his head in his hands. After several seconds he raised his eyes.

  ”Yes, it's possible,” he said in a whisper.”Now I see it. It's not only possible, it's likely.” He went on wearily, "A selfish notion, I know, but I'm due to retire in just a few months and my thought right now is: Why couldn't all this have waited until I had gone?”

  "I understand your feelings.” Kettering tried to curb his impatience.”But the fact is, you and I are here and we are involved. Obviously we each have different information and, equally obviously, we'll both be ahead if we exchange it.”

  "I agree,” Armando conceded.”Where should we begin?”

  "Let me. A large sum of money, at least ten thousand dollars in cash and probably a good deal more, is known to have passed through your bank and aided the kidnappers.”

  The manager nodded gravely.”Putting together your knowledge and mine, it is definitely a great deal more money.” He stopped.”If I help fill in some details, is it essential that you quote me directly?”

  Kettering considered.”Probably not. There's an arrangement called 'background, not for attribution.' If you wish, we'll talk on that basis.”

  "I'd prefer it.” Armando paused, collecting his thoughts. "Within this bank we have a number of accounts for several delegations to the United Nations. I won't go into those, except to say our bank has strong ties with certain countries; it's why this office is conveniently close to the UN. Various people in UN delegations have authority over those accounts and o
ne in particular was controlled by Mr. Salaverry.”

  "An account belonging to the Peruvian delegation?”

  "Connected with the Peruvian delegation—yes. Though I'm not sure how many people knew about that account, other than Salaverry who had authority to sign and use it. You should understand that any UN delegation may have a number of accounts, some for special purposes.”

  "Okay, but let's concentrate on the important one.”

  "Well, for the past several months, substantial sums have been coming into that account and going out—all legitimately, with nothing irregular being done by the bank, except for one unusual thing.”

  “Which was?”

  'Miss Efferen, who had considerable responsibilities here as an assistant manager, went out of her way to handle the account herself, at the same time shielding me and others from direct knowledge of the account's existence or what was going on.

  "In other words, the source of the money coming in and who it was paid out to was kept secret.”

  Armando nodded.”That's the way it was.”

  "And to whom was it paid out?”

  "In every instance to Jose Antonio Salaverry, on his signature. There are no other signatures in the account and every payment was in cash.”

  "Let's go back a bit,” Kettering said.”You've told us you reject the police conclusion about the way Efferin and Salaverry died. Why?”

  "When I began to discover things last week and this, I thought that whoever was passing money through that account —assuming Salaverry to be an intermediary, which I think he was—probably did the killings, arranging them to look like murder-suicide. But now you tell me that the kidnappers of the Sloane family were involved, it seems likely they could have been the ones.”

  Though the wizened little manager had been under strain and was near retirement, his reasoning powers were still good, Kettering thought. He observed that Mony was fidgeting and advised, "If you have questions, Jonathan, ask away.”

  Mony put aside some notes he had been making and sat forward in his chair.”Mr. Armando, if what you say is true, can you make a guess why those two people were killed?”

  The manager shrugged.”In my opinion they probably knew too much.”

  "For instance—the names of the kidnappers?”

  "Again, from what Mr. Kettering has told me, that would seem a probability.”

  "And what about the source of the money that the man, Salaverry, controlled. Do you know where that money came from?”

  For the first time the manager hesitated.”Since Monday, I've had discussions with members of the Peruvian delegation at the UN—they are conducting an investigation of their own. What they've discovered so far and we've conferred about has been confidential . . .”

  Kettering cut in, "We're not quoting you directly; we already agreed on that. So come on—let's have it! Who did the money come from?”

  Armando sighed.”Let me ask you a question, Mr. Kettering. Have you ever heard of an organization called Sendero Luminoso or—”

  Mony completed the sentence.”The Shining Path?”

  Kettering's face tightened as he answered grimly, "Yes, I have.”

  "We're not certain,” the manager said, "but they could be the ones who shoveled money into that account.”

  * * *

  After leaving Kettering and Mony on the Manhattan side of the Queensboro Bridge, Harry Partridge and Minh Van Canh took time out for an early lunch at Wolf's Delicatessen at West Fifth-seventh and Sixth. Over their mutual choice of gigantic hot pastrami sandwiches, Partridge regarded Minh who had seemed thoughtful today, unusually preoccupied, though it had not affected his efficient work at Godoy's Funeral Home. From across the restaurant table, Minh's squarish pockmarked face above his stocky figure looked back impassively between mouthfuls of mustard-laden pastrami.

  ”Something on your mind, old friend?” Partridge asked.

  ”A few things.” The answer was typical Van Canh and Partridge knew better than to press his question. Minh would respond with more detail in his own way, in his own good time.

  Meanwhile Partridge confided to Minh his intention to fly to Colombia, perhaps the following day. He added that he wasn't sure whether anyone else should travel with him; he would talk with Rita about that. But when there was need for a camera crew, either tomorrow or later, he wanted Minh.

  Van Canh considered, weighing a decision. Then he nodded.”Okay, I do it for you, Harry, and for Crawf. But it will be the last time, the last adventure.”

  Partridge was startled.”You mean you're quitting?”

  "I promised my family; we talked last night. My wife wants me at home more. Our children need me, my business too. So after we come back, I go.”

  "But this is so damn sudden!”

  Van Canh gave one of his rare faint smiles.”Sudden like an order at three in the morning to go to Sri Lanka or Gdansk?”

  "I know what you mean, though I'll miss you like hell; things won't be the same without you.” Partridge shook his head sadly, though the decision did not surprise him. As a Vietnamese working for CBA News, Minh had survived extraordinary perils in the Vietnam war, near the end managing to get his wife and two children airlifted from the country before the fall of Saigon and all the while taking superb pictures of history on the run.

  In the years following, the Van Canh family adapted to their new American life—the children, like so many Vietnamese immigrants, studying hard and earning high grades at school and now college. Partridge knew them well and admired, sometimes envied the family's solidarity. As part of it, they lived frugally while Minh saved and invested most of his substantial CBA pay, his economies so obvious that among colleagues a rumor now existed that Minh was a millionaire.

  The last was possible, Partridge knew, because over the past five years Minh had purchased several small camera stores in New York suburbs, linking them and significantly enlarging their business with the aid of his wife, Thanh.

  It was reasonable, too, that at this point in his life Minh should decide he had had enough of travel and prolonged absences, and had taken sufficient risks, including joining Harry Partridge on dangerous assignments.

  ”Speaking of your business, how is it going?” Partridge asked.

  ”Very well.” Again Minh smiled, adding, "But it has become more than Thanh can manage while I am away.”

  "I'm pleased for you,” Partridge said, "because no one deserves it more. And I hope we'll still see each other once in a while.”

  "You can count on it, Harry. In our home your name will stay first on our list of honored guests.”

  On the way back from lunch, after leaving Van Canh, Partridge stopped at a sporting goods store to buy some heavy socks, a pair of hiking boots and a sturdy flashlight. He suspected he might need all three quite soon. By the time he returned to CBA, it was mid afternoon.

  In the task force conference room, Rita Abrams waved him over.”A man's been trying to reach you. He's called three times since this morning. Wouldn't leave his name, but said it's essential he speak to you today. I told him sooner or later you'd be back.”

  "Thanks. There's something I want to tell you. I've decided I should go to Bogota . . .”

  Partridge stopped as he and Rita looked up at the sound of hurried footsteps approaching the conference room. A moment later Don Kettering entered with Jonathan Mony close behind.

  ”Harry! Rita!” Kettering said, his voice breathless from hurrying, "I think we have the can of worms—wide open!”

  Rita glanced around her, aware of others in the room. "Let's go in a private office,” she said, and led the way to her own.

  It took twenty minutes for Kettering, aided occasionally by Mony, to describe all that they had learned. Kettering produced the New York Post report of the Salaverry-Efferen alleged murder-suicide, a copy made by the American-Amazonas Bank manager before they left. The two correspondents and Rita knew that when this meeting was over, CBA News research would routinely obtain all other materi
al on the same subject.

  After Rita read the clipping, she asked Kettering, "Do you think we should start investigative work on those two deaths?”

  "Maybe some, though it's incidental now. The real story is the Peru connection.”

  "I agree,” Partridge said, "and Peru has come up before.” He remembered his conversation two days ago with Manuel Leon Seminario, owner-editor of the Lima-based Escena. While nothing specific had emerged, Seminario had said, "In Peru nowadays kidnapping is almost a way of life.”

  "Even though we have a Peru involvement,” Rita pointed out ' "let's not forget that we don't know for sure whether the kidnap victims have been taken out of this country.”

  "I'm not forgetting,” Partridge said.”Don, do you have anything more?”

  Kettering nodded.”Yes. Before I left the bank I had the manager agree to an inteiview on camera, maybe later today. He knows he may be sticking his neck out with the bank's owners, but he's a good old guy with a sense of responsibility and says he'll take his chances. If you like, Harry, I'll do that one too.”

  "I do like. Anyway, it's your story.” Partridge turned to Rita.”Cancel what I said about going to Bogota. Now it's Lima. I want to be there early tomorrow.”

  "And how much do we broadcast, when?”

  'Everything we know, and soon. Exactly when, we'll discuss with Les and Chuck, but if possible I'd like a clear twenty four hours in Peru before an army of other correspondents gets there, which will happen as soon as we go with what we have.”

  He continued, "So starting right now, we'll work all night putting everything together. Call everyone on the task force in for a meeting"— Partridge glanced at his watch: 3:15 P.m.—"at five o'clock.”

  "Yessir!” Rita, enjoying action, smiled.

  At the same moment, the phone on her desk rang. After answering, she covered the mouthpiece and told Partridge, "It's the same man—the one who's been trying to get you all day.,'