Evening News

by Arthur Hailey

  That feeling, he supposed, had always been dormant inside him, though Vietnam had awakened it and, afterward, other wars in other places satisfied his need. It was what made him, in TV news jargon, a "bang-bang” correspondent, a label that used to bother him but didn't anymore.

  Why not? Because there were times when a "bang-bang” like himself was needed, just as Balaklava had had soldiery who performed their jobs while

  Cannon to right of them,

  Cannon to left of them,

  Cannon in front of them ,

  Volleyed and thundered..

  He smiled, amused by Tennyson's romanticizing, and his own.

  It hadn't always been that way with him. For a while, when he and Gemma were together, he consciously avoided wars and danger because life was sweet, too gloriously happy to risk a sudden termination. Around that time, within the network, he knew word had gone out to the effect: Give Harry some safe assignments,— he's earned them. Let the newer reporters follow the sound of gunfire for a while.

  Later, all of that changed, of course. When Gemma was no longer on the scene, Partridge had ceased to be protected and was sent again to wars, in part because he was so good at them, in part because he made it known he didn't care what chances he took. That last was one reason, he supposed, why he was on this journey here and now.

  How strange that since this project began he had mentally relived his time with Gemma. It was during the air journey from Toronto immediately after the kidnap that the memory came back to him of the Pope's Alitalia DC-10 and meeting Gemma . . . his own conversation with the Pope and the "Slavs-slaves” mix-up which he resolved . . . then Gemma delivering his breakfast tray and bringing him a rose.

  One day later on this assignment—or was it two?—more memories at night in his hotel . . . of falling in love with Gemma and, while still continuing on the papal tour, proposing marriage . . . During a brief stopover, their taxi ride to the old city in Panama, and Gemma standing beside him while the juez in his ornate office pronounced them man and wife.

  Then barely a week ago, while being driven in darkness from Larchmont to Manhattan after visiting Crawford Sloane, there had been the remembrance of Partridge and Gemma's idyllic, halcyon days in Rome where their love had grown; Gemma's shining gift of laughter and joy; the checkbook she could never balance; the car she drove like a fiend, arousing his fears . . . until she surrendered the keys on learning she was pregnant. And after that, the news of their move from Rome to London . . .

  Now, here he was, on another air journey and with more quiet moments, back again with thoughts of Gemma. This time, unlike the others, he did not resist the memories but let them flow.

  * * *

  Their life in London was unbelievably good.

  They took over a peasant furnished flat in St. John's Wood which Partridge's predecessor had vacated, Gemma quickly adding touches of her own style and color. The rooms were always filled with flowers. She hung paintings they had brought from Rome, shopped for china and table linens in Kensington and added a striking bronze sculpture by a new young artist exhibiting in Cork Street.

  At the CBA News London bureau, Partridge's work went well. Some stories he covered were in Britain, others on the Continent—in France, the Netherlands, Denmark and Sweden though he was seldom away from home for long.” en he wasn't working, he and Gemma explored London together, delighting in their joint discovery of history, splendor, curiosity and oddity, often in intriguing, narrow streets, some still as Dickens had described them, or around corkscrew, convoluted corners.

  The multitude of mazelike streets perplexed Gemma and she often got lost. When Partridge suggested that parts of Rome could be equally difficult, she shook her head in disagreement.”They do not say idly 'the Eternal City,' Harry caro. In Rome you move onward; it is something you can feel. London plays with you like cat and mouse; it turns you sideways and backward and you never know. But I adore it; it is like a game.”

  The traffic bewildered Gemma too. Standing with Partridge on the steps of the National Gallery, watching the speeding circle of massed taxis, cars and double-deck buses rounding Trafalgar Square, she told him, "It is so dangerous, darling. They are all going the wrong way.”Fortunately, because she could not adjust mentally to driving on the left, Gemma had no desire at all to use their car and, when Partridge was not available, she either walked a great deal or traveled by Underground or taxi.

  The National was one of many galleries they visited and they savored other sights too, both conventional and off beat, from the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace to viewing bricked up windows on old buildings—a holdover from the early 1800s when windows were taxed to finance the Napoleonic wars.

  A guide they hired for a day showed them a statue of Queen Anne who, the guide noted, had nineteen pregnancies and was buried in a coffin four feet eight inches square. And at New Zealand House, formerly the Carlton Hotel he told them Ho Chi Minh once worked there as a kitchen porter—all of it the kind of information Gemma loved, and she squirreled it away in an ever-growing notebook.

  A favorite Sunday pastime was visiting Speakers' Corner near Marble Arch where, as Partridge explained, 'prophets, loudmouths and lunatics get equal time.”

  “What is so different about that, Harry?” Gemma once asked after listening.”Some speeches you report seriously on TV are no better. You should do a piece about Speakers' Corner for your news.”

  Soon after, Partridge passed the suggestion to New York and the Horseshoe shot back approval. A report was done and became a much-praised, humorous "end piece” on a Friday night.

  Another highlight was visiting Brown's Hotel, founded by Lord Byron's butler, and having afternoon tea—the ultimate English experience with impeccable service, dainty sandwiches, scones, strawberry jam and clotted Devonshire cream.”It is a sacred ritual, mio amore,” Gemma declared "Like communion, but tastier.”

  In short, whatever they did together became a time of joy. And, all the while, Gemma's pregnancy progressed, promising supplemental happiness ahead.

  It was during her seventh month of pregnancy that Partridge was sent on a one-day assignment to Paris. CBA News's Paris bureau, short-staffed, needed someone to cover accusations about an American film which portrayed critically—and inaccurately, it was claimed—the French Resistance in World War II, Partridge did the piece, which was sent by satellite to New York via London, though he doubted if it was important enough to make the National Evening News, and in the end it didn't.

  Then, in the Paris bureau and about to leave to catch his homebound flight, he was handed a phone and told, "London wants you. Zeke is on the line.”

  Zeke was Ezekiel Thomson, the London bureau chief—huge, tough, dour and black also, to those who worked with him, he seemed emotionless. The first thing Partridge became aware of as he listened on the phone was that Zeke's voice was choked and breaking.

  ”Harry, I've never had to do anything like this . . . I don't know how ... but I have to tell you..." he managed to get out.

  Somehow Zeke conveyed the rest.

  Gemma was dead She had begun to cross the street at a busy intersection in Knightsbridge and witnesses said she had been looking to the left instead of to the right . . . Oh, Gemma! Dearest, wonderful, scatterbrained Gemma, who believed that everyone in Britain was driving on the wrong side, who had not yet mastered which way to look when a pedestrian amid traffic A truck, coming from the right, had struck and run over her. Those who saw it happen said the truck driver should not be blamed, he didn't have a chance . . .

  Their baby—a boy, Partridge discovered later—had also died.

  * * *

  Partridge returned to London and when what had to be done was done, alone in the flat they had shared, he wept. He stayed alone for days, refusing to see anyone while his tears poured out —not only for Gemma, but all the tears which across the years he had never shed.

  He wept at last for the dead Welsh children at Aberfan whose pathetic bodies he
had watched brought from that ghastly sea of mud He criedf or the starving in Africa where some had died as cameras turned and Partridge, dry-eyed, made entries in his notebook He cried for all others in those many tragic places he had visited, where he had stood among the bereaved, hearing their wailing, chronicling their grief yet was a newsman doing his job and nothing more.

  Somewhere amid it all he remembered the words of the woman psychiatrist who once told him, "You're banking it all, tucking the emotion away inside you somewhere. One day everything will overflow, crack open, and you'll cry. Oh, how you'll cry!”

  Afterward, as best he could, he had put his life together. CBA News had helped by keeping him busy, not giving him time for introspection, and as fast as one tough assignment ended, another took its place. Soon, wherever there was conflict or danger in the world, Harry Partridge was on the scene. He took risks and got away with them until it seemed, to himself and others, that his life was charmed. And while it happened, the months, then years slipped by.

  Nowadays there were stretches of time when he was able, if not to forget Gemma, at least not to think of her for longish periods. Then there were other times—like the two weeks since the Sloane kidnap—when she was foremost in his mind.

  Either way, since those desperate days after Gemma's death, he had not cried again.

  * * *

  Now, aboard the Learjet and still an hour out of Bogota, sleep was returning after all and in Harry Partridge's mind the past and present were merging . . . Gemma and Jessica were becoming one . . . Gemma—Jessica . . . Jessica—Gemma . . . No matter what the odds against him '. he would find her and bring her back Somehow he would save her.

  Sleep came. When he awoke again the Lear was on final approach to Bogota.

  2

  The contrasts of Lima, Harry Partridge thought, were as stark and grimly apparent as the crises and conflicts, political and economic, that bitterly, often savagely, divided all Peru.

  The immense, dry, sprawling capital city was split into several segments,, each displaying opulent wealth or squalid poverty, with hatreds like poisoned arrows speeding between the two extremes. Unlike most other cities he knew, there was seldom any middle ground. Grandiose homes surrounded by manicured gardens, all built on Lima's best land, adjoined hideous barriadas—slums jam—packed together—on the worst.

  The multitude of "have-not” slum dwellers, many crowded into filthy cardboard shacks, was so visibly wretched, the anger looking out from sullen eyes so fierce, that during past visits to Peru, Partridge had had a sense of revolution in ferment. Now, from what he had already learned during his first day here, some form of insurrection seemed ready to explode.

  Partridge, Minh Van Canh and Ken O'Hara had landed at Lima's Jorge Chivez Airport at 1:40 P.m. On disembarking they were met by Fernandez Pabur, CBA's regular stringer in Peru and—when required, as now—the network's fixer.

  He had whisked them through Immigration and Customs ahead of others waiting—it seemed likely that at some point money had changed hands—and then escorted them to a Ford station wagon, with waiting driver.

  Fernandez was heavyset, dark, swarthy and energetic, probably about thirty-five, with a protruding mouth and prominent white teeth which he flashed every few seconds in what he clearly hoped was a dazzling smile. In fact, being patently false, it wasn't—but Partridge didn't care. What he liked about Fernandez, whom he had used on other occasions, was that the fixer knew instinctively what was needed and got results.

  The first result was a suite for Partridge in the elegant five star Cesar's Hotel in Miraflores, and good rooms for the other two.

  At the hotel, while Partridge washed and put on a clean shirt, Fernandez phoned ahead at Partridge's request to set up the first appointment. It was with an old acquaintance, Sergio Hurtado, news editor and broadcaster for Radio Andes network.

  An hour later, the radio man and Partridge were together in a small broadcast studio which doubled as an office.

  ”Harry my friend, I have only depressing tidings to convey,” Sergio was saying, responding to a question.” in our country the rule of law has disappeared. Democracy is not even a faqade; it is nonexistent. We are bankrupt in every sense. Massacres are commonplace, politically inspired. There are private death squads of the President's party; people simply disappear. I tell you we are nearer to a total bloodbath than ever before in the history of Peru. I wish none of this were true. Alas, it is!”

  Although coining from a grotesquely obese body, the deep mellifluous voice was compelling and persuasive as ever, Partridge noted. Small wonder that Sergio commanded the country's largest audience, since radio was still the paramount news medium, more important and influential than television. TV viewers were a well-to-do concentration in larger cities only.

  Sergio's chair creaked complainingly as he shifted his mountain of flesh. His jowls were like outsize sausages. His eyes, which across the years had receded as his face grew larger, were now porcine. Nothing was wrong with his brain, however, nor his distinguished American education which had included Harvard. Sergio appreciated U.S. reporters visiting him, as many did, seeking his well-informed opinions.

  After an agreement that their conversation would be off the record until the following evening, Partridge described the chronology of the Sloane kidnap, then asked, "Do you have any advice for me, Sergio? Is there anything you have heard which might be helpful?”

  The broadcaster shook his head.”I have heard nothing, which is not surprising. Sendero is good at secrecy, mainly because they kill any of their people who talk indiscreetly; staying alive is an incentive not to gossip. But I will help you, if I can, by putting out feelers. I have information sources in many places.”

  "Thank you.”

  "As to your news tomorrow night, I will obtain a satellite tape and adapt it for myself. Meanwhile we are not short of disaster subjects of our own. This country, politically, financially, every other way, is going down the tubes.”

  "We hear mixed reports about Sendero Lurninoso. Are they really getting stronger?”

  "The answer is yes—and not only stronger every day, but controlling more and more of the country, which is why the task you have set yourself is difficult, some might say impossible. Assuming your kidnapped people are here, there are a thousand out-of-the-way places where they may be hidden, But I am glad you came to me first because I will give you some advice.”

  "Which is?”

  "Do not seek official help,—that is, from the Peru armed forces or the police. In fact, avoid them as allies because they have ceased to be trustworthy, if they ever were. When it comes to murder and mayhem, they are no better than Sendero and certainly as ruthless.”

  "Are there recent examples?”

  "Plenty. I'll point you toward some if you wish.”

  Partridge had already begun thinking about reports he would send back for the National Evening News. He had previously arranged that after the arrival Saturday of Rita Abrams and the editor, Bob Watson, they would put together a piece for Monday's broadcast. In it, Partridge hoped to have sound bites from Sergio Hurtado and others.

  Now he asked, "You said democracy is nonexistent. Was that rhetoric or really true?”

  "Not only true, but to huge numbers of people here the presence or absence of democracy makes no difference in their lives.”

  “Pretty strong stuff, Sergio.”

  "Only because of your finite viewpoint, Harry. Americans see democracy as a remedy for all ills—to be taken three times daily like prescription medicine. It works for them. Ergol—it should work for the world. What America na1vely forgets is that for democracy to function, most of a populace must have something personally that is worth preserving. Generally speaking, most Latin Americans don't. Of course, the next question is—why?”

  "So I'll buy it. Why?”

  "The areas of the world in deepest trouble, including ours, have two main groups of people—the reasonably educated and affluent on the one hand; on the
other, the ignorant and hopeless poor who are largely unemployable. The first group breeds only moderately, the second breeds like flies, inexorably growing larger—a human time bomb ready to destroy the first.” Sergio gestured airily behind him.”Go outside and see it happening.”

  "And you have a solution?”

  "America could have. Not by distributing arms or money, but by flooding the world with birth-control teaching teams, sent out the way Kennedy dispatched the Peace Corps. Oh, it would take several generations, but curbing population growth could save the world.”

  Partridge queried, "Aren't you forgetting something?”

  "If you mean the Catholic church, I remind you I am a Catholic myself. I also have many Catholic friends—of stature, educated and with money. Strangely, almost all have small families. I have asked myself. Have they curbed their sexual passions? Knowing both the men and women, I am sure that they have not. Indeed, some speak out frankly, disavowing church dogma on birth control—which is man-made dogma, incidentally.” He added, "With American leadership, voices in opposition to that dogma could grow and grow.”

  "Speaking of speaking out,” Partridge said.”Would you be willing to repeat most of what we've talked about on camera?”

  Sergio threw up his hands.”Well, my dear Harry, why not? Perhaps the greatest thing America instilled in me was a passion for free speech. I have been speaking freely here on radio, though at times I wonder how long they will let me go on. Neither the government nor Sendero like what I say and both have guns and bullets. But one cannot live forever, so yes, Harry, I will do it for you.”

  Beneath the gross fat, Partridge acknowledged mentally, was a person of principle and courage.

  * * *

  Before reaching Peru, Partridge had already decided there was only one way to go about locating the kidnap victims. That was to act as a TV news correspondent would in normal circumstances—meeting known contacts, seeking out new ones, searching for news, traveling where he could, questioning, questioning, and all the while hoping some fragment of information would emerge, providing a clue, a lead to where the captives might be held.