2

The contrasts of Lima, Harry Partridge thought, were as stark and grimly apparent as the crises and conflicts, political and economic, that bitterly, often savagely, divided all Peru.

The immense, dry, sprawling capital city was split into several segments, each displaying opulent wealth or squalid poverty, with hatreds like poisoned arrows speeding between the two extremes. Unlike most other cities he knew, there was seldom any middle ground. Grandiose homes surrounded by manicured gardens, all built on Lima’s best land, adjoined hideous barriadas—slums jam-packed together—on the worst.

The multitude of “have-not” slum dwellers, many crowded into filthy cardboard shacks, was so visibly wretched, the anger looking out from sullen eyes so fierce, that during past visits to Peru, Partridge had had a sense of revolution in ferment. Now, from what he had already learned during his first day here, some form of insurrection seemed ready to explode.

Partridge, Minh Van Canh and Ken O’Hara had landed at Lima’s Jorge Chávez Airport at 1:40 P.M. On disembarking they were met by Fernández Pabur, CBA’s regular stringer in Peru and—when required, as now—the network’s fixer.

He had whisked them through Immigration and Customs ahead of others waiting—it seemed likely that at some point money had changed hands—and then escorted them to a Ford station wagon, with waiting driver.

Fernández was heavyset, dark, swarthy and energetic, probably about thirty-five, with a protruding mouth and prominent white teeth which he flashed every few seconds in what he clearly hoped was a dazzling smile. In fact, being patently false, it wasn’t—but Partridge didn’t care. What he liked about Fernández, whom he had used on other occasions, was that the fixer knew instinctively what was needed and got results.

The first result was a suite for Partridge in the elegant five-star Cesar’s Hotel in Miraflores, and good rooms for the other two.

At the hotel, while Partridge washed and put on a clean shirt, Fernández phoned ahead at Partridge’s request to set up the first appointment. It was with an old acquaintance; Sergio Hurtado, news editor and broadcaster for Radio Andes network.

An hour later, the radio man and Partridge were together in a small broadcast studio which doubled as an office.

“Harry my friend, I have only depressing tidings to convey,” Sergio was saying, responding to a question. “In our country the rule of law has disappeared. Democracy is not even a façade; it is nonexistent. We are bankrupt in every sense. Massacres are commonplace, politically inspired. There are private death squads of the President’s party; people simply disappear. I tell you we are nearer to a total bloodbath than ever before in the history of Peru. I wish none of this were true. Alas, it is!”

Although coming from a grotesquely obese body, the deep mellifluous voice was compelling and persuasive as ever, Partridge noted. Small wonder that Sergio commanded the country’s largest audience, since radio was still the paramount news medium, more important and influential than television. TV viewers were a well-to-do concentration in larger cities only.

Sergio’s chair creaked complainingly as he shifted his mountain of flesh. His jowls were like outsize sausages. His eyes, which across the years had receded as his face grew larger, were now porcine. Nothing was wrong with his brain, however, nor his distinguished American education which had included Harvard. Sergio appreciated U.S. reporters visiting him, as many did, seeking his well-informed opinions.

After an agreement that their conversation would be off the record until the following evening, Partridge described the chronology of the Sloane kidnap, then asked, “Do you have any advice for me, Sergio? Is there anything you have heard which might be helpful?”

The broadcaster shook his head. “I have heard nothing, which is not surprising. Sendero is good at secrecy, mainly because they kill any of their people who talk indiscreetly; staying alive is an incentive not to gossip. But I will help you, if I can, by putting out feelers. I have information sources in many places.”

“Thank you.”

“As to your news tomorrow night, I will obtain a satellite tape and adapt it for myself. Meanwhile we are not short of disaster subjects of our own. This country, politically, financially, every other way, is going down the tubes.”

“We hear mixed reports about Sendero Luminoso. Are they really getting stronger?”

“The answer is yes—and not only stronger every day, but controlling more and more of the country, which is why the task you have set yourself is difficult, some might say impossible. Assuming your kidnapped people are here, there are a thousand out-of-the-way places where they may be hidden. But I am glad you came to me first because I will give you some advice.”

“Which is?”

“Do not seek official help—that is, from the Peru armed forces or the police. In fact, avoid them as allies because they have ceased to be trustworthy, if they ever were. When it comes to murder and mayhem, they are no better than Sendero and certainly as ruthless.”

“Are there recent examples?”

“Plenty. I’ll point you toward some if you wish.”

Partridge had already begun thinking about reports he would send back for the National Evening News. He had previously arranged that after the arrival Saturday of Rita Abrams and the editor, Bob Watson, they would put together a piece for Monday’s broadcast. In it, Partridge hoped to have sound bites from Sergio Hurtado and others.

Now he asked, “You said democracy is nonexistent. Was that rhetoric or really true?”

“Not only true, but to huge numbers of people here the presence or absence of democracy makes no difference in their lives.”

“Pretty strong stuff, Sergio.”

“Only because of your finite viewpoint, Harry. Americans see democracy as a remedy for all ills—to be taken three times daily like prescription medicine. It works for them. Ergo!—it should work for the world. What America naïvely forgets is that for democracy to function, most of a populace must have something personally that is worth preserving. Generally speaking, most Latin Americans don’t. Of course, the next question is—why?”

“So I’ll buy it. Why?”

“The areas of the world in deepest trouble, including ours, have two main groups of people—the reasonably educated and affluent on the one hand; on the other, the ignorant and hopeless poor who are largely unemployable. The first group breeds only moderately, the second breeds like flies, inexorably growing larger—a human time bomb ready to destroy the first.” Sergio gestured airily behind him. “Go outside and see it happening.”

“And you have a solution?”

“America could have. Not by distributing arms or money, but by flooding the world with birth-control teaching teams, sent out the way Kennedy dispatched the Peace Corps. Oh, it would take several generations, but curbing population growth could save the world.”

Partridge queried, “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

“If you mean the Catholic church, I remind you I am a Catholic myself. I also have many Catholic friends—of stature, educated and with money. Strangely, almost all have small families. I have asked myself: Have they curbed their sexual passions? Knowing both the men and women, I am sure that they have not. Indeed, some speak out frankly, disavowing church dogma on birth control—which is man-made dogma, incidentally.” He added, “With American leadership, voices in opposition to that dogma could grow and grow.”

“Speaking of speaking out,” Partridge said. “Would you be willing to repeat most of what we’ve talked about on camera?”

Sergio threw up his hands. “Well, my dear Harry, why not? Perhaps the greatest thing America instilled in me was a passion for free speech. I have been speaking freely here on radio, though at times I wonder how long they will let me go on. Neither the government nor Sendero like what I say and both have guns and bullets. But one cannot live forever, so yes, Harry, I will do it for you.”

Beneath the gross fat, Partridge acknowledged mentally, was a person of principle and courage.

Before reaching Peru, Partridge had already decided there was only one way to go about locating the kidnap victims. That was to act as a TV news correspondent would in normal circumstances—meeting known contacts, seeking out new ones, searching for news, traveling where he could, questioning, questioning, and all the while hoping some fragment of information would emerge, providing a clue, a lead to where the captives might be held.

After that, of course, would come the greater problem of how to rescue them. But that would have to be faced when the time arrived.

Unless some lucky, sudden breakthrough happened, Partridge expected the process to be demanding, slow and tedious.

Continuing the TV correspondent routine, he next visited Entel Peru—the national telecommunications company with headquarters in downtown Lima. Entel would be CBA’s base for communication with New York, including satellite transmissions. When crews from other U.S. networks arrived, as seemed likely in a day or two, they would use the same facilities.

Victor Velasco was the busy, harried international manager of Entel whom Fernández Pabur had already contacted. In his forties, with graying hair and a permanently worried expression, Velasco was clearly preoccupied with other problems as he told Partridge, “It has been difficult to find space, but we have a booth for your editor, his equipment, and we’ve run in two phone lines. Your people will need security passes …”

Partridge was aware that in places like Peru, where politicians and military leaders strutted and got rich, it was low-profile managers like Velasco—conscientious, overworked and underpaid—who really kept the country running. Back in his hotel suite, Partridge had put a thousand dollars in an envelope which he produced and discreetly handed over.

“A small thank-you for your trouble, Señor Velasco. We’ll be seeing you again before we leave.”

For a moment Velasco looked embarrassed and Partridge wondered if he might refuse. Then, glancing in the envelope and seeing U.S. currency, Velasco nodded and put it in a pocket.

“Thank you. And if there’s anything else …”

“There will be,” Partridge said. “That’s the only thing I’m sure of.”

“What took you so long, Harry?” Manuel León Seminario inquired when Partridge phoned from the hotel shortly after 5 P.M., having just returned from Entel Peru. “I’ve been expecting you since our little talk.”

“I had a couple of things to do in New York.” Partridge was reminded of his phone conversation ten days earlier with the Escena magazine owner-editor; it had been at a time when Peru involvement in the Sloane family kidnapping was a possibility, though not a certainty as now. He asked, “I was wondering, Manuel, if you’ve a dinner engagement tonight.”

“I have indeed. I shall be dining at La Pizzeria at eight o’clock and my guest will be one Harry Partridge.”

It was now 8:15 and they were sipping Pisco sours, the popular Peruvian cocktail, piquant and delicious. La Pizzeria was a combination of bistro and traditional restaurant where the movers and shakers of Lima were often to be seen.

The magazine chief, slightly built and dapper, with a neatly trimmed Vandyke beard, was wearing high-fashion Cartier spectacles and a Brioni suit. He had brought with him to the table a slim burgundy leather briefcase.

Partridge had already reported why he was in Peru. He added, “I’ve been hearing that things around here are pretty bad.”

Seminario sighed. “It is true, they are. But then, our life has always been a mixture. We … how did Milton put it? … ‘Can make a heav’n of hell, a hell of heav’n.’ Yet we limeños are survivors, something I try to reflect with Escena’s covers.” He reached for the briefcase and opened it. “Consider these two—our current edition and the artwork for next week. Together, I believe they say something.”

Partridge looked at the printed magazine first. Its cover was a color photograph of a tall downtown building’s flat roof. The roof contained a mess of debris, obviously from an explosion. Central in the picture was a dead woman, on her back. She appeared to have been young; her face, not badly damaged, might have been beautiful. But her stomach had been blown away, with bloody entrails strewn around the body. Despite his familiarity with scenes of war, Partridge shuddered.

“I’ll save you reading the story inside, Harry. A business convention was in session across the street. Sendero Luminoso, in which the woman was an activist, decided to mortar the convention center. Fortunately for the convention, but not the woman, the mortar was homemade and exploded before she could fire it.”

Partridge glanced at the picture, then away. “Sendero is increasingly active in Lima, I believe.”

“Exceedingly so. Their people move around freely and this bombing, which went wrong, was an exception. Most are successful. Nevertheless, consider next week’s cover.” The editor passed across the artwork.

It was sex and cheesecake, only a hairbreadth away from pornography. A slim young girl, perhaps nineteen and scantily clad in the briefest of swimsuits, was leaning against a silken pillow, her head thrown back, blond hair tumbled, lips parted, eyes closed, legs partially spread.

“Life goes on and there are always two sides, even in Peru,” the magazine man said. “Speaking of which, let us order dinner, then I will make suggestions, Harry, to ensure that your life goes on too.”

The food was Italian and excellent, the service faultless. Near the end of the meal, Seminario leaned back.

“One thing you must realize is that Sendero Luminoso may already know of your presence here; their spies are everywhere. But even if not, they will learn of it shortly, probably after your CBA broadcast tomorrow, which will be repeated widely. So beginning at once, you must have a bodyguard accompany you, particularly if you go out at night.”

Partridge smiled. “That seems to have happened already.” Fernández Pabur had insisted on collecting Partridge from the hotel and bringing him here. Accompanying them in the Ford station wagon had been a silent, burly man who looked like a heavyweight boxer. Judging by a bulge under his jacket, he was armed. At their destination, the new man alighted first, Fernández and Partridge remaining inside the vehicle until signaled to come out. Partridge had not asked questions, but Fernández told him, “We will wait while you have dinner.” Presumably the retinue was still outside.

“Good,” Seminario acknowledged. “Your man knows what he is doing. Are you carrying a gun yourself?”

Partridge shook his head.

“You must. Many of us do. And to quote American Express, ‘Don’t leave home without it.’ Another thing: Do not go to Ayacucho, a Sendero stronghold. Sendero would learn of your being there and you would be committing suicide.”

“At some point I may have to go.”

“You mean if I, or others trying to help you, learn where your friends are being held. In that case you will have to ensure surprise by going in fast and getting out the same way. There will be no other way and you will have to use a charter airplane. Some pilots here will do that if you pay them enough risk money.”

When they had finished talking, most other diners were gone and the restaurant was preparing to close.

Outside, Fernández and the bodyguard were waiting.

In the station wagon returning to Cesar’s Hotel, Partridge asked Fernández, “Can you get me a gun?”

“Of course. Do you have a preference?”

Partridge considered. The nature of his work had made him knowledgeable about guns and he had learned to use them. “I’d like a nine-millimeter Browning; also a silencer.”

“You will have it tomorrow. And about tomorrow—are there plans that I should know of?”

“Just like today, I’ll be seeing more people.” Partridge added mentally: And in days beyond that, still more—until the breakthrough comes.