Evening News

by Arthur Hailey

  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 Fernandez 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.

  Without 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 stem 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, imbeciles 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.

  Ramon had just reported that he was relieved by Vicente soon after I 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.

  Mi
guel, 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 Aero Libertad 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.

  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 Fernandez 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. Fernandez will lead. I'll be in the rear.”

  Minutes later the boat keel scraped on a sandy beach and they walked ashore through shallow water. An opening in what was otherwise a solid jungle wall was immediately ahead.

  If they had had more time, Partridge would have attempted to hide the boat or push it toward midstream and let it drift. As it was, they left it on the beach.

  Then, about to enter the jungle, Fernandez halted, motioning everyone to silence. Cocking his head to one side, he stood listening in the still morning air. He was more familiar with the jungle than the others, his hearing more finely attuned to its sounds. He asked Partridge softly, "Do you hear?”

  Listening, Partridge thought he could hear a distant murmuring sound from the direction they had come, but wasn't sure. He asked, "What is it?”

  "Another boat,” Fernandez answered.”Still a good distance away, but coming fast.”

  Without further delay they moved into the jungle.

  * * *

  The trail was not nearly as difficult to follow as that from the highway landing point to Nueva Esperanza which Partridge and the others in the rescue team had traversed three days earlier. It was obvious that the trail they were on was used more frequently, because it was only slightly overgrown and not at any point impassable, as the other had been.

  Just the same, it was treacherous underfoot. Uneven ground, protruding roots and soft patches where a foot could sink into mud or water were continual hazards.

  ”Watch very carefully where you step,” Fernandez warned from in front where he was setting a fast, forced pace.

  Partridge echoed, trying to be flippant and keep spirits high, "We don't want to have to carry anyone. I'm sweating enough.”

  And so they all were. As during the other jungle trek, the heat was sweltering and steamy and would get hotter as the day advanced. The insects, too, were active.

  The uppermost question in Partridge's mind was: How long could Jessica and Nicky last under this grueling pressure? After a while he decided Jessica would make it; she had determination and also, apparently, the stamina. Nicky, though, showed signs of flagging.

  At the beginning Nicky hung back, clearly wanting to be close to Partridge, as he had earlier. But Partridge insisted that the boy and Jessica be up forward, immediately behind Fernandez.”We'll be together later, Nicky,” he said.”Right now I want you with your mother.” With obvious reluctance, Nicky had complied.

  Assuming the boat they had heard was carrying their pursuers, Partridge knew an assault would come from behind. If and when that happened, he would do his best to fight off the attack while the others continued on. He had already checked the Kalashnikov rifle he was carrying over his shoulder and had the two spare magazines in a pocket where he could get to them easily.

  Again Partridge checked his watch: 7:35 A.m. They had been on the trail almost forty minutes. Remembering the eight o'clock rendezvous with AeroLibertad, he hoped they had covered three quarters of the way.

  Moments later they were forced to stop.

  Considered afterward, it seemed ironic that Fernandez, who warned the others about stepping carefully, should himself misstep and fall heavily, his foot trapped in a muddy mess of roots. As Partridge hurried toward him, Minh was already holding Fernandez while O'Hara struggled to free the foot; at the same time Fernandez was grimacing with pain.

  ”I appear to have done some damage,” he told Partridge.”I am sorry. I have let you down.”

  When the foot was free, Fernandez found it impossible to walk without excruciating pain. Clearly his ankle was broken or very badly sprained.

  ”That's not true; you've never let us down,” Partridge said.”You've been our guide and good companion and we'll carry yo
u. We need to make some kind of litter.”

  Fernandez shook his head.”Even if possible, there is not time. I have not spoken of it, Harry, but I have heard sounds behind us. They are following, and not far away. You must go on, and leave me.”

  Jessica had joined them. She told Partridge, "We can't leave him here.”

  "One of us can take you on his back,” O'Hara said.”I'll try it."

  "In this heat?” Fernandez was impatient.”You would not last a hundred yards and it would slow all of you.”

  About to add his own protest, Partridge knew it would be an exercise in futility. Fernandez was right; there could be no other choice than leaving him. But he added, "If there's help at the airstrip and it can be done, we'll come back for you.”

  "Do not waste more time, Harry. I need to say some things quickly.” Fernandez was sitting beside the trail, his back against a tree; the brush was too thick to move him farther in. Partridge knelt beside him. Jessica joined them.

  ”I have a wife and four children,” Fernandez said.”I would like to think someone will take care of them.”

  "You work for CBA,” Partridge said, "and CBA will do it. I give you my solemn word, an official promise. The children's education—everything.”

  Fernandez nodded, then motioned to an M-16 rifle he had been carrying and which lay beside him.”You had better take this. You may need it as well as what you have. But I do not intend to be taken alive. I would like a pistol.” Partridge gave him the nine-millimeter Browning, first slipping off the silencer.

  ”Oh, Fernandez!” Jessica's voice was choked, her eyes filled with tears.”Nicky and I owe you so much.” She leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead.

  ”Then go!” Fernandez urged her.”Do not squander more time and lose what we have won!”