Evening News

by Arthur Hailey

  As Jessica rose, Partridge leaned forward, held Fernandez tightly and kissed him on both cheeks. Behind him Minh and O'Hara waited to give a farewell hug.

  Rising, Partridge moved forward. He did not look back.

  * * *

  The moment Miguel saw a boat beached at the entrance to the jungle trail, then recognized it as from Nueva Esperanza, he was glad he had made the decision to join the Sion airstrip sortie.

  He was even more pleased when Ramon, leaping quickly from their own boat as it nudged into shore, ran to the other boat and announced, "Un motor esta caliente, el otro frio— fundido.”

  The hot engine meant their quarry had not been in the jungle very long. The cold, burned-out engine told them the other boat's speed had been reduced, its occupants delayed in getting here.

  As well as Miguel, the Sendero group comprised seven wellarmed men. Speaking in Spanish, he told them, "The bourgeois scum cannot be far ahead. We'll catch and punish them. Let us move like the wrath of Guzman!”

  There was a ragged cheer as they filed quickly into the jungle.

  * * *

  "We're a few minutes early,” Rita Abrams told the Cheyenne 11 pilot, Oswaldo Zileri, as they approached the Sion airstrip—first point of call on their aerial itinerary. A moment ago she had checked her Watch: 7:55.

  ”We'll circle and watch,” he said.”In any case, this is the least likely place for your friends to be.”

  As they had yesterday, all four in the plane—Rita, Crawford Sloane, Zileri and the copilot, Felipe—peered down at the quilt of green beneath them. They were looking for any sign of movement, particularly around the short, tree-lined airstrip, which was hard to see until they were directly overhead. Again, like yesterday, there was no visible activity of any kind.

  * * *

  Along the jungle trail, Nicky was finding it increasingly difficult to maintain the punishing pace. Jessica and Minh were helping him, each grabbing an arm and partially pulling him, partially lifting him over difficult patches as they continued forward. Eventually Nicky might have to be carried, but for the moment the others husbanded their remaining strength.

  It had been about ten minutes since they left Fernandez. Ken O'Hara was now up ahead, leading. Partridge had dropped back to his position in the rear, from where he occasionally glanced backward. So far there had been no sign of movement.

  Above their heads, the trees appeared to be thinning, more daylight coming through their branches; also the trail had widened. It was a sign, Partridge hoped, that they were nearing the airstrip. At one point lie thought he heard the distant sound of an airplane, but could not be sure. Again he checked his watch: nearly 7:55.

  At that moment, from somewhere behind, came a short, sharp crack—unmistakably the sound of a single shot. It had to be Fernandez, Partridge reasoned. And even in using the Browning, from which Partridge had deliberately removed the silencer, the zealous stringer-fixer provided a final service—a warning that pursuit was close. As if in confirmation, several other shots followed.

  Perhaps the pursuers, having seen Fernandez—presumably dead—thought they saw others ahead and had fired at random. Then, for whatever reason, the firing ceased.

  Partridge himself was near exhaustion. Through the past fifty hours, with scarcely any sleep, he had pushed himself to the limit. Now he was having trouble keeping his attention focused.

  In one of those moments, mentally meandering, he decided that what he wanted most was relief from action . . . When this adventure ended he would resume the vacation he had barely started and simply disappear, be unavailable . . . And wherever he went, perhaps he should take Vivien—the only woman left to him whose loving was available . . . Jessica and Gemma had been the past; Vivien could be the future. Perhaps, until now, he had treated her unfairly, should consider marriage after all . . . It was not too late . . . He knew it was something Vivien would like . . .

  With an effort, he snapped back to the present,

  Suddenly they had emerged from the jungle. The airstrip was in view! Overhead an airplane was circling—it was a Cheyenne! Ken O'Hara—reliable to the end, Partridge thought was loading a green-banded cartridge into the flare gun he had carried all this way. Green for Land normally, everything is clear.

  With equal suddenness, from behind, came the sound of two more shots, this time much closer.

  ”Send up a red flare, not a green!” Partridge yelled at O'Hara.”And do it fast!”

  Red for Land as quickly as possible, we are in danger!

  * * *

  It was several minutes past eight o'clock. In the Cheyenne II above Sion airstrip, Zileri turned his head toward Rita and Sloane. He told them, "Nothing's happening here. We'll go to the other two points.”

  The plane turned away. As it did, Crawford Sloane called out, "Hold it! I think I saw something!”

  Zileri aborted the turn and swung the airplane back. He asked, "Where”

  “Somewhere down there.” Sloane pointed.”I'm not sure of the exact spot. It was just for a moment . . . I thought His voice mirrored his own uncertainty.

  Zileri flew the plane in a circle. Again they scrutinized as much of the ground as they could. When the circle was complete the pilot said, "I don't see a thing. I think we should go on.”

  At that moment, a red flare curled upward from the ground.

  * * *

  O'Hara fired a second red flare.

  ”That'll do. They've seen us,” Partridge said. The airplane had already turned toward them. What he needed to know now was which way the plane would land. Then he would pick a position to fight off the pursuers and occupy it while the others boarded first.

  The answer quickly became evident. The Cheyenne II was in a tight descending turn, losing height fast, and would come in over their heads. After that, it would land facing away from the jungle trail from where the shooting had been coming.

  Looking back, Partridge could still see no one in sight, despite the shots. He could only guess the reason for shooting. Perhaps someone, while advancing, was firing blindly, hoping for a lucky hit.

  He told O'Hara, "Get Jessica and Nicky down by the landing strip fast, and stay with them! When the plane gets to the far end, they'll swing around and taxi back. Go forward to meet the airplane, and all of you get aboard. Did you hear that, Minh?”

  "I heard.” Minh, with an eye glued to his camera, was imperturbably taking pictures, as he had at various moments throughout the journey. Partridge decided not to worry anymore about Minh. He would take care of himself.

  Jessica asked anxiously, "What about you, Harry?”

  He told her, "I'm going to cover you by firing down the trail. As soon as you're aboard I'll join you. Now get going!”

  O'Hara put an arm around Jessica, who was holding Nicky's good hand, and hurried them away.

  Even as they moved, looking back toward the jungle Partridge saw several figures now in sight, advancing on the airstrip, guns pointed forward.

  Partridge dropped behind a small hillock nearby. Lying on his belly, he rested the Kalashnikov in front of him, the sights of the automatic rifle directed at the moving figures. He squeezed the trigger, and amid a burst of fire saw one of the figures fall, the others dive for cover. At the same time he heard the Cheyenne II swoop in low above his head. Though he did not turn to watch, he knew it should be landing now.

  * * *

  "There they are!” Crawford Sloane shouted, near-hysterical with excitement.”I see them! It's Jessica and Nicky!” The airplane was still on its landing run, traveling fast on an uneven dirt surface.

  The end of the short strip was looming nearer, Zileri braking hard. As the landing run ended, employing brakes and one engine, the pilot swung the airplane around to face the way they had come. Then, using both engines for acceleration, he taxied back down the airstrip, moving fast toward its opposite end.

  The Cheyenne II stopped at the point where Jessica, Nicky and O'Hara were waiting. The copilot, Felipe, had already left h
is seat and moved aft. From inside the fuselage he released and lowered an air-stair door.

  Nicky first, then Jessica and O'Hara climbed aboard, outstretched hands, including Sloane's, helping pull them in. Minh appeared and scrambled in behind the others.

  As Sloane, Jessica and Nicky emotionally hugged each other, O'Hara called out breathlessly, "Harry's up ahead. We have to get him. He's holding off the terrorists.”

  "I see him,” Zileri said.”Hold on!” He opened the throttles again and the airplane shot forward, taxiing fast.

  At the runway's far end he turned the airplane around once more. It was now facing the way it landed, ready for takeoff but with the passenger door still open. Gunfire could be heard through the doorway.

  "Your friend will have to make a run for it.” Zileri's voice was urgent.”I want to get the hell out of here.”

  "He will,” Minh said.”He's seen us and he'll come.”

  * * *

  Partridge had both seen and heard the airplane. Glancing over his shoulder, he knew it was as close to him as it could come. There was about a hundred yards between him and the plane. He would make it at a fast run, keeping low. First though, he had to spray fire back into the jungle trail to deter any further advance by the Sendero force. In the past few minutes he had seen several more figures appear, had fired and seen another fall. The others were now hugging the shelter of the trees. A burst of fire would hold them there, out of sight, long enough for him to reach the plane.

  He had just put a fresh magazine into the Kalashnikov. Squeezing the trigger, then holding it, he poured a deadly hail of bullets along both sides of the jungle path. Since the firing began he had felt his old visceral zest for battle stir . . . that sensuous thrill; it set adrenaline running, juices flowing . . . an illogical, crazy addiction to the sights and sounds of war . . .

  When the magazine had emptied, he dropped the rifle, sprang to his feet and ran, doubling over to stay low. The airplane was ahead. He knew he'd make it!

  Partridge was a third of the way to the plane when a bullet struck his leg. He fell instantly. It was all so fast, it took him several seconds to grasp what had happened.

  The bullet had impacted at the back of his right knee, shattering the joint. He could go no farther. A terrible pain, more pain than he had ever believed possible, swept over him. He knew, at that moment, he would never reach the airplane. He knew, too, that there was no time left. The plane must go. And he must do what Fernandez had done, barely half an hour earlier.

  Summoning a final surge of strength, he raised himself, waving the Cheyenne forward. All that mattered now was that his intention should be clear.

  * * *

  Minh was in the airplane doorway, shooting pictures. He had Partridge in his zoom lens—a closeup—and had captured the moment when the bullet hit. The copilot, Felipe, was beside Minh.

  Felipe called in, "He's hit! I think badly. He's waving for us to go.”

  Inside the airplane, Sloane pushed toward the door.”We have to get him!”

  Jessica cried out, "Yes! Oh yes!”

  Nicky echoed, "Please don't go without Harry!”

  It was Minh, the realist about war, who said, "You can't get him. There isn't time.”

  Minh had seen through his lens the advancing Sendero force. Several of its members had reached the airstrip perimeter, were running forward and firing their guns. Just then, several bullets hit the plane.

  ”I'm leaving,” Zileri said. He had already lowered flaps for takeoff, now he pushed the throttles forward. Minh, plus camera, tumbled in. Felipe retracted and secured the air-stair door.

  As airspeed built, Zileri eased back on the control column. The Cheyenne II left the airstrip and climbed.

  Jessica and Nicky were holding each other, weeping. Sloane, his eyes partially closed, was shaking his head slowly, as if not believing what he had just seen.

  Minh held his camera against a window, taking final shots of the scene below.

  * * *

  On the ground, Partridge saw the Cheyenne II go.

  And saw something else. Through a haze of pain, in the doorway of the departing airplane he saw a smiling figure in Alitalia uniform. She was waving.

  Partridge's tears, long held back, began to flow. Then more bullets hit him and he died.

  20

  Looking down at the body of Harry Partridge, Miguel vowed that never again would he let something like today's fiasco happen.

  In the first stage of the kidnap enterprise, which was complex and demanding, he had been fabulously successful. In this second stage, which should have been easy and uncomplicated, he had failed abysmally.

  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 Jose 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; Ramon 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 business like.

  Miguel had eminently saleable 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 "Colombiaized.” 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 bad 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.