In other circumstances he would have forced Baudelio to take a walk in the jungle from which only Miguel would return. But Sendero Luminoso, while ruthless in many ways, could become belligerent about an outsider killing one of its own people, for whatever reason.
What Miguel did was send confidentially with the messenger a strongly worded note pointing out the dangers of having Baudelio remain in circulation. Sendero would quickly make its own decision. Miguel had little doubt what that would be.
One thing pleased him. Among the general instructions he received was one to "keep the three hostages in good health until otherwise ordered.” The reference to "three hostages,” which Sendero's high command would have learned of through news reports, conveyed approval of Miguel's decision to include the old man in the kidnap, something originally not planned.
He turned his attention to the special equipment brought from Ayacucho for the video and sound recording session. It comprised a Sony Camcorder with cassettes, a tripod, photoflood kit and a portable 110-volt generator, gasoline-powered. None of it presented a problem to Miguel, who had handled recording sessions with kidnap victims before.
He realized, though, that he would need support and certain stem measures to ensure obedience from the woman, who he suspected would be difficult. To help him he chose Gustavo and Ramon, both of whom he had observed being tough with the prisoners and who were unlikely to be squeamish, whatever punishment they were asked to inflict. The recording session, Miguel decided, would take place the following morning.
* * *
As soon as there was sufficient daylight, Jessica was busy at work.
Soon after she, Angus and Nicky had recovered consciousness in Peru, all three discovered that at some point almost the entire contents of their pockets had been removed, including any money they had had. A handbag Jessica had been carrying at Larchmont, not surprisingly, had disappeared. Among the few things left were some paper clips, a comb of Jessica's, and a small notebook in Angus's back pants pocket, which apparently was overlooked. Also, in the lining of Nicky's jacket was a ballpoint pen which had fallen through a hole in a pocket and had not been found.
At Jessica's urging, the notebook and pen were carefully hidden and used only if the guard on duty was one of those known to be more easygoing than the martinets like Rarnon.
Yesterday Jessica had borrowed the notebook from Angus, and Nicky's ballpoint pen. Although the screens between the prisoners' cages prevented them from passing anything to each other, Vicente, while on guard duty, obligingly collected the objects and handed them to her.
What Jessica intended was to make drawings of the people she had encountered while strong memories of them still renamed. While not an accomplished artist, she was a competent amateur and was sure the faces in her drawings would be recognizable if eventually she was able to use them for identifying those involved in the kidnap and this aftermath.
The first drawing, which she had begun the preceding day and was still working on, was of the tall, balding, authoritative man whom Jessica had become aware of as consciousness returned to her in the first darkened hut. Although not totally alert at the time, she did remember her desperately mouthed plea, "Help! . . . please help . . . tell someone . . .”A subsequent impression, sharp and clear, was of the man in question reacting, looking startled, but afterward doing nothing, as was now apparent.
Who was he? Why was he there? Since he was present, he had to be involved. Jessica believed that the man was American. Whether he was or wasn't, she hoped that one day her drawing would help track him down.
When she had finished, Jessica had sketched a recognizable likeness of the Learjet pilot, Captain Denis Underhill.
The sound of footsteps outside caused her to fold the drawing hastily and conceal it in her brassiere, the first place she thought of. The notebook and pen she thrust beneath the thin mattress of her bed.
Almost at once, Miguel, Gustavo and Ramon appeared. All three were carrying equipment which Jessica recognized instantly.”Oh, no!” she called out to Miguel.”Don't waste your time setting that up. We will not help you by making any recording.”
Miguel ignored her. Taking his time, he installed the Camcorder on its tripod and arranged the photoflood lights which he plugged into an extension cable. The cable ran out of doors where the sound of a generator starting up could be heard. Moments later the area in front of the three cells was brightly lit, the lights focused on an empty chair which the Camcorder faced.
Still unhurriedly, Miguel walked forward to Jessica's cage. His voice was cold and hard.”You will do precisely what I tell you, when I tell you, bitch.” He held out three handwritten pages.”This is what you will say—exactly that and no more, with not one word changed.”
Jessica took the pages, read them quickly, then tore them into pieces which she threw outward through the bamboo bars.”I told you I wouldn't do it, and I won't.”
Miguel did not react but looked toward Gustavo who was waiting nearby. Miguel nodded.”Get the boy.”
Despite her determination a moment earlier, a shiver of apprehension ran through Jessica.
While she watched, Gustavo opened the padlock securing Nicky's cage. Going inside, he seized Nicky by a shoulder and one arm; then, twisting the arm, propelled him outside until both were in front of Jessica's cell. Nicky, though plainly frightened, said nothing.
Becoming frantic, and now sweating, Jessica demanded of the men, "What are you going to do?”
No one answered.
Instead, Ramon brought from the other side of the building the chair usually occupied by the armed guard. Gustavo pushed Nicky into the chair where the two men tied him with rope. Before securing his arms, Gustavo loosened Nicky's shirt, exposing his small chest. Ramon, meanwhile, was lighting a cigarette.
Jessica, with a sense of what was coming, cried out to Miguel, "Wait! Perhaps I was hasty. Please wait! We can talk!”
Miguel did not answer. Stooping to the floor, he picked up several pieces of the paper which Jessica had thrown.”Those were three pages,” he said.”Fortunately I thought you might do something foolish so I gave you a copy. But three is the figure you have set us, just the same.”
He signalled to Ramon, holding up three fingers. 'Quomelo bien . . . tres veces.”
Ramon inhaled, bringing the tip of the cigarette in his mouth to a glowing red. Then deliberately, with a single swift movement, he removed the cigarette and pressed the burning end against Nicky's chest. For the briefest moment the boy was so surprised that no sound escaped him. Then as he felt the burning, searing agony, he screamed.
Jessica was screaming too—wildly, incoherently, tearfully pleading for the torture to cease, assuring Miguel she would do whatever he wanted.”Anything! Anything! I don't care! Just tell me what it is! But stop! Oh, stop!”
From the third cell, Angus was banging his hands against the screen of his cage and shouting too. His words intermingled with the other din, though a few could be heard.”You filthy bastards! Cowards! You're animals, not men!”
Ramon watched and listened, a slight smile around his lips. Then he returned the cigarette to his mouth, drawing his breath in hard several times to reignite the glow. When it was again strong and red, he quashed the cigarette once more against another part of Nicky's chest. Nicky's screams intensified while, for the third time, Ramon drew on the cigarette and repeated the process. By this time, a smell of burning flesh accompanied the boy's screams and desperate sobbing.
Miguel remained coolly impassive, outwardly indifferent to it all.
After the third burn he waited until some of the noise had subsided, then informed Jessica, "You will sit in front of the camera and speak when I signal you. I have written on cards what you are to say. It is the same as you read and the cards will be held up. You will follow them exactly. Is that understood?”
"Yes,” Jessica said dully, "it's understood.”
Hearing her voice, choked and dry, Miguel told Gustavo, "Give her some wa
ter.”
Jessica protested, "I don't It's Nicky who needs attention—something for those bums. Socorro will know . . .”
"Shut up!” Miguel snarled.”If you give any more trouble, the boy will suffer again. He will stay as he is. You will obey!” He glared at Nicky, who was whimpering.”You shut up too!” Miguel turned his head.”Ramon, keep the hot poker ready!”
Ramon nodded.”Si jefe.”He inhaled until his cigarette was again a glowing red.
Jessica closed her eyes. Her own obstinacy, she thought, had brought them to this. Maybe one day Nicky would forgive her. To protect him now, she would concentrate on what had to be done, completing it without a mistake. But even then, a sudden thought occurred.
At home in Larchmont, the night before the kidnap when Jessica and Crawf were talking, Crawf had described signals which a hostage making a video recording could transmit surreptitiously. The point was that someone back home would know of the signals and be able to recognize them. Crawf had had the notion that someday he might be kidnapped and make such a recording. But now it was Jessica instead—something neither of then had dreamed of—and she struggled to remember the signals, knowing Crawf would see this tape... What were they?
The conversation at Larchmont was coming back . . . her memory had always been good . . . Crawf had said, "Licking my lips with my tongue would mean, I am doing this against my will. Do not believe anything I am saying.' . . . Scratching or touching my right earlobe—My captors are well organized and strongly armed' . . . Left earlobe—Security here is sometimes lax. An attack from outside might succeed' “. . . There were other signals, Crawf had said, though he hadn't described them. So the three—or rather two, since she could only use one of the earlobe messages—would have to do.
Jessica's cell was opened by Gustavo who motioned her to move outside.
Her impulse when she emerged was to run to Nicky, but Miguel's face was glowering and Ramon, also watching, had lighted a new cigarette Jessica stopped, her eyes meeting Nicky's, and she knew he understood. Guided by Gustavo, she sat in the chair facing the photofloods and Camcorder. Obediently, she sipped water that he gave her.
The message she would speak was written in large letters on two cards which Gustavo now held up. Miguel had moved to the Camcorder and was squinting into an eyepiece. He ordered, "When I drop my hand, begin.”
The signal came and Jessica spoke, trying to keep her voice even.
”We have all been treated well and fairly. Now that the reason we were taken has been explained to us, we understand why it was necessary. We also have been told how easy it will be for our American friends to ensure our safe return home. To have us released..."
"Stop!”
Miguel's face was red, his features working angrily.
”Bitch! You are reading like you would a laundry list without expression, trying to be clever, making it sound unbelieving, as if being forced . . .”
"I am being forced!” It was a flash of spirit which, an instant later, Jessica regretted.
Miguel signaled to Ramon who applied his hot cigarette to Nicky's chest, prompting another scream.
Jessica, almost out of her mind, was on her feet, pleading.”No! No more! I'll do it better! . . . The way you want! . . . I promise!”
To her relief this time, there was no second bum. Miguel put a fresh cassette into the Camcorder and waved Jessica back into the chair. Once more Gustavo gave her water. Moments later she began again.
Steeling herself, she did her best to make the opening phrases sound convincing, then continued, "To have us released, you must simply follow—quickly and exactly—the instructions which accompany this recording . . .”
Immediately after the word "recording,” Jessica moistened her lips with her tongue. She knew she was taking a risk, for herself and Nicky too, but believed the action would seem natural and pass unnoticed. The absence of objection proved her right and she had now confirmed to Crawf and others that the words she was speaking were not her own. Despite all else that had happened, she felt a thrill of satisfaction as she continued reading from the cards Gustavo held.
”. . . but be sure of this: If you do not obey those instructions, you will not see any of us, ever again. We beg of you, do not let that happen . . .”
What were the instructions—the price of their release which the kidnappers were asking? Jessica could only wonder, by now knowing better than to ask. Meanwhile, only a little time remained, and how about her other message? A choice must be made . . . left earlobe or right . . . Which?
It was true the people here were armed and perhaps well organized, but security was lax at times, and often at night their guards fell asleep; sometimes one or the other could be heard snoring . . . Making her decision, Jessica reached up and casually scratched her left earlobe. It was done! No one had noticed! She continued with the closing words.
”We will be waiting, counting on you, desperately hoping you will make the right decision and . . .”
Seconds later, it was over. As Jessica closed her eyes in relief, Miguel switched off the floodlights and stepped back, a small smile of satisfaction on his face.
* * *
It was an hour before Socorro came, an hour of pain for Nicky and of anguish for Jessica and Angus, who could hear Nicky moaning softly on his bed but could not go to him. Jessica had begged the guard on duty—using words and gestures—to let her leave her cell and join Nicky in his, and it was clear the man, while not speaking English, understood what she was asking. But he had shaken his head and insisted, "No se permite.”
An overpowering sense of guilt seized Jessica. She told Nicky through the screen, "Oh, darling, I'm so desperately sorry. If I'd known what they would do, I'd have made the recording right away. I never even thought . . . “
"Don't worry, Mom.” Despite his pain, Nicky had tried to reassure her.”It wasn't your fault.”
"No one could have believed what those savages did, Jessie,” Angus had called out from his cell on the far side.”Does it still hurt a lot, old chap?”
"It's pretty bad.” Nicky's voice quavered.
Jessica appealed to the guard again.”Get Socorro! The nurse! You understand? Socorro!”
This time the man took no notice. He was seated, reading what appeared to be a comic book, and did not look up.
Eventually Socorro came, apparently of her own volition.
”Please help Nicky,” Jessica asked.”Your friends burned him.”
"He probably deserved it.” Socorro signaled to the guard to open Nicky's cell and went in. As she saw the four bums, she made a clucking sound with her mouth, then turned away and left the cell, the guard locking it behind her.
Jessica called, "You are coming back?”
For a moment Socorro looked as if she would make another sharp answer. Then she nodded curtly and left. A few minutes later she returned, carrying a bowl, a jug of water and a package of what proved to be folded cloths and gauze.
Watching through the screen, Jessica observed Socorro gently bathe the bums with water, Nicky wincing as she did, though he did not cry out. Socorro blotted the bums dry with a cloth, then placed a gauze pad over each, securing the dressings with adhesive tape.
Jessica spoke warily.”Thank you. You are good at that. May I ask . . .”
“They are second-degree burns and will heal. I will take the dressings off in several days.”
"Can you do something for the pain?”
"This is not a hospital. He must endure it.” Socorro turned to Nicky, her voice edgy, her face unsmiling.”Lie still today, boy. It will hurt less tomorrow.”
Jessica decided on one more appeal.”Please, may I be with him? He's eleven years old and I'm his mother. Can't we be together, even if only for the next few hours?”
"I asked Miguel. He said no.” Moments later, Socorro was gone.
There was a silence, then Angus said softly, "I wish there were something I could do for you, Nicky. Life isn't fair. You don't deserve any of this.”
A pause. Then, "Gramps.”
"Yes, old son?”
"There is something.”
"That I can do? Tell me.”
"Talk about those old songs. And maybe sing one.”
Angus's eyes moistened. It was a request that did not need explaining.
Anything about songs and music fascinated Nicky, and sometimes on summer evenings at the Sloanes' lakeside cottage near Johnstown in upstate New York, the grandfather and grandson would talk and listen to songs of World War Il which, two generations earlier in other arduous times, had sustained Angus and many like him. Nicky never seemed to tire of those exchanges and Angus struggled now to remember words and phrases he had used before.
”Those of us who were flyboys in the Army Air Forces, Nicky, cherished our collections of seventy-eight r.p.m. records . . . Those seventy-eights disappeared long ago . . . bet you've never seen any . .”
"I did once. The father of one of my friends had some.”
Angus smiled. As Nicky knew too, an identical dialog had taken place a few months earlier.
”Anyway, we carried those records personally from air base to air base and because they were so breakable, no one would trust anyone else with transporting them. And every BOQ—that's Bachelor Officers Quarters—was alive with music of the big bands: Benny Goodman, Tommy Dorsey, Glenn Miller. And the singers were young Frank Sinatra, Ray Eberle, Dick Haymes. We'd hear their songs and sing them ourselves in the shower.”
"Sing one now, Gramps.”
"My goodness, I'm not sure. My voice is getting old.”
"Try, Angus!” Jessica urged.”If I can, I'll join you.”
He groped in memory. When they had done this before was there a special song Nicky liked? He remembered—yes, there was. Steadying his breathing he began, though glancing first toward the guard, wondering if he would enforce the oppressive silence rule. But the man seemed not to mind them talking and was turning pages of his comic book.
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