Arthur Hailey - Evening News

"And your priests obey that kind of order?”

Acevedo sighed.”It does not sound admirable, does it? But usually yes, because there is little choice. If the order is disobeyed Sendero will not hesitate to kill. A live priest can go back eventually. A dead priest cannot.”

A sudden thought occurred to Partridge.”Are there any places, right at this moment, where your people have been told to leave, where Sendero Luminoso doesn't want outside attention?”

"There is one such area and it is creating a considerable problem for us. Come! I will show you on the map.” They walked to a wall where, under a plastic cover with crayon markings, a large map of Peru was mounted.

”It's this entire area right here.” Acevedo pointed to a section of San Martin Province, ringed in red.”Until about three weeks ago we had a strong medical team in here, performing an assistance program we carry out each year. A lot of what they do is vaccinate and inoculate children. It's important because the area is part of the Selva, where jungle diseases abound and can be fatal. Anyway, about three weeks ago Sendero Luminoso, which controls the area, insisted that our people leave. They protested, but they had to go. Now we want to get our medics back in. Sendero says no.”

Partridge studied the encircled section. He had hoped it would be small. Instead it was depressingly large. He read place names, all far apart: Tocache, Uchiza, Sion, Nueva Esperanza, Pachiza. Without much hope he wrote them down. In the unlikely event of the captives being at one of those places, it would do no good to enter the area without knowing which. Effecting a rescue anywhere would be difficult, perhaps impossible. The only slim chance would be total surprise.

”I suspect I know what you are thinking,” Acevedo said, "You are wondering if your kidnapped friends are somewhere in that circle.”

Partridge nodded without speaking.

”I do not believe so. If it were the case I think there would have been some rumor. I have heard none. But our church has a network of contacts. I will send out word and report to you if anything is learned.”

It was the best he could hope for, Partridge realized. But time, he knew, was running out and he was no closer to knowing the whereabouts of the imprisoned Sloane trio than when he had arrived.

The thought had depressed him while in the Archbishop's Palace. Now, in his hotel room, remembering that and the other events of the day, he had a sense of frustration and failure at his lack of progress.

Abruptly, the bedside telephone rang.”Harry, is that you?” Partridge recognized Don Kettering's voice.

They exchanged greetings, then Kettering said, "Some things have happened that I thought you ought to know about.”

* * *

Rita, also in Cesar's Hotel, answered her room phone on the second ring.

”I've just had a call from New York,” Partridge said. He repeated what Don Kettering had told him about discovery of the Hackensack house and the cellular phones, adding, "Don gave me a Lima number that was called. I want to find out who’s it is and where.”

"Give it to me,” Rita said. He repeated it: 28-9427.

”I'll try to get that Entel guy, Victor Velasco, and start him working on it. Call you back if there's any news.”

She did in fifteen minutes.”I managed to get Velasco at home. He says it isn't something his department handles and he may have a little trouble getting the information, but thinks he can have it by morning.”

"Thanks,” Partridge said and, soon after, was asleep.

It was not until mid afternoon on Wednesday that the Lima telephone number relayed through Don Kettering was identified. Entel Peru's international manager was apologetic about the delay.”It is, of course, restricted data,” Victor Velasco explained to Partridge and Rita, who were in CBA's Entel editing booth where they had been working with the editor, Bob Watson, on another news spot for New York.

”I had trouble persuading one of my colleagues to release the information,” Velasco continued, "but eventually I succeeded.”

"With money?” Rita asked and, when he nodded, she said, "We'll reimburse you.”

A sheet torn from a memo pad contained the information: Calderon, G-547 Huancavelica Street, 10F

"We need Fernandez,” Partridge said.

”He's on his way here,” Rita informed him, and the swarthy, energetic stringer-fixer arrived within the next few minutes. He had continued working with Partridge since his and Minh Van Canh's arrival at Lima airport and now assisted Rita in a variety of ways.

Told about the Huancavelica Street address and why it might be important, Fernandez Pabur nodded briskly.”I know it. An old apartment building near the intersection with Avenida Tacna, and not what you would call"—he struggled for an English word—"palatial.”

"Whatever it is,” Partridge told him, "I want to go there now.” He turned to Rita.”I'd like you, Minh and Ken to come along, but first let me go inside alone to see what I can find out.”

"Not alone,” Fernandez objected.”You would be attacked and robbed, maybe worse. I will be with you and so will Tomas.”

Tomas, they had discovered, was the name of the burly, taciturn bodyguard.

The station wagon Fernandez had hired, which they now used regularly, was waiting outside the Entel building. Seven people including the driver made it crowded, but the journey took only ten minutes.”There is the place,” Fernandez said, pointing out of the window.

Avenida Tacna was a wide, heavily traveled thoroughfare, Huancavelica Street crossing it at right angles. The district, while not as grim as the barriadas, had clearly fallen on bad days. Number 547 Huaricavelica was a large, drab building with peeling paint and chipped masonry. A group of men, some seated on ledges near the entrance, others standing idly around, watched while Partridge, Fernandez and Tomas stepped out of the station wagon, leaving Rita, Minh Van Canh and the sound man, Ken O'Hara, to wait with the driver.

Aware of unfriendly, calculating expressions among the onlookers, Partridge was glad of Fernandez's insistence that he not go inside alone.

Within the building an odor of urine and general decay assaulted them. Garbage was strewn on the floor. Predictably, the elevator wasn't working so the men had no choice but to climb nine flights of grimy cement stairs.

Apartment F was at the end of an uncarpeted, gloomy corridor. At the plain slab door Partridge knocked. He could hear movement inside but no one came to the door and he knocked again. This time the door opened two or three inches only, halted by an inside chain. Simultaneously a woman's high pitched voice let loose a tirade in Spanish—her speech too fast for Partridge to follow, though he caught the words, ". animales ! . . . asesinos ! . . . diablos !”

He felt a hand touch his arm as Fernandez's heavyset figure moved forward. With his mouth close to the opening, Fernandez spoke equally fast, but in reasonable, soothing tones. As he continued, the voice from inside faltered and stopped, then the chain was released and the door opened.

The woman standing before them was probably around age sixty. Long ago she might have been beautiful, but time and hard living had made her blowsy and coarse, her skin blotchy, her hair a mixture of colors and unkempt. Beneath plucked, penciled eyebrows her eyes were red and swollen from crying and her heavy makeup was a mess. Fernandez walked in past her and the others followed. After a moment she closed the door, apparently reassured.

Partridge glanced around quickly. The room they had entered was small and simply furnished with some wooden chairs, a sofa with worn upholstery, a plain, cluttered table and a bookcase roughly fashioned out of bricks and planks. Surprisingly, the bookcase was full, mainly with heavy volumes.