Evening News

by Arthur Hailey

  Using his contour map and compass, Fernandez continued to guide the other three; at the same time, the extra effort now required in walking told them they were gradually moving uphill. After another hour they entered a clearing and, beyond it, could see a shack amid jungle trees.

  By now it had become evident to Partridge that Fernandez knew the area better than he had admitted earlier. When questioned, the stringer-fixer conceded, "I have been here several times before.”

  Inwardly, Partridge sighed. Was Fernandez one more among the army of pseudo-upright people who benefited in back-door, insidious ways from the ubiquitous cocaine trade? Latin America, and the Caribbean especially, were full of such pretenders, many in high places.

  As if sensing the thought, Fernandez added, "I was here one time for a 'dog-and-pony show' put on by our government for your State Department. There was a visitor—your Attorney General, I think—and the media were brought along. I was one of them.”

  Despite his reaction a moment earlier, Partridge smiled at the "dog-and-pony show” description. It was one applied contemptuously by reporters when a foreign government staged an anti-drug performance designed to impress a visiting American delegation. Partridge could imagine the scene here: An "invasion” by helicopter-borne troops who would uproot and burn a few acres of coca plants and destroy a processing lab or two with dynamite. The visitors would praise the host government's anti-drug efforts, either not knowing or ignoring the fact that thousands of coca-growing areas and dozens of other labs nearby remained untouched.

  Next day the visitors' photos would be in U.S. newspapers, accompanied by their approving statements, the process repeated on TV. And reporters—knowing they had been part of a charade, but unable to pass it up because others were recording it—would swallow hard and nurse their shame.

  It had happened in Peru, which was neither a dictatorship nor communist but, Partridge thought, might soon be one or the other.

  Fernandez inspected the clearing, they had reached, including the hut, satisfying himself that no one was there. Then he led the way eastward into the jungle again, but only for a little way, the others halting when Fernandez cautioned them with a signal. A moment later he parted a cluster of ferns and motioned the others to look. One by one they did so, observing a collection of dilapidated buildings about half a mile away and two hundred feet below. There were two dozen or so shacks located on a riverbank. A muddy path led from the buildings to a rough wooden jetty and the river, where a motley collection of boats was moored.

  Partridge said softly, "Nice going, everybody!” He added with relief, "I guess we, found Nueva Esperanza.”

  * * *

  After having deferred to Fernandez on the trail, Harry Partridge now resumed command.

  ”We don't have a lot of daylight left,” he told the others. The sun was already near the horizon, the journey having taken far longer than expected.”I want to observe as much as possible before dark. Minh, bring the other binoculars and join me forward. Fernandez and Ken ' pick a sentry post and one of you keep watch to see if we're approached from behind. Work that out between you, and if someone does show, call me quickly.”

  Approaching the strip of jungle, which prevented them from being seen from below, Partridge dropped to his belly and wriggled forward, carrying the binoculars he had brought. Minh, beside him, did the same, both stopping when they could see clearly but were still shielded by surrounding foliage.

  Moving the binoculars slowly, Partridge studied the scene below.

  There was almost no activity. At the jetty, two men were working on a boat, stripping an outboard engine. A woman left one shack, emptied a pail of slops behind it, and returned inside. A man emerged from the jungle, walked toward another house and entered. Two scrawny dogs were clawing their way into an open garbage pile. Other garbage littered the area. Viewed overall, Nueva Esperanza appeared to be a jungle slum.

  Partridge began studying the buildings individually, letting the binoculars linger several minutes on each. Presumably the prisoners were being held in one of them, but no clue was evident as to which. It was already obvious, he thought, that at least a full day's observation would be needed and any idea of a rescue attempt tonight and departure by air tomorrow morning was clearly out of the question. He settled down, simply to wait and watch while the light diminished.

  As always in the tropics when the sun receded, darkness followed quickly. In the houses a few dim lights had come on and now the last vestiges of day were almost gone. Partridge lowered his binoculars and wiped his eyes, which were strained after more than an hour of concentration on the scene below. There was little else, he believed, that they would learn today.

  At that moment Minh touched his arm, gesturing toward the huts below. Partridge picked up his binoculars and peered again. At once he saw movement in the now dim light—the figure of a man walking down the path between two groups of houses. In contrast to other movements they had seen, this man's walk seemed purposeful. Something else was different; Partridge strained to see . . . now he had it! The man was carrying a rifle, slung over his shoulder. Partridge and Minh both followed the man's movement with their binoculars.

  Away from the other buildings, standing separately, was a single shack. Partridge had seen it earlier, but there had been nothing special to attract attention. Now the man reached the building and disappeared inside. There was an opening in the front wall and dim light filtered through.

  Still they continued watching, and for a few minutes nothing happened. Then, from the same shack a figure emerged and walked away. Even in the faded light two things could be distinguished: This was a different man and he, too, was carrying a gun.

  Could it be, Partridge wondered excitedly, that what they had just witnessed was a changing of the prisoners' guard? More confirmation was needed and they would have to keep observing. But the probability was strong that the shack standing alone was where Jessica and Nicky Sloane were being held.

  He tried not to let his mind dwell on the likelihood that, until a day or two before, Angus Sloane had been confined there too.

  * * *

  The hours passed.

  Partridge bad advised the others, "What we need to know is how much activity there is at night in Nueva Esperanza, roughly how long it lasts, and what time everything settles down, with most lights out. I'd like a written record kept, with all times noted.”

  At Partridge's request, Minh stayed another hour alone at the observation point and, later, Ken O'Hara relieved him.

  ”Everyone get as much rest as you can,” Partridge ordered.”But we should man the observation point and the sentry post in the clearing all the time, which means only two people can sleep at once.” After discussion it was decided they would alternate duty with sleep, using two-hour shifts.

  Earlier, Fernandez had rigged hammocks with mosquito netting inside the hut they had found on arrival. The hammocks were less than comfortable, but those using them were too exhausted from the day's activity to care, and quickly fell asleep. The idea of bringing plastic sheeting was justified during the night when rain fell heavily and leaked through the hut roof. Fernandez adroitly covered the hammocks so the sleepers were protected. Those outside huddled in their own plastic protection as best they could until the rain stopped half an hour later.

  Nothing specific was done about meals. Food and water were handled individually, though they all knew the dried food must be used sparingly. Their water supply, brought from Lima the preceding day, had already been consumed, and several hours earlier Fernandez had filled water bottles from a jungle stream, adding sterilizing tablets. He had warned that most local water was contaminated by chemicals used by drug processors. The water in the bottles now tasted awful and everyone drank as little as possible.

  By dawn next morning, Partridge had answers to his questions concerning Neuva Esperanza at night: There was very little activity—other than the strumming of a guitar and occasional strident voices and drunken laughter
somewhere indoors. Such activity as there was lasted for about three and a half hours after dark. By 1:30 A.M. the entire hamlet was silent and dark.

  What they still needed to know—assuming Partridge's surmises about the guards and the prisoners' location were correct —was how often a guard change occurred, and at what times. By morning no clear picture had emerged. If there had been another guard change in the night, it escaped observation.

  Their routine continued through the day.

  Manning of the sentry post and observation point was maintained, and even during daytime the hammocks were available to those off duty. All took advantage of them, knowing their reserves of endurance might be needed later.

  During the afternoon, while it was Harry Partridge's turn in a hammock, he contemplated what he and the others were doing . . . asking himself with a sense of unreality: Is all this really happening? Should their small, unofficial force be attempting a rescue? In a few hours, no more, they would probably have to kill or be killed themselves. Was it all madness? Like that line from Macbeth, ". . . life's fitful fever . . .”

  He was a professional journalist, wasn't he? A TV correspondent, an observer of wars and conflict, not a participant. Yet suddenly, by his own decision, he had become an adventurer, a mercenary, a would—be soldier. Did this switch in any way make sense?

  Whatever the answer, there was another question: If he, Harry Partridge, failed to do what was needed here and now, who would?

  And something else: A journalist covering wars, especially a TV correspondent, was never far from violence, mayhem, ugly wounding, sudden death. He or she lived those perils, shared them, sometimes suffered them, then brought them nightly into the clean and tidy living rooms of urban America, an environment where they were no more than images on a screen and therefore not dangerous to those who watched.

  And yet, increasingly, those images were becoming dangerous, were moving closer both in time and distance, and soon would be not only pictures on a tube but harsh reality in American cities and streets where crime already prowled. Now the violence and terrorism in the underprivileged, divided, war-torn half-world was moving nearer, ever nearer, to American soil. It was inevitable and had been expected by international scholars for a long time.

  The Monroe Doctrine, once thought to be an American protection, no longer worked; nowadays few bothered even speaking of it. The kidnapping of the Sloane family within the United States by foreign agents had demonstrated that international terrorism was already there. There was more, much more, to come—terrorist bombings, hostage taking, shelling in the streets. Tragically, there was no way to avoid it. Equally tragic was that many who were not participants soon would be —like it or not.

  So at this moment, Partridge thought, his involvement and that of the other three was not unreal. He suspected that Minh Van Canh, especially, saw nothing contradictory in their present situation. Minh, who had lived through and survived a terrible, divisive war within his own country, would find it easier than most to accept this undertaking now.

  And, in a personal way, beyond and overshadowing all those thoughts was Jessica. Jessica, who was probably close at hand, somewhere inside that hut. Jessica—Gemma whose memories and personalities, in his mind, were intertwined.

  Then . . . fatigue suddenly overwhelming him . . . he fell asleep.

  On awakening, some fifteen minutes before his own observation duty, he dropped down from the hammock and went outside to check the general situation.

  At the sentry post, as previously, there had been no alarms or action. The observation point, however, had produced specific information and opinions.

  There was a regular change of an armed person—presumably a guard—at the same location as on the night before, suggesting that prisoners were indeed housed in the building that stood apart from others. It seemed probable that a guard change was supposed to occur every four hours, but the timing was not exact. A changeover was sometimes as much as twenty minutes late and the imprecision, Partridge believed, showed a casualness on the guards' part, confirming the message conveyed by Jessica: Security here is sometimes lax.

  Since morning, what appeared to be food in containers had been delivered twice by women entering what was presumed to be the prisoners' building. The same woman who delivered food made two separate journeys out with pails which she emptied into the bush.

  Within the hamlet, only at the suspected building did any guard or sentry post exist.

  While members of the guard force were armed with automatic rifles, they did not seem to be soldiers or to operate as a trained unit.

  During the day, all comings and goings to and from Nueva Esperanza were by boat. No road vehicle was seen. The engines on boats did not appear to require keys; therefore it would be easy to steal a boat if that line of escape was taken. On the other hand, there were plenty of other boats with which a stolen boat could be pursued. Ken O'Hara, who was familiar with boats, identified the best ones.

  A unanimous view among the observers, though it was only an opinion, was that the people being observed were almost totally relaxed, which seemed to indicate that an aggressive incursion from outside was not expected.”If one was,” Fernandez pointed out, "they would have patrols out, including up here, looking for people like us.”

  At dusk, Partridge called the other three together and informed them, "We've watched long enough. We go down tonight.”

  He told Fernandez, "You'll guide us from here. I want to arrive at that hut at 2 a.m. Everyone must be silent all the way. If we need to communicate, whisper.”

  Minh asked, "Is there an order of battle, Harry?”

  "Yes,” Partridge answered.”I'll go close up, look in to see what I can, then enter first. I'd like you right behind me, Minh, covering my back. Fernandez will hang behind, watch the other houses for anyone appearing, but join us if we need help.”

  Fernandez nodded.

  Partridge turned to O'Hara, "Ken, you'll go directly to the jetty. I've decided we'll leave by boat. We don't know what kind of condition Jessica and Nicholas are in, and they may not be up to the journey we had coming here.”

  "Got it!” O'Hara said.”I assume you want me to grab a boat.”

  “Yes and, if you can, disable some of the others, but remember—no noise!”

  "There'll be noise when we start the motor.”

  "No,” Partridge said.”We'll have to row away, and when we get to midstream let the current take us. Fortunately it's going in the right direction. Only when we're out of hearing will we start the engine.”

  Even as he spoke, Partridge knew he was assuming everything would go well. If not, they would improvise as best they could, which included using weapons.

  Remembering the planned 8 A.m. rendezvous with AeroLibertad's Cheyenne II, Fernandez inquired, "Have you decided which airstrip we'll try for—Sion or the other?”

  "I'll make that choice in the boat, depending how everything else goes and how much time we have.”

  What was necessary now, Partridge concluded, was to check weapons, discard unneeded equipment and make sure they could travel as light and as fast as possible.

  A mixture of excitement and apprehension gripped them all.

  15

  Back in Lima on Saturday morning, after watching the AeroLibertad Cheyenne II depart, Rita Abrams had been taken completely by surprise on two counts.

  First, she had not expected an on-the-scene appearance by Crawford Sloane. A message awaiting her at CBA's Entel Peru booth announced that Sloane would be in Lima by early morning, in fact could have arrived already. She promptly called Cesar's Hotel where, according to the message, he would be staying. Crawf had not yet checked in, and she left word advising him where she was and requesting that he phone.

  Second, and even more surprising, was the faxed letter from Les Chippingham, sent the previous evening to Harry Partridge. The instruction on the letter to place it in an envelope marked "Personal” had clearly not been noticed by the busy Entel f
ax operator and it arrived along with other mail, open so that anyone could read it. Rita did, and was incredulous.

  Harry had been fired, dismissed by CBA! "Effective immediately,” the letter said, and he was to leave Peru "preferably” on Saturday—today!—"definitely” no later than Sunday. If a commercial flight to the U.S. was not available, he was authorized to charter. Big deal!

  The more Rita thought about it, the more ridiculous and outrageous it was, especially now. Could Crawf's arrival in Lima, she wondered, have anything to do with it? She was sure it did, and waited impatiently to hear from Sloane, all the while her anger over the abominable treatment of Harry intensifying.

  Meanwhile, there was no way she could communicate the letter's contents to Partridge since he was already in the jungle, on his way to Nueva Esperanza.

  * * *

  Sloane didn't telephone. After arriving at the hotel and receiving Rita's message, he took a taxi immediately to Entel. He had worked in Lima on assignment in the past and knew his way around.

  His first question to Rita was, "Where's Harry?”

  "In the jungle,” she answered tersely, "risking his life trying to rescue your wife and boy.” Then she thrust the faxed letter forward.”What the hell is this?”

  "What do you mean?” Crawford Sloane took the letter and read it as she watched him. He read it twice, then shook his head.”This is a mistake. It has to be.”

  A sharpness still in Rita's voice, she asked, "Are you telling me you don't know anything about it?”

  "Of course not.” Sloane shook his head impatiently.”Harry's my friend. Right now I need him more than anyone else in the world. Please tell me what he's doing in the jungle—isn't that what you just said?” Sloane had clearly dismissed the letter as absurd, something he would not waste time on.