For the media capital that is Hollywood, it’s a media event that’s heaven-sent. All the pomp of a royal wedding, all the hype of a Super Bowl—all this with a cast of thousands and a star straight from central casting … Space age technology and dramatic, imagery—it’s the sort of thing John Paul favors and the camera loves.
[The Pope is] carefully crafted and controlled. He speaks out often but is seldom spoken to. The only time reporters can ask questions is in brief sessions on his plane when he travels … Media coverage has been exhaustive. The papal trip has become an electronic extravaganza like Live Aid or Liberty Weekend, and some Catholics wonder if anyone will know the difference.
Theology and technology—it’s a powerful union and John Paul’s using it to preach his message as no Pope before him ever could. The world is watching, but the real test of the great communicator is whether we’re listening too.
Rose was absolutely right, Partridge reminisced, about that brief opportunity to ask the Pope questions aboard the papal airplane. In fact, if it had not been for one short question-and-answer exchange, what developed between himself and Gemma might never have …
It was one of Pope John Paul’s longer journeys—to nearly a dozen countries in Central America and the Caribbean, and was on an Alitalia DC-10. There had been an overnight flight and early the next morning, about two hours before a scheduled landing, the Pope appeared unannounced in the rear press section. He was in everyday attire—a white cassock, a zucchetto on his head, and on his feet, brown loafers—which was normal, except when specially dressed for a papal mass.
He stopped near Harry Partridge, appearing pensive. Within the press cabin, TV camera lights were coming on; several reporters had tape recorders running.
Partridge stood and, hoping to ease into a reportable conversation, inquired politely, “Your Holiness, did you sleep well?”
The Pope smiled and answered, “Very few.”
Puzzled, Partridge asked, “Very few, your Holiness. Very few hours?”
There was no answer, only a slight shake of the head. While John Paul was an accomplished linguist in several languages, sometimes his English was solecistic. Partridge could have conversed adequately in Italian, but wanted the Pope’s words in the language of CBA viewers.
He decided to try a more newsworthy question. For several weeks there had been discussion and controversy about a possible papal visit to the Soviet Union. “Your Holiness,” Partridge asked, “do you want to go to Russia?”
This time there was a clear, “Yes.” Then the Pope added, “The Poles, the Russians, they are all slaves. But they are all my people.”
Before anything else could be said, the Pope turned and walked away, returning to his private quarters in the airplane.
Among the reporters there was an instant hum, in several languages, of questioning and speculation. The Alitalia flight attendants, who had been preparing breakfast, had stopped work and were listening intently. Someone in the press group asked, “Did you hear what he said—slaves!”
Partridge glanced at his own cameraman and sound man. Both nodded. The sound man said, “We got it.”
Somebody else was playing back a tape recording. The word “slaves” was heard distinctly.
A reporter from a British news syndicate said doubtfully, “He meant ‘Slavs.’ He’s a Slav himself. It figures.”
“‘Slaves’ makes a helluva better story,” another voice rejoined.
And so it did. Partridge knew it too. A literal reporting of the “slaves” description would arouse worldwide interest and discussion, perhaps create an international incident, with accusations and exchanges between the Kremlin, Warsaw and the Vatican. There could be embarrassment for the Pope, marring his triumphal journey.
Partridge was one of the older, more experienced hands aboard and was respected by his colleagues. Some of the others looked to him for a lead.
He considered briefly. It was a lively story, something seldom encountered on a papal trip. There might not be another. His inclination, as a skeptic, was to use it. And yet … skepticism did not override ordinary decency; and for some in the business, journalistic ethics did exist.
Making up his mind, Partridge said clearly, so that everyone could hear. “He meant ‘Slavs.’ It’s obvious that he did. I’m not going to use it.”
There was no discussion, no spoken consensus or agreement, but afterward it became clear that no one else used the incident either.
As the reporters and technical crews returned to their seats, the Alitalia flight attendants resumed work.
When Partridge’s breakfast tray came, it contained something extra, not served to the others—a small glass vase containing a single rose.
He looked up at the young stewardess who, smiling, in her smartly tailored green and black uniform, had brought the tray. He had noticed her several times before and heard other flight attendants call her Gemma. But now he was unexpectedly breathless at her closeness and, for an instant, tongue-tied.
Forever after, especially at times of terrible loneliness, he remembered Gemma as she was at that magic moment—age twenty-three, beautiful, with long, dark, lustrous hair, brown and sparkling eyes, and joyous with life like a fragrant morning flower in fresh spring air on a green and sunlit hillside.
With unaccustomed awkwardness, he pointed to the rose. Later he would learn that she had gone forward and purloined it from the Pope’s own cabin. Now he asked, “Why this for me?”
She smiled down at him and, with a soft Italian accent, said, “I brought it because you are a good, sweet man. I like you.”
Even to himself his answer seemed inadequate and banal. “I like you, too.”
But banal or not, in those few moments his great and lasting love for Gemma had begun.
Partridge drew his thoughts back to the present shortly before the Air Canada flight landed in New York. He was first off the airplane and strode quickly through La Guardia terminal. With only hand baggage, he was able to leave the airport without delay, taking a taxi to CBA News headquarters.
He headed for Chuck Insen’s office, but found it unoccupied. A senior producer at the Horseshoe called across, “Hi, Harry! Chuck’s at a press conference that’s been arranged for Crawf. The whole thing’s being taped. You’ll be able to see it.”
Then, as Partridge walked toward the Horseshoe, the producer added, “Oh, in case no one’s told you, Crawf’s on the sidelines tonight. You’ll be anchoring the news.”
4
That evening, in the Medellín gang’s hideaway at Hackensack, Miguel kept a radio tuned to an all-news station. With several of the others, he also watched a portable television, switching between news programs, all featuring reports on the Sloane family kidnap.
Despite the intense interest and speculation, it was evident that nothing had been learned so far about the kidnappers’ identities or motivations. Nor did law enforcement authorities know the escape route taken or of any specific areas where the kidnappers and their victims might have gone to ground. Some reports suggested that by now they could be many miles from New York. Others revealed that suspicious vehicles had been stopped and detained at roadblocks as far away as Ohio, Virginia and the Canadian border. Several criminal arrests had resulted from the police activity, but none was connected to the Sloanes.
Descriptions of a Nissan passenger van believed to have been used by the kidnappers were still circulating. It meant that the van abandoned by Carlos at White Plains had not been found. Carlos had returned safely to the Hackensack house hours ago.
Among Miguel and the others there was a sense of relief, though everyone knew that police forces all over North America were looking for them and their safety was only temporary. Because of the dangers still ahead, Miguel had established a guard roster. Even now Luís and Julio were patrolling outside with Beretta submachine guns, trying to stay in the shadows of the house and outbuildings.
Miguel knew that if their hideaway was discovered and the police
moved in in force, there was little chance of any of them getting away. In that event, his original orders were clear: Neither of the kidnap victims was to be taken back alive. Now, the only thing that had changed was that the order applied to three instead of two.
Of the various TV news broadcasts Miguel watched, the one that interested him most was the National Evening News from CBA. It amused him that Crawford Sloane was not in his usual anchor position; the substitute was someone named Partridge whom Miguel remembered vaguely seeing before. Sloane, however, was interviewed on air and shown at a previously recorded press conference.
The press conference had been well attended by print, television and radio reporters, along with camera and sound crews. It was held in another CBA building, a block away from news headquarters. On a sound stage, folding chairs had been hastily set up; all were occupied, with many participants standing.
There were no formal introductions and Crawford Sloane began with a brief statement. He expressed his shock and anxiety, then appealed to the news media and the public for any information which might help disclose where his wife, son and father had been taken, and by whom. He announced that a CBA phone center with a WATS line number had been set up to receive information. The center was already staffed by operators and a supervisor.
A voice injected, “You’ll be swamped with crank calls.”
Sloane responded, “We’ll take our chances. All we need is one solid piece of knowledge. Someone, somewhere, has it.”
Twice during his statement Sloane had to pause to control emotion in his voice. Each time there was a sympathetic silence. A Los Angeles Times report next day described him as “dignified and impressive in agonizing circumstances.”
Sloane announced that he would answer questions.
At first the questioning was also sympathetic. But then, inevitably, some in the press corps weighed in with tougher queries.
An Associated Press woman reporter asked, “Do you think it’s possible, as some are already speculating, that your family may have been seized by foreign terrorists?”
Sloane shook his head. “It’s too early even to think about that.”
AP objected, “You’re ducking the question. I asked if you thought it possible.”
Sloane conceded, “I suppose it’s possible.”
Someone from a local TV station asked the perennial question, “How do you feel about that?”
Someone else groaned and Sloane wanted to answer, How the hell would you feel? Instead he replied, “Obviously, I hope it isn’t true.”
A gray-haired former CBA correspondent, now with CNN, held up a copy of Sloane’s book. “Do you continue to believe, as you wrote here, that ‘hostages should be expendable,’ and are you still opposed to paying ransom—as you put it, ‘directly or indirectly, ever’?”
Sloane had anticipated the question and answered, “I don’t believe that anyone as emotionally involved as I am at this moment can be objective about that.”
“Oh, come on, Crawf,” the CNN man persisted. “If you were standing here instead of me, you wouldn’t let anyone get away with that. I’ll put the question another way: Do you regret having written those words?”
“At this moment,” Sloane said, “I find myself wishing they weren’t being quoted against me.”
Another voice called out, “They’re not being used against you and that’s still no answer.”
A woman reporter from an ABC magazine program raised her penetrating voice. “I’m sure you’re aware that your statement about American hostages being expendable caused a great deal of distress to families who have relatives still imprisoned in the Middle East. Do you have more sympathy for those families now?”
“I’ve always had sympathy,” Sloane said, “but right now I probably have a better understanding of those people’s anguish.”
“Are you telling us that what you wrote was wrong?”
“No,” he said quietly, “I’m not saying that.”
“So if a ransom is demanded, you’ll say adamantly no?”
He raised his hands helplessly. “You’re asking me to speculate on something that hasn’t occurred. I won’t do that.”
While not enjoying what was happening, Sloane acknowledged mentally that at plenty of press conferences in the past he had played hardball as an interrogator himself.
An offbeat query came from Newsday. “Not much is known about your son Nicholas, Mr. Sloane.”
“That’s because we keep our family life private. In fact, my wife insists on it.”
“It isn’t private anymore,” the reporter pointed out. “One thing I’ve been told is that Nicholas is a talented musician and might become a concert pianist one day. Is that true?”
Sloane knew that in other circumstances Jessica would object to the question as an intrusion. At this moment, though, he didn’t see how he could avoid answering it.
“Our son does love music, always has, and his teachers say he’s advanced for his age. As to his being a concert pianist or anything else, only time will tell.”
At length, when the questions seemed to be winding down, Leslie Chippingham stepped forward and declared the session at an end.
Sloane was immediately surrounded by some who wanted to shake his hand and wish him well. Then, as quickly as he could, he slipped away.
Miguel, having seen all the news he wanted, switched the television off and considered carefully what he had learned.
First, neither the Medellín cartel nor Sendero Luminoso was suspected of involvement in the kidnappings. At this point, that was helpful. Second, and equally helpful, was the fact that no descriptions existed of himself or the other six conspirators. If the authorities had somehow obtained descriptions, almost certainly they would have been made public by now.
All of which, Miguel reasoned, made slightly less dangerous what he proposed to do next.
He needed more money and, to get it, he must telephone tonight and arrange a meeting at, or near, the United Nations tomorrow.
From the beginning, getting sufficient money into the United States had been a problem. Sendero Luminoso, which was financing this operation, had plenty of money in Peru. The difficulty was in circumventing Peru’s exchange control laws and transferring hard currency in U.S. dollars to New York, at the same time keeping the movement of money—its source, routing and destination—secret.
It had been done ingeniously, with help from a revolutionary sympathizer, a Sendero ally highly placed inside the Lima, Peru, banking system. His accomplice in New York was a Peruvian diplomat, a senior aide to Peru’s ambassador to the United Nations.
The amount of operating funds allocated during planning by Sendero and Medellín was $850,000. This included payments to personnel, their transportation and living expenses, leasing a secret headquarters, the purchase of six vehicles, medical supplies, the funeral caskets, payments in the Little Colombia district of Queens for covert aid and firearms, commissions in Peru and New York on money transfers, plus bribes to an American woman banker. There would also be the cost of flying the captives by private aircraft from the U.S. to Peru.
Almost all the money spent in New York had been drawn in cash by Miguel, through the United Nations source.
The way it worked was that the Lima banker surreptitiously converted the funds entrusted to him by Sendero Luminoso into U.S. dollars, $50,000 at a time. He then made transfers to a New York bank at Dag Hammarskjöld Plaza near United Nations headquarters, where the money was placed in a special sub-account of the Peruvian UN delegation. The account’s existence was known only to José Antonio Salaverry, the UN ambassador’s trusted aide, who had authority to sign checks, and to the bank’s assistant manager, Helga Efferen. The woman banker personally took care of the special account.
José Antonio Salaverry was another secret supporter of Sendero, though not above taking a commission on the transferred funds. Helga was sleeping regularly with the duplicitous Salaverry and both were living a lavish New York lifestyle
beyond their means, partying and keeping up with the free-spending United Nations diplomatic crowd. For that reason the extra money they made by secretly channeling the incoming funds was warmly welcomed.
Whenever Miguel had needed money he telephoned Salaverry and stated the amount. A meeting was then arranged for a day or two later, usually at UN headquarters, occasionally elsewhere. In the meantime Salaverry would obtain a briefcase full of cash. Miguel would walk away with it.
Only one thing bothered Miguel. On one occasion, Salaverry let slip that while not knowing the money’s specific purpose or where Miguel and the others from Medellín were hiding out, he had a pretty good idea of their objective. This, Miguel realized, could only mean there had been a security leak in Peru. At this point there was nothing he could do, but it made him wary of contacts with José Antonio Salaverry.
Miguel glanced at the cellular phone beside him. For a moment he was tempted to use it, but knew he shouldn’t and must go out. In a café eight blocks away was a pay phone he had used before. He checked his watch: 7:10 P.M. With luck, Salaverry would be in his mid-Manhattan apartment.
Miguel put on a topcoat and walked quickly, keeping a lookout for any sign of unusual activity in the area. There was none.
During the walk he thought again about the televised press conference with Crawford Sloane. Miguel had been interested in the reference to a book by Sloane which apparently included statements about never paying ransom and that “hostages should be expendable.” Miguel hadn’t known about the book nor, he was sure, had others in the Medellín cartel or Sendero Luminoso. He doubted, though, if the knowledge would have affected the decision to abduct Sloane’s family; what someone wrote for publication and what they felt and did in private were often different. But either way, it made no difference now.
Something else of interest coming out of the press conference was the description of the mocoso Sloane brat as a possible concert pianist. Without any clear notion of how he might use it, Miguel tucked the nugget of information away.