by Dana Black
And here she was, fiddling with a diagram of camera placements.
“Get me Wayne Taggart,” she told the switchboard operator.
When he came to the line, Sharon told him the news. This afternoon he was going to get his chance. When the UBC cameras came on for the Russia-Uruguay game, Wayne Taggart would be both producer and director.
Then Sharon left her office and took a cab to the Madrid police station.
Also in Madrid that morning, Raul drove to his apartment and told his wife, Maria, that he had worked another overtime shift doing plainclothes work. He showered, changed, and reported to his post at Bernabeau Stadium exactly at noon. He was tired, but as the time drew near for the Patrón’s man to arrive, his senses sharpened.
The guard on duty with him, a younger man, was following the Soviet-Uruguay game on his pocket transistor. The other guard took a special interest in the contest because the outcome would decide who played Spain in the semifinals next Wednesday. He cheered, not so much for one team or the other, but for injuries, hoping for a battle-weary opponent that would be easy meat for his countrymen. Raul thought him a typical Spanish pig who sought victory without honor.
When he saw Eugene Groves approaching his gate, Raul ticked off the man’s description against the one the woman had given him. Sandy hair, 1.8 meters in height, Nordic features. A UBC cameraman’s uniform.
Raul took a step forward so as to forestall a greeting by his co-worker that might impede the agreed-on verbal check. He felt confident; the other guard was immersed in the announcer’s vivid description of a bone-crushing Soviet tackle that had fractured a Uruguay defenseman’s wrist.
“Why aren’t you across town with the others?” Raul asked Groves.
“I just go where they tell me,” Groves replied in Spanish. He held a small portable camera unit, and carried a huge metal-encased container on a backpack frame.
“What’s in the backpack?” Raul held out a hand for Groves’s papers.
“My battery. Juice for the camera. Without it I couldn’t take any pictures of the empty stadium.”
“How long do you plan to remain?”
“Twenty minutes—half hour, tops.”
Raul shrugged and prodded his co-worker. “You want to check the Americano’s papers?”
The guard lowered his transistor set from his ear and nodded. He gave the documents a solemn inspection. “Okay, hombre,” he said after a few moments’ silence, just enough to show that he was not someone to take his work lightly. “You may pass.”
“I’m going to keep an eye on that fellow,” said Raul, as Groves walked on. “I want to see what kind of pictures anyone would want to take of an empty stadium.”
“Maybe you’ll learn something,” said the other guard. He put his radio to his ear again.
Raul and Groves walked through the concrete tunnel into the vast oval-shaped bowl. Raul surveyed the stands with distaste. They were still littered with the debris of yesterday’s game: yellowing paper cups—shot-glass size for brandy, big ones for beer—wrappers that had once held raisins, sunflower seeds, plantain chips; cigar butts and metal tubes; cigarette stubs. All sodden with overnight dew and fragrant with the heat of the day.
“Spanish economy,” Raul said, his words heavy with irony. “They work the grounds crew across town today for the Soviet game. This garbage will sit here till the end of the week.”
Groves was not much interested in Spanish groundskeepers. He pointed across the field to an enclosed area on the second deck. The gold-painted framework around the enclosure glittered in the afternoon sun. A white-and-gold awning covered the central portion; above the golden fringe at the front of the awning was a golden insignia.
“That’s the place?” Groves asked.
“The royal box,” Raul said with some satisfaction. He was thinking of the afternoon a week from today, when King Juan Carlos would die in that box along with one hundred twenty thousand others.
They walked there together. When Raul was certain no one was watching, he showed Groves the space beneath the seating platform where a man could hide unnoticed until darkness fell.
Fifteen minutes later he walked back to his post. “I let him out the west end,” he said. “The stupid Americano wanted pictures of the stadium litter. For what reason I cannot imagine.”
Raul’s partner nodded knowingly. “It’s four-two for the Soviets,” he said. “Volnikov just hurt his ankle.”
Shortly after the game ended—a seven-two victory for Russia— Wally Murray called in his followup story on Keith Palermo. This time the editor on duty sent it out. All over the English-speaking world, AP tickers clattered onto their rolls of yellow paper: “MADRID POLICE OFFER NO CLUE TO MISSING U.S. SOCCER STAR.”
14
Sharon was not in the UBC office to read the news. She was downtown in Madrid, haranguing an officer of the Spanish Guardia Civil.
By Monday morning the Madrid police, the Spanish government’s Ministry of Culture, and the Guardia Civil had each received telephone calls from several different organizations concerning the missing Keith Palermo. None, of course, had any connection with Raul and the gypsies of the Granada Sacromonte. They had simply heard of Palermo’s absence on the radio and, wishing to obtain publicity and status for their organizations and goals, called Spanish officials and news media to claim responsibility.
The Young Workers League offered to release Palermo in exchange for thirty-five political prisoners. The Libra-Toros, a left-wing fringe group based in the port city of Vigo, offered freedom for the American if the government would nationalize the fishing industry. One call came from Las Palmas in the Canaries, maintaining that Palermo would remain hostage until the Islands were given independence from Spain.
As the most visible American presence in Madrid, UBC had received its share of calls from these publicity seekers. At her switchboard, Molly had at first diverted these calls to Sharon’s phone. Later on in the morning, however, she realized that Sharon had not yet come in for work. Someone called from the office of the Ministry of Culture, the governmental agency of Spain in charge of futbol matters and the World Cup. The caller wished to complain that a woman claiming to be an employee of UBC had been harassing responsible officials. This woman called herself Sharon Foster and contended that unless His Majesty’s government did more to find the missing Palermo, she would broadcast a report even more critical than the one UBC had aired Sunday night.
Not long afterward, Ross Cantrell’s limousine came to a stop at the ornate entrance to the Ministry of Culture. Across the street was parked a UBC mobile van, but Cantrell’s uniformed chauffeur did not seem to notice it as he got out. Leaving his employer in the back seat, he walked directly into the building through the filigreed doorway.
Several minutes later he returned, accompanied by Sharon Foster.
“How’s my girl?” Cantrell asked when Sharon got into the back of the limousine. His voice was kind, his eyes sympathetic.
They talked for several minutes. “Look,” Sharon said at one point, “it’s Monday. There’s nothing happening here in the tournament until the semifinals Wednesday. It seems to me that Keith Palermo is the story.”
But was Sharon covering the story, Cantrell asked, or trying to make it happen? It seemed to him that really all anybody knew was that Keith had dropped out of sight. Was it responsible journalism to play up all the “hostage” stories? More to the point in Sharon’s case, was it the producer’s job to try to influence the government’s search? The network’s relations with the authorities were becoming strained.
“I’m sorry,” Sharon said, “but I really don’t think they’re making any kind of serious search for Keith. Somebody’s got to try to get some action out of them. I seem to be the only one who cares enough.”
“You’re sure he needs to be looked for?”
She nodded. “He was to meet me Saturday night. He never called, never sent word. Keith wouldn’t have done that.”
“You
’re sure? Or is that just what you want to believe?”
Tears of frustration clouded Sharon’s eyes, but she kept her voice firm. “I don’t need to have my belief in Keith questioned, Mr. Cantrell. Not by you or anyone.”
There was a moment’s silence. The upholstered interior of the Rolls seemed smaller to Sharon; the glass partition that separated them from the driver seemed to be closer.
Cantrell was asking her what she planned for tonight. She tried to think ahead. The officer on duty yesterday in the Guardia Civil office had promised to give her a detailed report, she said, and after that she would try the local police once more.
“I mean for tonight’s program, Sharon. The broadcast.”
She didn’t understand what Cantrell was driving at. “Most of it’s taped, don’t you remember? We allowed a half hour each for updates these off nights; the rest is all ready to roll.”
“Then there’s really not a lot you have to do?”
“Right now I have this to do.” She gestured at the gilded facade of the Cultural Ministry. “It’s something that needs to be done.”
Cantrell cleared his throat. “The point is, if you’re here as a UBC producer, you’re fouling things up for us with the government. They’re already complaining.”
“I can’t help that. If they’d spend some time looking for Keith instead of calling your office—”
“Sharon,” he interrupted, “there are more tourists here in Spain right now than there are Spanish citizens. Do you realize that? It’s impossible for the government to keep track of them all.”
“All the more reason somebody has to keep after them about Keith.”
“You sound pretty determined,” Cantrell said. “Are you ready to make a choice?”
Now she understood. “Between Keith and my job?”
“Between your job and carrying on this crusade of yours,” he replied. “Keith himself may be on his way back to you right now, without your lifting another finger.”
Sharon controlled her temper, thought hard, and still chose to keep on with her efforts; nothing else seemed to make any sense. She did have enough presence of mind to negotiate a bit, though. Rather than severing her connection with UBC entirely, she worked it out with him that she would remain as an unpaid associate producer. That way she would be able to rejoin the network when Keith turned up again—which was something Cantrell seemed to want—and to continue using her UBC credentials to open doors in her search for Keith, which was something Sharon wanted that Cantrell seemed to overlook.
That settled, they drove back to the UBC studio setup in the stadium tunnel. Cantrell wrote out a check for Sharon’s salary to date and signed it. Sharon looked at the amount, planning for the worst. Assuming the tournament ended with Keith still missing, this would pay for her travel for a month or two, tracking down leads. “And you’ve got your plane ticket home,” Cantrell said. “The other half of your round trip, right?” He wished her the best of luck in her search as they said goodbye.
When Sharon told the others she was no longer the producer, nobody believed her at first except Maria Coquias. The young Basque woman immediately begged Sharon not to go. Knowing how Maria felt about Wayne Taggart, Sharon understood.
In his office, Ross Cantrell buzzed Molly on his desktop speakerphone. “Any more calls come in about Sharon Foster,” he said, “you tell them she’s no longer on the payroll.”
It was a shame, Molly agreed later, while talking with Cindy Ling. Ever since Sharon had failed to handle that Russian documentary properly, she hadn’t seemed able to react to these outside events without becoming personally involved. Molly was sure that was the main reason Mr. Cantrell had had to let Sharon go.
Talking with Dan Richards, Molly said it probably had been building ever since Sharon had failed to safeguard that tape of Alec Conroy.
Talking with Rachel Quinn, Molly said it was probably the risk Sharon had run authorizing Walter J. and Max to stand by with the van, hoping to get that little Russian girl to defect. Ever since the word about that fiasco had drifted through the grapevine back to Mr. Cantrell, he’d been concerned about Sharon’s stability. What would Sharon do, Molly wondered, if Keith really was being held hostage somewhere?
Mr. Cantrell probably shared the same worries, and so had been forced to turn the producer’s job over to Wayne Taggart.
15
On her way back downtown to the Guardia Civil, Sharon stopped off at the hospital for her daily visit with Larry Noble. Larry had news for her before she could tell him what had happened with Cantrell: the doctors here in Madrid had pronounced him well enough to travel to New York, where he had a three-vessel bypass operation scheduled for early next week.
“After that,” he said, “they tell me I’ll be feeling pretty good again. Probably good enough to hire you away from Cantrell, once I get something going.”
She told him it was nice to know she’d have another job someday; right now she was an unpaid lobbyist on behalf of one missing soccer player.
When he heard the story, Larry swallowed hard and smoothed the fringe of hair around the edges of his bald scalp. “I guess you know what you’re doing,” he said. “But I’m sure glad I don’t have to make a choice like that.”
Sharon couldn’t help smiling. “Look at you, Larry,” she said. “You’re about to fly off for open-heart surgery and you’re sitting there as though I were the one with the problems.”
“And I’m right,” he said. “All I’ve got to do is learn to get to sleep without cherry cordials.”
Her visit with Larry was the high point of the afternoon for Sharon. She made the stops at the Guardia and the police offices; neither had anything new. Worse, from Sharon’s point of view, they seemed to be growing resentful of interference from the press. Reporters from newspapers and magazines had begun to hound the same offices Sharon was visiting. Officials acted as though they had said all they had to say to other Americanos as soon as Sharon started in with her questions. She began to have the feeling that she was no longer necessary as a prod to the Spanish; that the reporters, who were in need of stories on these two off days, would apply more pressure than she possibly could. If so, then she had given up her job for no practical purpose, and was using this search of hers only as an escape mechanism, a way to do something about her sense of loss.
She decided to try the American embassy.
There she met the same State Department official who had badgered her by transatlantic telephone from Washington. In his late thirties, with flowing black hair and wire-rimmed spectacles, he came bounding into the reception area to greet her only moments after she had given the purpose of her visit.
“Elliott Strether, Ms. Foster,” he said, pumping her hand. He led her into a small, brightly lit anteroom with high beamed ceilings and freshly whitewashed walls. “There’s been just so much on this World Cup thing, I thought it best to come over and liase directly with all the American personnel involved. You see, it’s important to speak with only one voice on these matters, and we’ve got to measure our impacting with some considerable care.”
He paused and pointed to a chair, taking the one with its back to the window. “I must say,” he continued as Sharon sat down, “you’re much younger, smaller, and prettier than I’d imagined. From talking to you on the telephone, I’d pictured a stately Brunhilde of a woman.”
Sharon squinted at the afternoon sun that streamed in from the window. “Would you close those drapes behind you, please?”
While he was occupied fumbling with the drapery cords, she told him why she had come, and that she was no longer the UBC producer. He returned to his chair, sat down heavily, and put his palms on his knees. “Do you mean to say I’ll have to interface with someone else?”
“Wayne Taggart,” Sharon said. “But the reason I’m here is important for the State Department too, I’m sure. If Keith isn’t found in time to play in the game against Argentina—”
“Well, that’s not quite the game
plan from our reference vantage,” Strether interrupted smoothly. “You see, there’s a bit involved outside the sporting question, and also outside the safeguarding-individual-citizens viewpoint. On a national level, our relations with Spain could stand some patchwork. We’re after additional air bases, flyover rights for our Cruise missiles and conventional planes, space shuttle tracking, the whole NATO business—it’s quite complex.”
“But what does it have to do with Keith?”
Strether got to his feet. “Well, Ms. Foster”—he hesitated as he saw that Sharon remained seated—“I can see that you’re very much involved in the matter from the human-rights standpoint. And I can sympathize with you.”
“Then what can you do to help?”
He turned his hands palms up, empty. “We certainly would be happy to lend our resources to any specific effort if we had them available,” he said, “but I have to tell you in all frankness that it wouldn’t do our relations with the Spanish any harm if Argentina was to beat our soccer team in Wednesday’s playoff, and if Spain also beat us for the third place-”
His voice trailed off as he watched Sharon walking out of the room.
Hours later, Sharon climbed wearily out of a taxi in front of her hotel. Her afternoon, spent wrangling with others at the American embassy and with sergeants and lieutenants at police and Guardia stations, had left Sharon tired, angry, and wondering whether she was making any difference to anything except the state of her nerves.
There had been a short relief from antagonistic officials when she had met Rachel Quinn and stopped at one of the sidewalk coffee shops in the Plaza del Sol. But that encounter had not brightened Sharon’s spirits.
“Don’t throw it all away for any man,” Rachel had counseled when she learned what Sharon was doing. “Especially not for an athlete who still goes on the road. The way those little groupies hang around the stadiums—”