Arthur Hailey - Evening News

Sloane acknowledged, "Yes, I know.”

"We feel you shouldn't do the news tonight. For one thing, it will be heavily about you. For another, even if you anchored the remainder, it would look too much like business as usual, almost as if the network wasn't caring, which of course isn't true.”

Sloane considered, then said thoughtfully, "I suppose you're right.”

"What we're wondering is if you'd feel up to being interviewed—live.”

"Do you think I should?”

"Now that the story's out,” Insen said, "I think the wider attention it gets, the better. There's always a chance that someone watching might come through with information.”

"Then I'll do it.”

Insen nodded, then continued, "You know the other networks and the press want to interview you. How do you feel about a press conference this afternoon?”

Sloane made a gesture of helplessness, then conceded, "All right, yes.”

Insen asked, "When you're through here, Crawf, can you join Les and me in my office? We'd like your views about some other plans.”

Havelock intedected, "As much as possible, I'd like Mr. Sloane to stay in his office and be close to this telephone.”

"I'll be close to it anyway,” Sloane assured him.

* * *

Leslie Chippingham had already telephoned Rita Abrams in Minnesota with the unhappy news that their planned lovers' weekend would have to be abandoned. There was no way, he plained, that in the midst of this breaking story he could leave New York.

Rita, while disappointed, was understanding. People in TV news were used to unexpected events disrupting their lives, even their illicit affairs.

She had asked, "Do you need me on the story?”

He told her, "If we do, you'll hear soon enough.”

* * *

It appeared that Special Agent Havelock, having attached himself to Crawford Sloane, intended to follow the anchorman into the meeting in Insen's office. But Insen blocked his way.

”We're going to discuss some private network business. You can have Mr. Sloane again as soon as we've finished. In the meantime, if there's anything urgent, feel free to barge in.”

"If it's all the same to you,” Havelock said, "I'll barge in now and see where Mr. Sloane will be.” He eased determinedly past Insen and surveyed the room inside.

Behind Insen's desk were two doors. Havelock opened both. One was to a supplies closet; after looking inside, he closed it. Another opened onto a toilet and washroom. The FBI man stepped inside, looked around, then came out.

”Just wanted to be sure,” he told Insen, "that there was no other way in or out of here.”

"I could have told you there wasn't,” Insen said.

Havelock smiled thinly.”Some things I prefer to check myself.” He left the office and found himself a chair outside.

Leslie Chippingham was already seated in the office when the FBI agent made his inspection. Now, as Sloane and Insen joined him, he said, "Chuck, you spell it out for Crawf.”

"The fact is,” Insen said, looking at Sloane directly, "we do not have confidence in government agencies and their ability to handle this situation. Now, Les and I don't want to depress you, but we all remember how long it took the FBI to find Patricia Hearst—more than a year and a half. And there's something else.”

Insen reached among the papers on his desk and produced what Sloane recognized as a copy of his own book, The Camera and the Truth. Insen opened it at a page with a bookmark.

"You wrote, yourself, Crawf: 'We who live in the United States will not remain free from terrorism in our own backyard much longer. But neither mentally nor in other ways are we prepared for this pervasive, ruthless kind of warfare.' “Insen closed the book.”Les and I agree with that. Totally.”

A silence followed. The reminder of his own words startled and shocked Sloane. In the privacy of his mind he had begun to wonder if some terrorist motive, perhaps relating to himself, could be behind the seizure of Jessica, Nicky and his father. Or was the idea too preposterous even to consider? Seemingly not, as the thinking of the other experienced newsmen was obviously moving in that direction.

At length he said, "Do you seriously think that terrorists . . .”

Insen responded, "It's a possibility, isn't it?”

"Yes.” Sloane nodded slowly in agreement.”I've begun wondering too.”

"Remember,” Chippingham put in, "that at this point we've no idea who the people are who have taken your family, or what they want. It could turn out to be a conventional kidnapping with demands for ransom money and, god knows, that's bad enough. But we're also considering—because of who and what you are—other long-shot options.”

Insen picked up the thread of what had been said earlier.”We mentioned the FBI. Again, we don't want to worry you, but if Jessica and the others are spirited out of this country in some way, which is a possibility, I'm afraid, then what government has to fall back on is the CIA. Well, in all the years that U.S. nationals have been prisoners in Lebanon, the CIA, with all its power and resources, spy satellites, intelligence and infiltration, has never been able to discover where a semiliterate, ragtag band of terrorists was holding them. And that in a tiny country only slightly larger than the state of Delaware. So who can say if the same old CIA would do any better in other parts of the world?”

It was the news president who offered a conclusion.

”So that's what we mean, Crawf,” Chippingham said, "by saying we don't have confidence in the government agencies. But what we do believe is that we ourselves—an experienced news organization accustomed to investigative reporting—have a better than average chance to discover where your family has been taken.”

For the first time that day, Sloane's spirits rose.

Chippingham continued, "So what we've decided is to set up our own CBA News investigative task force. Our effort will be nationwide at first, then, if necessary, worldwide. We'll use all our resources plus investigative techniques that have worked in the past. As for people, we'll throw in the best talent we have, starting now,”

Sloane felt a surge of gratitude and relief. He started to say, "Les . . . Chuck . . .”

Chippingham stopped him with a gesture.”Don't say it. There's no need. Of course, some of this is because of you, but also it's our business.”

Insen leaned forward.”There's one thing we want to ask you at this point, Crawf. The task force needs to be headed by an experienced correspondent or producer, someone who can take charge, who's good at investigative reporting and in whom you have confidence. Is there anyone you'd like to name?”

Crawford Sloane hesitated for the briefest moment, weighing his personal feelings against what was at stake. Then he said firmly, "I want Harry Partridge.”

The kidnappers, like foxes returning to a hidden burrow, had gone to ground in their temporary headquarters, the rented property south of Hackensack, New Jersey.

It was a collection of old, decaying structure — a main house and three outbuildings—which had been unused for several years until Miguel, after studying alternative locations and real estate advertisements, signed a one-year lease with full payment in advance. A year was the shortest rental period suggested by the agents. Miguel, not wishing to reveal that the place would be used for little more than a month, agreed to the terms without question.

The type of property and its location—a thinly occupied, run-down neighborhood—were ideal in numerous ways. The house was large, could accommodate all seven members of the Colombian gang, and its state of disrepair didn't matter. The outbuildings made it possible to keep six vehicles under cover and out of sight. No other occupied properties were close by, and privacy was aided by surrounding trees and other foliage. A further advantage was the nearness of Teterboro Airport, not much more than a mile away. Teterboro, used mainly by private aircraft, figured largely in the kidnappers' plans.