Arthur Hailey - Evening News

When the magazine had emptied, he dropped the rifle, sprang to his feet and ran, doubling over to stay low. The airplane was ahead. He knew he'd make it!

Partridge was a third of the way to the plane when a bullet struck his leg. He fell instantly. It was all so fast, it took him several seconds to grasp what had happened.

The bullet had impacted at the back of his right knee, shattering the joint. He could go no farther. A terrible pain, more pain than he had ever believed possible, swept over him. He knew, at that moment, he would never reach the airplane. He knew, too, that there was no time left. The plane must go. And he must do what Fernandez had done, barely half an hour earlier.

Summoning a final surge of strength, he raised himself, waving the Cheyenne forward. All that mattered now was that his intention should be clear.

* * *

Minh was in the airplane doorway, shooting pictures. He had Partridge in his zoom lens—a closeup—and had captured the moment when the bullet hit. The copilot, Felipe, was beside Minh.

Felipe called in, "He's hit! I think badly. He's waving for us to go.”

Inside the airplane, Sloane pushed toward the door.”We have to get him!”

Jessica cried out, "Yes! Oh yes!”

Nicky echoed, "Please don't go without Harry!”

It was Minh, the realist about war, who said, "You can't get him. There isn't time.”

Minh had seen through his lens the advancing Sendero force. Several of its members had reached the airstrip perimeter, were running forward and firing their guns. Just then, several bullets hit the plane.

”I'm leaving,” Zileri said. He had already lowered flaps for takeoff, now he pushed the throttles forward. Minh, plus camera, tumbled in. Felipe retracted and secured the air-stair door.

As airspeed built, Zileri eased back on the control column. The Cheyenne II left the airstrip and climbed.

Jessica and Nicky were holding each other, weeping. Sloane, his eyes partially closed, was shaking his head slowly, as if not believing what he had just seen.

Minh held his camera against a window, taking final shots of the scene below.

* * *

On the ground, Partridge saw the Cheyenne II go.

And saw something else. Through a haze of pain, in the doorway of the departing airplane he saw a smiling figure in Alitalia uniform. She was waving.

Partridge's tears, long held back, began to flow. Then more bullets hit him and he died.

Looking down at the body of Harry Partridge, Miguel vowed that never again would he let something like today's fiasco happen.

In the first stage of the kidnap enterprise, which was complex and demanding, he had been fabulously successful. In this second stage, which should have been easy and uncomplicated, he had failed abysmally.

The lesson was clear: Nothing was easy and uncomplicated. He should have learned it long ago.

He would remember it, however, from this moment on.

So what came next?

First, he must leave Peru. His life would be forfeit if he stayed; Sendero Luminoso would see to that.

He could not even go back to Nueva Esperanza.

Fortunately, he had no reason to. Before departure, foreseeing the possibility of what actually occurred, he had stowed all of his cash—including most of the fifty thousand dollars he collected from Jose Antonio Salaverry during his final visit to the United Nations—into a money belt he was wearing. He could feel it now. Uncomfortable but reassuring.

The money was ample to get him out of Peru and into Colombia.

What he intended now was to slip away into the jungle. There was an airstrip twenty-five kilometers away—not either of the two that had been targeted today—where drug-traffic planes flown by Colombian pilots came and went frequently. He knew he could buy passage to Colombia and, once there, would be safe.

If anyone in the group from Nueva Esperanza attempted to stop him, he would kill him. But Miguel doubted if anyone would. Of the seven who had accompanied him here, only four were still alive; Ramon and two others had been killed by this gringo who lay at his feet—identity unknown, though a good marksman.

Even back in Colombia, his reputation would suffer a little from the Nueva Esperanza debacle, but that would not last. And unlike Sendero Luminoso, the Colombian drug cartels were not fanatical. Ruthless, yes, but otherwise pragmatic and business like.

Miguel had eminently saleable talents as an anarchist-terrorist. The cartels had need of him. Miguel had recently learned that a long-term program was under way to convert a series of small and medium-sized countries to the same drug-cartel-dominated status as Colombia. He was certain the project would present an opportunity for his special skills.

As a functioning democracy Colombia was finished. Outwardly, some showcase trappings remained, but even those were disappearing as killings ordered by the cartels' powerful billionaire bosses eliminated the diminishing minority who believed in bygone ways.

What was needed to transform other countries into replicas of Colombia was corruption at or near the top of governments, corruption making it possible for drug cartels to move in and operate. Next, insidiously and quietly, the cartels would become stronger than the governments—after which, as in Colombia, there was never any turning back.

Four countries were mentioned nowadays as potential targets to be "Colombiaized.” They were Bolivia, El Salvador, Guatemala and Jamaica. Later, others could be added to the list.

With his unique experience and ability to survive, Miguel decided, he was likely to be busy for a long time ahead.

Aboard the Cheyenne II, several minutes passed before anyone felt capable of speech. Crawford Sloane was holding Jessica and Nicky close to him, the three oblivious to all else.

At length Sloane raised his head and asked Minh Van Canh, "About Harry . . . did you see anything more?”

Minh nodded sadly.”I was focused on him. He was hit again, several times. There isn't any doubt.”

Sloane sighed.”He was the best . . .”

Minh corrected him, his voice unusually strong.”The very best. As a correspondent. As a human being. I've seen a good many, and there wasn't anyone I knew who came close to Harry in all those years.” The words were spoken almost as a challenge. Minh had known Sloane and Partridge for an equal time.

If it was a challenge, Sloane did not contest it. He said simply, "I agree.”

Jessica and Nicky were listening, both busy with their thoughts.

It was Rita, the professional with responsibilities, who asked Minh, "May I see some of your pictures?” She knew that despite Harry's death, she must put a broadcast together in Lima, barely an hour away.

She also knew they bad a world exclusive story.

Minh did some rewinding, then passed his Betacam to Rita. Squinting through the viewfinder, she watched videotape shots: as usual, Minh had captured the essentials of everything. The pictures were superb. Some final shots—of Harry wounded, then falling to the fatal bullets—were stark and moving. As she handed the camera back, Rita's eyes were moist but she wiped them with the back of her hand, knowing there was no time now either to mourn Harry or to cry. Both would come later, probably when she was alone tonight.

Sloane asked, "Did Harry have anybody—a girlfriend? I know he never remarried after Gemma.”

"There was—is someone,” Rita said.”Her name is Vivien. She's a nurse and lives in a place called Port Credit; that's outside Toronto.”

"We should call. I'll talk to her if you like.”

"Yes, I would like,” Rita said.”And when you do, tell her Harry made a will before leaving and I have it. He left everything to her. Vivien doesn't know it, but she's a millionaire now. It seems Harry salted money away in tax havens all over the world. Along with the will, he left a list.”