Evening News

by Arthur Hailey

  As Sloane hung up the raincoat he had been wearing, he noticed on his desk a white Styrofoam package of the kind used by takeout restaurants. There were several such establishments in the neighborhood which did a brisk business at CBA, delivering snacks or meals in response to telephone calls. Since Sloane had not ordered anything and usually had lunch in the cafeteria, he assumed the delivery was a mistake.

  To his surprise, though, he found that the package, tied neatly with white string, had "C. Sloane” written on it. Without much interest, he took scissors from a drawer and snipped the string, then eased the package open. He pulled out some pieces of folded white paper before the contents were revealed.

  After several seconds of staring in dazed disbelief, Crawford Sloane screamed—a tortured, ear-splitting scream. Heads shot up among those working nearby. FBI agent Ungar leapt from his chair and raced in, drawing a gun as he moved. But Sloane was alone, screaming again and again, staring down at the package, his eyes wide and crazed, his face ashen.

  Others jumped up and ran to Sloane's office. Some went inside, a dozen or more blocked the doorway. A woman producer leaned over Sloane's desk and looked into the white box.”Oh, my god!” she uttered, then, feeling sick, went back outside.

  Agent Ungar examined the box, saw two human fingers, flecked with dried blood, and, swallowing his revulsion, swiftly took charge. He shouted to those in the office and crowding the doorway, "Everyone out, please!” Even while speaking, he picked up a phone, pressed the "operator” button and demanded, "Security—fast!” When there was an answer, he rapped out, "This is FBI Special Agent Ungar and I am giving you an order. Advise all guards that no one is to leave this building, as of this moment. There will be no exceptions and if anyone resists, use force. After you've given that order, call the city police for help. I am going to the main lobby now. I want someone from Security to meet me there.”

  While Ungar had been speaking, Sloane collapsed into his chair. As someone said later, "He looked like death.”

  The executive producer, Chuck Insen, elbowed his way through the growing throng outside and asked, "What's all this about?”

  Recognizing him, Ungar gestured to the white box, then instructed, "Nothing in here must be touched. I suggest you take Mr. Sloane somewhere else and lock the door until I come back.”

  Insen nodded, by then having seen the contents of the box and noting, as had others, that the fingers were small and delicate, clearly those of a child. Turning to face Sloane, he asked the inevitable question with his eyes. Sloane managed to nod and whisper, "Yes.”

  "Oh, Jesus!” Insen murmured.

  Sloane seemed about to collapse. Insen put his arms around him, then still holding the anchorman, eased him from the room. Those at the doorway quickly cleared a path.

  Insen and Sloane went to the executive producer's office; on the way, Insen fired orders. He told a secretary, "Lock Mr. Sloane's office and let no one in except that FBI man. Then talk to the switchboard; there's a doctor on call—get him here. Say Mr. Sloane had a bad shock and may need sedation.” To a producer, "Tell Don Kettering what's happened and get him up here; we'll need something for the news tonight.” And to others, "The rest of you, get back to work.”

  Insen's office had a large glass window overlooking the Horseshoe, with a venetian blind for privacy when needed. After helping Sloane into a chair, Insen lowered the blind.

  Control was coming back to Sloane, though he was leaning forward, his head in his hands. Speaking half to himself, half to Insen, he agonized, "Those people knew about Nicky and the piano. And how did they know? I let it out! It was me! At that press session after the kidnap.”

  Insen said gently, "I remember that, Crawf. But you were answering a question; you didn't bring it up. In any case, who could have foreseen . . .” He stopped, knowing that reasoning at this moment would do no good.

  Afterward Insen would say to others, "I have to hand it to Crawf, He has guts. After that experience most people would have been pleading to do exactly what the kidnappers wanted. But right from the beginning Crawf's known we shouldn't, and couldn't, and has never wavered.”

  There was a soft knock and the secretary came in.”A doctor's on the way,” she said.

  * * *

  The temporary ban on people leaving the building was lifted when everyone inside or about to leave was identified and their presence accounted for. It seemed likely that the package with the fingers had been left much earlier, and since restaurant service people came and left frequently, no one had seen anything unusual.

  The FBI began an investigation at nearby takeout restaurants in an effort to determine who might have brought the package in, but nothing resulted. And while CBA Security was supposed to check all delivery people's identity, it was established that they did so irregularly and even then in a perfunctory way. Any doubt about the fingers being Nicky's was quickly dispelled by an FBI check of Nicky's bedroom in the Sloanes' Larchmont house. Plenty of fingerprints remained there and matched those of the two severed fingers in the package on Crawford Sloane's desk.

  * * *

  In the midst of the general gloom at CBA News, another significant delivery occurred, this one to Stonehenge. Early Thursday afternoon a small package found its way to Margot Lloyd-Mason's office suite. Inside was a videotape cassette sent by Sendero Luininoso.

  Because the tape was expected—Thursday delivery had been stated in Sendero's "The Shining Time Has Come” demand received six days earlier—arrangements had been made by Margot and Les Chippingham for the tape to be sent immediately by messenger to the CBA news president. As soon as Chippingham teamed of its arrival, he called in Don Kettering and Norman Jaeger and the trio viewed the tape privately in Chippingham's office.

  All three noted at once the recording's high quality, both technically and in presentation. The opening titles, beginning with "World Revolution: Sendero Luminoso Shows the Way,” were superimposed over the visual background of some of Peru's most breathtaking scenery—the brooding majesty of high Andes mountains and glaciers, Machu Picchu in awesome splendor, the endless miles of green jungle, the and coastal desert and surging Pacific ocean. It was Jaeger who recognized the majestic music accompanying the opening: Beethoven's Third Symphony, Eroica.

  ”They had production people who know their business,” Kettering murmured.”I'd expected something cruder.”

  "Not surprising, really,” Chippingham said.”Peru's no backwater and they have talent there, the best equipment.”

  "Which Sendero has big bucks to buy,” Jaeger added.”Plus their foxy infiltration everywhere.”

  Even the extremist spiel that followed was largely over kinetic scenes—of rioting in Lima, industrial strikes, clashes between police and protest marchers, the grisly aftermath of attacks on Andes villages by government forces.”We are the world,” an unseen commentator expounded, "and the world is ready for a revolutionary explosion.”

  Featured at length was an interview, stated to be with Abimael Guzman, Sendero Luminoso's founder and leader. Some uncertainty existed because the camera focused on the back of a seated person. The commentator explained, "Our leader has many enemies who would like to kill him. To show his face would help their vicious aims.”

  Guzman's supposed voice began in Spanish, "Companeros revolucionarios, nuestro trabajo y objetivo es unir los creyentes en la filosofia de Marx, Lenin, y Mao . . .”Then the words faded and a new voice continued, "Comrades, we must destroy worldwide a social order that is not fit to be preserved . . .”

  "Doesn't Guzman speak English?” Kettering queried.

  Jaeger answered, "Strangely, he's one of the few educated Peruvians who don't.”

  What followed was predictable and had been spoken by Guzman many times before.”Revolution is justified because of imperialist exploitation of all poor people in the world.”. . .”False reports blame Sendero Luminoso for inhumanity. Sendero is more humane than the superpowers who are willing to destroy mankind with nuclear arsen
als, which our proletariat revolution will ban forever.”. . .”The United States labor movement, an elite bourgeois class, has cheated and sold out American workers.”...”Communists in the Soviet Union are no better than imperialists. The Soviets have betrayed the Lenin revolution.”..."Cuba's Castro is a clown, an imperialist lackey.”

  Guzman's statements were invariably, general. Those seeking specifics searched his speeches and writings in vain.

  ”If we were running this instead of the evening news,” Chippingham commented, "we'd have lost our audience by now and ratings would be in the cellar.”

  The recorded half hour ended with additional Beethoven, some more scenic beauty and a rallying cry from the commentator, "Long life to Marxism-Leninism-Maoism, our guiding doctrine!”

  "All right,” Chippingham said at the end, "as we agreed, I'm putting this tape away in my safe. Only the three of us have viewed it. I suggest we don't discuss with anyone what we've seen.”

  Jaeger asked, "You're still going with Karl Owens's idea the story that the cassette was damaged when we received it?”

  "For chrissakes! Do we have anything else? We're certainly not going to use that tape in place of Monday's news.”

  "I guess we don't have anything else,” Jaeger acknowledged.

  ”As long as we understand,” Kettering said, "that our chances of being believed aren't as good now—not after Theo Elliott's screw up with the Baltimore Star.”

  “Goddamn, I know that!” The news president's voice reflected the strain of the past few days. He glanced at a clock: 3:53.”At four o'clock, Don, break into the network with a bulletin. Say that we've received a tape from the kidnappers, but it's defective and we haven't been able to fix it. Getting a replacement tape to us is now up to Sendero Luminoso.”

  "Right!”

  "Meanwhile,” Chippingham, continued, "I'll call in press relations and issue a statement for the wire services, urging them to repeat it to Peru. Now let's move it!”

  * * *

  The misinformation issued by CBA News was circulated promptly and widely. Because Peru was one hour behind New York—the U.S. was still on daylight saving time, Peru wasn't the CBA statement was available in Lima for evening radio and TV news as well as the following day's newspapers.

  Also in the day's news, though circulated earlier, was a report about the discovery of Nicholas Sloane's severed fingers by his distraught father.

  In Ayacucho, Sendero Luminoso leaders noted both reports. As to the second, about a damaged tape, they did not believe it. What was needed immediately, they reasoned, was some action more compelling than a small boy's fingers.

  11

  Afterward, Jessica remembered, she had a sense of foreboding as soon as she awoke that morning in the half-light of dawn. She had been sleepless through much of the night, mentally tormented, doubting that rescue would ever come. Over the past three days her earlier confidence in eventual freedom had ebbed away, though she tried to conceal from Angus and Nicky her diminishing hope. But was it likely, she wondered, that in this obscure portion of an alien, faraway land, some friendly force could find and somehow spirit them home? As more days went by, it seemed increasingly doubtful.

  What sent Jessica's morale tumbling had been the brutal dismembering of Nicky's right hand. Even if they got out of here, life could never again be the same for Nicky. His youthful, dearest dream, of becoming a piano maestro, was suddenly, irrevocably . . . so needlessly! . . . ended. And what other perils, including death perhaps, awaited them in days ahead?

  Nicky's fingers had been removed on Tuesday, Today was Friday. Yesterday Nicky had been less in pain, thanks to Socorro who had changed the dressings and bandage daily, but he was silent and brooding, unresponsive to Jessica's attempts to lift him from his deep despair. And there was always the separation between them—the close—spaced bamboo stalks and strong wire screen. Since the night Socorro had allowed Jessica to join Nicky in his cell, the favor had not been repeated, despite Jessica's pleading.

  Today, therefore, the immediate future seemed bleak, with little to hope for and everything to dread. As Jessica became fully awake she understood, as she never had before, a Thomas Hood poem learned in childhood which ended:

  But now, I often wish the night

  Had borne my breath away!

  But she knew that if applied to herself, the wish was selfish and defeatist. Despite everything else she must hang on, remaining the strong staff on which Nicky and Angus leaned.

  It was soon after those thoughts, and with the arrival of full daylight, that Jessica could hear activity outside and footsteps approaching the prisoners' shack. The first person to enter was Gustavo, leader of the guards, who went directly to Angus's cell and opened it.

  Miguel was immediately behind. He was scowling as he, too, moved toward Angus, carrying something Jessica had not seen him with before—an automatic rifle.

  The ominous implication was inescapable. At the sight of the powerful, ugly weapon Jessica's heart beat faster and her breath shortened. Oh, no! Not Angus!

  Gustavo had entered Angus's cell and roughly pulled the old man to his feet. Now Angus's hands were being tied behind him.

  Jessica called out, "Listen to me! What are you doing? Why?”

  Angus turned his head toward her, "Jessie dear, don't be distressed. There's nothing you can do. These people are barbarians, they don't understand decency or honor . . .”

  Jessica saw Miguel tighten his grip on his gun until his knuckles were white. He commanded Gustavo impatiently, Dese prisa! No pierdas tiempo!”

  Nicky was on his feet. He too had grasped the significance of the automatic rifle and asked, "Mom, what are they going to do to Gramps?”

  Not believing her own words, Jessica answered, "I don't know.”

  Angus, his hands now tied, straightened his body, squared his shoulders and looked over.”We haven't much time. Both of you—stay strong and keep believing! Remember, somewhere out there Crawford is doing everything he can. Help is coming!”

  Tears were streaming down Jessica's face. Her voice choked, she managed to call, "Angus, dearest Angus! We love you so much!”

  "I love you too, Jessie . . . Nicky!” Gustavo was pushing Angus forward, propelling him from the cell. They all knew now that he was going to his death.

  Stumbling, Angus called again, "Nicky, how about a song? Let's try one.” Angus's voice lifted.

  "I’ll be seeing you

  In all the old familiar places..."

  Jessica saw Nicky open his mouth but, both too choked with tears, neither he nor Jessica could join in.

  Angus was outside the shack now, beyond their sight. They could still hear his voice, though it was fading.

  "That this heart of mine embraces all day through

  In that small cafe . . .”

  The voice faded entirely. There was only silence as they waited.

  Seconds passed. The wait seemed longer than it was, then the silence was broken by gunfire—four shots, closely spaced. Another brief silence, then a second burst of gunfire, the shots too fast to count.

  * * *

  Outside, at the edge of the jungle, Miguel stood over the dead figure of Angus Sloane.

  The first four shots he fired had killed the old man instantly. Then, remembering the insult of last Tuesday "Maldito hijo de puta!'—and the contemptuous reference to "barbarians” only moments earlier, Miguel had stepped forward in a rage and emptied another fusillade from his Soviet— made AK-47 into the recumbent body.

  He had fulfilled the instructions received from Ayacucho late last night. Gustavo had also been informed of a distasteful chore which was now expected of him and which, with help from others, he could begin.

  A light airplane, operating for Sendero Luminoso, was now on its way to a nearby jungle airstrip which could be reached from Nueva Esperanza by boat. Very soon a boat would leave for the airstrip, after which the airplane would transport to Lima the result of Gustavo's work.

  * *
*

  Later that same morning in Lima, a car skidded to a halt outside the American Embassy on Avenida Garcilaso de la Vega. A male figure carrying a substantial cardboard box jumped out. The man deposited the box outside the Embassy's protective railings, near a gate, then ran back to the car, which sped away.

  A plainclothes guard who had seen it happen sounded an alarm and all exits from the embassy, which was built like a fortress, were temporarily closed. Meanwhile a bomb disposal squad from the Peruvian armed forces was summoned to help.

  When tests revealed that the box contained no explosives, it was opened carefully, revealing the bloodstained, decapitated head of an elderly man, probably in his seventies. Alongside the head was a wallet containing a U.S. Social Security card, a Florida driver's license complete with photo, and other documents that identified the partial remains as those of Angus McMullen Sloane.

  At the time the Lima incident occurred, a Chicago Tribune reporter happened to be inside the embassy. He stayed close to ensuing developments and was the first to file a story that included the victim's name. The Tribune report was quickly picked up by wire services, TV, radio and other newspapers, first in the United States, then throughout the world.

  12

  The plan to attempt a rescue at Nueva Esperanza was complete.

  On Friday afternoon, final details were settled, the last equipment assembled. At dawn on Saturday, Partridge and his crew would fly from Lima, bound for the jungle in San Martin Province, near the Huallaga River.

  Since late Wednesday, on learning of the prisoners' location, Partridge had fretted impatiently. His first inclination had been to leave at once, but Fernandez Pabur's arguments plus his own experience had persuaded him to delay.

  ”The jungle can be a friend; it can also be an enemy,” Fernandez pointed out.”You cannot stroll into it, the way you would visit another part of town. We will be in the jungle at least one night, perhaps two, and there are certain things we must have with us for survival. I must also choose our air transport carefully—using someone reliable we can trust. Flying us in, then returning to take us out will require coordination and good timing. We need two days to prepare; even that is barely enough.”