The Evening News

by Arthur Hailey

  “You realize our phones at home have unlisted numbers?”

  “Yes, but I’m assuming the kidnappers have those numbers. Quite a few people are bound to know them.” Havelock produced a notebook. “Now, Mr. Sloane, I need answers to some questions.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Have you, or members of your family, received any threats that you remember? Think carefully, please.”

  “I’m not aware of any.”

  “Is there anything you might have reported on the news which could have caused special antagonism on the part of someone, or some group?”

  Sloane threw up his hands. “Once a day, at least.”

  The FBI man nodded. “I guessed that, so two of my colleagues will view tapes of your broadcasts, working backward through the past two years, to see if ideas suggest themselves. How about antagonistic mail? You must get some.”

  “I never see it. People in network news are shielded from the mail. It’s a management decision.”

  Havelock’s eyebrows went up as Sloane continued, “Everything we broadcast generates a phenomenal amount of mail. Reading all those letters would take too much time. Then we’d probably want to respond, which would take more time still. Something else management believes is that we’re better able to keep our sense of perspective and fairness if protected from individual reactions to the news.” Sloane shrugged. “Some may disagree, but that’s the way it is.”

  “So what happens to the mail?”

  “It’s handled by a department called Audience Services. All letters are answered and anything judged important is sent to the News Division president.”

  “I presume all incoming mail is kept.”

  “I believe so.”

  Havelock made a note. “We’ll assign people to go through that too.”

  During a pause, Chuck Insen knocked on the office door and came in.

  “If I can interrupt …” As the other two nodded, the executive producer said, “Crawf, you know we all want to do the best we can—for you, for Jessica, Nicky …”

  Sloane acknowledged, “Yes, I know.”

  “We feel you shouldn’t do the news tonight. For one thing, it will be heavily about you. For another, even if you anchored the remainder, it would look too much like business as usual, almost as if the network wasn’t caring, which of course isn’t true.”

  Sloane considered, then said thoughtfully, “I suppose you’re right.”

  “What we’re wondering is if you’d feel up to being interviewed—live.”

  “Do you think I should?”

  “Now that the story’s out,” Insen said, “I think the wider attention it gets, the better. There’s always a chance that someone watching might come through with information.”

  “Then I’ll do it.”

  Insen nodded, then continued, “You know the other networks and the press want to interview you. How do you feel about a press conference this afternoon?”

  Sloane made a gesture of helplessness, then conceded, “All right, yes.”

  Insen asked, “When you’re through here, Crawf, can you join Les and me in my office? We’d like your views about some other plans.”

  Havelock interjected, “As much as possible, I’d like Mr. Sloane to stay in his office and be close to this telephone.”

  “I’ll be close to it anyway,” Sloane assured him.

  Leslie Chippingham had already telephoned Rita Abrams in Minnesota with the unhappy news that their planned lovers’ weekend would have to be abandoned. There was no way, he explained, that in the midst of this breaking story he could leave New York.

  Rita, while disappointed, was understanding. People in TV news were used to unexpected events disrupting their lives, even their illicit affairs.

  She had asked, “Do you need me on the story?”

  He told her, “If we do, you’ll hear soon enough.”

  It appeared that Special Agent Havelock, having attached himself to Crawford Sloane, intended to follow the anchorman into the meeting in Insen’s office. But Insen blocked his way.

  “We’re going to discuss some private network business. You can have Mr. Sloane again as soon as we’ve finished. In the meantime, if there’s anything urgent, feel free to barge in.”

  “If it’s all the same to you,” Havelock said, “I’ll barge in now and see where Mr. Sloane will be.” He eased determinedly past Insen and surveyed the room inside.

  Behind Insen’s desk were two doors. Havelock opened both. One was to a supplies closet; after looking inside, he closed it. Another opened onto a toilet and washroom. The FBI man stepped inside, looked around, then came out.

  “Just wanted to be sure,” he told Insen, “that there was no other way in or out of here.”

  “I could have told you there wasn’t,” Insen said.

  Havelock smiled thinly. “Some things I prefer to check myself.” He left the office and found himself a chair outside.

  Leslie Chippingham was already seated in the office when the FBI agent made his inspection. Now, as Sloane and Insen joined him, he said, “Chuck, you spell it out for Crawf.”

  “The fact is,” Insen said, looking at Sloane directly, “we do not have confidence in government agencies and their ability to handle this situation. Now, Les and I don’t want to depress you, but we all remember how long it took the FBI to find Patricia Hearst—more than a year and a half. And there’s something else.”

  Insen reached among the papers on his desk and produced what Sloane recognized as a copy of his own book, The Camera and the Truth. Insen opened it at a page with a bookmark.

  “You wrote, yourself, Crawf: ‘We who live in the United States will not remain free from terrorism in our own backyard much longer. But neither mentally nor in other ways are we prepared for this pervasive, ruthless kind of warfare.’” Insen closed the book. “Les and I agree with that. Totally.”

  A silence followed. The reminder of his own words startled and shocked Sloane. In the privacy of his mind he had begun to wonder if some terrorist motive, perhaps relating to himself, could be behind the seizure of Jessica, Nicky and his father. Or was the idea too preposterous even to consider? Seemingly not, as the thinking of the other experienced newsmen was obviously moving in that direction.

  At length he said, “Do you seriously think that terrorists …”

  Insen responded, “It’s a possibility, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” Sloane nodded slowly in agreement. “I’ve begun wondering too.”

  “Remember,” Chippingham put in, “that at this point we’ve no idea who the people are who have taken your family, or what they want. It could turn out to be a conventional kidnapping with demands for ransom money and, god knows, that’s bad enough. But we’re also considering—because of who and what you are—other long-shot options.”

  Insen picked up the thread of what had been said earlier. “We mentioned the FBI. Again, we don’t want to worry you, but if Jessica and the others are spirited out of this country in some way, which is a possibility, I’m afraid, then what government has to fall back on is the CIA. Well, in all the years that U.S. nationals have been prisoners in Lebanon, the CIA, with all its power and resources, spy satellites, intelligence and infiltration, has never been able to discover where a semiliterate, ragtag band of terrorists was holding them. And that in a tiny country only slightly larger than the state of Delaware. So who can say if the same old CIA would do any better in other parts of the world?”

  It was the news president who offered a conclusion.

  “So that’s what we mean, Crawf,” Chippingham said, “by saying we don’t have confidence in the government agencies. But what we do believe is that we ourselves—an experienced news organization accustomed to investigative reporting—have a better than average chance to discover where your family has been taken.”

  For the first time that day, Sloane’s spirits rose.

  Chippingham continued, “So what we’ve decided is to set up our own CBA News in
vestigative task force. Our effort will be nationwide at first, then, if necessary, worldwide. We’ll use all our resources plus investigative techniques that have worked in the past. As for people, we’ll throw in the best talent we have, starting now.”

  Sloane felt a surge of gratitude and relief. He started to say, “Les … Chuck …”

  Chippingham stopped him with a gesture. “Don’t say it. There’s no need. Of course, some of this is because of you, but also it’s our business.”

  Insen leaned forward. “There’s one thing we want to ask you at this point, Crawf. The task force needs to be headed by an experienced correspondent or producer, someone who can take charge, who’s good at investigative reporting and in whom you have confidence. Is there anyone you’d like to name?”

  Crawford Sloane hesitated for the briefest moment, weighing his personal feelings against what was at stake. Then he said firmly, “I want Harry Partridge.”

  2

  The kidnappers, like foxes returning to a hidden burrow, had gone to ground in their temporary headquarters, the rented property south of Hackensack, New Jersey.

  It was a collection of old, decaying structures—a main house and three outbuildings—which had been unused for several years until Miguel, after studying alternative locations and real estate advertisements, signed a one-year lease with full payment in advance. A year was the shortest rental period suggested by the agents. Miguel, not wishing to reveal that the place would be used for little more than a month, agreed to the terms without question.

  The type of property and its location—a thinly occupied, run-down neighborhood—were ideal in numerous ways. The house was large, could accommodate all seven members of the Colombian gang, and its state of disrepair didn’t matter. The outbuildings made it possible to keep six vehicles under cover and out of sight. No other occupied properties were close by, and privacy was aided by surrounding trees and other foliage. A further advantage was the nearness of Teterboro Airport, not much more than a mile away. Teterboro, used mainly by private aircraft, figured largely in the kidnappers’ plans.

  From the beginning of the conspiracy, Miguel foresaw that immediately after the victims’ seizure a hue and cry would follow, with police roadblocks and intensive searches. He therefore decided that any immediate attempt to travel a long distance would be unsafe. On the other hand, there must be a temporary hideaway, well clear of the Larchmont area.

  The Hackensack property was roughly twenty-five road miles from where the kidnapping had occurred. The ease with which they had returned here and the absence of pursuit proved that Miguel’s planning had been effective—so far.

  The three prisoners—Jessica, Nicholas and Angus Sloane—were now in the main house. Still drugged and unconscious, they had been carried to a large room on the second floor. Unlike other rooms in the dilapidated, mildewed house, this one had been thoroughly cleaned and repainted in white. Additional electric outlets and overhead fluorescent lights had been installed. There was new pale-green linoleum on the floor. The ex-doctor, Baudelio, had specified and overseen the changes which were carried out by the group’s handyman-mechanic, Rafael.

  Two hospital cots with side restraining rails now stood in the center of the room. Jessica was on one, the boy, Nicholas, on the other. Their arms and legs were secured by straps—a precaution against their regaining consciousness, though for the time being that was not intended.

  While anesthesiology was seldom an exact science, Baudelio was confident that his “patients”—as he now thought of them—would remain sedated for another half hour, perhaps longer.

  Alongside the two cots was a narrow metal bed and mattress which had been hastily brought in and set up to accommodate Angus, whose presence had not been expected. As part of the improvisation, his limbs were secured with lengths of rope instead of straps. Even now, Miguel, watching from across the room, was unsure about what to do with the old man. Should he be killed and his body buried outside after dark? Or should he somehow be included in the original plan? A decision had to be made soon.

  Baudelio was working around the three recumbent forms, setting up intravenous stands, putting fluid bags in place. On a table covered with a green cotton cloth he had laid out instruments, drug packages and trays. Although intravenous catheters for entering veins through the skin were all that was likely to be needed, Baudelio had a long-established habit of having other equipment available for use in difficulty or emergencies. Assisting him was Socorro, the woman with ties to both the Medellín cartel and Sendero Luminoso; during her several undercover years in the United States she had qualified as a nursing aide.

  With raven-dark hair twisted into a bun behind her head, Socorro had a slim, lithe body, olive skin, and features that might have been beautiful had she not worn a permanently sour expression. Although she did whatever was required of her and expected no favors because of her sex, Socorro seldom spoke and never revealed what went on within her mind. She had also rejected, with blunt profanity, sexual overtures from some of the men.

  For these reasons Miguel had labeled Socorro mentally “the inscrutable one.” While he was aware of her dual affiliation and that Sendero Luminoso had, in fact, insisted on Socorro’s inclusion in the kidnap group, he had no reason to mistrust her. He occasionally wondered, though, if Socorro’s long exposure to the American scene had diluted her Colombian and Peruvian loyalties.

  The question was one Socorro herself would have had trouble answering.

  On the one hand, she had always been a revolutionary, initially finding an outlet for her fervor with the Colombian M-19 guerrillas, then more recently—and profitably—with the Medellín cartel and Sendero Luminoso. Her conviction about the Colombian and Peruvian governments was that she wanted the villainous ruling class killed and would happily join the slaughter. At the same time she had been indoctrinated to consider the U.S. power structure as equally evil. Yet after three years of living in the United States and receiving friendly fairness where hostility and oppression would have been easier to handle, she found it difficult to continue despising and regarding as enemies America and its people.

  Right now she was doing her best to hate these three captives—rico bourgeois scum, she assured herself—but not wholly succeeding … damnably not succeeding … because pity, in a revolutionary, was a contemptible emotion!

  But once out of this perplexing country, as all of them would be very soon, Socorro was sure she could do better and be stronger, more consistent in her hatreds.

  From a tilted-back chair on the far side of the room, Miguel said to Baudelio, “Tell me what it is you are doing.” His tone made clear it was an order.

  “I am working quickly because the midazolam I administered will very soon wear off. When it does, I shall begin injections of propofol, an intravenous anesthetic, a longer-acting drug than the earlier one and more suitable for what is ahead.”

  As he moved and spoke, Baudelio seemed transformed from his normal gaunt and ghostlike self to the teacher and practicing anesthesiologist he had once been. The same effect, a stirring of long-discarded dignity, had occurred shortly before the kidnap. But he showed no concern, then or now, that his skills were being criminally debased or that the circumstances he was sharing were despicable.

  He continued, “Propofol is a tricky drug to use. The optimum dose for each individual varies, and if too much accumulates in the bloodstream death can result. So initially there must be experimental doses, closely monitored.”

  Miguel asked, “Are you sure you can handle it?”

  “If you have doubts,” Baudelio said sarcastically, “you are free to get someone else.”

  When Miguel failed to answer, the ex-doctor went on, “Because these people will be unconscious when we transport them, we must be certain there is no vomiting and aspiration into the lungs. Therefore while we are waiting there will be a period of enforced starvation. However, they must not become dehydrated, so I shall give them fluids intravenously. Then at the end of
two days, which you tell me is the time I have, we shall be ready to put them into those.” With his head, Baudelio gestured to the wall behind him.

  Propped upright against the wall were two open funeral caskets, solidly constructed and silk-lined. One was smaller than the other. The ornamented hinged lids for both had been removed and stood alongside.

  The caskets reminded Baudelio of a question. Pointing to Angus Sloane, he asked, “Do you want him prepared, or not?”

  “If we take him, do you have the medical supplies to handle it?”

  “Yes. There’s a reserve of everything in case something goes wrong. But we’d need another …” His eyes returned to the caskets by the wall.

  Miguel said irritably, “I do not need to be told that.”

  Still, he wondered. The original orders from Medellín and Sendero Luminoso specified abduction of the woman and the boy and then, as soon as possible afterward, their transfer to Peru. The caskets were to be a covert means of transportation; a phony cover story had been devised to forestall an exit search by U.S. Customs. Once in Peru the prisoners would become prize hostages—high-stakes bargaining chips against the fulfilment of unique demands by Sendero Luminoso, their nature yet to be disclosed. But would the unexpected addition of Crawford Sloane’s father be regarded as an added prize or, at this point, a needless risk and burden?

  If there had been some way to do so, Miguel would have sought an answer from his superiors. But the only secure communication channel was not open to him at that moment, and to telephone on one of the cellular phones would leave the record of a call. Miguel had been emphatic with everyone in the Hackensack operating group that the phones were solely for vehicle-to-vehicle or vehicle-to-headquarters use. Positively no calls were to be made to other numbers. The few outside calls that were necessary had been made from public pay phones.

  Therefore the decision was his alone. He must also consider that obtaining an extra casket meant taking additional risks. Was it worth it?