Arthur Hailey - Evening News

What sent Jessica's morale tumbling had been the brutal dismembering of Nicky's right hand. Even if they got out of here, life could never again be the same for Nicky. His youthful, dearest dream, of becoming a piano maestro, was suddenly, irrevocably . . . so needlessly ! . . . ended. And what other perils, including death perhaps, awaited them in days ahead?

Nicky's fingers had been removed on Tuesday, Today was Friday. Yesterday Nicky had been less in pain, thanks to Socorro who had changed the dressings and bandage daily, but he was silent and brooding, unresponsive to Jessica's attempts to lift him from his deep despair. And there was always the separation between them—the close—spaced bamboo stalks and strong wire screen. Since the night Socorro had allowed Jessica to join Nicky in his cell, the favor had not been repeated, despite Jessica's pleading.

Today, therefore, the immediate future seemed bleak, with little to hope for and everything to dread. As Jessica became fully awake she understood, as she never had before, a Thomas Hood poem learned in childhood which ended:

But now, I often wish the night

Had borne my breath away!

But she knew that if applied to herself, the wish was selfish and defeatist. Despite everything else she must hang on, remaining the strong staff on which Nicky and Angus leaned.

It was soon after those thoughts, and with the arrival of full daylight, that Jessica could hear activity outside and footsteps approaching the prisoners' shack. The first person to enter was Gustavo, leader of the guards, who went directly to Angus's cell and opened it.

Miguel was immediately behind. He was scowling as he, too, moved toward Angus, carrying something Jessica had not seen him with before—an automatic rifle.

The ominous implication was inescapable. At the sight of the powerful, ugly weapon Jessica's heart beat faster and her breath shortened. Oh, no! Not Angus!

Gustavo had entered Angus's cell and roughly pulled the old man to his feet. Now Angus's hands were being tied behind him.

Jessica called out, "Listen to me! What are you doing? Why?”

Angus turned his head toward her, "Jessie dear, don't be distressed. There's nothing you can do. These people are barbarians, they don't understand decency or honor . . .”

Jessica saw Miguel tighten his grip on his gun until his knuckles were white. He commanded Gustavo impatiently, Dese prisa! No pierdas tiempo! ”

Nicky was on his feet. He too had grasped the significance of the automatic rifle and asked, "Mom, what are they going to do to Gramps?”

Not believing her own words, Jessica answered, "I don't know.”

Angus, his hands now tied, straightened his body, squared his shoulders and looked over.”We haven't much time. Both of you—stay strong and keep believing! Remember, somewhere out there Crawford is doing everything he can. Help is coming!”

Tears were streaming down Jessica's face. Her voice choked, she managed to call, "Angus, dearest Angus! We love you so much!”

"I love you too, Jessie . . . Nicky!” Gustavo was pushing Angus forward, propelling him from the cell. They all knew now that he was going to his death.

Stumbling, Angus called again, "Nicky, how about a song? Let's try one.” Angus's voice lifted.

"I’ll be seeing you

In all the old familiar places..."

Jessica saw Nicky open his mouth but, both too choked with tears, neither he nor Jessica could join in.

Angus was outside the shack now, beyond their sight. They could still hear his voice, though it was fading.

"That this heart of mine embraces all day through

In that small cafe . . .”

The voice faded entirely. There was only silence as they waited.

Seconds passed. The wait seemed longer than it was, then the silence was broken by gunfire—four shots, closely spaced. Another brief silence, then a second burst of gunfire, the shots too fast to count.

* * *

Outside, at the edge of the jungle, Miguel stood over the dead figure of Angus Sloane.

The first four shots he fired had killed the old man instantly. Then, remembering the insult of last Tuesday "Maldito hijo de puta! '—and the contemptuous reference to "barbarians” only moments earlier, Miguel had stepped forward in a rage and emptied another fusillade from his Soviet— made AK-47 into the recumbent body.

He had fulfilled the instructions received from Ayacucho late last night. Gustavo had also been informed of a distasteful chore which was now expected of him and which, with help from others, he could begin.

A light airplane, operating for Sendero Luminoso, was now on its way to a nearby jungle airstrip which could be reached from Nueva Esperanza by boat. Very soon a boat would leave for the airstrip, after which the airplane would transport to Lima the result of Gustavo's work.

* * *

Later that same morning in Lima, a car skidded to a halt outside the American Embassy on Avenida Garcilaso de la Vega. A male figure carrying a substantial cardboard box jumped out. The man deposited the box outside the Embassy's protective railings, near a gate, then ran back to the car, which sped away.

A plainclothes guard who had seen it happen sounded an alarm and all exits from the embassy, which was built like a fortress, were temporarily closed. Meanwhile a bomb disposal squad from the Peruvian armed forces was summoned to help.

When tests revealed that the box contained no explosives, it was opened carefully, revealing the bloodstained, decapitated head of an elderly man, probably in his seventies. Alongside the head was a wallet containing a U.S. Social Security card, a Florida driver's license complete with photo, and other documents that identified the partial remains as those of Angus McMullen Sloane.

At the time the Lima incident occurred, a Chicago Tribune reporter happened to be inside the embassy. He stayed close to ensuing developments and was the first to file a story that included the victim's name. The Tribune report was quickly picked up by wire services, TV, radio and other newspapers, first in the United States, then throughout the world.

The plan to attempt a rescue at Nueva Esperanza was complete.

On Friday afternoon, final details were settled, the last equipment assembled. At dawn on Saturday, Partridge and his crew would fly from Lima, bound for the jungle in San Martin Province, near the Huallaga River.

Since late Wednesday, on learning of the prisoners' location, Partridge had fretted impatiently. His first inclination had been to leave at once, but Fernandez Pabur's arguments plus his own experience had persuaded him to delay.

”The jungle can be a friend; it can also be an enemy,” Fernandez pointed out.”You cannot stroll into it, the way you would visit another part of town. We will be in the jungle at least one night, perhaps two, and there are certain things we must have with us for survival. I must also choose our air transport carefully—using someone reliable we can trust. Flying us in, then returning to take us out will require coordination and good timing. We need two days to prepare; even that is barely enough.”

The "we”and "our”made clear from the beginning that the resourceful stringer-fixer intended to be part of the expedition.”You will need me,” he stated simply.”I have been in the Selva many times. I know its ways.” When Partridge felt obliged to point out there would be danger, Pabur shrugged.”All life is a risk. In my country nowadays, getting up in the morning has become one.”

Air transport was their principal concern. After disappearing for part of Thursday morning, Fernandez returned and, collecting Partridge and Rita, took them to a one-story brick building not far from Lima's Airport. The building contained several small offices. They approached one which had on its door ALSA—AEROLIBERFAD S.A. Fernandez entered first and introduced his companions to the owner of the charter flight service, also its chief pilot, Oswaldo Zileri.