Jaeger said, "The intelligence grapevine reports some more individual terrorist movements. I won't bother you with details except to say they're apparently confined to Europe and the Middle East. More important, the people I talked to don't believe there's been any terrorist exodus, certainly not in sizable numbers, to the U.S. or Canada. If there were, they say it's unlikely there'd be no word at all. But I've told everybody to keep looking, listening and reporting.”
"Thanks, Norm.” Partridge turned to Karl Owens.”I know you've been inquiring southward, Karl. Any results?”
"Nothing really positive.” The younger producer had no need to shuffle notes from his day of telephoning. Typical of his precise methodology, he had each phone call summarized on a four-by-six card, the handwriting neat, the cards sorted into order.
”I've talked with the same kind of contacts as Norm, asking similar questions—mine in Managua, San Salvador, Havana, La Paz, Buenos Aires, Tegucigalpa, Lima, Santiago, BogotA, Brasilia, Mexico City. As always, there's terrorist activity in most of those places, also reports about terrorists changing countries, crossing borders like commuters switching trains. But nothing in the intelligence mill fits a group movement of the kind we're looking for. I did stumble on one thing. I'm still working on it . . .”
"Tell us,” Partridge said.”We'll take it raw.”
"Well, it's something from Colombia. About a guy called Ulises Rodriguez.”
"A particularly nasty terrorist,” Rita said.”I've heard him referred to as the Abu Nidal of Latin America.”
"He's all of that,” Owens agreed, "and he's also believed to have been involved in several Colombian kidnappings. They don't get reported much here, but they happen all the time. Well, three months ago Rodriguez was reported as being in Bogota, then he simply disappeared. Those who should know are convinced he's active somewhere. There was a rumor he might have gone to London, but wherever he is, he's stayed successfully out of sight since June.”
Owens paused, referring to a card.”Now something else: On a hunch I called a Washington contact in U.S. Immigration and floated Rodriguez's name. Later, my source called me back and said that three months ago, which is about the time Rodriguez dropped out of sight, Immigration was warned by the CIA that he might attempt a U.S. entry through Miami. There's a federal arrest warrant out for him and Miami Immigration and Customs went on red alert. But he didn't show.”
"Or managed to get through undetected,” Iris Everly added.
”That's possible. Or he could have come in through a different doorway—from London, perhaps, if the rumor I mentioned was right. That's something else about him. Rodriguez studied English at Berkeley and speaks it without an accent—or, rather, with an American accent. What I'm saying is, he can blend in.”
"This gets interesting,” Rita said.”Is there anything more?”
Owens nodded.”A little.”
The others around the table were listening intently and Partridge reflected that only those in the news business understood just how much information could be assembled through contacts and persistent telephoning.
”The little that's on record about Rodriguez,” Owens said, "includes what I've just told you and that be graduated from Berkeley with the class of '72.”
Partridge asked, "Are there pictures of him?”
Owens shook his head.”I asked Immigration and came up nil. They say no one has a photo, which includes the CIA. Rodriguez has been careful. However, on that score we may have got lucky.”
"For chrissakes, Karl!” Rita complained.”If you must act like a novelist, get on with the story!”
Owens smiled. Patient plodding was his personal style. It worked and he had no intention of changing it for Abrams or anyone else.
”After learning about Rodriguez I called our San Francisco bureau and asked to have someone sent over to Berkeley to do some checking.” He glanced at Chippingham.”I invoked your name, Les. Said you'd authorized zip priority.”
The news president nodded as Owens continued.
”They sent Fiona Gowan who happens to be a Berkeley graduate, knows her way around. Fiona got lucky, especially on Saturday and—if you'll believe it—located an English Department faculty member who actually remembers Rodriguez from the Class of '72.”
Rita sighed.”We believe it.” Her tone said: Get on!
"Rodriguez, it seems, was a loner, had no close friends. Something else the faculty guy recalled was that Rodriguez was camera-shy, would never let anyone take his picture. The Daily Cal, the student newspaper, wanted to feature him in a group of foreign students; he turned them down. Eventually it got to be a joke, so a classmate who was a pretty good artist did a charcoal sketch of Rodriguez without his knowing. When the artist showed it around, Rodriguez flew into a rage. Then he offered to buy the picture and did, paying more than it was worth. The Catch-22 was that the artist had already made a dozen copies which he doled out to his friends. Rodriguez never knew that.”
"Those copies Partridge began.
”We're on to it, Harry.” Owens smiled, still refusing to be hurried.”Fiona's back in San Francisco, been working the phones all afternoon. It was a big job because the Berkeley English class of '72 had three hundred and eighty-eight members. Anyway she managed to scrape up names and some alumni home numbers, one leading to another. Just before this meeting she called me to say she's located one of the copy sketches and will have it by tomorrow. Soon as it's in, San Fran bureau will transmit it to us.”
There was an approving murmur around the table.”Nice staff work,” Chippingham said.”Thank Fiona for me.”
"We should keep a sense of proportion, though,” Owens pointed out.”At the moment we've nothing more than coincidence and it's only a guess that Rodriguez might be involved with our kidnap. Also, that charcoal drawing is twenty years old.”
"People don't change all that much, even in twenty years,” Partridge said.”What we can do is show the picture around Larchmont and ask if anyone remembers seeing him. Anything else?”
"Washington bureau checked in,” Rita said.”They say the FBI has nothing new. Their forensic people are working on what was left of the Nissan van at White Plains, but they're not hopeful. Just as Salerno said on Friday's broadcast, the FBI in kidnap cases depend on the kidnappers making contact.”
Partridge looked down the table toward Sloane.”I'm sorry, Crawf, but that seems to be all we have.”
Rita reminded him, "Except for Teddy's idea.”
Sloane said sharply, "What idea? I haven't heard it.”
"Best let Teddy explain,” Partridge said. He nodded to the young Englishman, also seated at the table, and Cooper brightened as attention focused on him.
”It's a possible way to find out where the snatchers had their hideout, Mr. S. Even though by now I'm sure they've scarpered.”
Chippingham asked, "If they've gone, what good would that do us?”
Sloane gestured impatiently.”Never mind that. I want to hear the idea.”
Despite the intervention, Cooper answered Chippingham first.”Traces, Mr. C. There's always a chance people leave traces, showing who they are, where they came from, maybe even where they've gone.”
Including the others in his remarks, Cooper repeated the proposal made to Partridge and Rita earlier that day . . . described the kind of property and location he visualized as the kidnappers' headquarters . . . his belief the kidnappers could have obtained their base by responding to newspaper advertising . . . the plan to examine classified ads appearing over the past three months in newspapers within twenty-five miles of Larchmont . . . Objective of the search: to match the theoretical HQ description . . . The detail work, in libraries and newspaper offices, to be done by bright young people hired especially . . . Later, the same group, under supervision, would investigate possible locations the search produced . . .
Cooper ended, "It's a long shot, I admit.”
"I wouldn't even put it that high,” Chippingham said. He had been frowning du
ring the recital, his frown deepening as the hiring suggestion emerged.”How many people are we talking?”
Rita said, "I've done some checking. In the area we're speaking of, there are approximately a hundred and sixty newspapers, including dailies and weeklies. Libraries don't carry back numbers of more than a few of those, so mostly it would mean going to publication offices and searching through files. Doing that, reading back through three months of ads and making notes, would be a monumental job. But if it's to be of value, it will need to be done fast . . .”
Chippingham cut in.”Will someone please answer my question. How many people?”
"I estimate sixty,” Rita told him.”On top of that, some supervision.”
Chippingham turned to Partridge.”Harry, are you seriously recommending this?” His tone conveyed, You couldn't be that crazy!
Partridge hesitated. He shared Chippingham's doubts. This morning, during the drive back from White Plains, he had mentally labeled Teddy's notion a harebrained scheme; nothing since then had changed his mind. Then he reasoned: Sometimes taking a stand was a good idea, even with a long shot.
”Yes, Les,” he said, "I'm recommending it. It's my opinion that we ought to try everything. Right now, we aren't overburdened with leads or fresh ideas.”
Chippingham was unhappy with the answer. He felt apprehensive at the thought of employing sixty extra people, plus their travel and other expenses, for what could turn out to be several weeks—to say nothing of the supervisory help Rita had mentioned. That kind of hiring always added up to horrendous sums. Of course, in the old free-spending days of TV news he wouldn't have thought twice about it. No one did. But now, Margot Lloyd-Mason's edict about the kidnap task force echoed in his mind: "I don't want anyone . . . going wild about spending money . , . No activity exceeding budget is to be embarked on without my advance approval.
”Well, Chippingham thought, as much as anyone else he wanted to find out where Jessica, the Sloane kid and the old man had been taken and, if he had to, he'd go to bat with Margot on the money crunch. But it would have to be on behalf of something he believed in and not this piece of idiot shit from the arrogant Limey.
”Harry, I'm going to veto that one, at least for the time being,” Chippingham said.”I simply don't think it has enough possibility to justify the effort.” Even now, he supposed, if the others knew the part of his thinking that included Margot, they would call him craven. Well, never mind, he had problems including hanging on to his own job—they didn't know about.
Jaeger began, "I would have thought, Les . . .”
Before he could finish, Crawford Sloane said, "Norm, let me.” As Jaeger subsided, the anchorman's voice sharpened.”When you talk about not justifying the effort, Les, aren't you really saying you won't spend the money?”
"That's a factor; you know it always is. But mostly it's a judgment call. What's been suggested isn't a good idea.”
"Perhaps you have a better one,”
“Not at this moment.”
Sloane said icily, "Then I have a question and I'd like an honest answer. Has Margot Lloyd-Mason put a spending freeze on?”
Chippingham said uneasily, "We've discussed budget, that's all.” He added, "Can you and I talk privately?”
"No!” Sloane roared, jumping to his feet, glaring at Chippingham.”No goddamn privacy for that cold-hearted bitch! You answered my question. There is a money freeze.”
"It's not significant. For anything worthwhile, I'll simply call Stonehenge . . .”
Sloane stormed, "And what I'll call is a press conference right here, tonight! To tell the world that while my family is suffering in some hellhole, god knows where, this wealthy network is huddling with accountants, reviewing budgets, haggling over pennies . . .”
Chippingham protested, "No one's haggling! Crawf, this isn't necessary. I'm sorry.”
"And what the hell good does that do?”
The others around the table could scarcely believe what they were hearing: In the first place, that a spending freeze had been applied secretly to their own project, and second, in the present desperate situation, not to try all possibilities was inconceivable.
Something else was equally incredible: That CBA should so offend its most illustrious citizen, the senior anchorman. Margot Lloyd-Mason had been mentioned; therefore it could only be concluded she represented the ax-wielding hand of Globanic Industries.
Norman Jaeger stood up too, the simplest form of protest. He said quietly, "Harry thinks we should give Teddy's idea a chance. So do I”
Karl Owens joined him.”Me too.”
"Add me to the list.” Iris Everly.
Rita, a touch reluctantly, caring about Chippingham, said, "I guess you'd better count me in.”
"Okay, okay, let's cut the histrionics,” Chippingham said. He realized he had been guilty of misjudgement, knew that either way he was the loser, and silently cursed Margot.”I reverse myself. Maybe I was wrong. Crawf, we'll go ahead.”
But he wouldn't, Chippingham, decided, go to Margot and ask for approval; he knew too well, had known from the beginning, what her response would be. He would authorize the expense and take his chances.
Rita, practical as always and seeking to defuse the scene, said, "If we're moving on this, we can't afford to lose time. We should have researchers working by Monday. So where do we begin?”
"We'll call in Uncle Arthur,” Chippingham said.”I'll speak to him at home tonight and have him here tomorrow to begin recruiting.”
Crawford Sloane brightened.”A good idea.”
Teddy Cooper, seated beside Jaeger, whispered, "Who the hell is Uncle Arthur?”
Jaeger chuckled.”You haven't met Uncle Arthur! Tomorrow, my young friend, you are in for a unique experience.”
* * *
"The drinks are on me,” Chippingham said. Mentally he added, I brought you all here to bind up any minor wounds.
He and the others had adjourned to Sfuzzi, a restaurant and bar near Lincoln Center with a nouveau—Ancient Roman decor. It was a regular rendezvous for TV news people. Though Sfuzzi's was crowded on a Saturday night, they managed to squeeze around a table supplemented by extra chairs.
Chippingham had invited everyone who had been at the task force meeting, including Sloane, but the anchorman declined, deciding to go home to Larchmont with his FBI escort, Otis Havelock. There they would wait through another night for the hoped—for telephone message from the kidnappers.
When everyone had their drinks and with tensions eased, Partridge said, "Les, there's something I think needs saying. At the best of times, I wouldn't want your job. But especially right now, I'm certain that none of us here could juggle the priorities and people that you're having to—at least, not any better.”
Chippingham looked at Partridge gratefully and nodded. It was a testament of understanding from someone Chippingham. respected and was a reminder from Partridge to the others that not all issues were straightforward or decisions easy.
”Harry,” the news president said, "I know the way you work, and that you get a 'feel' for situations quickly. Has that happened with this story?”
"I think so, yes.” Partridge glanced toward Teddy Cooper.”Teddy believes our birds have flown the country; I've come to that conclusion too. But something else I have an instinct about is that we're close to a breakthrough—either through our doing or it will happen. Then we'll know about the kidnappers: who and where.”
"And when we do?”
"When it happens,” Partridge said.”I'll be on my way. Wherever the break leads, I want to be there fast and first.”
"You shall be,” Chippingham said.”And I promise you'll get all the support you need.”
Partridge laughed and looked around the table.”Remember that, everybody. You all heard.”
"We sure did,” Jaeger said.”Les, if we have to, we'll remind you of those words.”
Chippingham shook his head.”That won't be needed.”
The talk continued. While it
did, Rita appeared to be searching in her bag, though what she was doing was scribbling on a piece of paper. Discreetly, under the table, she put it into Chippingham's hands.
He waited until attention was directed away from him, then looked down. The note read: Les, feel like getting laid? Let's get out of here.
15
They went to Rita's. Her apartment was on West Seventy-second, only a short taxi ride from Sfuzzi's. Chippingham was living farther uptown in the Eighties while his and Stasia's divorce was being fought over, but the apartment was small, cheap for New York, and he wasn't proud of it. He missed the plush Sutton Place co-op he and Stasia had shared for a decade before their breakup. The co-op was forbidden territory to him now, a lost utopia. Stasia's lawyers had seen to that.
Anyway, right now he and Rita wanted the nearest private place. Their hands were busy in the taxi until he told her, "If you keep doing that, I'll explode like Vesuvius and it may be months before the volcano's in business again.”
She laughed and said, "Not you!” but desisted just the same.
On the way, Chippingham had the cab driver stop at a newsstand. He left the taxi and returned burdened with the early Sunday editions of the New York Times, Daily News, and Post.
”At least I know where I rate in your priorities,” Rita observed.”I only hope you're not planning to read those before . . .”
“Later,” he assured her.”Much, much later.”
Even as he spoke, Chippingham wondered if he would ever grow up where women were concerned. Probably not, or at least not until his libido burned lower. Some men, he knew, would envy his virility which, with his fiftieth birthday only a few months away, was almost as good as when he was half that age. On the other hand, a permanent hominess had its penalties.
While Rita excited him now, as she had on earlier occasions, and he knew there was pleasure ahead for them both, he knew also that in an hour or two he would ask himself. Was it worth all the trouble? Along the same lines, he often wondered: Had his sexual dalliances been worth losing a wife he genuinely cared about and, at the same time, putting his entire career in jeopardy—the last a reality made clear by Margot Lloyd-Mason during their recent meeting at Stonehenge?
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