As they separated, Sloane said, “Don’t say anything more. I’m not sure I can handle it. I can’t do the news tonight. I told them outside to call Teresa Toy …”
“Forget everything, Crawf!” Chippingham told him. “We’ll take care of it.”
“No!” Sloane shook his head. “There’s something else, something I must do. I want a Learjet to Lima. While there’s still a chance … for Jessica and Nicky … I must be there.” Sloane paused, struggling for control, then added, “I’ll go to Larchmont first, then to Teterboro.”
Chippingham said doubtfully, “Are you sure, Crawf? Is this wise?”
“I’m going, Les,” Sloane said. “Don’t try to stop me. If CBA won’t pay for an airplane, I will.”
“That won’t be necessary. I’ll order the Lear,” Chippingham said.
Later, he did. It would leave Teterboro that night and be in Peru by morning.
Because of the sudden, tragic news of Angus Sloane, Chippingham’s letter to Partridge did not get signed and faxed to Lima until late that afternoon. After his secretary had left, Chippingham sent it to a fax number he had for Entel Peru, from where it would be delivered to the CBA booth in the same building. He added a note to the transmission, asking for the letter to be placed in an envelope addressed to “Mr. Harry Partridge” and marked “Personal.”
Chippingham had considered informing Crawford Sloane about the letter, then decided Crawf had had all the shocks he could handle in a single week. He knew the letter would outrage Crawf, as well as Partridge, and expected indignant telephone calls with demands for explanations. But that would be another day and Chippingham would have to cope with it as best he could.
Finally, Chippingham telephoned Margot Lloyd-Mason who was still in her office at 6:15 P.M. He told her first, “I have done what you asked,” then gave her the news about Crawford Sloane’s father.
“I heard,” she said, “and I’m sorry. About the other, you cut it fine and I was beginning to think you wouldn’t call. But thank you.”
14
Away from the highway where the Cheyenne II had landed, the trek through the jungle for Partridge and the other three was difficult and slow.
The trail—if it could be called that—was often overgrown and frequently disappeared entirely. Faced with a dense and tangled mass of vegetation, it was necessary to hack a way through using machetes, hoping for a clearer space beyond. Tall trees formed a canopy above their heads, under an overcast sky which hinted of rain to come. Many trees had grotesquely twisted trunks, thick bark and leathery leaves; Partridge had read somewhere that eight thousand known species of trees existed in Peru. At lower levels, bamboos, ferns, lianas and parasitic plants were everywhere intertwined—the result described by the same source as “green hell.”
“Hell” was appropriate today because of the sweltering, steamy heat from which all four men were already suffering. Sweat streamed from every part of them, their condition made worse by swarms of insects. At the beginning they had soaked themselves with mosquito repellent, applying more along the way, but as Ken O’Hara put it, “The little devils seem to like the stuff.”
Fortunately, when contact with the trail was reestablished, there were areas where overhead shade from closely growing trees had made ground growth less prolific, therefore it was easier to move ahead. It was obvious that without the trail, progress would be nil.
“This route isn’t used much,” Fernández pointed out, “and that’s to our advantage.”
Their objective was to approach Nueva Esperanza, but to stay well clear of it while locating a position on higher ground. From there, hidden by the jungle, they would observe the hamlet, mainly during daylight hours. Then, depending on what was seen and learned, they would devise a plan.
The entire surrounding area for a hundred or more square miles, broken only by the Huallaga River, was dense jungle over an undulating plain. But the large-scale contour map acquired by Fernández showed several hills near their objective, one of which might work as an observation post. Nueva Esperanza itself was about nine miles from their present position—a formidable distance under these conditions.
One thing Partridge had memorized was the second message Jessica managed to convey while making her videotape recording. As reported to him by Crawford Sloane, in a sealed letter which Rita hand-carried to Peru, Jessica had scratched her left earlobe to mean: Security here is sometimes lax. An attack from outside might succeed. Sometime soon that information would be put to the test.
Meanwhile, they labored on through the jungle.
It was well into the afternoon, when everyone was near exhaustion, that Fernández warned them Nueva Esperanza might be near. “I think we have covered about seven miles,” he said; then cautioned, “we must not be seen. If we hear sounds of anyone coming, we must melt into the jungle quickly.”
Looking at dense brush and thorns on either side, Minh Van Canh said, “Makes sense, but let’s hope we don’t have to.”
Soon after Fernández’s warning, the going became easier and several other trails crisscrossed their own. Fernández explained that this whole area of slopes and hills was laced with coca fields, which at other times of the year would be bustling with activity. During a four-to-six-month growing season, coca bushes needed only minor care, so most growers lived elsewhere, coming back and occupying hilltop shacks during harvest time.
Using his contour map and compass, Fernández 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 Fernández 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 Fernández 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, Fernández 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.
Fernández 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 Fernández 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 a
dded with relief, “I guess we found Nueva Esperanza.”
After having deferred to Fernández 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. Fernández 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 had 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, Fernández 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. Fernández 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 Fernández 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, th
ere 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.