The lesson was clear: Nothing was easy and uncomplicated. He should have learned it long ago.
He would remember it, however, from this moment on.
So what came next?
First, he must leave Peru. His life would be forfeit if he stayed; Sendero Luminoso would see to that.
He could not even go back to Nueva Esperanza.
Fortunately, he had no reason to. Before departure, foreseeing the possibility of what actually occurred, he had stowed all of his cash—including most of the fifty thousand dollars he collected from José Antonio Salaverry during his final visit to the United Nations—into a money belt he was wearing. He could feel it now. Uncomfortable but reassuring.
The money was ample to get him out of Peru and into Colombia.
What he intended now was to slip away into the jungle. There was an airstrip twenty-five kilometers away—not either of the two that had been targeted today—where drug-traffic planes flown by Colombian pilots came and went frequently. He knew he could buy passage to Colombia and, once there, would be safe.
If anyone in the group from Nueva Esperanza attempted to stop him, he would kill him. But Miguel doubted if anyone would. Of the seven who had accompanied him here, only four were still alive; Ramón and two others had been killed by this gringo who lay at his feet—identity unknown, though a good marksman.
Even back in Colombia, his reputation would suffer a little from the Nueva Esperanza debacle, but that would not last. And unlike Sendero Luminoso, the Colombian drug cartels were not fanatical. Ruthless, yes, but otherwise pragmatic and businesslike. Miguel had eminently salable talents as an anarchist-terrorist. The cartels had need of him.
Miguel had recently learned that a long-term program was under way to convert a series of small and medium-sized countries to the same drug-cartel-dominated status as Colombia. He was certain the project would present an opportunity for his special skills.
As a functioning democracy Colombia was finished. Outwardly, some showcase trappings remained, but even those were disappearing as killings ordered by the cartels’ powerful billionaire bosses eliminated the diminishing minority who believed in bygone ways.
What was needed to transform other countries into replicas of Colombia was corruption at or near the top of governments, corruption making it possible for drug cartels to move in and operate. Next, insidiously and quietly, the cartels would become stronger than the governments—after which, as in Colombia, there was never any turning back.
Four countries were mentioned nowadays as potential targets to be “Colombia-ized.” They were Bolivia, El Salvador, Guatemala and Jamaica. Later, others could be added to the list.
With his unique experience and ability to survive, Miguel decided, he was likely to be busy for a long time ahead.
21
Aboard the Cheyenne II, several minutes passed before anyone felt capable of speech. Crawford Sloane was holding Jessica and Nicky close to him, the three oblivious to all else.
At length Sloane raised his head and asked Minh Van Canh, “About Harry … did you see anything more?”
Minh nodded sadly. “I was focused on him. He was hit again, several times. There isn’t any doubt.”
Sloane sighed. “He was the best …”
Minh corrected him, his voice unusually strong. “The very best. As a correspondent. As a human being. I’ve seen a good many, and there wasn’t anyone I knew who came close to Harry in all those years.” The words were spoken almost as a challenge. Minh had known Sloane and Partridge for an equal time.
If it was a challenge, Sloane did not contest it. He said simply, “I agree.”
Jessica and Nicky were listening, both busy with their thoughts.
It was Rita, the professional with responsibilities, who asked Minh, “May I see some of your pictures?” She knew that despite Harry’s death, she must put a broadcast together in Lima, barely an hour away.
She also knew they had a world exclusive story.
Minh did some rewinding, then passed his Betacam to Rita. Squinting through the viewfinder, she watched videotape shots: as usual, Minh had captured the essentials of everything. The pictures were superb. Some final shots—of Harry wounded, then falling to the fatal bullets—were stark and moving. As she handed the camera back, Rita’s eyes were moist but she wiped them with the back of her hand, knowing there was no time now either to mourn Harry or to cry. Both would come later, probably when she was alone tonight.
Sloane asked, “Did Harry have anybody—a girlfriend? I know he never remarried after Gemma.”
“There was—is someone,” Rita said. “Her name is Vivien. She’s a nurse and lives in a place called Port Credit; that’s outside Toronto.”
“We should call. I’ll talk to her if you like.”
“Yes, I would like,” Rita said. “And when you do, tell her Harry made a will before leaving and I have it. He left everything to her. Vivien doesn’t know it, but she’s a millionaire now. It seems Harry salted money away in tax havens all over the world. Along with the will, he left a list.”
Minh, unnoticed while they were talking, had been taking video shots of Jessica and Nicky. Now, Rita saw, the camera was directed at Nicky’s bandaged right hand. It reminded her of something she had brought from Lima and, reaching into a briefcase, she produced a Teletype message received through Entel Peru.
“Before Harry left,” Rita told the others, “he asked me to send a cable to one of his friends—a surgeon in Oakland, California. Harry explained that his friend is among the world’s ranking experts on injured hands. The cable asked questions about Nicholas. This is the reply.”
She passed the typed sheet to Sloane who read it aloud.
RETEL. HAVE READ INFO YOU SENT ALSO DETAILS IN NEWSPAPERS ABOUT YOUR YOUNG FRIEND’S HAND. PROSTHESES NOT RECOMMENDED. THEY WILL NOT FUNCTION OR HELP HIM PLAY PIANO, MAY EVEN GET IN WAY. INSTEAD HE SHOULD AND CAN LEARN TO ROTATE HAND DOWNWARD UNTIL WHAT REMAINS OF INDEX AND LITTLE FINGERS COMES IN CONTACT WITH PIANO KEYS. INCIDENTALLY IN A WAY HE’S LUCKY BECAUSE FOREGOING WOULD NOT BE POSSIBLE IF DIFFERENT FINGERS LOST. APPLIES ONLY TO THOSE TWO.
LEARNING TO ROTATE HAND WILL TAKE PATIENCE, PERSEVERANCE. BUT IF ENTHUSIASTIC CAN BE DONE. BEING YOUNG HELPS. HAVE WOMAN PATIENT WHO LOST SAME FINGERS NOW PLAYS PIANO. WOULD BE GLAD TO BRING TWO TOGETHER IF YOU WISH.
TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF HARRY. WARMEST REGARDS.
JACK TUPPER, M.D.
There was a silence, then Nicky said, “May I look at that, Dad?” Sloane passed the sheet across.
“Don’t lose that!” Jessica cautioned Nicky. “It will give you something to remember Harry by.” The instinctive, close companionship of Harry and Nicky, she thought, had been brief yet beautiful while it lasted.
She remembered Nicky’s early dispirited words to Harry at Nueva Esperanza: “They killed my granddad and cut off two of my fingers, so I can’t play the piano anymore. “Obviously Nicky would never be a concert pianist, which he had dreamed of. But he would play the piano and fulfill his joy in music in other ways.
Nicky was reading the cable, holding it in his left hand while the beginning of a smile appeared on his face. He was turning his bandaged right hand in a rolling motion.
“I guess there will never be a time,” Crawford Sloane said, “when there isn’t something we’ll have reason to thank Harry for.”
“Fernández, too,” Jessica reminded him. They had already spoken of the stringer-fixer’s sacrifice and presumed death. Now she told Crawford and Rita of the promise Harry made before leaving Fernández beside the jungle trail.
Fernández had spoken of his wife and four children, asking if someone would take care of them, and Harry pledged, “You work for CBA, and CBA will do it. I give you my solemn word, an official promise. The children’s education—everything.”
“If Harry said that,” Sloane said, “he was speaking for CBA and it’s binding like a legal document. When we get back I’ll see it’s put into effect.”
; “There’s one snag,” Rita pointed out. “It happened after Harry was fired, even though he didn’t know it.”
Minh, who overheard, looked startled—a reminder that only a few people knew about the Chippingham letter of dismissal.
“It makes no difference,” Sloane said. “Harry’s promise will be honored.”
“But it does bring up something we have to decide,” Rita pointed out. “Are we going to refer to Harry’s firing in what we report today?”
“No,” Sloane said emphatically. “That’s our internal dirty linen. We won’t wash it in public.”
But it will come out, Rita thought. In the end, it always does.
Crawf still didn’t know about the “You-son-of-a-bitch!” memo she had faxed to Les Chippingham via the Horseshoe. Probably within a week that would surface in the Times or Washington Post. And if not there, then later in the Columbia Journalism Review or Washington Journalism Review. Well, let it happen!
Rita was reminded that, as a result of the memo, she was probably out of a job. Among other things she had signed herself “ex-producer.” Well, however it all came out, she would see this present assignment through to its end.
Jessica spoke up. “There’s something that’s been bothering me. It’s about the airstrip we were at, the last one.”
“Sion,” Rita prompted.
Jessica nodded. “I had the feeling, on the jungle trail and at the airstrip, that I’d been there before. I think it’s where we were brought first, when we all came back from unconsciousness. Though I didn’t know it was an airstrip then. And there’s something else.”
“Go on,” Rita said. She had reached for a pad and was making notes.
“There was a man in a hut we were held in. I don’t know who or what he was, though I’m sure he was American. I pleaded with him to help us, but he didn’t. I have this, though.”
The day before, Jessica had retrieved from beneath the mattress in her cell the drawing she had made. Since then she had carried it, folded, in her brassiere. She handed it to Rita.
The drawing was of the Learjet pilot, Denis Underhill.
“Tonight,” Rita said, “we’ll run this on the National Evening News and ask if anyone can identify him. With twenty million people watching, there should be someone.”
The Cheyenne II droned on, still climbing, gaining altitude to pass over the peaks of the Andes Cordillera Range, after which they would descend toward sea level and Lima. The time, Rita noted, was a few minutes past 9 A.M. The flight would take another forty minutes.
What was necessary now, she realized, was to make a firm plan for the remainder of the day, in conjunction with Crawf. She had already done some advance work, having anticipated most, though not all, of what had happened.
The dramatic story of the rescue was, at this moment, exclusively CBA’s. Therefore, until New York first-feed broadcast time, which was 5:30 P.M. in Peru, Jessica and Nicky must be kept somewhere out of sight, unavailable to the remainder of the media. Crawf, she was sure, would see the need for that.
It meant that Jessica and Nicky could not yet be taken to Cesar’s Hotel or Entel Peru, both of which were swarming with reporters and TV crews. The same applied to other hotels in downtown Lima.
So what Rita had arranged was for them to go to the home of the AeroLibertad owner-pilot, Oswaldo Zileri, who lived on the outskirts of Miraflores. They could remain there until 5:30, after which their being seen by others in press or television would no longer matter. In fact, it was an ordeal they would eventually have to face.
In the meantime, working with Bob Watson, the TV-video editor, Rita would put a report together for the National Evening News that night. It would be a long one and use most of Minh’s best pictures—of the rescue, the death of Harry Partridge and the sad moment when Fernàndez had been left beside the jungle trail.
She wouldn’t even ask New York for a specific amount of time. This was one occasion when she knew she could have whatever time was needed.
Rita was certain, too, that the network would want a one-hour news special in prime time tonight. Well, she had extra ingredients for that. They included the videotape recording of Dolores, the drunken companion of the American ex-doctor Hartley Gossage, alias Baudelio, who so despicably used his medical skills to transport the three kidnap victims to Peru. Harry had put that together as a package, with his own commentary; it was ready to go.
As to everything else, both for the evening news and later, Crawf would do the narration and standups. That might be difficult for him. He would need to speak of the deaths of his own father, Harry Partridge and Fernández, and of the mutilation of Nicky’s hand. Crawf was sometimes emotional and might choke up. No matter, Rita thought. It would make the story more convincing, and Crawf would recover and go on. He was a professional newsperson, like Rita and the rest.
One item of news, Rita realized, could not and should not be suppressed throughout the day. That was the fact that a rescue had occurred and Nicky and Jessica were safe.
There must be a bulletin. When CBA News received it in New York, they would break instantly into network programming. Once more, CBA would be ahead of the competition.
Again Rita checked her watch: 9:23. Another twenty minutes or so of flying. Allowing time to get from the airport into Lima, the bulletin could be set for 10:30 A.M. They would send just a few pictures, transmitting “quick and dirty”—the way they had from Dallas–Fort Worth airport for the Airbus crash story she, Harry, Minh and Ken O’Hara had worked on less than a month ago.
Was it really only that short a time? It seemed much longer—another world away.
She would need satellite time for the 10:30 bulletin. Rita leaned forward and tapped Zileri on the shoulder. When he turned, she pointed to the aircraft radio. “Can you patch a phone call through? I want to call New York.”
“Sure can.”
She scribbled a number and passed it forward. In a surprisingly short time a voice on a speaker said, “CBA foreign desk.”
The copilot, Felipe, passed back a microphone. “Go ahead,” he told her.
She held the transmit button down. “This is Rita Abrams. Get me a bird out of Lima for a bulletin at 10:30 Lima time. Make sure the Horseshoe knows.”
A voice replied laconically, “You got it. Will do.”
“Thanks. Goodbye.” She handed the microphone back.
A script would be needed for the bulletin, also for later. Rita scribbled a few phrases, then decided Crawf would do the rest and find the right words. He always did. He would probably ad-lib in part. He was good at that too.
In what was left of the flight, she and Crawf must work together. Unfortunately, it meant pulling him away from the arms of Jessica and Nicky. But he would accept the need and so would they. Like everyone else in the business, they all understood that the news came first.
“Crawf,” Rita said gently, “you and I have work to do. It’s time we started.”
About the Author
Arthur Hailey (1920–2004), the author of eleven novels, many of which became #1 New York Times bestsellers, was born in Luton, England. He served as a pilot and flight lieutenant in the British Royal Air Force during World War II and immigrated to Canada in 1947. While working for a transportation trade magazine, he scored his first writing success with a television drama, and began to write screenplays full-time for various networks during the golden age of live television. His novel-writing career took off in 1959 with the publication of his first novel, The Final Diagnosis, and picked up velocity with Hotel and then Airport, which spent thirty weeks in the number-one spot on the New York Times bestseller list and became a blockbuster film. Hailey’s novels, many of which have been made into films, television series, and miniseries, have been translated into forty languages. They are notable for their suspenseful storylines and authentic depictions of various industries and commercial settings, which Hailey aggressively and meticulously researched.
All rights reserved, including withou
t limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1990 by Arthur Hailey
Cover design by Mimi Bark
ISBN: 978-1-5040-2221-7
This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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Arthur Hailey, The Evening News
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