Arthur Hailey - Evening News

A U.S. human rights organization, Americas Watch, had done a creditable job, Partridge believed, in seeking out and recording what it called "a cascade of extrajudicial executions, arbitrary arrests, disappearances and torture,” all "central features”in the government's counterinsurgency campaign.

On the other hand, Americas Watch did not spare the rebels. In a recently published report, open beside the bed, it said Sendero Luminoso "systematically murders defenseless people, places explosives that endanger the lives of innocent bystanders and attacks military targets without minimizing the risk to the civilian population"—all "violations of the most fundamental rules of international humanitarian law.”

As to the country generally, "Peru now has the sad privilege to be counted among the most violent and dangerous places in South America.”

An inescapable conclusion, confirmed by other sources, was that little difference existed between rebel and government forces when it came to random slaughter and other assorted savagery.

Yet, at the same time, strong democratic elements existed in Peru—more real than mere faqades, a word sometimes used by critics. Freedom of the press was one, a tradition seemingly ingrained. It was that same freedom which allowed Partridge and other foreign reporters to travel, question, probe, then report however they decided, without fear of expulsion or reprisal. True, there had been exceptions to the principle but so far they were rare and isolated.

Partridge had come close to that subject today during an interview with General Raftl Ortiz, chief of anti-terrorism police.”Does it not concern you,” he had asked the erect, unsmiling figure in plain clothes, "that there are so many responsible reports of your men being guilty of brutality and illegal executions?”

"It would concern me more,” Ortiz replied in a half-contemptuous tone, "if my men were the ones executed—as they would be if they did not defend themselves from those terrorists which you and others seem to care so much about. As to the untrue reports, if our government tried to suppress them, people like you would raise great howls and keep repeating them. Thus a one-day news trifle, forgotten twenty-four hours later, is usually preferable.”

Partridge had requested the interview with Ortiz, believing he should cover the ground, though doubting that much would be gained. Through the Ministry of the Interior the meeting was arranged promptly, though a request to bring a camera crew was denied. Also, when Partridge was searched before being allowed to enter the police general's office, a mini-tape recorder in his pocket, which he had intended to ask permission to use, was removed outside. Nothing was said, though, about the talk being off the record and the general made no objection to his visitor's taking notes.

General Ortiz's unpretentious wood-paneled office was one of a warren of similar offices in an old, massive raw-cement building in downtown Lima. High walls surrounded the structure, half of which had once been a prison. Getting inside had entailed clearance by a succession of suspicious guards; then, walking across a courtyard within the walls, Partridge had passed rows of armored personnel carriers, as well as trucks with anti-riot water cannon. While talking with the general, Partridge was aware that beneath them in the building's basement were cell blocks where prisoners were often held for two weeks without any outside contact, and other cells where interrogation and torture regularly took place.

At the outset of the Ortiz interview, Partridge asked the question uppermost in his mind: whether the anti-terrorism police had any idea where the three Sloane kidnap victims were being held.

”I thought you might have come to tell me that, judging by the many people you have seen since coming here,” the General responded. It was an admission and perhaps a not-so-subtle warning, Partridge thought, that his movements were being watched. He guessed, too, that CBA's satellite transmissions to New York, as well as those of other U.S. networks were being monitored and recorded by the Peruvian Government, press freedom notwithstanding.

When Partridge declared he had no information about the location of the American captives despite his efforts, Ortiz said, "Then you are aware how devious and secretive those enemies of the state, Sendero Luminoso, can be. Also that this is a country far different from your own, with vast spaces where it is possible to hide armies. But, yes, we have ideas as to areas where your friends might be and our forces are searching those.”

"Will you tell me which areas?” Partridge asked.

”I do not believe that would be wise. In any case it would not be possible to go there yourself. Or do you, perhaps, have some such plan?”

Although Partridge did have a plan, he replied negatively.

The remainder of the interview went much the same way, neither participant trusting the other and playing cat-and mouse, attempting to obtain information without revealing all of his own. In the end neither succeeded, though in a summary for the National Evening News, Partridge did use two quotes from General Ortiz—the one about Peru's "vast spaces where it is possible to hide armies” and the cynical observation that alleged human rights violations were "a one-day news trifle, forgotten twenty-four hours later.”

Since there was no recording, New York used both quotes in print on-screen, beneath a still photo of the general.

Partridge did not, however, regard his visit as productive.

More satisfying was an interview later in the day with Cesar Acevedo, another long time friend of Partridge's and a lay leader of the Catholic Church. They met in a private office at the rear of the Archbishop's Palace on the Plaza de Armas, official center of the city.

Acevedo, a small, fast-talking, intense person in his fifties, had deep religious convictions and was a theological scholar. He was involved full-time with church administration and had considerable authority, though he had never taken the ultimate step of becoming a priest. If he had, friends were apt to say, by now he would be a bishop at the very least, and eventually a cardinal.

Cesar Acevedo had never married, though he was a prominent figure socially in Lima.

Partridge liked Acevedo because he was always what he appeared to be, as well as unassuming and totally honest. On an earlier occasion when Partridge asked why he had never entered the priesthood, he replied, "Profoundly as I love God and Jesus Christ, I have never felt willing to surrender my intellectual right to be a skeptic, should that ever happen, though I pray it never will. But if I became a priest I would have surrendered that right. As a young man, and even now, I could never quite bring myself to do it.”

Acevedo was executive secretary of the Catholic Social Action Commission and was involved with outreach programs which brought medical help to remote parts of the country where no doctors or nurses were regularly available.

”I believe,” Partridge asked early in their meeting, "that from time to time you have to deal with Sendero Luminoso.”

Acevedo smiled.”'Have to deal' is correct. The Church does not, of course, approve of Sendero—either its objectives or methods. But as a practical matter a relationship exists, though a peculiar one.”

For reasons of its own, the lay leader explained, Sendero Luminoso did not like antagonizing the Church and rarely attacked it as an institution. Yet the rebel group did not trust individual Church officials, and when some anti-government action or other insurrection was intended, the rebels wanted priests and other church workers out of the area so they could not witness it.

”They will simply tell a priest or our social workers, 'Get out of here! We don't want you around! You will be told when you can return.' “