Miguel hated the jungle—or Selva, as Peruvians called it. Hated the all-pervading dampness, decay and mold … the sense of confinement, as if the swiftly growing, impenetrable undergrowth was forever closing in … the never-ceasing dissonance of insects until you longed for a few minutes of silence and relief … the loathsome legion of soundless, slithering snakes. And the jungle was huge: almost twice the size of California and representing three fifths of Peru, though only five percent of the country’s inhabitants lived there.
Peruvians were fond of declaring there were three Perus: the bustling coastal region with a thousand miles of cities, commerce, beaches; the South Andean mountains, their magnificent peaks rivaling the Himalayas and the area perpetuating Inca history and tradition; and finally this jungle, the Amazonian Selva—Indian, wild and tribal. Well, Miguel could take and even enjoy the first and second. Nothing, though, would change his aversion to the third. The jungle was asquerosa.
His thoughts returned to Sendero Luminoso—the “Shining Path” to revolution, the name taken from the writings of Peru’s late Marxist philosopher, José Carlos Mariátegui. In 1980, Abimael Guzmán followed that lead, soon afterward anointing himself “the fourth sword of world revolution,” his predecessors, as he saw it, being Marx, Lenin and Mao Tse-tung. All other revolutionaries were spurned by Guzmán as pallid charlatans, the rejects including Lenin’s Soviet successors and Cuba’s Castro.
The guerrillas of Sendero Luminoso believed they would overthrow the existing government and rule all of Peru. But not quickly. The movement claimed to count time in decades, not in years. Yet Sendero was large and strong already, its corps of leaders and its power growing, and Miguel expected to see the overthrow happen in his lifetime. Not, however, from this odiosa jungle.
For the moment, though, Miguel was awaiting instructions about the prisoners, instructions which would probably originate in Ayacucho, a historic town in the Andes foothills where Sendero exercised almost total control. Not that Miguel cared who gave the orders as long as some, involving action, reached him soon.
But now, the Huallaga River was directly ahead—a sudden opening in the constricting jungle scene. He paused to survey it.
Wide and a muddy orange-brown from Andean lateritic silt, the Huallaga flowed steadily toward its confluence with the Marañón River three hundred miles away and, soon after, its merging with the mighty Amazon. Centuries ago, Portuguese explorers named this whole Amazon complex O Rio Mar, The River Sea.
As they drew nearer, Miguel could see two wooden workboats, each about thirty-five feet long and with twin outboard motors, moored close to the riverbank. Gustavo, leader of the small force that had met them at the airstrip, was giving orders about loading stores the arriving group had brought. He also indicated how those traveling in the boats would be divided; the prisoners were to be in the first. Miguel noted approvingly that Gustavo’s instructions included posting two armed guards while loading was taking place, a precaution against a sudden appearance by government forces.
Satisfied with what was being done, Miguel saw no reason to interfere. He would resume full command at Nueva Esperanza.
For Jessica, the river magnified the sense of isolation she felt. It seemed to her a desolate opening to an unknown world, unconnected to the one behind them. Prodded by guns, she, Nicky and Angus waded knee-deep through water to board one of the boats and, after climbing in, were ordered to sit on the damp boat bottom, a flat surface formed by boards running fore and aft above the keel. It was possible to lean back, if they chose, against the edge of a single board athwart the top of the boat, but this merely provided a choice between two discomforting positions, neither one endurable for long.
Jessica noticed then that Nicky had gone pale and was suddenly racked by vomiting. Though nothing came from his mouth except a little mucus, his chest heaved. Jessica moved closer and held him, at the same time looking desperately for help.
She immediately saw Cutface who had waded out from shore and was beside the boat. Before Jessica could speak, the woman she had observed several times before appeared and Cutface ordered, “Give them all more water—the boy first.”
Socorro filled a tin cup with water and passed it to Nicholas who drank greedily; as he did, the shaking of his body subsided. Then he said in a weak voice, “I’m hungry.”
“There is no food here,” Baudelio told him. “You will have to wait.”
Jessica protested, “There must be something he can have.”
Cutface did not answer, but the order he had given about water had made his status clear and Jessica said accusingly, “You’re a doctor!”
“That is no concern of yours.”
“And he’s American,” Angus added. “Listen to his voice.” The water seemed to have revived Angus who turned toward Baudelio. “That’s right isn’t it, you disgusting bastard? Don’t you ever feel ashamed?”
Baudelio merely turned away and climbed into the other boat.
“Please, I’m hungry,” Nicky repeated. He turned to Jessica. “Mom, I’m scared.”
Jessica, holding him again, admitted, “Darling, so am I.”
Socorro, who heard all the exchanges, appeared to hesitate. Then reaching into her shoulder bag, she produced a large bar of Cadbury’s chocolate. Without speaking, she tore open the package, broke off a half-dozen squares and offered two to each prisoner. Angus was last and shook his head. “Give mine to the boy.”
Socorro clucked her annoyance, then impulsively tossed the entire chocolate bar into the boat. It fell at Jessica’s feet. At the same time Socorro moved away, boarding the second boat.
Some of the armed men who had been in the truck and on the wooded trail now climbed into the same boat as the prisoners and both boats started to move. Jessica noticed that other men who had been in charge of the boats were also armed. Even the two helmsmen, each seated forward of the twin outboard motors, had rifles across their knees and looked ready to use them. The chances of getting away, even if there were somewhere to go, seemed nonexistent.
As both boats headed upriver against the current, Socorro fumed at herself for what she had done. She hoped no one else had seen, because giving the prisoners that good chocolate, unobtainable in Peru, was a sign of weakness, of foolish pity—a contemptible sentiment in a revolutionary.
The problem was, she had moments of vacillation within herself, a psychic tug-of-war.
Less than a week ago, Socorro had reminded herself of the need to guard against banal emotions. That was the evening following the kidnap while the Sloane woman, the boy and the old man we’re unconscious in the second floor medical room of the Hackensack house. At that time Socorro was doing her best to hate the captives—rico bourgeois scum, she had labeled them mentally, and still did. But the hatred had to be forced on that other occasion and even now, she thought to her discredit, the same seemed true.
Earlier today, in the airstrip hut when the Sloane woman asked a question after Miguel ordered silence, Socorro deliberately hit her hard, sending the woman reeling. At the time, believing Miguel was watching, Socorro had simply tried to be supportive. Yet moments later she felt ashamed at what she had done. Ashamed! She should not feel that way.
Socorro told herself: She must be resolute in putting behind her, once and for all, memories of those things she had liked—correction: deluded herself into liking—during her three years in the United States. She had to hate, hate, hate America. And these prisoners too.
Soon afterward, while the river and its dense green uninhabited shores slipped by, she dozed. Then, some three hours after departure, both boats slowed, their bows turning from the main river into a smaller stream, the banks on either side closing in and rising steeply as the boats progressed. They were nearing Nueva Esperanza, Socorro presumed, and there, she assured herself, she would strengthen and revive her radical fervor.
Baudelio, watching the boat ahead lead the way along a side valley from the Huallaga River, knew this journey was almost ended
and he was glad. His time spent with this project was close to ending too, and very soon he hoped to be in Lima. That had been promised him as soon as the captives were delivered here in a healthy state.
Well, they were healthy, even in this ghastly, humid heat.
As if the thought of humidity had prompted more of the same, the sky overhead suddenly darkened to a somber gray and a torrent of rain arrived in sheets, soaking everything in sight. While a protruding jetty could be seen ahead, with other boats moored or beached, there were still several minutes to go before landing and, for captives and captors both, there was nothing to do but sit and get wet.
Baudelio was indifferent to the rain as he was indifferent nowadays to most else that came his way—for example, the abuse directed at him by the old man prisoner and the Sloane woman. He was long past caring about that, and any humane feelings he once had concerning those he worked on medically had been extinguished years ago.
What he really longed for at this moment was a drink—several drinks; in fact, Baudelio wanted to get drunk as soon as possible. While he had continued taking the Antabuse tablets which made it impossible to drink liquor without becoming violently ill—Miguel still insisted on the alcoholic ex-doctor swallowing one tablet in his presence daily—Baudelio intended to stop the Antabuse the instant he and Miguel parted company. As far as Baudelio was concerned, that could not be too soon.
Something else Baudelio wanted was his woman in Lima. He knew she was a slut, had been a prostitute, and was a drunkard like himself, but in the messy detritus of his shattered life, she was all he had and he missed her. His own empty loneliness had been the reason for his illicit use, a week ago, of one of the cellular phones to call his woman from the Hackensack house. Since making that call, against Miguel’s orders, Baudelio had worried a lot, dreading that Miguel would find out. But the call had apparently gone undiscovered, for which he was relieved.
Oh, how he needed that drink!
The chocolate, while not a lasting substitute for food, had helped.
Jessica did not waste mental effort wondering why the sour-faced woman had so impetuously left a chocolate bar, apart from noting that she was a person of unpredictable moods. Instead Jessica concealed the chocolate in a pocket of her dress, keeping it out of sight of the armed men aboard.
While traveling upriver, Jessica gave most of the chocolate to Nicky, but ate some herself and insisted that Angus have some too. It was important, she pointed out, keeping her voice low, that they all preserve their strength—which was clearly ebbing after the time in the open truck, then the exhausting march through the jungle and now their several hours in the boat.
As to the length of time the three of them had been unconscious, Jessica realized there was a clue in Angus’s growth of beard. She hadn’t noticed before, but the unshaved gray hairs on his face were surprisingly long. When she pointed this out, Angus felt his face and estimated it was four or five days since his last shave.
Perhaps that wasn’t important now, but Jessica was still absorbing all the information she could, a reason she tried to stay alert during the river journey.
There wasn’t much to see, except thickly growing trees and foliage on both banks, and the river itself winding sinuously, hardly ever in a straight line. Several times small canoes were visible in the distance, but none came close.
Throughout the journey Jessica was plagued by constant itching. Earlier, in the hut where she first returned to consciousness seated on the dirt floor, she had been aware of insects crawling on her. Now she realized they were fleas, which had stayed with her and were biting persistently. But short of stripping, there was no way she could remove them. She hoped that wherever she and the others were being taken, there would be ample water so she could wash the fleas away.
Like everyone else, Jessica, Nicky and Angus were soaked in the deluge of rain shortly before landing at Nueva Esperanza. But as their boat made fast against a crude wooden jetty, the rain stopped as suddenly as it had begun, and at that same moment the spirits of all three sank as they saw the awful, forbidding place ahead.
Beyond a rough and muddy path from the riverbank was a series of dilapidated houses, about two dozen in all, some merely shacks built partly from old packing cases and rusted corrugated iron and supplemented by bamboo stems. Most of the houses were windowless, though two had what appeared to be small storefronts. Thatched roofs showed disrepair, and some had gaping holes. Discarded cans and other garbage littered the surrounding area. A few scrawny chickens ran loose. Off to one side, a dead dog was being pecked by buzzards.
Could there possibly be something better farther on? The dismal answer appeared when a rough, now muddy road leading out of the hamlet came into sight. The road climbed a hill and on either side, beyond the few houses already in view, was nothing but two barricading walls of jungle. At the top of the hill the road disappeared.
Later, Jessica and the others would learn that Nueva Esperanza was basically a fishing village, though Sendero Luminoso used it from time to time for purposes the organization wanted hidden.
“¡Váyanse a tierra! ¡Muévanse! ¡Apúrense!” Gustavo shouted at the prisoners, at the same time signaling them to move. Dejected, dreading whatever was to come, Jessica and the other two obeyed.
What happened minutes later was even worse than they had feared.
After being escorted by Gustavo and four more armed men up the muddy path, they were herded into a shack which stood farthest from the river. Inside, it took a few moments for their eyes to adjust to the semidarkness. When they did, Jessica screamed in anguish.
“Oh, my god, no! You can’t shut us in those! Not in cages, like animals! Please! Please no!”
What she had seen set against the far wall were three partitioned cells about eight feet square. Thin but strong bamboo stalks, securely fastened, were a substitute for bars. Additionally, between each cell, wire screening had been nailed so there could be no physical contact between adjoining occupants or anything passed from one enclosure to another. At the front of each cell was a door fitted with a sliding steel bar and, outside, a heavy padlock.
Inside each cell was a low wooden bed and a thin, soiled mattress, alongside the bed a galvanized pail, presumably intended as a toilet. The whole place stank.
While Jessica pleaded and protested, Gustavo seized her. Though she continued struggling, his hands were like steel. Impelling her forward, he ordered, “¡Vete para adentro!” Then in halting English, “You go in there.”
“In there” was the enclosure farthest from the shack’s outer door and, with a forceful shove, Gustavo pushed Jessica to the inside wall. As she fell against it, the cell door closed and she heard the padlock’s metallic click. Outside, at the opposite end of the shack, she could hear Angus fighting and arguing too, but he was subdued, thrown in, and the padlock fastened. In the cell next to her own, Jessica heard Nicky sobbing.
Tears of rage, frustration and despair coursed down her cheeks.
8
A week and a half had passed since the sixty temporary recruits had been turned loose by CBA News to make a study of the region’s local newspapers, searching for a headquarters that the Sloane family’s kidnappers might have used. However, no progress had been made, nor had there been developments in other areas.
The FBI, while not saying specifically it had reached a dead end, had nothing new to report. The CIA, now rumored to be involved, would make no statement.
What everyone was waiting for, it seemed, was some word from the kidnappers, presumably accompanied by demands. So far it hadn’t happened.
The kidnap story was still very much in the news, though on TV newscasts it had ceased to be the lead item, and in newspapers was usually on an inside page.
Despite the apparent waning of the public interest, there was no shortage of speculation. Among the news media there appeared a growing belief that the kidnap victims had somehow been spirited from the country and were overseas. As to precisely where, mos
t hypotheses centered on the Middle East.
Only at CBA News were there contrary indications. Because of the special task force identification of a Colombian terrorist, Ulises Rodríguez, as a kidnap gang participant and perhaps the gang’s leader, Latin America had become the focus of attention. Unfortunately, no particular country had been determined as the kidnappers’ base.
To the surprise of everyone involved, knowledge of the Rodríguez connection remained exclusively with CBA News. It had been expected that the discovery would quickly be duplicated by other networks and newspapers and thus become public information, but while that could still occur at any time, it hadn’t yet. There was even some unease at CBA about the News Division’s continuing to withhold its knowledge concerning Rodríguez from the FBI.
Meanwhile CBA, more than other networks, kept the kidnap story aggressively alive, using a technique borrowed from rival CBS. During the 1979–81 Iran hostage crisis, Walter Cronkite, then CBS Evening News anchorman, concluded each broadcast with the words, “And that’s the way it is [the date], the _____th day of captivity for the American hostages in Iran.” (The number of days eventually totaled 444).
As Barbara Matusow, broadcasting’s historian and conscience, recorded in her book The Evening Stars, Cronkite made “a decision that the hostages … were so important that the spotlight of national attention should not stray from them, even for a single night.”
Similarly, Harry Partridge, still acting as second anchor for any item concerning the Sloane kidnap, now began, “On this the [numbered] day since the brutal kidnapping of the wife, son and father of CBA News anchorman Crawford Sloane …” The item itself then followed.